I’m at a park, sitting with a group of people. There are kids and toys around us.
One kid sets up a stomp rocket right under some very tall trees. She launches it—and the rocket is lost in the canopy. We can see it from certain angles three, four stories up. No one’s climbing to get that thing, and there are no baseballs around (she checks) to try to dislodge it.
Oh well, says the owner. It’ll come down when it comes down. But maybe move the setup to an open area, kid?
The day continues. The kids run around, barefoot, making balls of mud and discussing dragons and climbing and creating new worlds. We talk about things grown-ups apparently talk about, beginning with things to do in various parts of town. It comes up that we’ve moved a lot. When we get to the indignities of renting, of always living with something broken or awkward (or both) that the landlord just won’t fix, I share.
Our first local move was because of something like that, I say.
We lived in a duplex that was over 100 years old with a 1954 Kenmore stove that had three pilot lights permanently on… except they’d go out, and we’d have gas leaking into our apartment. We had these ancient windows with the top and bottom windows attached by a rope, where when you unlocked them, the top came down and the bottom came up. We nailed the bottom window in place so we wouldn’t fall out the window when we sat on the window seat or the armrest of the couch.
The landlords were DIY types who didn’t believe a lot of things needed to be fixed… or completely replaced.
Then, A. had some serious medical issues. His parents said we couldn’t stay in such an unsafe place on top of it all. We had to move.
And I was so angry they’d even suggested it. No way were we moving. We already had so much stress due to the medical issues.
One morning, I journaled about my frustration and wrote that we would only move “under duress.”
That day, the drop ceiling over our living room collapsed.
[Here, my audience gasps in collective shock.]
Then I said,
I’m not a religious person.
As I said those words, the stomp rocket fell from the tree.
Maybe you should be, said an audience member.
This story is absolutely true.
I thought it was a funny story, but when I told A., whom I suspect is one of those people who’s always open to proof that something more powerful is out there, he almost jumped out of his chair.
Now I’m curious: What surprised you about this story? Did you remember the stomp rocket was suspended above the ground? Did you make the connection yourself before I reached the end?
Are you afraid to spend time with me?
This Glass Has Water 
