Billy Jim and the Absence of Hermeneutics of Given Names

My senior year of high school I was walking down the halls of the rival across town and came across a poster with a little quote on it. I laughed, pointed it out to a friend, they laughed, and we continued on.

Somehow that quote has always stuck with me. Maybe because of its strange failure to say what it tries to say, or maybe because I couldn't help but recognize the power in the haphazard words.

The quote?

Act as if what you do makes a difference.
~William James

Now, don't you see what I'm saying? It carries a connotation that what you do WON”T matter. Ever.

For quite some time I'd felt that way – that nothing matters in the end. That everything will work out the way it's supposed to, regardless of your role in it all.

This week, a good friend posted almost the same quote. Almost. She included a two-word tag line that I'd never seen before. Her inclusion? “It Does.”

Now it says, “Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does.”

I'm not saying that anything I do has made a difference in other people's lives, maybe it has but sometimes I just don't want to know. But I know that whenever I try to make a difference in someone's life, the difference has been made in mine.

Earlier this week i was reminded of this by an unwitting friend. He'd alluded to a painful Monday, I offered some solace. Instead of turning his day around, he turned my entire week. All we did was share a cup of hot cocoa and some words of empathy and encouragement. But afterward I was reminded that there is hope in my life as I expressed hope in his. That things aren't as bad as they seem now. That I don't have to be caught up in myself.

This wasn't the first time either. I went to Romania to hold babies that needed love. I wanted to make their lives better if only in a small way. While doing so I held a one year old girl whose functionality was as advanced as a newborn's. She couldn't even control her eyes. As i sang to her, trying to soothe her fussing, she'd only respond to the primary songs of my own childhood. I sang one line: I am a child of God, his promises are sure. Celestial glory shall be mine, if I can but endure. As the phrase ended, her eyes flipped up, gazing into mine. Peacefulness spread through my chest and tears sprang to my own eyes. She knew.

Because of this one little girl and my two weeks of holding her close, I've taken classes I'd never have thought about before, I've chosen a major I'd never considered, and I have direction in my life.
I'd not have all of this if it weren't for my trying to make someone's life better. Someone's life was bettered. Mine.

Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does.

Despondent

I watched your eyes fill with tears and you cave in on yourself, leaning forward, hunching yourself to your knees in a paroxysm of grief. I didn't know why, but I could see your pain streaming down your face, wracking your shoulders.

You lifted your face, your eyes reaching for mine, searching for relief. You asked me silently for something I couldn't give you. I couldn't stop the pain.

But I could offer some comfort against it.

I opened my arms and you leaned into me, your wet cheek on my chest, your hot forehead against my neck. My hand stroked your face as the other tried in vain to hold your heaving shoulders together. Your arms dangled loosely, forgotten. I didn't mind, I didn't need your comfort. You kept it for yourself. Take mine, you need it. I'm willing to give it all.

Please, take all you need.

I don't know how long you remained in my arms. Eventually the sobs slowed, then stopped. Your ragged breathing evened and quieted, but still we sat. I lost the time, and forever touched a moment around us.

Your sticky tears dried against my skin, stiff and salty. Your eyes closed, soothed by my quiet humming and gentle rocking. You fell asleep in my arms as if you were my baby, even though you are older than I.

I disregarded your dead weight and the tingle in my curled legs. Your breaths were slow, rhythmic, warm. You were blissfully unaware. I couldn't bring myself to wake you.

I left your head resting on a throw pillow, your body warmed by a blanket, your mind eased by your dreamless sleep, your heart heavy, your cheek momentarily warmed by a single quiet kiss.

we are not alone.

he calls himself god's version of a crash test dummy. a sick and twisted soul.
i don't see that in him.

what do i see?

i see a confused child, wondering, wandering.

he has some inclination of where to go but he gets distracted by shiny things along the way.
he picks up the glitzy trinkets, fingering them, awed by their brightness.
he forgets that it's just the trash left over from another person.

the trash consumes his vision, his hands, his mind. he sits down on the side of the road and just stares.

sometimes he realizes that it's crap, and moves along a little farther. he keeps walking a little bit. until he forgets what's trash and what's not and picks up a sequin shard and marvels at that instead.

sometimes he finds a truly fantastic piece of trash, marvels at it longer, and then puts it in his pocket to take out occasionally while walking.

the thing is he's so fascinated by the crap in his hands, in his pockets, that he can't look up. He can't bear to see what makes the shiny things shine in the first place (the sun)
he can't bear to see the true beauty around him - the beauty he can't take with him, the beauty that is even more so when he keeps going further.

i know he's seen glimpses.
but his pockets are simply too full.


STRIP IT OFF AND RUN NAKED. I DARE YOU.

i know you know you want to.

you can know what it's like to be free.

i promise.