Fair

One thing I like about being around hoards of six- to eight-year-old people for hours on end is that I get to see some more obvious cases of human nature being manifest.  Case in point, making teams for a game of football.

There are eight boys that are dividing up into teams.  Four of them (the Reds) are wearing jerseys that bear the name of the athletic flavor of the week.  The other four (the Blues) are trying to figure out the rules.  Johnny Red is interested in winning and looking like a star in the process.  Timmy Red is interested in playing a fun game.  Johnny and Timmy end up getting into an argument that sounds something like this:

Johnny: Four (Reds) against four (Blues).  That’s fair.

Timmy: No.  (Looking at the Blues and trying not to hurt their feelings.)  It’s not fair to have the best players on the same team.

Johnny: In football you have the same amount of players on both sides.  If both sides have the same number of players, it is fair.

Timmy: No, it’s not.  Let’s re-pick.

Johnny: You’re just afraid.

Timmy: I am not.

Johnny: Fine.  You go be on their team.  Three against five and we’ll still beat you.

Timmy: But that still isn’t fair!

Johnny: I know.  Your team will have more than our team.  It’s not fair to us, but we don’t mind.

Timmy: Fine.

When Mrs. Whatserface calls the class in Johnny celebrates a 49 – 0 victory with the other three Reds, while Timmy tries not to be labeled as a Blue.  “The teams weren’t fair,” he mutters under his breath.

I suppose every teacher has a discussion about what the word “fair” means.  There is the comparison between the difference between “fair” and “equal.”  Simon gets rewarded for turning in his homework while Peter does not.  It isn’t equal,  but it is fair because Simon has ADHD and only sees his single parent on weekends.  Peter gets the blue ribbon at the science fair that Simon cannot attend.  As a teacher, it is hard to figure out what is fair, because every teacher wants each student to advance one step every day.  The meaning of “step” differs with every student.  We might not be good at it all the time, but I like to think that it is our aim.

I watched a bleeding-heart, left-wing, propagandist, liberal, [insert Hannity-esque adjective] documentary recently about water.  It showed how water has become one of the hottest commodities on the market.  Water is the source of life, and whoever controls the source of life, controls life itself (an exaggeration, to be sure, but a valid thought).  In third-world countries, human beings cannot afford to drink treated water.  Why not?  Because the companies have decided that water can be owned.

Yes, companies that treat the water should be compensated for doing so.  However, the documentary points out that the bottom line cost for treated water is equal to about two dollars per person per year.  Citizens of third world countries that cannot afford water cannot afford the mark-up.  The Corporations that sell the water sell them to third-world country citizens at the same price that they charge Americans.  Much of the water that Americans drink (in bottled water, soft drinks, etc.) comes from third-world countries.  They have to drink from rivers into which their own waste is dumped, but we get to drink the treated water from their aquifers.  Why are we so lucky?  Because we can afford to be.

In the end, everyone pays the same amount for the same product.  It is fair.  Right?

The Autobiographer

“Inspired by true events on movie screens, I am a one-man wrecking machine.”

These are lyrics from a song by one of my favorite bands: Guster. To me, the song speaks of regrets. The voice of the song wishes for another chance to do commonplace things with the hopes of having more extraordinary results. I completely relate.

God told me something interesting earlier this month. He told me to give up on the personal narrative of my life, and just start doing what is right. This is hard for me. I have spent years learning how to turn commonplace events into extraordinary moments. I think my blog is evidence.

I find myself thinking of my current experience from the future, but looking back. All the experiences about which people say, “Someday we will look back on this and laugh”, I have the ability to laugh immediately. This usually comes as a shock to others when my initial response to personal injury is giggling.

Living life from a third-person perspective is great for the writer, but lousy for the day-to-day me. I find that I am make choices based more upon what would make a better story at my eulogy instead of what would best help others—or myself. I think I have alienated plenty of my peer by trying to “spice up” the common. While some find my quirkiness to be refreshing, it seems to eventually end up ruining wonderful things that could have been.

For a while, I thought that I would show everybody. I told myself that greatness has always been misunderstood. Geniuses are often the target of ridicule. I had to be patient with “the others” until that final climax came. I waited for the high school to chant my name. They never did. I waited for a college professor to write “come to my office. We have to talk about this.” On one of my papers. It never happened. (Okay, it actually happened twice, but not for reasons of accolade.) I have waited for the one person to pull me from a jeering crowd and tell me that they are wrong and I am right. All I have heard is jeering.

In desperation, I have tried to contrive situations in which the climax would come. All of the suspense and rising action would come to a head—the audience of reality would look to me and I would provide the ultimate resolution to their conflict. Sometimes, these situations turn out—nice. Other times, abysmal failures.

“Inspired by true events of movie screens, I am a one-man wrecking machine.”

Then, on the first Sunday in October. God told me to give up. I should not try to concoct meaning in the swirling stream of events that surround me. Instead, I should simply live for the next right choice. I should be boring. I should let life happen to me, just like it does to everyone else.

This was a discouraging thought to me. Why would the God has elected me to such high tasks, ask me to live such a common life? Then I started looking around at the people who had most shaped my impulses for good. Ghandi, Malcolm X, and Arthur Reich influenced me, but only by giving me bigger words and phrases to understand the principles that I had been taught by a veterinary science undergrad, a public school teacher, and a computer programmer with tendonitis. The real meat of my life has been given to me by common people—boring people—people that will never have a book written about them. They will never be on a movie screen. Just like me.

So I made the choice to be boring. I stopped making decisions based on what would “inevitably” follow from my new perspective. I made boring choices. I blend in with the crowd. I look at my life from inside my head again. I try to make the next right choice and hope that it helps somebody.

Then my sister gave me a call. Her most recent surgery had left her very sick. She couldn’t get out of bed and she was alone. She couldn’t even feed herself. I did what I always did: I went to the grocery store and purchased what she needed, then went to a restaurant and got what she wanted. I took everything it to her place and set it on the coffee table so that she could have it when she was ready. We talked for a little while.

Then, much to my surprise, she asked me a for a priesthood blessing.

When it was all over we were both crying. We had become closer. I sat by her and held her hand while we both got control of ourselves. As I left, we followed our routine of her thanking me and me offering to help again when she needed.

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized that I had experienced my climax without even knowing it. My life, my real life, my unplanned, unscripted life had moved me to tears. Choice by unknowing choice, I had gotten myself onto a movie screen. I hadn’t gotten there by planning. I hadn’t obtained my spirituality in a contrived way, but by preparing prayer by prayer, verse by verse, choice by choice.

I’ve had my climax. I’ll be in my dressing room.

While My Mind Gently Weeps

My heart hurts tonight. To borrow a phrase from scripture, my bowels are filled with compassion. In a season of politics, I have heard a lot of people blustering about the way the world should be and I have blustered right back. But tonight, I am experiencing a very profound and bitter sadness for those that suffer.

I remember a day that I was discussing divorce with a friend of mine. He told me that he was becoming frustrated with others, because whenever he would bring up the idea of divorce, he would hear a dreaded line: “Think about your children?” He told me that thinking of his children was his greatest source of pain. “If it were just about me, it would be an easy choice. It’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about my children that makes the choice so hard to make.” That gave me a whole new perspective on what it must feel like to consider divorce.

Every now and again, I hear religious fundamentalist, naïve optimists, or people that are just dumb, talk about how divorce is fundamentally wrong. These people have never been divorced, but they just know. They find elaborate ways of chanting the same refrain: God hates divorce; divorce makes children cry; only selfish people get divorced and good people don’t. So they say. Sometimes these people will make exceptions for abuse. Sometimes they won’t.

Now I’m not trying to defend divorce. Tonight I just feel really, really sad for the people who have to live with it in whatever form.

Then there is abortion. Pro-life, pro-choice. Baby killers and Christian terrorists. God’s law and Satan’s plan. Religious zealots and secular atheists. Responsibility and liberty. In all of the arguments, in all of the legislation, in all of the controversy, there are women that cry. What agony a woman must go through. I dare say that an abortion is never a casual undertaking. Cause and effect, right and wrong, good and bad, truth and error. These eternal balances pound in the mind of a woman, and how bitter her tears must be. Tonight, I feel so very sad for her. I want to take her in my arms and cry with her. “There, there, precious one. I’m sorry you are hurting.”

Homosexuality. Same-Gender attraction. Gay. Lesbian. “They” are an entire sub-culture all to themselves. “They” have their own walk and talk. “They” are trying to change the country, the world, the government, and everything else. But, how many of us choose our sexuality? The feelings just come and we cope with them however we can. How many “straight” people don’t have a humiliating story of abuse, naivety, or indiscretion? What would it be like to have everyone hate you because of how you feel? Never mind Sodom and Gomorrah.  Never mind God’s eternal punishments.  In all of your religious references, have you forgotten the law of love?  What a horribly confusing and misunderstood life these others must lead. How lonely, how desperate, how sad it must be to always be one of “them” instead of one of “us.” Tonight, I feel for these children of God who Christians cannot seem to accept or understand.  I will not take a stand on what is okay and not okay, what is legal or illegal.  Not tonight.  Tonight I want to legitimize their right to be people.  They are people that suffer, and I cry for them.

Tonight I cry for those who hurt. But tomorrow, I hope to do something to help them feel better, not just to make me feel better about them.

There’s No Home-like Place

A few months ago, I found myself in a very strange place emotionally. I felt like a foreigner no matter where I went. In the tumult of my pilgrimage, I sought to find home. It was a new dimension of homeless. I wanted to find that feeling of being home.

They say you can’t go home again. I was determined to show that I could. For the summer months, I left the fair town of Logan to attend school at Salt Lake Community College. I moved in with my parents. They didn’t have a room for me—nor did I want them to. I specifically asked that they not. While living there, I juggled the dynamic of being both adult and dependant. Not fun. During those months, I realized that my parent’s house was not home. Home was somewhere in Logan, and I had to find out where.

I went back to Logan as soon as I could. I packed my bags, put them in the car, went to my last class, and immediately made the trip to the great cold North. I didn’t have any place to live, but just to be back was a shot in the arm.

Since I drive a convertible now, I have to be a bit more judicious about my living quarters. Logan gets pretty snowy, so I decided that I should park in a garage—or at least a car port. I found a place right away that was a dream home. Unfortunately, they I couldn’t move in for two weeks. I would have to find accommodations.

Accustomed to being an urban camper, my first impulse was to sleep in the canyon. On the way up the canyon, I friend of my mind pulled up behind me on his new hog. He didn’t recognize me because of the new car, but I got him to pull over. He invited me to his place, and I spent a couple of nights at his place. It was a home in which I had lived for years, but it was his place now. It wasn’t my home, it was his. We talked about the old days and he admitted that the neighborhood had changed. Most of the people that knew me were gone. Careers, spouses, and opportunities had called them away. Not even the neighborhood was home.

In the meantime, I went to a three-day training conference for teachers. It was different than last year, because this year, I was experienced. I could weight the content against what I knew, not just what I anticipated. Regardless, the significant part of the conference was when I was giving a presentation and looked out into the hallway.

Watching me like a proud mother was Ann. Ann had been my mentor teacher that I had hand picked to be my mentor. She is a fantastic teacher. For the first time, I realized that she wasn’t going to be my mentor anymore. I was no longer in her nest. She was no longer my home.

After two weeks and one day, I called on the bedroom that I was anticipating. “Sorry. That room was filled.” Jerks. I went looking for a new, new place. I considered moving in with the gentlemen that I had lived with last year. Turns out all three of them were either engaged or married. Even my most recent home had dematerialized.

By this time, I starting to wonder if I would ever have a home again. The new school year was quickly approaching, and “my” class would be in third grade. I don’t know if every teacher goes through this, but I felt like getting a new class would somehow be cheating on the other. These little eight-year-olds were like my own children, and I wasn’t allowed to keep in touch with them. Third grade is like a bitter ex-wife that says that I was a lousy father and that I shouldn’t see the kids ever again. I could start again, but “my” kids would never see me again.

In this time of existential crisis, I turn to old reliable: Chinese food. It isn’t a very solvent coping strategy, but it is…well…reliable. Or so I thought. Even the China King Buffet, the mother of all Chinese Food, was gone. I guess their last Department of Health closure was their last. It is now “The House of Chen” and serves a different menu. No more General Tso Chicken, and their Sweet and Sour Sauce tastes like every one else’s.

The feeling of being foreign was back, but this time, it was accompanied by a new feeling of despair. I didn’t have any place to go. I had no refuge to which to return. I had no safe place where I could lick my wounds before returning to battle.

So I threw myself into my work. I went to my classroom and made preparations for the coming year. Even when the essentials were covered, I continued working with foresight (a commodity that I didn’t have last year). I copied reams and reams of paper. I measured and re-measured lines on posters. Having something to distract myself from my sadness was valuable. Before I knew it, the new class came and Grant was Mr. Bushman again.

I got home—which, for tonight was my sister’s home. Took off my shirt and stood in front of a fan. I was hot and tired. I started preparing for sleep. I emptied my pockets. Handkerchief, wallet, keys, and phone. And marbles. Marbles are points. Group leaders get points at the beginning of the day, and I take them away when group members require correction. The group leader gives them to me, and I put them in my pocket since I don’t have time to walk across the room and put them in the green coil pot.

I don’t have a church, a neighborhood, a place to live, a mentor, children, a favorite restaurant, or anyone with whom to discuss it. I am homeless. But somehow, seeing three oblong marbles on a make-shift bookcase made it okay. Home isn’t a place or a person. Home is a feeling. I don’t know how to produce that feeling, but I was encouraged that three little pieces of glass could. These days, home is having a pile of green Bushman Bucks poking out of my pocket. Home is having little voices yell whatever crazy statement I coached them to yell. Home is getting more French Fries than any of the other teachers. Home is helping baby boomers not be scared web-based applications. Home is work. Work is home.

If that last paragraph was touching to you, then you were probably under the same delusion I live in. Work is home? That isn’t touching, it is a sickness. The bell rings at 3:10, then home starts to fade away. Like a dream from which I am forced to awaken, home gets softer and softer, replaced by the tumultuous silence of homelessness. I go back to the place I live. I eat food. I watch youtube. I go to church. I go to parties. I flirt with girls. I get high fives. I drive my cool car. I call my family. I pray. I read. But, these places, these people, these things, they aren’t home. Most people can’t look forward to their weekends. I hate weekends. I count down the minutes until Monday Morning. I’ve got a five day weekend coming up, and I can barely breathe when I think about it. To enjoy one’s work is good. To enjoy nothing but work is dysfunctional.

Why am I writing this? Why am I publishing these thoughts on the internet? Why am I shouting into the vacuum? I guess I’m just waiting for an echo. When I hear it, I will walk toward it. Right now, the only thing that echoes is an Elementary School.

Quitting

I just had a really rough day.

I think that people should stop making posters that read, Don’t Quit. It seems to me that the only person who should actually practice such a mantra is the person without a vice. I know, I know, the posters that say “Don’t Quit” are only talking about not quitting worthy stuff, but isn’t that the real question? What is worthy of perseverance? What are the things worth not quitting?

Some of the best advice I have ever been given was to quit. Quit holding onto a toxic relationship, quit trying to make everything okay, quit enduring unnecessary suffering, quit that job, quit that class, quit, quit, quit. Frankly, surprised that Don’t Quit has lasted as long as it has.

Over a year ago, I began a religious journey. I wanted very much to do God’s will, so I made myself very open to His influence. I couldn’t get enough. Before I knew it, I had a ritual that consisted of Catholic Mass on Saturday nights, the Lutheran Church on Sunday from 8 to 9, and then LDS Services from 9 to 12. The Baptists were on Wednesday nights, and I went to Mosque sporadically throughout the week. All of that worshiping was really good for me. Since I was trying very hard to do what God wanted, and had no qualms about opening every door of opportunity.

On December 31, 2007, I left the LDS congregation that I had attended for over five years and started attending elsewhere. Today, exactly eight months later, I went back to the old LDS congregation. It took about three minutes before the revelation came. God wanted me back there, and He didn’t want me any place else. I resisted it for the next few hours, but I had to give in. God can be pretty persuasive.

I got together my collection of literature from my other religions and put them in my car. It was time to return them. Not wanting to, but feeling compelled, I went through a heart-wrenching ritual of abandonment. I prostrated myself before the cross in the Lutheran sanctuary and recalled what it means to receive the grace of Christ. I wanted to hear Pastor Scott’s upcoming treatises on finding peace. Instead, I quit. I gazed upon the humble Baptist chapel and remember what it means to be honest with God. I wanted to feel the magic of another revival. Instead, I quit. I genuflected, touched my head, heart, and shoulders, bowing before the tabernacle in the Catholic Cathedral, reflecting on what it means to be truly reverent. I wanted to feel Father Sandoval place his righteous hand to my forehead again. Instead, I quit. I made ablution, faced Mecca, recited fatiha, and prayed for Muslims everywhere. I had been counting down the days to the next Ramadan. Instead, I quit.

I know that what I did was right. Both going to these solaces from the world, and then leaving them again. But right isn’t the same as easy. I’m not sure how long it will take me to stop practicing my person mixture of Catholic/Lutheran/Baptist/Muslim rituals. Right now, I feel like heart-broken freshman who just lost her first love. I want to put on Islam’s letterman’s jacket and just smell its smells. I want to pull out all of the love notes that the St. Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church wrote to me, and sigh as I read them. I want to park my car next to The Grace Baptist Church’s house for hours just to catch it as it is walking out to its car. I want to play the Mix Tape that the Lutheran Church gave me on our fourth date. I had seen us growing old together. I had seen us raising a family. We were going to be together forever. Not any more.

I hope I never allow myself to become the sophomore that becomes convinced that my first love was “no good for me anyway.” I loved these other faiths. They were so kind and inspiring to me. I hope that I can look back on them with the same fondness as my first love note, my first date, my first hand-holding, and my first kiss. I don’t know why God wanted me to quit, but only today do I know why He asked me to start in the first place.

It is good to love.

Building on the Sand

“I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god–sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities–ever, however, implacable,
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget…”

-T.S. Eliot

(Read the complete poem at http://www.squidoo.com/poetry-by-ts-eliot)

NPR made connected the recent flooding in the mid-west to T.S. Elliott, so don’t give me any credit for my mastery of contemporary poetry. (http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=91769843) However, the following connections are mine.

According to Matthew, Jesus said, “And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.” (Matthew 7:26-27)

One interpretation of this sand-building idea came from a visitor to Arizona while I was living there. He said that even though Arizona’s soil is parched, it doesn’t absorb the water very well. It forms a geological condition called caliche. The rain doesn’t go into the ground, it just collects on the ground—like rain on a driveway. This isn’t too bad until monsoon season. Then the water appears without warning and creates flashflood zones that can wipe out homes in a matter of minutes. Ouch. A wise man would not build here.

Then there are flood plains. I wise man would not build here either. History has shown that certain areas are prone to flood within a predictable period. It always has and it always will. This makes the real estate value of such areas very low. Only a foolish man would build his house upon the sand of a flood plane.

In comes big business.

Imagine that there are three zones, from left to right. On the far left is Zone 1, which is far from a flood zone. Not too far, but far enough to encounter complete catastrophe. Zone 3 three is on the left. It is a river—the river that predictably overflows its banks. In Zone 1, a Corporation (we’ll call them Gratify.) builds a few building, but only on the condition that they fortify the levies that protect Zones 1 and 2 from overflow. Gratify agrees, buys Zones 1 and 2, fortifies the levies, and opens their doors for business.

Gratify just saved a bunch of money for buying Zone 1 land, but have just made it more dangerous for those to the north and south of Zone 3. But no one wants to build there, so Gratify is okay with that. Gratify then initiates the next phase of their money-making: they sell of sub-divisions of Zone 2. At first, home owners are leery about building on a floor plain. After all, Zone 3 floods predictably. Always has, always will. But with enough advertisement, Gratify convinces buyers that Zone 2 is safe because of the levies. “If it is such a stupid place to build, why did we build the Gratify call center and gift shop on the same flood plain? We know that we are safe, so we know that you are safe. And we are passing the savings onto you, because we care about the community.”

People start buying and Gratify starts earning major profits. Especially at Gratify-Mart that sells groceries, tires, wedding dresses, and farming equipment to the captive sub-divisions of Zone 2. This business model works to well that other Corporations start doing the same thing. Indulge, Vice, Addiction, and Gluttonz start building their own levies to the north and south of Zone 3, tout the same promises, build the same communities, and reap the same profits. Home owners same money and corporations earn record profits. Everybody wins.

Then, the river overflowed. Not that it was a big surprise. It always has and it always will. When the river grew in force, the pressure he exerted on the Zone 3 levy would probably not been sufficient to break it—Zone 2 would probably have been safe it is hadn’t been for the other Corporations that had followed Gratify’s example. With each new levy on the river, the other levies in place were rendered less capable. Adding levy 10 makes levies 1 thru 9 weaker, levy 11 weakens levies 1 thru 10, and so on. What naturally follows from this set-up is that the Brown God does not need to be awakened; he need only roll over in bed to make the levies break—and flood Zone 2.

Some in Zone 2 might shake a fist at The Brown God. How could he do such a thing? How could a God be so cruel? A person could have worked so hard to make a life for his family only to have it destroyed by The Brown God. On the other hand, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The Brown God didn’t change. The only thing that changed was the trust—it went from rock to sand. Those that tried to outdo the Brown God found that they couldn’t. They enjoyed their false sense of victory, only to have it washed away by the unchanging laws that went ignored.

It must be hard to be a God. No surprises, only good advice. Even still, people that don’t listen are surprised, and then don’t blame themselves. Instead, they blame their God of choice, or they blame Gratify for misleading information. God blames the person who sinned and that person just can’t accept that he is a fool.

The foolish man builds his house upon the sand because he allows somebody else to convince him that it is safe.

I Beat Up Fred Rogers

For reference, please watch the preceding clip.

In the past few weeks, I beat my inner Fred Rogers into a coma. He’s still alive, but he won’t be moving for a while. You see, I decided to take someone else’s advice for a change. I decided to do what everyone else does to find happiness. I bought something. More specifically, a convertible. Fred kept trying to talk me out of it, telling me that people would like me for me. He would sing “not your toys; they’re just beside you.” I am pleased to report that Fred was wrong—people like me more now. I am suddenly extremely cool and it had nothing to do with “they way I am right now, way down deep inside me.”

It’s been a long time since I bludgeoned Fred. A couple of years ago I was feeling so lonely that I decided that I would buy into appearances. I stopped taking Fred’s calls, threw out the wardrobe and spent hundreds of dollars on “the things that hide me, the things I wore, and the way I did my hair.” I changed “every part of me. My skin, my eyes, my feelings.” I got a great reaction not only from the ladies and the gentlemen, but also the chicks and the dudes. I became popular. I was getting noticed, complimented, invited, and praised. I was so happy that I gave old Freddy-boy a call on the phone. He invited me to lunch.

When I arrived, I fell right into his trap. It was an intervention. He tied me to Trolley, and drove me out of the land of make-believe and into the safety of his living room. Once there, he showed me how my new skin, eyes, and feelings were alienating me from the people that I really cared about, and more importantly, that I had no self-esteem anymore. All I had was praise from humans. He was lovingly disappointed and helped me realize that I had also let myself down.

I thanked Fred for his tough love, and decided that I was better for the journey. Fred likes me for who I am. The way I am right now, the way down deep inside me. So I went on my way.

Now, here I am, two years later. I have two fans. Fred and me. We both think I am great. But the time came when I had to betray Fred. He may like me for the way I am, but no one else does.

I guess what I have learned is that Fred Rogers is a big lie. If he were right, I would be swarmed with friends. If the value of a person is his heart, I would be popular. But Fred is wrong. What makes me angry is that I believed him. He has spent the past twenty-something years building a false hope in me. So, I had to shut him up. After I beat up Fred, I beat my self up pretty hard. I had to shut myself up too. I have done a lot of Fred-preach in my life, and I had to make sure that I wouldn’t ever dispense that crap again. Liking myself didn’t work, so I guess I will just have to rely upon the approval of others. And why not? It works for everybody else, right?

Now, I think I’ll put the top down and drive thru McDonald’s on my way to Wal-Mart. I’m going to need a lot more stuff.

Maternal Instinct

I witnessed something extraordinary–and yet not.  It was something that I attribute to maternal instinct in its truest sense.  It was an instinctual behavior produced by a material organism.

I was driving on a dirt road, away from one of my favorite places to park my “home”, when I saw a mother bird and what I assume were her three little birds in the road.  They were running away from me in the same direction as I was approaching them.  My four wheels were much faster than their eight legs, so I was gaining ground.  Mother bird then took and abrupt right turn, removing herself from danger.  But the three little birds did not follow.  They were chirping and running, running and chirping, but they didn’t change their course.  I thought to myself, if I were a predator I could eat these little birds easily.  That’s when mother bird returned, barking as she ran toward me.  Then she stopped.  The little birds kept running, but the mother bird just stared me down.  “It ends here,” she seemed to say.  “Whatever is going to happen, is going to happen now, and it’s going to happen to me.”

Luckily for mother bird, I was not a predator.  I had no interest in eating, killing, or ever toying with her progeny.  I was just a homeless guy that was headed off to take a morning shower.  After I stopped the blazer, mother bird flew away, caught up with her little ones, and they all walked off of the road together.  This was not a noble choice made by a discerning matriarch; it was the natural consequence of genetic prescription.  Nevertheless, I was changed.  I thought of my own mother.

Once upon a time, there was an abusive lawyer and his abused son.  When the son spent the night at my house, the lawyer came early in the morning to get him back.  In one corner of the porch stood a three-piece suit, in the other corner, curlers and a nightgown.  Mother bird–although only mother by proxy–looked up into the face of a predator, and stared him.  “It ends here,” she seemed to say.  “Whatever is going to happen, is going to happen now, and it’s going to happen to me.”  The lawyer yielded.  The boy was safe.

At another time, I was in the hospital and I was in extreme amounts of pain because of nerve damage sustained from a major back surgery.  I could hardly talk.  I could actually feel people walking outside of my hospital room, and it hurt.  There was one doctor with particularly poor bedside manor.  He would kick my bed and I would wince in pain.  The first time, mother explained.  The second time, mother reminded.  The third time mother stared him down.  “It ends here,” she seemed to say.  “Whatever is going to happen, is going to happen now, and it’s going to happen to me.”

My inner scientist says that this behavior is strictly instinctual.  Mothers whose genes have constructed this fix action pattern as a response to predatory stimuli produce like-phenotypical offspring that survive and later reproduce.  It’s just textbook natural selection.  At first, my inner theologian resents this idea.  It seems to cheapen the sacrifices made by my mother.  To attribute her heroics to mere animalistic drives seems reprehensible.  But then my inner theologian asks me to compare my animalistic drives to those of my mother.  Left to my instincts, I would be addicted to chemicals and behaviors that would have killed me years ago, and there would dozens of people around to spit on my shallow grave every chance they got.  If Mother’s most base and primal urges are to lay down her life for me, I can only imagine the pinnacle of virtue she is, and has yet to become.  I am sobered to think that I am the beneficiary of natural benevolence.

At the end of the day, I don’t actually believe that humankind was the product of evolutionary development.  I know that my mother was prepared to be a mother long before she was born.  She was trained by scores of capable tutor in this an other vales.  She has overcome some of her own natural tendencies toward selfishness.  The whole me cannot attribute Mother’s virtue to circumstance alone.  She has trained herself into a new instinct.  She reacts maternally even at times when her genetics might prescribe preservation.  This too is sobering.

Call it nature, call it nurture.  I just call it home.

The Fuzz and God

I don’t like being around law enforcement officers. For a long time I was confused by this discomfort because I consider myself a law abiding citizen. I drive the speed limit, I make complete stops at stop signs, and I yield to pedestrians at cross walks. You are not alone if you feel that you would prefer not to drive with me.

On the last day of school my freshman year of high school, I had a sleepover party with my best friend Dallin. We rented movies, we bought candy, and we had full intention of staying up all night long. When our boyish euphoria surpassed what we could do inside, we decided that we had to get out of the house. Most boys would have grabbed a few rolls of toilet paper and looked for low hanging oak branches. I can say this empirically because Dallin and I made it our project to ruin the fun of these vandals. Under the cover of darkness, we went house to house cleaning up yards. I was great fun for two reasons. 1) It was helpful to others, but furthermore, 2) we still had to hide from the cops. No police officer would believe our claim that we were cleaning up yards. They would see the TP and the boys and then we would be in trouble.

As we giggled through the neighborhood, we happened upon Nate’s brand new car. Looking back, I recognize that it was a very used car, but it was new to Nate and he loved it, so it was brand new in my eyes. The vandals had done a number to it. Toilet paper was only the beginning. There was shaving cream, Oreos, soap, and marshmallows. These were things that would take off paint if not removed promptly.

We went home and got soapy water, rags, and sponges. We went back to Nate’s car and started washing. The main highway was only a block away, so many headlights threatened to turn and expose us. Each beam of light that cut through the darkness was frightening.

Sure enough, a car turned and headed down the street—at patrolling speed. Dallin was very nervous. He asked me for our next move. I told him to stay cool; I would handle things. We aren’t doing anything wrong, I said to myself. We aren’t doing anything wrong.

I only remember two sentences from that evening; the rest is just feelings. The first sentence I remember is my response to his asking what we were doing. I said, “We are cleaning this car.” I only remember the first sentence because it was still in my short term memory when second sentence was uttered. The second sentence stung. The officer said, “Cleaning it or doing it?”

I remember looking down at my bucket of soapy water. I squeezed the sponge until the shaving cream and water flowed out. The water was warm, but the night air suddenly chilled. Wasn’t it obvious? There were not cans of shaving cream, packages of Oreo cookies, empty rolls of toilet paper, or any implements of vandalism resting at our feet. We had window cleaner, soapy water, buckets, and sponges. We had chosen to use our energies for good, and we had been insulted.

I explained to the officer that Nate was our friend and the car was new. We were afraid of what might happen to it if we didn’t clean it. The officer questioned how we had found the car. His reasoning was that surely the real vandals hadn’t come by and told us about their work. We must have been lurking in the shadows to find the car in the first place. We had to describe our night of service, but the officer didn’t appear impressed—or even convinced. But I didn’t care if he believed me; I was doing the right thing. I continued washing the car.

I can only assume that he got back in the car because there was no evidence to suggest we were the vandals. I assume this because the officer’s parting comments were that we’d better finish up soon, and that he would be coming around again, and that he didn’t want to see us again. He didn’t have the slightest hint of compliment, only of mistrust and brazen authority. It hurt.

That was my first brush with law enforcement. I had hoped that it was a unique experience. Perhaps the officer was having a bad evening. It was the last day of school, and that very fact that Dallin and I had so many yards to clean is evidence to fact that the neighborhood was crawling with vandals. Perhaps the officer was just so used to dealing with vandals that day that his dialogue accidentally slipped into one of reproach. Later experiences in my life, however, show that this experience was not unique.

There have been several occasions where I have been obeying the law and still have been treated rudely. I have tried talking to the officers as one man speaks to another, but that just makes matters worse. They don’t want to talk. They don’t want to reason. They want to catch bad guys. Case after case, I have been shined by a flashlight or a headlight, only to find the person on the other end wanted to convince me that I was a bad person.

I don’t give this explanation to try to demonize police officers. I realize that they have the daunting task of trying to make selfish people behave in unselfish ways. Police are not respected for the selfless work that they perform. I have respect for police officers and I wish they got more respect. Ironically, I often find myself resenting them. I think it is because law enforcement operates of the basis of punishment. They try to catch people doing the wrong thing and then apply an aversive consequence to reduce the likelihood of the wrong thing being repeated. It is because of this modus operandi that I have developed an aversion to certain kinds of light.

Then there is Jesus. I am told that He said, “He that believeth on [me] is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God. And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For every one that doeth evil hateth the light, neither cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved.” (John 3:18-20)

For a long time, I had an aversion to God’s light because of the association. I didn’t want God (or any of his deputies) shining light on me and accusing me of being evil. I don’t need their help recognizing that I am a horrible, sinful, carnal, fallen, wicked, devilish man. I spend my time lurking in darkness because the light hurts too much.

Because of dealings with law enforcement, I have felt the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists, but I’ve never been “booked” or spent any time in “the clink.” I’ve never done anything to warrant such treatment. But God is a much more discerning officer. He sees every J-walk, every piece of litter I don’t pick up, every time I mutter the word Raca under my breath. I have broken His law, and when I am exposed to His light, I am going to get much more than just stern commands and steel bracelets. I’m going to get the chair.

Or so I used to think. Luckily for me, I figured out some difference between God and police officers. The first difference is the modus operandi. God rewards good behavior. I like that.

Of much greater consequence is the difference in attitude toward me. If God had rolled up in His patrol car that fateful night, He would have shined the light on me just as Officer Raca had. The difference would be that God would tell me that I missed a spot. Only in God’s light could I see every fiber of toilet paper and every streak of shaving cream. He would show me my deficiency so that I could improve it.

God gives me an entire lifetime to clean my own car. It is a car that I have driven through all kinds of filth. In my embarrassment, I park the car in the dark and hope that no one notices me trying to wash it off. My rag quickly becomes dark with muck. As God’s light approaches, I am inclined to run away. I don’t want anyone to see the filthiness. But God does not want to punish me. He doesn’t want to scold or demean me. He wants my car to be clean. He uses his light to expose every last imperfection so that each can be removed.

Metaphors aside, I have discovered a valuable truth. That God loves me. At the times when I subject my whole self to condemnation, I feel it the most. I love Him for that. I read in 1 John 4:19 “We love him, because he first loved us.” I have done nothing to earn God’s love. God does not love me because I am good; God loves me because He is good. I do not earn God’s love, I just have it.

I Saw Rob Clements

As I drove south on a typical Tuesday, I passed Rob Clements. He didn’t wave and neither did I, but for entirely different reasons. I didn’t wave because I was in shock. Rob didn’t wave because he was dead.

I haven’t seen Rob since 1997. He was a really great guy. He was smart, funny, and tragically misunderstood. Unfortunately, he was tragically misunderstood in the tragic way, not the attractive to women way. Especially in 1997. By 1997 I could hardly recognize him behind his dyed-black hair and Marilyn Manson wardrobe.

When I first met Rob, I liked him right away. He knew more Star Wars Trivia than I did, which was an automatic plus. He could make me laugh and he could draw really excellent comic book-esque pictures. He was awesome.

Somewhere his refusal to accept High School popularity as a standard and his alienation from his mother, Rob started to change. He hung out with new people, listened to new music, wore new clothes, and laughed at a different kind of jokes. All of these people, music, clothes, and jokes were centered in pain. Less cryptic were the cut marks on his skin. This was before the term “emo” existed, and cutting was taken seriously.

With all that was going on in Rob’s life, there was one thing that was the most difficult to witness. It was the look in his eye when he looked at me. I was popular enough. I was accepted enough. My mother loved me. In between his gulps of laughter, Rob cried. I’m not sure anyone else heard it. Maybe that is why Rob got the gun.

I was in New Mexico when it happened. It was a terribly humid summer day in 1998 and I got a letter from my mother. Included was an obituary. It was reported as an accident, but I’m not convinced. I don’t claim that it was on purpose either. If an oracle could have my eyes see what really happened, I’m not sure I would. As much as I would like to stop speculating, I don’t think I could deal with hearing Rob’s last gulp of laughter. Whatever happened on that fateful day, I do believe that Rob was trying to console himself with forced laughter. It seems that the best medicine was impotent for Rob.

The Stoics encouraged the human family to “Let death and exile, and all other things which appear terrible, be daily before your eyes, but death chiefly; and you will never entertain an abject thought, nor too eagerly covet anything.” That is why I have a running list of people that I know that are dead. Rob is third on that list, sandwiched between my namesake and special friend that only lived to be 18.

So, you can image my surprise when I saw Rob driving in the lane opposite mine. It was only for a split second, but that was long enough to make me wonder about him anew. When a person mourns with laughter, how do I mourn with him? Do I laugh along with him or do I cry on his behalf?