What Did You Want?

A question to ask this Christmas

The morning air is cool on my face. The slick soles of my boots threaten to slip off the bike pedals with each spoke turn.

I cross the street, passing just one walker, his arms swinging quickly down the wide street. Then I make one right turn, one left turn, and another right. In three minutes, I am turning onto Main Street, the sidewalks filled with potted Christmas trees glistening with red and silver in the morning sun.

It rained earlier this week, and the air is still moist. I breathe through my nose, feeling the air expand my lungs. I turn onto the sidewalk outside a coffee shop and pull my bike up to a bike stand shaped like a red metal coffee mug. I can see Justin in the window, perched on a counter stool, laptop open. People press together in line for coffee, and I ease my way in, past the giant body of a Grand Pyrenees who also, perhaps, likes expresso. Its huge brown eyes look up at its owner, who is deep in conversation as she stands in line. I tell Justin I am tempted to burrow my face in the dog’s thick black and white fur.

Stand. See what I see.

This place isn’t going to work for me to write—it’s too crowded to think. Justin doesn’t mind it; he has always liked the energy of voices around him, saying it keeps him focused. But since there is no room for me at the counter, and the outside tables are too wet, I invite him to meet me at Boulanger, the coffeeshop two blocks down the street that promises a booth tucked away in the back, laid-back and friendly regulars, and limitless refills of decaf coffee.

I’ve been here for ten minutes when there is an excited yell—and then laughter and applause—as the power goes off—and then back on—for a few seconds. A group of seven women has appropriated a large table; they’re enjoying what looks like a Christmas gathering, sitting with mugs of drinks on top of a table runner someone brought from home. It is so good to be here.

I like to be here.

I will meet with friends in a few hours, exchanging gifts like we’ve done for the past fifteen or more years. I wrapped the gifts this morning, tying velvet ribbon around simple frames holding prints of Raymond Carver’s poem, “Late Fragment.” This poem amazes me in its invitation to imagine our last moments of life—and consider what it is we live for:

“And what did you want?/ To call myself beloved, to feel myself/ beloved on the earth.”

The poem is short, only six lines. And the speaker’s answer to the question, “What did you want?”—in the past tense—arrests me. What is it I want? What do I chase? What posture do I have toward myself and others, challenges and hardships, grace and beauty? What do I believe is true—about life, me, God?

But then, as I continue reading, I am captivated by the speaker’s answer to his question, which is so beautifully simple, confident, and assured: “To call myself beloved, to feel myself/ beloved on the earth.”

The poem begins with a direct question to the reader, inviting us to jump into the most important conversation we can have: “And did you get what/you wanted from this life, even so?”

And then the speaker responds, “I did.”

If I am asked, just before no more air passes through my lungs, whether or not I got what I wanted from this life, I want to be able to answer, “I did. I did. I did.”

Like the speaker of the poem, I want this: “To call myself beloved, to feel myself / beloved on the earth.”

Yes, yes, yes.

You can read the poem in its entirety here. I’d love to know what you think of it.

Merry Christmas, dear ones.

May our Father fill you with His love. May He awaken your heart and smile upon your face. May the Savior’s love overwhelm you and Holy Spirit’s presence guide your every step. May you be comforted when the night is dark. May the Lord's light bring you wisdom. May his voice in your heart ground you in what is true. May you be held in the Father’s arms and adored as the Son is adored. May you rejoice with the angels the night of His birth, astounded with the shepherds, filled with wonder with Mary, amazed and overwhelmed by Love who Came Down. May your heart leap with gladness and pour out worship upon the King. May your heart find rest in Home.

Amen.