David Springfield grew up the son of a noble preacher. In that small town in Utah that was swallowed up by Provo, David was nobility. Under his father the church flourished, and soon the flock needed a bigger pen. It was cheaper to make the church longer than to tear the whole thing down and build a new one, so that's what Jethero did and David helped and Mary Lou made them both iced tea and just the best sandwiches for lunch as they toiled. One day David asked Jethero while they were cutting wood slats to size for the exterior, "Father? Why don't we get some help for all this? Like the poors, Homeless Bob and Leroy and all them udner the overpass. They would help you for sure, they love you."
"And I love them, son." Jethero said. He put his saw down and looked at David. "Work is work though, and it is always more rewarding when done for oneself. Never ask for help, David, not unless you absolutely need it, but never refuse help either. Helping someone brings joy to everyone. There is greed in asking, but there is pride in refusing, and they are one in the same in the Lord's eyes. Soon you will see. When you are done with your schooling, you will join me on my walks and you will see. It's a wonderful feeling, helping. And besides, do you think this new church is impossible for us to build, you and I? Do we not have the strength to do it?"
"It's not impossible..."
"Well, if it is not impossible, we do not absolutely need help, do we? That would be greedy. And lazy. And we are neither of those now, are we not, son?"
"No, father." But David felt lazy. And what's more, as he and his father toiled and the new front of the church slowly grew through the weeks, David Springfield began to notice more and more Wendy Hillsdale riding her bike though the town square on this day and that day. She was the mayor's daughter. And what's more, she noticed David too.
They knocked out the doors and the front wall and doubled the number of pews in each row, and the steeple that used to be at the front over the entrance was now in the middle of the roof. Now the roof had new tiles, and the door wasn't worn anymore, but primed and painted and shining white again.
Jethero was a smart preacher. He was good with numbers and knew how to manage money. He knew he had to build a new church, but he also had responsibilities. To his family. To the poor. To Homeless Bob who lived by the highway, under an overpass now, and Old Abby down the street and all those lesser in the assembly. The ones that sat in the back without fans and even stood. They didn't mind though. They loved to hear the preacher speak. The hope in his sonorous voice and the joy in his face at the pulpit. He was articulate. When he wasn't preaching or sleeping or walking around town, he was always reading. So his sermons were sometimes vigorous, sometimes solemn, but the words were always impressive. They didn't have much, but when the offering basket came around, those in the back gladly gave what they could - coins of a dollar, pennies even - and every week Jethero gave back. He brought them some of Mary Lou's sandwiches in a pack he wore on his back as he walked, and from a slinged jug by his side he served Mary Lou's iced tea by the laddle. Jethero would walk all day, and the needy never took too much, they just took what they needed, and He would never run out of sandwiches or iced tea. If he did, it was at the very end of the day, and he'd walk home. Jethero and Mary Lou knew this town well. They knew the people, and the people knew them, and the family lived good lives.
[stop]
Monday the feeling set in. Maybe it was the lack of seratonin, but there sat within me an overwhelming sense of wronging as we packed the camp up. What's more it was a wronging I was powerless to correct and hadn't hoped for or intended, and it was coupled with a wonder of what could have been and also why it's so.
Some people like to put emphasis on certain events in life and say to themselves, this means something. And so they focus unnaturally on it, trying to decipher and understand. They'll say, this or that or whatever in particular happened for a reason. They put the blinders on and follow the oracle up the mount of all-knowing.
Then there are others who see the hope and wonder in another and scoff. Compared to the latter, these others see the world two-dimensionally. It's not as full, it's not as living. It's incredibly real. They live in a world gauged on success, not meaning, and success usually comes to them, and almost always by the mechanical process by which success comes to most. In a mold. Signed on a line. And they go to church because that's the sign of a good person to the rest of society. And the way the preacher tells it, that's the only way to succeed after death. Success is heaven. It's self-preservation. It's glorification. Which I find a little curious because they usually never see anything around them. They have blidners on. Instead of wonder, their minds seek justification. A way to put them in the right, rather than a reason why they're wrong. It's a world where righteousness trumps intelligence, trumps knowing and facts and forethought. And so they scoff at those who deeper meaning because it's not their way. It's not the right way, according to them. And when they're gone, they're usually forgotten in whatever time, unless they did something great, and they leave behind nothing but money and possessions to be squandered. And what of heaven? What if there is no heaven.
What if heaven is existence. And hell too, less or more really dependent on luck if you think in a worldly parameter. Because listen, there's heaven on earth. I've seen it. I've walked through it in awe and a slack wonder, and felt that tingle run across my skin. Of divinity. And to think the Greeks had it right all along. It's the Alps, but I'm sure there's others. I'm as sure as I know for a fact that there are true horrors on this earth as well. Hell's a lot easier to find here. Coachella's no hell, that's for sure. It's no heaven either though. It's too finite. Like a mirage that we think up and dream through in something that's not quite real life, but another thing. A waking life maybe. Rife with uncertainty and impossibility.
It's got to mean something, I think. And when I look at meaning, there's no pick and choose. I see meaning as an absolute. It all has to mean something, or it all means nothing. Those are the only options in my eyes. But really, it's all about belief. And preference and suitability, what suits you. Maybe it's easier to believe in nothing for some. It isn't for me, or I don't know actually. Maybe I'm wired this way. I'll say this. Life with meaning is much more interesting. And it lasts. It doesn't fade with inflation. It's only exacerbated by the in-betweens. It's held restless at work.
To pick and choose what has meaning and what doesn't though, that's the action of a hypocrite. I don't know what I'm saying too, trust me. It's what you call a ramble. I'm rambling. It's a thing people do. We're all hypocrites. With lofty ideals and dreary realities. Whimsicality.
In my head Stephanie was heartbroken, silent on the drive home in the backseat looking out the window at something far, far away as her hope in my gender crumbled around her.
