Surprise...writing...and a guy named Jason.

It’s not every day you’re surprised, but a little over a month ago, I had one of those days. 

It was Labor Day and our family was invited to a gathering of assorted folk convening together from all over the map.  Some were church folk, some were relatives of the host family, some were friends of friends…it wasn’t your typical gathering of souls with a shared story.  We sort of showed up thrown together like a veritable crapshoot.  I think, as I look back, this unpremeditated arrangement is the best shot at “being surprised”, which is why most avoid such variables, such variety, such varying variegations.  

People showed up in waves, without rhyme or reason.  There wasn’t a rock solid start time, nor was there a set-in-stone ending…it was come-as-you-please-leave-at-your-own-discretion.  All they asked for was a dish to pass…that was the price of admission.  We brought something as I recall, but heck if I know what it was.  

When we arrived people were mingling and intermingling.  Mingling, in my mind, is when friends are meeting up and catching up; intermingling is when people are introducing you to their friends that you’ve never met and you’re conversing cold turkey.  It’s been a while since I’ve been to a get-together where there was this level of intermingling…I found it a little unnerving if I’m being honest seeing how I was hoping to relax into what already was, instead of starting something from obviously wasn’t…a lazy Labor Day can’t require too much creation in the recreation. Creation takes energy and effort…recreation…well, that just requires showing up.  

I was standing over by the sand volleyball court having just tested my rotator cuff in a competitive match. Teams had been divvied into 4 teams and a makeshift tournament was underway.  There was some healthy bantering, some would even call it trash talk.  All in good fun.  Those more familiar with each other felt more freedom to take a dig every now and again if the opening presented itself.  The guys were especially spirited, even bloodthirsty.  Our first game had concluded and I was sipping my 7up (a good Baptist drink) on the sidelines.

Heidi had invited one of her friends from the YMCA and her whole brood.  Her husband, Jason, teaches English at the high school and I knew precious little beyond that other than my wife told me to keep an eye out for him since he wouldn’t know many people.  Cassie, his wife, is the social equivalent of a Labrador Retriever, she doesn’t know a stranger and can make a fast friend without the slightest exertion. (that’s just my subjective observation)  But my wife shared that Jason wasn’t much of a crowd-lover and to make sure I “made him feel comfortable”.  I was obliged, though I didn’t know if I was going to be making small talk with a hermit crab or swapping stories with a closet conversationalist. I mean, he was an English teacher, so I figured words weren’t hard to come by given the right setting, topics, and rapport.  I sort of relate because I’m a communicator by profession, but I find that social settings like parties give me a low grade social anxiety.  I think it’s just the unknown of how to start the dialogue and how much I’m going to have to drum up questions to keep it going or what kind of questions, if any, they are going to feel comfortable asking me as a pastor…I’m not sure people know how to talk to pastors often wondering if they like normal things like sports, nature, sex, and Netflicks (in no order of importance), or if they just spend their free time reading their Bibles in the original Hebrew and Greek and praying all day in the musty parsonage.  So some odd interactions can prevent the plane from leaving the runway in some instances or landing in others.  It’s just complicated to at times.  I’ll leave it at that.

I saw Cassie come over to Heidi and I was looking for this guy, Jason.  The name itself made me feel like he had to be pretty close to awesome (and handsome), so he had that going for him.  My wife and Cassie were already talking like chatterboxes, maybe even shedding tears since it takes about 20 seconds for them to cut to the quick, so I asked them, “Where’s Jason?”  I honestly had a completely different face in my head of this Jason guy thinking that I’d met him before at a parent-teacher conference, so I was looking for this figment of my imagination that I’d conjured in my mind.  They pointed over across the property at what seemed a football field away and I saw a dude with longer curly hair throwing a ball back and forth with his son who was in one of those trampolines with the netted sides.  I asked if he was coming over and Cassie gave me some sort of look that said: “Not unless hell freezes over or someone goes over there and gets him.”  I don’t know, maybe I’m making that up, although I can read faces pretty well.  “I’ll just go over and meet him.” And with that, I girded up my loins and got ready to ‘intermingle’.

The closer I got the more my lizard brain was offering up alternative opening lines:

-      “Hey man, I’m Heidi’s husband and she’s good friends with your wife and so I thought I’d say hi.”

-      “What’s up bro…(no, that’s to bromancey) how’s it going?”

-      “Yo, how’s it going?” (but he doesn’t even know me…who is this Spaniard?)

-      “Is this your boy?” (of course it is, what do you think he is a pedophile out by the pole barn?”

-      “My name is Jason, I heard your name is Jason.  That’s pretty cool.” (Cheesy)

-      “Cassie and Heidi told me to come over here and pull you into the party…hahaha.” (you’re a moron, he doesn’t need you to hold his hand to walk him over to the pool and put muscle-floaties on his biceps.)

I don’t remember what I said, I just remember that in a matter of minutes we were talking effortlessly. I don’t know who was initiating the asking, but it was flowing like milk and honey.  Completely unexpected.  Even more unexpected was the fact that we were talking about “being with people when it’s your job all week long” and “what led me to want to become a pastor” and “what he loved about teaching”, etc.  We were starting to share some backstory that brought us to where we were in life currently, but just then somebody yelled out and called me over because my team was up to play our next match in the volleyball tourney.  I told him we’d talk in a bit and I ran over to meet up with my team.  By then, he was making his way down to the mosh pit of people hovering around the pool and the nearby food.  

When I finished the volleyball match I remember feeling eager to follow up on a couple parts of our pretty dense 10-minute interaction…for it being roughly 600 seconds it didn’t stay in the kiddy end of the pool like I’m used to in the early introduction phase. I was made curious by his questions and particularly a couple of his answers leaving me wanting to pick up where we left off.  After the match, I walked up to the pond where our kids were on paddle boards and we stood at the water’s edge letting the chat take us wherever the next conversational contours saw fit.  I remember thinking to myself: “I like how he thinks and expresses his thoughts in words.” That is a rare thought for me as I talk to people, sadly enough.  His stories, his backstory, his childhood memories, his countenance as he talked about his family…these things stirred me.  I remember especially when he spoke of what led him to teaching English and his love of language.  He wanted students to experience the awakening that he experienced when he was a young man sitting bored in the back of class who was inspired by someone who made literature and the world of words appealing and worthy of respect and even a life-long pursuit.  I have met men who love books.  I have met men who love writing.  I have met men who love talking.  I have met men who love speaking. But this was different…his love for books and words and writing and communication as a calling was extraordinary to me and unparalleled in my 44 years of life. (writing being the key rare ingredient) 

There was a point when he was speaking of his brother who was a pastor and who had become blind, one eye taken out by a freak accident, the other by a rare virus.  He spoke of his family with fluidity, the fluidity of a man who had thoughtfully considered the textures of their lives and knew what to say about them when the time came to describe them to someone spontaneously standing next to a pond in the beginning of September.  He was prepared for this moment.  He wasn’t just talking, he was articulately.  

And then came the surprise…

He made a passing comment…and I mean a very brief reference to writing about an experience with his family. I-don’t-know-men-who-write-about-everyday-life-stuff.  But just as I was about to inquire of this writing of which he spoke, I heard my name: “Jason, Jason…get over here, we’re up next!”  I graciously exited the conversation that had turned into three people since it began.  So Jason stayed back with Phil and I went to get sweaty and sandy on this sunny afternoon…three of my three least favorite things mixed together…sand, sweat, and sun.  I’m not a big beach guy as you can imagine.

But even as I was playing volleyball, the thought of him ‘writing’ was playing in my mind.  I wanted to circle back around to that after the game was over, but by the time we wrapped it up, food was being serve and Jason was down by the pool chuckin’ a football to kids jumping off the diving board.  I was pulled into several other conversations and as the afternoon waxed and waned, it was clear that people were grabbing their over-tired children and heading for the hills.  The opportunity to follow up on the “writing” never happened…I was bummed.

I decided to get Jason’s phone number from Heidi who got is from Cassie and I debated texting him to ask if he would feel comfortable sharing the writing he was talking about with me. I remember letting him know that if he wasn’t comfortable, I was cool with that and totally understood.  I wasn’t sure if it was a personal journal entry or if it was more elaborate…something told me it was more poetic than a banal journal entry.  

But I wrestled with how to start the text and how to explain to him why I cared to read his writing. It sounded weird even as I was forming the text with my fat fingers.  Though I felt his heart in the short moments we talked, I still wasn’t sure if he was too private for personal interaction via text with a strange dude, pastor no less, and if he would be willing to share his writings.  I told him that there is little I value more than reading someone’s writings, no matter how good they may be comparative to professional writers.  I just like reading normal people jotting down there musings in whatever expression they chose to release it from the mind to the page.  I know that after so many years and years of writing simply for the sheer joy of it, there are times when someone will ask to see something (it’s rare, rare as in that it’s only happened a couple times in 20 years) I’ve written and I will feel sheepish and honored all at the same time.  It’s a part of my heart, so who’s asking and how it’s received matters to me…‘cause my writing means something to me…not because it’s good, but because I value the content of it…the work of it…the craft of it…the heart of it…this matters to me.  I sensed it mattered to him, too, so I rolled the dice…

I hit send on the text…and waited.  There weren’t any bubbles in the text immediately, so I wasn’t sure if he was figuring out a nice way to tell me to take a hike, or rummaging through his stockpile of writings and pulling it out of the annals and archives.  I was left with nothing but what I imagined he might be thinking or doing with the foggiest idea if anything would come to fruition…I just knew I had to ask.

It wasn’t that long before my phone made the “ding” sound and I saw his name pop up.  I opened the text and low and behold he had send me two word documents that he had written.  I clicked on them and as they were downloading onto my phone, I couldn’t wait to see what these documents held like vaults carrying the precious contents of one’s heart.

As I read each of them…I was stunned.  Surprised.

I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams I’d find another guy around my age that wrote for no other reason than the love of recording life, warts and all.  Another guy who cared about the nuances and wanted to write to process thinking, and to think in order to produce writing.  To capture his story, to write things down for generations to come.  To put to rest restless thoughts, to express complex memories embedded with hurt and healing.  To “make time” and “take time” to write even though life is busy and distractions to do almost anything other than writing are crying and vying for our time incessantly. I found a guy who valued what I valued…as C.S. Lewis calls it: “Wishful thinking and thoughtful wishing”.  You write hoping to split that atom.  You write to distinguish reality from fantasy. You write to curate moments that run the risk of being forgotten over time…or remembered incorrectly.  (I’m not sure any remembrance is ever objectively accurate, but it at least takes a stab at cataloguing it for the ages.)  For my children and their children.  To write for the simple joy of it even if no one ever reads it, but hoping beyond hope someone--particularly my kids--will someday in order to know what their dad went through, thought about, and how I interpreted the goings on externally and internally.   

Surprise.  Surprising.

And since that day two months ago, we have shared our writings almost every day since…texts of humor and holy ground.  Writings of whimsy and wonder.  Writing of gravitas and veritas.  One thing leads to another, and yet another.  Some are pieces we’ve written in the past, some are as fresh as the thoughts I’m putting into words right now on this airplane en route to Chicago from San Diego.  Some are inspiring writings of favorite authors, some are poetic thoughts of our boyhoods and neighborhoods, living rooms and bedrooms.

Somebody else out there does this, too.  Someone else values this, too.  

It caught me by surprise. I couldn’t have predicted I’d ever meet another soul like this in my lifetime.  I wanted to, but I would have kept writing myself into my grave even if I didn’t.  You don’t write to be read, your write to honor your own life and the lives of those around you.  And if you’re lucky, you’re surprised to stumble upon someone else who does the same thing as you standing by a pond at a party that neither one of us initially wanted to be at.

I love surprises.