Category Archives: Night Writer

Of friendship, and courtship

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by the Night Writer

There have been some questions, since Ben and Faith (the Mall Diva) announced their courtship last week, as to what courtship is, and — if they’ve agreed to be married — how come they don’t just say they are engaged? Actually, what they’ve agreed to is to look at the possibility of being married. Over the course of their courtship they should both come to know whether the possibility can be a reality. I want and expect both of them to post more about courtship and their experiences going forward, and I won’t dig into what can be a complex topic here and now. I think this will be a more useful discussion if it comes from their perspective.

What I would like to do, however, is describe the process of friendship, wherein they both came to the place where courtship became a possibility.

As described last week, it was a little over a year ago when Ben expressed his hope and intention to one day be in a position to marry my daughter. At that time they had already known each other socially for about a year. They were not, however, at a level where a courtship could begin, which essentially was what Ben was asking for permission to do. Given the difference in their ages and circumstances, Faith’s mother and I thought it best that they learn to be friends first – — to find out if they could realistically and truthfully put the other person’s best interests ahead of their own. This model of friendship is found in the Bible, and was the basis of a post I first offered here back in 2005 (when maybe 20 people a day were stopping by). I’ll repeat it below, with minor editing (many of the links originally included have since fallen away). At the time, though we had witnessed it in other people’s lives, it was still mostly theory for us. We have now seen it take hold in “real life”, to the point where we could see the evidence in their lives and give our blessing for the courtship stage to begin.

On being a friend

…This got me to thinking, however, about the far less titillating but every bit as devastating romantic tragedies that happen all around us. Even, dare I say, in our own lives. My wife and I have been very blessed and happy in our 17-year marriage, but we both experienced emotion-searing, even mind-altering damage in our single days (stories for another day, but don’t count on it).

As we look to what may be ahead for our daughters, we’ve come to realize that the dating culture of serial monogamy and mini-divorces is not a good way to find a mate for life. And that’s based on our experiences from 20 and 30 years ago in the more idealistic days of the sexual revolution. With our oldest being of “dating” age, my wife and I naturally want better for our daughters than what we subjected ourselves to when we were their age.

Back then, at least, the culture expected couples to adopt the appearance of having a relationship. Now even the minimal commitment to someone else needed to simply make a date is optional in today’s hook-up culture among teens and older singles. Somewhere along the line “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” went from being the height of selfishness to the point where merely throwing in the “thank you” passes for gentlemanliness. The glorification of sensation has ironically desensitized a significant part of a generation, and I can’t even picture how much “enlightenment” is required to make this look like a good thing.

Even in evangelical circles the challenges are severe for parents with an eye to preparing their youth for healthy, happy marriages. The book “Best Friends for Life” by Michael and Judy Phillips includes several case studies of kids who grew up in “churched” families and dated other “churched” youth and eventually married – and then crashed and burned. Though each example had different characteristics, the common thing I saw in each was the parents really had no vision of what they wanted for their kids or what was acceptable – or if they did, they didn’t communicate it. In many cases they gave in to the predominant dating model and were simply glad that their son or daughter was dating another Christian. As a result, the youngsters also fell into self-centered relationships in which they may have been physical, but they were far from intimate.

Is there another option? Well, I admit that the locking them in a tower until they’re 30 plan has its strong points, but that doesn’t do anything to prepare them for a strong marriage either. Our plan is the opposite of isolation, both the isolation of the tower where they are separated from others and the passion-induced isolation of being a couple where they separate themselves from others. We’ve encouraged our daughters to have a group of friends they can count on and do things with as a group. Boys can be a part of this group, and are even encouraged, but no pairing up. The idea is to determine who can be trusted to be a friend – and not who just wants to get friendly.

What are the standards for friendship? The Bible lists some good ones (New Living Translation):

    • Friends are few (Prov. 18:24) – “There are ‘friends’ who destroy each other, but a real friend sticks closer than a brother.” We know the traditional concept of what a brother is, but think about what a brother is to a woman. A brother is someone who will stand by you and stand up for you because he wants the best for you, not because of what you can do for him.
    • A friend lays down his life (John 15:13)“And here is how to measure it–the greatest love is shown when people lay down their lives for their friends.” A friend puts your needs and well-being above his own.
    • A friend loves unconditionally (Prov. 17:17) “A friend is always loyal, and a brother is born to help in time of need.”
    • A friend speaks the truth in love (Prov. 27:6)
      “Wounds from a friend are better than many kisses from an enemy.” A friend will tell you what you need to hear, again because he wants what is best for you. Someone caught up in infatuation or what he thinks is love will keep quiet so as not to jeopardize the physical aspects of the relationship.
    • A friend encourages you and is sensitive to your needs (Prov. 26:18, 19) “Just as damaging as a mad man shooting a lethal weapon is someone who lies to a friend and then says, ‘I was only joking.'”

 

If true friendships can be established in a safe environment where the emotional stakes are not as high, then the ground is prepared for a possible courtship with an eye toward marriage. In a true courtship, both partners learn to trust the other with more and more of their innermost thoughts, wishes and emotions. This relationship is the key to a successful marriage. Most modern marriages fall short of genuine intimacy due to a distorted cultural image of romanticism that expects immediate intimacy. Too many want to jump right to the courtship stage simply because the other person is cute or a “hottie.” This might make for lovely wedding photos (or great tabloid covers) but is not much of a foundation for a lovely marriage.

I may appear pretty smug and overconfident seeing as how our oldest is just entering this dynamic time, but the rules and expectations have been set down and discussed for several years prior to this, and we do have wonderful examples in the lives of other parents and young marrieds we know who have crossed these waters ahead of us.

Truthfully, I don’t expect it to be easy, but right now the relationship my wife and I have with our children is still the most important in their lives aside from the relationship they are developing with God. And part of our responsibility in this relationship is to prepare them for a relationship with God and for a loving and godly relationship with their spouse – and ultimately their own children who they, in turn, must train. It won’t be the easiest course, but given what else is out there, I know it is the safest.

There’s no questioning the depth of feeling between Faith and Ben and the sincerity of their intentions. They will, however, face significant issues in the time that is before them. Difficult, even painful, decisions, must be made. Because of the foundation that has already been created, however, they are better prepared to shine.

A Balm in Gilead, part 3: children

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The third in a series that is part writing exercise and part year-end reflection,
about the “balms” in my life, inspired by the book, Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.

In Gilead, the Rev. John Ames reflects back over a long life that, while full, did not include the opportunity to watch his children grow up. He lost his wife and infant daughter while still a young man and later, as an old man with a heart condition, knows he is unlikely to see the 7-year-old son of his much later marriage turn 8, let alone 28. As such he easily ascribes gracious expectations of their character and what they might have, or will have, accomplished. The memoir he is writing, in fact, is intended for his son to read after he has become a man, meaning that the wisdom and explanations in its pages will have largely been unavailable to the youth in his formative years.

Not that the Rev. Ames is naïve. He has watched, often helplessly, as his best friend’s son has careened from one mischief and misadventure to another. That the man is also named after him further cements the empathetic anguish he feels for his friend’s fatherly agony and embarrassment. Young Jack, like most of us, is a man of more conscience than character, with a fatalistic dread of his shortcomings. Both he and his namesake have a sincere desire to reach each other, but are constantly confounded by their own missteps and the other’s misinterpretations.

The good reverend, however, never had the opportunity to convene a meeting in his parlor, to rest his own arms regally on the wide, wooden arms of his patriarchal chair, to fix a steely eye on an anxious young man across from him and, as I did, state the question, “What, good sir, are your intentions regarding our daughter?”

365 days ago today…

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…the inspiration for the following post was created, though it didn’t appear here for a couple of days.



One of the things about blogging is that occasionally you can do a little self-indulgent interior-monologuing:



We were bombing down the interstate the other day, the Mall Diva in the driver’s seat, cruise control, good visibility and dry pavement laid out straight in front of us just the way the engineer drew it up. We were going fast, perhaps a little faster than allowed, but the road appeared to roll by languorously with the green highway signs occasionally marking progress as the numbers to our expected destination got steadily smaller.



Life is often like that. It goes by fast, but you get so used to it that you hardly notice. The signposts — birthdays, events — come and go pretty much as expected, letting you know you’re getting closer to whatever is ahead, and large sections of it (at least when you get to be my age) are flat and straight. Every so often, though, you come to a curve; a big, sweeping change of course. You’re still on the same highway, still going the same place, it’s just that this is “the way” and you follow it as the compass (and sometimes your tummy) swings around. It’s not unexpected, if you check the map you’ll see that the curve is clearly marked, but you might be surprised to find that you’ve come so far, so soon.



It just takes the slightest turn of your hands to stay on course; similarly a simple thing, such as a short conversation, can mark a turning point and the familiar road starts to look a little different. Our family swept into one such curve the other day. I’m talking about life, not the highway, but the natural inclination is still to let off the gas a little, slow down, maintain control — if I were in the driver’s seat, that is.



All in all, it’s a good thing, but — sorry to be a tease — I can’t write any more about it at this time. Actually, I think I’m going to write plenty (this, for example) as I sense that a very philosophical vein has been tapped; it’s just that I don’t expect to post any thing further about this particular subject for some time. Everyone is well, everything is secure — did that last sign say anything about there being a rest area up ahead?



Tomorrow will mark the 365th day since an important milestone was passed. Come back here then for more details.

A balm in Gilead, part 2: wife

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The second in a series, part writing exercise and part year-end reflection,
about the “balms” in my life, inspired by the book, Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.

“We should talk more,” she said, her bare foot lightly brushing mine. She’s logical and practical in a way that some men say they wish women could be more like. There’s wisdom and concern in her words, a concern that perhaps we’re becoming too autonomous, rising and setting like the sun and the moon covering the same familiar ground but at different times, our orbits barely overlapping. Nevertheless, sometimes during the day, you can see the moon.

Earlier in the evening we had talked, sitting in big, comfy chairs in front of a too-hot fireplace at a local coffee shop. Then her motions had been gamine-quick, almost coltish as she reached across the small space between our chairs and stroked the arm of mine, or raised up to draw her legs underneath her, or raised her arms to take off her sweater when the fire became too uncomfortable even for her, the one who shivers almost non-stop from Labor Day to Memorial Day. She was telling me about her dreams, literally. Those fast-asleep dreams she had had recently, round and portentous, dripping with symbolism and still crystal-clear upon waking. To some extent they were also Dreams, having to do with what she wanted for the future, to pursue.

As for myself, the one who used to never be able to shut up, I had leaned back in my chair meditatively, parsing the symbols and conjuring context. Leaning back is something I’ve found myself doing more often the last few years; I’m not as concerned about letting silence into the conversation anymore, whereas before I often couldn’t wait to careen in and even high-jack it, not daring to leave a space where someone else could take it away.

Now, later in the evening, when she says “We should talk more,” it’s not so much to say that the talking earlier was fun, but that we don’t have as much fun as we used to have, or could have, and she sees the need to stay in practice. She looks ahead, imagines the inevitable empty nest. I imagine her considering the old buzzard sitting on the other side of that nest. What do the sun and the moon do once what has been your world goes away? “Ummm…” I say.

When we had first gone out I was nervous and had babbled, which I tend to do if I’m nervous. Fortunately, few things make me nervous anymore. Then, however, I had nearly blown it with my chatter, trying one conversational gambit after another looking for a favorable response, some traction. My best stories and jokes, my wittiest observations, littered the top of the table at the restaurant like dirty dishes. So I shut up, and things got better, because she had some things to say, too.

One of the things she said, some time a bit later, was, “Look, I don’t want to lead you on. You’re nice, but I believe God is preparing Mr. Right for me, and when he comes along, you’re out of here.”

Okay, so I have been nervous.

In Gilead the Reverend Ames reflects, with some wonder, over the circumstances that brought his young wife — and ultimately the son to whom he is writing — into his life. A widower who lost his first wife in childbirth and his infant daughter shortly thereafter, he had lived most of his adult life as an outside observer and counselor of the family dynamics taking place around him, covetously (he admits) watching the relationships that appeared to be denied to him, until these, too, overtook him.

I have only half-jokingly said that I was smart and got my trophy wife first. I didn’t have to wait until old age, like Rev. Ames, to know the comfort of a wife and family. And it is a tangible balm.

My wife and I first met in April, 1986. We went on our first date in June. By late September we were engaged (though we didn’t marry for another year). Once, as she and I were clearly getting serious in our relationship, a concerned friend of mine (who had known me for years) drew her aside to urge caution, warning her of the dark moods that were known to come over me from time to time. These moods were not imagined, and during those times, I confess, I was not a good friend. I remember these moods well. Strange, I don’t remember having one since I married.

Once, not too long ago, I was teasing her. “Oh, you’re definitely high-maintenance,” I said, citing how particular she is about the ingredients in the food we bring into the house, her taste in clothes, the way she likes things that concern her to be “just so.” She was not amused, which suggests that there are still times when it is better for me to keep my mouth shut, especially if it gives me time to think. And as I thought about it I quickly realized that almost all the maintenance she requires is handled by her. She rises early for her physical and spiritual exercise, the burdens of selecting and preparing the foods we eat fall upon her, her fastidiousness in her appearance reflects well on both of us with little involvement from me. About all I have to do is avoid shrinking her jeans in the wash (difficult, because I like tight jeans on her) and bring her favorite towel up from the laundry on Saturday night and hang it on the rack above the bathroom radiator (I’ve also ceded this premium towel position to her). Further, since I am almost pathologically detail-averse, she manages the details that keep our household running smoothly, from balancing the checkbook, paying the bills and (usually) putting the things I need out where I can find them or won’t forget them.

She does all of that, and somehow still desires my attention and conversation.

We should talk more.

Related Posts:
A Balm in Gilead, Part 1: Life and Death
A Balm in Gilead, Part 3: Children

A balm in Gilead, part 1: life and death

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I’m just about finished reading one of the most profound and moving books I’ve come across in (at least) the last 10 years: Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. In fact, the only works of fiction that have affected me as much as this book are Mark Helprin’s A Winter’s Tale and Alan Lightman’s Einstein’s Dreams. Listing these three books in one paragraph makes me realize that, though they are very different, they all revolve around the nature of time and place, the nature of man and the nature —as Lightman/Einstein would put it — of “The Old One.”

Gilead is set in the mid-1950s in Gilead, Iowa and is written as a letter from an elderly pastor to the young son who came to him very late in life and who he knows he will never get to see grow up and become a man. The pastor, Rev. John Ames, has lived his entire life in Gilead, pastoring the church his father pastored before him. Ames is, in fact, the third generation of preachers in his line. His grandfather was a firebrand abolitionist in Kansas, known to preach with a pistol stuck in his belt and thought to have ridden with John Brown and, perhaps, to have killed a federal soldier who was pursuing the Reverend’s band of insurgents. He railed against the spiritual complacency of the “doughface” Christians who could tolerate slavery and warned of God’s judgment on the nation as a result. He fought in the Civil War and lost an eye in the conflict.

Ames’ father was the complete opposite, a dedicated pacifist who saw the 1918 Spanish Flu plague, in the midst of World War I, as God’s judgment on a mad world. Nevertheless, the father took in the aged grandfather when he had no place to go, giving the young Ames a chance to observe their respective theologies and the dynamics between the men, even though the surest sign of a disagreement between them was their use of the title “Reverend” when addressing one another. Also factoring into this narrative are Ames’ older, apostate, brother; Ames’ lifelong best friend, Old Boughton, who is the pastor of the Presbyterian church in Gilead; and Old Boughton’s prodigal son, John Ames Boughton (Jack), who was named after the narrator and who consumes a great deal of the old man’s thoughts and fears as he lays out what little legacy he has to offer his seven-year-old son.

The plot, such as it is, progresses much as an afternoon float trip does, meandering slowly around bends and through shady places as Ames unwinds the story in such a way that you don’t readily realize how much ground has been covered, while leaving you with a vague unease about what rapids or waterfalls might be ahead. I am continuously charmed by each page and awed at the grasp that the author, a woman, has on the inner-workings of a man’s mind. I could have read the book in an afternoon, but I have purposely drawn out the pleasure by allocating myself only a few pages a day to read and ruminate upon.

Now, if my purpose in this post was to offer a book review, I’d hope that my words so far would inspire you to seek out the book yourself (indeed, I do). But that is not the purpose of this post, despite the paragraphs that have come before. Instead, the book has stirred something in my own inner voice, and in my mind, to record some of the thoughts I’ve had of late, some of which have come along of their own accord and some that have been brought forth by the book, and many that are a bit of both.

Going out in a blaze of luck

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As I noted last week, I was playing in the championship game for my fantasy football league, and that following the game I would be retiring from this pastime.

My toughest lineup decision going into the game was whether to start LenDale White or Brandon Jacobs to complement Ryan Grant (and who would ever have imagined that sentence back on draft night in August?). The fact that I was in the championship game itself could almost qualify for “News of the Weird” since my first three draft picks (picking 9th in a 10-man league) had been Travis Henry, Steve Smith and Jacobs; people who follow the fantasy game will know that this was not an auspicious beginning considering the way season played out. I felt a certain sentimentality toward Jacobs because I had predicted such great things for him at the beginning of the year, but I thought I detected a true death stink over the Giants team and feared he might go down the tubes with his squad, so I started White. And then Jacobs scored 18 points in our scoring format, sitting on my bench. This type of thing is one of the interesting agonies of playing this game and, perhaps, one of the quandaries I will not miss.

I thought it would be an ironic farewell to the game if I lost, but it turned out that my opponents (a two-owner team) were “enjoying” those interesting agonies in spades, as nearly every lineup move they made — based on solid reason and intuition (and pretty much the same moves I would have made)— blew up in their faces. My seven starters, even without Jacobs, scored 59 points. Their six “bench” players totaled 61, while their starters managed just 29.

I could say, “I love it when a plan comes together,” but it’s more of a sense of relief than sweet victory. I retire now with back-to-back championships under my belt, some satisfaction, and a healthy curiousity as to what comes next.

Santa drives a tow-truck for Triple-A

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The Mall Diva went out of town overnight with some friends last Sunday, leaving her car parked on a St. Paul street outside the house they all had left from. Sunday evening St. Paul declared a snow emergency, and the owner of the home notified the Diva that her car could get towed if it wasn’t moved.

No problem. She called home and asked if someone could get her second key and drive over to her car and move it. Well, one problem: neither she or anyone here knew where that second key was. A messy search of all likely and unlikely places was fruitless (and keyless). Hmmm, what to do?

Just leave it and let the city tow it? No, the towing fee and the ensuing impound fees (since she wouldn’t be back until Tuesday morning) made the expense prohibitive (not to mention incredibly inconvenient).

The car has a keypad door lock; perhaps I could get a couple of people, we could go to the car, open the door, put it in neutral and push it into the driveway? No, the car couldn’t be shifted without a key in the ignition.

Wait a minute, we have family coverage from Triple-A for our cars! I called the company and inquired about getting a tow on a snowy night when there had to be lots of cars in ditches. Sure, they said, they could get a truck over there in three, maybe five, hours but they’d either have to tow the car to a garage or back to our house; they couldn’t tow it 25 feet into a private driveway.

So be it. Now we just had to hope that the AAA driver got to the car before the city driver did. As it was already about 10 p.m. we’d have to go to bed and wait until morning to see who won.

Waking up Monday morning, it was with Christmas-like anticipation that I went downstairs to see if there was something in the driveway. Hallelujah! Peace on Earth! Good will toward men! The Diva’s car was nestled in the driveway, in front of the garage door, leaving just enough room for me to back my car out and get around hers! Better yet, not even a parking ticket! Best of all, the towing was free under our AAA plan!

Others weren’t as fortunate.

The end of an era

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I started playing Fantasy Football in 1984, back when Cliff Charpentier’s fantasy season preview was the Bible of preparation, even though it was little more than a compilation of players ranked by the previous season’s statistics. We tried to track our scores from tantalizing snippets on the evening news and had to run outside early Monday morning to grab the newspaper in order to check the box-scores by hand to find out if we’d won or lost. Walter Payton was my first-ever first-round draft pick and I finished out of the money that year.

Things have changed a lot since then. Fantasy Football is a billion dollar business and every channel with a football game but Fox runs continuous individual player stat lines across the bottom of the screen to help you keep track. Not that it’s necessary, because there are multiple services and websites that keep score in real time and I merely have to look over my shoulder at my computer screen to check the score of my fantasy game while I’m watching a real game. Oh, and for the third time in the last four years, my team is playing in my league’s Fantasy Bowl this weekend (as I write this I’m already down 12-0 since my opponent had Ben Roethlisberger playing Thursday night).

Win or lose, this is also going to be my last game.

It’s not that I’ve grown bored with my success or with the game. For the last 23 years I’ve been in at least one league every year, and often as the Commissioner. To some extent it’s been a year-round hobby as I’ve tried to stay on top of off-season moves and their implications and overall it’s been an interesting and often passionate pastime. I’ve always enjoyed the combination of luck and skill required to build a winning record: the pre-draft preparation and hunches on who were going to be the best players in the coming year, the way the best-laid plans could be thrown out the window by capricious injuries, and how you had to hustle to come up with alternate plans and players as a result. This year, however, it has all been more of a chore for me than entertainment.

To some extent it may be due to those nagging distractions called “life” getting in the way. My personal life has had a fair amount of tumult since last spring that left me with relatively little free time to dwell on football, and little inclination to do so when I could have. I think the biggest issue, however, has become the carnage on the field.

As I said, luck and injuries were a wild card in every season and something you simply expected (hoping that it wouldn’t happen to your team) and accepted as part of the randomness that made the game entertaining. Somewhere along the line, however, it started to work on me that these injuries weren’t just an inconvenience I had to work around, but something tangible, painful and even devastating to the real person involved. Not that the existence of fantasy football contributed to these injuries in any way, but it started to bother me that this was my “entertainment.”

Strangely enough, the turning point wasn’t a football injury. Last summer when pro wrestler Chris Benoit killed his family and himself there was a lot written about the wrestling culture and steroids and about how many wrestlers had died young or had serious personal problems. There was a lot of media hand-wringing about who was to blame — the promoters, the personality types drawn to being wrestlers, the lifestyle, etc. No one seemed to touch on what seemed to me to be the obvious: if people weren’t paying out big money to watch the shows, go to the events and buy the merchandise then there wouldn’t be the incentive for the performers to try to make a name and physique for themselves, travel 300 days a year and resort to drugs to buid themselves up and to ease or mask the pain and debilitations that came from being a human torpedo. As I self-righteously scoffed at wrestling fans for being enablers I had a chilling revelation of my own fandom.

No, it isn’t fantasy football that’s driving young men to seek fame and fortune in exchange for their bodies in the NFL (speaking as one who gave up a knee playing the game for free), but my attitude has shifted and I don’t know if will ever go back. I still enjoy watching the game and the big hits, but I can feel myself pulling back.

I made my “retirement” announcement to my league at the end of our regular season, before our play-offs, so the rest of the owners can start thinking about finding a replacement Commissioner now, when the season is at it’s peak, and not in the dog days of summer. I received a very gratifying email from one of the owners thanking me for the entertainment value I brought to the league (via weekly game summaries) and asking me to reconsider. In the message he said my passion and commitment would be missed and couldn’t be duplicated. I told him that I thought the passion and commitment may very well be duplicated by someone else — I just knew that I couldn’t duplicate it any longer, and that was the surest sign that it was time to hang it up.

It’s been a bit odd going through these final weeks as I’ve advanced through the play-offs. I’ve caught myself filing away mental notes about players for next year out of habit before realizing, wryly, there won’t be a next year. Oh well, wish me luck this weekend! I’ve got a 12-point deficit to make up and a decision to make of which two players to start between Ryan Grant, LenDale White and Brandon Jacobs, all while praying for good weather in New England so Randy Moss can catch three touchdown passes.

Other than that, it’s back to reality.

A ghost of Christmas programs past

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The Mall Diva’s Christmas program, Eclectica, went off as scheduled last Sunday before a packed house that included my mother who flew in from Missouri. The show was great with the only flubs being the charming ones that somehow make a show a more personal experience for everyone. Oh, and a couple of young angels from the manger scene got stage fright and refused to go on, but I’m sure it was noticeable only to their parents and the cast.

Of course, it all reminded me of the many Christmas programs I had participated in as a child, especially since I had my mom sitting next to me. The first one I can remember (barely) was when I was three or four and it must have been at an Air Base where my father was stationed. As I recall there wasn’t a stage as such, just something like a gymnasium floor with rows of seats in front of the performance area. I can remember sitting in a chair at the back of the “stage” while other acts performed before my group got to do our thing. I have no idea what our act was, but my parents caught my solo performance as I waited…casually picking my nose. Hearing about it often afterwards helped keep that in my memory banks.

My next solo was in kindergarten when our class of 12 performed “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. I was “Five golden rings!” I also couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, which makes me think that perhaps my kindergarten teacher had some kind of twisted sense of humor. After all, she also assigned the kid with the lisp the part of “Seven swans a’swimming.” It’s safe to say we brought down the house.

But the one performance I’ve especially been thinking about the last few days came when I was in fourth, or perhaps fifth, grade, when my dad was out of the service and we were living in Indianapolis. It was at Harrison Hill Elementary, either in Mrs. Boaz’s class in 1968 or Mrs. Zinn’s in ’69. The Viet Nam war was going on and I remember our teacher, whichever one it was, telling us that a local soldier had written a poem (he may have even been a former student of hers), and that it had been set to music and that a group of us boys were going to sing the new song in the program. Pretty cool beans for a bunch of boys at that time, especially for my best friend Trey and I, because it meant we could wear our toy army helmets and bring our guns (I was especially proud of my Thompson submachine gun replica). We practiced that song for several weeks, and I remember it was a pretty grim one. It didn’t seem much like a Christmas song at all, but the teacher said that it was going to fit into the program.

This show was just going to be a passing reference as I recounted some other programs, but I remembered the opening lines of that song and started wondering who the author was and what ever had happened to him. With the power of Google I searched the opening line:

“Take a man and put him alone, put him 12,000 miles from home.”

To my amazement, I found the poem on several websites, including that of a sometime commenter here, joatmoaf’s I Love Jet Noise. None of them had an author name, but several included the citation that it was found in the pocket of a dead Marine in the Quang Tri Province, June of ’69. Joatmoaf listed the whole poem, although updated for Iraq. The first verse was pretty much how I remembered it, though:

Take a man and put him alone,
Put him twelve thousand miles from home.

Empty his heart of all but blood,
Make him live in sweat and mud.


The rest of the poem doesn’t register with me, though it does seem even grimmer than what I remembered. Definitely not Christmas program material. While I don’t remember all the words of the song we sung, I know they weren’t happy ones. I do remember what happened next. The emcee of the program was a sixth-grader, dressed as Santa Claus. He’d been a great and jolly Santa all evening, but this time he came out, as planned, and spoke to us “soldiers” kneeling on the stage. He said that once upon a time there had been a young family with a new baby that hadn’t even been able to find a room in an inn and had had to give birth to their son in a stable. He said that even though things looked bad for them, they had had hope. When he finished his speech we exited backstage while an adult came up. As I led our small group down some steps I heard the adult say that the author of the poem was in the audience that night, and I heard a loud round of applause. I never did see or meet him. The show continued with Christmas carols about the newborn king.

Viewed through the fog of nearly 40 years, it almost seems like another world. Indeed, a world where kids could wear army gear and bring toy guns into the building, and where a Christmas program could mention the Savior and sing songs about His birth. It is also almost surreal that I could have been that close to the origins of what some might consider almost an urban legend in our internet age. The dead marine in Quang Tri might be apocryphal, but I remember what our teacher told us and I remember singing that song, and I remember the soldier being introduced, even if I never saw him.

I wish I had been able to shake his hand.

Nothing to see here

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Driving to a dentist appointment and then to work this morning I heard two news reports on KFAN summarizing the weekend shootings in Colorado. Each time the report said that the shooter, Matthew Murray, died of a self-inflicted gunshot. No mention was made of the role New Life church member and volunteer security guard Jeanne Assam played in preventing further carnage by using her personal sidearm to wound and knock down Murray. On the one hand, it’s probably a good thing for her that she has already drifted from the news (and that she take comfort in knowing she didn’t kill anyone), given the treatment she’d already experienced from her unintended notoriety.

Later, going onto CNN.com and FOXnews.com, however, I discovered that not only had Ms. Assam disappeared from the front page, so had the entire story. A search of both sites turned up several stories from December 10 and 11 and one or two from the 12th but nothing posted today. Yes, time and the news march on and there’s literally fresh meat every day, but it sure seems as if this story faded fast, especially when you think of the ongoing coverage that followed the recent Omaha mall shooting (there’s still stories appearing this week) and the earlier Virginia Tech massacre. VT in particular brought many ongoing articles about the killer’s background, the victims and the vulnerability of the public. Now it seems, for the most part, that the “public’s right to know” is being under-served in comparison. That’s a good thing if it means that the media has learned to tread more respectfully around the lives of people suddenly thrust into tragedy who now find their suffering part of the nation’s entertainment menu.

Or are there other reasons? Think of it, you’ve got a madman “loner”, multiple guns, “assault rifles,” revenge motives, dead white women (always good for two or three nights of headlines and at least one Special Report on Fox) and beautiful blondes — you’d think Colorado would be covered with TV vans, news choppers and producers looking for anyone to sign away the movie rights. And all of this while there’s a TV-writer’s strike going on. Is the story being dismissed with a shrug because mass shootings are now so commonplace? That shouldn’t be an issue this time because you’ve got the perfect “man bites dog” novelty angle — an armed private citizen stopped the killer.

Say, you don’t think this has quickly faded because an armed private citizen … nah, it can’t be that.

It’s probably just as well. First, Jeanne Assam was mugged by the media and her former employer (isn’t it funny how chatty the Minneapolis Police Department is getting on personnel matters and when slandering innocent victims of crimes like Mark Loesch) and then Youth With a Mission (YWAM) gets called a cult in the most recent story on the Fox site:

Several former missionaries have accused YWAM (generally pronounced “Why-Wam”) of being a cult that uses brainwashing methods.

Rick Ross, founder of the Ross Institute of New Jersey, which tracks cults, does not agree.

“Youth With a Mission is not a cult,” he said. “However, I have received very serious complaints about Youth With a Mission from former staffers, family members and also others concerned, such as Christian clergy.”

Rev. Jonathan Bonk, the director of the Overseas Ministries Study Center in New Haven, Conn., said that missions like those YWAM offers appeal to those looking for something other than the consumerist lifestyle.

“They want to be attached to a cosmic project that gives their little lives some kind of sense of purpose or meaning,” Bonk said.

“They want to be attached to a cosmic project that gives their little lives some kind of sense of purpose or meaning.” Great, first smear a hero, then sneer at the victims. Matthew Murray writes “You Christians have got it coming” and from the media pews comes a hearty “Amen.”

To give credit where it is due, the Denver Post has done a very good job of developing the story and bringing additional information to light, including a story that described how Murray was able to get his weapons and included a report of an earlier incident he had had with staffers at New Life Church. The paper also reports on how one of the staffers killed at YWAM had once been as spooky as Murray, and has a touching story about how the Christian families of the killer and the victims had reached out to each other.

Finally, I will refer you to the Anderson Cooper interview with a wounded witness of the New Life shooting that also includes a very interesting discussion with Murray’s one-time roommate at YWAM.

Update:

Here’s another good article from the Denver Post that looks at more of Assam’s past than just the Minneapolis PD incident.