Author: Mark Myers

I am a husband of one, father of four daughters, a dreamer, a builder, a believer, and most enjoyably a writer. In 2015, I became a reluctant Childhood Cancer Advocate as we lost our youngest daughter Kylie to the disease. Kylie taught me to steal joy from even the worst of circumstances and I will always be on the lookout for happiness among the thorns of life. Join me for a generous helping of laughter and tears.

Tell Me Again, About the Rabbits

.Reading time 5 minutes.

This year has been an odd one for me because I have read much more than I’ve written. I began working down a list of the “100 greatest works of fiction.” I had read many of them, but I found two giant holes in my library: modern books and American literature. So I dove into Harry Potter, The Help, and Game of Thrones interspersed with Melville, Hemingway, and Steinbeck.

That last one, Steinbeck… he hit me in the teeth with Of Mice and Men. I respect his ability to pack such deep, meaningful characters and a heartbreaking story into 112 pages. That is genius. Most authors today seem to write for the trilogy or get so enamored with their own words that 112 pages is barely a back-story. It also hit me because I could identify with Lennie and the rabbits.

The impoverished and simple Lennie just dreams of holding a rabbit in his palm and stroking its soft fur. But he can’t. He can’t and never will. So he constantly begs George for stories about the rabbits.

bunnyTell me again, about the rabbits

The rabbits represent something of substance that a hopeless drifter has no chance of claiming. The rabbits are a thing just out of reach – a dream that could never come true. That thing we want, but cannot have.

We’ve all dreamed of things we couldn’t have. Sometimes it’s a person or a relationship. Often it is just that we want more: more money, more stuff, more recognition. More would make it better and fill the void.

Most of the things we spend our time dreaming about are material. With the right preparation, bankroll, or a stroke of luck, they could be attained. But like Lennie, the thing I want I cannot have. I want it so badly that I often feel my bones ache to fill the void.

Tell me again, about the rabbits

Labor Day Weekend four years ago brought news that Kylie’s cancer treatment had failed. We were scheduled for a five-day hospital stay; but they sent us home while they planned a new course. Because of the unanticipated time with her sisters, Kylie was thrilled. But that news marked the beginning of a downward spiral. We never got ahead of the cancer until we lost her months later.

I will never hold her again, or hear her say “daddy”, or see how she reacts to the attention of boys. I’ll never be able to see her on stage, share a cup of coffee, or walk her down the aisle. Those are things I want and cannot have. I can never have. I will never have.

Contentment is elusive when you see people all around holding their rabbits and your rabbit is but a memory.

But along with the ache that comes from wanting something you will never have comes a paradox. While I live in jealousy of rabbitful families, I don’t begrudge them their rabbits. I want everyone to have their own and joyfully hold them forever. I just want mine, too.

Tell me again, about the rabbits

And so, like Lennie, I dream. I am a drifter in this life who dreams an impossible dream about holding a thing I will never again hold. I smile, I work, I play, I have laughter and fun… and yet the allure of the rabbit’s soft fur always tugs at my heart. It’s a beautiful dream that necessarily awakens to a sobering reality. My palm is empty… there is no rabbit. There will never and can never be a rabbit.

Tell me again, about the rabbits

Lennie settles for stories about rabbits and so must I… in this life.

But I believe there is a day coming when my dream will come true… when Kylie will take my hand and show me a land of promise and reward to which no work of fiction can compare. That belief, though resolute, rarely makes the waiting here easier. I see now that this life will be difficult until that day.

But still, I will dream.

Tell me again, about the rabbits

bunny

 

The Finger of God

.Reading time 4 minutes.

“I have touched the very finger of God.”

It seems an arrogant statement to make, I know. Yet it is true… I have.

I was not responsible for the touch. Man is always reaching up to touch the hem of God’s robe, but to experience a touch from the Almighty requires divine grace on his part: an act of reaching down.

There have been many times throughout history when he chose people to be his instrument – where he reached down and nudged someone with instruction or direction. We chosen aren’t always the model of propriety or what humankind would necessarily expect to be God’s vessel, yet we have received an undeniable touch and must share his message.

I didn’t seek it or expect it. I stumbled into it – almost like a bully-poke in the chest… not aggressive, but certainly firm and meaningful. If I had heard his voice, I think he would have said, “This way, dummy. Don’t miss this thing I’ve created.”

I believe that when we step outside our mortal bodies and enter heaven, limitations are removed. While earthbound, our ability to understand the world around us is confined to that which our five senses can perceive. For example, on this earth, we deal in a pallet of viewable colors. In heaven, the supply of colors is endless – 1,000,000 crayons to name. But in that rare instance when God chooses to lay his finger on a mere mortal, he allows us to experience the joy to come when we will no longer wear mortal blinders. That is the full-sensory extravaganza I enjoyed. It was a luxurious, indescribable bliss which has made me yearn even more for my heavenly home.

Of course, it happened in the South – that place still described as the Bible Belt. A place given to beauty, manners, and charm where God leans a little closer. While I must admit that the “belt” is nearly rusted through and Southerners are becoming as hedonistic and immoral as the rest of the heathens, there are still enough churches per square mile that God can skip from place to place without touching the ground. That’s gotta count for something.

When you receive a touch from God, you also receive an immediate call to share it with others. I don’t mean to insert myself in the same conversation as St. Paul, Martin Luther, or Gandhi. But I now understand their unselfish need to write a few Epistles, start the Reformation, or lead the Indian people to freedom. God’s touch is an urging, a stirring within that cannot be denied.

I have felt that touch… from the very finger of God and he has asked me to share this word with you mortals walking the earth:

“Thou shalt not miss the opportunity to indulge in a deep-fried Oreo!”

deep-fried-oreos

 

 

On a recent trip to Stone Mountain, I stood next a shop selling funnel cakes, when God nudged me with a childhood memory of a Denver amusement park. He pushed me into the little shack where behold, the heavenly choir sang and an ethereal light brightened around menu item number 6: Deep Fried Oreos. I bought two orders to share with my people… That which is important to God must be shared.

I’m telling you, the most decadent, unbelievable party for your taste buds you will ever experience this side of heaven.

 

Deep-fried Oreos, people!

My work here is done. I’m spent. I wonder how big the deep-frier is in heaven?

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