Eyes
We sat by each other at Floyd Casey Football Stadium—probably
about this time of year. But the
unmerciful Waco autumn weather felt more like July. At least the sun had set, granting some relief.
I can’t remember what we talked about over our popcorn
and Dr. Peppers. Maybe we mocked the Milli
Vanilli songs we’d listened to countless times that summer, or laughed (again) about
the Caddo “C” Julie Caldwell and I mistakenly finger-painted on a camper’s
sleeping face in our midnight attempt to aggravate our Osage friend. We probably tried (unsuccessfully) to make
sense of the strangeness we’d encountered in our James Joyce class. Whatever was said, I’m certain it included laughter—Troy’s
specialty.
Partway through the game, the Flash photography girl
appeared, so we called her over to take our picture. Laughing, I mentioned that my eyes would
probably be closed like usual. But just
before she snapped the shot, Troy reached around from behind me and, with his
fingers, he propped open my eyes. A few days later, I bought the picture. Troy’s trick had worked.
We finished our graduate studies, and Troy and I didn’t
communicate as often. Soon, our lives went
in different directions. After many
adventures with Camp Ozark (which many of us envied fiercely), he landed a
teaching job in Seattle and settled in. In
some ways, his life’s trajectory seemed to change by a few degrees. Yet in other ways, it seems to have been
steady, sure.
The path I chose included some years of sharp, rocky
terrain, and my steps grew uncertain. Disoriented, I stumbled often and with no
small consequence. Those years chipped
away at my courage and came frighteningly close to stealing my hope altogether. Had I
been willing to admit my struggles, I know I would have benefited from the
encouragement Troy and other friends would have offered. But I was afraid: I didn’t really believe anyone could offer answers
that would actually feel like
answers. So I hiked on, plodding and blundering.
Somehow, I managed to arrive at the end of that stretch. There, I was simultaneously stunned and
grateful to be met by Mercy. It was
embodied in so many forms: a family’s
unflinching acceptance, a loving marriage, amazing children, and—more recently—an
opportunity to use the degree I’d worked so hard to earn. An opportunity to teach English to community
college students here in Tennessee.
Which, of course, reminded me of Troy. So I
messaged him, sharing my excitement about the job and asking his advice about
managing the workload. Troy’s response
was another embodiment of that Mercy. My
misguided stumbling didn’t matter. Instead,
our last exchange ended with his reply, which resonated with his characteristic
and kind combination of wit, wisdom, and encouragement.
I spent hours on Saturday sifting through a box of
college memorabilia, looking for that particular picture. So far, the search has been
unsuccessful. But it doesn’t really seem
to matter: I won’t be forgetting it
anytime soon. But I’m newly resolved to open
my eyes wide, to watch for opportunities to laugh, to talk, to receive Mercy.
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