Fiction Friday: Chapter 26

Mr Li had all of the unconscious brought into the garage, where they had started. The girl with the feather would figure it out. He, the man and his remaining gunman each pulled bodies. They didn't much care that they were trained well. He only wanted them in one place. Somewhere the device thief would be sure to notice. He would kill them all, once he Had the device back. He was done playing around.

With the mother and father and girls laying around their Flex and his SUV, Mr. Li went to the wall and picked up the phone. He hit the intercom button, his eyes narrowed and he began to speak. "I have your whole family laid out before me. They are unconscious and would be incredibly easy to kill. If you would like that not to happen, you need to bring me the device. Now. You have 30 seconds."

He hung up the phone and straightened his suit. He lifted himself up, rolling to the balls of his feet. "Long enough," he said, "I do the first one.". He pulled the gun out and pointed at Shelby, he thought a young one would get her attention if she was around. She was.

While they worked to move bodies Savannah and Sienna made it into the garage. Sienna rode Savannah's back very quiet to the corner they hid in. It was dark and they were invisible. When Mr. Li had gotten onto the speaker, Savannah sat Sienna down. She stood there looking very small with the feather in her hand. Savannah, still invisible, walked over to her family on the floor.

Mr. Li pulled the gun and the others were just behind him. They were going to kill everyone. Savannah knelt beside her cousin. She placed her hand on her forehead.

The power of the lightening that burst from Savannah's hand surprised even her. The hot bolt of electrical fire lifted Mr. Li off the ground. Blazing tentacles stretched from him to his partners. This wasn't just lightening, this was an electrical discharge of all her uncertainty and fear. They would not hurt her family.

Then it hit her, like a punch to the gut. The electricity had caused Mr. Li muscles to seize up and, in one of the last thing he would do in his life, he shot Savannah in the gut just below her rib cage.

The lightening stopped. The blood was quickly covering everything. Savannah's vision became blurry. She got down on her knees and then laud completely down. She had saved all of them, but this felt bad. Really bad.

Sienna walked around the car to see what was happening. The bad guys were done. Her family was mostly unconscious. Savannah looked up at her and tried to speak, but she had blood in her mouth. Her older sister was hurt really bad.

Her sisters and her used to play this game where they were elves. Their dad would weave a story about mean teachers that were actually werewolves or guys made of fire or monsters raiding the village. But, because these elves were special, each one of them could use their powers to fight. Sienna's was named Oakleaf. She could make others better, heal them.

The feather suddenly felt very heavy in her hands. She wrote what came to mind. She wished for the power to heal.

Towers of Imagination

In my young hands, the white cloth bag felt heavy. Inside were the materials to fuel my imagination, plastic ridged sticks and these miniature spheres, which looked a little like tee balls. With the bag in hand, I found a patch of dark green carpet in the living room, plopped down and poured them out.

In my mind images of towers and cityscapes turned into automated cars and planets made made from the plastic pieces. With the swirl of pieces around my indian crossed legs, I could lean down to the carpet and see that anything was possible.

I lifted one of the spheres in my hand and looked at the arrangement of hole. A round hole was on the top and the bottom. Surrounding each of these holes, was a set of oblong holes stretching to the equator. Finally, a band of holes formed a belt. This was one of of the building blocks for whatever it was, I was to build. The better I could know it, the better I could build.

So, I studied it.

When I was done becoming one with the sphere, I started attaching sticks and more spheres to it. I started by making a square, but it had enough play to it, that I could hear the cracking of the plastic went it was under stress. I tried adding a cross beam to the square, but the dimensions were off. I took it apart and built a triangle.

No give, very solid feeling. This would be the base.

In the living room, I was completely observed. I have no idea who peaked in on me, where my Mom or Brother, or if anything was on TV. The triangle became a pyramid, which became, two, three, four connected pyramids. The structure showed no sigh of bending. It grew, drawn from my imagination, like a rabbit from a hat before me.

Soon I was pulling a chair in, because it was too tall for me to add the final pieces. The creation out grew me and I could not have been more happy.

Fireworks

The fact that there are certain things you should never give to a teenage boy, was far from my mind. Before me was a red package wrapped in cellophane. You could see the thick painted sticks, eight of them, evenly spaced apart. The tops of these sticks supported brightly colored cylinders with the diameter of a quarter and about six inches long. They had names on them like: baby killer and sun destroyer. No wonder they were illegal. My mind Raced with images of their flight and explosions.

This was before I had been introduced to mortars, which also seem to find their way into the hands of people who shouldn't have them. Jim and John, I'm talking about you.

Given the illegal status of theses glorious items, I knew I would need to space out their use. I couldn't resist trying one, though. I slipped it out of the package, grabbed the matches from the kitchen and moved into the back yard. It was a moist spring day. The mulberries were still green on the trees and the long grass held onto the morning moisture. I looked around for witnesses, but there were none.

I knelt down in the middle of the yard and pressed just enough of the stick to get it to stand upright. If I pushed too hard it wouldn't take off, but if I didn't push hard enough it would fall over. I found just the right pressure and checked again. I was in the clear. I moved my back to the wind, struck the match, then lit the fuse. I stumbled back, but refused to blink. The small flame disappeared and with a hiss the rocket ignited. It half a second the flaming, flying combination on gunpowder and cardboard was piercing the sky and then exploded reigning down sparks and a spent stick. I was fulfilled, but I could do no more today.

The next call to action happened when we discovered the neighbor's to the back of our house were throwing firecrackers in our backyard. Firecrackers!?!? How insultingly weak. Beside the garage behind our house there were odds and ends. Bricks, wood, sticks and pipes. One pipe came from under a sink or something, because it had an S shape to it. I pulled it out of the pile and located my munition.

It the back yard we could see them. The enemy. The we're throwing fireworks and smoke bombs into our grass. We ran back there, Justin and I and my new weapon. We yelled at them, but they refused to be cowed. They danced out of sight, dodging back into view treating to throw something at us.

This would not do!

I rested one bend of the pipe over my shoulder, it allowed me to aim the business end with my right hand without the full held of the metal. With my left hand I slid the rocket into the front of the pipe. It fit perfectly. I needed to be quick getting it lit and into the pipe.

There he was the little blond annoying neighbor boy. He was getting braver, stupider. I got it lit, slipped into the pipe and had just enough time to aim. I wheeled on him and he got a look of confusion on his face. The rocket launched beautifully from the end of the metal pipe and with only a little twist hit the boy directly in the chest. Half a second too late, he dodged backward, his brain just realizing what had happened. The rocket, still powered by the ongoing thrust, deflect up and the spiraled like a crashing plane into a bush.

It was at this point, what should have been an awe inspiring rain of sparks, became an explosion of fire engulfing a bush, which was somewhat reminiscent of the story of Moses.

We were all stunned for a moment, but when the shock wore off, we scattered to our homes. It was unspoken, but the burning bush started a life long cease fire between us.

Junglescape

In back of the van was full of teenagers and luggage, the tools were in the U-Haul we pulled behind us. We were late, but we had made it. Through the windshield, which had be spattered with an abundance of bugs, we could see the dark red brick building, which would be our home for the next few days. We pulled into the dirt lot, causing as to rock back and forth with its unevenness, into the midst of cars and church buses. We made it.

The youth of Milwood United Methodist Church, some of their parents, Richard, the leader, Greg and I, all tumbled out into the yard. Before we grabbed our luggage, we went inside and find the out what awaited us. Giant black walls had been stretched to the ceiling of the gym, separating the boys from the girls. Most of the floor was already covered with air mattresses and sleeping bags and dirty clothes. Not far from the gym, was the "shower". Panels of old wood had been thrown down on a patch of ground in a section of the backyard, which quickly became wilderness and mountain. Around this wood was hung more black plastic, which was not unlike the walls of our communal bedroom. Over this wall hung the hand held shower head, which had been rigged to a hose. It was a little disconcerting how much light came in through the gaps in the walls. A sign on the wall, just inside the school, gave the shower schedule of boys and girls time.

We would see the cafeteria when it was time to get our group assignments. Low uncomfortable tables in a mint green room. We spent more time making our lunches here, almond butter and jelly, than we did eating. This also became my first stop every morning as I could count on getting a cup of coffee here. The group I was in was with Steve, Kristina's dad who I got to like quite a bit on this trip and Kristina, Tracy and Katie, the three musketeers. These were less my youth, and more my friends. I couldn't wait.

That night the college kids who were running the worksite put on a worship service. I don't remember a lot about about the worship service, but one piece of it I am reminded of often. The very charismatic leader of the team, pulled up a stool and set down with just him and his acoustic guitar. It was very, MTV unplugged. His curly hair was perfectly unkept. His tee shirt dirty. He tells us he was going to do an old Crash Test Dummy's song, which I think is a little strange, as the only Crash Test Dummies song I knew at the time was mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm.

"...But Clark Kent, now there was a real gent, He would not be caught sittin' around in no, Junglescape, dumb as an ape doing nothing...". He sang the slow song about Superman, but it wasn't just about Superman, it was about being a hero is what you do. It was about us, who were here to bring a little light to the people of the town.

To this day, I love listening to the Crash Test Dummy's in part because it reminds me of this performance and I tell you, if you song is about Superman, it is automatically going to get a few extra stars from me.

Location:Civic Center Dr,Southfield,United States

A life of intent

The whiteboard I sit facing while I enjoy my lunch and write this blog changes when it suits my fancy. I don't have a schedule to update it, as I seem to have for everything else. It can have one item, or a dozen. I use it to keep me focused, open my mind, give me thoughts to chew on. It is not the same today as it was two weeks ago.

My eyes make an invisible triangle in my office, from this iPad, to the board, then too my lunch. I see the container that held the left over spinach and chicken flauntas. I can still taste the cheese that held them together, under the sweet crisp carrots I am eating as quickly as I can get them out of the dwindling ziplock bag. A giant graham goldfish is my desert, but the overly happy food is overlooked for ideas of the board.

Perhaps I'm stuck here because of some quick failures this morning. Loosing the conference room I had for my team meeting. Failing to talk about communication, in an ironic twist, when I did get the room. The meeting dissolving in an uncontrolled way, when we lost the second room, which we held only by virtue of our presence. I felt like a leader not leading, a transparent fraud.

I'm mostly over that, but I still find myself looking to the board for inspiration. There are three circles on this board. One is a set of arrows around the word relationship. They connect the words Coach, Goals and Accountability. The model I've tried to build my sharpening relationships on. Below that is a circular version of the project triangle. Time, Cost, Quality. I'm toying with the Idea of introducing Quantity to it, but that is largely encapsulated by time, in terms of how it relates to a project. The third circle is actually a spiral, which is actually precisely laid out on a grid; it is a graphical representation of the Fibonacci sequence. Interesting but nothing grabs me from the circles.

The bottom bit of the board has some short term notes. There are the six pieces of audits, Sample, Findings, procedures, correction, root cause and controls. Under that some scratch I can not read all of on Internal Medicine practitioners, which are being modified in an interface. Nothing.

The meat I am looking for is in the last section of the board. Here, there are four lines. One of the lines relates to the spiral on the grid; 0,1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,34,55,89. This sequence is made by starting with zero and one, with each following number being the addition of the two that preceded it. Unremarkable until you realize that it makes the spiral of snail shells, perfect acoustics, appears in the fruit of a pineapple and the leaves of an artichoke. It is like a peak at one of God's blueprints.

The next line that gets my attention is "be unexpected, in the best possible way." This comes from the idea that anyone can make a magic moment, it has two parts. First it needs to be a moment of surprise, not a firecracker under the seat, but just not what is expected. Second, it need to be good. Not spectacular, just pure. As a parent, kids are easy to give these moments to. As a husband, too. I don't do this enough. This line needs to stay a while longer.

The next line is a question, "Do your actions measure up to your ideals?". I love this one. It is that check which keeps us mindful.

The last line is the one I think I've been looking for. A life of meaning starts with intent. When I wrote this up here it was a statement on the importance of being mindful. My day could be spent rerunning the tape about dropping the meeting and feeling like I am not leading, if I want my life to be one of regretting my mistakes. I don't. I want to learn and grow and laugh at my mistakes. I want to hand them to God and look up with open arms saying I don't know what to do with this. So, with that desire in my heart, I will grab the responsibility God has given me.

It is time to take a brief walk and prayer time.

Impact

We shortened class by a few minutes, so Shelly and I could go upstairs and do our roles for this Sunday. This was something special, but we didn't really know any of the details, just that Pastor Jeff had asked us if we could greet and pass a few thing out. Jeremy prayed and we quickly got upstairs.

Shelly had already seen it, but I peeked through the glass to try to figure out what we were in for. Rope could be seen running from the ceiling and down toward the organ and piano. On the floor a black cloth covered a large object which went from mid stage to just in front of the first row of chairs.

Red ribbons. That was our job. In addition to greeting people and giving the bulletins, we were to had out red ribbons to everyone who got by Larry and April, who Harding them out closer to the door. As the people cam in, Got my routine down. "You are going to need one of these for the service," I would say, "I don't know what it is for, but be sure not to loose it." or "They won't tell us what it is. For either.". Slowly we made sure everyone there got a little red ribbons.

Service started with a few changes in the order of things, but the giant black object set on the floor, unmentioned. We held our ribbons waiting.

Jeff talked about the thirst Jesus had on the cross, the thirst which was quenched, just briefly, with a sponge of sour wine. A thirst they quenched, not in mercy, but to prolong his pain. He talked about the a time before when Jesus had expressed his thirst, with the Samaritan woman, a request that led to an explanation of the living water, which he could provide. Would provide. Is providing.

The connection was clear, but there was one more piece. See that living water quenches the parched feeling of being trapped by sin, the heat of those you know being lost, it is the refreshment you get from God, an intimate connection made on the cross.

Pastor Jeff described the red ribbons as the sins we wanted to give to Jesus, the burdens we had for those lost in out lives, the needs which seemed to be unfulfilled. In a way, they were the thirst which need living water to sate them. When they pulled back the cloth from the object on the floor, most of had an idea what it was. The twenty foot tall wood cross looked like it had been aged with fire. Into the front of to we're row after row of nails, they covered the mast and cross beam. The ribbons had little slits in them.

I just a few minutes rows of people filled the center aisle of the sanctuary, trying to get to the front where they could place their sins and needs on the cross. When it was hoisted into the air, it towered nearly to the ceiling. It dripped red with the requested left by all of us. A thirst quenched with living waters.

This was the impact of Impact Sunday.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 25

In the big room, which had the huge safe n the middle, Shelby looked at her Mom and Dad. They looked more serious than she had ever seen them. They had stopped the hugs pretty quickly after they started. They were watching the door into the room. They knew Mr. Li would be sending someone after them before too long. Her Dad would periodically hold the gun up like he was going ti shoot to, looking the door through the site on the barrel.

"Are Sienna and Sanannah OK?" Shelby's Mom asked her.

Shelby scanned the base, peeling the layers, looking for her sisters. "Sienna is hiding behind the mattresses in room you were in. I can't see Vannah at all, but she can turn invisible now."

Sarah and Sierra talked to each other inside the door of the safe. They were trying to figure out a way to combine their powers. If they could be invisible and control lighting bolts, they figured they would be unstoppable. Sierra tied giving Sarah a piggy back ride, like she has with Shelby, but the younger girl couldn't hold up her cousin.

"Uh, Oh" they heard Shelby say, "The big guy is coming."

The machine gun was much louder than any of them expected. Their dad had shot through the door as soon as he saw the shadow of the man. Bullet holes crossed completely from one side of the door to the other.

"I'm not here to hurt you," shouted the man from the hallway.

"Come in slowly and keep your hands up," said Dad, the machine gun was shaking in his hands from nerves.

The girls moved behind the edge of the safe. The man walked through the door with his hands up. He stopped just inside the door, with the door propped open by his heel. He gave a quick nod and a "Fwop!" sound came from further down the hall.

At that point, several things happened all at once. First, lightning came where Sarah stood and knocked the man up against the wall and then to the floor. She already didn't trust him and when it looked like he was giving a signal she had, had enough. Second, a small metal canister, hit the edge of the door and bounced into the center of the room. It immediately started releasing yellow smoke and rolled toward the door of the safe. Third, the door, now not being held open by the man, closed again.

In just a few seconds everyone n the room was unconscious on the floor.

Behind the mattress Sienna tried to be as quiet as she could be. She jumped when she heard the gun fire, but she stayed where she was. Now, though, someone was coming. They were in the hallway, then in the room. They were trying to walk quietly, but Sienna could hear them. She didn't even want to breath. "Go away," she thought, "go away."

The mattresses fell back, like they were being pulled. Sienna tried to dig herself in deeper, moving back, but there was no where left to hide. She looked up into the room, which was empty at first. Just a few seconds later, Savannah had materialized in front of her.

"Let's go," she said and handed her the feather.

Gut check

I opened the manila envelope, which was in my office chair. It was the results of a leadership survey. I was excited to get the results. I had worked hard to be the best leader I could over the last few months and now I would see what my boss, peers and subordinates had to say about me. Sure, I'd pick out the things I needed to improve, but is the fluorescent light of my office, I was pretty excited.

At first glance the page looked like a set of three spiderwebs. Eight leadership traits made up the spokes and a couple lines, one representing my self analysis and another from some subset of respondents, became the threads that rounded them. I sat down a tried to really draw in what they were saying. There seemed to be something amiss.

Inspire. It was one of the leadership traits. One of the spokes of the web. Probably the one I considered most important. I wanted to inspire people to do great things. Set an example for them. Even reaching people by removing the masks, the quest for deeper all around relationships which had been years ago, was in part about this desire. If someone can see the full me and I always have the answer, or can do the work, my staff will be inspired.

In my mind, I was doing great at this. I even reported as much on my portion of the questionnaire which made these spiderwebs before me. There it was a spike in the web, my self reported ability, a spike that was not reflected by my staff. Not only was it not reflected, but their thread at that point took a dip. I not only was not great, I didn't even make average.

There were more pages telling me why, but I couldn't face them right away. I set the pages down on the desk focused on nothing for a little bit. They were wrong! I first thought, but how can that be. If the people you are trying to inspire tell you, you are not inspiring, you're not. What had I done? I gave them access to my life. I was always prepared with solutions. I pitched in a helped on what ever they worked on. It felt like I had run the field with no one telling me I had dropped the ball and now I wasn't even sure where it was. I was not who I thought I was.

If I was so wrong on this, what did this mean for the way I was perceived by my friends and family?

I read the comments in the pack, explaining in a little more detail why I had gotten these results. They weren't wrong. They said I was a know it all, which I worked to be. They said they felt unneeded. They said I was slow to give praise and quick to give criticism. They said I never seemed to believe I was wrong.

How do I get back from this, I thought. I was trapped not only by who I was, but the history of having been that way. I felt like I could see the sun setting from the bottom of a well.

Initially, Milt, my professional coach helped me work through some of the backwards thoughts I had. He helped my to find the solutions, I should say, made me make my own solutions. I learned that it is important to let other people solve the problem. They I need to praise, with no further point; a simple good job goes a long way. Most importantly, and uncomfortably, I need to be vulnerable and compassionate to other people. If I become different, eventually they will see me different.

He was right, but that is only a part of what needed to be done. My friend and accountability partner James, had been holding me to making deacon calls and some writing every day, but at roughly the same time I was working with Milt, our accountability conversations had taken a different direction. He made me aware, even without full knowledge of the coaching I had, had with Milt, that I had the same problem with many of my relationships that I had with my staff. I wasn't vulnerable of compassionate. He never said the words that way, but they were there in the press for a goal what challenged me to be more connect and exposed. When he explained the glee my friends would take in my mistakes and as I told him how absolutely I hated the fact that my spelling and grammar were so bad. An English major who can't spell.

It was an epiphany, flashback and the feeling of working without a net all rolled into one. He couldn't have been more right, people will only let you help them if they know you care and they will only believe you care if they feel you can relate and people would only relate to me if I really took down the masks, not just with the facts, but with my emotions. So, full of fear of the laughing and rebukes I would get for messing up of their, there and their, I wrote hoping that I can grow to be someone you can admire and trust. Someone you can truly know and want to be truly known by.

Unified

We sat around a large conference room in the Robin Conference room. The wall opposite the door was all windows, but all of the other walls were covered in the white paper and sticky notes of our work. The meetings had been long and mentally draining, but eye opening for me. Kevin and Mike, who had trained is in the basics if lean, were walking us through some systematic conflict resolution. It seemed I took notes at every word.

Around the table there were eight of us from various parts of the company, people I had gotten to know pretty well in the time we had worked together. Michelle, who refused to give up when her back pain caused her to have to take breaks laying flat on the floor. She had adult children who still suffered the effects of being too long in the foster care system. Shantel, who nearly always wore a blanket, because she never seemed to get warm and could win nearly any eye rolling competition you could conceive of. Ferren, who had spent some time as a professor, and had just gotten back from Jamaica with his girlfriend. Reuben, who I had met long ago, when he worked with my mother-in-law, who was quiet, knowledgeable and friendly. Ben and Kevin, who were a couple of most socially capable IT people I have met. Family men, who talked about their wife and kids and friends. Last with table were Rozanne and Barb, my boss at the time and her boss. They were opposites in that Rozanne was as non-confrontational as Barb was confrontational, but neither really opened up in the same way the rest of the group did.

We were talking about a single enrollment process for providers, but my mind was on the people. Who I was to them? Before these sessions they were workers and subject matter experts, now they were people with families and I imagine they were also people with beliefs, political and religious. The problem was, they, like me, had a part to play here. A mask.

"Every handoff wastes time," Mike says pointed to a handoff which leaves and area and comes back to the same area. "Is this needed. Can we do all this work into one area?"

United. The problem with the masks we wear is they keep is from being united. They are a handoff, which wastes time. I was sure my mind was running places Mike never intended, but they felt like important places.

Can a person be united? Can they get rid of the masks? In some cases we put the mask on ourselves, don't talk about church at work, don't bring work home, pretend that you kids didn't just drive you crazy when you greet the pastor at the church door. In other cases, people put the mask on us, don't ask the guy who lives with his girlfriend about his relationship with God. Is this needed? Is it worthwhile to spend the cupcakes playing hide and seek with yourself?

I needed to change. This is something which I already strived for, but I needed to find a way to be one person to everybody. Take off not just the masks that I put on, but those people would try to put on me.

I talked about Michelle about her kids and talked about my own. I asked Reuben about his church and told him about mine. This wasn't enough, though. So I signed up for twitter and shared the address with anyone and everyone. This didn't ultimately work, but it moved me closer to that unification I found so important.

I love that lamp

I looked at the off white, folding table in front of me. Near the corner where the hard, plastic, brown border rounded the corner you could see where it had been dropped. In the break,you could see the construction of the top. A thin plastic top, given a light pattern of wood, covered the thick press board wood. On the opposite side of the table, I could see a dried patch of glue with glitter in it, the remains of a sunday school project.. It sparkled in the light coming the window into the classroom, which was also part of the fellowship hall, when the folding walls were pushed back.

I was gathering details, putting together the story from my parents. My Aunt Anita had won a trip to Disney World, a place that, at that time, I had only been to once before. Her win had come under some unusual circumstances. One of our friends at church was the store manager of a local Kmart, during a time Kmart was sending customers to Disney. He had discovered that he had the winning paper, which by nature of his job, he was unable to claim. He and his wife had one child at home, Tony, a friend of mine. The trip was for four. So, Anita claimed the prize and the four of them were set to go to Disney.

As I was told these details, looking at the dirty table, I was happy for them, but hadn't gotten to the part which connected to me. I might have briefly thought about the moral implications of claiming a prize you were not eligible for, but that part of me that likes the little guy getting one over on the big company was still alive an well. I claim teen rebellion.

Anyway, in the week before the flight to Rodent Valhalla, Tony ran away from home. There are other details, but it is probably important to note that his parents knew he was safe, just mad at having rules. Anyway, they now needed to add to their family of four. They needed a sixteen year old named Tony. So, because I was about the right age, in a time when identity checking was almost non-existant, I became Tony.

Disney, of course was awesome. We had so much fun. With food provided we ate at the Coral Reef, where we carved up butter shaped like a mouse. I don't that would fly anywhere else in the world. We ate at the Brown Derby, where Mary, the mom, got into a whistling contest with our waiter, the high pitched chirps echoing off of the large interior. These are not, though, the story which is most told about this trip.

We all had to share a room. After all, we were a family, according to the papers filed for our winning. So, we have a very nice two bed room, I think in the Contemporary Resort, but I have a little memory bleed on that point. Anyway, the couple, obviously could share a bed, but I was not going to share a bed with my Aunt. I was much too old for that. So, I slept on the couch.

We would get back to the room, get ready for bed and go to our respective sleeping spaces. I liked to read before I went to sleep, so I moved the floor lamp, which would normally be over the little table in the corner, to a space beside the couch. I was either reading something be Stephen King or a new rules book for Dungeons or Dragons until I was tired, then turn the switch and go to sleep.

I wake to laughter. Not just any laughter, but laughter at me. As I become aware of my surroundings, I realize there is something cold and metal across me. My arm is wrapped around it, not unlike a teddy bear. "You really like that lamp," I hear, followed by laughter. I let go of the pole of the floor lamp and the weight on the bottom rights it, I open my eyes and realize, not only have my three roommates been watching me, but there is at least one camera in hand. I can't tell how glad I am that this was way before digital and Facebook and the other more expedient ways we have today to fully share embarrassing events, such as someone mistaking his lamp for a cuddle buddy.

Sunday Morning Peace

As usual on Sunday morning, I was the first one out of my room. It was still dark in the house, everything illuminated by the light I had turned on in the room. I had to let in the dog, who had accidentally been left out all night. I had to make coffee. I had to write up note for my lesson. Like it or not my day had begun.

The dog came into the house and, with dirty, fuzzy paws flying, began to run laps in the house. Under the dining room table then zipping downstairs to the loving room. Her claws clicked and the thick clasp of her color clunked against the ground, while I assessed the coffee situation. We had more than half a pot left from yesterday, so I poured myself a cup to microwave and turned on the burner to reheat the rest of Shelly. Then i went downstairs to do my lesson.

The kids get up in a few minutes and I hear them arguing at the dining room table. I hear the snotty tone of one and the irritated tone if the other. I am instantly distracted. I listen, waiting for the thing that will trip my attitude, he thing I know will come. I can't see them, but in my mind I imagine them facing off, arms crossed, arguing about who has more friends. I don't catch the full conversation, but at one point I hear one telling he other that online friends aren't real friends. The validity of this comment, is not as important as the message they are trying to convey to each other.

I am mad. What a jerky thing to argue about. Who would win this? I yell upstairs in the tone which silences them which lets them now I am about to pick apart their wrong doing. The peace of the day as been replaced by the stress caused by having arguing children. In spite of the Bible before me, God is far from my thoughts.

Then from my chair, while I'm keeping myself from more fully dressing down a couple of my children, I hear others upstairs fighting about a missing hairbrush. It looks like stress and frustration is the meal of the day. I have ordered the early bird special.

While my mind is still caught up in the fights through the house, I force myself to start the next section. Romans 5:1. I read it slowly, "Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.". On one hand, this is talking about the fact that at one point in my life, I was an enemy of God, but because of the work of Jesus Christ, I now have peace with God.

In the stress of today, though, to the unsettling murmur of debate, this has a much more personal meaning as well. See, that word "with" also mean "of". I by the nature of my relationship to Jesus Christ have access to the peace of God. In fact, this is a blessing offered and available to me. Additionally, this is a spirit I am meant to exhibit, it is a fruit if the spirit.

So, I sit in the chair convicted by this simple passage. I have given over my ability to have a fruit of the spirit, a blessing of God to my selfish reactions to my children fighting. I have avoided this mornings blessing and replaced it with my stress. This moment should not be wasted. This is a Godly learning experience.

Every individual that I know of, would like to have less stress and more peace. Everyone who has accepted Jesus Christ as their personal savior, has this available to them, but because they are sinners it is still instinctual for them to try to solve their stress themselves. You can't, in any permanent way, solve your stress yourself. Peace is from and of God. It is the double sins of pride and selfishness, which you exhibit when you don't accept this, when you try to get through with your own reason and determination. Hallmarks of my morning, so far.

So, I pray, I start over clinging to the offer of peace. You can do the same, if you like.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 24

The girl's Dad through the strap of the gun over his shoulder. He liked the heft of the metal, it made him feel like a hero. He looked over at his wife, the girls Mother, she was holding the wood from the bed frame like a baseball bat. Her adrenaline had her twitching at every should. She looked warily at the woman on the floor. Sienna stood in the doorway of the room.

He tried to think quickly. They needed to get to the rest of the children and they didn't have any time to waste. They couldn't take Sienna in gun's blazing. There was no right answer.

"Sienna," the girl's mom said, "let's see if we can find a good hiding spot.". The walked into the room and begun looking around. Wood splinters and metal pieces were all over the floor. Mattresses were against the wall. Sienna selected the mattresses to hide behind. She wanted, more than anything, she had a power right now.

Knowing they had to move, her Mom and Dad left her there, saying they would be back to get her, nice they had her sisters. They said like they were going to pick them up from the park, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Sierra was moving slow, with the weight of her sister on her back. She could her the man coming up the other stairway. He was growling with anger. They had to get Sarah out of the safe. With her lightning they should be able to shift the fight to favor them.

Shelby looked through the building, plotting their path and seeing where everyone was at. "The big guy is just outside the door at the bottom of the stairs." When they got to the bottom they waiting. Invisible. Sierra began to think this as the longest horseback ride ever. Suddenly a voice came of the man's radio and he burst through the door. When he ran up the stairs, the two girls went out where he came in.

They did not have to stop all the way to the safe. Shelby could see Sarah pacing inside. How would they get it open? They circled the giant metal box and Sierra started playing with the metal knob. It was much harder to move than her lock at school. Shelby watched the mechanism in the thick wall. Then she saw it, there was a circle that had a notch in it and one circle would stop moving when Sierra started moving the knob in the other direction. "Stop," she said in what could be best described as a yelling whisper.

Sierra started again, this time going slowly, waiting for Shelby to tell her she had gotten to the right number. It took a few tries to figure it out, but in a few minutes the two of them had popped the safe. The heavy door of the safe swung open and there stood Sarah, ready to drive a lighting bolt into somebody. When she saw it was her cousins she sighed and they hugged.

Thirty seconds later, they heard the door to the room that held the safe swing open. Sarah and Shelby dodged into the open safe, out of view. Sierra vanished. "Mom," Shelby screamed, realizing who it was who had made it into the room. It was her Mom and Dad.

Things were looking up, but they would not have long to celebrate.

Pine Wood Derby

Justin and I sat in the back seat do the blue Fairmont station wagon holding onto the small cardboard boxes and imaging what they would become. The boxes gripped in out hands were yellow, blue and white. They had a 50's style, drawing of a boy scout with an unhealthy amount of excitement watching, what I can only assume is his car, rolling down a rump. In a square font, which I associate with signs made in a school wood shop, they read Pine Wood Derby. When I shook the box, I could hear the four plastic wheels and little nails bumping against the block of wood. I assume the wood was pine, but I wouldn't know the difference.

We were both Cub Scouts and for a cub scout this was one of the major events you would participate in each year. We would spend weeks planning, at home and at our weekly meetings. We would be carving and sanding and painting. In my mind, I wasn't holding a block of wood, but a miniature Lamborghini.

A few days later, we had pulled the blocks out of the box. They had square notches where you could imagine the ghost driver sitting. My block sat on the table in front of me. I moved down to eye level to help me imagine the lines. Justin used the technique of moving it through space and making race car sounds. I readied my pencil.

I press hard and drew slowly. I placed my first line with intention, trying as hard as I could. It wobbled, showing every correction, nothing like the smooth line I saw in my mind. Additionally, it didn't look like a sports car, it looked like a bubble. This was supposed to be a Lamborghini, not the VW bug my dad used to have. So, I erased, the best I could, and started over. Become the Countach.

I didn't finish my lines that day, I never could get to to look right. Justin, with a little help from Dad, had a pretty sweet design, but mine was becoming a wedge, the standard design adopted by thousands of scouts. I rounded to and added the cool cut back front, which I associated with sports cars, but really I ended up with a fancy wedge.

After those lines became reality all there was left to do was sand, paint, hammer, weigh and finally race. I held my shaped block of wood in my hands and imagined how the paint would look.

Riley Coulter

In 1855, Riley was born in Pocahontas County, Virginia. It was a small mining community named after the Indian woman who assisted Lewis and Clark. A that time Virginia unfolded all the way to Ohio River. This was not the frontier, but it was not the civilized east coast either. In the area around him, everyone who didn't work in the mine was a farmer. None of them had much money, but they got along OK. His parents , George and Flora, lived next door to his aunt and uncle, they were all farmers.

I imagine what his live would have been like, placing the images I am familiar with and trying to age them to make sense. Did he play with the miner's kids? Did he have to work too much to really have much time for play?

I haven't found the record yet, but I imagine 1861 was a vary tough year for Riley's family. Almost certainly his 31 year old father and younger uncle would have gone to war, but the city he lived was not absolutely aligned to the southern cause. The money would have been very attractive. This town was fairly far from the state seat in Richmond and even further from anyone interested in national politics.

In 1863 the western part of Virginia broke away from the succeeded state of Virginia. It immediately rejoined the union and was recognized as a state. Riley's family, while close to the border between these now waring states, very clearly lived in the West Virginia side. He was eight years old and probably cared more about getting his chores done, than what to call the state he lived in.

I loose Riley to history until 1900 and when I pick up with him he is completely different. He then is married to Harriet, a woman just slightly older than him. He has grown from the boy farmer to a stone mason. They are in their forties and have seven children, all of which still love with them. The work is not steady, but they have a home and all of them can read and write. The have moved to Richmond, West Virginia a township, much smaller than its namesake to the east.

In 1900, in that home in Richmond lives Winnie Mae, Riley's 13 year old daughter, who is not yet working. She is my great, great grandmother.

Willpower

I make a phone call, rather than send a quick text, because I am driving and texting a driving is probably a bad idea. In the back seat Sienna and Shelby listen in. The call is quick. I ask if he worked out, he says he did, I tell him good job and he says thank you. Short. Sweet. Successful.

It is then, after I hang up, it is brought to my attention how alien this is to my children. Shelby asks me why I call to make sure someone worked out. I tel her he asked me to. She chews on this, but she does not really understand. In her mind she is thinking, if you want to do something, you do it and if you don't want to do something you don't. Why would you ask someone to hold you accountable.

I try to explain it to her, asking about things which she needs to do, but doesn't want to. She gets it only a little, but I can tell she thinks it is crazy to ask someone to make sure you clean your room or do your chores. She doesn't look at it this way, but I do; her willpower is not going to be spent fighting for things she doesn't really like.

Imagine for a moment, that willpower is energy. It is not a limitless supply and you only have so much. Doing something you want to do takes no will power or maybe even it requires willpower to resist it. Doing something you don't want to do has a willpower cost.

So, what is there to do with this? Most of us could use more willpower than we seem to have. We fail everyday. So, there are two quick things which you can do to make a change in this. First, exercise your willpower. The more you are willing to do the things you should do, when you don't want to, the greater your willpower will be. Second, get an accountability partner to encourage you to do those things you seem to lack the willpower to do. This can be just the boost you need begin grabbing those successes you have been missing out on.

What about those people that have too much willpower. I have heard this in accountability discussions. This is not your problem. In every case where someone has claimed to have too much willpower, what they actually had was a stubborn resistance to using their willpower. It is not your willpower that keeps you sitting in the chair, when you know you should be taking a walk, you just tell yourself that because it sounds better than being weak. So, it this is you, what are you to do? I have this recommendation, prayerfully make a list of those things you should and should not be doing. Make sure they are scripturally sound. Recognize that it is willpower to do those things and laziness and selfishness which keeps you from doing them. With this recognition, pick one of these things you are dropping the ball on and commit to doing it.

Is this an adult thing, Shelby asked me. I considered for a moment and told her, it was more of an adult thing. Upon deeper consideration, I actually think it is a spiritual maturity thing.

Memories of Monongahela National Forest part 2

As I stepped into the water of the river, I was immediately surrounded by textures and sensations. The hard stones on the bottom of the river, those too heavy to be moved by the water, formed a knobbed and sometimes sharp foundation to walk on. I kept a slow pace, slowing shifting my weight. The water was cold, reminding you it ran down from the surrounding mountain, pushing softly from the left to the right. The current sometimes pushed fish into my legs, causing me to jump, remembering the snake.

Justin, Ray, Christina, Stephanie and I all played in the water. In we would go, splashing each other and diving under until you are shivering cold, then back out to enjoy the heat of the sun. There is no sand on this beach, but large flat stones, which hold onto and radiate heat through the day. They are hard, but a perfect complement to the water.

Lunch was to be a giant potluck with the full extended family. There would be those who came with us from Michigan, those we would visit about once a year, and those who were completely unfamiliar to me. This was long before I started doing genealogy, so I was completely not interested. The old ladies had a table full of books of pictures, brown and faded, they would ask who you were and connect you into their family. The grandson, of my second cousin. I smiled and nodded, but I was there for the food. My current self, wants to shake my past self when I think about this.

I got away from the matriarchs table as quickly as I could and got my food. Baked beans and ham. A few desserts and Kool-aid. I sat at the rough wooden picnic table, the red varnish on it is so thick it almost looked plastic. This part of the woods seemed to be pine trees. I took a breath and breathed them in. I could see a Rhododendron bush, which I had been advised not to pull an leaves off of, since it violated West Virginia state law. The buzz of family, known and unknown, surrounded me.

Yeah, I like to go fishing, I told my cousin. I dumped the scraps of food left on my plate into the green 55 gallon barrel marked trash. We ran to our campsite and grabbed a couple fishing poles. I carried a small blue box, which had the tackle inside. I didn't like fish, but I liked fishing, more specifically, I like casting, getting that bobber or lure to land so far out in the water.

We made out way back up the dirt road, to where it dropped off at the stone beach by the river. From there we walked upstream just a little bit, where you could more clearly see the bridge, beside a large flowering bush. The high pitched whine of the thin string unwinding into space. The click of the reel locking and then slowly being wound. The fish weren't biting, but I didn't care. Eventually, I added two sinkers to the end of the line, to get more distance on my cast. I was trying to get it to land on the opposite bank, but at all interested in the fish anymore.

We celebrated with each cast, further and further away. We stomped the sand and dirt bank. At first, I noticed the black and white insect in the flowers, then more of them. They were white head wasps, I had learned in boy scout camp, and they were mean. Suddenly, I heard the buzzing. It wasn't one or two on the flowers, it was a swarm and swarm growing around us. I dropped the rod and reel and ran.

I ran to the stones of the beach, empty right now. I swatted the wasp on my neck, which had just stung me. It hurt, but I was still trying to outrun the swarm. The little crisp body dropped from me. Suddenly I realized there was one in the sleeve of my tee shirt. Stinging and stabbing. I pinched it with shaking hands through the shirt. It was only two stings, but I knew I might be in trouble. I am allergic to bee stings.

At the campsite, I told my mom what happened. She moved from worry to remedy mode. I took the Benadryl, while I was trying to calm down, went to the tent and promptly passed out.

First Performance

I am setting outside of Compuware Arena on an absolutely beautiful day. I can hear the sing song of birds in the distance, the light one far away broken by the short deep long one nearby. I can smell the moist earth. Today is spring. I start in my car with the windows down, I know I won't be here for long.

In the distance I hear a sound, the sound of history. It is a group of fifes playing the Star spangle banner. My first thought is not of Revolutionary Era soldiers playing in the first part of our country's history, although I get there. I am brought back a couple decades to the Plymouth Fife and Drum Corps. This same group which my brother was a part of, and I was a tag a long to.

I leave the red van, locking it behind me, and walk around the building to the music. Looking for the big white truck. I see it and then all the kids. The drummers ave started playing a steady beat, which I still associate with being on the move, but between songs. Thump, thump, thump. I can't help but walk to it.

At first, I don't see Savannah. From this distance they all just look like varying heights of the same kids. Drummer, nope that's not her. Fifer, nope. Then I see them the circle of kids just behind the truck. I see the muskets, with fixed bayonets. I see the halberd and mace. None of these will be her, this is the first performance of her first year. She will have a flag and probably not the American flag.

I when I spot her, she is first being helped by some of the older kids, she is the last to take the cover off her flag. When she does, it is yellow. The flag she has brought home to practice with. I call it the "Don't tread on me" flag, though she tells me it is called the Gaston. Every time I say it, I say it like the villain in Beauty and the Beast, she corrects me with a decidedly more American pronunciation.

I walk up and ask her if she has time for a picture. She does, but gets that blend of proud to be asked and embarrassed to be asked in front of her new friends. I take a quick picture, then let her be. I am proud that she has carried this on, even if I was just the tag a long. When asked, she says she wanted to this because her Uncle Justin did this, so she can really be his favorite. I tell her that he carried the snake flag too.

I take one last picture before it is time for the to go not the arena and I stand outside listening.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 23

Mr. Li watched the security monitors and started getting the reports. He was becoming angrier and angrier. The muscles in his jaw were twitching, from the pressure of his teeth pushing together. Did this little, nothing, family now who they were dealing with? Did they think he cared about them, that if they showed their determination, he would let them go? No. He wasn't going to be swayed by that. If anything their value was going down by the second.

He watched on the hall monitors as the parents had surprised and then subdued one of his gunmen. She had been stupid, standing too close to the door, getting knocked off balance. Now the parents had her gun. It made it more dangerous, but he didn't need them anymore. He had the kids and more importantly he had the feather. He ran the iridescent blue plume across his hand as he thought about it. He picked up the two way radio.

"The parents have a gun in the hallway outside their room. Terminate them."

Almost as soon as he said it, he saw a new movement in the hallway he had locked the girls up in. The middle child seemed to flop from the ceiling and then open the door for the invisible girl. They talked for a moment, while Mr. Li watched. The middle girl pointed to floor, not she meant the floor below them, where his partner was getting to his feet. She then pointed to the safe, where lightning girl was. Interesting, she seemed to be able to see through his building. Last, she pointed meaning through the walls, to where her parents were. She told her sister what she saw, and they both did a little fist pump before falling back into serious conversation. Which way were they going to go? Mr. Li got on the radio again.

"wipe that blood off your face and head upstairs. Make plenty of noise, I want to flush them out. The two girls still up there and I'd like to catch them in the other stairwell."

Sierra understood, the man was coming and he had a gun. She knelt down, placing one hand on the floor. Shelby hopped on her back. Suddenly she wished her little sister hadn't grown so much, but this seemed to be the best way. She stood back up, took a deep breath and they both disappeared.

Mr. Li need to set an impression, something that made it was clear he was the man in charge. His pistol would not do. Something bigger, much bigger. He put the feather on the desk and wheeled around to the door that opened to his gun closet.

On the desk, the feather disappeared, this was precisely the moment Savannah had been waiting for. Now for step two.

Memories of Monongahela National Forest part 1

From in the tent, you could smell the camp fire already going. You could hear the voices of my Uncle Ervin and and cousin Robbie talking. It was already light enough to see inside the tent, but there was no direct sun. I could hear the sound of zippers opening and closing other camper's tent. I notice how the sound changes as the tension of the fabric changes, I climb out of the my sleeping bag and then the tent.

There are half a dozen people already up, setting on folding chairs or thick logs and drinking coffee from a beat up tin pot, which is kept on hot coals. I am handed a Pop Tart, find a seat and just enjoy watching the fire for a while.

In a few moments, my brother and cousin Ray are up. We decide to walk down to the river. It is not that far, but we get permission from the adults and head out. You can't see very far anywhere, because of the mountains and thickness of the forest, until we get to the clearing by the bend in the river. It is hear we can clearly see that the sun has not yet burned away the morning fog. The river seems to disappear into the mist and you can't even see the swinging bridge that allows you to get to the walking trails on the other side.

We pause when we get to the clearing, and then we hear it. Past the line where the trees fade into the fog, someone starts playing a bag pipe. The acoustics are strange, at first you think you know the direction it is coming from, but as you look around if feels like it could be coming from anywhere. Maybe everywhere. It is a slow rendition of Amazing Grace. It feels for a moment like we have fallen into a movie. A touch of real life magic.

We play for a bit, skipping rocks before we head back to the camp site. It is time to go swimming. More of our family joined us, parents more cousins. I think it was my Aunt Cy who first alerted us. A copperhead was in the water, swimming toward shore. After this declaration it took about... 1.5 seconds for everyone who had been swimming to be on the beach. The group of us watched the water looking for it. My Uncle Haven grabbed a big stick. When the snake hit the rocky area beside the beach, he was waiting. We watched, fascinated. He just clipped the snake and it took off. Toward him, then away dodging swings. The snake got to a spot under a kind of cleft. My uncle switched from stick to a baseball sized rock. The final throw and the fight was over, the critter crushed by the rock. With the danger cleared we got back into the cool water.

Art Project

The main part of the classroom was rows of connected tables, workspaces for the students, where they could all face the front of the room, but also had plenty of room for oversized sheets of thick paper. I just walked through this room, looking at the students and easels and air brushes, They were all working on their major projects. I was headed to the cage.

The cage was this large storage room off of the art class room, the door to it was pretty much always open throughout the day. When you first looked into this room, it was just a dark grey pattern. This was caused by the thick grey fence which ran the length of this ten foot deep closet. Once you are in the room, you can see the other side of the fence is a giant collection of art supplies. Paper and Berol colored pencils. Paint and clay. Brushes of dozens of sizes and strange odds and in, probably for still life displays. At first, you couldn't even see what I was here for.

With the key Mr Sanders gave me as soon as I walked through the door, I unlocked the cage. I pull it open, step into the storage area and make my way to the computer. This was the one art computer in the school and I had been lucky enough to have time on it pretty much everyday. At that time, I don't think there was a lot of competition for it.

I pressed the power switch and let the Macintosh power up. I have decided to do my art project using three dimension rendering, smoking I could probably do with a free app today, but in the day was fairly cutting edge for a amateur user. It is numbers and trial and error and finding the right position to print from. I try spheres and squares, but the simple shading makes them kind of boring. They are too simple.

I start messing around user defines polygons, shapes I can define myself, and I create a stylized ring. I adjust the lighting and at some point it just pops. I then click 'print' and wait. From here I begin printing shots of this ring, adding rings, once I figure out how to make them over lap precisely, then a make a sphere out of three of these rings. By the time I was done, I have a bunch of these interesting pictures, but this is not a project.

I consider what I can do. I talk to Julius, my youth leader, who is a professional commercial artist, he tells me to come out to the studio someday after school and he'll help me. This is awesome. I'm going to get to work on my project in a professional studio, with a professional artist. I have no idea what to expect, but I was excited anyway.

Julius looks at the various prints of my rings, he looks at them and tells me they are cool, but I am not sure he is just seeing what is there. I imagine he's looking at places he could blow up to enormous size, or placing colors over them or xeroxing them over and over again until they loose definition. Together, we through out ideas and them play with them. Colored acetate, nah. Layering them, that doesn't quite work. Photograph them and print them onto transparencies so we could play with the background.

Then he spots the negative, which was not at all like the negatives I was used to seeing. It was this dark purple and grey, thick paler with my rings impressed onto them. They had this quality which was hard to see from one angle and standing out at another. This was it. We took a set of four evolving rings and mounted them onto a long black panel, covering the negative with clear plastic. It was cool.

Mr. Sanders loved it. He asked how it was done, all the details. When I told him I had used CAD to design the rings and designing my own shape and what I needed to do with the lighting, he smiled. He told me a local company, On-line Graphics, was looking for a student who knew a little about computer art to help them. If I wanted, he would tell them to give me a call.

An A and a job. Life was good.

Overtaken

I have a great love for the ocean. There is something about standing so the foam of the churning water just touches your feet while you inhale the salty air. You look out and anything you can see is so small as to be insignificant to the size of the great water. There even joy being in a room close enough to hear the rhythmic sound of the water through the open balcony door. There is something about the size and sound the reminds you of God. A spiritual experience.

The first time I can remember going to the ocean I was with my parents. I have a flood of memories, blurred with age, which I associate with this first trip. The stainless steel trash can full of crab my Dad caught on the peer, particular the ones that snapped their claws at you when you got too close. The white sand, which burned your feet as you tried to get to darker sand cooled by water. The hermit crab, which we brought home so it could live its very short life in a poorly maintained, red, plastic bucket.

One of the other memories I have was playing the water and waves with my Mom and Dad. I don't remember everything we did or the games we played, but I have a moment here which stands out for me. "Hold your breath," my Dad said, in the same way I have with my kids. Then into the air I go with my arms and legs flailing.

Splash. I kept eyes closed, having already got salt water in my eyes earlier. But it felt cold green. Alien. The water seemed to grasp and spin me, starling. I kick to get to the surface, but I can't. I'm tumbling. I try to get my feet down, but it is too late, I can't even tell down for a moment. I am running out of breath. I flail blindly from side to side. I know my dad is there, but I can't see him. Alone in the dark. Overtaken.

The time Shelly and I and the girls spent in Kalamazoo was great in so many ways. We were in our own. Our schedule was ours. Even though we had the twins, which kept us home way more than is did before, we were very much masters of our own lives. I particularly remember Sundays.

We had grown tired of the cliquishness of the church we once attended and having the children gave us the perfect first excuse to make our break from them. I had shifted my talk of the importance of church, to the more popular position of you can be spiritual without going to church. It made the slow moving Sundays of bagels and TV more in alignment with our beliefs. I fooled myself not saying this wasn't my responsibility. When I owned the need to go to church, I would let any excuse deter me. You are the spiritual head of your household, was the thing that God kept reminding me of.

Joblessness. The money is gone. We can't afford the bagels and the sun never shines as bright as it used to. I try to get a new job on my own, but I can't. The days stretch on, the phone is turned off, the family has to leave me so what little money can me made, is made. I flail, but I don't know which way is the right way to go. I know God is there, but I have been blinding myself. Alone in the dark. Overtaken.

It the water of the ocean, any number of people could have lifted me out of the water, but they were not there with me. Who was there was my Dad, who probably in just a couple seconds, did lift me back above the waves. The problem for me was not because I wanted to be trapped beneath the water, but when the water came I didn't know what to do. I was caught not because I was trying, but because I was unaware.

This is nearly precisely what happened with my sin of being a poor spiritual leader for my family while I was in Kalamazoo. See, fellow Christians are there because sin is not something people are trying to do, but they do automatically if they are not mindful. It is a wave in the ocean which will toss you if you are not planted and the carry you to places you never intended to go. Carry you to death. Compulsive flailing, those out of control sins we have, are there because we are not planted. Alone in the dark. Overtaken.

You don't have to be.

Galatians 6:1-2 Brothers and sisters, if someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently. But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted. Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.

Water Guns at Midnight

I put soap in the bucket in the middle section if the giant, stainless steel, three section sink. Wash, Rinse, Dry, Outside it is perfect, dark and warm, but in here, in the preparation area of Arby's, everything is fluorescent and artificial. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it, because it makes cleaning the slicer easier.

I walk back to the front, slipping by the cart full of shake machine parts and place the hot soapy water behind the large metal slicer. The meat is already weighed and gone. The heat lamp has been turned off and flipped up. I removed the slop cup and wipe out the area where crusty scraps collect. I wipe it down as well as I can, the hot water loosening and letting the grease drain down. My mind is not on the work at hand, which at this point I could do blindfolded. It is on what will take place when I get out of work.

Tim and James, Eric and Jason, Justin and Andy, and more. They were mostly all going to be there. Additionally, some people from work, like Shelly, who would one day be my wife, but I don't know that yet. We are rounding up all the super soakers we can, we have a couple five gallon containers with taps to fill them up with. We have the perfect place to go, Smith Elementary. This is going to be an event.

I slip on the white cut proof gloves while imagining who else I can call and how much fun we are going to have. When the gloves with the warm water, the seem to cling to you hands and immediately get clammy when you pull them out. With one hand on the blade cover, I loosen the giant bolt holding it in place and remove it from around the razor sharp blade. With all the parts clean I take them back to the dishwasher, maybe James or Pete. I don't remember.

In twenty minutes we are walking out the door. The slicer has been rebuilt. The floor has been swept and mopped. It is clean, or at least clean enough. Outside, many of my friends are waiting, the others we will round up and Scott's house before we make it to the school.

Smith School is in the middle of a neighborhood, a quiet neighborhood, so we park right in the lot. We park under the giant lamps without any fear. We gather our guns, probably two a piece on average and a few of us take turns carrying the heavy stained, white water containers. We walk into the playground through the open gate. It is perfect. There is the open field, with playground equipment on one side. The back half, though, is all woods with tons of wining paths and little hiding paths. Between these two battle grounds is a creek, low enough to walk across, but not without getting your feet wet. A single bridge connects them.

We get the containers off the ground on a piece of equipment, we decide on the game and divide down into teams. If you get hit, raise your hands and get off the field. If a spot is more than a dime, you are considered hit. We not fire in the woods not on the normal playground. You can only cross at the bridge. We are off. Dozens of us hollering and shooting and hiding and laughing in the dark woods.

We play for an hour or more before it happens. It starts with a bright light being shined into the woods. There is confusion. Is it a neighbor? College kids? The police someone says. "Let's go see what is going on," I say. "Oh man, what am I going to say." I think.

I can see some of my friends already making their way across the playground. Some could have ran and make it back to their homes, but no one did. We were in this together. I round up the stragglers in the woods tell them that loud voice the hear is the police now calling us out of the woods. We need to go.

By the time I, and the stragglers, make it to the locations of the police cars, two, the scene laid out is kind of surreal. On the ground, the two large plastic containers set turned over, the water draining out. The guns are all laid out on the ground, like a plastic gun show. Thirty, or so, guns of various sizes all laid out, their barrels pointing in the same direction. My friends look on, while a few of the officers are opening the water tanks of the guns and sniffing them.

I step up to the police officer who seems to be directing the others. I ask him what is wrong. He asks me if I know we were trespassing. No I tell him. I really didn't, there was no sign. He tells me you can't be on school property after dark. I then ask him why they are smelling our guns. He tells me sometime kinds will put other things in them for vandalism. I tell him were were just playing games, it is al, water. He is done with me, though.

"Chief, we've got a whole mess of them down here... I don't know more than a dozen."

Chief. My mind explodes. I know the chief. Chief Sloggins had been the choir director of my church. I went to school with his daughters, I even shared a locker with Liz.

"Is that Chief Scoggins?" I blurt.

The officer turns from his radio and looks at me. "What?"

"Is that Bob Scoggins, the chief of police?"

He doesn't even answer me. He turns back to the radio and say, "Chief, they say they know you."

It five minutes, a third police car is there. We are one shirtless meathead away from making it onto reality TV. Our guns are still splayed out, the water drained. My friends are talking in clusters. The night is still beautiful, but a little soured. Mr. Scoggins gets out of the car, asks me how I have been, confirms that I have not been in trouble with the law, and then tells me he'll write this up as an honest mistake. I thank him and he pulls away.

We gather our guns and water containers, pile into the few cars we brought and move the party to Silverman's.

Going Batty

I am downstairs, in the white and black kitchen making coffee. This pot has wire filter and the grounds bought at the grocery stay. I have measured out the grounds and gave started filling the glass pot with water. I look out the window into the cool fall day. Over the water I think I hear something.

I turn off the water and listen. It is Shelly. She is upstairs, calling my name and she s not happy. I consider what I have done recently and decide, she is probably not upset with me, so I leave the kitchen and make my way upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, my wife is pointing toward the guest bedroom with a mix of revulsion and fear. "There is a bat in there," he says simply, thought when she says the word bat she spits I out like rotten milk. Spiders and large insects we may argue about who is going to crush them, but bats are clearly in he husband department.

I look in the room and at first I don't see what she sees. I step closer and there it is, a small ball of grey fur lining to the yellowed Venetian blinds. It doesn't look worth the revulsion my wife has. I am not going to kill it. I wouldn't go so far as to say it is cute, but it is small and I am remembering a show talking about how many pests they will eat in a night.

I make it to the doorway. Look to see if the critter has brought any friends. I see a small bookshelf, a bed with a floral patten comforter, a small fan on the floor, but no other bats. I close the door and begin my search for something to capture.

I have a tennis racket, which old be perfect if I wanted to turn him to a splash of gore. Same goes for the baseball bat in the bed room. I need a container. I consider a garbage bag, but they are really hard to make a seal with. I have the same problem with any bag. In the kitchen I consider what dishes I would be willing to throw away, knowing full well that no amount of boiling will make make it clean enough for Shelly once it has played host to a flying rat, as he calls them. I briefly think I might not have to tell her, but the circumstances in which that could get me killed seem many. I finally settle on a small cardboard box.

I stand or a while in the hallway looking at the closed door. The box hangs limply by my side. Shelly is somewhere pretending she lives in a house which I bat free. I examine the box, I pull the flaps out of the box. I consider for a moment and the position the flaps so I can quickly close the box.

I go into the room and close the door behind me. My heart has picked up it's pace. The bat is right where I left it. I am halfway across the room when the creature goes on the attack. Ok, it wasn't an attack, but it is flying in a great circle around the room, diving my head, near and he far. The flapping. I can still hear the flapping. For a moment I consider going for the door, the baseball bat, but I can't free him into the house.

So, as the beating of my own heart drowns out he sound of leathery, fluttering wings, I begin to chase he bat with the box. Essentially, I end up in the middle of the room making a great circle with my arm going up and down to the trajectory of he bat. I find, I can follow him with my eye, but in makes me quite dizzy.

Then it happens. He lands, or tries to land on the wall and I am right behind him. I cover him with he box and begin to recover myself. When my head stops swimming. I decide on the exact motions I need to make. Shake the box, flip two of he flaps. One. Two. Three. I can feel him flapping and beating the inside of the closed box, but it works.

I take the box to the deck in back. By the time I get out there the flapping has stopped. I set it on the rail and nothing happens. In my mind h would fly away, but he doesn't. I consider poking him, but I don't, I leave the box open on the deck. The next orang when I check, the bat is gone.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 22

Sierra and Shelby heard the gunshot and knew it had to be related to their sister. Sierra waited and planned as her sister scanned the base.

"There is a man in the hallway downstairs. He's got a gun. It looks like he has got a bloody nose. I don't see Savannah though."

"This is going to be a problem," Sierra thought out load. "What is Mr. Li doing?"

"He's on a walkie talkie, holding the feather. He still looks angry."

"Ok. We probably have a little time. How are Mom and Dad?"

The girls Mom and Dad had heard the shot to, but they had no idea what was going on. They went absolutely crazy. With the clubs made from pieces of the bed and kicks they bashed beat the door. They could hear someone running down the hallway. Shelby could see it was one of the female gunmen who had flanked Mr. Li when their car got there.

She shouted for the prisoners to stop. She warned they would be harmed. She slowed as she approached the door, the people inside showed no signs of stopping. The door frame was giving way.

She raise her gun and fired a shot to get their attention. At the same time, the door broke free and smashed into her. Almost instantly, the parents where in the hallway.

Shelby watched her mom and dad knock the women's to the ground. Watched how after they had taken her gun away, when she looked like she as going to move again, her Mom smashed her in the head with the wooden club. She relayed everything to Sierra.

"We need to get out of here. Shelby, what is above this ceiling?"

"It is all hang tiles and pipes and wires."

"Does the wall with the door go all the way up?"

"No."

Sierra didn't wait. She grabbed the big plastic toilet and moved it to the wall by the door. She got up on it and the told Shelby t get on her shoulders. When she stood up, the toilet cracked a little, but held. Shelby was able to push back the white titles and grab the top of the wall. She pulled herself up and over and promptly fell through the ceiling of the hallway on the other side.

Sierra hopped down and listened.

"I'm OK," came the croaking voice of Shelby, who had had the wind knocked out of her.

With a click the door opened and they were free.

Michigan hosts Florida

Our living room stretched the full length of the front of our house. Because the front door came in the center of the length of this room and it was mirrored by pocket doors, this open space was effectively two rooms. The southern division if this room faced a fireplace, which we nearly never used. So, while a couple chairs, including a very comfortable yellow one, were there, the space was never used. The other space was the one Shelly and I spent nearly all our house time in. A light brown couch, love seat and chair all positioned to face the TV. The floor of this space had a diaper bag, a plastic box of wipes, a bouncy chair and an Exersaucer. The air was full of the sweet vanilla smell given off by a scented candle.

Shelly and I were on the couch. The TV was on, but half our time was spent looking out the window. It had snowed, so our faces were lit by the sunlight reflecting off of it. We were waiting for company. My long time friend Larry was bringing his girlfriend Dixie. A girlfriend, I should mention, I advised him not to move to Florida for. He didn't listen. He was right, I was wrong, enough said.

Anyway, we had not met Dixie yet and it had been a while since we had seen Larry. Additionally, our twins were only nine months old, so there were plenty of introductions to go around.

The little car pulled in and we hopped off the couch. I opened the first door, which opened into a little space with umbrellas and our snow shovel, and waited behind the red outer door. Shelly stood with on of the babies in the living room.

I don't remember exactly how the introductions were done, but it went something like this, "Hey, Larry. You much be Dixie. Dixie, this is my wife Shelly. Larry, let's go.". So, the men left to go look at something or play a game, while the two women, who now only knew each other's name were left in the living room.

Larry and I walked through the dining room, while I showed him the giant cabinets in there. We looked out the window to the abandoned house next door. We went though the mud room and onto the snowy back porch, where I could show him the various things you could see from up here. This was the place where you really recognized this house was on a hill. We caught up fairly quickly, talked about our mutual friends and jobs and the weather.

When we come back inside, I can here my wife calling me. She is sitting on the couch, but Dixie is looking outside. They want to know if it is Ok if Dixie shovels the snow. What? You know, is it a problem if she shovels the snow. I suddenly realized we were not seeing the same thing when we looked out the window. I saw work which needed to be done. She saw an opportunity to do something exotic, something she had never done before.

I have to say, when I handed her the shovel, I felt a little like Tom Sawyer handing her the brush to whitewash a fence.

The three of us watched her and laughed from in the warm living room.