The House Behind Me

 

The House Behind Me

Growing up in a house full of brothers and sisters,

there wasn't much room or time to figure out who you are.

Everybody already seemed to have a place.

The smart ones. The funny ones. The talented ones. The ones who caused trouble. The ones who never did.

I kept looking around, trying to figure out where I fit, and mostly coming up empty.

I wanted to be brave.

Brave enough to say what I thought. Brave enough to ask questions. Brave enough to disagree.

But I never was.

Not really.

Ridicule could shut me down faster than anything.

A look could do it. A laugh could do it.

So I learned to keep things to myself.

I learned there were things you didn't say. Questions you didn't ask. Opinions you didn't share.

I learned to smile. To nod. To act like everything was fine.

Mostly I prayed she wouldn't notice me.

For years I called it being obedient.

Later I realized a lot of it was fear.

Fear of getting in trouble. Fear of being singled out. Fear of what would happen if I finally said what I thought.

No matter what I did, there always seemed to be somebody doing it better.

Somebody making better grades. Being more responsible. Being more likable.

I measured myself against all of them and somehow always came up short.

So I stopped saying much.

The real conversations happened inside my own head.

The things I wanted. The things I feared. The things I wondered about.

The life I imagined.

Sharing a bedroom meant there was always somebody else breathing in the dark.

Somebody whispering from across the room. Somebody trying not to laugh.

We shared jokes and secrets in those rooms.

The kind of secrets that felt dangerous. The kind you hoped never made it back to the wrong person.

We laughed so quietly our stomachs hurt.

Wiped tears when nobody was looking.

And whispered about getting out someday.

Not running away.

Just getting out.

Growing up.

Leaving.

Finding a life that belonged to us.

One day.

One day.

One day.

Years later, after enough time had passed to look back honestly,

I realized something was missing.

Not a brother.

Not a sister.

Me.

The person I might have been.

The boy underneath all the trying, all the pleasing, all the comparing, all the fear.

And once I saw him missing, I couldn't stop looking for him.

I grieved that for a while.

Not what happened.

What didn't.

The questions I never asked. The chances I never took.

The parts of myself that stayed hidden because it seemed smarter that way.

Sometimes I think about that kid, lying awake in a crowded room,

staring into the dark and wondering who he was supposed to be.

And I wish I could tell him something.

I'd tell him not to spend so much time worrying about what everybody else thought.

I'd tell him the things he's afraid of aren't as powerful as they seem.

I'd tell him not to wait so long.

Because that's the part nobody tells you.

One day you're not the kid anymore.

One day you wake up, and you're an old man.

And all those years you thought were stretched out ahead of you are mostly behind you.

That's a hard thing to face.

Realizing how much of your life was spent trying to measure up.

Trying not to disappoint people.

Trying to stay out of trouble.

Trying to keep the peace.

And then one day asking yourself:

What would I have done if I hadn't been afraid?

Who would I have been?

I don't know.

Maybe I'll never know.

But the strange thing is, even now, there's still a little road left.

Maybe not as much as I wanted.

Maybe not as much as I thought there'd be.

But some.

Enough to stop whispering.

Enough to stop apologizing.

Enough to quit asking permission.

Enough to be honest.

The house is behind me.

The fear is mostly behind me too.

And whatever years I've got left,

I'd rather spend them being the man I am

than pretending to be the one everybody expected.

Because after all these years,

I'd still like to find out

who that boy was supposed to be.

And maybe that's enough.

Maybe freedom isn't finding the answer.

Maybe it's finally having the nerve to ask the question.

Maybe it's spending whatever time is left following that boy into the dark and seeing where he wanted to go.

The house is behind me now.

The whispers are behind me.

The fear is behind me.

And whatever kind of man I turn out to be,

he'll be somebody I chose.

Not somebody that fear chose for me.

Not somebody that expectation chose for me.

Me.

At long last,

just me.

I Paint from My Soul

 

I Paint From My Soul

I don't paint for likes on my posts,

I don't crave hearts, thumbs-ups, algorithms, or whatever they've called "approval" this week.

I paint because something inside me won't hush until it's all out there.

A dazzling streak of sunset on a dusty dirt road. The hazy blue shadow under a porch. The way morning light bursts through trees like it's got somewhere else to be. 

I paint the colors I see. 

I paint he lights. I paint the darks.

I paint the sparkles that show up in ordinary places when I bother to look long enough.

I paint fireflies of memory from fifty years ago, still blinking somewhere in the back of my mind.

I paint sounds I remember, feelings I can't explain, people I've loved, places I've lost, and moments that never knew they mattered until they became those fireflies. 

When I finish a painting, a weird rush comes over me.

Like finally telling a story I've been carrying around for too long.

For a little while, my world makes sense.

And if nobody ever sees it, I'd probably paint it anyway.

Maybe.

But I'd be lying if I said I don't love it when somebody loves one.

I back off from a painting I'm proud of, squint, study it from across the room, and quietly hope somebody else sees what I saw.

Hope they feel a little of what I felt.

Hope it reaches them.

And yes, there's that one opinion that matters more than I admit.

When it doesn't come, or it comes wrapped in silence, I tell myself it doesn't matter.

Then I whine inside a little.

Just a little.

Because beneath all the paint and canvas, every artist is still standing there hoping to be understood.

Not famous.

Not celebrated.

Just understood.

So no, I don't paint for likes.

But when a piece of my soul finds a home in somebody else's heart,

that's a pretty good feeling too.

wcd

Just Painting

 

Just Painting

I started painting in earnest at seventy-three.

Not just coloring canvases and passing time. And not just filling up empty hours.

Just painting.

The kind where you stand back six feet, gaze at a canvas, and wonder whether you've done something worthwhile or just convinced yourself you have.

In those early attempts, I was hungry for approving opinions.

In fact, I was dependent on them.

A compliment could carry me for days. A casual criticism would settle in my mind and refuse to leave.

I studied every comment, every reaction, every raised eyebrow, as though other people's expressions might somehow reveal a painting's worth.

All the while, I knew something I didn't much like admitting:

I probably thought my work was more stunning than anyone else did.

I could see everything I meant to say.

Others only saw the painting.

And that difference mattered.

What troubled me even more was knowing that other painters would see it.

Painters know things.

They see the awkward passages, the uncertain edges, the places where courage ran out and caution took over.

I imagined their verdicts long before they ever spoke them.

Most of the criticism I feared never actually came.

But the fear itself was real enough.

And when feedback did arrive, I smiled, nodded, thanked the giver,

while somewhere inside I quietly assembled a defense.

I wasn't angry.

Just protective.

The painting knew how hard I'd worked. Why couldn't everyone else?

Then a respected artist friend said something I've never forgotten:

"Don't worry about what others say. Your art is an expression of you, not a means of getting approval. Let your art speak for itself."

Simple words.

But sometimes simple words arrive exactly when they're needed.

I didn't change overnight.

I still listen. I still learn. I still wonder what others think.

But those words loosened something.

They gave me permission to stop standing between myself and the work.

To paint what I see.

To paint what moves me.

To let the canvas carry its own burden.

After all, I didn't come to painting at seventy-three to win unanimous approval.

I came to it because something inside me needed to be expressed.

And that expression, however imperfect, is mine.

So now I paint.

I do the work, sign my name, and let it speak.

And so it has.

And so it does.

And so it will.

wcd

Reflections

 

Reflections

I glanced at the bathroom mirror today

and stared way longer than I should've.

There was a strange old man there, staring back,

Much older than the one I once knew.

I did the polite thing and introduced myself.

I told him I wasn’t sure when we visited last, 

or how long it had been since we spoke.

He didn’t smile; he just nodded his head

like he’d been waiting for me to notice.

I asked him how his life had been.

“Exhausting in every way,” he said,

and the honesty hit harder

than I expected.

I managed to mumble, “the same,”

because there wasn’t anything else to say.

For a minute we just stood there,

me and the man I was,

or maybe the man I’ve become,

trying to figure out who owed who an apology.

And when I finally backed away,

I wasn’t sure if I’d just met a stranger

or recognized an old friend

I’d been avoiding.

wcd

Going Home

 

Going Home

There’s a feeling that settles in the soul

when the day steals more than it gives,

when the road has been long,

and the miles have worn your edges thin.

I remember that first Christmas

when there were no gifts for me under the tree,

not out of meanness, just the quiet shift

of growing up, moving out,

becoming someone who wasn’t there every morning anymore.

I went back home that year,

and the house felt familiar and strange all at once.

I can still feel that strangeness today,

decades later,

the way a place can hold you

and let you go at the same time.

Life kept moving.

Work sent me across states, across seasons,

hotel rooms and airports blurring into one long hallway.

Kids grew up, and one by one stepped into their own lives,

and the house got quieter in a way

that sneaks up on you.

But even now,

after all the years, all the miles,

I still get that restless pull

when the trip is almost done.

That itch to be back where the air knows my name.

Where the door opens

and my wife’s arms wrap around me

like the world finally exhaled.

Where two pups tumble over each other

just to get close,

tails beating out a rhythm of welcome.

And in that moment,

every hard mile, every long day,

every quiet Christmas,

falls away.

There’s a deep, deep relief

in going home.

wcd

That Awkward "Good Job"

 

That Awkward “Good Job

So I paint a picture

of a real thing,

straight from the quiet thoughts of me

where color patterns live,

where light remembers where to fall,

And texture forms where I tell it.

And then someone I’ve known a lifetime

Meaning well, looks at it

like I’ve just pulled a rabbit

out of a hat I never owned.

“Good job,” they say,

with that tilt in their voice,

the one that lands somewhere between

praise

and

wait, you really did this?

It’s funny,

how strangers see my work

and talk about the composition,

the shadows,

the way the colors meet.

They see my art

without tripping over who I used to be.

But the familiar ones blink,

as if the years they've known me

never hinted at this part,

this quiet skill

I’ve been carrying like a pocket rock.

Their surprise embarrasses me a little,

like I’ve broken character

in a play I never agreed to act in.

Still, I smile,

because what else do you do

when someone finally sees you

but only after you’ve shown them

something you made

with your own two hands?

Maybe that’s the strange sweetness of it,

when art becomes the introduction

they never asked for,

and I never thought I needed.

wcd

When Friends Drop By

When Friends Drop By

When friends drop by,

the ones who once occupied my classroom

with basic minds and crazy ideas;

I feel the years fold in

As they walk back in as adults.

For a moment I still see

the younger versions of them,

leaning too far back in desks,

Me trying not to laugh at the tipping point.

We talk like we always did,

only now the titles have changed.

I’m not “Mr. Douglas” anymore,

just Wendell,

and the shift feels natural,

earned somehow.

We pick up the conversation

as if it had been only paused,

not abandoned,

and the old stories rise up

with a kind of inside-joke confidence.

My mind races back

to chalk dust,

to the hum of fluorescent lights,

to those stifled grins

when something funny happened

and they tried to hide it

behind a notebook.

I remember the conversations

that seemed ordinary then

but feel sharp and fresh now,

as if time preserved them

for this exact moment.

And I wonder what to make of it;

how the past can sit quietly

for decades

and then step forward

the instant familiar faces

cross my doorway.

How the roles we once held

can soften, shift,

and settle into friendship

without ceremony.

When friends drop by,

I’m reminded that teaching

was never just a job.

It was the beginning

of a long, winding conversation

that somehow continues

whenever they show up

and say,

“Hey, thought we'd drop by.”

Something Old at Something New

 

Something Old at Something New

I’m getting ready for an art show,

pretending I don't care

about opinions I’ll still feel in my gut.

Pretending “no sales” won’t sting,

even though I know it will

just enough to remind me

I’m still made of a few stupid things.

I keep wondering how people

from my other lifetime

will see me now.

If they’ll recognize anything,

or if I’ve changed too much

or not enough.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter,

but of course it does.

I rehearse conversations in my head,

the casual ones,

the nonchalant ones,

the ones where I don’t look like

I’m secretly hoping for praise

I swear I don’t need.

But God, it would be nice

to hear something kind

without asking for it.

I’m excited and

nervous in that way

that feels like standing in a doorway

between who I was

and who I’m growing to be.

Hoping old friends show up

with new eyes,

and maybe I’ll see them

with new eyes too.

I’m trying to walk into this

like it’s just another day,

but it isn’t.

It’s me,

showing up for something new,

And that has to count for something.

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My Pretend Girlfriend Died Today

 

My Pretend Girlfriend Died Today

My pretend “girlfriend” died today.

I never thought she would.

Her songs were simple enough to hum without thinking,

yet somehow they reached places in me

Without names.

Deep places.

Secret places.

I am nearly her age now,

but in my mind she was untouched by time...

that big blonde hair, that easy smile,

a face I could recognize even in my sleep.

Another loss added to the quiet pile

I keep tucked safely in my mind.

Another reminder that the good ones

seem to leave early,

while the hateful ones

cling on like dust.

I found a picture of a friend today

who went to heaven years ago.

No real connection to Dolly, I guess,

except in the way grief likes to braid itself

through unrelated moments,

tying them together

until they feel like one long rope

I’ve been carrying all my life.

And tonight, I’m holding that rope again,

thinking of a Star who sang the world softer,

and a friend whose laugh I can still hear,

and the strange way memories arrive

in pairs

when the heart is already broken.

My Little Art Studio

 

My Little Art Studio

My painting studio is small,

a shirt pocket stitched onto the day,

just big enough for the things I carry

and the things I've yet to name.

It holds my half‑formed confidence,

my occasional impostor ghosts,

lets them sit over in the corner

without making a fuss.

It hears me pick at the guitar in my head,

humming whatever tune wanders through,

never asking for a full song,

never minding the unfinished.

It doesn’t judge the pictures I toss,

the ones that didn’t quite land,

the ones that felt like they were trying too hard.

It just lets them go instead.

It listens to me talk to my dogs

like they’re old familiar friends,

Stretched out in my walking space,

who know what I'm going to say before I say it.

This place, my studio,

my retreat, my thought vault,

my slightly shrunken getaway

holds me without ceremony.

For now, it’s enough.

Because it’s mine.

When the Old Songs Held Me

 

When the Old Songs Held Me

I grew up with hymns that felt like handrails
on a staircase I was still learning to climb.
They were the songs of people who had lived long enough
to know what trouble was,
and still believed God would meet them on the other side.

Back then, the sanctuary felt like a shelter.
The altos carried me,
the tenors steadied me,
and the words, those old, carved‑in‑oak words,
told me heaven was not a rumor
but a destination with my name written down.

Later, in ministry, those hymns became my companions.
Not props, not nostalgia,
anchors.
When I sang them, something in me settled,
like a child who finally hears a familiar voice
after getting lost in a store.

But now the music has changed.
The room feels louder,
yet somehow thinner.
The screens glow, the band swells,
and I stand there trying to find the thread
that used to tie my heart to safety.

I hear jokes about the old songs,
as if reverence were a punchline.
As if the saints who taught me how to hope
were outdated furniture.
And I feel something loosen inside me,
something I thought was bolted down.

I don’t say this to scold anyone.
I say it because I’m older now,
and the ground shifts in ways I never expected.
The hymns once carried my certainty,
and without them,
heaven feels a little farther away
than it used to.

Still, sometimes in the quiet,
a line rises up, uninvited, and familiar,
and I remember how it felt
to believe without effort.
To trust the promise of glory
the way I trusted the sunrise.

I don’t know if that feeling will return.
But I know the old songs are still in me,
waiting like a door I can open
whenever the world tilts too much.

And maybe that's enough
for now. -wcd