I refuse to call it a man crush. I’m pretty sure that I’ve watched everything that Aaron Sorkin has ever written. The Big Screen- Malice, A Few Good Men, The American President (which paved the way for the greatest TV series of all time.) Charlie Wilson’s War, The Social Network, Moneyball, and Steve Jobs. I’ve seen on the Small Screen Sports Night, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, The Newsroom, and…drumroll…The West Wing. As a matter of fact, I’m watching the series through for my third time now. Nothing compares. All that other stuff on television plays second fiddle to his Magnum Opus.

I live foggy and numb a lot lately. A few years ago, my counselor told me that my body was doing important work. “Bodies are smart. They have a shut-down mechanism so that you don’t feel everything that you experience. If you did, some days would be too much.” So I live foggy, a lot. Thanks body. The good news is that I don’t have extreme lows. The downside is that the pendulum doesn’t swing very far the other way either. I live in the middle. A hammock instead of a tilt-a-whirl. I used to get so excited, like a kid, when I was doing something new. Christmas morning, going to Six Flags, riding a motorcycle or in a convertible, a dinner party, a Giants’ game- they all surged my emotions. Now, I tell myself, “Self, you would normally get excited about this, so be present to this moment. It really is spectacular.”

However, there is an exception.

Art.

Art gets me. It grabs me and reads me and understands me. It tells my story and feels my feelings. It communicates what I don’t quite have the words for. It doesn’t have to alleviate my pain, it expresses it for me. Art holds the key to my unlocked emotions and when I give it its required space, it gladly opens the door. It’s not just me- it’s you too. But art has an enemy. Its arch nemesis is hurry. Art is a foreign language which requires that I spend time with it to understand it. It is not my native tongue, so I must work with it, study it, hone my understanding of it. To skim a fiction book or worse, to keep my cell phone distraction next to me while I read, to walk flippantly through a museum, to fast-forward a movie, to text during a play is to blaspheme art. Art is a jealous friend that requires full attention. My friends have become accustomed to my distracted focus, but art isn’t as gracious. For art to breathe, for it to inhale and exhale blood and life, it must have undivided attention. For art to incite my imagination and stimulate my rusty feelings, I have to yield my pace. Hurry, multi-tasking, working hard and getting things done quickly has its place, just not with art. The true artist has the ability to highlight what I wouldn’t normally see and tell me why it’s important. I don’t see that if I’m in a rush. My receptors are inhibited by hurry.

My culture is an art killer. But Tiffanni, she is my artist nurturer. I can’t brush her teeth too quickly or she’ll get cavities. I can’t feed her too quickly or she’ll choke. I can’t walk fast or she’ll trip. I can’t talk too fast or she gets lost. I can’t do her makeup too quickly or she’ll look like a clown. Trust me, I’ve learned the hard way. She forces me to slow down. She causes me to rethink my schedule and adjust my day to remove the events that don’t matter so that I have enough time for the things that do. Some days I sit in between bites and think, “I’m here doing nothing in nowhere.”

As she encourages my art appreciation through her tempered pace, she loses hers. She can’t read anymore. Can’t understand music. Can’t keep up with movies. Can’t stay still for the theater. So, sometimes we do nothing and sit Nowhere. We eat blizzards and sit quietly. We ride in the car, quietly. We sit on the back porch, quietly- and she makes space for me to visit Nowhere.

Hurry escorts me to places that are detrimental to my soul, my family, and my relationships. To un-hurry is to go Nowhere. And it is Nowhere that art makes its home. Art, the antidote to my foggy life. And there in Nowhere Tiffanni is the uncontested mayor. Others campaign for the attention of hurry, workaholism, multi-tasking, and noise. Not Tiff- she is content to lead her quaint little city. When I visit, my world slows and my busy-satiated mind calms. My attention is drawn to the beauty that escapes the rushed. The mayor helps dissipate the fog. And you wouldn’t want anyone else running this city, trust me.

It was fajitas and a hamburger at Chili’s on that first one back in 1996- you know Chili’s- the restaurant for lovers. “Always date each other,” we were told, so I just assumed everyone else did. At least once a week, almost religiously, for 20 years Tiffanni and I have dated. Chili’s, ball games, picnics, food courts, movies, ballets, drive-ins, state parks, the theater, concerts, day drives, Christmas light looking, lakes, malls, lots of dang malls [sigh], Walmarts, skating rinks, museums, we dated. It was always my job to be the date planner. I think I assumed the role and went with it. I need variety and choices by personality, so dates were always an adventure. From geo-caching at a state park to an NHL Hockey game on our first anniversary (not sure what I was thinking), a random adventure was always a possibility.

Dates have changed a little lately. We still do them, but the random has turned in to the routine. Not out of boredom or laziness, but out of simplicity and necessity. There are only so many things that you can do with our mobility challenges, and quite possibly, I think we turned old overnight. So Fridays are Date Days and it’s Dairy Queen and a movie. Not some Fridays, every Friday. Dairy Queen offers the convenience of close proximity to the movies (where we get our variety) and Tiffanni loves the chicken fingers. To be honest, I eat the average food to get to dessert. We love our blizzards.

A few weeks ago we were at Dairy Queen and a couple of older ladies noticed us. I thought they were staring because I was feeding Tiffanni each bite (which is pretty common- both), but finally one looked at me and said, “Is your name Jeremy?” I responded with, “Yes”, to which they began to tell me about their church that I happened to preach in a few months before. They said they enjoyed it, but really, is there anything else that you could say sitting at the next table at Dairy Queen? “Listen Jeremy, you’re going to have to step it up. You can’t exegete scripture very well and you need some help closing- like do it a lot sooner.” So we chatted about the church and my family. Eventually, as old people do, they asked the inevitable question. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s wrong with Tiffanni?”

The truth is that I don’t mind people asking. I don’t really care what their motives are, nosiness or concern, I’ll answer. So I told them about Huntington’s Disease which neither of them had heard of before. “It’s an ugly neurodegenerative disorder that affects movement, mood, and cognition.” We talked a bit more and heard several additional, “Bless your hearts,” and continued our meal. Finally the big payoff came and they delivered our blizzards. The best part of the whole day. My mouth watered as they turned the blizzard upside down to show me how secure and cold it was. I always think, “Just put it down. If it falls out we’re going to have to sit here while you go make another one.” They placed Tiffanni’s oreo blizzard in front of her and my salted caramel truffle blizzard in front of me. My stomach growled and my taste buds pulsed. Just as I picked up the spoon, I heard the inevitable words from behind me, “Would you mind if we prayed for you?”

Look, I’m a preacher. I always want prayer, but something about the white hair and buns told me that this wasn’t going to be a short, “God bless them.”

“Sure,” I said. And they gathered around our table and placed their hands on us. And they prayed. And they prayed some more. And they kept praying. It wasn’t loud, but it was long. So long. Tears, tongues, and taking turns, they covered everything that you can think of. When they ran out of English, they didn’t run out of praying. I get it. Some people have to do something. Some people have to try to help alleviate our pain or their own emotional dissonance. In my world it’s usually prayer. Sometimes it’s more tangible things, but people do stuff. They have to.

After what felt like forever, the ladies wiped their tears, wrapped their grandmother arms around us, and said, “Goodbye, we’ll be praying for you.” And in my most human of moments, I looked down at the table and noticed my own tear well up in my eye. The result of our prayer, two melted puddles of blizzard.

My parents have been married 42 years and raised four kids, naturally, I am one of them. Growing up wasn’t perfect– why do we even say that? Like that is a criteria that can be met. God doesn’t even use the term perfect for creation. He says, “It is good.” And that is how I grew up. It was good. We moved several times and I always had built in playmates. We were creators, dreamers, explorers. Sticks, and rocks, and balls, and rope were the brushes that painted our adventures.  More than once my siblings hung from trees by their feet, sledded down our backyard on trashcan lids and car hoods, designed and built castles, survived b-b-gun wars, swam with alligators, and created new sports. It was good.

All of us discovered our personalities and gifts in the safety and stability of a good home. I’m lucky. I told my parents that I wanted to be a doctor, a lawyer, an FBI agent, and a pastor. They always said the same thing, “Great. Work hard.” They came to ball games, concerts, plays, took us to church, vacations, camping, art exhibitions, school projects, I grew up good. I know this is trite, but I never wondered about my family. I never questioned my parents’ love. Stability and safety do that.