On My Worst Day

by John Lynch

  … I get it. I watched it. But this is not the whole story. I’ve built into you a longing to have your life count, to be affirmed for giving away what I’ve given you. You just don’t know how to do it yet. In your immaturity, this looked like a quick way to fill that longing. You will walk down tens of dozens of blind alleys before you are convinced none of these false attempts will give you what you’re looking for. Even if the principal had given you the money, it wouldn’t have paid off. I’ve built life that way. You can get everything, climbing to the top of the heap, but I will always be the only one who can couple the experience with joy.

  I will direct your parents to buy a few acres of land in a few years, which will more than compensate for what you lost. It wouldn’t hurt you to voluntarily do something around the house. It might make you feel better until you understand how forgiveness and repentance work.

  I do have to say, you had a very creative plan. Some kids might think to do it, but you actually tried it! It was terribly flawed. But had that front desk lady been honest you might have pulled it off. Nothing’s changed between us. I saw this one coming for a long time.

  So, here I am, already fully locked into this reality: “The first part of my life I spent trying to make myself lovable so I would be loved.”

  1962

  Mr. Yukech passed away from kidney failure this year. He lived across the street, on Altura Way. For some reason, he took a kind interest in me. If he saw me playing out front, he’d usually walk over. We’d sit for hours on our front stoop. Who does that? A sixty-some-year-old and a kid spending unhurried chunks of time together. I felt known with him, even not talking at all. I think, all along, he was trying to convince me I was worth his time. Like that single gift would help me.

  He had no idea how much it would.

  He talked to me about life, about nearly everything. He was wise. I listened to him, because even then I could tell he wasn’t giving adult slogans. He listened to me, like what I was saying was important. He was real. Most adults saw me as a disrespectful, spoiled punk. So did Mr. Yukech. But he was able to see over it all. He gave me my first baseball glove. He restrung one from his garage and rubbed saddle soap into every crevice. I’d give up a lot to have that glove today.

  During my entire childhood, he was the only adult I visited in a hospital. I made my parents drive me there. When he ultimately passed away from kidney failure, it was the first time I’d experienced deep loss.

  When I eventually did start to risk trusting others, it was largely because I’d once known someone trustworthy. I would waste far too much of my life in foolishness, without wisdom, fighting this truth:

  Awakening: Anyone can get knowledge and information; but nobody gets wisdom, insight, and discernment without trusting.

  Ever since Mr. Yukech, I was looking hard for such a place.

  John, I will make sure Bill Yukech sees this piece.

  1962

  I have never known anyone with a more beautiful heart than my mom. She was a language teacher and a linguist. At the time of her death, she was writing a book on root similarities of the romance languages. She sang opera professionally. She was the kindest, most other-centered person I have ever met.

  I was always told both my parents were atheists. But I have this memory. It still makes me cry. One evening my dad and I got into an argument over something. I was sent to my room—livid, shaking, fighting back tears until I got out of his presence. Later, my mom knocked on the door of my room, entered, and sat next to me on my bed. She stroked my hair and eventually whispered “John, there’s a place coming where there are no tears and the real you will be fully known. There is one who will make sense of all the pain. I promise you.”

  It was unlike anything she’d ever said to me. We never spoke of it again. I never knew what to do with it. I’ve wondered if those words guided me to him. I picture her in heaven.

  John, sometimes people trust me early on and then their lives gets misdirected. They marry someone who doesn’t trust me. Or the melody gets lost amid pain. But I don’t forget. No matter how faint, distorted or convoluted, I can ferret out trust. I gave you an astoundingly good mother. You did not yet know how to return her love. You were a kid. But she knows now. I want you to know that. I’ve not forgotten and she knows. That’s as far as we can go right now. Her words set you on a journey for the land and person she described. You will be twenty-five when she leaves this world. You will lay sprawled out on a boulder in the middle of a Connecticut forest, crying out to whoever holds forever. You will beg and demand and shout to be assured she is safe. You will ache for there to be a God— a good and real and powerful God. You will tell me what she said that evening on your bed … John, I missed not one word. I was there, on the boulder with you. And I do only right.

  February 9, 1964

  This evening, the Beatles, in their first visit to America, appeared on the Ed Sullivan show; 728 people witnessed the event in Studio 50. Seventy-four million of us stared at it on television. Most of us will never be the same. I sat there, transfixed, as though watching a talent show from another galaxy. The next morning, at school, no one greeted each other without the next sentence containing the words “the Beatles.”

  For me it was so much more than the excitement of a once-a-century phenomenon. It was my indelible introduction into a lifelong obsession with becoming famous.

  I soon bought a Beatles wig and was singing “It Won’t Be Long” into the stereo speakers in our den—imagining I was lead singer and rhythm guitarist in a band which would eventually eclipse the popularity of the Beatles.

  I usually pictured in the audience my teachers and all those who did not understand or appreciate me. Now they were leaning over to each other between songs, confessing, “I was wrong. This young man is so incredible. I always knew it, really.”

  So, there you go. It’s not the Beatles’ fault. It was in me before they showed up. For a long time I would feel the need to prove a worth which matched my need to be loved.

  It’s a chump’s bet, a longing that can never pay off. Even if people get it, they then wish they didn’t have it. As Steve Martin writes, “I was once not enough famous. Then I was too famous. Now I’m just right famous.”

  Even today, I can’t defend my motives at any given time. I used to rough myself up for not having more “godly” ambitions. I was fairly certain he couldn’t use me if my motives weren’t almost completely right.

  Anymore though, I imagine him saying something like this:

  John, your motives will always be less than pure. I’m actually good with that. Maturity takes a lifetime. If I had to wait for humans to get their motives 80 percent right before I could work with them, soup wouldn’t have yet been invented! You know what will one day change? You. Your entire wiring. Yes, you will still sometimes want to be adored by all mankind. But you will find yourself increasingly more concerned about others, about destiny about having this life count. Don’t be hard on yourself. You’re right on time. …

  1964

  As a boy, I remember thinking there was nothing as stupid or irrelevant as anything having to do with God. The Lynches were atheists. Dad progressively pushed to get us away from celebrating Christmas. His ultimate act was to have us open gifts the evening before. (Way to stick it to the man, Dad!) He brought home an aluminum tree in 1957 and we put it up every year through the late ’70s, after over a third of the limbs no longer had tinsel. Most of our few ornaments eventually slid to the center. Other kids had sprawling, flocked trees with color wheels, popcorn, cranberries, and shiny ornaments, all animated by the warmth of nearly endless strands of lights. The Lynches had sticks shoved into a pole, covered with shredded aluminum foil. I tried to not have friends over during December. Dad made sure we received mostly educational gifts or underwear, so we wouldn’t get enthralled with the holiday. Nothing says Christmas like unwrapping a bag of thin dress socks.

  As a kid, every picture or statue I saw of Jesus depressed or spook
ed me. His eyes followed me, like he was trying to get my attention so he could tell me off. “Hey, you, kid. Yeah, you. Look over here at me! Wipe that grin off your face. I’m carrying the weight of the world, and you couldn’t care less … I didn’t come to earth for you.”

  I was never supposed to get Jesus. I was sure God was, as Karl Marx had said, “the opiate of the masses.” Everything about me cried out against everything to do with God.

  Except this thought I couldn’t turn off …

  Awakening: No matter how diligently parents try to train a child in the absurdity of faith in God, they can’t stop his voice: “What if I’m here, after all? What if I think about you every moment of the day? What if I hold that magic your heart keeps waiting to be true?”

  It followed me at night, on walks home. It stayed with me through the years when I mocked his name. I lived my entire childhood claiming to not believe in a God I secretly wanted.

  1964

  You couldn’t walk any significant distance in my childhood Upland without going through an orange grove. In the winter, the owners kept the fruit from freezing at night through a series of oil-generated, heat-producing “smudge pots.” The ignited oil in those squatty metal drums placed along the rows of trees gave off a dirty, smoky warmth. The orchard formed a warm canopy and temporary home for drifters or those hiding from local authorities. What a different time it was in the world! My friends and I were always fascinated, getting to hang out with real hobos. We’d stand around them, speechless, like we were watching men from another planet.

  I especially remember one in particular. He had thick oily hair, wore a flannel shirt and greasy jeans. He looked pretty beaten down. But he seemed so cool, living alone out under the sky. He was sketchy looking—pretty quiet and wearing a nervous tic. But he was kind, careful to not frighten us with the gruff realities of his journey. He showed us how to cook things with aluminum foil on an open fire. He’d grill up corn, pancakes, and pieces of what he called “sparrow meat.” He sometimes whittled while he talked to us. We never once thought about any danger.

  Today, imagine a kid telling his mom, “Hey, I’m going with my friends to visit a vagrant out in the orange groves. He has a knife.”

  It all set a course for me. It caused me to not fear those on the edges of society. Years later I discovered the ones who talk to me most genuinely, tenderly, and authentically about God are often those having the toughest time managing daily life in society. Somehow, they manage to most clearly see God in the midst of it.

  This childhood freedom would teach me to give dignity with my time, attention, and presence to those who doubt their life matters. To those whose failure and weaknesses try to convince them they are a different class of human. Great beauty doesn’t avoid the most poor, fragile, or devastated. Sometimes dignity is giving importance to those who sit on the fringe. It is convincing them God loves them as well as anyone else. I think it’s why I love Cannery Row so much. Steinbeck gave dignity to those who have no visible footing in this world. I have discovered most of my favorite speaking events have been to the painfully common, limping, and inappropriate. More often than not, they enjoy my humor the most, listen most intently to my words, and lavish me with the most pie. Maybe it’s all because, behind my loud and articulate bluster, I am one of them.

  I imagine that evening Jesus took Levi, the hated tax-gatherer, up on his invitation to dinner. A roomful of actively immoral outcasts, carrying all manner of visible scars of depravity, desperately trying to be on their best behavior. Quiet and awkward. If we could have filmed it, the camera would now pan in from above, through the room to where Jesus is reclining. … Soon there’s a circle around Jesus, all of them gradually sitting up, elbows on knees, chins on hands. Hardened sinners with expressions of wonder and innocence. We’re watching what happens when perfect love, grace, and purity invade darkness. The King has shown up to rescue prisoners from the enemy camp—where wickedness and perversion have seemed logical up until this moment. Suddenly there is, at least in this room, a hope life could be different.

  The night air gradually blends into a mixture of the best humor, stories, truth, life, hope. Somewhere in the evening, the conversation turns.

  “Who are you—really?” He unhurriedly lets them ask questions. Then there is silence. It is becoming clear exactly who he is. Few in the crowds outside, who’ve sought him for a miracle show, receive what these reprobates are receiving. They’re becoming desperate for who he is, not what magic he might wave.

  Someone sitting next to him: “Why us? Why would you choose to be here tonight, with us?”

  Jesus: “This may be hard for you to understand. I’ve known you and loved you since before there was time. I’ve watched it all. I know about the catch in your knee that takes until after noon to loosen up. I was there the evenings your father beat you. I was there when you were kicked out of the synagogue. And now, I’ve come from heaven for you.”

  “But … don’t you know what I’ve done?”

  “Yes, I do. And I have the unfortunate ability to know the wrong things you’re going to do tomorrow and the day after that. The only sin which could possibly separate you from eternity with God is to reject the person who’s speaking to you at this moment.” … He smiles. “And, I gotta tell you, I’m being welcomed here tonight like few other places since I’ve been down here. … Now, may I finish this joke?”

  … And two dozen men and women, who walked into this party ready for a fight, laugh deeply … and peer into his eyes, like convicts about to receive their walking papers.

  1964

  Few foods captivated me in youth like cheesecake. I was always left frustrated, wanting more than I was allowed in any given sitting. My parents never allowed it into our home, treating cheesecake as a luxury only royalty should possess—like caviar or gold-leafed chocolate dishes. On the rare occasion Dad did take us to a restaurant that might carry cheesecake, he’d always made sure he pointed out the ridiculously high price of desserts. Reading the menu, he’d grumble under his breath, “These desserts cost about what I make in a day’s work. What sort of people would order such a thing?”

  But on my birthday last year he took us to the Magic Lamp—the nicest restaurant in Upland. It had white linen tablecloths and bread sticks in a basket covered with a matching linen napkin. My dad allowed me to order dessert!

  When it finally arrived, it was so incredibly thin and tiny. A sliver of cheesecake, nearly lost on the dessert plate. The waiter could have served it with tweezers. I’m thinking, “I could down about nineteen of these!”

  When I asked if I could have a second piece, my dad looked at me like he might give his speech about people starving in the Congo.

  … All of this is to help explain to you why this summer day in 1964 turned out the way it did.

  I was pedaling my blue Sting-Ray into downtown Upland to watch a matinee at the Grove

  Theater. I didn’t make it that far. Turning off Euclid onto Ninth Street, I was physically pulled by what smelled like freshly baked cheesecake. The aroma came from the Upland Bakery. I was suddenly positioned in front of the glass store window in time to watch an oversized man in a white baker’s uniform slide a majestic, freshly baked cheesecake from an oven with a immense wooden paddle.

  (I am oft and accurately accused of runaway hyperbole, but none of what I am about to write bears the marks of such device.)

  I walked into the store and up to the glass counter, on whose racks the cake had only now been placed. Pointing to it, while making eye contact with the woman behind the counter, I asked, “How much for this. How much does it cost?”

  “Per slice?”

  “No. The whole cheesecake. How much?”

  She quoted a nearly impossible amount. But I would find a way to purchase this. The thought that I could, for once, have all the cheesecake I wanted had suddenly become the single most important goal for this day of my life.

  I spoke out, clearly and slowly, “Would you ple
ase not let anyone else buy this? I’m going to go home to find the money to buy it. Promise?”

  And I was off on my bicycle.

  Mom was not home. I had eighty-five cents already on me for the movie and snacks. I dug through my dad’s change cup in his dresser. I scoured every room of the house. I probably rounded up a dollar’s worth of coins—still pitifully short of the amount to own that cake.

  … Then I remembered my Indian Head nickel collection.

  A child of the depression, my dad now had many collections—perhaps as a hedge against impending poverty. He wanted me to have a similar passion. So he had purchased a fleet of these heavy cardboard blue booklets with slots for Indian Head nickels. A slot for every year they were minted. Dad helped me get started with some fairly rare coins. I soon got into it, and in the last several years had filled many of the slots.

  Somehow able to ignore perspective, consequence, and future regret, I bent back the cardboard booklets and popped out coins—until I had over five dollars worth of nickels in the pockets of my jeans. I got back on my Stingray and raced to the bakery. There, I proceeded to pour out piles of nickels onto that counter.

  I walked out with the entire cheesecake in a box!

  I should have taken the cake home and shared half with my family. I did not do that.

  I should have located a plastic fork and knife and eaten it at a local park. I did not do that.

  I should have at least sat down. I did not do that.

  I walked into the alley behind their store. Like a child raised by wolverines, I began breaking off huge chunks of warm, fresh cheesecake and shoving them into my mouth. It tasted so incredibly good.

  For almost minutes.