Confessions and an Unexpected Poem

Just another example of what Hutchmoot has done to me. Note: The following scenarios contain hyperbole and hypotheticals, except when they don’t (because sometimes they don’t).

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To be perfectly honest, well, I haven’t been perfectly honest.

It’s not that I’ve been lying exactly. I’ve just let you come to your own, possibly incorrect, conclusions.

I’m talking to you, person who reads a lot of things written in books. I nodded eagerly when you mentioned Phantastes, relieved to have heard of something that someone once wrote. I think you took it to mean I was well read. I may not have corrected you.

I’m talking to you, person who is smart about the Bible. I told you I once attended seminary. You were appropriately impressed. I changed the subject before you found out I never finished. That might have been intentional.

I’m talking to you, intimidating Facebook friend. I posted a link to an intelligent story about intelligent, intimidating things. Maybe you thought I’m the clever sort of person who often ponders things that clever people ponder. Maybe you thinking that crossed my mind when I posted it.

I’m talking to you, person who knows things about music. Your chord structure and tonality and diminished sevenths are mysteries to me. I think the name Rachmaninoff is fun to say, but I haven’t a clue what he wrote. But I may have failed to mention that.

I’m talking to you, tech junkie, fashionista, and person who cooks organic things. Perhaps I didn’t tell you that I don’t understand half the words that tumble like blanched almonds off your nimble tongue. I might have even attempted to hurl one back at you (a word, not an almond), desperately hoping it was in proper context.

And while I’m at it, I might as well admit:

• I don’t always recycle.
• I don’t know how to use an iPad.
• For me, gourmet cooking means adding cheese.
• I don’t know the difference between a scallion and a shallot. But I think they’re both found in the produce section…?
• I refuse to play a song on the guitar that requires the B minor chord.
• I’ve only ever read one Frederick Buechner novel (Godric), and frankly, I struggled.
• I don’t think I have voluntarily read a single line of poetry in my entire life.
• I didn’t know commas had names.
• I like to throw around the word “Neufchâtel” because I learned how to pronounce it by watching the National Spelling Bee.

Yep.

But then September came, and that’s when I met you.

Yes, you — the ones with the music degrees and the expansive vocabularies. You with the binary code and the artistic skills. You, oh highly regarded ones, with the publishers, the record deals, and the blanched almonds: most of all, I’m talking to you.

You not only know many confounding things, but you know how to use them.

You use them well.

You set a melody in motion and catch my breath away. You turn a phrase and ignite my imagination. You sketch a million mysteries with line and shadow. You wield a formidable faith.

You make it look so easy. And so I was afraid.

I came to you at the hinge of seasons, believing myself too poor for your bounty. I thought to keep my secrets close. I feared being known as I was.

When I said, I’m just a stranger here, you said, But you are welcome. I only hoped to catch your eye, but you beckoned me to sit. To learn from you was all the honor I hoped for. But then you supped with me.

And my fear gave way to your kindness.

My secrets were met with grace, my doubts with resounding assurance. To be accepted in all my pretense would have been gift enough. But to be welcomed, valued, when the charade came down – that was the washing of feet.

So home again, I sat to write. But fear was not the driving force. With joy I fought for every word, with love I watched it run its course.

For heavy on my memory, forgotten truth had fallen down. And fuller faith had found a home on Sunday’s last resplendent sound:

When heaven-held upon the air

The phantom of the final song

Silent bade me bend my ear

And said, My friend, you do belong.