On a Carolina blue sky day, two days out from March, the promise of spring whispered on a warm wind found me sinking, knocked out cold in a battle between my rage and depression.

In less than four years, monkeys in my mind chatter growing alarm over the death of my mom, a global pandemic, the suicide of 5 friends, the loss of our son-in-law to drugs and untreated trauma, my daughter’s desperate journey to find safety, a nation divided into us and them and an overriding fear the center can no longer hold.  

Like Pippin looking out over the fires of Mount Doom, I ask the same question as the halfling Pippin in JRR Tolkien’s masterpiece, The Lord of the Rings.

In the icy winds of an early polar vortex, sinking in seasonal affective disorder, a photo strikes me from my Instagram feed.  

After reading the caption - Trunk Bay Beach, consistently rated one of the world’s best, I download and convert the jpg to my desktop wallpaper.

One dismal morning, icy rain pinging window glass, I stare at the image like it was porn.

In a trance, the thought takes root in my brain --

This is the very spot we need to celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary.

Over the past decade, several friends with stitched faces have asked me the same question in varying forms:

How can Christians support someone for president with the character of Trump?

Having been raised in a fundamentalist family, I was hoping you might help me understand, says Tyler, an amalgam of all of my confused friends.

In response, I begin by asking Tyler if he has ever heard the story of King Cyrus. and Orange Jesus.

At the Bearwater Brewery, downwind from Canton’s historic paper plant, my daughter worries over what impact the first line of her poem might have on me.

After my son’s second surgery, a good friend asked me how I was doing, I replied, Not so good.

Are you praying?, she asked.

I tell her — Can’t do it right now.

Can you sit still and do nothing?

Champion at that, I respond.

Around the Thanksgiving table, during the second year of the pandemic, our daughter and son-in-law announce their desire to travel to New Orleans. They wanted to know if we could dogsit for their three dogs, including Daisy, an abused hounddog and recent addition to the family. Familiar with the role, we agreed. What could possibly go wrong?

When our good friend Becky offers to pay for dance lessons, I delight in being included. In addition to joining Jose and Annalyse at the Asheville Ballroom, I entertain a fantasy that I will tear up the floor during the daddy daughter dance with the crowd exploding at the end.

For a depressed introvert like me, self-quarantine feels like a paradise even when you hear hoofbeats underscoring the Nightly News. I get to be alone with my wife, Melanie, who I love, binge TV, write, read books, ride out the Apocalypse with my soulmate, and get paid for my service by the government. What’s not to love? The idea of an unraveling purge makes the quarantine even better.

On the twilight of a backyard party, I feel lost and helpless, crying and praying at the same time. And then it comes -- just what I needed at precisely the right time. Rising above a cacophony of tree frogs, crickets, and party voices, on a night when even a whisper carried, I hear my mother laugh.

When two sheriff cars pull into our driveway, an officer rolls down his window and asks my wife, ‘Are you the owner of a White Siberian Husky?’

She thinks, ‘Oh no, what trouble has he gotten himself into this time?’

Covid-19 hit a few months after we became empty-nesters, giving us both the time and resources to finally invest into a hot tub and a long overdue renovation of our deck.

I really want to honor your one and only request, I said to my wife immediately picturing myself next to her relishing the jet streams while watching football through an HD projector.

I was more than willing to make this sacrifice for such a loving wife.

On our family’s first camping trip, downwind from the restrooms, without a flashlight, they showed Sleeping Beauty, a story of what happens when true love invades.

The light is soft and warm, sifted through a mist rising in the valley, up from the ground, over tufted heads of ripe com. Annalyse wakes from her nap.

I dressed in layers -- two pairs of jeans and sweaters, my Elmer Fudd overalls, North Face Winter gloves, a hoodie, my bike helmet, and a gas mask. In my arms, I held two rackets -- one for tennis, one for racquetball, both for a war on bats.