Once upon a time, that time being myself at age 17, I spent two weeks in China smuggling Bibles. Though I don’t believe I was ever in any real danger, there was, perhaps, a small percentage’s chance I might undergo some kind of semi-serious interrogation. Of 22 boarder crossings, however, security only caught me twice, and I received at worst a scowl coupled with whatever the Chinese equivalents are to certain English explicatives.
My traveling partners were Jack and John, two rather corky and rather unlikely companions. Whoever discovers the exact dictionary word for wise, sportive, irresponsible, and altogether reckless old man, tell me so that I may rightly apply it to them both. Jack, age 74, had just had his second heart attack two months prior to the trip. And John, age 70, though in good health, lacked what one might call a sense of common sense. One might do them justice by thinking of the two old men from “Second Hand Lions.”
Only now do I question my parent’s decision to let me go along with these two. Having developed a keen obsession with adventure, I was only likely to provoke their already over-zealous nature.
But we had a grand ol’ time, the three of us. Sometimes we witnessed what may only be called a miracle; how at exactly the right moment, just as security was getting suspicious, some lady would scream at the top of her lungs or somebody would trip, diverting everyone’s attention. One time we found ourselves in an elevator hiding 200 pounds of Bibles from two armed guards. John and I had stuffed our pockets and suitcases with contraband, while the guards held AK47s in one hand and pressed floor buttons with the other. Another time our contact had been discovered, leaving the 17 year old to stay in the hotel room overseeing 3000 Bibles while everyone else rushed to save the contact’s life. There were many adventures. One of them includes being offered sex for the first time by a prostitute. Come to think of it, that may be the only time I have been offered sex at all. C'est la vie, I suppose. A man’ll take what he can get.
Ah yes, the good ol’ days when I was far too young, far too naïve, and far too perfect for the job. I don’t know how I forget the things God did in my life, nor fail to recall the things He is presently doing. To call me an exception to the rule would be less than exceptional and, in a way, downright irreverent. I am an amalgamation of graces, and it seems to me a miracle of sin that I ever act ungrateful.
I heard people telling stories at dinner tonight, and thought to myself “Kevin, you almost never tell your stories, and that is a problem.”
My life has been the poem I would have writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.—Thoreau
the K.H.
4 comments:
It's funny the things you remember from a time like that. It was clear to me and the rest of your friends that it was a turning point in your life and based off your recollection of the experience, that was the case.
Kevin, I love this. And you're right... it's high time you start sharing some of your stories. I feel privileged when you do.
Hughesie
Once again, good to see you the other night. Of course I was unaware you were holding out on us with such tales. I can't really fit them into the narrative of your life with which I am familiar (minimal, I concede), which means there are vast subterranean tracts that never came up in philosophical discussions at CIU or blog exchanges. Interesting. By the way, I haven't forgotten about the poetry you sent me; I want to give it good treatment, and so I've held off responding too cursorily because of the constraints on my time.
Dave: it's funny realizing that you were there during that time of my life. It seems i lived in another place as another man
Rachel: yeah, i don't know why i don't tell stories. I have considered it a character flaw for about a year now--likely stemming from some kind of psychological hoopla of which i am totally in the dark. My bad. I am working on repairing the situation.
Collin: Yeah, i tend to separate what i'm thinking with who i am. Odd i suppose. Also, thanks for even thinking about reading those poems. Helen is my best work, and my favorite Tragic character. Diomedes has improved immensely since i sent you that email (i.e. above blog). And Menelaus, God help it, is still under heavy reconstruction. I am afraid i must reiterate Keats "I feel sensible it is not of such completion as to warrant its passing the press; nor should it if I thought a year's castigation would do it any good; - it will not: the foundations are too sandy."
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