The Beginning

Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s life had been an unqualified success right up to the day he took a drink from an unopened bottle of water he found while jogging in a park less than a mile from his house. At least that was the initial conclusion which most of the family had settled upon after every other explanation for his implosion had failed to withstand logical scrutiny. So bizarre were the circumstances surrounding his metamorphosis that a family of educated people had been reduced to believing an unproven and unprovable theory involving a random bottle of water that had never been found or tested for toxins that might have explained how an otherwise circumspect 56 year old man could have so suddenly and spectacularly gone off the rails. The Fitzgerald family, being as unaccustomed to and unprepared for scandal as any tribe in North America had not handled the drama well. Accusations began to fly within the family, blaming everyone from his wife of 30 years, to his impossible to please father, to his meddling mother, all the way down to his disrespectful children. But, the writer has gotten ahead of himself. The reader by now is naturally wondering about the nature of Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s metamorphosis, and not nearly as concerned with the infighting of his extended family. I will attempt to tell the tale honestly without bias or judgement, for in the day and age in which we live, this story needs to be told.

1. Family History

  William and Margaret Fitzgerald carefully considered the name they would bequeath to their first born in the fall of 1963. The Fitzgeralds were second generation wealthy, William having inherited a small fortune from his self-made father and having married into the Sebastian fortune which had flowed to Margaret upon the untimely death of both of her parents, who had tragically perished when the catamaran they were sailing capsized during light winds in the Chesapeake Bay less than two years after Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s birth. A manufacturing failure discovered within the workmanship of the mast ultimately added to the Fitzgerald fortune in the form of a settlement check from lawyers representing the boat company. William...it was William, never Bill, or worse...Billy, had for years been embarrassed at his wealth for the old fashioned reason that he had done nothing to deserve it other than being fortuitously conceived. His own career as a lawyer served only to provide him a place to go every day and a respectable answer to the oft-asked cocktail party question, “So William, what do you do?” The answer that he was an attorney quickly led into a pleasant ramble about his time at Princeton, and the early years of clerking for this judge and that. But as a matter of profitability, his law practice netted him barely enough money to cover his ample overhead. He had enough skill and connections to make an honest go of it but found the lack of urgency too much to overcome. Being independently rich, he discovered, had sapped him of any work ethic he may have inherited from his father. Eventually, William and Margaret had made peace with the happy accident of their births and stopped feeling guilt about their wealth. They had come to see their good fortune as, in fact, the very embodiment of the American Dream. They had come into their money the truly old fashioned way...by inheritance and summary judgments.

So, the choice of a name for what was surely to be the third generation of prominent and successful Fitzgeralds was crucial. Consideration must be given to tradition, the family tree and proper nobility. For William this meant a name that did not lend itself to truncation, or the degradation of a nickname. Daniel Sebastian checked off all the boxes, Daniel, after the Old Testament hero of the lion’s den, and Sebastian, the surname of his wife, the family name that provided 60% of the Fitzgerald net worth. However, William would ultimately regret the choice. It took virtually no time for little Daniel’s school friends, even those well bred enough to attend St. Paul’s, to twist Daniel into a hundred ugly iterations. Dan the Man, Danny-Boy, and the especially infantile Book-em Danno had all taken turns as the nickname of choice during Daniel’s middle and high school years, bringing his parents untold grief. When, over the course of time, it became obvious that nothing was to be done about the fact that their son would forever be known as Danny, William and Margaret accepted it as the price they would have to pay for raising such a popular and winsome boy. For Danny had turned out to be everything that his parents weren’t, optimistic, fun loving, adventurous, gregarious, empathetic and magnanimous, all traits that hadn’t appeared over several generations of either branch of the family tree. The Fitzgerald’s had largely been known as a stoic lot, full of industry and toughness to be sure, but not known for the warmer gifts associated with the human condition. Grandfather Fitzgerald, builder of a thousand brick ranchers and split levels throughout central Virginia, was an efficient and meticulous businessman known for being a fair boss, excellent craftsman, and ruthless negotiator, but in all of his life no one could recall him donating a single dime of his considerable fortune to a single charity beyond his church. His personality, such as it was, could best be described as distant. William had inherited all of the distance, none of the industry and all of the money. Although Margaret had been blessed with respectable warmth and charm along with a passable sense of humor, she had inherited the Sebastian family pride, the imperious kind that served as a stiff arm to the lower classes who were unlucky enough to stumble onto her path. Her single purpose as a mother to her son had been to protect him from bad influence which she narrowly defined as those outside his rank and station. To her eternal consternation, every such effort had failed. Danny counted among his friends an endless succession of misfits and ne’er do wells who brought with them their course language and sloppy manners. There was simply nothing to be done. Their son had developed a tendency of attracting friends everywhere he went, for good or for ill. His parents had been reduced to glorified overseers, doing their best to influence their son towards the right friends and away from the wrong. Despite this troubling tendency, Danny had given them not one minute’s trouble. He was respectful of their authority, dutiful and obedient, an excellent student and well liked by everyone.

Then he met Kate.

Kate, (not Katherine, the birth certificate actually said Kate), Buchanan had crashed into the Fitzgerald family like a runaway freight train in the summer of 1982 when Danny announced to his parents that he had met the love of his life and that she would be spending a week with them at the river house over July the fourth. Kate Buchanan had been exactly what Margaret Fitzgerald had warned her husband would happen if he permitted their son to attend Virginia Commonwealth University instead of Princeton. It should never have been allowed in the first place, their son matriculating at a state school known for nothing other than a basketball team and a campus life littered with drugs and bohemian habits. Princeton would have delivered the world to his doorstep. With VCU they would be lucky if he graduated without a stint in rehab. But here was Margaret, looking on in wordless horror as Kate Buchanan exploded out of the passenger seat of Danny’s BMW, dressed like a gypsy, radiant smile beaming out from under that ridiculous Panama hat, running up to engulf her boyfriend’s mother in an inappropriately familiar embrace. It had been the beginning of the most awkward week of Margaret’s life, filled as it was with the realization that her son was irretrievably ass-over-tea-kettles in love. Meanwhile, William had been struck mute by the presence of the girl, barely contributing a word to the conversation for the first hour or so, overwhelmed as he was by the pure novelty of someone who combined outrageous fashion and personality with such astonishing beauty. As the week wore on, Margaret and William were united in their belief that the girl would be an unmitigated disaster for their son, but equally convinced that the relationship would never last. Danny would soon tire of this whirling dervish. How could he not? The child babbled on all week about every conceivable topic that people like Margaret and William couldn’t possibly have cared any less about, while Danny sat there bewitched, hanging on every word. 

He had met her in an introduction to sculpture class, the sort of class he never would have taken had he gone to Princeton, when fate had placed him next to her on the back row. She had arrived to class carrying nothing with her that might have identified her as a student. No back pack, no books, no purse. Just a loose fitting tie-dyed T-shirt, no bra, and her angelic face. For Danny it had been love at first sight, or at least lust, which at 18 years of age amounts to the same thing. At the end of class during which not a single word of conversation had passed between them, she had extended her hand to him and said, “My name’s Kate. You’re cute.” Thus had began the manic affair that now had belched itself upon the banks of the Rappahannock River. Margaret and William smiled knowingly at each other. He would tire of her in time. All was well.

But like millions of parents before them, Margaret and William had underestimated the enduring power of both passion and love. By the time Danny had graduated with a worthless Bachelor of Science in Advertising degree, they were still in love and announced their intention to marry at the earliest possible date. When Margaret and William had objected to the match, Danny and Kate had responded by eloping, then sending his parents a postcard from Key West, officially beginning a 30 year strained relationship between Kate Fitzgerald and her in-laws. Although the arrival of grandchildren, a girl, Caroline, and a boy, Teddy (not Theodore), had softened the general frostiness of their discourse and injected a touch of warmth on both sides, animosity still hung heavily in the air whenever they occupied the same space. Despite the animosity, Margaret and William always managed to cover over their disappointment with the pleasant veneer of manners, never revealing too much, never letting slip any openly hostile words, always preferring the veiled insult, the soft contours of the pulled rhetorical punch. It infuriated Kate to be on the receiving end of their passive aggression, to the point where she had begun to take great delight in offering translations in real time to anyone who might be within earshot.

Margaret: Kate, my dear, you look healthier every time I see you.

Kate: What Grandma means kids is that Mommy’s getting fat!

Ever since the children had arrived it had become one of Kate’s joys in life to refer to her Mother in law as “Grandma.” Margaret hated nothing in the universe more than the ghastly title, always answering with, “Grandmother.” Of course, the children picked up “grandma” and used it gleefully as soon as they learned to talk, a delicious victory for Kate and a thorn in the side to Margaret who visibly winced at the sound of the word. Such pettiness was unlike Kate, a fact that her husband often reminded her after each family visit. Kate could only admit the truth.

“Yes,” she would reply. “When it comes to your mother I can be a real bitch. I should just ignore her, but I can’t help it. I do so love watching the way her bottom lip quivers right before it stiffens up and pushes out whenever one of the kids says ‘Grandma!!’ You’ve got to admit, honey. It’s pretty funny.”

“It’s hysterical,” Danny would always respond. “But what’s the point? It only makes things worse between you two.”

“Actually, it makes no difference whatsoever. Your mother will be your mother for as long as she lives. And as long as I remain your wife she will hate me, and never in a million years will she ever admit to hating me. Am I right?”

“Yes. You are right.”

Thirty years of the battle between wife and mother in law had raged without any meaningful cease fires. Even once Margaret became an octogenarian she still delivered her patented silk-covered verbal bricks in nearly every conversation. After watching Kate remove an over-cooked roast out of the oven, the silver-haired, face-lifted matron hadn’t missed a beat, “It is quite remarkable how unspoiled by failure you continue to be.” But on the fateful morning when Danny had stumbled back home from his Saturday morning run, white as a ghost with a nasty abrasion on his forehead, Kate’s skirmishes with her in-laws would intensify into a full blown war.

Mrs. Winston

The first influential African American in my life was my 4th grade teacher at Elmont Elementary school in Hanover County, Virginia...the estimable Mrs. Winston. She was a force of nature who came steamrolling into my life like a wrecking ball. In those days, I hadn’t had much exposure to black people in general, and never a black teacher, one who exercised authority over me. To put as delicate a spin on it as possible...I wasn’t exactly a model student at Elmont Elementary. I found it nearly impossible to sit still, had the attention span of a gnat, and an advanced talent at crafting paper airplanes and getting into fights on the playground. In other words, Mrs. Winston would have been forgiven for writing me off as a lost cause, and shuffling me off to her fifth grade teaching colleagues with a condolence card. But no...that wasn’t Mrs. Winston. For reasons that I will never understand, she took a liking to me. Although it frustrated me at the time, she decided that I had too much potential to continue on my present course of being a jackass. I became her project in 1968. Her plan was simple...she determined to make my life a living hell by refusing to accept anything from me but my best work. This meant after school detentions for even minor classroom infractions, whereby I would have to write on the chalkboard...I will stop being a Jackass...50 times while listening to her lecture me about education, behavior and manners. The upshot of all of this was straightforward... I fell in love with Mrs. Winston. Her relentless nagging made me for the first time in my young life a good student. I’ll never forget the tears that welled up in her huge expressive eyes when she showed me my report card with straight E’s for Excellent.

But 1968 was a different time. Towards the end of the year, my church was having a revival all week. Back in those days this was rather commonplace, and every revival had a pack the pew night whereby each family was tasked with filling an entire pew with friends and neighbors. One day after school, I marched myself up to Mrs. Winston and excitedly extended an invitation...Mrs. W, will you come sit with me at the revival meeting Friday night?

Here’s another thing I will never forget, the look of sorrow and sadness that came over her beautiful face. She looked down at me with an expression I had never seen before. Did I say something wrong? Was she mad with me? She asked me to sit down beside her, held my hands and said something close to the following. It’s been over 50 years so I hope my memory is reliable...Douglas, first I want to thank you so much for inviting me to your church. I would love nothing more than to be your guest...but not this time. When I couldn’t hide my confusion and disappointment she offered an explanation...Douglas, a revival meeting is an important thing. Serious business! Everyone needs to pay attention to the preacher...and I’m afraid if I go with you, more people might be paying attention to me than the preacher. We wouldn’t want that, would we?

I didn’t understand. I went straight home and told my Dad, who was the pastor of the church, what Mrs. Winston had said. Tears came into my father’s eyes. He sat his 4th grade son down and explained to him for the first time about segregation in the church, and how many people aren’t comfortable worshiping with people of others races. He finished with this observation...Son, listen to me. Your teacher is a very wise woman. She’s right about how people would be paying more attention to her than the preacher. But you know what else? If Mrs. Winston had come with you...I think she would have been the most holy, Godly person in the whole building.

For me, every single time something comes up about race in America, I always think back to my profoundly wise 4th grade teacher. I think...What would Mrs. Winston think of all this. Although America has made much progress since 1968, sometimes when I see racism still alive and well among us, I am profoundly grateful that Mrs. Winston is in heaven and not alive to see how far we still have to go.

The Horns of a Dilemma

It was a Sunday evening, the hottest night of the summer, and Benny’s fifteen year old hormones were raging. The church service was finally over and the grownups had all drifted off to the fellowship hall for a covered dish supper, which left all of the old Sunday School classrooms in the old building dark and cool. Benny’s favorite room had always been the dark-paneled twenty foot square space reserved for the Sojourner’s, the Sunday School class where all the monied old men gathered to listen to someone read a chapter from the Old Testament then sat around talking about business until the bell rang. Benny liked it because the chairs were made out of wood and had soft red seat cushions. He loved the secretary’s desk that sat between the two towering stain glass windows, the solid maple frame and shiny surface held up a green-shade desk lamp, which when turned on in the darkness blissed the place in soft yellow light. He didn’t have to wonder why this was the only class in the church which had seat cushions and wooden chairs. These were the old-timers, the power brokers whose ancestors had been the founding members of Bethesda Baptist Church, a proud congregation about to enter it’s third century of continuous operation. The fact that Benny’s father was the current shepherd of such a proud and pious flock was a subject of supreme consternation to fifteen year old Benjamin Caleb Adams. Many nights Benny lay awake in the cramped quarters of his church supplied housing wondering if anything could be more inconvenient for any self respecting boy than being a preacher’s kid. But, he had not been given a vote on the subject of his father’s occupation. And although the assumptions that came along with having a minister of the gospel for a father were infuriating, Benny never held his father personally responsible. He loved him as much as it was possible for any teenager to love a father.

 But, on this particular night, any resentments he felt in this regard were the last thing on his mind. His every thought throughout the interminable service of the past hour had been fixed upon the ravishing Amanda Lockhart, the beguiling blond with green eyes and delicious lips who was always game for any stolen moments of friskiness that Benny’s cleverness and audacity could bring to pass, and on this night, Benny had a plan.

After making a perfunctory appearance in the fellowship hall, and making note of the presence of both of his parents and Amanda’s equally ravishing mother, Benny led a giggling Amanda back down the hallway into the passageway that led into the sanctuary. Here they had to be careful. It was dark and hard to see and still close enough to the fellowship hall that you could hear muffled voices. Benny, knew the route by heart and artfully led them around the baptismal pool, past the pastor’s office and around the janitorial supply closet without tripping on anything, until finally he came to the solid mahogany door with the bronze plaque attached to the arms of the cross…Sojourner’s Class.

It had been a conscious choice. Benny could have picked any number of dusty rooms in this wing of the old building. There was the largest class where the blue-haired women met—The Agape Collective— mostly the wives of the Sojourners. But they had folding metal chairs and the room smelled like mothballs and urine. There were any number of other rooms equally sufficient for the job at hand. But Benny had developed a contempt and suspicion of this Sojourner crowd. Even at fifteen and having little interest in the inner workings of Bethesda Baptist, Benny had noticed that most of the people who were giving his father trouble came from this room. If he was going to risk trying to get around second and into third with Amanda, he couldn’t think of any room more perfect for such a pursuit. The prospect of getting caught was real, no matter how careful he had been coming up with the plan. So, in that dysfunctional way that fifteen year olds think, Benny figured, why not get caught in the room where the big shots do their plotting and scheming?

Once inside, Benny carefully closed the door until he felt the bolt snap into place, then waited for his eyes to adjust. He slowly made his way over towards the dark outline of the secretary’s desk, found the pull chain of the desk light and suddenly the room was bathed in intimate light. Amanda let out another giggle then, “Benny, I’d rather have that light off. Suppose someone sees?” Benny smiled at her then gave her a short kiss. “Sure, but don’t you want to see the place first?”

Benny pointed at the plaque hanging on the wall behind the secretary’s desk in between the two windows. It was shaped like the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments only made out of polished pine. Where the commandments should have been were shiny bronze plates with the names of all the previous class presidents going back at least a hundred years. The newest and shiniest one held the name of the current president…

“Well look here, the old buzzard himself, Horace G. Gardner—current president and president emeritus. How do you pull that off? Don’t you have to be dead to be emeritus?” Benny wasn’t sure what the word meant but when applied to Horace Gardner he figured it must be some sort of pretentious bullshit.

“Mom says that Mister Gardner is a great man,” Amanda offered, her first giggle-free sentence of the night.

“Yeah, that’s what everybody says. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. But his son sure is a prick.”

Harrison Gardner was the old man’s youngest son, current music minister of Bethesda Baptist and the sharpest thorn in the current Senior pastor’s side, he of the silky baritone, year round beach tan, and what passed for handsome with the over forty crowd. Along with the good looks came an easy charm, an affably cheerful nature which everyone in the church bought hook, line and sinker. Everyone, that is, except anyone who lived in the worn down parsonage across the street from the church. There it was universally understood that Harrison Gardner not so secretly coveted the top job, indeed, thought he was better suited for it than the current pastor in every measurable way, and had embarked on a whisper campaign to force Benny’s father out. It had been these ugly internal machinations of church life that had begun to sour Benny on the faith, turning his youthful attentions elsewhere. Benny tugged on the pull chain, pulling Amanda close as the room was plunged once again into the blackest darkness.

Benny and Amanda were both virgins and neither of them were particularly ready for any change in the status quo. Their attraction to one another was a matter of curiosity, electricity, hormones and the hypnotic coursing of blood carrying strange new warmth to exciting new places. Romantic sessions of the type going on in the Sojourners classroom were of the awkward groping variety which resulted in lots of dizziness and heavy breathing, but little else. In the midst of the action Benny thought to say, “the last time there was this much heavy breathing in here must have been the time old man Stanley’s oxygen machine blew a fuse.” Soon, the two of them were straddled across the secretary’s desk, its polished surface making it difficult to keep from sliding from one end to the other, making an already awkward encounter even more so. Suddenly, both of them froze mid-grope at the sound of shuffling footsteps coming down the hallway directly toward them. For an instant they laid there motionless, trying to listen over the pounding of their hearts. As the steps got closer, Benny made the executive decision to slide off the desk and dive underneath into the cramped space where a secretary’s legs were supposed to be. Just as he was able to fit Amanda beside him he heard the door open along with the sound of whispering.

There had been many such moments in Benny’s life despite his brief fifteen years on Earth. He had a talent for trouble, a natural proclivity for recklessness. There was the time that he got caught sneaking back into the house through his upstairs bedroom window after several hours of mischief which had involved toilet papering a prominent deacon’s house. There had been the time when he had caused his father great embarrassment by getting caught practicing his short game in the church cemetery by a descendant of Thomas J. Clinton who’s towering obelisk had unfortunately been chosen as the flagstick. But this particular situation seemed particularly fraught with peril since getting caught making out with Amanda Lockhart in the Sojourner’s classroom would not have done his father any favors at this juncture of his career. All of this weighed heavily on Benny’s mind as he held his breath and hoped for the best. Whoever had entered the room had not yet turned on the light—either a positive sign or an omen of hellfire. Suddenly, there was the rustling of clothing and hushed words…

“Oh Harrison…this is so wrong…(gasp)…so wrong.

“Yes baby…but if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right…oooh…”

Benny and Amanda both covered their mouths with their hands in horror, their bugged out eyes only inches apart. What fresh hell had they both stumbled into? Was this Harrison-freaking-Gardner, and had he just quoted a Luther Ingram lyric?? And who was he with? Certainly not his wife. She was at home looking after their two spoiled brat kids.

“If we get caught, we’re both dead, baby. But every time I glanced over at you playing the piano during that solo tonight I was imagining you naked. I just had to have you!”

This time the hands came off, their faces alive with a mixture of mortification and disgust as they both mouthed the name…Francis Powell?? It was at this point where everything changed for Benjamin Caleb Adams. Suddenly, he had become empowered. Finally he had been granted the one thing that he had never been able to grasp in his short life. Finally, against all odds the tables had been turned. Now…Benny had power. Harrison Gardner, the pretentious, slimy, phony windbag and erstwhile pretender to the Senior Pastor gig at Bethesda Baptist had now been caught doing the dirty with the church pianist and mother of three while his own wife was at home caring for his own children. How positively delicious!

“Oh Harrison, you’re incorrigible!!” 

Amanda’s eyes shone bright with something between glee and lust as she mouthed the word, “incorrigible??” Benny then had to discourage her surprising advances, which under the circumstances were not only physically impossible, but tactically inappropriate. This situation needed his complete concentration. A decision was going to have to be made shortly. How should Benny handle this fraught moment? Should he suddenly rise up from behind the desk and shout, “Surprise!! Caught ya!!” Or should he wait them both out, let them finish their wickedness then bide his time, waiting until the most opportune moment to blow this tanning bed wimp out of the water? 

Suddenly the breathing became louder along with one of them whispering to the other to be quiet. Benny tried to put the mental image of these two forty year olds having sexual relations while standing up out of his fevered imagination, especially since both of them were people whom he would have to walk by practically every Sunday for the foreseeable future. Mercifully, it finally seemed to be over, as they both began whispering barely discernible professions of devotion to each other. Then, the sound of the door knob turning, the shuffling of clothing and the shutting of the door. They were gone. So much for a shocking reveal. Now it was just a matter of figuring the best use of his new found clout. Benny quickly shuffled the reluctant Amanda out of the room, down the hallway and back into the fellowship hall.

 It was only much later that same night when sleep wouldn’t come for Benny that he realized the full implications of his night’s work. Apparently, what his father had always said about the knowledge of good and evil was true…with great knowledge comes great responsibility. He was now in possession of the sort of incriminating dirt that could rid his father of his Harrison Gardner problem once and for all time. But as he lay there staring into the darkness it occurred to him that he was now on the horns of a dilemma. This damning piece of intelligence came with a profound personal conundrum. How was he to share this story with his father without also having to explain what exactly it was that he and Amanda Lockhart were doing in the Sojourner’s room in the dark? His Dad was far too smart and much too familiar with his son’s aptitudes to believe that they were “praying together.” As valuable as his discovery would have been to his father and as anxious as he was to provide all the gory details, Benny wasn’t interested in being grounded for the duration of the summer. After a fitful hour, sleep finally came. At the light of first dawn, Benny gave the situation another think and this time came to the conclusion that life just wasn’t fair.

The next six months had been among the most uncomfortable of Benny’s short life. Amanda had moved on, now vaguely attached to his best friend to whom Benny held no resentment. It had been an amicable split, and neither of them had spoken a word about that night to each other since. But every time Benny saw Harrison at church it had felt excruciating. Occasionally he would notice the two of them looking at each other a touch too long in the choir loft. Each time he would throw up a little in his mouth. Many times he had come close to confronting him, especially on the rare times when they would run in to each other someplace private like the parking lot. But each time Benny had given up on the idea. Besides, he would only have denied it, Benny having no proof of anything. Who would everyone believe, the son of a founding family member and beloved music minister, or a goofy, trouble making teenager with a history of asshattery?

By the time winter arrived, Harrison Gardner-instigated machinations had picked up their intensity. Benny’s father’s position was getting more tenuous with each passing Sunday. Factions had appeared in the congregation, those who supported his father and a more vocal and growing faction that supported the music minister. Benny had been struggling under the burden of his knowledge, and growing feelings of guilt had begun to grow within him. Was his personal freedom more important than his father’s happiness and continued employment? It was time to face the music. He would walk over to his dad’s office and confess all.

When he arrived at the church he noticed that the office to his father’s study was closed, a rarity. Just as he reached for the handle, the door swung open and he found himself staring into the red, puffy, tear streaked face of Harrison Gardner who hurried past him without looking up. Benny cautiously walked into the office and saw his dad sitting calmly at his desk. 

“Hello Son. What can I do for you?”

Benny, momentarily rattled, asked—“What was that all about? That was Harrison Gardner, right?”

“Yes,” came the non-committal reply.

Benny prodded—“And he was…crying”

“Yes. I believe he was.” 

It had always been virtually impossible to get any church gossip out of his father. This was understandable and even admirable considering the assumed confidentiality of the confessional and all, but this was Harrison-freaking-Gardner we were talking about here. Considering the purpose of Benny’s visit he felt entitled to know why the enemy of his father had just left his office in tears.

“Dad, seriously? Harrison Gardner just walked out of here crying his eyes out. What the heck?”

“Have a seat son.”

Benny sat down as instructed as a feeling of dread swept over him. 

“It doesn’t appear that Mr. Gardner is going to be a problem for me anymore. His position of influence in this congregation is now at an end. This is very good news, I believe, not only for me, but for the entire church as well. However, I’m afraid it is very sad news for Harrison and I take no delight in it.”

Benny leaned forward. “Wow. What happened?”

Then his father leaned forward, placed both fists under his chin and began…

“A couple of weeks ago I received disturbing news about Harrison. I followed up the allegation with the parties involved and found the report reliable enough to believe that it might possibly be true. To make a long story short, the person who provided the original information then confronted one of the people involved and received confirmation of the truth. I just finished talking this issue over with Harrison and he has admitted his guilt.”

Benny finally took a breath and tried to looked shocked. It appeared as though he had been saved by the bell once again, wiggling off yet another hook of his own making. Then his dad continued.

“Interesting thing though…You know Tammy Lockhart, right? Amanda’s mom? Yeah, she was the one who came to me with the information.”

Benny worked hard to keep his composure. “Yeah? Well, we broke up quite a while ago…”

“Something about the Sojourner Class, of all things…”

Once again Benny, now flushed with color—“Like I said…we broke up, so…”

“But, you know what this means don’t you?” A barely noticeable smile began to form at the corners of his father’s lips.

“Sure, this means that you don’t have to worry about that greaseball gunning for your job anymore,” Benny answered with genuine happiness.

“That’s right, son. You know what else it means?”

A surprising sensation flowed through his bloodstream as Benny realized that this was not a question he should answer. This was a time for circumspection and silence.

“It means that you’re grounded.”

And just like that, in the blink of an eye, Benny’s world was back, spinning dependably on its axis.

The Book of Ruth

Here’s an update on the 90 day project. This morning I arrived at the book of Ruth. Honestly, reading this short little book felt like a warm bath and a cup of hot cocoa. Compared with almost everything that has preceded it, Ruth felt like something beautiful. It felt out of place, sort of like a commercial break in the middle of a horror movie. Let me try to explain.

The early books of the Old Testament describe a world of ubiquitous violence, impossibly degenerate human beings, and a God who comes across as angry and vengeful. There. I said it. Of course, considering how his creation was behaving, I would be angry and vengeful too, I suppose. So far, I’ve read about some of the most duplicitous, shameful men imaginable, and don’t even get me started on the poor women. For a 21st century American who has only known democracy, the rule of law, equal rights and the order that comes from modern civilization, it is jarring to read of a world where the only rule seemed to be the the strong preying on the weak. Murder, rape and treachery wasn’t the exception, it was very much the rule. Sure, there is the occasional hero to be found, Joseph, Caleb, and Rahab the prostitute, but by and large the ancients were despicable. Then, like a mirage in the middle of the desert, you arrive at the beautiful story of Ruth.

Finally, at long last, we find women who are treated with honor and compassion, men who act with nobility of purpose. In the midst of this amazing story we are also treated to perhaps the best writing in the entire Bible with this paragraph:

“Ruth said, Intreat me not not to leave thee, or to return from following thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people will be my people, and thy God will be my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there I will be buried; the Lord do so to me and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.”

In this story we meet that rarest of Old Testament characters—an honorable man, Boaz. We meet Ruth and her mother in law, Naomi. We learn of love, devotion and intense loyalty. We discover redemption, compassion and generosity, and the rare gem of a happy ending.

I won’t re-tell the story here. If you’ve never heard it, read it for yourself. It’s only a few short chapters. Even if you’re familiar with it, read it again. While, I have been using the Message version of the Bible for this project, I chose to use the old King James Version in the verses above for the simple reason that there are times when modern words effectively strip the beauty out of language. For me this passage will forever be a King James thing.

Putin on the Ritz

The beat of war drums has begun in earnest. Russia gives every indication that it intends to invade Ukraine at any moment. President Biden is mobilizing American troops for deployment to Eastern Europe. The expectation of our intelligence services is that Russia seeks to prompt some incident as a pretext for invasion, perhaps by appointing a hand-picked pro-Russian leader and installing him as Ukraine’s leader. After several ham-fisted attempts to address the situation with the press, our President has wisely gone silent for the past 48 hours. Better to remain silent and be thought incompetent than to speak and remove all doubt.

At this point I’m wondering what percentage of the American people would be in favor of sending American men and women to war over Ukraine? Indeed, what percentage of the American people could find Ukraine on a map? The answer to both questions would be roughly 5%. What vital American interest is served by war with Russia over Ukraine? There are none. Why would a country struggling to contain inflation, manage a pandemic, and bitterly divided on every contentious issue involving democratic governance, even contemplate adding war to the mix? I can think of absolutely no reason why this would be a good idea for America. If one of our biggest antagonists in the world is about to make the ruinous mistake of starting a war and consequently becoming bogged down for years in a bloody and costly conflict, why should we do anything to stand in their way? When your enemy is about to destroy itself, rule number one would be…don’t just do something, stand there!

Here’s what I think. Vladimir Putin is an old school, 19th century man. He thinks like an ultra nationalist who longs for Russian glory. He’s an ego-driven man who wants glory for Mother Russia and himself. In 2022, this is a recipe for eventual disaster for him and Russia. Should the rest of the world and the United States work to prevent war? Sure. Nobody wants war. But should the United States of America be committed militarily in a conflict where no vital American interests are at risk? 

Hell no!

40 Years

There’s usually no time for reflection in January. This is a hard work month for me. The beginning of the year means goal-setting, planning, and meetings—lots of meetings. Its the month when number crunching begins, the tallying of returns, the review of progress and the great recalibration. What did we do well? Where do we need help? What adjustments might be prudent? It can be a dizzying process, always made more so by whatever crisis happens to be sucking the oxygen out of the room. But this morning, like a bolt out of the blue, it hits me that I’ve been doing this for 40 years now. 40 years. To have been engaged in any occupation for 40 years is remarkable I suppose, but to have somehow survived in my chosen profession for this long feels miraculous. The investment business is a line of work that chews people up from the inside out. The stress of the job never goes away, it is as constant as the North Star. Even on the sunniest day, it’s that troublesome cloud on the horizon that nobody else sees. Nevertheless, this work is all I have ever known, so the stress has become so commonplace I can’t even describe it. To borrow that hackneyed phrase—it is what it is.

I have learned a great many things in 40 years, usually from making mistakes. This has always been true with me. My mother used to shake her head at my stubbornness, “Why do you have to do everything the hard way, Douglas?” My answers never satisfied her—“Because the hard way is more fun!” 

Here’s one thing I’ve learned. No matter what time it is, no matter what day, week, month, or year it is—there are always compelling reasons to buy and terrifying reasons to sell. Opportunity is everywhere, disaster lurking around every corner. There are abundant reasons for optimism, even while flashing red lights warn of perils. There are unprecedented technological innovations creating new products and services at breathtaking speed. There are new COVID variants, inflation, and war rumors in Ukraine. To be successful in my business takes an ability to strike the correct balance between greed and fear, dangerously exuberant optimism and paralyzing pessimism. Somehow, I have survived four decades. Pesto-Bismol, Imodium and Advil have been indispensable—a warped sense of humor even more so.

Like any other job done for 40 years, there are parts I love and parts I hate. I love the feeling you get when a plan comes together. I love when you are able to prevent someone from making a terrible decision. I love it when a client hits a long time goal. I love the people I work with, the camaraderie and the shared experiences. I hate the paperwork, the Byzantine labyrinth of regulatory minefields that must be daily crossed, the never ending pressure—is this the right call?? I hate the fact that I am never, ever finished.

But, this is the life I’ve chosen and it’s been a good life. It has prospered me. It has allowed me a degree of independence most people would die for. I’m grateful for every blessing.

Happy or Sad?

This is my view every single time I leave my office to head home at the end of the day. This is looking across Church Road near the corner of Church Road and Westerre Parkway. For 12 years I have stopped at this spot waiting to turn left. For 12 years there was a deep and mysterious woods here with giant pine trees, poplars, oaks and cedars. About three weeks ago I saw that someone had put up the orange plastic fence, then suddenly one day when I pulled up to this spot, it was all gone.

There are two ways to respond to this. The very first thing that popped in my head three weeks ago was…I wonder what’s going in there? The second response happened yesterday when all the trees were gone, which was…Ohhh, no—what happened to those beautiful woods? I suppose that your response to something like this is a reflection of how you feel about progress. 

On the positive side of this ledger, I see this happening and immediately think of what good things can come from this. First of all, lots of jobs are being created by this project. There are the surveyors and earth moving equipment people, then the planners and architects who will oversee the new construction. There are the timber men who will take those magnificent trees and turn them into useable lumber which will in turn be used to build homes, furniture and a whole host of other things. There are the men and women who will construct whatever will go in this space, carpenters, plumbers, electricians. Maybe some type of housing is going here which will provide warm places for people to live. All of this activity is good and proper.

On the negative side, I feel a hard to define sadness, a sense of loss. I wonder how long that stand of forest has stood there undisturbed by human activity. I think of all the animals who had made these acres their home, suddenly sent scurrying by monstrous machines. I think about the local psycho guy who often stalks back and forth on Church Road flailing his arms about manically. There’s a rumor that in the warm months he makes a camp in those woods, even though he owns a home nearby. My heart fills up for a moment and then I mumble aloud alone in my car, “they better not put a gas station or convenience store in there! If they must destroy it they better replace it with something more meaningful than that…” Always with the indifferent pronoun, they.

Maybe its ok to feel both ways about this. Maybe its alright to be excited about what good might come from this project, while still grieving the scar left by the overnight disappearance of so much ancient and noble life. Besides, on the other side of Church road stands a development of office condominiums where I have had an office for nearly 13 years. 15 years ago the woods was just as thick, just as mysterious, and the life that teemed there was just as ancient and noble.

But, Please God…don’t let it be another Sheets.

Learning to Live With an Apple Watch

My wife bought me an Apple Watch for Christmas. It wasn’t on my list, but I was the only one left in the family who didn’t have one so she surprised me with the thing. So far, I like it. It does some pretty cool things. But after three weeks of wearing it every day I have to admit that from time to time I resent it. I feel judged by my watch!

Ok, here is what the face of it looks like. It was no small feat to come up with that look. I had to choose from between dozens of designs, colors and styles. I finally picked this one and feel ok with it. However, the little icon that I have circled in red, has caused me no end of agitation and annoyance. Of course, in one brush of my index finger I could prohibit its appearance on the face of the watch altogether, but as you will soon learn, that would be tantamount to capitulation and out of the question! What is it, you ask?

Like most technological innovations, its intentions are quite noble. It is an Activity Tracker. Using parameters set up by me, it is designed to keep track of three things—1. my daily calorie burn calculated by my movement, 2. How much time I spend in exercise which is calculated by my heart rate, and 3. How many times I stand up during the day, or my stand goal. Throughout the day, as progress is made, the colored circles make their way—clockwise—around the face of the watch. Whenever any of the three circles is completed I get a creepy technological “Atta boy” in the form of what looks like a fireworks explosion on my wrist. Today, for instance, I was praised for standing up so much. This happens every day since I spend most of my time at work walking around the office while working and to avoid working. I’m not big on sitting. To rub in my failures, there’s another display which reminds you just how much of a bum you are…

To make matters infinitely worse, there are the little affirmation reminders which never fail to annoy me…

As bad as these Activity Tracker Affirmations are, the worse part is when the thing buzzes on my wrist, I look down expecting maybe a text from Pam but instead there’s a mindfulness reminder, whereby I am urged to take a moment to be…mindful. I am not told exactly what I am to be mindful about,  just that I need a mindfulness break. So, what does an almost 64 year old decidedly unmindful guy do? I Google it. 

Turns out that the mindfulness business is booming. I was diverted quickly to some outfit which promised to be on the mindfulness cutting edge with this stemwinder…

“An innovative technology that integrates cutting edge developments in neuropsychology with alternative modalities, including kinesiology, mindfulness meditation, acupressure/acupuncture, and the chakra system of the Vedic tradition.“

I might not have a clue what the Chakra system of the Vedic tradition is, but it sure sounds like something I want no part of. That’s a bit more than I bargained for. Best I can figure, “mindfulness” is the modern, hip version of what used to be called, “take a deep breath and count to ten.” But, how does my watch know that I need to take a mindfulness break? Is it just suggesting it at random on the assumption that I’m stressed? Or, is it tied to my heart rate or blood pressure? The whole thing is unnerving. 

And yet, even though I know its just a watch, I feel judged when its 8 o’clock at night and my “exercise ring” has barely budged. So now, in addition to all my other worries, I have feelings of activity inadequacy brought on by the smartest watch I’ve ever owned. My old watch might have stopped working at the worst possible time because its battery went dead…but it never gave me grief for being a couch potato. 

But, every time I look down at the thing and see a picture of someone I love, I feel like Dick Tracy, and that’s kinda cool.

Apparently, There Was an Inauguration

Last Saturday was a busy day here at the palatial Dunnevant estate. There was a snow storm in the forecast for Sunday and I had to take the outside Christmas decorations down. Saturday was also the day for my 3.5 mile walk. In addition, there were playoff games being televised literally all day long. So, my schedule was packed. Later that evening I pulled up Facebook and was surprised to learn two things. First, Governor Youngkin was inaugurated on Saturday less than 15 miles from my house and secondly—apparently lots of people watched it on television.

Once I thought about it for a minute it made sense—he was just elected in November. It would stand to reason that his inauguration would be in January. That’s the way it works in America. We elect people, then give them three months to pull together a party to celebrate themselves. Then, I ran across this picture in the Washington Post…

Looks like the incoming governor spent the last three months in the Bahamas, while the outgoing governor looks like if you put a dirty old cowboy hat on him, he would be a dead ringer for the guy who used to play Festus on Gunsmoke. 

Anyway, I had forgotten that there was an inauguration Saturday. Frankly, it took me about a minute to not only remember his name but also the name of the Festus-lookalike. But, eventually both names came to me and I breathed a sigh off relief. No, I am not suffering old age memory loss, and no, I am not a terrible citizen.

However, even if I had remembered the occasion, I must here confess to you that I cannot imagine any scenario under which I would have actually watched it on television. Seriously. An inauguration of a governor would be my last viewing choice even if the other choices included the professional badminton draft or The Real Housewives of Des Moines.

I don’t know what it is exactly, but the ceremonies of state just don’t interest me. I’m trying to remember the last time I watched one here in Virginia. Maybe I tuned in for a few minutes back when Doug Wilder took the oath…what was that, 1992? At least that one was historic, he being the first African American governor of the state and all. But, I think that was the last. As far as Presidential inaugurations, I remember watching Ronald Reagan’s first, and Bill Clinton’s first. I tuned in for the speech when Barack Obama took the oath the first time. That’s it.

But, my Facebook wall was full of people commenting on this and that from the ceremony. Apparently there was a flyover, a stirring song or two. Someone even stuck around for the inaugural parade, bragging about how awesome the Marching Dukes were. A couple of folks expressed their dread at what horrible mischief the incoming administration might inflict on the Old Dominion. Others seemed genuinely relieved to be free from the yoke of some sort of Festus-inspired oppression. Meanwhile, the only thing I was being oppressed by were the impossibly stubborn Christmas lights and my pathological inability to keep them untangled.

Maybe this lack of interest in governmental pageantry suggests something troubling about me. Perhaps I have become too cynical about politicians to the point of apathy. Maybe I have become so self sufficient at this stage of life that I feel no urgent need for government. Or, maybe after all the campaigns, all the accusations and warnings of the end of the world if so-and-so doesn’t win, I’ve learned that very little changes from one administration to the next. At best, each side spends their time whittling at the edges, then trying to spin it as change. 

I hold no ill will towards either of the men in this picture. I understand that Northern is going back into medicine. Maybe Youngkin will have success with something that truly matters, or at least—do no harm. My thoughts on all of this is not in any way a criticism of those who hold these ceremonies close to their hearts. In a way, I envy your devotion to the political life of the Commonwealth. If your guy won, good luck. If your guy lost, there’s always 2025. 

A Red Tail Hawk and a Life Lesson

Yesterday morning, I got all dressed up in my winter gear and went for a four mile walk in cold and windy conditions. Sometimes I do things like this for no apparent reason. Anyway, right in the middle of the walk something very cool happened. It was totally random and the entire thing was over in like 15 seconds, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

So I’m walking along in a culdesac in my neighborhood, as quick as I can without actually running to stay warm, when out of the corner of my eye I notice a large bird flying fast and close to the ground coming from my right to my left. I immediately recognized him as a red tail hawk. There are several in our neighborhood. By the time he crossed my path about thirty feet in front of me he was maybe six feet off the ground and descending fast in full kill mode, talons at the ready. Then I noticed the chipmunk on its haunches nibbling on something beside an azalea bush. In a flashing instant, the hawk hooded its beautiful wings and dove in for the kill sending mulch flying. But as the hawk emerged from behind the bush and began an ark to the left, his talons were empty. The chipmunk had somehow escaped. Now the hawk was flying skyward. I watched the elegant flight until he landed on the highest gable of a house on the side of the street from where he had first appeared, standing tall and proud, as majestic as he ever was.

I have since learned that hawks are only successful in 10% of their hunts. As beautiful and efficient as the process looks, 90% of the time they come up empty. But when this particular hawk failed to nab the chipmunk, he simply flew back to his previous perch and began scanning his horizon for the next opportunity. There was no temper tantrum, no fit of pique, no indignant squawking. He seemed to know how his life worked, that many attempts must be made before he gets his meal. Contrast the experience of the hawk with human beings. If our waiter gets our order wrong, if we have to stand in line more than three minutes at Burger King, if we discover that Outback is out of blooming onions, many of us go off the rails. 

Once again, leave it to the animal world to teach human beings how best to live. I see this all the time. I watch the birds taking turns at the bird feeder, all different types of birds, different sizes and shapes, a vast array of colors, all sharing the seed, eating from a common feeder. I see the kindness and loyalty of dogs, their sensitivity to our moods, their willingness to come along side us even closer when we are upset or sick. Of course I also see the worthless squirrel pilfering anything and everything, leaving a path of destruction in his wake…but squirrels are merely the exception that proves the rule.

So yeah…the hawk bungled the chipmunk hunt. But he kept his composure, and returned to the hunt with nobility of effort and purpose, knowing that his failure only meant that he was one step closer to success. An excellent reminder for all of us.

Stumbling Across a Theme

Making steady daily progress through the 90 day Bible reading thing, now a little over halfway through Exodus. I’ve once again noticed something that also stood out to me the last time we did this in 2018. There is a theme that I have stumbled upon. Yes, I am aware that there are many themes through all of scripture and this is not the most prominent one, I’m sure. But I’m only six days in and already I’ve seen it talked about four different times and I haven’t even gotten out of Exodus! Here it is…ready?

God spends a lot of time reminding people to take care of widows, orphans, the poor, and to be kind to the stranger.

That’s it. Thats the thing that has stood out so far. If I remember from 2018, I’m going to run into this theme many more times in the Old Testament and famously in the New Testament with the words of Jesus from Matthew 25: “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” I’ve already read about God reminding Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to make provision for the poor and to shelter the stranger. I’ll see it again in Leviticus, Psalms, Ruth etc…It seems to me that a topic that constantly comes up in the Bible should be something we take seriously.

Some of you might be thinking that I’m trying to make some political statement by bringing this up. Nothing could be further from the truth. My interpretation of these commands from God are that they are given to each of us—to individuals. We should take care of the widows, orphans, the poor, and we should welcome the stranger. What we do collectively through organizations, churches, and through government should indeed include these commands. But we are not off the hook as individuals just because we pay taxes that fund programs designed to help. To quote Dickens, “are there not poor houses?”  What this means for me, for Doug Dunnevant in 2022, is perhaps more complicated. After all, there are so many poor, so many homeless etc. But, while I can’t fix every problem around me, I can sure do a better job of noticing them. I can pay closer attention to the men and women who walk past me every single day. I can do a better job of opening my eyes to the needs of others instead of being so focused on my own problems. I can’t help but feel that since this command is woven through the entirety of scripture God must be deadly serious about it. 

Taking care of the poor, widows, orphans and strangers in the land isn’t the Gospel, but rather a result of an encounter with it. Caring for the poor is no substitute for the redemption that comes through faith in Christ, but neither is it some quaint notion that we so easily check off of our to-do list by the fact that we pay our taxes. James 1:27 puts it this way:

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

I’m no theologian, but those words seem awfully clear and unambiguous—and something I should take seriously.

Crunching Numbers

Now that I am fully engaged 100% in business mode, my mind has suddenly become immersed in numbers. It happens every year around this time. The life cycle of my business year is front loaded onto the first five months of the year by ingenious design, freeing my summers up for Maine. The only downside to this happy arrangement is that I become a tiresome bore this time of year, insomuch as I become singularly focused on business. For example, ran across this late last night:

Ok, by posting this chart I have lost half of you. I apologize. Anyway, the takeaway from this chart is the news that the Federal government of the United States set an all-time record in the first quarter of this fiscal year (October-December), by collecting an astounding $1,051,873,000,000 in taxes. That’s one trillion, fifty-one billion, eight-hundred and seventy-three million dollars. It’s the first time we have ever collected over a trillion dollars in revenue in any quarter ever. I hear that the Treasury Department threw a party. But, then there’s this:

“At the same time that it was collecting a record $1,051,873,000,000 in total taxes in the October-through-December period, the federal government was spending $1,429,567,000,000. Thus, it ran a deficit of $377,694,000,000.”

In other words, We spent 378 billion dollars more than we took in…in a mere 90 days. If you’re keeping score at home, that amounts to $4 billion, 200 hundred million dollars—every single day. Although these numbers are simply too large and abstract for any of us to truly comprehend, for someone like me they represent some kind of colossal failure. But luckily, almost every single warring faction in Washington DC is united in their conviction that this is not a problem. Or, if it is, its way down the list—after income inequality and transgender rights. I have been worried about this issue for nearly 40 years now and yet we are still plugging along. When I first started worrying about debts and deficits all those years ago, our entire national debt stood at $1.1 trillion dollars. Now that it stands at $26 trillion, I must admit to feeling a bit sheepish. Why have I lost all this sleep over a mere 25 trillion bucks? Oh well…I’m getting ready to turn 64 years old. Guess I’ll just let the kids sort it all out.

Some Really Weird Stuff Happened in the Bible

Just in case any of you are wondering whatever became of the Puzzle of Death from last week? Finished it today!!

So perhaps now we can reclaim our kitchen table…after we admire it for a few days. 

Next is a mental health update with regards to Lucy. We have discovered a new psychosis in the ever-evolving Petri dish that is our Golden Retriever’s personality. As alert readers will recall, Pam received several smart plugs for Christmas which allows her to perform all sorts of tasks with a simple spoken command to Alexa. Now, practically every light fixture in the entire house comes on whenever we tell Alexa to turn on the lights. But, there’s a problem. In the millisecond just before the lights come on, the plugs emit a barely discernible (to human ears) crackling sound. We’re talking about a fraction of a second, and as I said, its barely even a sound. But when it comes to Lucy’s hypersonic super ears, it has become the signal to jump out of her skin and make a beeline upstairs! We have tried to explain the situation to her but she just sits there and looks at us like we have lost our minds. Its like she’s thinking…How many time I have woke up from dead sleep and stare at ceiling? Every time you say, “what she see?” even though it clear as day that I see evil monster. Now, the monster have voice. It name ALEXA and it take over house and taunt me all live long day while you at work. I only thing standing between you and ALEXA, and now you give her power of light! We are trying to walk the sweet girl through this fresh insanity, but prayers would be appreciated.

Finally, a few words about day three of the reading through the Bible in 90 days adventure. I am now knee deep into the bizarre world of the ancient patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, three fascinating but intensely weird human beings. Actually, Abraham and Isaac are fine—scary—but fine. I just can’t warm up to Jacob. I consider him a disaster in almost every conceivable way. He was a duplicitous brother, an absentee father, a cheating businessman, and totally incompetent in love. I mean, how drunk do you have to be to not be able to tell the difference between the alleged “love of his life” with her SISTER?  I was talking about this with a friend recently and made the observation that I had always had a difficult time understanding the ancients. These guys had personal conversations with God like every five minutes. In them, God was constantly assuring them of how he was with them, would protect them, provide for them, make mighty nations out of their families. And yet, let these guys get fifty miles out of town and immediately they start lying about their wives, seemingly terrified that someone is going to steal and ravish them. This, despite the fact that each of them had a virtual harem of wives at their beck and call. I mean, each night it was like a conjugal buffet for these men!!

But then the strangest thing happens, something that makes this reading the Bible in 90 days so meaningful. Just about the time you’re feeling nice and smug about Jacob’s spiritual failings, you hear the slightest whisper somewhere in your heart saying something like this:

“Yes, they had many problems…but they had no written record of my words. You, on the other hand, have access to the Bible from your cell phone in 100 different languages, three dozen versions, complete with graphics, maps, commentaries and even audio versions featuring the voice of James Earl, Freaking Jones, and yet…YOU forget me all the time. No matter how many times I answer your prayers, no matter how many times I prove my faithfulness, eventually you forget all my promises.”

Its then that it dawns on you that whether or not it was 2000 BC or last week, the human heart hasn’t changed much. We are still prone to wander, prone to forget. We all need reminding. That’s what this time in God’s word is about for me. Its the great reminding.