Pam’s World

If the month of March were a baseball game, it’s boxscore would be a hot mess, even though we’re only in the 5th inning. Since I now live in a country that with each passing day becomes more baseball-illiterate, this metaphor probably makes no sense to most of you. But, since this is my blog, I’ll use baseball metaphors whenever I want. If you’re confused...read a book. 

Anyway, yeah...March is like one of those crazy games where the pitchers are getting shelled, there are lots of errors and pitching changes, walks and homeruns, double switches, a rain delay and even a bench clearing brawl. And through it all, my wife is serving as umpire, manager of both teams, public address announcer and the foreman of the grounds crew. Watching her juggle it all has been like reading Donald Trump’s Twitter feed...it’s right there in front of you, but you just can’t freaking believe it!

Over the past thirteen days she has had her identity stolen, scrambled together one baby shower and is now working on a second. Her Mom has had carpal tunnel surgery, and this morning her sister goes in for abdominal surgery. In the meantime, she has been in the process of redecorating the house in preparation for shower #2...(out with the winter decor, in with spring which required a trip to Hobby Lobby)...while trying to figure out a way to make something Irish for our small group meeting tomorrow night, which happened to coincide with the arrival of a couple of out of town guests. Two batches of homemade designer cupcakes have been baked and decorated, new table linens ordered, the guest half of our upstairs, (fondly designated The Dunnevant Inn), cleaned and buffed. Since she has a day job teaching under performing elementary school children who struggle with math and reading, all of these activities have been done after work. 

Of course, since this is my wife I’m talking about, she has done all of these things while simultaneously struggling with the twin burdens of inadequacy and guilt...as a daughter, sister, teacher, friend, party planner, hostess and wife. Knowing her, she’s probably also beating herself up over her pet owner skills as well since she’s not had a spare second to pet Lucy! 

When it gets like this around here, I try my best to help out and sometimes I even succeed. My area of expertise is purely incidental, since I possess no actionable skills that can be brought to bear on the tasks at hand. I can’t cook, I know nothing about party planning. Some of the things I can actually do, she is hesitant to entrust to my care. My wife isn’t a very good designator. There’s the way I do things, and then there’s the right way to do things...and seldom are they the same. But, I bankroll it all, so that counts for something, right?

I watch her juggling all of these chainsaws and I marvel at her skill and tenacity. No matter how daunting the task, at the end of the day everything gets done, but not in a helter skelter, slip shod fashion, but with beauty and grace and a level of loveliness that is sometimes hard to believe. After this coming weekend, her calendar clears up. Nothing huge will be happening for a few weeks. She will be able to relax a little, return to a less tumultuous life. I say this...but just her luck the game will go into extra innings!!

The Fourth Floor at St. Mary’s

My friend was released from the hospital yesterday, three weeks after being admitted at death’s door. What an incredible story she has to tell. The fourth floor at St. Mary’s hospital is where many such stories start. When I arrived three weeks ago to sit with the family as they waited, it was my first trip back there in fifteen years. Back then, it was my anxious family waiting, wondering and filled with fear. 

I had just turned 45 and along with the arrival of my birthday, a nagging cough. For several weeks it got steadily worse, until finally I couldn’t sleep. Although, I wanted to wait until the following Monday to make another trip to the doctor, it was Pam who had insisted that I go to the emergency room on a Saturday. It had been that insistence that essentially saved my life. Once admitted, it was discovered that my nagging cough was being caused by a defective mitral valve which had been coming apart for several weeks. Blood was pooling around my heart whenever I laid down...congestive heart failure. 24 hours after being admitted, a surgeon with the bedside manner of an orangutan, was performing open heart surgery.

The details don’t matter, and I would rather not get into them anyway. Suffice it to say that it was a staggering event that had life changing consequences for me. But, as my friend returns home, I’m remembering things that I’d forgotten about when I came home after just a week at St. Mary’s. The primary emotion was a profound disorientation. What the heck had just happened to me? It’s like all of a sudden I had forgotten how normal was supposed to feel. I was grateful to be alive but not quite sure what this new life was going to be like. I felt damaged, the ugly 8 inch scar down my chest the physical manifestation of that damage. My emotions were all over the map. Poor Pam had never, ever seen me cry in our 20 years together, and now suddenly I was a water works. I remember wanting to see people...right up to the minute they arrived, then I counted the minutes until they left. It was such an odd feeling, having visitors. These were people who I loved and who loved me...but I remember feeling strangely embarrassed, wondering how people were seeing me. Did they think I was damaged? 

Then there were the kids from church. Back then I was a teacher of high school students in a very large and active youth group at Grove Avenue Baptist. Ordinarily, our house was full of such kids on the weekends. Now, Pam struggled to manage their visits. I’m told that many of them tried to visit me when I was still in the hospital but Pam had thought that unworkable and unwise. So instead, and I can’t remember if it was her suggestion or one of the kids, someone provided them with a piece of poster board which they all signed with their well wishes. Every time I looked at it, I would get choked up. Finally, I rolled it up and stuck it in my closet. Too many memories. 

But, watching my friend go though a far worse ordeal over these last three weeks, many of those memories have come roaring back. Although she possesses a far greater faith than me, I’m sure that she will experience some of the same disorientation, the same wide ranging emotional swings, the same mental exhaustion.

So, I couldn’t help myself. I found one of the two posters. It feels like a million years ago...

The other one had a big thing in the middle of it that said Braveheart. I remember feeling everything but brave. Terrified? Confused? Rattled? Yes. Brave?? Not a chance. My friend is brave. And everyone who prayed so fervently for her survival must continue praying for her complete recovery.

A Horrible Discovery

I glanced at my calendar today and discovered something truly horrible. Actually, I discovered two bad things, which combined equal one horrible thing. So far 2018 has been a year to forget, filled with one calamity after another, and now...this....April Fools Day falls on a Sunday....not just any old Sunday, but Easter Sunday!!

Words cannot possibly express the depths of my disappointment. The first day of April has provided me with a lifetime of unending thrills. I have pulled off so many epic gags on this glorious day, it is impossible to count them all. My performances throughout the years on this day have made me a first ballot practical joke Hall of Famer. But as bad as this news is for me, it will be a day of great rejoicing for everyone at my office, who no doubt will view this tragic quirk of the calendar as some sort of year of jubilee thing. But, I should have known this would happen in 2018. I mean, everything else has gone wrong...why not?

Some might ask, why does the fact that April Fools Day is on Easter Sunday mean that the day is ruined? See, that’s the sort of rookie question I would expect from people who just don’t understand the significance of April Fools. 

Listen, it would be hard to explain to a coworker how you managed to take apart the headset of their phone to jam a clove of garlic down in the mouthpiece...on the day that our Lord and Savior rose from the dead. Filling several strategically important cabinets with 500 orange ping pong balls, then making sure that it’s Lynwood Atkinson that opens the cabinet first is a great gag...but might seem considerably less funny when it’s discovered that I did all this booby trapping on the same day that our redeemer was crucified. Installing a scramble program that disables the keyboard of someone’s computer might produce a profane outburst which would seem especially egregious the very day after the resurrection. 

So, this year there will be no Vaselined doorknobs, no cling-wrapped toilet seats, no phones hidden above the ceiling tiles. No buckets of ping pong balls will be hanging precariously by a fishing line above anyone’s office door. No one’s family pictures will be hanging from the ceiling by duct tape. There will be no fake summons, no phony arrest warrants, no inflated telephone bills, open cans of sardine cat food will not be hidden beneath anyone’s car seat. All because the Stone was rolled away.

Two days later, I’ll turn 60. 

I’m telling you...2018 stinks.

A Baby Shower and a Miracle

All week my wife has been burning the midnight oil, preparing and planning a baby shower. I know nothing of such things, having never attended a baby shower. It is quite an involved process which includes but is by no means limited to...a nursery rhyme game, wisdom cards, assorted teas, something called cucumber canapés, and of course, Pam’s famous designer cupcakes. I’m sure it will be a glorious affair, since nothing that my wife has a hand in could possibly be anything but.

The beneficiary of this shower is Lacey Fort. It will be Lacey’s first child. Unfortunately, Lacey’s mother-in-law will not be able to make it in person, but she will be Skyped in to the proceedings. See, Lacey’s mother-in-law has been in the hospital for the past seventeen days fighting for her life, fighting and winning, I should say. Against a mountain of odds, she has astonished us all with a miraculous recovery from a series of dangerous operations. She has done so with all of her trademark humor, tenacity and faith firmly in tact. Her husband sent me a text a couple of days ago with a picture of her scooting around with the aid of a walker. Knowing everything she had endured in such a short period of time, the picture took my breath away. Yesterday Pam received a text from her. It was full of encouragement...for us, along with gratitude for our friendship. Again, a miracle.

So, tomorrow she will attend the shower via technology. Her presence there will be a testament to many praiseworthy things...

1. The incredible skill and tenacity of gifted surgeons.

2. The tender and practiced care of a team of dedicated, compassionate nurses.

3. The love and devotion of her husband.

4. The steadfast affection and loyalty of her children.

5. The selfless devotion of so many of her friends, but in particular, one Kim Davis.

But, it was not only these things. In this particular case, despite the skill and proficiency of the doctors and nurses, there was something else. There were several times early on when the doctors prepared for the worst, their abilities finding themselves up against long and seemingly insurmountable odds. Indeed, her prognosis seemed to shift between grave and hopeless. Her astonishing recovery has all of them baffled, and all of us amazed and humbled. I don’t know enough about the biology and science involved, but those who do can’t fully account for her recovery. Here’s what I do know.

This is a missionary family, a tribe of multigenerational preachers, teachers and doctors who have followed the call of God to serve in Africa and elsewhere. Consequently, the Fort family is known and loved by groups of people literally all over the world, in every time zone, on every continent. When news of her sudden illness began to spread across that world, suddenly, word began to trickle back to Richmond of groups large and small gathering to pray. A pastor in South Korea, a church in Africa, congregations all over America, friends in China. The relentless, fervent prayers of thousands of people went up on her behalf simultaneously in every corner of the world. 

Just as I don’t understand the biology and science, I must also confess that neither do I fully understand the ways of God. I have no explanation for why he chooses to heal some but not others. To say that he is sovereign and is free to do as he wishes will not satisfy the atheist, nor frankly does it satisfy me. Yes, there is science involved here. But the God who created the science, sometimes inexplicably overrules the science. In this case, I believe he did just that. 

So, tomorrow everyone will celebrate the pending arrival of a new and precious life, along with the miraculous preservation of another.

I stand amazed...

Minor Prophet Zingers

Day 67 of Reading Through the Bible in 90 Days lands me in the midst of the minor prophets, which is kind of like an off, off, off, way off Broadway play in the Catskills which a handful of people watch while trying to choke down really dry chicken cordon blue. It’s a lot of the same thing, repeated over and over again...Israel is an unfaithful brood of covenant breaking ingrates and their comeuppance is close at hand. But, as I have discovered at least a dozen times during this exercise, even in the dullest, driest parts of scripture, one skims at their own peril, because if you do, you’re likely to miss this:

Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
18 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,    I will be joyful in God my Savior.

Habakkuk 3:17-18

Would I really..rejoice and be joyful...if I lost everything? I very much doubt it. So, the conclusion is that maybe my faith in God is basically a transactional relationship...he blesses me with abundance, and I believe and have faith in him. I know it’s not that simple, but the whole Job thing has always given me pause. And now the same idea gets thrown at me by this Habakkuk guy. 

So, I ponder all of this and it occurs to me that when Pam and I were young parents and she had just made the decision to be a stay at home Mom, we were as broke and unstable financially as we have ever been...and yet, I’m not sure that we have ever been as close to God as we were during that time. During a season when every month was a struggle to pay the bills, every week a balancing act, our faith was real and sustaining. 

Maybe what makes this passage from Habakkuk sound so impossible is imagining what it would be like now to lose it all, after a couple decades of plenty? Maybe if you don’t have much to lose having consistent, passionate faith is easier. Maybe this is why you don’t see a lot of religious-themed bumper stickers on Maseratis.

The lesson here? Don’t throw shade on the minor prophets!

A Bird’s Song

I’m told that we are only two weeks away from the arrival of Spring. I’m also told that it is always darkest before the dawn. These two rumors seem connected. Glancing at my weather app this morning, I see two snowflakes beside this coming Sunday and Monday. My heart sinks.

It is fair to say that I hate Winter. It has not always been so. When I was a younger man, I loved it, the more snow the better. Now, it is something to be endured. February, always my least favorite month of the year, was terrible this year. It seemed like every day was either cloudy or raining. Now, the whole world is damp and chilly. Shriveled brown leaves cling to the oak trees in my yard. Sticks and pine cones are scattered everywhere from the recent winds. And now...snow’s coming.

Winter is a time devoted almost exclusively to my professional obligations. After 36 years I have developed a routine that front loads most of my client meetings into the first five months of the year. This intentional scheduling allows me the flexibility to travel during the summer months, before ramping up again during the Fall. So, March 7th finds me half way through the busiest, most hectic part of my year. It’s a good thing too since there is literally nothing else to do which involves venturing outside. Dismal low clouds, 40 degrees and misty rain conspire against outdoor pursuits.

But, this morning there is one bird in my backyard who hasn’t gotten the memo. Despite all the dreariness, this guy is perched on a limb singing his heart out, the brightest, happiest little warble you’ve ever heard. No other bird replies, his is a solo performance. Still, he persists with enthusiasm. It’s as if he knows something that nobody else knows. Pam says it’s a Carolina Wren. The more he sings, the more I think perhaps he is a she. Optimism, I have found, is most often a feminine quality.

Regardless, a bird has given me encouragement this day.

Would that we all had such a song in our hearts...

https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=21&ved=0ahUKEwjn24v8mtrZAhXBwFMKHdp6C6QQt9IBCFowFA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D7GLIFUtXj2M&usg=AOvVaw2S-iAh-z4T13Zzkw-0egah

Bob’s Apples

Once upon a time there was a man named Bob who owned an apple orchard. The apples grown in Bob’s orchard were delicious and plentiful. Each year when they were ripe he would take them into town and sell them at the farmer’s market, and each year the people bought all of them, since they were delicious. Year after year this happy tradition repeated itself, Bob grew his apples, harvested them, transported them into town and sold them to his eager customers.

Over the course of time, Bob realized that the people really loved his apples. Furthermore, he was the only apple seller in town. It occurred to him that he could raise the price of his apples and his customers would pay the higher price because A. Bob’s apples were delicious and B. His were the only apples in town. So every couple of years Bob would raise the price of his apples and every price increase was tolerated without complaint by his customers.

Then, one year when he was unloading his truck full of apples at the farmer’s market Bob noticed to his great surprise that there were two other apple stands at the market, filled to the brim with fresh, ripe apples. Moreover, the prices charged by these two new apple sellers were considerably lower than his. But, since he had so many faithful customers who loved his apples, he offered them at the same price as before. When the customers arrived at the farmer’s market, many of them refused to even consider buying apples from these two new apple vendors. But before long, a handful of them wandered over to the new stands and tried the free samples they were offering. They discovered that the new apples were also delicious, not only every bit as delicious as Bob’s apples but 25% less expensive. Suddenly, Bob experienced a 25% decline in sales and revenue. Bob drove back to his farm and considered this new reality.

He spent much time in thought over the winter. What was he to do? His first thought was that he would have to lower his prices. But, he quite enjoyed the lifestyle that his higher prices had afforded him through the years. Then, he considered repackaging his apples to make them more appealing. Maybe he could bake some of them into pies and pastries, or make sauce and cider out of some of them. But, that would require a lot of extra work. The more he thought about his new rivals, the angrier he became. He did some research and discovered that these two new apple merchants weren’t even from the area. In fact, nobody had ever heard of them. Turns out, they were from a neighboring county. It was upon this discovery that Bob hit upon a strategy for dealing with this new, unwelcome competition. 

Bob drove into the county seat and paid a visit to his local magistrate, who happened to be his brother-in-law. Bob explained the situation in detail and presented a plan of action...These guys don’t even live around here. They can’t even vote for you in your next election. And yet, here they are, undercutting me and reducing my profits, and I can and will be voting in your next election. The local magistrate quickly discerned the logic in Bob’s argument, but raised a potential objection...Bob, I see your point, and I am very grateful for all you do for my campaign, but if I punish your competitors, it will benefit you but it will also raise the cost of apples for all my other constituents. Bob looked at his brother-in-law and smiled...True, but last year I gave your reelection campaign a large donation without which your reelection probably wouldn’t have happened. The way I see it, the least you can do is return the favor. Pass a law that requires a 25% fee for all out of state apples sold at the farmer’s market...problem solved.

Within five years, Bob’s competitors had disappeared, his orchard had been decimated by a worm infestation, the farmer’s market had been shut down for code violations, and the price of apples had quadrupled because of acute shortages. But, Bob’s brother-in-law was now governor of the state and had passed a law which guaranteed Bob an Apple price subsidy which paid him not to grow anymore apples.

And this, boys and girls, is the story of tariffs.

The Hex Continues

Last September, Pam and I spent three idyllic weeks in a cottage on Quantabacook Lake in Maine. It was as if we had found the perfect lake house on the perfect lake in our favorite place in the world...midcoast Maine, USA. But then, we came home, and ever since we opened the door to our house in Short Pump, our lives have taken on the characteristics of something approaching demon possession. I’m not one who normally goes in for such things, but the word hex has made an appearance in my vocabulary. The last six months has visited upon us a series of Keystone Cop-style misfortune. Consider...

# An exploding dish washer

# A brand new coffee maker who’s maiden pot featured burning internal electronics

# A week long stay in a hotel which featured a door to nowhere through which poured freezing air 24/7

# A hole in my library wall, put there by piano movers, which took nearly a month to repair

# A failed washing machine which was replaced with a new washing machine which seems incapable of...washing clothes

So, I came up with an idea. My wife and I need to get away. I know what I’ll do. I’ll schedule a couple of annual reviews with my Myrtle Beach clients, and take Pam with me. We can make a long weekend of it. We’ll have a chance to disconnect from our suddenly dysfunctional Short Pump life and bask in the easy pace of the beach. It will be therapeutic, I reasoned. An opportunity to recharge our batteries, I thought. And, I was absolutely right. Right up until the instant yesterday afternoon...when it wasn’t.

Pam gets an email informing her that the lovely $1300 Apple computer she just purchased at the Lynnhaven Mall in Virginia Beach is ready for pick up! In addition to this surprising news, Pam is informed in a rapid-fire series of emails that she has now established accounts with over a hundred stores selling all sorts of cool stuff from Kalamazoo to Kuala Lumpur. These emails came in standard English, but also German, Arabic, Spanish, French, and because identity theft is nothing if not inclusive, Vulcan. 

The next three hours featured my harassed and harangued wife making frantic calls to banks, credit card companies, and internet providers, one such call placed her on hold for over an hour. A police report was filed. Tears were shed. There was no therapy, no basking, no beach. Our daily bible reading from Ezekiel has offered not one verse of help!

By 7:00 last night, she was exhausted and exasperated...and all of us were hungry. We decided that it was probably too late to get a reservation at a nice place, and since we didn’  feel very nice, this was probably a good thing. So, we decided to go low brow, and throw all pretensions of our diet out the window. Right up the street is a local establishment that practically screamed the word Dive!! The name alone was an advertisement...Duffy’s Seafood Shack. Just in case we needed a reminder of exactly what kind of establishment we had just entered, this sign on the ladies bathroom door helped clarify...

The menu was slightly oily and featured all of the artery clogging standards of low country cooking, but their description of shrimp and grits caught my attention by stating that this particular dish was, mentioned in the New York Times!! Granted, it didn’t say what exactly it was mentioned for...cholera? Projectile vomiting? Nevertheless, I took a chance. Despite my recent run of bad luck, despite the very real possibility that I might be under a hex of biblical proportions, I figured that my chances of becoming violently ill from an entree served up at a restaurant that brags of it’s world famous deep fried corn on the cob, were less than 30%.

Best shrimp and grits EVER.

This morning, my stomach feels calm. It’s sunny outside. The wind has died down, and my daughter is in route. What can possibly go wrong?

Stay tuned.

Time To Escape

For the next three days, this will be the view from my back yard. I have business which takes me to see clients in South Carolina, providing me with an excellent excuse for a getaway. This condo belongs to a close friend and he generously lets me use it every year when I go to meet with these particular clients. Pam will be with me. My daughter will drive over from Columbia after work on Friday to spend a couple of nights with us. The weather doesn’t look particularly promising...mid sixties with high winds, not exactly beach weather. But, at a place like this and at this season of life...who cares about the weather? It could be blowing a gale with sideways rain and I still would rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

There’s just something about being on the water that calms the spirit. Pam and I prefer the lakes in Maine, but the ocean is a very close second. It’s peaceful and hypnotic. When you take a walk on the beach, the broad horizon reminds you of how vast is the earth and how very small you are. But something else...it also reminds you how small your problems are, and there is great comfort in that reminder.

You sit long enough watching the waves roll up onto such a massive beach, your perspective will change. The ebb and flow of the oceans are ancient and eternal. Who knows where this water has been? What kind of amazing journey has the shell made that presents itself at your feet? If only it could speak. You stare at the thin line to the East which separates gray and blue and imagine what the children of Portugal are thinking as they gaze at the same line in the West. The sounds, the pounding of the surf, the roll of the waves, the seagulls and sand pipers. Before long you can’t even remember who’s President.

I will take my morning coffee on the balcony, even if it requires a winter coat. I will sit in a chair on the beach, even if I have to wear my Boston Red Sox stocking cap. It will require much self discipline to organize my tax documents while I’m there, although it will be a goal of the weekend. No matter how hypnotic the tides, Accountant Carl simple must have my documents by next week. But, if I must  organize and assemble tax documents, I would much rather do so after a meal of low country seafood. Making lists of deductions to the sound of lapping waves seems much less daunting. The salty air makes everything more inviting, doesn’t it?

Mild Irritants

Yesterday, my patience was put to the test by a series of what can only be fairly described as mild irritants. Nobody committed any crimes, no one set out to intentionally foul my temper, in fact, none of the guilty parties were even vaguely aware of my existence. All of these mild irritants happened while I was behind the wheel of my car...

I was running a bit late, and I hate being late. I had been detained on the phone longer than expected, so I was in a small hurry to get to my next appointment. Many irritating things happen to people who find themselves in small hurries.

The first stop light I encounter after leaving my parking lot is usually backed up, but fortunately I was second in line behind what looked to be a female of millennial age who was driving a Honda Civic adorned with a Feel the Bern bumper sticker. When the light turned green, she sat immobile as a stone, head tilted down towards her lap where she was clearly engrossed in an impassioned text conversation with her BFF about the latest outrage being foisted upon her by the patriarchy. A full five seconds passed, which in this situation is akin to three dog years. I resisted deploying my horn. Surely, she would snap out of it any second. Two more seconds...three, her Olympian-level thumbs still raging at the very misogynistic air that we breathe! Finally, I stood on my horn, at precisely the same instant that several cars behind me had reached their limits. The flummoxed feminist was startled out of her texting tirade long enough to accelerate into the intersection, but not before she gave us all the universal sign of love and friendship.

Two stop lights later, I found myself third in the queue behind a motorcyclist and a driver of a green late model pickup truck with an empty gun rack in the window. This guy didn’t look like the cell phone type, so the prospects of a clean getaway from the light were promising. However, this particular guy had both windows open, (odd, since it was drizzling rain) and had that far away look of someone who is listening intently to someone speaking. His mouth was ajar, head tilted skyward focused on nothing. The wind shifted and I heard the distinct voice of Rush Limbaugh. The light flashed green, and pickup guy moved not an inch, transfixed by some eloquent point about Donald Trump’s latest three dimensional chess moves being made by the man with talent on loan from God. Luckily for me, before I even had a chance to reach for the horn, the motorcyclist began waving his hands wildly and screaming something obscene, which did the trick.

I was now finally on the interstate, picking up speed and seeking my customary spot in the center lane of the three that constitute 64 east from Short Pump to Richmond proper. As is sometimes the case, I soon encountered a fellow traveler who was not keeping up with the general flow of traffic...that is to say, he/she was going slower than me. I then did what I always do when I come up against those insufferable people who insist on doing the speed limit— I deftly swung over into the lane farthest to the left, which everyone knows is called, the passing lane, so named because it’s sole purpose in life is to facilitate drivers who want to pass their slower, less aware and less pressed for time Highway-mates. It was at this point in my interminable commute that I came upon the least mild of the aforementioned mild irritants...the slow poke in the passing lane. This particular one drove some sort of Volvo with one of those Coexist bumper stickers. The speed limit on this particular stretch of interstate 64 is 60 mph. However, anyone who actually goes 60 mph on this stretch of road runs an excellent chance of being killed. Even the losers in the far right lane, ( reserved for student drivers and octogenarians), go at least 65 here. Volvo-guy is chilling along at 58, oblivious. At this point, I’m seething, talking aloud to no one in particular...Dude, if you want me to Coexist with you, you can start by dragging your hippy dippy moonbeam self out of the freaking passing lane!!! Meanwhile, the guy who I thought was going too slow for the middle lane eventually pulls up beside me and gives me an arrogant side-eye as if to say, Good luck getting around Woodstock there. You shoulda stayed in your lane bub...

I was eleven minutes late for my appointment, but managed to bottle up all of the potential road rage. It’s stored somewhere in my subconscious, and will make a shocking appearance at some point in my future when I least expect. It’s going to be quite the fireworks display!

Incoming Mortars

Unless you happen to be a member of a royal family, or a tenured politician, everything I am about to say about life will sound familiar to you. It matters not whether you are of the greatest generation, a baby boomer, a millennial or a generation X-er. All of us who have spent any time on this earth as sentient beings will understand and appreciate what follows.

It has been my experience in my nearly 60 years that life is a series of stages not unlike the life of a combat soldier, long periods of boredom interrupted by short bursts of intense mayhem. An infantryman can trudge along on patrols for days in a monotonous vacuum, then suddenly an ambush plunges him into utter chaos and violence. Perhaps this metaphor is getting stretched a bit, but civilian life can feel very similar. One can go days, weeks, even months where life clicks along like a well oiled machine, then suddenly a series of mortars rain down in rapid succession, blowing the well ordered routine to bits. Consider...

A dear friend falls seriously ill, effecting many people who you love dearly.

You are presented with an unexpected $20+K expense that demands your immediate attention.

Your upstairs air conditioning unit fails and the repairman speaks ominously of coil repairs.

Your washing machine presents evidence of a leak, forcing an unplanned $700 purchase.

One of the ripple effects of your friends illness washes a boarder onto your shores for at least a month.

Your wife is involved in one baby and one wedding shower in a two week period that also includes three members of her family going into three different hospitals for three different operations.

All of this is introduced into your life inside the space of 5 Days.

None of this is unique to me. Many of you reading this have been so buffeted by life’s unexpected slings and arrows. It could certainly be worse. It could just have easily been my wife who fell ill. If so, everything else on my list would be meaningless. As frustrating as all of these things are, none of them represent unbearable burdens. They are simply...stuff that happens. The fact that stuff like this always seems to happen at once, is a profound mystery. But even this might actually be a blessing. Just when you start to feel as if life has begun to bore you...a whirlwind of challenges rain down, clarifying the mind, exhilarating the spirit, arousing the competitive juices. To continue the metaphor, perhaps it’s a bit like Churchill’s famous observation, Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.

So, I will buckle down. I will plot and scheme and gameplan my way out of this. I will brace myself for other curveballs to come. Through it all I will remain grateful that I am surrounded by people who are worth my best efforts.

Conceding Defeat

In the wake of the most recent school shooting in Florida, an intense national debate over gun control has exploded all over social media. I have been a participant and an observer. I read the arguments, some reasoned and articulate, some wild and unhinged. I find myself agreeing with something one minute and then having doubts the next. It is all confounding and maddeningly complex. A perfect example of the complexity can be found in people’s reaction to the revelation that no less than four cops were on the scene of the shooting but refused to enter the fray summarized as follows:

Advocate of gun control: So, four good guys with a gun were not able to stop the bad guy. I think this should put an end to this arm the teachers bulls**t.

Anti-gun control guy: So, four cops were unwilling to come to citizens’ rescue and stop a mass murderer. I think this should put an end to this you don’t need a firearm because the cops will save you bulls**t.

One of the many ideas being tossed around is the notion of arming teachers. The plausible idea is that if each school had its share of randomly, secretly armed teachers, each properly trained and vetted, the kids would have a fighting chance in the event of an active shooter on the premises. Less plausibly, it is suggested that the mere possibility of armed teachers would in itself serve as a deterrent for a psychopath. But instead of getting into the weeds of the effectiveness of such a scheme, I would rather discuss the deeper meaning involved in the idea itself and that is this:

Anyone who is on board with the idea of arming teachers has officially conceded defeat. Your support of armed teachers is an admission that this nation has dramatically failed and is dysfunctional beyond repair.

Think about it for a minute. Try to imagine floating the notion of an army of concealed carry teachers in American schools fifty years ago. Heck, imagine doing so ten years ago. It would have been laughably unserious. (In what universe are employees thought responsible for their own safety while at work rather than their employers??) But now, large numbers of reasonable people are blithely suggesting that it would be a good idea for school teachers to enter the school house fully armed with deadly force. Why? Because everything else has clearly failed. 

First of all, we can’t count on the security guards we hire to actually do their jobs and engage a shooter. We can’t count on the school boards to budget and employ enough security at our schools. We can’t count on the FBI to follow up clear and unequivocal warnings from people who are screaming their evil intentions for everyone to see and hear all over social media. We can’t count on our police or judges to enforce the laws we already have on the books which make it more difficult for psychopaths to obtain weapons. We can’t count on our politicians to even consider crafting any new restrictions on the sale of semi automatic weapons. We can’t even get them to agree on tougher background checks for such purchases. We can’t count of Hollywood to stop glorifying gratuitous violence. Nothing seems to satisfy our insatiable appetite for bloodier and more sadistic video games. At each and every step along the rocky path that has led us to this point in our history, the systems that we citizens count on for protection...have failed. So now we think...Ok, let’s arm the teachers.

Here’s what arming teachers means to me. It marks the end of American Exceptionalism. It calls into question my full throated embrace of the concept of individual liberty. It makes me question whether of not our constitution has become a suicide pact. When a civilization gets to the point where the physical safety of its school children is in such great peril yet no remedy can be agreed upon because it might infringe on some wackos ability to purchase a military style rifle, then something has gone terribly wrong. But, there can be no liberty without responsibility. Self government doesn’t work without self discipline. If we as a people cannot come together to craft a compromise on guns, we will deserve the violence that will continue all around us. When the next massacre of innocents happens, all of us who failed at this moment will have blood on our hands.

I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t know what specific law or combination of laws are the right ones to enact. Some might do more harm than good. But, here’s what I do know. The status quo is killing us.

My Kingdom for a Hyphen

Each morning since January the 1st, I have begun each day by opening the 90 day bible reading app on my iPad and pulling up the day’s reading assignment. Today was no different. But what I found made me laugh. My daughter, the English teacher and grammar scold will surely find this real world example of the vital importance of proper punctuation enlightening and entertaining.

So, when I open the app, the first thing that pops up is this screen...

You find today’s date and click on it, and up pops the assigned passage. For example, for today, Friday, February the 23, I discover that I am to read from Isaiah 66:1 to Jeremiah 8:22. But, when I click on it, here’s what I find...

I find only Isaiah 66:1 and Jeremiah 8:22. Confused, I go back to the first screen and discover the error. Instead of using a hyphen between the two passages, they used a colon. 

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we should have paid better attention during English class! The entire day’s assignment laid waste for lack of a proper hyphen. Details matter...

A Touch of Grace

Yesterday was a long, torturous day of alternating waves of hope and despair. My friend still fights. 

To many people, the world seems driven by the forces of luck, chance and coincidence. Indeed, our very existence is explained as a random collision of molecules. Whenever we experience some serendipitous encounter we think, what are the odds?...or, how random was that? Sometimes, people of faith overhype every such encounter as divine intervention...Hey everybody,  Jesus appeared in my toast this morning! But, every now and then, I believe that what the world describes as coincidence bears a striking resemblance to the hand of God. You are perfectly free to disagree with me on this point. We can still be friends.

This morning was one of those times. Yesterday, after watching an amazing family grapple with the specter of death, after reading snippets of news throughout the day about the passing of Billy Graham, after witnessing the power of faith to sustain people in the darkest hours, I open my Read the Bible in 90 Days app an hour ago and what should pop up but the 53rd chapter of Isaiah. Of all the places to be in scripture, the one Old Testament passage that describes Jesus Christ in such beautiful and stirring detail. Impeccable timing. Billy Graham devoted his life to preaching his message, my friend’s life has been devoted to his service, and the family has bet their money and their lives on the truth of his Gospel. And this morning, of all the places I could have been in such a vast and often confounding book, I land on this spot, this powerful, stirring spot...

53:1 Who has believed what he has heard from us?

And to whom has the arm of the Lord been revealed?

2 For he grew up before him like a young plant,

and like a root out of dry ground;

he had no form or majesty that we should look at him,

and no beauty that we should desire him.

3 He was despised and rejected by men;

a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;

and as one from whom men hide their faces

he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

4 Surely he has borne our griefs

and carried our sorrows;

yet we esteemed him stricken,

smitten by God, and afflicted.

5 But he was wounded for our transgressions;

he was crushed for our iniquities;

upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,

and with his stripes we are healed.

6 All we like sheep have gone astray;

we have turned—every one—to his own way;

and the Lord has laid on him

the iniquity of us all.

7 He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,

yet he opened not his mouth;

like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,

and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,

so he opened not his mouth.

8 By oppression and judgment he was taken away;

and as for his generation, who considered

that he was cut off out of the land of the living,

stricken for the transgression of my people?

9 And they made his grave with the wicked

and with a rich man in his death,

although he had done no violence,

and there was no deceit in his mouth.

If you prefer to assign this coincidence to chance or the quirks of fate, that’s fine. But for me, it feels like...grace.

News That Staggers

There is news that staggers you, not news of politics, business, or some celebrity, but word of a dear friend taken suddenly, grievously ill. A certain disorientation falls over you upon hearing it, as if it can’t possibly be true. Didn’t we just have lunch last week? They seemed so happy, appeared so healthy. You are taken aback by the dramatic arrival of calamity. The mind gets rocked with questions. Why this should happen to one so virtuous? Why do the worst, most despicable people in our world seem to skate through their unremarkable lives without this sort of trauma? You know that it’s not really true, but it seems that way when something bad happens to those you love.

Wasn’t it just yesterday when our 90 day bible reading project landed us in Isaiah? Hadn’t we just read these humbling words...

 Scarcely are they planted, scarcely sown,

scarcely has their stem taken root in the earth,

when he blows on them, and they wither,

and the tempest carries them off like stubble.

So, we are staggered by the news. But, the good doctors work hard. It is left to the friends, we helpless friends, to pray and provide what comfort we can summon for the family. In our prayers we are aided by the fine character of our friend. We have much to brag about where our friend is concerned. God couldn’t possibly find a better, more deserving person to heal. 

And then, there’s this. Despite how small and insignificant we feel when confronted with verses like the one quoted above, there is always a glimmer of hope, and when we find it we are overcome...

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you have set in place; What is man, that you should care for him? You have made him a little lower than the angels and crowned him with honor and glory.

Jesus in America?

Over the weekend, a gun control debate broke out on my Facebook wall. It was mostly my fault, since I was the one who brought up the subject. As is often the case in such social media debates, it was a rambling affair, with many chased rabbits and its fair share of non sequiturs. But, at one point a friend of mine offered this observation:

Let me ask this hypothetical question to everyone on this thread as it appears most of which profess to be Christians...if Jesus were alive today living in America, do you think he would be a gun toting, NRA member, and AR-15 owner? The Jesus I read about doesn’t seem like the type.

Of course, my immediate response was deflecting and pithy...Maybe not, but he might be pretty handy with a sling shot.

However, the more I think about my friend’s hypothetical, the stranger it seems. Jesus Christ, alive today, living in America. Imagine.

First of all, he would have to get here, and being a swarthy middle eastern man, that might prove a challenge what with no fly lists. But assuming he could manage that, then he would have lots of other challenges. An itinerant carpenter with no fixed address, no possessions, and a band of 12 equally transient followers sound like the textbook definition of a sleeper cell to me! Add to this mix his tendency to practice medicine without a license, the manufacture of alcoholic beverages without a license, and his disturbing habit of associating with the underclass, and I’m thinking the FBI’s dossier would get thick in a hurry.

To my friend’s point, no, I can’t imagine Jesus being an NRA member or owning a firearm. But I can’t even imagine Jesus living in America either. But, the point of his question is flawed because it attempts to enlist him as a prop in a political debate. We all assume that we are on the side of the Angels, and what better proof than shoehorning Jesus into your political theories? In his three year ministry on this earth he had multiple opportunities to rail against the corrupt, brutal occupation of the Roman Empire, but he failed to do so. But that hasn’t stopped both sides of the American political spectrum from claiming Jesus as their champion. From the left we hear that Jesus was an avowed social progressive, his admonition to take care of widows, orphans and the poor a clear endorsement of the modern welfare state. From the right, Jesus is proclaimed the original pro-lifer, and author of our devotion to God rather than the state. But then I see that grotesque painting of our Lord and Savior, ghost-like, his vaporous form hovering behind Donald Trump, guiding the pen in his hand as he signs some bill in the Oval Office...and I shudder at the horror of such a thing.

The truth is, attempts to co-opt Jesus Christ into political service is a fool’s errand. Politics is the business of coercion, the building of coalitions, the cobbling together of imperfect compromises, a grubby exercise of temporal power plays designed to exploit every human emotion into a political movement best expressed by that most vacuous phrase...the personal is political. The gospel, by contrast, doesn’t much concern itself with the corporate, but rather tells of Jesus standing at the door knocking, of leaving the 99 to pursue the 1 who is lost, of being stirred by one troubled soul touching his garment amidst a throng of people crushing against him. While his teachings can and should inform our beliefs about politics, the savior himself isn’t a political spokesman, and attempts to make him one are doomed to failure.

Rocks vs. Guns. Let’s Have This Debate!

I have run across the following photograph more times than I can count since the Florida school shooting...

It is always accompanied with the caption: Cain killed Abel with a rock. It’s a heart problem, not a gun problem. Then comes the scripture reference of Jeremiah 17:9...

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?

Ok. Listen up people...I am not a gun zealot by any stretch, either way. But, this argument is specious and a classic example of trying to be too clever by half. Let’s deconstruct this reasoning, shall we?

Human beings have been killing each other for all of human history. The Prophet Jeremiah was onto something, the heart is indeed wicked. However, are the people who post this sort of thing trying to suggest that guns don’t matter? 

Suppose that Nikolas Cruz had entered Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School armed with a bag of rocks as opposed to an AR-15? Does anyone seriously believe that we would be dealing with 17 dead teenagers? Tools matter. If I were tasked with cutting down a tree in my back yard and was offered a choice between a paring knife or a chainsaw, my choice would be an easy one. And while it is true that the paring knife turned against another human being could become a deadly weapon, the job of killing another human being is made manifestly, inarguably easier with the right tool for the job...a gun. Further, if the goal is to kill as many humans as possible, as efficiently as possible, that task is made still easier with the right gun...an AR-15. Yes. Cain did kill his brother with a rock. If I were mad enough, I could kill someone with a coat hanger. The issue with semi automatic rifles like the AR-15 is the sheer killing power they present to the unhinged mind. If every deranged psychopath had to content himself with a bag of rocks to act out his murderous fantasies,   we would not lead the universe in dead school children. Besides, despite the potential for death that exists by being hit upside the head with a rock, school children aren’t kept awake at night by visions of rock throwing deviants in their midst. 

I have serious misgivings about the effectiveness of the various “gun laws” that get proposed after each of these horrific shootings. In my opinion, anything short of confiscation would only be marginally effective, if effective at all, and confiscation could only be accomplished by amending the constitution, if we still consider ourselves a nation of laws. Nevertheless, to dismiss any attempt to fix this epidemic of gun violence with such a logically flawed argument like this rock vs. gun photo is rediculous. To add insult to injury, enlisting a bible verse as an ally in such a moronic effort just makes it infinitely worse.

If Nothing Else, I Can Serve as a Bad Example

Have you ever done something really, really stupid? I mean like something transcendently dumb, so epically careless as to defy comprehension, a blunder of incandescent incompetence? Well, pull up a chair and listen to my latest...

Ok, so I am a signatory of three checking accounts at two different banks. One is a business account from which I pay all of the expenses associated with running an office which I own with my partner. Once a month, I make a deposit into this account from rent bills I send out to everyone in our building. Once deposited, my assistant then pays the monthly bills associated with Richmond Financial. Simple enough.

Well, yesterday I wrote my own check for my share of January’s expenses from my personal checking account. The amount of the check that I wrote I took from the billing statement that my assistant had left for me, since she was away on a well earned vacation this week. The problem arose when I wrote a check based on December’s billing statement. Just before I was going to leave to make the deposit, I noticed the error. So, I wrote another check, this time for the correct amount...then rushed off to deposit the checks before the bank closed. Unfortunately, I neglected to rip up the first incorrect check, which remained hidden in the stack of checks. So instead of depositing the right check, I deposited both checks.

This morning, at 6:05 am, I was greeted with a disturbing ping from my iPad informing me that my personal checking account was overdrawn by an alarming amount. (It ain’t cheap operating Richmond Financial). Imagine how surprised you would be if your automatic mortgage payment that comes out of your account on the 15th of every month suddenly doubled up on you? Then imagine how angry you would be when you discovered that it wasn’t because of a bank error, rather, it was a human error...that human being YOU!!

My weekend is off to a rousing start!

My Long, Strange Day On Twitter

I’ve been on Twitter since 2012. I don’t have many followers, and I don’t follow that many people. Although I publish all of my blogposts on Twitter, I don’t often post much of anything else. I use it mostly for keeping up with people or things I find interesting. I follow people like Jake Tapper and Jonah Goldberg...and, of course, Andrew Freiden, ( everyone follows Andrew, right??)I also follow The Far Side, so I get a new cartoon every morning. It’s relatively entertaining, actually, since it features some of the most unhinged people you could ever hope to meet, if you go in for that sort of thing. But today something really bizarre happened that I still am having a hard time wrapping my head around...

Ok, early this morning during my routine news roundup,  all I read about was the horrific mass shooting in Florida. I began thinking of how many times over the past ten years or so we have read similar stories. It’s heart breaking, infuriating, and depressing. Once again I felt the familiar frustrtion that nothing would change, that despite wall to wall coverage for a day or two, we Americans would eventually move on to some new outrage and the status quo would remain intact. Then I logged on to Facebook and summarzied my thoughts this way:

Quick quiz: Do any of you remember Stephen Paddock? No? He was the guy who killed 58 people in Las Vegas just 4 months ago, already forgotten. So too will Nikolas Cruz be forgotten 4 months from now. Such is the state of the American attention span and the casual routine of mass shootings in our country.

Then, almost on a whim, I decided to post this thought on Twitter. I cut and pasted, only to discover that the Twitter format would not accept the entire paragraph...so I cut off...and the casual routine of mass shootings in our country. I hit send and then stepped into the shower. By the time I got out of the shower, my phone was pinging off the hook, one notification after another in rapid fire succession. I picked up the phone and thought, what the heck is all this?

To make a long story short, at this hour, that simple, innocuous observation has been viewed over 260,000 times. It has been “liked” 3,400 times, and retweeted 1500 times. At this point nearly 90 people have felt moved to comment and their nearly unanimous verdict is that I am an: idiot, ignorant, moron, dickhead, dipshit, and turd...the first three indictments possibly true, the last three up for debate. The objections to my Tweet fall into several categories. The first one is a legitimate point of contention, ie.. that we shouldn’t remember the killers in these mass shootings, only the victims. This is a fair and valid point. The fact that I used the Las Vegas shooter’s name merely as a proxy for mass shootings in general seems to have gotten lost in translation. Then there were those who vehemently denied having forgotten a thing about Las Vegas, and me pointing out America’s short attention span was beyond the pale. Here, I feel to be on more solid ground. We have endured so many of these killings, it would be almost impossible not  for them all to become muddled in our heads at this point. Then there were those who felt compelled to refer to me with scatological descriptors...which I kinda enjoyed. I had particular fun pointing out to one of my detractors that , in point of fact, “dickhead” was one word, not two!

In my almost 60 years of life I have written many things. I’ve written far better sentences. I’ve said things far dumber, far smarter and certainly more controversial than this in my life, but nothing has ever provoked so much reaction. Nothing else has even come close to this. I suppose it’s true what they say...there’s no accounting for taste.

I stand by my Tweet. Maybe it’s intent would have been clearer if the last few words from the Facebook version had been included. Or maybe not, since subtlety isn’t a concept that mixes well with a platform like Twitter. But, just in case anyone out there is still confused...I am horrified by each and every mass shooting in this country, but I’m not overly optimistic that anything substantial will be done to stop any of them anytime soon... no matter how temporarily outraged we all are at the moment. 

Life Without Labels

Words and ideas, like fashion, fall out of favor over time. Bell bottom jeans used to be a thing. Now, jeans are mostly skinny. Having a gay old time might carry a different meaning today than it did when it was a lyric to the Flintstone’s theme song. The term fiscal conservative used to carry real meaning. Over time the meaning of words can change, turning once innocuous expressions into loaded, fighting words. But, just because the public perception of a word, phrase or idea may change, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. There are times that I want to reclaim the English language, to rescue it from its bastardized torment. However, this is a job which is much bigger than I am. So for now I can only wish that certain words didn’t carry around such baggage...

I want to enjoy the benefits of wealth without being thought of as wealthy.

I want to live out my Christian faith without being considered religious.

I would like to advocate for a less intrusive and oppressive government without being labeled a conservative Republican.

I would like to support a more humane and compassionate immigration policy without being branded a liberal Democrat.

I would like to enjoy golf without it being assumed that I must be a member of a country club.

I wish to continue reading tons of books every year without being thought a book nerd.

I would like to be more careful about what I eat without becoming a food Nazi.

I want to continue to work out and take care of my body without succumbing to vanity.

I want to experience the wisdom that comes with age without getting old.

I want to develope greater empathy for others without turning myself into an easy mark.

I want to demand professionalism and accountability from law enforcement without being accused of being anti-police.

I want to be able to condemn lawlessness, violence and thuggery wherever it exists without being called a racist.

I want to continue to be an unrepentant baseball fan without being dismissed as old school.

I believe that wanting American troops brought home from their foolish deployments isn’t the same thing as isolationism.

I want to cultivate more generosity in my life without becoming a spendthrift.

I want to strive for consistency without it turning into stubbornness.

Desiring to keep more of my hard earned money instead of having it confiscated by the government does not mean I’m greedy.

The Search Begins

Yes baseball fans, it’s that time of year again, time to get past the last remaining hurdle before the full throated beginning of spring training...Valentines Day. Long time readers of this blog will recall my checkered past with respect to this particular day. I have shared with you many times my epic romantic failures down through the years, including but not limited to...my many card shopping difficulties:

https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2017/02/the-card.html

And...

https://doug-thetempest.blogspot.com/2017/02/me-and-george.html

This year will be no different. Although I have already purchased her gifts, I have been putting off card shopping, delaying the inevitable as long as humanly possible. Even though I figure that my chances of buying her the exact same card as she buys me again are infinitesimal, that does not mean that I’m not capable of some other ghastly choice. I must remain vigilant against complacency. If I let my guard down for even a second, I might come home with one of those seven page pop up cartoon cards and all will be lost!

Of course, this Valentines Day is more fraught with peril than most because it happens to coincide with Yoga Night, and you know what that means. Yes, I’m in charge of dinner. I think it safe to say that jambalaya will not be on the menu. I will take special care in seeing to it that dinner consists of something besides starches. No rice and rice combinations, no bean soup with a side of baked beans. I’ve learned that lesson.

Here’s the thing...as hard as Valentines Day is to pull off, my wife is so worth my best effort. Even after 33 years, she’s still the most enchanting, unfathomable woman in the world to me. I still feel compelled to try my best to impress her lest she wake up with a start and realize she has made a horrible mistake! So, over the next couple of days I will rummage through the poetic offerings at Hallmark looking for some combination of Shakespearean sonnet and Lord Byron love verse suitable for such a woman. 

Wish me luck!