I call him Michael, after the bully who shook us down for lunch money and made my life a living hell, simply because I was born this way, back at Newcomb Middle School, circa 1976-’77.
Because irony is life…
Michael, my arch angel, spirit guide, friend.
Almost everything about this place is the opposite of what it should be. The clumsy language barriers…the focus on material wealth and status cliques.
Except, maybe nature, untouched by these creatures who purport to be men.
Friend in the original language means so much more than the girls you drink wine with on the weekend, pretending to have fun.
Friend is the greatest attribution you can give someone else, greater than romantic love. A friend will die for you in battle. Will, in fact, stand in front of you out of instinct, when shots are literally fired. Without hesitation.
Jesus called his disciples friends. We sing in church about being a “Friend of God,” like we know what that means.
It doesn’t mean blasphemy, because he is holy and we don’t trade shots with him at the neighborhood tavern.
Michael is my friend. He is there when I need him. Not when I think I need him, or when I think he should be there for my bruised ego — or for a show of force.
Because he knows me inside and out, he knows my inclinations, my preferences. He knows I work alone. I suffer but in the end I have your back. He knows I need with every fiber of my being to save you, the worst and most ignored, most aggrieved among you.
And, I don’t cater to flattery of any sort.
I cannot be thanked. I cannot be acknowledged in any way. It’s off to a new adventure with “strangers,” so I can find ways creative and outside the lines to help those most at-risk, most vulnerable, the outsiders, the lepers.
He arrives, I feel him, to encourage me to continue on, to laugh at me when I give in too much to the ridiculous notion that I am powerless and I am nothing, because…as he’s so fond of telling me…”we both know better.”
He is formal and grand, fearless and intrepid. When he “speaks” without your languages, he speaks in a way that sinks into your flesh and bones, and burns a light into your soul.
I think I found him, or a version of him in one of a million residues from The One (which we all come from). He’s a writer on Medium, can you believe it?
His essays feed my soul. Sustain me for the next battle.
Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on April 19, 2021.