Scare-spiration

I don't know if you've noticed, but a new genre of TV has become very popular and I have to tell you it has me in it's grip. The formula goes like this, take a real person with a real mental defect and present the effects of this defect to the world. Now, I don't record or watch all of these shows, but they worm into my mind. They add a lens to everything.

I guess my first experience with this model was Intervention. For the uninitiated it is an A & E show focusing in on an addict and their friends and family. Now, drugs and alcohol are not my vice, so would think you could watch this untouched. But no, you watch some poor kid dying to chug cough medicine and next thing you know you are eyeing the bottle of NyQuil with distrust. I know it, I'm going to get hooked. It also makes you a sudden expert, in the supermarket you see a thin woman with a little acne and you think, get off the smack. The whole world begins to take on shades of addiction.

This show leads to the shows like Obsessed and Hoarders. Now, these shows mess me up. I'm in the bathroom saying to myself, wash my hands only once, don't want to be obsessed, only once, wash them only once. Crap, I'm obsessed with watching them only once. Got to get away from the sink. Next I find the junk drawer. Noooo..... That's how it starts. You start saving stuff you don't need in a junk drawer and pretty soon your finding dead cats underneath 20 pounds of fingernail clippings.

Sometimes they don't make a complete show, they just do a documentary. I see Story of a 900 lbs woman and next think I know I'm shouting, "No you can't have McDonalds, do you want to die when you are twenty?". I'm thinking to myself, I'm pretty sure I could live on veggie shakes for a few weeks.

I'd write more, but I just noticed the pictures in the wall of my office are a little too straight and I don't want to be OCD, so I'm going to fix them.

The Welcome Committee

My wife told me some news today, that ignited my mind and guided what I knew needed to be written today.

I'm in very comfortable jeans and barefoot. It let's me and the people I'm strolling with enjoy the feel of the clouds on our feet. There a lot of people here, the rewarded ones. A line before me and others behind. No one is in a rush and no one is unhappy.

We approach the big city, a construction of gold and gems, with a beauty beyond description. The gate is huge, but the crowd slows down there. There is no pushing. No reason to rush. Clumps of radiant bodies sort themselves down to single file.

I can't see the greeter, but I know he is there.

I watch an angel, with urgent business, step gracefully to the gate. He stops for the greeter, too. He pauses and turns completely away from the man I can't see. "Glad to see your back!" the greeter says and the angel, with a smirk moves on.

I can't help but recognize that voice. It tickles a part of my brain.

Then I see him. I remember when he had to use a stool, but now he stands strong, on new legs. It is not his face or stature that catch my attention first. After his love of all those who enter, it is his accessories. He wears two pins on his brown suit jacket. The left is a simple red and white pin that reads, I brake for hugs. On the right is a small, credit card sized LED display that scrolls a message. Welcome to Heaven.

He takes his hugs seriously, too. He hugs everyone.

When it is my turn, I can't help but stare for a moment. I think he might not recognize me, but that is quickly dispelled. He look at me, proud to be able to greet me. I hug him with meaning I could never muster while we were on Earth.

He doesn't give me the one-liner or the quip I was expecting. Instead he has a question. "Did you greet the strangers? Did you hug your friends?"

I'm back at my desk at work, but for the moment he is here, if only in the residue of my imagination.

I will, Frank, I will.

Uphill.. both ways

I think it is fair today my kids have no idea how good they have it. I'm reminded of this every time ask get the strained breathing after I ask if they have done their chores. By their estimation, they are the only kids in school that have chores and they can't understand their plight.

My standard is not the other kids in school.

When I was their age my parents decided to take on the ultimate home improvement project. They added a large addition to the house. I think my parents must have really felt their children's sense of ownership was important, which explains the new creative chores my brother and I got to do everyday.

When the project started we got to try to break up pavement where the house was going to be. I don't think I had seen enough hard prison movies to get the rock breaking technique down. As it turns out, though, even if you can break them you can carry the broken rocks to the back yard.

Soon after that, I learned a house needs a foundation, which according to my Dad is easier dug by smaller bodies because of the narrowness of the twelve inch wide, 48 inch deep hole. I will tell you as you, as you are waging war on the numerous roots that really undermine the joy that is shoveling, you begin to fantasize about just washing dishes or picking up your room.

During the course of construction I learned a lot. Smaller bodies are better at getting into spider filled crawlspaces, placing itch inducing insulation into the corners of the attic and swinging a hammer on a roof. I'm not sure why a smaller body is better on the roof, but I think it is because a lighter body takes less damage from a twenty foot fall.

This is not a story I share to point out where my parents failed. No, no, no. If you are thinking that, you are probably not a parent. This, in my estimation, was good parenting. So good in fact, that as I hear my kids complain about their chores it gives me ideas.

I can see it now. "Dad, why is the shovel in here?". "Because, Sierra, I'm going to enhance your enjoyment of doing dishes."

(insert evil laugh)

Joe

In my mind, I can imagine a perfect family. The head of this family would arrive from work, to his loving family. He would be clean shaven and good humored. Imagine, if you will, Ward Cleaver. The model of proper, civilized life. This was not my father.

My father has a gruff voice and a harsh manner. He has certain ways he likes things, and he will tell you if you have crossed the line. Growing up he didn't mince word with my friends either, which meant, coming from "normal" households, they we're terrified of him. I'm pretty sure he liked this.

It seemed when they were around there was always the possibility displeasure would be expressed. The line not to be crossed was not always clear to outsiders. Don't call after nine. Keep you hands off the knickknacks. Don't sit in my Dad's chair. May sure the salt returns back to it's place, within reach of my father.

I can't say I always liked this, but I got to enjoy it more with the invention of Joe.

See, at some point in my life I learned that fear in others can be entertainment for me. Given the affect my Dad had on people, it really was only a matter of time before we capitalized.

I think it was the Gibson's, Jason and Eric, who asked first about the mound of dirt in the back yard. To which my brother and I told them it was the resting place of our older brother Joe. Poor Joe. See, one fateful meal time my father had asked for the salt and Joe mistakenly gave him the pepper. The details were sketchy, but a shotgun and a shovel brought him to this place of final rest.

Now, we didn't have any back up and our story might have been a little outside of believable. So, the Gibson's played along, a spice rack was added, but more importantly, Joe was born. My friends fear and my Dad's quirk with salt placement had bore him.

It was our friend Scott, who was more than a little gullible at that age, who was to hear the story next. Add to this the fact that he was a tall, jumpy kid, who seemed to always be a half step from running and I couldn't control myself. He asks about the dirt and I get real somber. Looking off in the distance, trying to keep it together. I tell him about Joe.

He's a little freaked, but not sure if he can trust me. So, he does what any teenager does when they think the father of one of their friends is a murderer, he asks another friend for confirmation. As luck would have it, it was Jason Gibson. Who sells the whole thing.

I can see it now, Scott is over, careful to avoid the mound of dirt in the back yard. My dad is napping, so we move into the back of the house. We don't talk about Joe, but he's there. Dinner is almost done. My Mom, not knowing any of this, asks Scott if he would like to stay for dinner. His eyes are big and his mouth won't form the words. There is a sound in the other room, my Dad is up.

Scott is gone, out the door, the space he was in still warm with his body heat. My brother and I smile at each other, knowing. Looks like there will still be a place for Joe.

Do you wanna flex!

As many of you know, my family goes to Florida a lot. We have friends Larry and Dixie there, and my wife has an abundant love for Mickey Mouse. Given this, it is not unusual that my kids will periodically talk about things we saw or did while we are in Florida. My wife is working hard to make sure they share in her passion for giant rodents.

This story takes place about three months after our family had returned from a trip to Florida. Given the time it's hard to imagine why the topic would come up, but kids minds are strange contraptions.

The six of us were sitting at the dinner table playing trivia, as we often do, when Sienna suddenly has something she wants to say. We pause the game and she says, "Do you remember, do you wanna flex?". Shelly and I look at each other and we begin the process of investigation. Our child is telling us about something important to her, but to us it sounds a little like word salad.

"Are you talking about the car?" I asked thinking maybe it had something to do with our newer vehicle, a Ford Flex. "No, do you wanna flex, in Disney World," she states, a little more upset.

The questioning goes on like this for a bit, but it is taxing. She realizes we don't understand her. We really do want to understand her, but this phrase, "Do you wanna flex" is nonsense. We have figured it's not in Disney, but near Larry and Dixie's house. We ate there. Apparently it was good and our forgetting is inexcusable.

Her brows are knotted and she has commenced exasperated hand talking. This is a tough one.

Shelly, after several minutes of work, dozens of questions and failed guesses figures it out. "Do you mean Tijuana Flats?" she asks referencing a very good Mexican restaurant we had been introduced to.

"Oh, yeah" says Sienna now smiling at herself as if this hasn't been several minutes of painful questioning. She continues with the meal, having moved on. We haven't. Not only do we relive the mystery we were put through, but to this day we call that restaurant "Do you wanna flex!"

NQDYPS

The hallway was buzzing with activity. Lockers slammed. Someone was hooting by the school store. The sounds leaked into the library with every swing of the door. I liked school, but today I was glad the normal day was almost over.

Today was a meeting of the Not Quite Dead Yet Poet's Society. I had a poem I had written during math and I wanted to share it. It was dark, of course. I couldn't wait to hear what they thought. What would they bring? What would we read? What game would we play. In that space language was alive.

It was my senior year and this group filled a strange, satisfying space for me. It was the creation of a myself and few others from my English class. People who could love words, liked a clever turn of phrase, could connect through Shakespeare. I recognize they were English nerds now, but then they were just a group with this odd enjoyment, which I thought I had alone. Suddenly, these people, who I didn't know before, were friends. The feeling of depth was amazing and refreshing.

I'm the first to Mr. Seeman's room. I grabbed my chair and pulled out the crumpled paper with my writing on it. Soon most of the group is there, Kristen, Kristy, Andy, James, Justin and Justin. They are there for the same reason, a celebration of words. A chance to be exposed, but not at risk. There is tension and joy, exhilaration and contemplation. When we talk about a sonnets meaning, we share how we see the world. We understand each other in a way high school kids rarely do. This is something special.

The time flies. It is a sea of mini-epiphanies and expressions. We are artists and critics and strange friends. We feel like some great collection of writers or intellects. We are onto something important, which is just outside the grasp of our outstretched hands.

When the days are done, we scatter to the winds. Colleges and jobs get us at the end of the year. Life kept us after that. This group is gone, held only in the minds of those few who were there. A photograph of a building torn down.

I'm happy to say I was there, I was part of that, but it is so hard to really express what it was. It feels unique, in both time and experience. These people could never really make this group again, there is a critical naiveness missing, but I wonder if they long to, like I do. I wonder if they see those days in the same special light I do. I hope so.

One of those days

I don't normally do this, but today is just not going well. I want to write, but the history I would put down is tainted by the failures of today. So, I just thought I would share and hopefully shake my dissatisfaction at the same time.

I got to work today in a good mood. Yesterday was successful, got everything done I planned, and was still riding on that feeling. I had a good call with James, which helps the day go well too. At 8:30 by every measure I would look at I was set up to enjoy. At this point it is already a little hard to remember I felt that way.

Part of my routine is grabbing my calendar and planning my day. Between nine and three I have five meetings. Ok, need to cut down on my plans. This isn't a complete derailment, but it is really hard to feel productive after a day of meetings. I know they are my job. I know they actually set direction and are productive, but I still have that worker in me that wants to get things done. Perhaps my head will get right on this on day, but for now I'm still in the camp of not liking meetings.

So, a little deflated I move to my e-mail before my meeting. This first issue I see is a fairly large mistake made by one of my staff. The long and short of this is, I've been out of the loop while this has been going on, the employee has treated a pretty special circumstance with normal procedures, which come across as callous and ultimately we end up in a situation the company could be taken to court. Now, the risk is low, but now have an unhappy director and a confused employee and no time to really address either. I get up, talk to the both, but I have to end with this gap in every bodies expectations, which means I'll be back here.

So, at this point I start grasping. I see an e-mail that should hold good news, as you may have guessed, it doesn't. I've been working on a data quality initiative and this should be the one I meet the goal with. I'll add, just to give you a sense of why this might be good news, there is money linked to this report. The score not only doesn't go up, but it goes down. Down to the lowest level this year. Every effort I have put in, all of the little improvements, the projects, everything have shown fruitless. I'm scrambling now to determine why, but again across an overly booked day.

Now, I know everyone has days like this. I know I'm blessed to have gainful employment. I know in the light of tomorrow these things won't loom so large. But today, I just need a little reminder. Take a breath. Give it to God. Find joy in the sorrow.

(several minutes of no writing)

Ok. I'm done. This day is a day God has provided me, with friends and family that love me. He gives me challenges so I can learn, not start pity parties. I have friends in or just out of the hospital. My family is pretty healthy. I know families that have more bills than incomes. We aren't rich by any stretch, but we are well taken care of.

I dedicate the rest of my work day to bringing a little light into someone else's life. I will work as for the Lord. Surrendered. I will not let negativity hold on any more. Hold me to it.

And then there were four

Gail, Nita and I each set at low walled assistant cubes on the third floor of Pharmacia. They were long time employees. I was a temp on a special assignment. I enjoyed the work there. The people were fun and friendly. My boss was one of the best. Even though I was a contractor, I was never excluded.

Three of us worked hard, but we also talked quite a bit about life. We talked about Nita's husband who worked at a food processor and Gail's grandkids. One topic, though, dominated our interactions. Shelly and I had been almost a year and we were expecting twins.

They would ask me about preparations at the house and warn me about sleeplessness. They would ask about Shelly's cravings and remind me it was my duty to go out, now matter how inconvenient. At every call, they got real quiet. Is it time?

My wife had a test scheduled checking on the babies. I had gone to some ultrasounds and I really needed to work. I believe her mother came in for it. I was waiting to hear how it went.

The phone rang and as usual, Gail and Nita got quiet. Over the phone I hear my wife tell me that if I would like to see these children born, I need to get to the hospital, immediately. They were going to be born by emergency C section, today. I hang up the phone, a little bit stunned. The ladies know. They tell me to get moving, and I do.

I don't remember the drive, but I remember the cascade of feelings. This was it, the moment. I was excited. I was also nervous. Nervous about going into the operating room, nervous about the welfare of Shelly and the girls, nervous about the rest of my life.

The hospital was perfect, I didn't have time to think. It was a series of orders I needed to take to get into the ER. No thinking really worked for me in that moment. Here's your wife. Put these scrubs on. You'll need to cover your hair. Put on these booties. Go into the OR. Stand here, this side of the half curtain.

The room is full of people. A team for my wife and people here for babies A and B. It was buzzing with activity. My wife was prepped and once they started it was fascinating and stunningly fast.

Savannah, they baby they were worried about, was born first. She had froggy legs and a loud cry. She was healthy and they presented her to Shelly. Just as the joy of her arrival was bursting, Sierra was born.

Sierra was handled differently. Her cry was not as quick to come. They did not immediately present her to us. I think Shelly asked me if she was OK. I don't know what I said, because I wasn't sure. She looked OK, but it was clear the medical people weren't immediately happy. The room had narrowed down to just one sound, the absent cry of a baby.

It came in a couple waves and our anxiety burst. It was OK to celebrate. I was a father. We were a family. In fantastic, beautiful ways, my life had changed,.

The day the world went dark

The kids had piled into the cars and we were ready to head to Sandusky, Ohio. Cedar Point! The excitement was high. This would be one of their highlights of the summer. I remember going when I was a youth at Main Street. The buzz of conversation was familiar, but I felt different being the adult.

I had been working with the youth at Main Street a little more than a year. It was a ministry I was called to and joined almost immediately after moving back to the east side of Michigan. I don't believe Steve and Brenda, the leaders that proceeded me, were there. This was my first big trip as the "leader". It was Thursday, August 14 2003.

The trip there went great. The kids were good. Entry into the park was easy. The weather was beautiful. The air was full of music and the scent of cotton candy.

The group didn't really want to break up that much. We might have formed two groups, each with adult leaders, but over all we were together. A fact I would be thankful for later. I remember being very connected and thinking how blessed I was, having been on trips that didn't go that well.

The morning my have had problems, but I don't remember any of them. The whole group came together for lunch, then back to roller coaster riding. Everyone expected to be there until ten or so.

Just before four o'clock a large group of us got into line for the Magnum. I was thankful for the spots in line where you got to stop by a cooling fan. A 45 minute wait didn't seem that bad. We talked about favorite rides, the youth group and school that would be starting to soon.

Then it happened.

At first we notice the Magnum has stopped. It is part way up the hill and obvious. We start debating if we are going to wait or go to another ride. We begin looking around at our nearby options. One of the has stopped on the hill, too. When they start walking the passengers off the ride, move back into the main thoroughfare.

There we entered the Twilight Zone. Not two, but half a dozen rides had stopped. The cooling fans had stopped. The music they pipe into the park was off. The people seemed very quiet, not moving very quickly. Then we see why, they are all on cell phones, but not talking, you can just hear the tones that tell you they can not get a connection.

It seems odd, but I tell myself it must be a park power outage. I think we'll gather up and wait it out together. Then someone who got a hold of the outside world says the power is out at his house, too. Then another. Then we here it is a huge outage. No one seems to know how big.

My mind left the tracks for a moment. I'm responsible for all these kids. I don't know what has happened. I'm not prepared for this kind of situation. How do you prepare for this?

I was thankful to have my other leaders, Casey and Aunt Anita there. They didn't really have answers either, but we were able to discuss what was going on. We decided we should go. A shadow of something sinister was there and we needed to get the children back to their parents. I wanted to be home, too.

In the parking lot we walked by a big bus that had pulled up to the curb and had a TV on the side. We paused, but not long. The east half of the United States was completely without power. They suspected terrorism.

Something in me shifted. Emergency mode. I moved the group along to the cars. We prayed for peace in this situation. It was hard to focus, but I hoped it would ease the minds of the kids and other leaders.

We need to stick together, find a gas station for snacks and water, and try to get a hold of one of the parents to let them know we are on our way. I'm worried, but I don't dare show it. We'll be fine, I tell them. I'm glad were together, I say. I wish I wasn't responsible, I keep that one to myself.

It goes better than I expected. We find an open station. We get a hold of Pastor Jeff, who will contact the other parents. In the car, until you are faced with blackened signal light over an empty street, is not that unusual. The moment helps you forget you are running from the eerie, broken park.

The parents are waiting for us. They don't have any more information, but I have done well. They talk about what is going on longer than I am willing to stay. I really want to go home to my wife and kids.

It will be a few days before power is restored and we learn it was just a power grid failure.

Dodging can get you killed

I thought, for the weekend, I would share a short story to make you smile. What I learned about the dangers of avoiding discipline.

The car is rolling down the highway, at speed. The engine is purring. It's hard to imagine how fast we are going from the inside of the car. My mom is driving. The landscape moves by on either side and a tall seat separates my brother and I from our mom.

We are happy in the isolated bubble of backseat, we don't know the terror that is a few minutes away.

Justin crossed "the Line" to my my side of the seat. I push his hand back and the game begins. I'm annoyed, he's working to further annoy me. Soon the driver is annoyed. She is telling us something, but we're not listening. We are fighting. Hands pushing. Shouting. Maybe a little kicking.

The voices of the three of us are going up and up, the speed of the car may have increased and I have started to become aware that punishment may be at hand. My senses are starting to sharpen.

Then it happens. The left hand shifts to the top of the wheel, the right hand takes up the "I'm going to smack you position.". The sides of the battle have changed. My brother and I watch the hand moving, in my mind, in slow motion. My mom stands on the gas pedal, smacking hand flailing, my brother and I clinging to the door trying to dodge.

It's hard to drive when you are crawling over the seat to kill your kids while you have only one hand on the wheel. I'm pretty sure a grim reaper waved at me from a nearby car.

Smack! That one hurt. I need to be less distracted. My mom moves into the side to side motion, swing from the my brother to I, the car swinging right then left with her. I don't know for sure that she crossed lanes of traffic, but in my mind I can see the trees beside the road get closer and further away. I was dodging, but the swinging was getting more frantic.

Did the second hand leave the wheel so that she could turn around and get to both of us? I don't think so, but perhaps fear has robbed me of that memory. Either way, when I look back I realize something, something for the kids.

Children, when your parents have decided to administer corporal punishment in a moving vehicle, just take it. While you may be crafty enough to get away from the swinging hand, your odds of getting killed in a traffic accident go up considerably.

Note: I have been directed to let you know that some of this story may be "enhanced". Specifically, you should not infer from this that my Mom is a bad driver. She only needs one overreaching hand on the wheel steer and the eyes in the back of her head work just fine for navigating.

Sucker punch

The first notice came the beginning of May last year. It was a simple note left on a shared on-line forum. It was left in relative public. A short few words. I drew closer to the computer screen trying to draw in every word, realizing some critical pieces were missing.

"I'm withdrawing from running a game Monday night and participating in other games for the time being to deal with the consequences of some personal choices I've made."

I read it again and again as I mulled over what it meant. The game would be replaced. The group could manage in his absence, but it wouldn't be the same. More importantly this person I had grown to know, even met for the first time a few months before, was hurting. He wasn't the public sort and I wouldn't pry. So, I sent him a note telling him how I was praying for him.

The players were buzzing with a lack of knowledge. I hoped he would return to us soon. I really respected and in many ways admired this man, I couldn't make sense of what he could have done. It didn't fit with the person I knew.

A few days later, he sent a personal e-mail with details. For all the world to see I was fine, or angry, but it broke me. He was a pathological liar. Every impressive accomplishment, all of his college and professional experiences, all the personal conversations were riddled with lies. He was trying to come clean, not just to me but to his wife and family, who had been fooled for years. He was willing to talk, but I wasn't willing to believe him.

I looked for comfort in those going through the same thing. They were reeling, too. That e- mail he sent was not an apology, but a proclamation of death. That person I knew and had even met, I can see him now hopping on the phone for a stock deal, was gone. All I had were questions, but no answers I could trust.

I wished I could start over, but I couldn't. If the old person was dead, then I was forcing the new person to where him as a millstone. If he wasn't dead, then my friend was a liar. Willing to lie to me.

He returned, but my heart was hardened. Every word caused a mental flinch, "Lying?". "Everything you say is suspect," I told him. He wouldn't get the benefit of the doubt from me. I wasn't going to be fooled any more. I was holding him so far under, the water had taken me as well. While I don't think he knows it, to this day I've held him there.

I need to breathe.

I can't forgive him on my own. So, my prayers have changed. I'm asking for a heart of forgiveness.

He is who he is, not a new person, but my friend who, for whatever reason, lied. He doesn't need to wear that crime, and I don't need to make it the sum of his parts. It took me too long to realize this, but we can't start over, either. I can't forget. So, I pray for the desire to forgive him, to put aside my distrust for compassion. Without this change there will be no healing and I need the healing to begin.

My People

I am a gamer and a computer guy. I don't say this with shame, although I used to, I like these things about me. For some of you, though, the words I use, ways I spend my free time and even the way I have developed relationships, may look alien. I've even been given the disapproving look, you know the one with the head shake. But I get it, this is because, in at least a small way, you are not one of my people.

I just got off the phone with a friend of mine, he and his wife and a few other friends of ours have been working on a monastery. It is pretty amazing how far it has come, considering the plans are more than a thousand years old and we regularly need to translate the ancient descriptions to figure out what we are to build. I have to tell you, there is a real since of accomplishment, although the buildings only exists in virtual space. Are we delusional? Do we need to get a life?

No. We know this accomplishment only exists on a computer. We know that this is somewhere between art and play. But we also know that this is a social accomplishment. Instead of being isolated from each other, we are talking about what the plan designer intended, how can we build delicate lighting with square blocks, how can we solve these puzzles together. We celebrate each other's successes and lament our failures. Additionally, while I'm mining for the ever elusive diamonds, we have a chance to talk about our families and churches. We tell stories of our past, and get advice for our present. For those moments, better than the best phone call I have been on, the distance between us doesn't seem so far.

Once the kids have gone to bed and the day has settled down, my wife and I look foreword to meeting our friends this way. It is an added bonus we can do it in our pajamas, the drive is non-existent and the clean up minimal.

We know that outsiders don't get this. That we are judged. We know the headsets are dorky looking. We know the if you don't play one of our games, our accomplishments are meaningless to you. But, we also know that when you talk and play together, you miss your friends in Florida less. That you can meet a couple in Virginia this way and ultimately have a fantastic vacation together. Being a part of this virtual space means you can introduce friends and family members to people from all over the country. Geography doesn't need to determine the friendship, I regularly hang out with people from Virginia, Florida, Texas, New Mexico and Nebraska.

I'm not telling you not to judge me and those like me, but do it with your eyes wide open. Playing Warcraft or Minecraft is not an attempt at a second life, it's more like playing a board game at a coffee shop or checkers in front of the general store. If you have met your friends after work, you get this. Yes, we talk about the game, but more importantly we talk about life. The worlds may be fake, but the friendship is very real.

Pudding and Science

Growing up we always ate dinner at the dining room table. This table was full of rituals and events that are conversation pieces today. Dinner was prepared while my dad took a nap. Justin would empty ice trays into the cold plastic bins and refill them, there was none of this lazy pulling one ice cube at a time and only refilling the tray if it is empty in the home of my youth. I would help with preparation. Together we would set the table. We had assigned seats, in fact each of us "owned" on of the four light fixtures, which we were responsible for replacing the burnt out light in. On the setting of the table there were some important notes. The enormous Hulk Hogan cup is to be placed in front of my fathers seat and the salt and pepper need to be in arms length. When the food is done, but has not yet made it to the table we pour the drinks, wake my father and take our places. Upon his arrival he would declare who would be praying and the meal would begin.

This is the backdrop for what I am about to share.

I have always thought I was pretty good at figuring things out. I remember once telling one of those "put a digital picture on a sweatshirt" guys how his machines worked and he seemed so impressed with my natural insight. I suspect now he might have just been amused with this little kid's creativity, but at the time I was just a genius. Anyway, add to this the fact that I just received a copy of Mr. Wizard's Supermarket Science and you have a recipe for a memorable meal.

I don't really remember the table being set or the food being brought out, but what I do remember is, what seemed to me, an enormous bowl of pudding. As you might suspect, this roughly ten year old, was drawn to the dessert. We didn't get dessert everyday, so this was something special. I made sure the pudding was right in front of me. In my mind this pudding is light green Pistachio, but my Mom has told me it was more likely chocolate. Either way, for this meal I am focused on the pudding.

While I'm there getting through my less exciting food, my mind begins to wonder onto one of the Mr. Wizard experiments I had just read about, it was on how water has a kind of skin. It explained that this is how water bugs can cross the creek at my school. Then, as you might image, I am struck at how pudding also has a kind of skin. I lift the pudding spoon from the table and tentatively use it to smack the pudding.

It doesn't splash.

So, I do what any respectable ten year old scientist who is yet unobserved by his parents would do, I smack it harder. It wiggles but holds its shape.

I don't know if I was asked what I was doing, or if I just felt the pressure of great discovery, but I, the one who was good at figuring things out, suddenly needed to share.

"Pudding won't splash!"

Quizzical looks around the table. I was going to teach them something they didn't know.

"No matter how hard you hit it, because of the skin, it won't splash."

Then, I gave it a hit, then a little harder hit. It held it's shape. I could see by their looks, they were not convinced. In fact, these weak hits did lack the conviction of my words.

As it turns out, pudding will indeed splash and a kid with a plastic spoon and a dream can make it go fairly far. I didn't just break the skin, as I remember it, there was an explosion at the moment of impact. I'm pretty sure Hogan wore a little. My mom needed to clean her glasses. Both my brother and I got caught as well.

I'm certain I got into some kind of trouble, but I don't remember it. What I do remember is my shock and the laughs.

To this day, if my brother and I are together and pudding is around, he'll point to the unsuspecting dish and say, "I heard pudding won't splash, no matter how hard you hit it."

The Clockwork Man

The world looks different to the clockwork man as he peers from his place by the sea. He can hear the buzzing of his gears and the thumping of his pistons over the sound of the surf. The sand outside dials into focus through telescopic eyes. He can't smell the salt and fish in the air. His skin has worn away exposing the steel and wiring once underneath. The silver plates of his chest are riveted over the remaining heart of flesh, trapped where it can't be seen or heard. The clockwork man is wound, but still.

He remembered a time when his arms were made of flesh. Wrapped with nerves and feeling. A time before the choice. When his lips could hold the skin of an apple and his teeth were not a grinding machine. Before the pain he had a name, but that was long ago. Now he is just the clockwork man. A contraption. A toy. A memorial.

The pain had come first to his hands. It burned like invisible fire. It felt like it was consuming him, but left the meat to flare again. A hot brand he couldn't release. Pain like that should be hard to forget, but the numb digits the doctors gave him as replacements cooled his memory.

The clockwork man opened the intricate replacement he'd had since then and tried to remember. He felt nothing but loss.

It had been the skin of his cheeks and then his whole face that came next. The same staggeringly painful embers held to him, but this time blinding him with white hot heat. The choice was easier this time. He sacrificed his flesh to loose the pain. His eyes were sharper, but they seemed to miss more subtle things. At least the pain was gone.

After that it was a succession of creeping pain and replacement surgeries. The price had been paid to free himself from the pain. He became the clockwork man.

The story of his transformation ticked through his processor as he watched the tide pull back revealing her gifts. Sticks and shells, seaweed and foam colored the beige coast. A couple walked together from the hotel next door. They laughed and hugged and held hands. They're missing some of the best shells, he thought, and they are inefficient with their stride. They could be improved so much. The clockwork man kept watching and judging these people of flesh. He considered the servos and armor he would use to better the couple.

It was then, with one awkward misstep, the girl stepped on a razor edge of coral. Instantly she crumpled and grasped he injured foot. With a whirring, the clockwork man rose to his feet, ready to act. The ticking and buzzing echoed off the glass he had been watching through.

The boy of flesh knelt beside the girl, who now had some blood on her hands. He looked at her foot. "How could he help?" thought the clockwork man, "He'll fail without the right parts." Then, not even knowing he was being watched from behind glass, the boy kissed the injured girl's forehead and lifted her from the sand. He wasn't much bigger then her. He struggled with the weight and his feet sank deeper into the sand. Slowly, Step by step, without any assistance, he carried the girl to help.

The clockwork man stayed standing for a long time. He zoomed in on the speckles of blood drying on the beach, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The idea of replacement parts for the couple seemed silly to him now. There was something to them, a subtlety he'd missed, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. They weren't perfect, but he couldn't imagine how he could make them any better.

The clockwork man returned to his chair. His buzzing and ticking quieted. He could hear an unfamiliar thumping getting louder. For the first time, in a long time, he could hear his heart beat.

The Brothers Smith

In the recesses of my mind, I can remember my brother and I being told to go outside nearly everyday. We had a handful of kids in the neighborhood we would do things with, but we were each others constant companion. In the summer sun, we built cities in the sand for our cars, gathered bugs in a plastic bucket, with a broken yellow handle, and ate mulberries that grew in the yard. These days are elevated in my mind.

As we got older competition replaced companionship. We dueled with broken and taped hockey sticks, argued offer the rules of stick gun battles and tried to outdo each others stunts on our bikes. I was not a generous competitor. I remember once debating passionately about the value of a chess piece. Without the internet, the answer was finally found on a VHS tape we had on playing and scoring chess. A normal person would let the answer unfold and let the chips fall where they may. Not me. Once the tape declared I was right, I rewound and played it again and again and again. It wasn't enough to be right, I wanted to dominate. I was a jerk. I can't even get my head around the person who would do this, but this is who I was. I was the brother who couldn't let his younger brother win, I couldn't be nice, I needed to be king.

In my last couple years at home, before going to college, my brother and I were both in high school. He was a good singer, beginning to write decent poetry and really had a sharp intellect. I don't ever remember complementing him. I know I picked apart the weaknesses I could spot in these things. I continued to be ungracious and unthoughtful. For whatever reason, "winning" even when there was no real competition kept me from giving up any ground. This isn't to say it was all bad, but as a whole I was a lousy brother and friend.

I am sorry for that, that I made life harder than it needed to be. It feels too late to say. It feels like the person that should have apologized has been gone a while and I've been left here in their place.

The problem is, I still don't know how to relate well with my brother.

It seems for the most part, there is either debate or silence between us. When I should be sharing the things God is doing in my life, I'm debating theology. When I should be encouraging my brother to write more, to sing more, to help me with a history project for fun, I don't. I've tried to get better at this, but I'm out of practice.

This relationship not what I want it to be, not what if feels like it should be, but I don't know how to fix it.

The ponds reflection

I don't like camping. The bed is never comfortable. The food is good,but the timing is never quite right. You are at the mercy of the elements; the coldest I have ever been was a camping trip with insufficient blankets. When you pack it takes more space for one day camping than a week going anywhere else. In addition to all of this inconvenience it is with out many if the technologies I have come to adore.

This weekend I went camping at the farm, which given what I have just written, might lead you to believe I did not have a good time. I could add that we had an incredible storm, turning the weather cool and packing was perhaps the most frustrating thing I have done in a while, and I suspect you would think you knew how my trip went. You would be wrong. I still don't like any of those things, and they were part of this weekend, but they didn't determine how my weekend went.

This year, the farm was full of surprises for me. Two of them stand out with a certain clarity, reminding me why that hassle can be worthwhile. Just a couple of the reasons that, in spite of my reservations, I enjoyed the camping experience this year.

The first was witnessing the beauty that is created when friends and family are drawn together by sorrow. This is the first year Uncle Pat, the man who owns the farm and is the hub around which the friends and family there revolve, was missing. He has a very rough battle with a stroke and was still recovering in the hospital. The have been and are still days when we wonder if he will come home. His absence and the severity of his illness was pronounced there in a clear and painful way. This isn't where we dwelled though, we wrapped that loss with bond brought on by collective grieving. Reveled in keeping his euchre tournament and ridiculous claims about the farm alive. Talked about the things he would have said or done, had he been there. We looked forward to his return. We made an enormous fire and roasted marshmallows, just like he would have wanted, pausing to hear a piece written by his granddaughter, Ashley, about him. When he couldn't be there in body, we came together to bring him there in spirit. You can't experience this and not be moved.

The second event, while smaller than the first, was a reminder of what can be gained in those moments with each other. This year, as a result of shuffling campsites around, we ended up separated by a little bit from most of the family. We have a beautiful pond side location, so you won't hear me complain and this location came with some new neighbors. Our tent was beside Doug and Marty, a couple who have been coming up there since before I was ever around. Over the years I have had passing conversations with them, would consider them friends, but only by the scantest of terms. It would be more accurate to say we were friendly to each other. My wife really was the one who knew and liked them. This year I had moments to really sit and talk to these two, both separately and together. To dig past the immediate and talk about church and family, about past experiences and aspirations. This year, I really enjoyed my time with them. This year, I wondered why it took me so long to really get to know them. This year, camping was about making new friends.

My mistake has been that I have equated camping with the work and bad sleep and the weather, but that really misses the point. It's no wonder I have never liked camping. At it's heart, camping is about connecting with people. When you lose the trappings of "normal" life, you create gaps for loved ones, both new and old, to squeeze into.

Now, don't expect me to become an every weekend camper. There are still many things that make it a struggle. Next year, though, I promise to complain a lot less because I hope to see Uncle Pat, Doug and Marty, and who knows maybe make a new friend.

Extended Stay

It is clear now, looking back across the years, that my five year old mind had no idea what was happening. The white and green room was cold. There were interesting machines on the wall, but I knew I wasn't supposed to touch them. There was a black boy, also named Jason in the bed beside mine, but I never felt well enough to play with him.

The needle of the IV in my arm always hurt, but it was making me better. I felt bad.

In the week beforehand I had been sick. I think it was the flu, but I don't really remember. What I do remember is the awful tasting medicine they gave to treat it, it had a putrid flavor which didn't wash out and tainted the taste of everything else. In addition to the foul flavor, it didn't seem to make me better.

At some point, everything was a whirlwind. I don't know what the trigger was, but my mom asked a nurse from next door to have a look at me. She directed us to go to the doctor. The doctor, after fighting with me to give me a shot in the butt, directed us to immediately go to the hospital.

As a parent, I look back and think about how worried my parents must have been. They had been told that I was having an allergic reaction to the medicine and my throat was closing. As the child, I was angry that they had forcibly pulled down my pants, as I fought to keep them up, to hurt me. They stuck a sharp needle in me. I was glad to be out of there and on to someplace different. I didn't know they would have needles, too.

I spent five days in the hospital. A long time in my memory. The highlight of my day was seeing my family. When they were not there I was surrounded by people, but very alone. I remember missing them. I remember wanting to be home. I remember thinking I wish they could stay. It was hard for me to comprehend that they would need to be anyplace else.

I had a desire to thank my parents for visiting. It is a strange feeling to remember, I know I wanted to please them, perhaps thinking they would stay longer, not knowing the hours were regulated. I was sad because I had nothing.

Breakfast was one of my highlights. I remember the light green trays, orange juice, and my favorite toast and jelly. I remember looking over this meal still chewing on the problem of having nothing to give. I ate the eggs.

I don't remember thinking how silly this was, though I can see that now. What I do remember was the feeling of solving a puzzle, finding the gift I had to give. I considered the items on the tray, they were mine. The orange juice could be OK, but it wasn't good enough. Today the bacon would be the obvious choice, but it too wasn't good enough. The eggs had been eaten, but they wouldn't have worked either. My parents, I reasoned, liked breakfast and If they approached it like I did, there was one item on that tray they couldn't resist.


I saved the toast and jelly. I don't even remember what my parents said or how I kept it from being taken away. What I remember was the feeling of great joy, just knowing I had selected the perfect gift.

They didn't stay any longer.

Two nights later I pulled the IV from my arm and they let me go home.