Monthly Archives: October 2005

Addressing dressing

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I must be creeping up on “old coot” status given my topic yesterday and what’s on my mind today, but I’m going to go with it anyway.

There has been a bit of a flap the last couple of days about the NBA’s new dress code for players when they are on “league business” which includes road trips, traveling to and from the arena, being interviewed and sitting on the bench in street clothes. Some players and commentators have complained that this is a racist policy since some of the apparel that is expressly banned are the hats, medallions and jerseys associated with the “hip-hop” culture and more frequently sported by black and minority players.

On the face of it they would appear to have a point; if the league were to, say, ban plaid pants, Izod shirts and deck shoes there might be a group of players who felt they were being singled out. Furthermore, I’m a big fan of personal liberty and I seek out the kinds of clothes that make me comfortable when working in the office or my back yard or hanging out.

The players are making a mistake in this case, however, and it’s a mistake that is all too prevalent throughout our culture and not just the NBA, which is why I’m bothering to write about it. The mistake the players are making is thinking that it’s all about them when it’s really all about business. In the scenarios covered by the dress code the players are “on the job” and representing the league and their respective teams.

While it may be ironic to require dressy clothes in a business where the official uniform involves baggy shorts and tank tops, the league has a – shall we say, “vested” – interest in having its players look more professional in the corporate sense since most of the money that pours into the league has corporate connections. While corporations are themselves dressing more casually these days, the salespeople at my company wouldn’t dream of calling on a customer without dressing appropriately as a sign of respect for the people who we want to give us their money. What it boils down to when entering the boardroom or leaving the locker-room is wearing clothes that say “I care what other people think.” Fundamentally it is a question of respect; something that many of the players should identify with because they insist upon (as they should) when other people are dealing with them.

This is the same issue that I see with many people in our culture today. Case in point: last weekend I went to a wedding of some young friends of mine. While a wedding is a happy occasion there is also a certain solemnity to the event. That afternoon I finished working in my yard, went inside and cleaned up and put on slacks, dress shirt, sport coat and a tie. Almost all of the young people at the wedding and reception (with the notable exception of my own children) looked as if they had simply put down their rakes and come directly to the ceremony. I’m not talking humble but clean clothes here; I’m talking blue jeans, wrinkled tee-shirts, sometimes covered by rumpled, unbuttoned work shirts. Oh, there were three young ladies wearing flamboyant prom dresses, meaning they knew it was a special occasion, but were unaware that it’s bad form to be flashier than the bride.

I wasn’t that offended given that it could have been worse, but I did feel sad that a significant portion of the generations coming up are either not hearing, or not receiving, guidance on how to act respectfully when it is required. Dress isn’t the be all and end all of course as there are some people where you can dress ’em up but you still can’t take them anywhere, but the same attitude demonstrated by these young people in their attire also carried over in other behavior. Almost invariably, for example, these youths continued to talk and cavort with each other during the prayers and various toasts to the new couple.

Granted, I came from the flower-power generation that codified the blue-jeaned, bathing-optional look and style. I also had not a few disagreements with my parents on what I wore. Rather than marking me as idealistic and down-to-earth, however, my philosophy then merely indicated my callowness. I don’t write this to glorify insincerity or saying we should judge books by their cover. My point is that the essence of getting along is to get over our “me first” attitude and think about how our actions and attire convey our attitude toward others.

Yeah, yeah, I know: I’m just proving that I’m getting old. But really, I’m not that old. It’s just that I’ve learned …. excuse me for a second –

HEY, YOU KIDS! GET OUT OF MY YARD OR I’M CALLING THE COPS!

Curses!

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Heck is for people who don’t believe in Gosh.

So says a magnet on a shelf in my office at work. I use the magnet to cover the pointy tip of a screw that sticks out into the room at elbow height due to faulty installation. It has been known to snag or scratch the careless as they enter my 10′ x 10′ turf. I don’t want visitors to get “screwed” so I cover the offending tip, which also cuts down on swearing.

I was thinking about this magnet and my office scenario yesterday as I read a syndicated article about kids today replacing the heavy-duty curse words with alternate but similar-sounding versions that the article described as “Cussing Lite”. Words like “freakin'” or “friggin'” are in the lexicon, and it’s apparently – according to the article – now socially acceptable to use words like “crap” and “sucks” in church or in advertising and not just when trying to twist a rusted nut of off a bolt or when a dam breaks (snicker, snicker – I said “nut” and “dam”!)

“Cussing Lite” isn’t a new concept, of course. Heck, darn, shoot and gol’dangit have been with us for generations and, as a certain children’s book assures us, “Everyone Poops”. Back in W.C. Fields’ day he used expressions such as “Godfrey Daniels!” and “Mother of Pearl!” to get past the Hayes Commission. Go even further back and the medieval exclamation “zounds”, which sounds so quaint today, was a contraction of “God’s wounds”, which was pretty heavy duty for the time, I’m sure.

It seems we always need a group of words to express above normal dismay or frustration in order to show we truly are shocked or agitated without stepping over into the scorched earth territory of full-bodied swearing. Of course, if the phrases are all too common it’s hard to achieve the effect you might have been trying for. My own children have adopted phrases such as “barnacles!”, “tarter sauce!” and “sweet onion chutney!” to get past the home censors. When my oldest started going to beauty school she was in a group of foul-mouthed girls who’s language, sadly, wasn’t too uncommon (in fact, it was exceedingly “common” to use another quaint phrase). When my daughter would let fly with a “pickleweiner!”, however, her friends could be sure she was taking it to another level.

In a time when comedians have to work bluer than blue to achieve anything approaching shock value I suppose I should be glad there is still a sensibility that says there should be lighter weight epithets. (I remember how hard I laughed the first time Gilda Radner, as Emily Litella, first said “b***h” to Jane Curtin; now that it’s every third word out of a rapper’s mouth the effect is wearying.) Generally, however – while I have my own struggles with my tongue at times – I think we can do better.

This is especially so when we are writing and have time to think and craft our thoughts. Sometimes a bad word, judiciously placed, can be very effective for the situation; even for this to work, however, the button can only be pushed rarely. Last week my eldest wrote an emotional post for this blog which I reviewed before uploading. In one place she selected a certain word, mild by today’s standards, for a one-word sentence to emphasize her feelings. It was effective in the context, but I didn’t want to let her off easy. “Think of another word,” I said.

“But Dad, that’s the word I feel,” she said.

“Feel a little deeper,” I said. “Don’t tell me that out of all your vocabulary that is the one and only word that sums up your distress.” She pondered. She furrowed her brow. She smirked and came up with another word. I laughed and let it go in. A point I’ve tried to make with myself as I try to control my own tongue, and that I’ve tried to pass on to my kids, is that the Bible says that “out of the fullness of the heart, the mouth speaks.”

When it’s time to open our mouths, what do we tell the world we are full of?

It’s not what you think

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The issue of abortion and Roe v. Wade has been the elephant in the hearing room in every judicial hearing since President Bush came into office and is front and center in the Harriet Miers nomination. In my view, in fact, Roe v. Wade was the catalytic event that lit the slow-burning fuse that ultimately launched terms such as “strict constitutional originalist” into our awareness. The Miers brouhaha has led to several thought-provoking (well, provoking anyway) posts on abortion that I’ve read recently such as here, here and here. It has also led me to ponder the way my own thinking has changed over the years.

Some background: I was a lusty 14-year-old boy when Roe v. Wade overturned the law of the land and made abortion legal. Looking back now I can see it as an event that separated me from my innocence as I started to make my way into the adult world. Innocence was lost because this was the first time that I recall letting my head overrule my heart in determining how I was going to run my life.

Some more background: I was raised in a mainstream Christian denomination that taught salvation through grace rather than through decision. When I was seven, however, my parents let me go to a vacation bible school course with my best friend. There the teacher said that if anyone wanted to earn extra credit we should watch the Billy Graham crusade on television that night and then make a report to the class the next day. Extra credit was always encouraged at my house, so I raised my hand. That night when Reverend Graham invited anyone who wanted eternal life with Jesus to stand up and come down front, I scarcely hesitated. Sure I was in my own basement, with my mother ironing on the other side of the room, but I stood up, walked to the TV and repeated the prayer. I figured if God was God, he’d get the message, and I followed my heart.

When I was thirteen, my parents let me stay overnight with another friend and go to a Bill Glass crusade with my friend’s Webelo pack. I thought I was going because Bill Glass was a former football player, and I loved football. I’m not sure if I remembered my TV experience then or not, but I again answered the altar call and made my way backstage from the second tier of the arena. There I was surprised to see that Mr. Martindale from my church was one of the counselors. We prayed and he gave me a workbook and then came over to my house once a week for six weeks to go over the six chapters in the book. About all I remember of the book is that I usually waited until the last 15 min-utes before Mr. Martindale arrived to whip through that week’s lesson.

So there I was at 14, hearing that abortion was legal and thinking, “All right! There’s one less reason for a girl not to have sex with me!” (Ugly, callow and shallow, to be sure, but there you have it: portrait of the writer as a young man.) At the same time I was thinking that, my heart was going “Ewww! How could anyone do such a thing?” It took a lot of mental gymnastics to overcome my unsophisticated heart, but I managed. By God’s grace, I was thankfully never put in a position where I had to put my new belief into practice.

Flash forward to December, 1987. Newly restored to God, and newly married, I watched the monitor intently as the ultra-sound traced my wife’s stomach, finally revealing a three-week old head, arms and hands, right where they were supposed to be (it was supposedly medically impossible for her to become pregnant). At once my heart soared while my mind plunged to its depths and pleaded, “My God, forgive me!”

Jump forward another decade or so and I was reading a StarTribune columnist (no longer with the paper) who also happened to be a pastor from the same denomination in which I grew up, relating how she was advising a member of her flock to have an abortion. I remember the writer described herself as someone “in the trenches” where there were no “hard and fast” rules when a woman’s life is concerned. Rather than anger, I felt a piercing sadness for her and for those under her care. It occured to me then that there’s a difference between a trench and a pit, and how important it is to know which one you’re standing in.

The unpleasant truth is that there are hard and fast rules for every situation, whether we choose to follow them or not. The struggle comes in trying to figure out a reason in our heads why the rules we know in our hearts don’t apply to us. Doing so, however, leads not to peace but to other, more desperate, situations that also have hard and fast rules — and even harder choices.

More painfully, I saw my former self in that columnist and realized that I didn’t have to ask how someone could be so deceived because I already knew. And then I had to ask the logical, but oh-so-difficult question: “God, what is the lie that I’m still believing? Where is it that I still let my head decide the way things really are as opposed to what’s in my heart and in your word?” I know the answers are there waiting, if I really dare to look.

In the final sifting of heart (what we believe) and mind (what we think), it’s not what we think that is going to matter.

Update:

Psycmeistr has succinct take on the Miers situation and the sentiment that conservatives must be loyal to the Party and the decisions of the leader:

Since the beginning of the Miers nomination debacle, we have been hearing from the “the elite Republican Priesthood” that our CIC, the head of our party, has made a decision, and that we need to be good little foot soldiers and fall in line. To that, I politely say BUNK!

…Folks, we live in the United States of America, under a government “by the People, of the People, and for the People”, not “by the Party, of the Party, and for the Party.” Ours is a bottom-up government, not top-down, and the rule is by the consent of the governed.

Further, while I would like Roe v. Wade overturned – and Ms. Miers may share my personal belief – the decision in this arena must be overturned because it is bad law and outside the intent of the Constitution, not because it is perceived to be immoral. That is why a constitutional originalist interpretation is more important than an evangelical one on the Supreme Court. If it comes down to the personal beliefs of whoever is on the court at any given time, then the judges become no more than bizarrely dressed politicians themselves.

Threesies meme

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Here’s the “Threesies” meme I’ve seen at a few places lately, most recently at Mitch’s place.

Three Things I Do Not Understand:

  1. Women’s shoes
  2. The appeal of cats
  3. Putting politics ahead of principle

Three Things On My Desk (Work edition):

  1. Several piles of paper
  2. Several piles of magazines
  3. A notice from the Fire Marshall

Three Things I’m Doing Right Now:

  1. Uh…writing
  2. Thinking about what I’ll write about tomorrow
  3. Laundry

Three Things I Want To Do Before I Die:

  1. Win my fantasy football league
  2. Meet Mark Kennedy (see here)
  3. Make amends to somebody I once hurt badly

Three Things I Can Do:

  1. Write faster than anyone who can write better
  2. Write better than anyone who can write faster
  3. Rip-0ff A.J. Liebling

Three Ways To Describe My Personality:

  1. Droll
  2. Mellowing
  3. An acquired taste

Three Things I Can’t Do:

  1. Algebra
  2. Sing
  3. Ignore memes

Three Things I Don’t Think You Should Listen To, Ever:

  1. A once in a lifetime opportunity
  2. Me, when I’m not fully awake
  3. Any stories people from my college days want to tell about me

Three Things I Say:

  1. What?
  2. Rat farts
  3. Neee!

Three Things I’d Like To Learn:

  1. Woodworking
  2. To play guitar
  3. A second language

Three Beverages I Drink Regularly:

  1. Coffee
  2. RC cola
  3. Aquafina (and absolutely no Dasani – it tastes to me as if it has been collected from an oily puddle on an asphalt driveway)

Three Shows I Watched As A Kid:

  1. Batman
  2. The Green Hornet
  3. Laugh-In

Three Things I Wish People Would Learn To Do:

  1. Drive at normal speed in a light rain
  2. Dress appropriately for the occasion
  3. Realize that it’s not all about them

Some game

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Note: The following blog is a teensy bit late, due to the author being unavoidably detained by her various endeavors. If you are reading this, please pretend that it is Friday. Thank You!

I just learned something new about myself Wednesday. I like hockey. A lot.

Wednesday night I went to my very first Wild game. It was so exciting! You can just feel all the adrenaline pulsing in that ginormous place. It is sooo much more interesting than golf. You get to scream for your team when they score a goal, and you get to scream at the other team no matter what they do! And if that wasn’t enough to scream about, Bertuzzi was playing on the opposing team which got everyone even more riled up!

It was an awesome game. 6-zip? Oh, yeah, we beat their butts into the ice. And Bouchard’s penalty shot? Cloutier didn’t even see it coming. Sieve! Sieve! Sieve! What a way to kill their confidence! I wish that it could’ve lasted.

Let’s see… Wednesday’s game, I was there, and they won. Tonight, I wasn’t there, and they lost.

Am I the only one who sees a pattern here?

Anyway, I can’t wait to be able to go again. Screaming is way fun!

On Target

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Last spring I described the plans the United Food and Commercial Workers Local 789 were hoping to implement in their effort to unionize the new Target store then being built in West St. Paul. The strategy called for a “groundswell of opposition,” as reported in the StarTribune at the time.

The goal is to create a groundswell of opposition to Target before the West St. Paul store reopens this fall as a SuperTarget, said Bernie Hesse, a union organizer with Local 789 of St. Paul, which represents 7,500 workers in the Twin Cities area.

“We want to have people in those stores, organizing, on the day it opens and we want the [West St. Paul] community to support us,” he said.

The new SuperTarget opened last week and it appears there has been a groundswell, though perhaps not what the UFCW was hoping for. I’ve been to the new store three times so far. It may be more precise to say I’ve been on the premises three times because once the parking lot was so full that I couldn’t find a place to park for my quick errand so I whipped over to the neighboring WalMart store. On the two occasions I actually made it indoors the store was teeming with folks, none of whom appeared to be carrying picket signs. Meanwhile the staff, though a little harried, did not appear to be straining against the cruel oppression of management.

Perhaps the Mall Diva, a former employee in the store’s previous incarnation on this site, will go undercover for us and talk to some of her friends who have returned to work at the new store and report what, if anything, is happening.

Meanwhile, there are just 71 shopping days until Christmas.

Oh, those three little words

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I mentioned the other day that my wife and I just celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary. Yay! Now, I might be biased but I think this has been a spectacularly successful collaboration and I hope that my wife would agree. I do know that one time she told me that she thought we were doing so well because “we say those three little words to one another.”

“Oh, you mean, ‘I love you,'” I replied, while my mental computer started frantically searching for the last time I had told her that (I knew her mental computer could spit out time, date, ambient temperature and what she was wearing).

“No,” she said, “not those three words. I mean the three words, ‘I was wrong.’ It’s because we’ve been, if not exactly willing, at least able to come to each other and say that when necessary.”

Now, it could be my wife gives me more credit — or grace — in this area than I deserve (I thought I was wrong once, but I was mistaken), but I have learned how important our words are to our marriage; especially the right words. I’m reminded of something that comedian Rob Becker said in his “Defending the Caveman” monologue: “It’s been reported that the typical woman speaks 5,000 words a day, but the average man speaks only about 2,000. So when a husband comes home and doesn’t have anything to say to his wife it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her; it just means he’s out of words.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever quite run out of words, but they may come to me easier than for other men. As a public service to the guys, then, here are some more three-word sentences you can use to say important things our wives need to hear without going into verb debt. Starting with the basics:

  1. I love you.
  2. I was wrong.
  3. Please forgive me.
  4. You look great!
  5. Let me help.
  6. I’ll clean up.
  7. That was delicious!
  8. That was incredible!
  9. You deserve it.
  10. Don’t get up.
  11. Let’s eat out.

I’ve found it is also useful if I start as many sentences as possible with the three words, “I really appreciate…”

One thing about words, however, is that they can knock down just as easily as they can build up (sometimes even easier). Therefore, here’s a list of three word sentences you shouldn’t say:

  1. You did what?
  2. Not my job.
  3. I told you.
  4. What, meatloaf again?
  5. I give up.
  6. What’s wrong now?
  7. You ready yet?
  8. You blew it.
  9. Don’t wait up.
  10. Where’s my dinner?
  11. Where’s the remote?

I’d also advise that you try to eliminate any sentences from your life that begin with the three words: “If only you’d…” or “My mother always…”

It’s been my experience that working on the first list, while avoiding the second, is bound to have a positive effect on your marriage without blowing your word count. In fact, the more we can work the first list into our regular conversation, the more likely it is for us to hear our wives say three-word sentences such as, “What a guy!” and “Come her, Bubba!” and the less likely we are to hear, “Hit the road!”

Update:

On a related note, Joatmoaf at I Love Jet Noise promotes a series of helpful classes for men and a glossary of words that have different meanings depending on whether you are a man or a woman.

Shock and awful

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I go to school in Hastings, where there has recently been much talk about the murders of a couple: Peter and Patricia Niedere. Initially, I was a little curious; I mean, c’mon. It’s Hastings for crying out loud!

So, I knew that a couple was murdered by their son and one of his friends.

This morning when I came downstairs for breakfast, my dad slides the Strib over to me and asks me if I know that they arrested another kid involved with the murder; which in itself was strange because he didn’t know that I knew anything about it.

So I looked. The headline said “3rd teen is held in Hastings slayings”; and there were the pictures of three teenage boys.

The third face was familiar.

Oh, yeah, I recognized it. It was a face of a boy I had gone to kindergarten and 1st grade with. I checked the name to be sure. Jamie Patton? Yup. I practically had a fit on my dad, who was still a little skeptical. *sigh*. Okay. Turn the page. Skim through it a little ways. Here we go, the proof I was looking for: “…attended Calvin Christian School…” The school I went to in said grades. Oh. My. God.

How would it feel to wake up one morning to find that a little boy that you had ridden to school with, played games with, went to Dairy Queen with, that you haven’t heard from ever since you switched schools — is involved in a murder conspiracy? It would feel like a little piece of your world had just crumbled and hit the ground. Sheol! The year our school had Noah and the Ark as the school play, he and I were the two zebras together!! We were pretty close, especially considering that boys have cooties!

I know I’m not very closely connected at all, but at one time, he was a part of my life. I kinda wish I could’ve talked to him before this whole situation ever took place, if only just to find out what he’d been doing with his life before he basically chucked it out the window. I guess I’m a little confused but no one’s going to give me an explanation. Not that I really need one, money was involved, after all. Would he even remember me?

Today I dug out my sheet of kindergarten pictures, and there’s his picture, right next to mine.

Murderer? You wouldn’t think so.

Dead ship floating

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I’d heard a couple of comments at work today about an incident last week where some Vikings players had acted in an unsavory manner on some charter boats on Lake Minnetonka. In this community we’re all too used to reports of drunken driving, assaults and unruly behavior in public with this club so the context of the comments today were along the lines of what “our” chuckleheads had gotten themselves into now.

Driving home from work, however, I heard for the first time details of what allegedly had happened as KFAN host Dan Barreiro interviewed an attorney representing the charter boat service. This was much more detailed and explicit than what had been reported so far. The gist of it was that Viking players (not necessarily the team itself) had chartered two boats and arrived at the dock in a parade of limos. A number of women accompanied the players and once out on the lake there was some disrobing and lap dancing. This evolved into several of the players engaging in sex acts with the women in the public areas of the boat and in view of other players and the crew of the boats. Money was seen changing hands. The crew included young waitresses who were themselves accosted, offered money to participate and teased by these players and their “dates”. The situation was reportedly very frightening to the crew, staff and captains who consulted with ownership on the radio and decided to return to shore. They were concerned with having to deal with many large, unhappy men so they didn’t tell the group they were returning. Because several of the players were also in the control rooms of the boats the captains (young men between 25 and 30 years old) were afraid to give too many details to ownership about what was going on. The limos had remained at the dock so the charter boat owners organized these for a quick pick up and there weren’t any reported incidents when the boats returned. Some of the players apologized for their teammates actions.

There’s certainly a lot to be outraged about in the world today (especially considering the Mall Diva’s post above this one), but for some reason this situation especially turned my crank. That maybe doesn’t say a lot about my priorities when there are so many things of national and international importance to comment on, but I’ve just got to let it fly on this incident.

It may be because I can picture myself being the father of one of those waitresses (hmmm, but not of the other “ladies”) and I can imagine how scary it could be to be trapped in that charged atmosphere. I can also easily imagine the concerns of the captains knowing they were navigating at night on deep water with a group of very large, very strong and unruly men who might not be in a mood to be reasonable. The possibility that they were overreacting – and that the attorney was overplaying the scenario – exists, but it doesn’t sound that far-fetched to me. And I think this behavior has reached a tipping point – for the franchise and possibly for sports in general as this becomes (I predict) a national story in the coming days.

New Vikings owner Zygi Wilf has to take immediate and dramatic action — not to save this season, but to save this franchise and his investment. The players — whether on an officially sanctioned team event or not — have shown no accountability or concern for the public. A public, by the way, that they are expecting to come up with tons of money to build them a new stadium. (Perhaps we ought to consider building another prison instead.) Given this team’s history, ranging from Tommy Kramer and other drunks terrorizing the 494 strip in the 80s up through the infamous Artic Blast event and including the domestic incidents and street-fighting of even more recent vintage, Mr. Wilf needs to put a strong and undeniable stamp on his professed committment to making this a class organization.

There were reportedly as many as 17 of the players involved in this incredibly inappropriate public display. There are 12 weeks left in this season. Mr. Wilf needs to announce that beginning this week two or three players from this group will begin serving two-game suspensions without pay for conduct detrimental to the team and the entire organization, and that these rolling suspensions will continue until every player involved has been suspended. Forget whether or not any of these actions can be proved to be criminal; this isn’t a time for technicalities. These actions in and of themselves have a negative impact on a multi-million dollar operation and its standing and goodwill in the community, and this is the perfect opportunity to demand accountability and establish that things are going to be different. If the team loses, so be it. Mr. Wilf has indicated that his is a long-term view and he wants to operate it in a way that makes his family proud.

Do it, Mr. Wilf, and make us proud at the same time.

Me used to be angry young man

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18 years ago today I woke up alone. Even my dog, faithful companion of 11 years, was already encamped at someone else’s house and I had the misty, overcast morning entirely to myself. I took a few moments to listen to the familiar sounds of my house that I knew could never again sound quite the same. I knew there was activity already set in motion in homes and hotel rooms around the city as those near and dear to me took on their assigned tasks or chosen activities. I had a list of my own, but took the time to reflect on what was also being set in motion in the spirit. In a few more short hours I would be married.

The past 18 months had been a time of constant changes for me in almost every area; emotionally, occupationally, spiritually. Some of these steps I had (I thought) initiated myself in deciding how I wanted to live. My noble selfishness wouldn’t have taken me very far, however, and then this other person came into my life. I had a job where I could buy graphic design services. Unknown to me, a lovely woman was just getting started in her own graphic design business. Her pastor asked another member of their congregation, a man who sold high-end commercial printing, to give this young lady a list of names of prospective clients. Though I had never met this man, or even purchased printing from his company, my name was at the top of the list of ten people that he gave to the woman. Of those, I was the only person she called who agreed to meet with her. And my motive was more to pick the brain of someone starting a business since I was considering doing that myself. The rest, as they say, is history – and her story, too (which would make for some damn funny reading) – and the details of a very unlikely courtship which would take several postings to explain, but I’m not going to do that now.

That gray morning, however, I found it easy to imagine myself on a distant mountain top, standing under the interested eye of a watchful God, for the last time being scrutinized as an individual entity, my past packed lumpy and heavy into an ungainly backpack that constantly threatened my balance. By God’s grace I had made it that far, in that moment realizing that my position was only a vantage point and not the end of a climb.

I breathed deep of the rarefied air, heady with the scent of the unknown. Did something, perhaps, stir in that backpack as I slowly lowered it from my shoulders? Did a plaintive voice mew a last appeal? I cannot say, for my spirit leapt away like a balloon no longer tethered as the pack crunched into the dirt behind me.

My spirit free, and of my free will, I left that place to go to where the people who loved me, and whom I loved, waited. The long drive down from the north to the church put miles between me and what once was.

In the last 18 years I have lived in the bounty of a loving God, manifested in a loving wife and every miracle of life supplied in abundance. Never has an hour passed that I have wished for it to be any other way.

Happy anniversary, my love.