Last Call for Alcohol

Life.

It felt like a birthday party I was invited to against my will, and without an opportunity to refuse the invite. No RSVP card to return and say, “No. I won’t be attending.”

I arrived without being consulted first, entering a family I had not chosen, and handed built-in circumstances nobody bothered to explain. Yet there I was—expected to smile, accept whatever was served to me, and act grateful simply because somebody, or some THING, had given me a seat at the table that I know I wouldn't have missed had I never been born.

And even when I wanted to leave, I was told I couldn’t. That if I tried to uninvite myself, I’d be sent to some imaginary hell of their own making.

Then, just when the party finally starts feeling good—the music is bumping that slow grind, the drinks are flowing like water made into wine, the smoke is thick with pricey Cohiba and Hine Homage, and with That Man’s breath luxuriously heating every inch of me from the crown of my neck down until common sense took a sudden leave of absence...just when everything was clicking and starting to make sense…

The house lights came up. Last call. Last call for alcohol!

Then Kano.

♪"I'm ready."♫

Then the familiar bark over the intercom with that background jam on --: “I don’t know where you’re going, but you gots to get the hell up outta here!”

And boom—just like that, it’s over. Everything that looked good in the dark came to the light.

Then here comes some other life institutional summamabitch offering my loved ones a choice of a coffin or a cremation urn and I ain't asked for either one.

Gotta stay when I'd rather go, and gotta go just when I decided I'd rather stay a little while longer.

Between the unwanted invitation and the undesired last call, there was something called a life.

Too many who said they have more to do checked out days later, and far too many who said "F%ck this. I'm outta here!" are still here struggling decades after they tried to move on from this.

Yes, there comes a time to stop sitting at the table like an unwanted intrusive party guest.

♫"I'm so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh or sing a song..."♪

Time to choose what we will consume and what we will refuse. Time to get up, cross the room, find our own music, and dance—even if we have to dance alone.

We may not have chosen the party, the people who brought us, or those who encroached on our lives and introduced themselves as if we were obligated to them. Nor did we ask for what was waiting when we arrived.

But while we are here, we can decide how we will take this pill.

We can live by faith when we do not understand why we were invited in the first place.

We can hold on to hope when the room grows dark.

And we can choose love—not the kind that asks us to accept mistreatment and think of it as gratitude, but the kind that reminds us that we are worthy of being here. Wherever here is.

In the meantime, a gift has only two loaves and a fish; but an anointing says two loaves and a fish will feed 5,000; or even 10,000 if you know which way to cut it with grace and gratitude.

The house lights haven't come up yet on those of us who still remain; but until they do, we press forward toward the mark of a higher-and more animated-calling.

Because no matter what we do, we're going to be forced out of here just like we were forced in--without an opportunity to decline the invite, and later, without a chance to say 'NO!' to the exit door.

Dolly Parton said she wasn't finished just yet, but life said 'Yeah, you are.'

My friend Veronica said "I think I have a lot left to do. God ain't ready for me yet." A week later, she was gone.

I guess the rest of us keep saying, "I ain't got sh*+ left to do," and that's why we're still here.

Gatekeeping and wondering what's next on the agenda.