THE DUMB ASS SPEAKING

My Daughters Business

2011-12-18T18:22:00.000-08:00

My daughter Lacy started a small business a few months ago to bring in a little extra post graduation cash. She makes custom hats, scarves, and soon to be purses. You pick the price, the color(s), and the style. All you have to do is contact her and make an order. She ships anywhere. Inside the United States and outside as well. Please, go take a look and Like her facebook page. Place an order today and have a one of a kind hat or scarf sent to you before the New Year.

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http://www.facebook.com/pages/Piece-of-Portland-Homemade-Hats-and-Scarves/304129106264778

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https://sites.google.com/site/apieceofportland/

2011-11-18T20:41:00.000-08:00

The First Chance You Get

Prologue

Present day

I had been dreaming. It was the summer of sixty-eight. That was the summer I worked for Mr. Olveras mowing yards. It had been my first real job. I was twelve. We started before sun-up, and went until dark, six days a week. He had a beat up old truck with a trailer hooked on the back. Me and the rest of the yard crew rode in the back of the pickup. He kept the mowers, edgers, and trash cans in the trailer. Each trash can had a rake, broom, and shovel in it. Mr. Olveras would pull up to a house, hop out of the cab of the truck, and unload the equipment. Whichever one of us that was “up” would jump out of the back of the truck and pull our equipment out of the street and up onto the curb as the truck pulled away in a wheeze of smoke. One hour later he’d be back. Load you and your stuff up, then on to the next one. We averaged fourteen houses a day.. Each. Two dollars a house. Hard fucking work; but it made you appreciate the value of a dollar. You wanted to buy something, that little equation went into your head: How many yards does this cost? Taught me not to waste my money. Not to take things for granted. Bought my first pair of Levis that summer. No more Zody’s jeans with iron on patches for me after that.

I was still waking up. My face was bouncing lightly on a cool piece of sheet metal. At first I thought I thought I was still in the back of Mr. Olveras’ truck. I could smell fresh cut grass, dirt, gasoline, and the pungent aroma of fresh fertilizer. Plus, I was rocking and bouncing to the movement of a big truck on the road. But, as I continued to come out of it, I knew I wasn’t back in sixty-eight. Or, in a dream. The first clue was the black nylon bag that was tied around my head. Not good. The second was the bite of the plastic flex cuffs into the skin of my wrists and ankles. Really not good. I tried to sit up, and went right back down. Too soon. Too groggy still. OK. Time to figure out what the fuck’s going on.

The last thing I remember is pulling into the driveway of the RV Park, and pulling up next to our motor home. It was late, there were no other people around, and no sound but the nearby Pacific Ocean. The sound of the waves breaking across the road at the beach usually soothed me, but not tonight. I had failed. We all had. I got out of the car and stood next to it. I was debating what to tell my wife Annie, and then…lights out. Somebody got me right there. Right next to my own fucking motor home. Talk about being H-U-A. Fuck.

What about Annie? Was she OK? Think you idiot, think. You got nabbed outside. Would’ve been safer to take you inside, but that would have required dealing with Annie, so…she’s probably all right. For whatever reason, whoever grabbed me up probably left her alone. Thank God for that. Although that means she’ll die alone. She doesn’t have much time left. Two, three months max. Would have liked to been there for her. Hold her. Wipe the tears away. Not going to happen now. I’m pretty sure I’m dead tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if they want to fuck with me for a while first. That’s a pleasant thought. Oh well.

OK. Where am I now? Back of a truck. Medium sized commercial, from the feel of it. Fifteen, twenty foot bob tail. Split axle; I can hear it when the driver shifts. Should be two by fours running up the sides as braces for the walls and roof. I scoot over until I hit a wall with my face. Inch along until I feel the wood. Yeah. Almost like a mid-sized rental truck for moving your shit around town. But, not a rental. The smells…this was somebody’s landscape truck until not that long ago. Bad guys probably stole it out of…wait, wait…

Well, fuck me in the ass with no please or thank you. I saw the fuckin’ truck on my way into the park. It was sitting next to the mobile taqueria in the parking lot across the street. Juan’s Lawns, I think it said. Juan’s Lawns. Shit. I guess I was totally Head Up Ass tonight. Sure, it was a Mexican yard truck next to a Mexican food truck. Still, it was out of place. That taqueria has been there for years. Hardly ever moves. Never been anything next to it. Should have been on guard. Too distracted. Too much cryin’ in my beer. Boo hoo motherfucker. Look where that shit got you. Now, Annie’ll die alone. Just ‘cause I forgot one of my most important rules.

I went on the LA County Sheriff’s Department thirty years ago. Went through a bunch of fucked up shit, right from the get go. Made a lot of rules for myself. Right towards the top of the list was this: No one was going to get me because I’d gotten fat and happy. No one was going to get me because I was walking around with a cup of coffee in one hand and my dick in the other one. I mean, look, if some smart fucker wants to set you up; I mean really set you up good, there’s nothing you can do about it. You get a 459 silent call at some warehouse at O dark thirty; a killer’s waiting in there somewhere, well hidden, with an infrared scope and Teflon coated bullets, you can just kiss your ass goodbye. But, too many guys, good guys, get popped because they turn into slaps. They start playing the odds game. Not me. Never. Not in my few years on the job. Not in the many years since as a high level bodyguard and PI. Oh, they’d gotten to me when I was on the job, way back when. Twice. Almost died. But, not because I was spankin’ frank. Shit. Picked a hell of a time to fuck up.

Maybe there was still hope. Maybe whoever had snatched me hadn’t gotten to the others. Not all of them. Certainly not the Count. Nobody could get to him. Maybe I was the first. Maybe the others were looking for me right now. No reason to give up yet. Hang in there. Keep thinking. The others, in their own ways, were almost as capable as the Count. Except the writer. Well, OK, he could write. That wasn’t going to help much right now. Had to give him his props though. He’d shown a lot more balls lately than I’d given him credit for having. Circumstances had a lot to do with that, but hey…most people under pressure just fold up and quit. He hadn’t. Yeah, no reason to hang my head yet. They might still be out there. Might be coming.

I was jostled out of my little pity party when the truck turned off of the paved road we’d been on, onto gravel. The chunks of rock kicked up by the tires clanged against the metal under carriage of the truck. We swerved a bit at first; the driver hadn’t anticipated the weight shifting in the back would rock the vehicle the way it did. I slammed against the sheet metal wall hard, then bounced back onto the floor. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.

"Ki gogot sa?"

I’d know that deep baritone Creole voice anywhere. Any other time, I’d be happy to hear it. Not now. Second worst voice I could hear. The first would have been Annie’s. This was almost as bad.

“What the fuck is right.”

“Jay? That you?”

“Yeah, Bela, it’s me. You alright?”

There was a short pause before he answered. Taking the same kind of inventory I had not long ago. I knew he wasn’t going to like what he found, any more than I had. Just had to hope he wasn’t badly injured on top of everything else.

“Fuck no, I’m not alright. I got a bag over my head, and I’m trussed up like a Christmas goose.”

“Me too. You hurt?”

Another short pause. Counting body parts, probably.

“Just my pride. Where the fuck are we?”

“Back of a truck. Out in the desert, I think. Just turned off onto a gravel road. Probably heading out to the boonies.”

“Ki le li ye?”

“I’ve got no fucking idea what time it is. Gotta be night time though. Maybe early morning. No light leaking through the truck. Even with this bag over my head, I’d be able to see sunlight, if it was comin’ in. Plus, still pretty cool. Too cool for daytime in the desert, this time of year.”

“How you know we in the desert?”

“Grew up in the desert. You know that. I can smell it. Feel it.”

Both of us silent for a bit. Trying to figure shit out. Right now they had two out of five of us, if you count the writer. Probably should count him, he was in it now passed his eyeballs. OK. Two out of five. That still left the writer and…

“You hear that Jay?”

Cocked my head to one side. Listened hard. Somebody was groaning. Low, deep in their throat. More deep breaths from somewhere else in the back with us. Couldn’t tell how many.

“How many you hear, Bela?”

“At least two…maybe more. To?”

“The same. More of us?”

“Probably. Merde.”

The truck swung again, the turn much tighter. I slid from one wall of the truck to the other, my face banging into a knee. The truck started bouncing more now. No more gravel clanging underneath. Dust started to seep in through the seams. A dirt road now. Fuck. Every bounce of the truck in the ruts made my face slam back into the knee. Hurt like hell.

“Bela…get your fuckin’ knee outta my face.”

“Not mine.”

“Shit.”

I tried to time my movements with the rhythm of the road. Bad jazz. Got it on the third try. Rolled over twice, then made my way to the far wall. Scooted like an inch worm until I was back up in a sitting position. Pushed down with my heels to keep my back pressed against the wall of the truck. Someone was moving my way.

“Over here, Bela.”

He found me with his head. Worked his way up, using my body for leverage. We pushed against each other to stay up. The road was rough. It felt like a really bad Carney ride. Then the music started. Coming from the cab of the truck. Piano. Low, slowly building in intensity and volume. Now it’s joined by a guitar. Electric guitar. I know this song.

“What the fuck?”

“Locomotive Breath. Jethro Tull. This is not good, Bela. “

“Why?”

“Somebody’s getting themselves psyched up.”

“For what?”

“Killing….”

The song built to its crescendo, then slowly faded, the final lyrics repeating over and over. There was a short pause; three or four seconds, and then it started over again. A little louder this time.

“Fuck.”

“What? What is so terrible about this song? Why are those soaks playing it again?”

“You don’t know the song, Bela?”

“No.”

“It’s a song about judgment. Death. Killing the unrighteous.”

We sat in silence, the song building again. A sort pause at the end again. Then it started over.

“Why is it repeating, Jay?”

“They’re getting pumped up to kill us…and they want to make sure we know it.”

“Bagami-as pula in mortii matii.”

I hadn’t heard that one in a long time. Bela could swear in more languages than there are loony fanatics at a Pentecostal snake handler’s convention. His swearing just got worse, and more diverse, as the song repeated five more times. Finally, there was blessed silence.

“Now what?”

“No idea, Bela. Maybe we’re getting close to wherever their taking us. Maybe they’re already pumped enough to get the job done, and don’t need the music anymore. Maybe…”

I was cut off by the start of another song. Two hard guitar riffs, followed by some drums. Fuck me if I didn’t know this song too. The lyrics hit quick and hard.

“Now I know we’re fucked, Bela.”

“Why? What are those sei ham ga chan, sei puk gai trying to do?”

“Those fucking sons of bitches, as you so elegantly put it, are trying to send us a message…and they’ve got a sick sense of humor.”

“Why?”

“This is a song about a child molester…they’re making sure we know why we’re getting whacked…as if there was any doubt.”

“Hijos de mil putas.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“So, what’s the song?”

“Aqualung. Jethro Tull. Same band as the last song.”

“Sa me fut.”

“Yeah…fuck me too.”

We huddled together, the bouncy ride rocking us all over the wall of the truck. I was saying a silent prayer that this song wouldn’t be repeated. The implications of that didn’t sit well with me. We’d been going after a pedophile. An extremely powerful, high ranking, well protected piece of shit. Vicious and insatiable. He was part of a network of other child molesters. We knew if we could bring him down, we’d be able to put a dent in their organization. Maybe get some names out of him. We’d lain in wait for him, after months of chasing…and we’d failed. I’d seen what he, and those other miserable cowards, were capable of doing to children. Torture beyond your ability to believe. God only knew how many of them were in on this. How long they might keep us alive while they fucked with us. And then, I knew. My prayers hadn’t been answered.

The song started over again.

Aqualung is a long song. Six, seven minutes. I lost count of how many times it played. Ten, eleven, I don’t know. Louder every time. That meant we were on that rutted dirt road for well over an hour. Must be going to the middle of butt fuck nowhere. The music was so loud, we couldn’t even talk anymore. No time to try and plan anything. Of course, when your hands and feet are flex-cuffed, there’s not much you can do. The road seemed to smooth out a little bit finally, then we came to a stop.

The truck settled in on its springs. Dust hung in the air, making it hard to breath. I could hear the hiss and clatter of the engine as it died. Then, nothing. Silence. Silence as absolute as a tomb. I kept waiting to hear other cars pull up. There had to be more than just a couple of guys in the cab, right? Taking down any of us, let alone all of us, should have required some heavy manpower. Still, there was nothing. My mind was racing, trying to put the pieces together. Maybe the others were already here. They could have come earlier. Just be out there waiting. Finally, there was movement inside the cab of the truck. Another song started. Jesus H. Christ, wasn’t this shit ever going to end? What was it this time?

Bela obviously was thinking the same thing.

“What the fuck now, Jay?”

“Kansas.”

“You think we’re all the way in Kansas?”

“No, Bela. Kansas. The band. ‘Dust in the Wind’ is what’s playing now. Whoever it is thinks they’re funny.”

There was movement in the cab. A door opened and closed. I waited for the other one. It didn’t. OK, we only had a driver. The rest must already be here. I could hear the footsteps come around the back of the truck as the song played out its mournful lyrics. There was a click, then the door slammed up. Another rattle, then a sliding sound: metal on metal. The driver was pulling out and lowering a ramp fixed onto the back of the truck. Footsteps padded up the ramp, the truck swaying slightly from the movement. There were shuffling and sliding sounds as things, and bodies, were moved around. Something else; rope, being untied. Rolling wheels. Must have had a dolly tied to the wall. I could hear something being lifted and dropped, the floor reverberating with each thud. The wheels moving now, out of the truck and down the ramp. I didn’t know then what else had been in the back with all of us, but it took whoever was moving it eight trips. A short pause now. I could hear a lighter, then smell the smoke from a cigarette. Break time, I guess.

There was more movement and sound coming from the others back there with me and Bela. Sounds of stirring, maybe coming to. I heard a heel grinding on the floor of the truck. Smoke being put out. I guess break time was over. More movement. Sounded like somebody being moved; lifted. What was that? Tape? Yeah…from the sound it made when he tore it, probably duct tape…maybe packing. The wheels of the dolly rolling again down the ramp. One, maybe two minutes of nothing, then the dolly was coming back up and in. Same procedure two more times. I was wondering if he was going to try and do Bela and me like that. We could try and kick at him, I suppose, but kicking blind is about as useless as an open bar at a Mormon wedding reception. Now, the dragging sound again. Obviously a body being pulled to the back. A split second of silence, then a loud thud and groan. Fuck. Whichever one of us that was, just got dumped rather unceremoniously on the ground. Gotta hurt. Probably what’s in store for me and Bela because we’re awake. Gone longer this time. I decide to try and whisper to Bela.

“Got any ideas?”

“Yeah.”

“Well? You gonna let me in on’m, or just kepp’m to yourself?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Try me.”

“Prayer.”

“What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”

“Pray harder.”

“Thanks. That’s just fuckin’ great. You’re a big help. Some ramrod you are.”

Somebody coming back now. I heard Bela grunt, and the sound of him being lifted in the air. Another grunt, and the footsteps went away down the ramp. I listened, but no thud. Well, at least Bela hadn’t got dumped on the ground. A minute, then the person was back. I felt hands grab my shoulders and pull me to my feet. I tried to head butt whoever it was, and missed badly. I was lifted, thrown over a shoulder, and marched down the ramp. I’m just average size; five eleven and a buck sixty-five. But, Bela’s a decent size man. Six-two, six-three, and almost two hundred. Somebody’s pretty strong, or at least used to working with body weight. Funny though; it didn’t feel like I’d been lifted very high, and the shoulder didn’t feel all that wide.

Who the fuck was this guy?

I bounced up and down on the guy’s shoulder. Went about forty, fifty feet. He squatted and set me down on the ground. I didn’t even try and head butt him this time. No use. Then things got weird. Felt him move around behind me. Pulled me to my feet. Cut my hands loose. I was wobbly, trying to get my balance. Hard to do when you can’t see and your feet are tied close together. Then, the bag came off of my head. His voice behind me:

“Be smart. Get your bearings first. Then do what I tell you to.”

There was a round, wooden railing in front of me. I grabbed it to hold myself up. It was cold and rough. Weather beaten. I looked around. I had been right about the desert. And about the butt fuck nowhere part. But everything else had a surreal quality to it. Like a dream. A really fucked up dream. Maybe I was still high on whatever he’d knocked me out with. I gripped the railing harder. Felt the rough, splintered, dry wood. Nope, no dream.

I was holding onto a hitching rail. I was standing in the middle of what had once been a small, old west town. Five, maybe six buildings total. They were all in various stages of decay, crumbling to the ground. Mounds of sand had blown into piles along the walls of each one. Tumbleweeds dotted the street, or at least what had once been the main drag of the town. Now it was just dust and sand, with old ruts worn into the earth where wagons once rolled. Most of the buildings, or what remained of them, lined the street up and to my right. There was one directly across from me. It was down a slight incline, maybe fifty or so feet away. There was a faint light coming from it, and shadows danced in and out of the gaps between the decaying wooden slats that had once been its walls. It looked like someone was inside of it. Couldn’t be sure.

What I could be sure of was this: I'd been here before. Many times. My Dad brought me here as a boy. Taught me to shoot. I came here as a young man. When I was on the job. And after. To continue that practice...and other things. Coincidence?

Bullshit.

I looked up and to my right again, following the line of the hitching rail. It was over twenty feet long. The wood was gnarled and grey in the pale light. There were old, rusted iron rings embedded onto the top of the rail. Each one was spaced about eighteen inches apart. There were three people tied by flex-cuffs to the rings, starting at the end farthest away from me. Their heads hung down, covered by black bags, just like I’d been wearing. Must still be out. A couple of feet closer to me, Bela was sitting, his hands still fixed behind his back. A black bag was still on his head too, but he was turning, leaning towards us, trying to hear what was going on. The voice from behind me again. Soft. Slow, but steady.

“I’m going to cut your friend’s hands loose. There are three flex-cuffs by his feet. I want you to hook his hands up through the ring, just like I’ve done the others. Understood?”

I just nodded. Felt him move from behind me over toward Bela. Then I saw him for the first time. About my size. That shocked me. Figured him to be bigger. Dressed all in black. Pants, shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt. The hood shielded his face from me. He pulled something from his pocket. A flick of the rest, and a blade glinted in the night. A butterfly knife. And he was good with it. Real good. He cut through Bela’s bonds and stepped back behind both of us.

“Go ahead.”

I hopped over to Bela, trying not to fall right on top of him. Hard to do, even with the railing for support. Harder still to squat down by his feet and pick up the three strands of plastic. My body is beat to shit. I was crippled on the job, long, long ago. The years haven’t been kind either. Artificial knee. Degenerating discs. Busted shoulders. Nerve damage. The long, cramped ride hadn’t exactly left me refreshed either. I was stiff and sore. Bela looked at me questioningly, and I tried to nod “No” as imperceptibly as I could. Nothing we could try right now had an ice cube’s chance in hell of working. Better to be patient. I looked down the line at the other three to see how they were hooked up. Each one had a flex-cuff around each wrist, with the third one looping through the iron ring above them holding the wrists to the rail. I did the same thing to Bela’s, trying to leave just a hint of slack. No luck.

“Tighter, please.”

I pulled the cuffs tighter around each of his wrists, and started to turn back to our captor. He stopped me with the blade at my shoulder. Handed me two cuffs.

“Put them on, please…good. Now, sit down, and put your hands up next to the hitching ring.”

I did as I was told. I wanted to try and put up a fight right then. Figured I might not get many more shots at him. But, there was really nothing to try. Besides, he could get to Bela, or any of the others, before I could do much. Patience may be a virtue, but it sure as shit ain’t mine. Eating me alive to wait. He was still behind me. Threaded the remaining flex-cuff through the ring and the ones on my wrists. Pulled them tight…but not as tight as I would have. I would have done it so the circulation started to shut off. Make my opponent’s hands go numb. Less of a threat. It wasn’t like they were loose enough for me to do anything, mind you, it just seemed…fuck, I don’t know. Just seemed wrong.

He walked down the line behind the five of us. Stopped by the one closest to Bela. Took off the hood. It was Big Mar. Shit. Our soon to be executioner put his fingers at Big Mar’s neck. Took his pulse. Lifted the massive head. Pulled up the eye lids. Looked carefully. Lowered the head gently. Repeated the operation on the last two: the writer, and Chance. Smart placement. Put the biggest, strongest guy in the middle. Less likely to pull an end up out of the ground. Put somebody weak between Big Mar and Chance. What I would have done. Guy was prudent. Planned ahead. Good for him. Not for us.

He was standing in front of me now. The blade flashed in his hand as he squatted down in front of me. Looking me straight in the eyes. His face was mostly in shadow created by the hood. But, I could see his eyes. Intense would be an understatement. Seemed to be looking right through me. The hint of a smile in his eyes as he spoke.

“Your other friends should come around soon. You’ve all come this far. Wouldn’t want them to miss out on the rest of the evening’s activities, would we? Wouldn’t be right. Anyway, time to do work.”

He got up. Started to turn away. My mind was racing. His last comment about ‘doing work’. Old Crip slang from back in the day. Meant it was time to kill. He wasn’t black. Couldn’t have been a banger. Ex-cop, maybe? But, how did he know about me? My past? Only a couple of living people knew about what I’d done, undercover, back in the early eighties. Was he sending me a message?

All of those thoughts went through my mind in a nano second. They stopped when he did. He turned back to me. Squatted down again. His eyes like coals of fire burning out of the shadows.

“Tetelestai.”

Just that one word. He held my gaze for what seemed an eternity. The blade flashed between my feet. He’d cut the flex-cuff holding my feet together. My legs were free. Then he was back up again, heading down toward the decrepit shack across the road. I watched him, more confused and apprehensive than ever. Bela was watching him as well. When he got down to the shack, he bent over something lying next to the door. Seemed to fiddle with it. Then he was up, opening the decayed door. I could see, just before he pulled it shut behind him, a figure inside the shack. There appeared to be a rope holding whoever it was up. The figure’s head was hanging, as if in sleep. The door shut quickly, hiding him from view. Music started to drift up from the outside of the shack. Same hard guitar riffs as when we were riding in the truck. ‘Aqualung’ again. Not too loud. Just enough to keep us from hearing any conversation that might go on inside.

Bela turned to look at our three companions, then back at me.

“What the fuck, Jay.”

“Yeah. What the fuck.”

You could make out the killer moving in the flickering shadows from within. Couldn’t tell what he was doing. Then it looked like he sat down on something close to the victim hanging inside.

“What did he say to you, that last time?”

“Tetelestai.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Last thing Jesus said on the Cross.”

“’It is finished’? That shit ain’t good, Jay.”

“That’s how it’s translated. Not exactly what it really means.”

“Well? You gonna tell me?”

“It was the Greek word that they used to write on bills of sale…it means the debt is paid in full.”

“What the fuck? Why say that? Whose debt?”

“Ours, I guess. Maybe a debt he owes to the dirt bags that want us dead. I don’t know.”

“Gamo.”

“Oipho.”

“What?”

“Oipho, not gamo.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jay?”

“Never mind.”

We were both watching the figures in the shack as we spoke. The killer got up. Moved to the hanging victim. Grabbed something off of the ground. Started swing it. We could hear the pounding. Metal on metal. Into wood. Hammer and nails. From the killer’s body position, it was pretty obvious where he was hammering into the vic. The sound echoed in the stillness.

“You think he’s?”

“Yeah.”

We waited. No screams. The vic must still be out. Thank God. Having nails hammered into your dick or balls couldn’t be too pleasant. We seemed to have a lot to look forward to. Silence for a bit between us. The song ended. Started over again.

“Who you figure it is?”

“I don’t know. One of Big Mar’s bois? Maybe the clerk for the other Supreme court Justice? The one that tried to help?”

“Jay…”

“It’s not her, Bela.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah…he’d want me to know. Squirm.”

“Yeah. OK.”

“What the fuck?”

That was Big Mar. He’d just come to. Not very happy either. Chance was stirring next to the writer, who still looked to be out cold. Chance started shaking his head, like a dog with a chew toy. He spoke next.

“Where the fuck are we Jay?”

“Middle of the desert.”

“Who?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me. See anything before you went down?”

“Nothin’. Me and Big Mar were just getting out of the car. Felt something, like a sting, in my neck. That’s it. Then here. Mar?”

“Same.”

It looked like we all had the same experience. This guy was good. The best I’d ever seen. Or, never seen, I guess. Something was nagging at the back of my mind. Bits and pieces from the past, trying to make a picture for me. The word ‘Jukebox’ was bouncing around in my head like a stray bullet. Other things that I’d heard or seen over the years. They were close, but still in the background. Couldn’t quite pull them up. I looked down the row at everybody.

“You might want to start trying to wake that scribe up, Chance.”

Chance pulled his weight up on his wrists and turned his body. Used his legs to start bumping our resident Boswell. It took a few, but he finally started to wake up. Looked around. Panic way deep in his eyes. I don’t think this was anything he had ever anticipated. Lot different than one of his books, where the hero always has some hidden tool, or people coming to rescue him. No tools for us…and no cavalry charging in either. Just us. And, an executioner.

The music was on its third go round when we heard the screams coming from the shack. They went on for a minute or so, then nothing we could hear. A few more minutes, and the door opened. A snapshot of the inside before it swung close: Looked like a man inside; no more rope holding him up, his hands tied behind his back, his pants at his ankles. Looked like blood on his legs. Couldn’t see his face. There was a wooden pole that he was standing next to. It went from the ground up to the ceiling. My bet was that his package was nailed into that pole. Fuck me, that didn’t sound good. At all.

The killer walked over to what I now knew was some kind of music player. Bent over and fiddled with it. Straightened up. Walked over to the side of the shack. Came back around with a five gallon can. Started pouring the contents over the outside of the shack. Then the music started. Bela was first.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I know that one. Used to play it in ‘Nam. Right before we were going out on a bad one. Into the jungle rivers in our PBR. Fuck. That’s bad mojo, Jay. Really bad Mojo.”

Chance and Big Mar just looked at us. It was the writer who spoke then.

“What’s the song? And, what’s a PBR?”

“Don’t worry about PBRs right now. The song is ‘Fire’. ‘Bout burning down some fool’s wasted life.”

The killer opened the door. Splashed the remaining liquid around. On the vic inside as well. More screams. He pulled the door shut again. Walked around to the side of the shack again. Came back with an axe in one hand, and a short stick with rags tied to one end in the other hand. Set the axe down. Took a lighter out of his pocket. Lit the torch. Walked over and touched it repeatedly to the dry walls of the shack. It went up in flames in less time than it takes me to go from zero to asshole. Burning hard and fast. The screams from inside were louder now. The killer picked up his boom box, or whatever the fuck it was, and moved it away from the flames. Squatted down on his haunches. Waiting.

A new version of the song started. Ozzy’s cover. Louder. Slower. The flames engulfed the small building, tongues of it hungrily licking at the roof. The sky was filling with smoke. Hot ash rained from above, the wind pushing it our way. We all started to pull on the railing, trying to break free. Nothing doing. One of the buildings behind us caught too. Tendrils of fire crept up and out of one window. Everything looked and smelled like hell.

The door to the shack burst open. The man was smoking, his clothes and head burning. He stumbled a few feet, his pants bunched at his ankles making him fall. He rolled over and over trying to put out the flames on his head, back and arms. The fire behind him was so bright, it backlit his face. Between that and the burns, couldn’t make out who he was. His voice sounded strangled; rasping and hoarse from the smoke, the heat, and his own screams of pain. He was trying to crawl away from the fire toward us.

The killer rose out of his squat. Carried the axe with him. We could all here what was said next, the voices carried over by the blast furnace wind:

“You, you swore you’d let me go…if I tore my balls off, you swore you’d let me go…you swore it…you promised…”

The killer stood over him now, the axe rising slowly over his head.

“I lied.”

He brought the axe down in a vicious arc, severing a foot. Blood watered the desert beneath him. The killer reached over for the torch. Pushed it hard against the stump. The flesh sizzled. The blood flow stopped. The man’s screams rose into the heavens. The killer turned from him and headed up the slight rise toward us. He stopped in front of me. The axe rested on his shoulder.

“Well Jay…it’s your turn now…”

And, with that, he swung the axe down at me…

Easter or Passover?

2011-04-23T22:26:00.000-07:00

That God Guy is quite a writer. Best I've ever read. His ability to use foreshadowing, plot twists, dangling clues, and extremely foibled characters is unmatched. The fact that He does it with non-fiction is, honestly, amazing. Keep that in mind for the following:

There was no Palm Sunday.

There was no Maundy Thursday.

There was no Good Friday.

Jesus didn't rise from the dead at sunrise on Sunday morning.

The only time the word Easter is in the Bible, in Acts 12: 4, it is a mistranslation. The Greek word is PASXA, which means Passover.

However:

There was a Palm Saturday.

There was a Maundy Tuesday(kind of)

There was a Good Wednesday.

Jesus rose from the dead just after sunset on Saturday night(which, to a Jew, is Sunday)

The early Church never celebrated Easter...only Passover. (yes, even the Gentile believers)

I would encourage anyone reading this to read the following passages of Scripture when they have the time.

Exodus chapter 12

Leviticus chapter 23

Numbers chapter 9

Deuteronomy chapter 16

All of the Gospel accounts of the Savior's final week.

The answers are all there. He left them for us. They're important to know. Now, before we get to some explanations of the dates, let me explain something else.

I grew up in a Christian home. We went to Church more often than my fifteen year old son plays his XBox. (Well, OK, not that much, but it seemed like it) We spent every summer vacation at the Navajo Mission, and my parents eventually became missionaries there.

We celebrated Easter at Church, with all of those dates I listed above. It was what we were taught. We also hunted for eggs from the Easter Bunny. It was a lot of fun. I have had Easter egg hunts for all of my children as they grew up. Easter baskets, Easter presents, candy, you name it. So, I hope you don't think I'm a stick in the mud. Easter is fun...it just has nothing to do with what happened to our Savior.

The term Easter comes from the Babylonian goddess Ishtar. The Easter celebration: eggs, chicks, bunnies, fertility rites of all kinds, were part of a pagan festival honoring the rebirth of the year. That's why our celebration rarely coincides with Passover, although it does this year. It's centered around the vernal equinox( the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox) . Most of our Christian festivals, and their dates, have nothing to do with what actually happened in the Bible, or when. Jesus wasn't born on December 25th(it was late September, early October), and the things we associate with that celebration are also mostly borrowed from other Babylonian and Roman festivals that were held in December.(Winter solstice festivals)

It's OK to celebrate when we do. The Scriptures teach us in Colossians 3:16 not to judge anyone on when they celebrate; new moons, feast days or Sabbaths. Kind of like Communion: it doesn't matter if you have unleavened bread and wine, or a Snickers bar and a Monster energy drink...it's what's in your heart that counts.

We should, however, know when things actually happened, and why the Church changed them. Part of the reasoning is shameful, and it not only haunts the Church to this day, it weakens us as believers.

Minor things can mean a lot. To the Jews the day officially started at sunset. Goes back to Genesis chapter one;"...and it was dark, and it was light, day one..." They figured, if God started with dark then light, must be the way to go. Pretty smart choice, I'd say. So...if you're reading this after sunset on Saturday, but before midnight, it's Sunday according to the Jews. And, please remember, Jesus, our Savior, was, and is a Jew...and damn proud of it.

How did they come up with the days for good Friday, Maundy Tuesday, and Palm Sunday? Counting backwards. Unfortunately, they chose to count backward from the wrong day. They assumed, when the Scriptures said that it was, "...the preparation day for the Sabbath...", that it was Friday; Saturday being the Sabbath. EHHHHHHH, I'm sorry, that's the wrong answer...what do we have for our departing contestant today, Johnny? You see, if you read the Scriptures I gave you, you'll find that the first and seventh days of the feast of unleavened bread, were both Sabbath days, irregardless of what day of the week they fell on. So, you would always have at least 2 Sabbaths during the week, and usually 3...but not three Saturdays, three Sabbaths.

So, how do we know when the days actually were? Again, count backward...but from Saturday night, after sunset! The Scriptures prophesied, and Jesus Himself clearly stated, that He would be in the Tomb; THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS. Count backward, and see where it takes you.
Saturday=1 day
Friday night =1 night
Friday =2 days
Thursday night=2 nights
Thursday= 3 days
Wednesday night=3 nights

Jesus was crucified on Wednesday, and died around 3:00pm that afternoon. Count back again, according to the Scriptures, and you'll see when he entered Jerusalem. Saturday. The Sabbath. That's why they threw their clothes on the young donkey's back: according to the Sabbath laws, you couldn't saddle an animal on the Sabbath; that was prohibited work.

The reason Jesus had a Passover Seder meal with His disciples on Tuesday night(Wednesday to a Jew) is explained in Numbers chapter 9. If you were unclean from being around a dead body, you couldn't wait until the actual Passover meal...you had to eat it a day early. Jesus knew that his disciples were going to be unclean, because of His dead body later that day. He planned ahead...for them.

Why did He enter Jerusalem on Saturday? The Passover Lamb was supposed to be taken into the house, and kept there for five days; then killed on the fifth day. Jerusalem, the temple, God's home. Everything that Jesus did was a fulfillment of the Scriptures.

Why did the Church turn away from what the Scriptures teach? Because of their hatred for the Jews. Our history over the last 1700 years or so with the Jews is a disgrace. It is the Church, more than anyone, that has persecuted our Savior's people. That, however, is a topic for another blog. Suffice it to say, we will be held accountable for our dealings with them.

You're probably thinking right now...OK, so what? What difference does it make when He did those things? Wednesday, Friday...who really cares?

First and foremost, God does. All of those things that happened in the Old Testament were foreshadows of what was to come with Jesus. People missed Him at the time because they didn't know. They are also foreshadows of things yet to come: His return for His Bride, and His return for His people. I don't want to be one of the people who misses out because I wasn't paying attention to the signs...do you?

Secondly: we, the Church, both Protestant and Catholic, are held at ridicule for what we believe. That's OK, when we're stating our beliefs correctly. It's not OK when we say Jesus was in the tomb three days and three nights...and then say He was crucified on Friday afternoon and rose on Sunday morning. I've heard it a million times: What's the matter...your God can't count? I have an answer. I'm supposed to. We all are.

Two final things. First, we live in a world where it is becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain a Christian testimony. Now, I'm about to step on some toes, so be forewarned. The number one reason for our troubles, as Christians, is the Church itself. We live in a day where the average person's idea of what a Christian is comes from: the clowns on TBN, pimping Jesus for money; the supposed 'Christian Right and their hatred for Gays, abortion, and just about everything else ...Creationists who don't even know what the Scriptures actually teach, and the rest of us: hiding in the shadows, not wanting to be noticed...or rock the boat. It's our job to stand for the things of Christ, and against those who use Him for the wrong reasons. It is up to us to,"...rightly divide the Word of Truth...", and be, "...workman worthy of the hire..."

If that means stepping on the toes of those who treat my Savior like a whore, so be it. If it means rocking the boat...I'd rather tip it over and sink it, than ride in it with those who use the Lord for only their own gain.

Secondly, and on a lighter note: Have a good Easter. Buy candy and gifts for your kids. Hide eggs. I personally have hidden more Easter eggs than there are ticks on a passel of good hunting dogs. Dress up in your Easter best. Go to Church. Have a big family gathering. Of course, try and remember our Savior's sacrifice for us. But look to the Scriptures: do it in your heart, and know why.

God had the children of Israel sell themselves into slavery. He hardened Pharaoh's heart to not let them go. He performed miracles. Finally, He shed blood to set them free. All of that was done as a lesson for us. We sold ourselves into slavery. It took the shedding of blood to set us free. That blood was the blood of our Savior. Just before He died, He said one, last word: tetelestai. It's translated as: It is finished. Close, but not quite. Tetelestai is the Greek word that was written on the bottom of a bill of sale when the transaction was complete. It meant: The Debt is Paid in Full.

Pascha Shalom

THE LITTLE ANGEL

2010-12-22T12:39:00.000-08:00

What is it that makes the Holidays special? When you're a child, it's all about the presents. Santa Claus, reindeer, elves and magic...unable to fall asleep on Christmas Eve, the anticipation more energizing than the sugar rush from all of the goodies. Then, we grow up...and the world, with all of its ugliness, pushes its way in. Work. Money. Worry. Strife. The magic tends to get pushed to the side.

But, if you're lucky, little things happen over the course of your life that bring the magic back. And, like the ornaments that you save from year to year, you take them out every once in a while...you lift them gently, carrying them with as much care as you can. Those memories, you see, are far more delicate and fragile than the finest porcelain. They are made with gossamer wings and fairy dust, and ingredients even finer...hopes and dreams...and love.

Twenty-one years ago today I was at a big box hardware store, my two oldest daughters in tow. It had been a rough year. I was going through my second disability retirement. Money was beyond tight. Cherish had been pregnant with Lacy, our first child together. I had not been much help to her during a good portion of the pregnancy due to health reasons that would take too long to explain here. Needless to say, when she had needed me most, I had been unable to come through for her. She had, however, carried our beautiful baby girl to full term, and delivered her on the tenth of December. Now, as had become our way in life, we were scrambling to try and get things done at the last minute with no money.

Cherish's parents were getting the girls a really nice swing set. My second daughter was really into gymnastics at that time, and had made it clear that she wanted her own balance beam. My oldest daughters and I were at that store so that I could price out the remaining items that I would need to build the balance beam in the backyard. The four by four, cement and brackets had already been purchased, but I knew that I needed screws and nails, as well as a couple of tools that I didn't own. I had just finished pricing those tools, and discovered that there was no way that I could afford to buy even one of them, let alone all that I needed. Frustration, anger and self-loathing were just kicking into high gear when Crystal, my oldest, started to tug on my sleeve.

Crystal is an amazing human being. If you have never had the pleasure of meeting her, your life truly is not complete. Her praises are far too many for me to sing, but the two that come most into play in this story are these: she possesses no guile at all...she always says exactly what she means. And, like a dog with a bone, once she believes in something, and the rightness of it, she never lets go. Truly remarkable, when you consider what she has been through in her life. Anyway...

Crystal was tugging at my sleeve. I turned to find her holding onto a very pretty, very frilly, and obviously not cheap Christmas ornament. It was an Angel...a tree topper Angel. Cherubic face, delicate gown, and a little light held in between her hands. One look told me there was no way we could afford it right now...no way. Not even a remote possibility.

No one had told Crystal that, however. Money means nothing to her. No concept at all. I mean that in a good way. She's not impressed by what others have, or what things cost. With Crystal, it's all about what's right. Keep that in mind.

Daddy?
Yes honey?
We have to get this angel.
Not today honey.
We have to.
Maybe some other time honey.
No. Today.

Her jaw was set in that certain way. I let her lead me to where she had found it. The shelf was bare, except for the box that the angel came in. It was, of course, the only one left. I picked up the box and looked for the price sticker. It was on the bottom: $25. Might as well have said $2500. Way too much money. No way we could afford it. I tried to explain that to Crystal. Useless. Finally, I just took it from her and put it next to the box...took both girls by the hand and started to lead them away. That's when Crystal got me.

Daddy...
Look Sis, I said no...now, let's go.
We have to buy it.
Not today...maybe we'll come back for it.
I said that knowing it was a lie.
We have to buy it today...it's the only one.
Look, sweetie, we can't today, OK? We'll think about it, and maybe...
We have to but it for Lacy. She's our little Angel. God sent her to make up for the one he took.

I had to stop writing for a minute. Crying. That memory is still so strong...so fresh...

I can't tell you why Crystal said that. It's too personal. That is one of the memories that is so fragile that I fear it would crumble in my hands if I ever took it out. But when she said it, I instantly knew that Crystal was right. I lead them back, put the angel in the box, and took it with us to the checkout stand. I told Cherish the story when I got home. We both cried. It went on the top of the tree right then.

The next year started a new tradition. We had always decorated the tree as a family. Now, when we were done, Lacy was hoisted onto my shoulders. It was to be her job to place the Angel on top of the tree. I don't remember how she did that first year. I do remember each year after. We would always tell the story of how we came to have that Angel, and Lacy loved the story. What Lacy was too young to realize was that Crystal had been prescient beyond human ability. You see, Lacy, it turned out, actually was an Angel...

She has made a difference in more people's lives than I can count. Those people know who they are: they know what Lacy means to them, and the changes that she made in them that no one else could. Those stories are precious to each person, and are not mine to share. What I can tell you is this: The impact that Lacy has had on so many lives is not because of things that she has done. She has had that impact because of who she is. Inside. In her heart. I can tell you this...I believe she added years to my Dad's life. The joy that she brought to him...sorry...can't do it.

We still have that tradition. Every year, that Little Angel is the last thing to go on the tree. Every year, I put Lacy on my shoulders and lift her to the top. She places it, and plugs it in. Its little light shines down on all of the special ornaments, lots of them made by the kids over the years. It shines like a beacon, greeting each person who comes to our home with love, and hope, and dreams...and magic.

I have a feeling that I won't get to put Lacy on my shoulders this year. Not because of the degenerating discs or busted shoulders. The heart attack in January may have made last year my final one for lifting. I hope not. I'm going to lobby to carry her again...but I wont argue too hard and spoil the occasion.

No matter how it goes up there this year, I will relive each year from the past as it is placed and lit. Especially the first year...the year that God sent us our Little Angel, and that Crystal saw her for who she truly was.

Lacy's light shines on all who come into her circle. It touches them with warmth...and hope...and dreams...and love...

And Magic.

I love you, Little Angel

24 YEARS

2010-11-11T21:10:00.000-08:00

I was never going to get married again.
Never.
I was going to raise my two little girls.
Alone.
I had no desire to share my life with anyone but them.
If you knew the story of my first marriage, you'd know why.

I had dated models and actresses when I was a bodyguard.
All of them beautiful.
None of them memorable.
Then, one day, everything changed.
It was love at first sight.
For me.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
Ever.

That was twenty-five years ago.
She is even more beautiful today than she was then.
Far more beautiful.
The most beautiful woman that God ever made.
And, she loves me.

We've been through a lot over the years.
Lots of highs.
Some lows.
It hasn't always been easy for her.
I've had at least eight of my seventeen surgeries while we've been married.
I had a heart attack earlier this year.
Almost died.
We've been short on money.
Many times.

But, we've never been short on love.
We have great children.
Because of her.
We have a great home.
Because of her.
We have a great life.
Because of her.
We have a wonderful marriage.
Because of her.

Almost everyone said it wouldn't last.
November 12th 2010 will be 24 years.
24 years.
Because of her.

The sun rises for me in the morning when she smiles.
The stars come out at night in her eyes.
She is my life...
my breath...
my everything.

I love you Cherish Ann.

Happy Anniversary.

UNREAL STORIES PART I

2010-08-24T14:02:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who is a well known, successful author. A lot younger than me, and yet he treats me with respect and kindness. I'm not going to tell you his name, or even hint at who he is. I don't trade on friendships. Never have, never will...probably to my detriment, according to some. Anyway, he is the motivation for this blog, and the others that will follow it in a similar vein. So, to my friend, I say thank you.

I didn't tell my birth Father about my heart attack until Fathers Day. He is eighty, and has had numerous heart attacks of his own, starting about 25 years ago when he was 55. I didn't want the potential stress of my own problems having a negative impact on him. I spoke with his wife when I called on Fathers Day, trying to get a feel for whether or not I should tell him about it. She is lovingly protective of him, as she should be, and I felt she would warn me if it wasn't a good time to tell him. She gave no indication that I shouldn't, so I told him about it when he got on the phone.

Come to find out, he had another heart attack...in January...almost at the same time that I had mine. I wrote about that to my author friend, and this was the first part of his reply:

Unreal story. And clearly meant to be.

He finished his response, as he always does, with kind remarks for me. He is, as I said, a very respectful young man. His remarks, however, got me to thinking. The first thing that popped into my head was the similar comment of a young woman who worked as a reader for one of my agents. This young woman had just finished reading one of my screenplays that happens to be based on a true story. She didn't know that; she also didn't know that her boss, the agent, had already read the screenplay a number of years before and declared it to be the best thing that she had ever read. The young woman's comment was as follows:

It strains credulity to think that this many bad things could happen to one man in the course of only one lifetime.

The comment made me laugh at the time. I had intentionally left a lot out of the screenplay just to tone it down: not only that, but it covered only a three year window in my life. I thought about all of the unreal stories that I had lived through prior to that one, and the many I have lived through since. When she called to give me her "notes", I asked her how old she was:Nineteen, she replied with all of the misplaced authority of her youth. I told her she needed to get out more, and politely said my goodbyes. She didn't know that after her boss read the screenplay for the first time, she tried to steal me away from my first agent instead of being a co-agent with her. She didn't know that her boss had gotten the screenplay to the top executives at Columbia Pictures, and that it was about to be given the green light when...

The Rodney King verdict was announced, and riots ripped Los Angeles apart. Suddenly, no one wanted to have anything to do with a story where the not so clean, undercover, half-breed cop, used black gang bangers to kill dirty, racist white cops for revenge...

Go figure, huh?

That screenplay became toxic for the next few years, and the agent was told, by the executives at Columbia, to drop me like a hot potato...which she did.

But, that is not the unreal story that I want to tell you today. I could start at the beginning; my unreal stories, I have been told, start before my birth, but I have my reasons for saving those for a while. There are many that occurred before the one I'll tell you today, but this is the one that seems to resonate in me at the moment. So, without further foreplay, we begin...

My senior year of high school was eventful, to say the least. Many of the things that occurred would make unreal stories on their own. Some of them will be mentioned briefly in the course of this narrative. Perhaps I will come back to some of them in the future, perhaps not. The story I have chosen merits being told first, I believe, because it has legs. It continues on for many years, sporadically rearing its disturbing mane and howling at the moon to remind me that things aren't always over when you think that they are.

The first incident of note my senior year, was that my brother ran off with the niece of the Pastor of our Church. He was 21 and she was sixteen, but that was only part of the reason their actions had such impact. She and her brother, who was my age, were living with the Pastor and his wife, their Aunt and Uncle, due to the extremist of circumstances. They had witnessed their Father murder their Mother in ways too graphic to describe here. He was captured, tried and convicted. At his sentencing hearing, he pointed at his two children and swore that he would break out of prison, hunt them down, and kill them. A few years later, he succeeded in escaping, and the two were shipped off from their home in the Midwest to hopeful safety in Southern California.

I was the only one who knew where she and my brother had gone, and everyone knew that I knew. I was pulled out of school at least twice a week by the police and questioned. Never told them anything, but I understood that they were just doing their job. I was already a pariah at my Church; I had been labeled a "sexual predator" at the age of fourteen, over a year before I had my first girlfriend, or even my first kiss. That is another of the unreal stories. This new development earned me the title of "Anti Christ" to go along with the other...and no, I'm not joking. There is a reason why many people feel driven from Church. Gossip and salacious innuendo rank highly on that list.

The second incident that is relevant to this story is that my Granny was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. She agreed to move in with us so that we could take care of her. Now, my Granny was my counselor, my advisor, and my best friend. She was the one person that I had always been able to talk to about everything; especially the difficulties that my parents and I were going through about my being adopted. My Mother was, at that time, going to college to get her teaching credentials. She had been going for thirteen years: it was a long, slow, and painful process for her. She volunteered to drop out, but my Granny wouldn't let her. You see, my Granny and I had already worked out an agreement. I would go to school for my first class of the day, and then I would walk home and stay with her until about a half hour before my Mom got home from college. Then I would walk back up to the school, turn around, and walk home. That way, if my Mom happened to swing by the school on her way home, she'd see me where I was supposed to be. My first class was actually at another school close by. I taught foreign students English. It was easy to go from there back to my house, and I didn't have to actually attend any classes at my high school my senior year to graduate. On days when my Mom had limited classes, I would stay at school for part of the day.

The story of why I didn't have to go to high school my senior year; the reasons why the school was just as glad when I didn't show up, and why I could have graduated much earlier, are another of the unreal stories best left for down the road. It made it easy for me to take care of my Granny, at any rate, and we were able to keep the secret until almost the end of her life a few months later. She told me that she was trying to hang on for only two reasons: she wanted to see my brother be able to return and get married, and she wanted to see me graduate. No one from our family had ever graduated with honors, and she made no secret of the fact that she was very proud of me. Her love and support saw me through many dark and difficult days...I miss her still. She hung on just long enough to see my brother return and get married...but she passed a few months before my graduation.

It was during all of this that our story for today took place. I was walking out to the parking lot of our Church one Sunday morning when I saw a beautiful girl walking my way. She had long, auburn hair that hung almost to her waist and translucent eyes. She looked up at me as we passed each other, and I inexplicably said,

Hi, TeeDee.

She smiled, a curious little Mona Lisa smile, and said hi back. We both continued in opposite directions, and it took me a full minute to realize that, not only had I never met her before, I had never even seen a picture of her. Anywhere. At anytime. I looked back over my shoulder, and caught her looking back at me. She was clearly puzzled, but not half as much as I was. I shook my head to clear the webs, went out to the family car, and went home.

My Father had been sleeping in my room since my Granny moved in. My Mom wanted to be next to her at night to be able to care for her, and my Dad, who was the most selfless man I've ever known, moved his clothes and gear into my room. He was the Head Stillman at an oil refinery, and because of that he worked rotating shifts each week: days, followed by swing-shift, and then grave yards. He went to bed after dinner when he worked grave yards, and then got up at eleven to go to work. There was no point in my even trying to go to bed before he left, so on those nights I was always up until after midnight. That Sunday was one of those nights, so I didn't even go into my room until almost one in the morning.

I have always been nocturnal as well, and falling asleep on the best of nights was, and is, problematic. That particular night my mind was racing about a million things, not the least of which was my meeting with the mysterious TeeDee, if that was even her name. I tossed and turned for a while, trying to put things to rest in my mind. The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was 1:53. I fell asleep at some point after that, and had the most incredible dream of my life...

The dream started in a wind tossed night some time close to the end of the Dark Ages. A castle, somewhere in what would now be northern France. The Lady of the Castle in childbirth, her husband pacing downstairs before the fire. The Lady is attended by a wizened old crow of a woman; part midwife, part faithful servant...and part witch. She gives the Lady a potion to drink for pain as the birth nears, and the Lady swoons into unconsciousness. The baby is born: cold, still and silent as the grave he will soon lie in. This is a disaster for the old witch. The Lady has had a number of still born children already, and the old woman has promised the Lord a healthy child. Not only healthy, but a son as well. It well mean her death if she fails again. She is racked with fear when she remembers something that might save her: the village whore had given birth the day before to a healthy baby boy. No one could be certain who the father was, but it was probably one of the Lord's soldiers. The babies were similar enough in appearance, and the witch was desperate. She barred the door and gathered the dead heir in her arms.

The Lord and Lady were relative new-comers to the castle, receiving it as part of an inheritance fifteen years before. The old woman, however, had been a servant to the owners of the castle since childhood many, many years before, as had her mother, and generations of her family before. She knew things about the castle that the current royals didn't, and that knowledge was about to come into play. She hurried to the fireplace, carrying the limp, small form next to her. Her gnarled fingers felt along the rough stones next to the dying fire, and turns and pushes of stones, practiced countless times over the years, caused a section of the wall to move. She reached inside the slowly widening space into the darkness and pulled a long wooden stick from within. Rushing back to the fire she lit it, and, torch in hand, began her descent down the winding stairs that the moving wall had revealed. A turn of an ancient wall sconce brought the wall closed silently behind her, hiding her retreat.

She had made this journey so many times over the long course of her life that she barely looked at the treacherous steps as she bounded down them. The paving stones were as worn and weathered as the old woman's feet, and the winding twists and turns of the secret passage were as familiar to her as the pulsing veins on the backs of her hands that throbbed now from her efforts. She came to the bottom at last, where three tunnels opened up before her. One led to other parts of the castle, one much farther out into the nearby woods, and the last to a small cave just outside of the village. She didn't hesitate for a moment as she darted into the last one, and minutes later found herself past the walls of the castle and hurrying through the musty dankness of the cavern. A waterfall covered the opening to the cave, but she knew a hidden path around it and soon she was flitting through the village, an old crow floating unseen through the moonless night with a package of death swaddled under her wings.

She hesitated before the whore's cottage, not daring to breath. She had already seen the whore in the village tavern plying her trade.There were things she could do to earn, even this soon after giving birth, and besides, she wasn't about to let a baby keep her locked away from the world. No, the old woman's only concern was that the whore might have left someone to watch over the baby. She needn't have worried. The cottage was empty save for the lone, small figure laying in the straw before the fire. Quickly the witch darted into the cottage, a plan formulating in her desperate mind. She picked up the healthy boy and lay the dead heir in his place in the straw. The whore had left her baby directly in front of the fire, and sparks popped out from the logs. She drew some of the fire into the straw and watched as it burst into flame. The baby was dead...he would feel nothing, and the fire would disguise any doubts the whore might have. It was unlikely that she would even mourn the child; her freedom was far more valuable to her. The old woman drew the bar down across the door and slid silently out the window, the now breathing bundle tucked in the crook of her weathered arm. She paused at the edge of the village and watched the cottage burn. People streamed from the tavern and the surrounding cottages, but the whore's hovel was built far enough away from the rest that none were endangered. Satisfied that her secret was safe, the old woman scurried back towards the falls and the entrance to the cave.

Her mind raced faster than her feet as she glided up the hidden stone stairs toward the Lady's room. She needed to disguise the fact that this child was already a full day old. She turned the sconce and hesitated as the secret wall pivoted. If the Lord had broken down the door in a panic while she was gone...but no, the room was as still as when she left it. She lay the boy on the bed and smeared the after birth all over him, then wrapped him in a small blanket. She pinched the child, hard, until he cried out. Then, unbarring the massive door, she rushed out and down the stairs to the waiting Lord.

She had been right; his eyes went immediately to the baby's genitals. He cared about nothing else than that he had a son. A living, breathing son. The excess blood was enough to dis way him from looking any closer, and she quickly swept the boy back into her arms and up to the Lady's room. Here was where her deception might not carry. The Lady had been present at many births: she might recognise that something was amiss. So, when the Lady began to awaken, the old woman gave her more of the potion to drink. It was enough to keep her asleep for at least another twelve hours. By that time, the ruse would be complete. She rocked the baby gently as she watched the Lady drift away into the land of Morpheus.

Days unfolded into years as I watched the boy grow, until one day, I finally realized that the boy was...me. The perspective of the dream changed from that moment on, and I watched events transpire as though I was living them. I grew into my teens, being taught by my adoptive father all of the skills necessary to one day become Lord of the Provence. I could ride, hunt, and fight as well as anyone, and my skill with a sword was unmatched. I was also trained by the monks in literature and the arts, as well as religion. My favorite tutor, however was the old woman. She taught me about nature, about life, but most of all, she taught me about people.

I had discovered the secret passages as a small boy when I was hiding in my mother's room and saw the old woman go out through the hidden doorway in the wall. She swore me to secrecy, and from that time on, I was able to come and go from the castle as I pleased. It was during one of these outings into the woods that I met a lovely young girl from the village. I felt an immediate attraction to her, even though I knew that our romance would be forbidden because she was a commoner. She felt the same for me, and our love grew over the ensuing years. By the time I was in my early twenties I had decided that I wanted to marry her, irregardless of our different stations in life. We met near our favorite little stream where I professed my love and intentions. She was overjoyed, and I left her with the promise that when I returned, it would be to make her my wife.

It was the last time I saw her alive.

The old woman was waiting for me at the entrance to the cavern by the waterfall. She had been watching from the bushes just upstream, and demanded to know what I was doing with the village girl. She flew into a rage when I told her of my plans. Her face contorted and she paced back and forth by the water's edge, her angry mutterings occasionally broken by a high pitched , nervous squeal. She begged me not to go through with it. I refused, and told her my parents would understand. We argued about it for a long time, until she finally asked me if I knew who the girl's mother was. I knew of her mother's reputation, but since she had been dead now for over three years, I told her I didn't see why it mattered. That's when the old woman sent my world into the abyss.

She told me the girl that I loved...that I wanted to marry...was my half sister. I, of course, didn't believe her. I raged against her lies and threatened to have her put to death for her treachery. Then she told me the story of my birth; of the desperate decision she had made, and the consequences to her if it were ever discovered. I thought, at first, that she might be lying to protect my parents from my marriage to a commoner, especially one who was the daughter of the late town whore. But the truth was there in her eyes...and in my heart. As much as I had loved the girl, I had always wondered why the desire to have sex with her had never really overwhelmed me. We had been alone all of the times we met, and she had offered herself to me on many occasions, but I have never gone ahead with her offer. I had told myself that it was my love for her that kept things pure, but I was certainly no virgin, and had sex frequently with the choicest of young ladies in the neighboring villages. I didn't know what to do. The old witch and I returned through the cave to the passages within the castle. I told her to go on ahead and waited alone in the darkness pondering my own fate. I couldn't go back now and pretend to be something I wasn't. I couldn't stay. So, I took the passage that led to the stables, saddled my favorite horse, and left.

I rode listlessly for a few days with no direction, either for the road or my life, in mind. One day I could smell the salt air of the sea nearby, and suddenly decided to take a boat across to the Isles of Britannia. I waited for a boat that could ferry me and my horse, and then made the trip across the straights of Dover. I wandered purposefully for weeks, taking in the new lands and people at my leisure. They weren't as advanced as my countrymen, but seemed to enjoy their lot in life much more so. This changed, however, as I traveled farther north. There , the people seemed more distrustful, more afraid. I was told by an inn keeper that the Earl of that area was a foul, evil man, who kept his subjects in line through intimidation and torture. No one ever felt safe, and even the King's men hesitated to come through without having great numbers. The Earl's men took pretty much what they wanted, whether in money, goods, or women's virtue. Oppression hung in the air like an ocean fog; thick, heavy, and chilling. I should have turned back to the south, but something inside drove me onward.

Two days journey farther, and I knew why...

It was late afternoon when I heard the sounds of a disturbance off of the path I was on to my left. A brisk trot brought my horse and I to the edge of a small glen. There, not one hundred feet in front of me, four soldiers were attacking a young woman. They had cornered her against a large rock and were tearing her clothes from her despite her valiant attempts to fight them off. I reined my horse to the left, and then took off straight at them at the gallop. They looked up just in time to move off of her, and I slammed two of them backward with my steed's shoulder. I dismounted quickly, unsheathed my sword, and began a fight to the death.

The two soldiers who had evaded my horse's charge were on me as soon as I dismounted. Though they had the advantage of numbers, their skill with the blade was lacking. It was a matter of only moments before I had killed them both. I turned my attention to the other two just as one of them came at my back. The other was still on the ground, entangled in the brush by his chain mail. This new opponent was more of a challenge, but it it wasn't long before I had him on the defensive, his blows becoming weaker with each swing. I had just run him through with my sword when I felt a deep burning pain in my back. The fourth and final soldier had crept up behind me and plunged his dagger into my flesh. I wasn't wearing chain mail, or armor of any kind, and the blade did its evil work well. I went to one knee as he pulled his steel from me, my head bowed in pain. He came in to finish me, but he had waited a split second too long. I brought my sword up to parry his thrust, and drove my own weapon into him all the way to the hilt. He fell at my feet, and his flat, glassy eyes were the last thing I saw before I too crumpled to the ground, the darkness enveloping me.

I awoke to the feathery touch of cool fingers stroking my face. The young woman whom I had saved in the small clearing had brought me back to her small cottage and nursed me back to health. I saw, as soon as my eyes regained their focus, that she was...TeeDee. It was one of those moments, even in a dream, when you just stop...I knew I was dreaming. I knew that everything was also real. How, I would never venture to guess...

We lived together for a few years, and fell in love. There is too much of that time to tell; including her being taken by the evil Earl, and my fight to reclaim her which ended with his death. We were eventually to be married by a nearby priest when someone from my past found me.

The old woman knocked at the door to our cottage one day and, as soon as I saw her, my emotions were torn between confusion, anger, and regret. She told me that my parents had been taken captive by a neighboring Duke, and were being held for execution. I was the only hope that they had. TeeDee begged me not to go. I was torn, but the obligation I felt for the parents who raised me overwhelmed all else. I removed the cross I wore around my neck, and with the edge of my dagger inscribed the words, " pas même la mort" on the back...not even death. I swore to her that not even death would keep me from finding her again...and with that, I put the cross around her neck, mounted my horse, and rode off with the old woman.

I won't bore you with the story of how I stole back into the castle through the hidden passageways and killed the evil Duke, nor the joyful reunion with the people who raised, and still loved me. I told them of TeeDee, and they begged me to bring her back with me to resume my rightful place. We shared one last drink together, and I left to retrieve my bride to be. Everything should have turned out fine, except...

No one had told my half sister anything. Not that we were related, and that that was the reason why I left. All she heard was that I was going to bring back my new bride, and she went into a rage. She slipped a slow acting poison into the goblet which had held my drink...and then killed herself. No one knew what she had done...but its effects would soon appear.

I began to feel sick upon my return to Britannia. The illness progressed as I rode northward toward TeeDee. I became weak...dizzy. I clung to my horse's mane just to stay on. I passed in and out of consciousness. I don't know how long I rode that way. I finally regained consciousness. It was late afternoon, and I realized that I was back in the same glen where I had met and saved TeeDee many years before. My strength was ebbing. I fell from my horse. I gazed up through the canopy of trees at the slowly dimming light. I struggled vainly to hold onto life. My last breaths whispered the words, no, no, no...as the darkness of death enveloped me...

I awoke in my bed, screaming. My mother was standing at the doorway, fear etched into her face. I was drenched in sweat, and every muscle in my body was taut. I reassured her that I was OK, and she turned slowly back down the hall to my Granny. I looked over at the clock radio by my bed. It read 2:08. I had just dreamed an entire lifetime in less than fifteen minutes.

Part 2 to follow soon...

PROPOSITION 8: RUSH LIMBAUGH, THE FABULOUS BEEKMAN BOYS, THE CONSTITUTION, AND THE MISSING LOVE OF CHRIST

2010-08-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

We hold these truths to be self-evident...

Sometimes, I really don't know where to begin. As a Christian, especially as a minister, it seems to get more difficult everyday to try and handle things the right way...especially for a dirt bag like me. Those of you who are regular followers of this blog know of the struggles I face in attempting to represent the Love of Christ towards others. Frankly, I fall short every day...actually, it's more like every second, but, hey...who's counting, right? Anyway, it's something that I would rather not have to make public, especially on a regular basis. But, fortunately or unfortunately, I am a firm believer in the old adage: Silence, when the truth should be spoken, is a lie...so, here we go...

... that all men are created equal...

For those of you not familiar with the issue, you can find it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Same-sex_marriage_in_California
Basically: In May of 2008, the California Supreme Court ruled that marriage was a fundamental right granted by the Constitution of California, not a privilege; next, Proposition 8 was voted on in that same year to amend the State Constitution to eliminate that right, and finally, in August of this year, a Federal Judge ruled that Proposition 8 was unconstitutional based on equal protection under the law.

Still with me?

Basically, the issue is whether or not the Constitution gives equal protection of the right to marriage to ALL consenting adults. The issue, as it stands as of today, has been ruled in favor of ensuring that right.

...That they are endowed by their Creator...

The issue, therefore, is first and foremost, an issue having to do with equal protection under the law, IE, the Constitution. I have been amazed, while perusing the web, at the number of people in favor of Prop 8, and against the Judge's ruling, who have made the basic argument that, "...the judge has usurped the will of the people. The people voted, so it should be law..." I said surprised, not amazed. The fact that a great many people are not aware of what type of government we live under doesn't amaze me. The fact that someone like Rush Limbaugh made the same mistake did amaze me. You can hear his comments here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bw-PU5Y1LMo

Whether you like or dislike someone, you should always give them their due. Mr. Limbaugh is an intelligent, articulate advocate for what he espouses. To hear him make the same mistake about our form of government was amazing to me. So, it seems to me that a basic refresher course is in order.

...With certain unalienable Rights...

We do NOT live in a democracy, thank God. We live in a Constitution based, Federal Republic, with strong democratic traditions. This is not my opinion; rather, it is how the United States Government refers to itself, which you can find here:https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/geos/us.html
Now, what does that mean? It means that we live in a country where there are rights for the citizens which are not up for a popular vote. That's why they're called rights.

...That among these are Life...

You have to give our Founding Fathers some credit. "Endowed by their Creator..." Brilliant writing. If a creator gives the rights, only that creator can take them away...and please, don't get me started on our Founding Fathers being Christians...most of them weren't, at least not the way we define Christian today. If you doubt that, take a look at the Jefferson Bible: http://www.angelfire.com/co/JeffersonBible/

Thomas Jefferson was more responsible for our initial documents than anyone else. He certainly wasn't a Christian like I am. His two main mentors, Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Paine, weren't either. They could all be called Deists, at best. But, their brilliance still shines through. Whether it is Nature as the Creator, or your own personal God, the rights are given...and man has no power to take them away. Period. Quite a built in safeguard. You have to remember that all of these men had lived under the divine right of kings, where the king was not truly answerable to any earthly power. Yes, there was a Parliament in England, but its influence had historically fluctuated. The other monarchies in Europe didn't even have that check on them. Jefferson ET AL settled the issue once and for all.

...Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...

If then, it is a constitutional issue, it should be sacrosanct. And please, no straw man arguments about: bestiality, necrophilia, polygamy, or pedophilia. I've read them all in due course of this topic. They don't apply.

Now, however, we come to a much thornier discussion. But before we do, I'd like to introduce you to a couple I've gotten to know a little through their TV show: Brent Ridge and Josh Kilmer-Purcell...The Fabulous Beekman Boys. You can find their websites here: http://www.beekman1802.com/ and here: http://planetgreen.discovery.com/tv/the-fabulous-beekman-boys/the-fabulous-beekman-boys.html
You should take a moment, if you're not familiar with who they are, to read about them. Once you have, we'll continue.

Done? OK, here we go then. Our family stumbled on The Fabulous Beekman Boys a few months ago on TV. The first time I saw the opening, I was reminded of "Green Acres" from when I was a kid. We started watching, as a family, and got hooked. I'm not one who is usually too interested in reality TV, but I liked this show. The main reason? I came to care about the two main characters. Real people. Real hopes. Real dreams. Real struggles. Real disappointments. The operative word here is real. I have married a number of couples in my time as a minister and Josh and Brent remind me of most of them. They bicker, sacrifice, make up, love...all of the things that couples do.

I don't know what their views are on marriage. None of my business. But, if they want to get married, after living together for over ten years , I believe that they have the God given, Constitutionally protected right to do so. Period. Now for those thornier issues...

If you want my basic take on the Christian position on Gay marriage, you can find it here:http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2010/04/just-couple-of-old-queens.html

I was going to write about the Good Samaritan again, but instead, I'll let you read the articles what I've written before: Here: http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/07/kathy-griffin-matthew-shepard.html
and here: http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/08/for-chesliekathy-griffin-matthew.html

My stand on these issues has already cost me some friends. I'm sure that this new blog will cost me some more. So be it. To all of you who proclaim yourselves to be Christians, like me, let me ask you just a couple of questions.

Do you really think that if Jesus was walking the earth in His ministry today, He would show up at rallies with a sign that reads, "MY DAD HATES FAGS, QUEERS, AND DYKES" ? Do you think that He would stop in the middle of His healing to ask if the person was Gay, Lesbian, or straight? Do you think when He made enough food to feed five thousand men and their families, He would instruct the disciples to make sure they didn't give any to the homosexuals?

I was going to write a lot more, but I'm tired...and the pain is killing me. That heart attack I had seven months ago took a lot of my energy with it...but not my passion. So, one last thing, to those of you who are Christians: If you really want to protest something in Christ's name...start with those abominations on TBN. The ones that prostitute your Savior like He was a cheap whore...just for their own personal aggrandisement and gain. The ones that teach that He was rich...and that you should be too...the ones that teach God is dependent on your actions...the ones that teach that they could have made the same sacrifice on the cross that He made...I could go on, but like I said, I'm tired...if you want to write to me, I'll give you a list...along with the Scriptures that teach that we should stand against them...and why...

For now , try practicing what Jesus actually taught...

Love God the best you can...

And, Love your neighbor as yourself...

THE SAGE

2010-08-11T17:53:00.000-07:00

I have lived an interesting life. One of the many things I did when I was younger was to be a "roadie" for a small, local band when I was in high school. They played at Knott's berry Farm, Disneyland, and other local venues. Eventually, they got noticed and were offered a contract by a major label. They were going to go out on tour as one of the opening acts for a hugely successful band. Circumstances prevented me from going with them, but I had many a fine adventure in the time I worked set-up for them.

That world, at least back in the early seventies, was a wild, yet wonderfully terrify place. Being a roadie meant that you were backstage around all of the acts before and after the shows. You saw everything: the drugs, the sex, you name it. Pretty heady stuff for a sixteen to seventeen year old. One of the concerts changed my life, however, in a way that I thought could never be repaired.

It was at that concert that I heard Greg Lake, of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, perform the song,"THE SAGE", for the first time. The music was haunting enough...but the lyrics crashed into my heart with the force of a tsunami:

I carry the dust of a journey

That cannot be shaken away

It lives deep within me

For I breathe it every day

You and I are yesterdays answers

The earth of the past come to flesh

Eroded by times rivers

To the shapes we now possess.

Come share of my breath and my substance

And mingle our streams and our times

In bright infinite moments

Our reasons are lost in our rhymes.

I don't believe in reincarnation: I didn't then, and I never will...but the lyrics still spoke to me...they spoke of a love so timeless, so perfect, that only God Himself could have ordained it and arranged for it to occur. A love that God, as the Master weaver, had taken the countless threads of countless lives over thousands of years...and had woven them so that two people could meet at the exact moment in time for that perfect love to burst into flame. A love so perfectly planned that...all reason would be lost trying to explain it. All hope of escaping its power would vanish...and only by being totally and completely consumed by it...could you ever truly be who and what you were meant to be...

I thought that I had been in love before I heard those words. But, as the music coursed through my veins, I knew that I never had been...and felt the horrible, crushing certainty that I never would. A love like that...well, it couldn't be meant for someone like me...

The years passed. I was raising my two little girls by myself. I dated, but not with a purpose. I knew that I would never marry again. I had made up my mind that if I couldn't have a love like the one described in this song, I would rather have nothing...

And then I met her...

The very first time I saw her I knew that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. When I looked in her eyes, it was as if I had looked in them before...a million times over a sea of infinity...the touch of her hand was as familiar as it was exciting...the taste of her lips as comforting as it was intoxicating...

We have been married for almost a quarter of a century now, my beautiful Cherish and I...in some ways that first glance seems like yesterday...in others, a billion lifetimes ago...

Our streams will always run together...now, and throughout eternity...and for that, I will be eternally grateful

I love you, Cherish...

GOTTA BROOM?

2010-06-17T15:27:00.000-07:00

My Dad was the best storyteller I ever heard. Bar none. The best thing about his stories was that they were all true. He didn't have to make any up, because he had lived such a long, full, and interesting life. He was also never one to give advice: he would tell a story instead, and hope that you got the moral on your own, and how that moral applied to what you were going through. Brilliant, really. You probably don't remember most of the advice that people have given you, unless it was bad...but you always remember a great story.

The best stories that my Dad told were the "No Name" stories. The hero was always, "...this guy..." or, "...some man..." or even, "...there was this bum...". I didn't find out until I was eighteen that all of the no-name stories were about my Dad. His last living friend from his youth, my "Uncle" Roy came to visit with his wife one day. My parents happened to be gone for a few hours, so I did my best to keep them entertained by retelling stories that my Dad had told me about Roy. According to my Dad, Roy was the toughest man in central California in the thirties. When I happened to mention that fact after three or four stories, Roy almost laughed himself to tears.

"Me? Tough? I was nothing compared to your old man, boy. He was the most feared man in five counties."

The rest of that story; all of the things that I learned from Roy that day, and all of the things that I learned after, particularly after my father's death, are a tale for another time. Suffice it to say, I was in shock. Here is one of my Dad's stories, as re-told to me by Roy:

When Black Friday hit in twenty-nine, your dad was going to the University of Nevada. He had a full scholarship, and they'd given him a part-time job as manager of the sports teams. Wasn't a ton of money, but more than enough to live on comfortably and go to school. But, your dad dropped out. You see, your Granddad lost his farm and couldn't get work. He had your Grandma and your Uncle Ralph to support, and they couldn't make ends meet. So, your Dad came home and found me. We started riding the rails all across the country, trying to find work. My money was just for myself, but your Dad sent almost every penny he made home to his family. Kept just enough for smokes and a little food. But, work was scarce. Lots of men fighting over the same jobs, so we were constantly on the move, hopping freights from one town to the next.

One day we stopped in this town somewhere in the south. Factory town. What I mean by that is: there was one factory in the town that supported the whole economy down there. Every day, this foreman for the factory would show up outside the factory on a buckboard. He'd call out how many jobs there were, and then pick the men that got to go in and work. There were always about fifty jobs...and about three hundred men waiting, hoping to get picked. Seemed like it was the same men got picked every day.

First day we're there, this foreman stands up on the back of that buckboard and asks if there's anybody there that thought they could whip him in a fight. Now, I know you can't really see your Dad, boy. Too blinded by familiarity. You think he's a small, old man who goes to church too much. Well, your old man didn't become a Christian until 1948. Before then, he was the meanest, scariest man I ever met. He might have only been five foot four, but there was something about him that just intimidated people. He had huge hands and forearms, and his eyes would flash from blue to green to grey in an instant. He walked like a wolverine, and he looked like he would just as soon kill you as he would look at you. In all the years I've known your Dad, I've NEVER seen him lose a fight...and every single one of them was against a man almost twice his size or better.

Anyway, this guy asks the question, and your Dad hops straight up onto that buckboard and says, "I'm your Man." Needless to say, we didn't get the job that day. Or the next...or the one after that. We found small jobs over the next week or so, chopping wood, cleaning out stables, stuff like that. Not enough to make any money to send home, but enough for a roof and three squares. About a week later, I talked your Dad into stealing a straw hat off of a scarecrow. I made him pull it low over his face so we wouldn't be recognised, and we went back out to the factory yard to wait. Sure enough, we got picked.

Your Dad was a quick learner, way quicker than me. They started him off in the factory on an assembly line. Your Dad had to pull a switch every time a part would come by. The guy to his left pushed a foot pedal for the part, and the guy to his right pushed a button. So, it went; foot pedal guy, your Dad pulling his switch, then the next guy pushing his button. Timing was everything. Your Dad got it down first time, and kept right at it. I was over at a polishing bin, hand buffing pieces as they came out. Pretty mindless work, so I could keep an eye an your Dad. They'd already told us that the guys on the line made twice as much as the ones doing what I was doing. I was hoping that maybe I'd get pulled to work over by your Dad.

About an hour and a half into the day, the foreman goes over to your Dad. Asks him if he thinks he can push the floor pedal AND pull his switch and still keep time. Your Dad tells him, "Goddamn right I can", and they pull the man off of the pedal. Your Dad starts doing both jobs, and it's just like music, he's so smooth. The foreman then takes the man that had been working the foot pedal and escorts him out of the factory. Then the foreman goes over to the big boss on a catwalk overlooking the factory. The big boss gives him some money. Your Dad is watching this as well, without missing a beat on the line. We both realize the same thing: Your Dad has just put some poor bastard back on the bread line, and made a bonus for the foreman to boot. I get this feeling in my gut when I'm looking at your Dad: this ain't going to end well.

Another hour or so goes by. The foreman comes back to your Dad. Asks him if he thinks he can push the button on his right too. Your Dad just nods. The foreman pulls the man off of the button, and your Dad starts doing all three jobs like a conductor of a symphony: Stomp on the foot pedal, pull the switch with his left hand, and then push the button with his right. The three stations are about five feet apart, so your Dad has to really scoot back and forth to keep up. But, your Dad was quick like a cat, so he had no problems. The foreman walks the guy out, and heads back up the catwalk for bonus number two. Your Dad watches him coming down, and now I know things are going to turn south: your Dad's neck is slowly getting redder by the minute, and the red is inching its way up. If it hits the top of his head...well, let's just say I'm scared about more things than just losing my new job.

Finally, the lunch horn blows. We all walk outside to eat box lunches that the factory provides. That foreman is walking up and down through all of the men like a barnyard rooster. I'm trying to get your old man to talk to me, but he won't. Doesn't eat the box lunch either. Just sits there. And that red on his neck I was telling you about? It's still inching its way up and it's almost to the top of his bald head. The horn sounds again, and back into the factory we go. Everyone is lining up at their spots, and the only sound is the shuffling of feet. Next thing I know, I here your Dad calling out to the foreman:

"Boss? Hey Boss?"

The foreman, a big, fat man, looks over.

"Yeah, what do ya want?"

"You gotta broom?"

The foreman looks puzzled.

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

"Well, you better get it over here...hurry."

The foreman can hear the urgency in your Dad's voice, so he starts running, if you want to call it that. The fat rolls on his body undulate like waves on the beach by the time he finds a broom and rushes it over to your Dad.

"Well, here it is...what do you want me to do with it?"

The factory is dead quiet. Not a sound. Everyone, including the big boss on the catwalk, is watching and listening as your Dad says...

"Why don't you shove it up my ass...and then, besides doing the work of three men, I can sweep the floor for you while I'm at it."

The factory erupted in laughter. Everyone was laughing, except for the foreman...and your Dad...and me. The foreman walked away, and came back with five men. Told your Dad, and me, to hit the road. Your Dad told him he wasn't leaving until he got paid. That's when they called the cops. They were the ones that escorted us out. I figured, once we got outside, that we would leave town. Not your old man. He just stood there and waited. A few hours later, the factory whistle blew, and the men came filing out. We followed that foreman to the bar up the street. I watched your Dad beat that man half senseless, then empty his pockets. The fat bastard had over two hundred dollars in cash. Bonus money for the month for eliminating jobs. I would have taken all of it. Back in the Depression, that was a King's Ransom, boy. Not your Dad. He took eight dollars. Gave me two. Then he made me spend the night in a barn with him. Next morning, we were back out in front of that factory. Your Dad found the two men he'd put out of work the day before, and gave each one of them two dollars. Then we went to the rail yards, hopped a train, and headed east.

The story was a lot shorter when my Dad told it to me growing up. No mention of him being the hero, no mention of cops, putting men out of work, let alone beating some guy half to death. The moral for me when I was young: If you're feeling overwhelmed by the circumstances in your life, just remember that things could always be worse. My lovely wife, Cherish, and I still look at each other, from time to time, and say...Gotta broom? Makes us laugh and remember that we aren't as overworked as we might think, and things aren't as bad as they seem.

The second moral I got was one that my Dad made clear in other stories as well: if you know that you're going to go out anyway; it's better to go out with a bang instead of a whimper. "Gotta broom?" also means taking your lumps with pride, standing up for what you know is right, even when you are sure it's going to cost you.

The third moral I learned from the story is very basic. It's Biblical in its concepts, and one of the truest things I know: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. My Dad couldn't live with the thought of having two men...and their families, go hungry just so he could eat...and line some fat bastard's pockets by being quiet. There was no Disney ending to that story for my Dad. No being carried off on every body's shoulders...no parades. In fact, he probably went hungry longer than he needed to for having done it. But, my Father's words come back to me today as I write this as if he were standing in front of me:
You don't do what's right so people will notice. You do what's right...because it's the right thing to do."

I've always wished that I could be even half the man that my Dad was. It'll never happen. But, something better has. My son, Chance. He's every bit the man that my Dad was...maybe more.

So, if you're ever feeling over-run by life, just ask yourself a question:
Gotta Broom?

I hope if you do...it brings a smile to your face...and peace to your heart.

I love you, Dad. You taught Chance well on those fishing trips in Heaven...

HEROES FOR MY SON...WHO ARE YOUR HEROES?

2010-05-06T10:29:00.000-07:00

http://www.headlinenewsmakers.com/?key=4ecebc8dc00d519bf98acf149cc490e6

I have always been a reader. My parents joked that they never saw me without something to read in my hands: A volume of the encyclopedia, the dictionary, a novel, a comic book...even the cereal box when I was eating was fodder to my appetite. I read the way a starving man eats when presented with a Las Vegas buffet. I was voracious...and I ate everything.

I have gotten pickier as I have gotten older. The old classics long since consumed numerous times, I have searched over the years for contemporary writers who can hold my interest. Sadly, there have been few. That is why I have gone to predominately non-fiction reading over the3 course of my adult life. But...when I do find an author that I truly enjoy, I await their newest tome like a four year old anticipates Christmas morning.

Some of my favorite writers are, in no particular order: Stephen King, Lee Child (the Reacher books are a guilty pleasure), Preston & Child's Pendergast series, and Michael Connolly's Bosch series. These are works that I devour insatiably as soon as they become available.

There is another author who I discovered a few years ago whose work I truly enjoy: Brad Meltzer. His ability to weave thrilling, yet plausible stories, keeps me on the edge of my seat as I read...a not to easy task any more with my jaded palette. He has just written a new, non-fiction book:
HEROES FOR MY SON.
You can find out more about it here:
http://www.bradmeltzer.com/

I've already pre-ordered my copy, and I await it with great anticipation.

Brad Meltzer is a man of many talents...and passions. His charitable foundation, ORDINARY PEOPLE CHANGE THE WORLD http://www.ordinarypeoplechangetheworld.com/ reaches out to help others in a unique way...by empowering anyone who wants to be a part of positive change to be able to do it with only $1. Most charities almost make you feel bad if you can't contribute large amounts. Not Brad's. $1 can change the world...which means that he is teaching, through his charity, that one person can change the world. This is a philosophy that I have always believed: that is always the actions of one person that begins great change. That belief has led me to view, as heroes, many people that the world would overlook.

My greatest hero growing up was my Dad. I never thought that anyone could ever replace him atop the pinnacle of my hero worship...but I was wrong. First, my wife Cherish (who happens to be my number one hero), then my children, have all surpassed my Dad...which I know he would be happy about.

It's not just about having heroes...it's about making sure that they know that they're your hero. I made sure that my dad knew. I've tried, especially since my heart attack, to make certain that my wife and children know what heroes they are to me. I'm also trying to make sure that other people in my life, ordinary people, know what heroes they are...and can be.

If you follow this link:
http://www.headlinenewsmakers.com/?key=4ecebc8dc00d519bf98acf149cc490e6
you'll see a unique way to let people know that they are your hero. Go to the site. Watch the video about Cherish. Spend a few minutes thinking about who you want to tell that they are a hero to you...then make your own video and let them know.

Many thanks to Brad Meltzer, for this unique tool and opportunity to reach out to those we love and admire. Take the time to let someone know what they have meant to you. It'll make their day...and yours. Change the world...one person at a time...starting with yourself.

Make a difference.

Make a change.

And, if you want a great book for Fathers day, or just for someone you really love, make sure to buy
HEROES FOR MY SON.

You'll be glad you did.

LOST: THE BOOK OF JOB and the ULTIMATE GAME

2010-04-21T11:39:00.000-07:00

I don't think that this is what the writers of LOST are doing with the story. This is just what the storyline on LOST reminds me of at the moment. With that in mind, let's move on...

If you haven't read the Book of Job in the Bible, you should. Very powerful and informative stuff. Not very empowering to the Church in today's world...at least not the Churches that make God your personal genie and claim that you determine your own destiny. Not even very good for those who claim to have chosen Christ rather than the other way around. Too bad. It's always been a big help to me.

So...what is the main theme running throughout Job? Let's look at the story.

First we're told that Job is a really good guy. He's so good, in fact, that he prays for other people just in case they may have screwed up. He's rich, powerful, fears God, shuns evil, and probably helps little old ladies cross the street. Couldn't be any better of a guy.

The Sons of God, whoever they are (and yes, I think I do, but that's for another time) show up to hang out with God up in Heaven. Satan is with them. This means it's after his fall as Lucifer. He still has access to God as our accuser. God asks him the equivalent of, "What's up?" Satan's response?
"Oh, you know...hangin'...chillin'...checkin' stuff out down on the Earth."

God's reply is very informative in many ways. He asks Satan if he's checked out Job. Then, God brags on Job. Says there is, "...none like him in all the earth."

Wow. Can you imagine God saying that about you? I can't. Maybe the other way...like, hey, look at Chris...you ever seen such a screw-up in all your days? Job, unlike yours truly, was obviously high on God's list.

Satan gets chippy back with God...says, sure...who wouldn't do good and be cool with all that stuff you've given him. Take his stuff away, and he'll curse you to your face. God tells Satan to knock himself out...take it all...just don't touch Job. And...off Satan goes. He takes all of Job's stuff. Kills all of his kids. Really screws him over. Know what Job says? "I didn't have nothing when I got here...sure ain't taken nothing with me when I go...God gave it to me, He can take it back...it's all His. Thanks for lettin' me have it for awhile."

This is powerful stuff. Have you ever thought, or heard from somebody else, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Job was a good guy. Why did that happen to him? Well, who brought his name up? It wasn't Satan...it was God. Let's look at what happened next.

Some time goes by. We aren't told how much. The Sons of God and Satan are back up hangin' out with God. God asks Satan again, "Where you been?"
Satan tells him again..."hangin', checkin', chillin'...

Now God brings Job up AGAIN. "He's still my boi, and even though I let you screw with him for no reason, he still stands strong."

Satan's reply? "You let me take his stuff...but a man would sell his own soul for his life and health...let me screw with him that way and he'll curse you to your face." God says OK, but you can't kill him.

So...who brought Job into all of this both times? God did. This whole thing is a bet between God and Satan...and God is betting on Job!

Satan screws with Job really bad now. Boils from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. His wife tells him to curse God so he can die. He tells her to shut up..."...you want the good stuff from God? Then you gotta take the bad too." Didn't do anything wrong. Better man than me. Can't say much for his wife, though. I'll take mine any day.

This is where Satan does his best work. First he has the wife screw with him. Now his three best friends show up. And, how do they comfort Job? By telling him that he must have a secret sin in his life, or God wouldn't be doing this to him. Nice.

A little story from me now. Some of you know I have a degenerative neuropathy. The pain is so bad, it feels like someone injected all of my veins with gasoline and then set them on fire. Most of the time I can block out the pain well enough, but sometimes...anyway, a few years ago, I was hanging with this other Pastor. Nice enough guy. I had told him all about my past. Pretty much everything. Not a pretty picture, but I have no delusions of grandeur. So...one day the nerve damage hits like it's never hit before. I call him and ask for prayer. The pain goes on non-stop for two days. I start going through a check list in my mind of anything in my life that's changed recently. Well, I had just started taking an "energy boosting" vitamin pack. One of the ingredients is the worst thing to take if you have my neuropathy. I stopped taking the supplements, and the pain went back down to its normal hell.

Two days later, this Pastor calls me. Says he knows why my pain is soooo bad. You see, God spoke to him. That's right...God spoke to him. Directly. Personally. God told him that my pain was punishment for secret sins in my life. If I just confessed my secret sins to him (the pastor, not God), then my pain would go away. I asked when when God told him all of this; he said the night before. He asked if he could come over. Sure. Please do. Apparently, neither God nor this Pastor knew the pain had been caused by the vitamin pack and had been gone for three days.

I let him go through his whole routine when he came over. It was filled with how much he loved me, how long he had fasted for me, how God spoke to him...you get the idea. I let him talk. God had told him just how urgent it was for me to confess these secret hidden sins to him. You can imagine his surprise when I told him about the vitamins and being back to normal for three days. I told him I didn't know which God he'd been talking to...but it wasn't my God. Mine didn't make mistakes like that. He left...very embarrassed and trying to act like he hadn't said what he said...oh, and by the way...please don't tell any of the congregation about this. Please?

You see...this Pastor was getting ready to try and pull some financial shenanigans at his church. He suspected that I might know. He wanted to have dirt on me to use in case I tried to out him. I didn't care to out him. Not worth my time. And anybody who knows me, and thinks I have secret, worse sins than I cop to, isn't very bright. The ones I own are bad enough, thank you very much.

Am I comparing myself to Job? God forbid. Job was a righteous man. God said so Himself. Me? Not so much. However, we all go through tests and trials. What we need to remember is this...

God is betting on you. He loves you. He wants you to win. It isn't about how you look doing it. This life isn't a sprint. It's a combination marathon/obstacle course/gauntlet. Tough stuff. Doesn't matter what order you finish in. Just finish. And...God has already promised that you will finish. Keep your head up. You'll make it. Just don't quit.

At the end of Job's story, God gives him ten times more than he had before (same nagging wife, though...I'm sure glad I've got you Cherish) and tells Job's friends that He won't even listen to their prayers anymore because of how bad they spoke about Him. They have to beg Job to pray for them. The real kicker: It never says that God ever told Job why he put him through all of that shit. Never tells Job it was all a bet.

Now, back to LOST. Which character reminds me of Job?

John Locke. The true believer. The only thing he does wrong is finally ask why? Just like Job. Only mistake Job made was asking God why. Once God started to answer, Job changed his mind. Too late. Once God starts talking, He doesn't like being interrupted. You ask...He just might answer.

Last night's episode had the "Flocke Monster say that John Locke was a sucker for believing that the island brought him there for a reason. Maybe he was right. We all feel like suckers sometimes when we try and do things God's way. But...

If the Flocke Monster represents Satan, or evil...then you know that he lies...all of the time. I think he was lying about John Locke. I think Satan can't stand it when we believe...especially when we cling desperately in the face of all reasons not to. That's what Locke did in the show. He was killed for it. But...

I don't think that the island is done with the real John Locke yet. I think he is still the key to the ending of Lost. I believe that some how, some way, he's going to come back. It will be his return that ultimately defeats the Flocke Monster. His faith...

I know it's hard to remember when you're eyeball deep in shit that that is what it takes to make the flowers grow. But...it's much harder to remember, when you're standing in that beautiful field of flowers later...that you wouldn't be there...if you hadn't been eyeball deep in shit before.

Just as God uses our faith in Him to defeat our enemy. So, hang in there. Finish the race. God's cheering for you...and so am I.

JUST A COUPLE OF OLD QUEENS

2010-04-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

http://www.bilerico.com/2010/04/sonoma_county_ca_separates_elderly_gay_couple_and.php

You know, I always start out with the best of intentions when I sit down to write. I have a plan...something I want to do. Sometimes it's on one of my screenplays...sometimes it's on one of my other projects...sometimes it's a blog. I always have a plan. But...the best laid plans of mice and men...

My good friend Patti posted the above link the other day on Facebook. If you haven't read it yet, please do. It's about the tragic consequences to an older gay couple because of their inability to get married. If, after reading it, you're not heartbroken...don't read any more of this blog...because the heartbreak of their circumstance, and my outrage at it, is what this blog is about.

The old men in the above photo at least are together...something that was denied to the couple when they were forcibly separated and put into two separate nursing homes...one of the men against his will. If you're married, or if you've ever loved someone, I want you to imagine...

Imagine not being allowed to see your spouse after they've suffered a life threatening injury...never seeing them again in the final three months of their life.

Imagine not being allowed to have a say in their medical care.

I imagine having the home that the two of you have shared for over twenty years taken away from you.

Imagine having all of your possessions sold without your consent...all but one scrap book...the one your lover spent the last few months of their life putting together for you.

Imagine no last look...

Imagine no last words...

Imagine no last touch...

Imagine no last kiss...

Imagine no last embrace...

Imagine the pain...the heartache...

Imagine.

This is a tragedy that didn't need to happen. And yet, tragedies like this happen all the time to Gay and Lesbian couples. They've been happening to them for far too long...and there's no end in sight.

Now, you might think it's odd for me, a straight Christian minister, to be such a strong advocate for Gay/Lesbian rights. Let me explain to you why I am.

First, you should read these two blogs I wrote a while back:

http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/07/kathy-griffin-matthew-shepard.html

http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/08/for-chesliekathy-griffin-matthew.html

Hopefully, they answered some of your questions on my position. The Scriptural one is beyond question to anyone who reads their Bible. "They'll know that you are my Disciples because you love one another." And, of course, "...Love God with all that you are, and love your neighbor as yourself." The parable of the Good Samaritan that I quote in those blogs doesn't leave Christians any wriggle room about how to treat others. There is, however, another Biblical aspect that is overlooked:

Following the laws of your country.

Which brings me to this:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that ALL men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are, Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

You know, most of the men who worked on the Declaration weren't even Christians, at least not in a strictly Scriptural sense. If you doubt that, I challenge you to read Thomas Jefferson's Bible and see how much he cut out. Most of them were Deists, at best. The people who helped formulate the thought of the day, like Thomas Paine, were atheists...and yet they had the sense to word that document very carefully.

If your Creator endows you with the rights...only He can take them away. They're not up to a vote. No change in government, no king or queen, no whim of public opinion can alter them. Also, the original wording was "inalienable", not unalienable. So? Read the following definitions of the two words:

"Unalienable: incapable of being alienated, that is, sold and transferred." Black's Law Dictionary, Sixth Edition, page 1523:

You can not surrender, sell or transfer unalienable rights, they are a gift from the creator to the individual and can not under any circumstances be surrendered or taken. All individuals have unalienable rights.

Inalienable rights: Rights which are not capable of being surrendered or transferred without the consent of the one possessing such rights. Morrison v. State, Mo. App., 252 S.W.2d 97, 101.

You can surrender, sell or transfer inalienable rights if you consent either actually or constructively. Inalienable rights are not inherent in man and can be alienated by government. Persons have inalienable rights. Most state constitutions recognize only inalienable rights.

You see, you can give up inalienable rights, if you choose to. Not so with unalienable. They're permanent. All men...that means men and women.

The one thing I've always had against our founding Fathers was their cowardice. Yes, they stood up to the mightiest nation on earth at that time. But, you know who they wouldn't stand up to? Their own neighbors...friends...peers. That's why Washington, Jefferson and others didn't free their own slaves while they were alive. They put clauses in their wills, but...who could say anything to them then? We're still paying for that cowardice, in the civil rights issues of today.

Still, you might ask yourself why the whole marriage thing is so important to me. Do you know what miscegenation is? here's a link for you: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miscegenation

Did you know that miscegenation laws weren't overturned by the US Supreme court until 1967? How about the fact that it took many of the remaining southern states years to comply? Alabama was the last hold out. They finally ratified it in 2000. That's right...2000.

I am mixed race. Part Native American. My wife's and my marriage would have been illegal in many states just 43 years ago. Some of you know me. I try to be a good Christian. But, can you imagine what I would do if some bureaucracy tried to separate my wife and I? Tried to keep me from her when she was ill or injured? I just had a heart attack a couple of months ago. What if she hadn't been allowed to be there for me because of my mixed race? That could have been the case not that long ago.

I followed up on the story of the two tragic men on a number of other sites. One of them had comments. That's where the , "just a couple of old queens" comes from. That was some alleged christian's remark about why it was no big deal. After all, it only happened to a couple of old queens. Those fags get what they deserve.

As a Christian, I'm tired of hearing that from those who say they represent my Savior. Sick and tired of it. I can't stop them...but, I can try and make sure that their voices aren't the only ones that are heard purporting to be voices of Christian thought.

So, from today on, my wife and I would like to be thought of as just a couple of old queens. Not really fair to her, mind you. She is, after all, very young...and very beautiful. But she wears the title proudly...as do I.

I would rather be a couple of old queens...than what I see passing itself off as Christianity most of the time.

I hope the Gay/Lesbian community doesn't mind. I know they'll love my wife...I'm a little harder to accept. But I try...

COURSE CORRECTION

2010-04-09T13:20:00.000-07:00

I cut my finger yesterday. No big deal, except that the meds that I have to take for my stent make me bleed like a stuck pig. I have to bandage the finger up with a few bandages each time to keep the blood from soaking through. That makes the finger rather cumbersome...and my typing, which is not the best in the world to begin with, has suffered tremendously. I keep hitting extra keys, and bleeding on the keyboard. Some of the spellings are quite unique to say the least. So, Patti, if you thought my misspelling of sunshine was bad, you should see this stuff. This won't be the blog I originally planned. Something shorter will have to do.

I had planned on writing either about why Jesus wept, or about imaginary time/Schrodinger's Cat/and the philosophy of quantum mechanics. Not today. Let's just do...

What if?

Two word combination, but very powerful. We all do it...all the time. Usually, we do it over missed opportunities...missed chances. It's quite often replaced with, "if only". We're quite certain that if God, or whatever it is that you personally believe in, had only done things better for us, we wouldn't be in the terrible place we find ourselves in.

I prefer to look at it a different way.

What if I hadn't gotten crippled on the job as a Deputy Sheriff ?

It's a simple one, but it serves my point well. I can assure you, when I went through that whole experience, I didn't think that God was looking out for me. I didn't think He was looking out for me over the next few years, as the nerve damage grew worse. I didn't think that He was looking out for me when they found the tumor on the nerve, and thought they were going to take my leg.

I asked a lot of what ifs back then.

But...if all of that hadn't happened...

I wouldn't have met my beautiful wife. I believe that meeting, and marrying her, was God's first, best destiny for me. It could have been reached in a far better, much easier journey. You see, I had driven my life so far off course that I wasn't going to meet her. I wasn't going to get to marry the woman of my dreams. I had really screwed up the direction that God had wanted my life to go. Thankfully, for whatever reason, He loves me. He loves me enough to cripple me to get me back on course...back to the only love that could ever have saved me. Cherish's love.

It's what He wanted for me all along. I just made Him work a thousand times harder to get me there than was necessary.

Now, am I saying that all of the bad things that happen in people's lives are their fault? God forbid. I do know, however, that some of our worst problems are of our own making. Mine in particular. That's why I had the heart attack. Course correction again. I wasn't appreciating Cherish...my children...and all of the other wonderful things in my life enough. So, God let me have another Chance.

When I was laying on the bathroom floor, struggling to find the strength to crawl and get my phone to call 911...I wasn't thinking about being injured on the job. I wasn't thinking about all of the terrible things that I thought had happened in my life. I was thinking about Cherish...and about my children. I was thinking about how blessed I had been...and about how I had taken those blessings for granted. I was thinking, however...if only...

If only God gives me another chance...

I'll make sure I tell my wife everyday that she is God's most beautiful and wonderful creation. I'll make sure my children know how special and precious they are to me...and how ferociously proud of each one of them I am. I'll make certain that every single day that I have left... I SHOW my wife what she means to me...not just spout empty words.

It was their faces that gave me the strength to crawl to my phone. It was their love that kept me going.

Now I don't say, What if? Or, If only...

I say...don't let me forget...don't let me forget.

And, I'm grateful for all of the things in my life that led me to where I am...even the bad ones.

And, I thank God every day for course correcting my life so many times.

The SUN and the MOON

2010-04-07T10:35:00.000-07:00

My beautiful wife, Cherish, is leaving tomorrow. She's going down to Southern California to visit our daughter Lacy, her sister Carey, and some of her old friends. She's only going to be gone until Sunday, but...

I'm going to miss her. Terribly. I've always known that my old friend Dennis was a better man than me: how he can stay apart from his lovely wife for so long, even in defence of our country, is beyond me. If I were separated from Cherish for that long, I'm certain I'd go mad.

So, I'm going to spend all day with her today. This is all I'm going to write.

The sun is the most important light in our sky. Without it, we would die. We depend on it for warmth, for food, for energy, for even the wind. We need the sun...and the light it shines upon us.

The moon is a lie. People always talk about moon light, but there is no such thing. The moon gives no light...it only reflects the light of the sun. In fact, the sun is so powerful, it fools people into thinking that the moon gives us light.

The moon, in reality, is a dead, obscure, scarred, lifeless body...floating in the eternal darkness of space. If not for the sun, the moon would drift away...into the blackness...forgotten forever.

Cherish is the Sun.

I am the moon.

Come back to me soon, my love...

I would die without you.

WHY I'M GLAD I'M NOT BORN AGAIN

2010-04-06T10:21:00.000-07:00

For those of you new to my blogs, I like to use titles that get people's attention. That one probably did the trick. How could a Christian minister possibly be glad that he isn't born again? Well, it's really a question of semantics...but we'll get to that in a moment.

There is a great deal of freedom in being a minister that refuses to get paid for his pitiful attempts at working for God. I never have to worry if the message that I've been given is going to offend people so badly that my family won't be able to eat. That is very empowering. I do not, however, take that freedom lightly. If God is your boss...you really don't want to screw up too badly, too often. So, I try and take my responsibilities seriously, and still get the message across.

First, you'll notice I used the word, minister. It's a translation of the Greek word, doulos, which means a bond servant. A bond servant was someone who had screwed up so badly that they had been sold into slavery to pay off their debt. The person who paid the debt for them owned them until the debt amount had been repaid. Since, in my case, the debt amount is the life of God's Son, I'll never repay it in this life. Can't be done. And, although He has forgiven the debt completely, and made me a joint heir with His Son, I prefer to still think of myself as a bond servant. Why? Because that's what the Apostle Paul did. Paul was obviously a much better Christian than I could ever be, so...if it was good enough for him to think of himself that way, it works for me.

It also has the added benefit of reminding me of my place. G-O-D. All capital letters. Me=dirtbag. Not only pond scum, but lower case pond scum. That's a good start.

Now, let's get back to why I'm glad I'm not born again, shall we?

Jesus used simple analogies and stories almost all of the time. Planting, harvesting, fishing...simple stories for simple minds. There is really only one deeply religious conversation that He had that is recorded: the one with Nicodemus in John chapter 3. Famous passage...but not really understood well. One of these days, I'm going to write a blog about the whole chapter...it still blows my mind. Anyway...

Old Nic asks Jesus how to get to Heaven. Jesus basically says, "You're the hotshot teacher, and you don't understand the simplest things?"

Owwwwww...that had to hurt.

Then Jesus tells him that he must be born...not again. The Greek word is "hano". It means, from above. It is denotative of place, not time. Old Nic is a ticker, as we all are. His clock only goes in one direction. Forward. Can't make it go back, can't even slow it down. Tick, tick, tick...it just keeps going. So, when Jesus says, "from above", Nic figures it hasn't happened yet because he doesn't remember it happening. Of course, he conveniently forgets that he doesn't remember his physical birth either. Asks how he gets back inside of his mom when he's an old man.

Unfortunately, he misses the whole point...as most of us do, I'm afraid.

Ever heard these before?

Have you found Jesus? (Didn't know He was lost)

Have you accepted Jesus? (Does He have at least two current forms of ID)

These are some of the types of ways that we, as Christians, are taught to witness to people. I'm sure that God applauds the effort, at least most of the time. However, that type of process quite often does more harm than good. What should we do then?

Let me ask you a question...what did you have to do with your physical birth?

The correct answer is: nothing. You were just along for the ride. You had absolutely NOTHING to do with being born. Sooooo...what do you think you had to do with your Spiritual birth? If you answered nothing, you're on the right track.

God chose you...you didn't choose Him.

Now, I know some of you are at least a little disturbed by all of this, and probably wondering where I'm going with it. Before we answer some of your questions, let me ask you another one.

Does God use the analogies with us that He does because of the relationships and experiences we have?
Or, did He create us to have these kind of relationships and experiences so that we would have a better chance at understanding what he wanted us to know while we were in these limiting tents of human flesh?

If you serve an Omnipotent and Omniscient God, like I do, the answer should be painfully obvious.

So, Chris, what's the big deal? What's the difference between "again" and "above"?

Again means it happened after your physical birth...which would make God a liar...and dependant on you. Above reconciles with His Word, where He says that He chose us before the foundations of the world were laid. In other words, God chose us, or gave birth to us Spiritually, before He even created the physical universe. It means that God's Grace, and Mercy, and Love are NOT dependant on us...or our ability to perform. From above means that there is NOTHING that can separate us from that love.

Some of you are parents...so let me ask you...what could your child do to make you stop loving them? Is there anything?

Of course not. They can get mad at you. Leave and not speak to you for years. Deny you and denounce you. But, no matter what they do, they are still your child. Period. And, they always will be.

Why do I feel that this difference is so important? First of all, because God does...or He wouldn't have been so careful in the words he chose to describe our relationship with Him. Secondly, it takes the pressure off. I can't count the number of people who have come to me in tears over the years, feeling that they didn't do enough to "save" a loved one or a friend. They believed that if that person wasn't "saved", it was somehow their fault.

Nothing could be farther from the Truth.

I'll tell you what I've told all of them through the years: God is pretty damn good at His job. Great batting average. Not only always gets a hit...always hits a home run. Every firckin' time. You can depend on Him to get the job done. My God is Omnipotent...not impotent. Look again at John Chapter 3. He asks Nic if he can tell where the wind comes from, or goes. In other words, can you tell who the Holy Spirit has touched before you? Can you tell who He will touch after you?

No. Not your job. Your job is acting on the knowledge that you've been given. To love God the best you can. To love your neighbor as yourself. Do those two things, everything else will fall into place.

Does that mean that I'm saying we shouldn't, as Christians, witness to others?

God forbid.

Unless, of course, you think witnessing means going to the mall and grabbing strangers and asking them if they know that they're damned and going to hell. That's not what we're told to do...and somewhere, there's a guy who did that to me at a terrible time in my life, who's probably still looking over his shoulder wondering where the psycho ex-cop is. It wasn't pretty.

What we're told to do is to have an "answer" for the hope that lies within us. That presupposes a few things: First, that we actually have hope inside of us. Second, that our lives are such that the hope that we have shows. Third, that we live among people, and that they notice the hope we have. Fourth, that they then feel close enough to us to ask why we have the hope that we have.

I talk about my wife all of the time. People may get sick of hearing about her, but I don't care. I love her. More than anything. She comes up in my conversations all of the time because I love her.

That's the way it's supposed to be with how we present God to others. Not what they're missing. Not what they need. Not where they're wrong. Not why we're right. Just who we love...and why we love Him.

You'll find you needlessly offend a lot less people that way. Nobody likes to be told that they're fat, ugly and their mother dresses them funny. Especially by someone in checks and stripes with food stains and a mullet...and a belly hanging over their too tight jeans.

Those of you who knew me in high school and before know what an insufferably arrogant jerk I could be. And, unfortunately, that was on my good days. By the time I got in my twenties, I realized I didn't really know very much. By my thirties, a lot less. Forties? Almost nothing. Now I wonder if I could find the back of my lap with a pack of bloodhounds, a posse and a flood light.

But I do know this: God loves me. He chose me. He loves you. He chose you. How do I know if He chose you or not? If He lead you here to read this...pretty simple.

The only real mystery to me...is why God would choose me. I know me. I wouldn't choose me. But He did.

And for that, I will be grateful...eternally.

SNAPSHOTS FROZEN IN TIME PART 2: MARLEY"S GHOST

2010-04-05T09:40:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night...Dennis Dollarhide and I were playing kick ball at school. His arm was in a cast and a sling. He was wearing a short-sleeve, button down checkered shirt. We were on the field in between Horace Mann and Woodrow Wilson, on the Mann side, so I think we were in the third grade. After school we went to his house. I think it was on Blackthorne, right off of South St. We were playing in his front yard, hoping the pretty little dark haired girl who lived a few doors down (you know who you are) would come out and see us.

Memory is a strange thing. Did you ever catch yourself thinking about something from your past, and have absolutely no idea where the memory came from? Sometimes, if you're very lucky, you can trace back one tangent memory after another until you get to what triggered the chain. Most of the time, however, we can't. Memories seem to pop up randomly...but they are never really random. Something always triggers them. A sound. A smell. An image. Sometimes all it takes is the quality of light streaming through a window...or a particular shade of color. Amazing, really.

If you read my last blog, you know I spoke of the snapshots we leave with others, and how we should be careful of what memories we leave with people. There is of course, and inverse to that: the memories that others leave with us...more importantly, how we handle those memories...what we do with them, and what impact we allow them to have on our lives.

Man will never create a computer that can come close to matching the human mind. The complexities of our thought processes, especially when it comes to memory, is beyond our comprehension. Our minds are like photo albums, storing every single image, sound, taste, smell, and emotion that we have ever experienced. Some of them are good. Some are not. Today, we're talking about the bad ones...and what we choose to do with them.

Some bad memories are actually useful. It's good to remember that a hot stove burned you. That way, you are careful around stoves. It is not good, however, to hate all stoves because you got burned by one. It is not good to hunt down stoves and shoot them. It's not good to try and teach all people that stoves are inherently evil because you got burned by one. It is not good to refuse to live in a house that has a stove, and try and convince others to get rid of theirs. It is certainly not good to allow being burned by a stove once to dominate your thoughts, hopes and dreams for the rest of your life...to allow that memory to make not only you miserable, but also all of those around you...especially the ones you love the most.

You've noticed, I'm sure, the picture of Marley's Ghost at the top of this post. In Dickens' classic tale, the chains Marley carried with him were his misdeeds that he performed in life. While I agree that we carry our misdeeds that way, I believe that we do something far more insidious; more harmful not only to ourselves, but to those we care the most about:

Our memories...or, the ones we choose to focus on.

I'm not meaning to harp about my heart attack from two months ago. It was, however, a seminal event for me...and one that I hope can be of help to others. I learned, while re-examining my life, that it wasn't just the snapshots I had left with others that had had a negative effect on people...it was the snapshots in my own memory that I had chosen to focus on. You see, the snapshots that I chose to focus on had a great influence on the ones that I left with others. It's a truly vicious circle.

I was Marley's Ghost twice over...chains not just from my misdeeds, but from the focus of my memories. And, I allowed those chains to drag the ones I love into the depths of despair.

One of the biggest differences between God and Man is that God can truly forget when he forgives. It says in His word that He can put things as far away from Himself as North is from South, High is from Low...you get the idea. We can't do that. Once a memory is stuck in our heads, it's pretty much there forever. But, if you liken our memories to a photo album, we still have options. We have the ability to choose what pages we go to, at least most of the time. However...even when something triggers a bad memory and drags us there against our will, we have the ability to choose how long we stay on that page...and how much impact we allow that image to have on us...and those around us.

I'm not accusing any of you of being as bad as I was and am. God forbid. But...even if you have made the mistake of allowing the negative snapshots in your personal photo album to influence you even one one millionth as much as I have...it is far too much.

I am in the process of shedding my chains. I realize that it will be a life-long struggle. You see, the worst part of it is this: I like to hold on to them. There is, for some perverse reason, a comfort I find in blaming others...even though I know that it is wrong. I have always been the captain of my own ship. Whatever storms I have sailed through have been of my own doing. That is not true for everyone. Many people are truly victims of circumstance...whether that means a tragic accident...or an encounter with a monster. I cannot imagine the difficulty for them in trying to let go...but that is an excuse that I do not have.

Choose which pages of your album of memories you go to. Choose, when you are taken to a page against your will, how long you stay there. Choose what impact you allow it to have on your life, and the lives of those around you.

Don't be like me. Don't be Marley's Ghost. What few chains you may still have, let go.

The checks on Dennis' shirt were blue and green...at least in the dream. The grass was feshly mowed and wet. The scent of it hung in the still air. The sun was high in the cloudless sky...and we both could run like the wind...and one day, we will again. Be safe overseas, my friend. You are missed. And loved.

SNAPSHOTS FROZEN IN TIME

2010-04-04T10:16:00.000-07:00

I saw a photo of Johnny Cline yesterday...and I cried.

I have always been a passionate man. Too passionate, some of the time. My emotions, however, have been very raw since the heart attack...as if someone had flayed my skin and exposed all of the emotional nerves. Still...that picture of Johnny made me cry.

The technological age we live in is amazing. I just wrote to a long lost friend who is literally half way around the world. Amazing. More amazing is how we reconnected.

I went on my Facebook page the other day, which is something that I rarely do. On the sidebar it had one of those "you might like to add" suggestions for a friend. I usually ignore those, but this time the name caught my eye. It was someone I hadn't seen in 28 years...not since my ten year high school reunion. I don't know how their software works...we had no friends in common...I never put down my old school affiliations...but I hit add. Before I had left the page, a new one popped up. A young lady I had gone to school with. So, I added her as well. Since then, a number of old high school friends have been added as friends...all in the space of a few days...which brings me to Johnny.

I went on to each person's page and looked at photos. The picture of Johnny was on one. Johnny from over thirty years ago. Johnny and I had gone to school together all the way through high school. Played sports together. We kind of separated in high school...nothing ominous or bad...just the normal parting that friends do as they divide into groups with more likes and connections. A short time after we graduated, I heard about Johnny. I don't remember how long after, maybe a year or two. He had passed away. Tragically...and far, far too young. I was sad when I heard about it. That was long ago. But, when I saw his picture yesterday...

Memories are a funny thing. Things get frozen in time in our minds, like snapshots...or, perhaps, more like stills from a motion picture. When I saw that picture of Johnny, I was flooded with snapshots of him. Snapshots of a very young Johnny, from long, long, ago. Grade school. Youth football. He was always so handsome. And that smile of his ? Well, just ask the ladies...he could charm the honey from bees with that smile. So many memories of a life cut tragically short. I wept for him...and for all of those I knew must have missed him terribly all of these years.

But it also made me think...what kind of snapshots do we leave to others?

Those of you who read my work know I like to tell stories to illustrate a point. True stories work the best...even if those stories are painful personally. So...

It was over twenty years ago. My wife was expecting Lacy. We were living in a townhouse in Huntington Beach. We had taken our girls somewhere, and had just gotten home. Our doberman, Alex, had been left behind with the screen open to the balcony in case of bathroom emergency. Alex, as great a dog as she was, was also very temperamental. She got mad if we left her for too long. If she felt miffed at our leaving, she just might not go out on the balcony to take care of business. Which is what we came home to...dog poop and pee right at the front door.

I was a much younger man. Didn't realize then how mean and bitter I could be. I picked her up and carried her out to the balcony, cussing and swearing the whole way. Every other word was stupid f%$#ing bitch. Alex was big for a dobie, over ninety pounds. But, like I said, I was a much younger man. I picked her up by the loose skin dobie's have on their backs. Hung her over the balcony...cussing and threatening to drop her for her inability to go to the bathroom right. Now, I wouldn't really have dropped her. I was just mad. And that's where the incident would have stayed, probably forgotten, except...

We moved about a month later. We were moving into a house in Orange for Lacy's birth. More room for everybody, and a yard for the kids and the dog. Our downstairs neighbors helped a little with the move, and that's when they told us this story:

They had visitors a while back. A young married couple. It was the night I hung Alex over the balcony. The couple never saw our dog...but they did see my very, very pregnant wife go up the stairs before my outburst. The young husband was convinced I was a crazed psychotic, threatening my pregnant wife for her incontinence. He wanted to stay the night in a motel...his wife wouldn't go. Our neighbors had assured him I was yelling at the dog. He didn't believe them. He was so certain that I was going to come down in the middle of the night and kill them all in their sleep that he stayed up all night...in his car...facing our townhouse so he could see me coming...with the biggest butcher knife our neighbors had grasped tightly in his hands. They left the next morning. He wouldn't stay another night.

Our neighbors laughed about it. So did my wife. I was embarrassed, but I laughed along with them. After all, you have to be able to laugh at yourself, right?

I've retold that story numerous times as an example of the impact our actions can have on others. Everyone always laughs...it is a funny story. But...

Today is Easter...or Paschal. Passover. The day we celebrate Resurrection. New life. New hope. And it occurred to me that the story has a far deeper meaning than I had thought before. You see, we all leave snapshots with people. Not just strangers, but also the ones we love. Those snapshots are all that people have once we are out of their lives, whether that is from distance...or time...or death.

What kind of snapshots do you want to leave people with?

The snapshot I left that man with is not a good one. However, neither is the one that I left those neighbors with. It breaks my heart, especially at this point in my life, to think of how many people I have left with bad images over the years. Not just strangers...but also people I care about. People I love. I've vowed to try and change that.

I believe in the Resurrection. I believe in new life. In hope.

I would encourage each of you that read this to re-examine your lives...your hearts. Please don't be like me. Make sure that you leave good snapshots with people. Especially those you love.

You see, there is always hope.

I saw a photo of Johnny Cline yesterday...and I wept. But...I also changed because of it. For the better, I hope. I changed because of the impact of a photo of a friend...long since gone...but a friend who still had the ability to help me change...even from beyond the grave.

Thank you Johnny. I pray you are finally at peace. You deserve it.

I will see you again...someday soon.

And...I look forward to seeing that handsome smile.

Tell my family in Paradise with you that I said Hi.

Like A Fine Wine

2010-04-02T15:50:00.000-07:00

è stato un colpo di fulmine.

Some of you know I had a heart attack two months ago. Ninety percent block on the "widow maker". Another hour, and I would have been dead. Made me really look at my life. Re asses everything about myself. One of the things that I realized was that one should never put off telling the people that you love how much they mean to you...or why. So...

It was over twenty years ago. I was raising my two daughters alone. I was a psycho, one-legged ex-cop. Not a very nice person. I was a bodyguard/driver. I'd been to the Playboy Mansion. Numerous times. Movie premiers. Laker games. Private parties. Not for myself, mind you. In the course of business. I'd seen what the world considered beautiful. Up close and in person. Actresses and models. Hell, I'd even dated a few. Wasn't impressed.

I was never going to get married again. Never.

One day I met a young woman. Her back was to me. When she turned around...

The Sicilians say: "è stato un colpo di fulmine." It means struck by the thunderbolt. I can still remember that moment...the first time I ever saw my wife. I thought, at that very moment, that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I knew, right then, that I did want to get married again...but only if it could be to her.

Like I said, that was over twenty years ago. She is far more beautiful today than she was then. Every time I look at her, I am reminded of just how lucky I am to have her.

Today is her birthday. I don't have much in the way of money. Not a rich man, at least in the way that the world looks at riches. But...because of her love, I am the wealthiest man alive. Rich in things that are so above and beyond money.

I do not see the sunrise in the morning...until I see it in your smile.

The stars do not rise in the evening sky, until you release them from your eyes.

Your breath is the cool breeze on my fevered brow...bringing me peace.

Your gentle touch is the warmth of the sun...easing the pain from my soul.

Before there was time...I loved you.

When time is no more...I will love you still.

Happy Birthday, my love.

GENESIS Chapter 1:1 and 2

2010-01-12T12:00:00.000-08:00

Be-reshith bara Elohim eth ha-shamayim we-eth ha-arets: (2) we-ha-arets hayethah tohu
wa-bohu we-choshekh al-pnê tehôm we-rûach Elohim merachepheth al-pnê ha-mayim

In beginning Gods (he) created the heavens and the Earth. But the Earth was laid waste and made desolate, and destruction turned on the abyss.

There is so much to cover in these two verses that it may take me awhile...then again, my wife always says that if the refrigerator light comes on when I open the door, I do at least fifteen minutes.

I marvel at the majesty of God's Word. The first verse in the first chapter declares the Trinity, and explains it better than anyone I've ever heard attempt to. The noun is in the third person plural(Gods), but the verb is conjugated in the third person singular. It isn't until much later...throughout the Scriptures...that the act of creation is attributed to each of the persons of the Godhead individually...how can God be three and yet one? This is about as good as you'll ever get for an explanation. Still think it's the "majestic plural"?

מַע 6:4 ְ
shmo
hear-you !
רָאֵל יִ ְ
ishral
Israel
יְהוָה
ieue
Yahweh
הֵינ אֱ
alei·nu
Elohim-of·us
יְהוָה
ieue
Yahweh
אֶחָד
achd
one
:Deuteronomy 6:4
The Sh'ma states literally...
Hear, Oh Israel...I Am your Gods...I Am one.
The word translated "one" is not the number one, rather it has the meaning of a number of things tied into one bundle. So,
Hear Oh Israel...I Am your Gods...I Am collected into One.
And how often were/are the Jews supposed to say this? When they lie down...get up...go in/out a door...walk, etc...
In the very first verse God declares who He is...he doesn't even attempt to explain...take it or leave it.
That God guy is some writer...
I think that's enough for you to think about for one night...more to come soon...

My Wife is a Bitch VS Clint Walker...and the Winner is?

2009-12-31T13:16:00.000-08:00

Writing tends to be a very solitary business. I know there are some people who write in teams, but for most of us, it's one on one...you versus the blank page. So, writing teaches you a lot...not only about the subjects that you write about, but also about yourself. I have continued to learn more about myself this last year or so since I started writing this blog. Some good things...some not so good. But I've learned. I have also learned even more about people out there in the world.

I have written on a wide range of topics: religion, politics, fact, fiction, family stories, entertainment, etc. All of the experts say you should stick to one basic topic if you want to be successful and build a following, but I obviously haven't. Doing so may have cost me some readers, but I am a man of many diverse interests and I would like to think that most people are the same way. So I have, and will continue to write on a wide range of topics.

I have had hits from all over the United States and all over the world. Every continent but Antarctica (come on you Antarticans, get on the job!)and almost every country. This has been one of the most surprising elements to me about my blog: the wide range of my readership. But, there has been something even more enlightening than that...the topics people have chosen to read.

My number one blog in readership has been...My Wife is a Bitch, which most readers have come to after googling...are you ready? MY WIFE IS A BITCH! Not for my blog mind you, but probably to find some like minded man who is pissed off at his wife. That is why most of those hitting that article don't stay...once they find out it's a loving tribute to my wife, they leave. The second most popular really surprised me: Clint Walker...maze of memories. I've had a couple of thousand people come to read that one. Most have stayed and read it, then read other articles on my site. I hope Mr. Walker gets word of this and learns how not only great an impact his life has had on people, but how long lasting. I know he did on mine.

Time to move forward in life, and into next year. So, with that in mind, I'm asking all of you to come and visit my radio blog http://www.blogtalkradio.com/the-dumbass-speaking/2010/01/05/the-dumb-ass-speaks
The inaugural show is Tuesday, January 5Th. Come and listen to the Dumb Ass...and I pray all of you have a great New Year...

LOST: JACOB HAVE I LOVED PART 2

2009-12-28T12:09:00.000-08:00

We've been re-watching different seasons of Lost in preparation for the final season starting Feb 2nd. It's very interesting to go back and watch episodes from the past with the knowledge you have now...you see things that you didn't see before. Some of it may be come into play, some of it may not. It will be interesting to see.

When I wrote the first part of this post, I asked a lot of questions, hoping to spark some debate. This time I'm going to give you what I think could be some answers...although I'm probably wrong about most of them.

Here goes...

I believe that the main thrust of Lost is : Predestination VS Free Will. It is a question that has tormented mankind from the start of recorded time. If you go back to my first post and read the passage from the Bible in Romans Chapter 9, you get one part of God's answer to the debate: God chooses who He chooses. That leads most people to believe that predestination rules all...that we have no true free will. I have never agreed with that...not completely anyway. Go and read the book of Esther in the Old Testament, in particular chapter 4 verses 11-17. According to that passage, the outcome, IE Israel's being saved, is predetermined. It's going to happen. However...who gets the credit for saving Israel is up in the air. It could go to Esther...it will definitely go to someone else if she doesn't act...but it's also possible that others have already passed on the opportunity to save Israel. Esther acts...she is given the credit. She chose to risk her life. She didn't choose to be Jewish. She was chosen, by God, to be part of His family. Keep that in mind.

What am I saying, then? That Lost, like the Bible, teaches that we are predestined to be on one side or the other, but what we do on that side is up to us? That although the final outcome is already fixed, those who get credit is still up in the air? That we have total free will in our choices in how we serve?

Yes...and no.

Consider the case of Jonah. Told by God to be the first missionary. His message to the people of Nineveh? You suck, and God is going to kill you...all of you. Great job. No wonder he bails and tries to get away. But, does God let Jonah choose not to serve? Hell no! That God guy is pretty damn persuasive when He wants to be. Storms, big fish swallowing Jonah, puked on the beach...now, Jonah still had his free will. God, however, persuaded Jonah to go anyway. Why? Couldn't God get someone else to go? Of course He could. God chose to have Jonah go. Again the question is why?

If we are chosen...if the final outcome is already set...then what is the purpose of this life? I liken it to boot camp. A lot of people try and get on the job. Very few make it to the Academy. A lot of those that do make it quit. The DIs stress you out, because they know what kinds of situations you are going to face. They want you to be as prepared as possible. It's rough, but if you make it through you are ready for the job.

Now, on to LOST...

Who is the Man In Black? I'm going to go with Esau...Jacob's brother. He was the one who should have gotten the birthright and the blessing. He sold his birthright to Jacob for a pot of stew (remember Jacob in LOST offers MIB some food, which MIB sarcastically declines). Jacob cheats Esau out of the blessing. (I don't know that we've seen that on the show yet...however, that could be what is going on between them on and off the island)

MIB, Esau, decries the fact that he wasn't "chosen". Not his fault. If only he could do it over again, he'd do it differently. So, like a game of backgammon, they continue to play...using people like pieces. Moving them forward. Having them taken out of play. Putting them back in play farther back on the board. Jacob believes the outcome is determined, no matter what moves MIB makes. Even coming back as another player! His loophole. Jacob has foreseen this move. He has brought people to the island to counter MIB's move...not only in this time, but back in 1977. One group or the other can change the playing field. Perhaps both.

What does that make of our players? Pawns in a giant chess game, being moved against their will? Or, willing participants without knowing a game is even being played?

Are they Esthers? Or are they Jonahs? Or both?

For some, coming back to the island is the only thing they want to do. Others must be persuaded. In the end, they all come back...only to be divided upon return. Why?

What is the island? I believe, I hope, that it is the Gate to the afterlife, to Tartaros, and not Tartaros itself. Eden, Paradise on one side...and torment on the other. It was guarded on one side only...only one way in. No way out. Those who have crossed are the whispers. They can on occasion be seen, like Samuel the prophet by King Saul. But, for the most part, they are in the shadows...heard but not seen.

There are many alternate theories, of course. One involves true time travel...by aliens...from a planet that orbits our Sun every 3600 years. This theory would have Jacob and MIB be two of those aliens who have been left behind. Playing a game that they started back during the time of the Sumerian kings. (Sumer should be pronounced SHumer, or...Shem-er) They were considered gods by the people of their time. All of them went back to their planet the last time it was close...3600 years ago. And now...the planet is coming back...

They're coming...

Just food for thought.

Guest Blogger: LACY BLAKE

2009-11-24T10:44:00.000-08:00

Of all the things I love in life, here is what I love the most: Mom's holiday or just for the hell of it chocolate chip cookies. Rocket's breathing slowly in and out putting me to sleep. Open conversation. Holding hands. Smiling. Going to the park very early or very late when no one else is there and swinging. Not thinking, just swinging. Feeling like if I closed my eyes and let go I would continue flying and never have to stop. I love the rain. It's home. The gentle pittering and pattering on the roofs or the windows puts me completely at ease. I love my family. My Mama. My Daddy. I miss him. I miss her too, but I talk to her everyday. I can't talk to him or I get sad and homesick. I hope he doesn't think it's because I don't miss him. I often worry that it does. Nobody holds you like Daddy holds you. Nobody smiles, laughs, smells, looks, plays, talks, dresses, dances, or makes you feel safe like Daddy does. God, I miss him. We can get so mad at eachother, and he's still one of the things in this world I love more than anything. Like a hand print on my heart. For good. I love homecooked food. Christmas icicle lights. Being bundeled up, and being able to see your breath when you talk. I love snuggling. Being close. I love sharing things with someone you couldn't possibly share with someone else. I love that trust. I love comforting arms telling you "It's okay." when it really isn't. Arms that hold you when you need them. I love the security that I feel in those arms. I love performing. I love not having to be myself. To escape the boundaries this world puts on me and being someone I am not. I love to make people feel I love to get so caught up in the moment I leave myself and can hardly remember what I'm doing. I love to be free. I hate that through all of this that for everything I've come up with that I love I can come up with two things that I don't.

The end haha

I'm starting to fall in love with writing. You were right.

THE BITCH

2009-09-13T23:14:00.000-07:00

Early, 1982. I'm going through the Sheriff's Academy. My leg is already for shit. I went and asked the deputy that led PT if there was anything I could do to help it. The guy was in his early fifties. Six months earlier, he'd had heart surgery...and then he's leading all three classes(junior, senior, and reserves at night) in PT. Every day. So, like I said, I ask him if there's anything I can do about my leg. The guy was a stud. If anyone would know, it would be him. His response:

It's just these pussy three mile runs we're going on right now. Once we get up to a man sized run, like six, eight miles or so, your legs will stretch out...mine do the same thing right now. You'll be fine.

They said if you could walk, you could run. I could walk...and I was highly motivated.

The day after I asked him about it, my DI came up to me during the daily run. Right along side. Just looked at me for a while. Then he asks me:

Your leg botherin' you, Wonder Bread?

Sir, No Sir!

Then don't be botherin' my PT instructor again. You got that?

Sir, Yes Sir!

We had a routine for PT everyday. Stretch. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Run. We started at three miles. We were at four then. Working our way up to twelve. At the end of each run, we'd slow to a walk in the parking lot. Two laps. Then into the gym for stress-recovery-stress:25 seconds of as many push-ups as you could do, followed immediately by 25 seconds of as many sit-ups as you could do, followed by 25 seconds of as many three count squat thrusts as you could do, and finally, 25 seconds of as many jumping jacks as you could do.

Then you got a 30 second rest...and did it all over at 20 seconds. Then fifteen.

By the twelfth week we were doing 60 seconds, 55, and 50. It didn't matter who you were. It didn't matter how great of shape you were in. If you gave it everything you had during stress-recovery-stress, you were done when it was over. Couldn't even lift your arms over your head to take your shirt off before your shower. Your buddy had to do it for you, and vice-versa. And, you only got five minutes to get out of your PT gear, shower, and be back in uniform in formation.

That two lap walk to cool down at the end of the run was huge. You really needed it.

Starting that day, I no longer got it.

In 1982, the Los Angeles Sheriff's Academy was located at Biscailuz Center in East LA. It's set on a hill. Every day, at the start of our run, we would head out of the parking lot down a serpentine road. On the final turn you looked up and saw what we affectionately referred to as, "The Bitch." It was a road that ran up a hill bordering the Jails on the west, the freeway on the east, and Sybil Brand women's jail on the north. It went up at about a forty-five degree angle for over a hundred yards, leveled for about ten, and then went up again at an even steeper angle for another hundred and fifty or so. There was a gate at the top of the hill, connecting Biscailuz with Sybil Brand. The gate was unlocked by a DI when we got there, and locked behind us after we went through.

Every time.

It was a security risk. That's why it had to be a DI to unlock it...and a DI to make sure it was locked behind us.

Every time.

But something changed that day. We get in the parking lot. Cool down walk time. Psyching up for stress-recovery-stress. My DI comes up to me as we're marching.

Cadet Blake!

Sir, Yes Sir!

I don't think DI Massey locked the gate after we went through. I need someone to check it and make sure...you just volunteered...GO!

Cocksucking, ball-licking, punk ass bitch motherfucker...I said that to myself, of course...as I took off down the serpentine road. The Bitch was waiting for me when I turned the last curve. Smiling at me. Whispering. Telling me, in a very soothing voice, to just quit now. There was no way I could do it...and even if I did, I'd never make it through stress-recovery-stress after that anyway. Just quit.

Her voice was soft and cool. Silky against my heart. Seductive.

I told her to go fuck herself, and started up the hill.

I don't know how I made it up there that first time. I tried to keep my head down. Not look. When I finally did look up, I wasn't even halfway. I could feel my knee swelling. Grapefruit size by now. And the Bitch kept whispering sweet nothings into my ear...or was it the wind? Or my own tortured soul...

I finally made it to the top. The gate, of course, was locked. Tighter than Massey's sphincter. I turned around and headed back down.

They were kind enough to wait for me in the gym. Very thoughtful. My DI didn't want me to miss out on the full Academy experience. By the time we were done, I could barely walk. My knee was the size of a cantaloupe. But I didn't limp. Got showered. Waited for EOW. When we were dismissed for the day, I went to the soda machines. I hate sodas. But I was hurting. I bought two Squirts. Drank one on the way to my car. Nursed the other while I sat there and smoked. Tears ran down my face from the pain. I couldn't bend my leg because of the swelling. I thanked God for getting me through it. I thanked Him it was a one time thing.

I didn't hear Him laughing.

Next day we're walking our laps after the run. Here comes my DI.

Cadet Blake!

Sir, Yes Sir!

I don't think DI Massey locked the gate after we went through...

And off I went again. Cursing him under my breath. Cursing God. Cursing the Bitch. Cursing the sweet whispers...

Everyday after that, the same thing. We started with over two hundred people. We lost sixty-five by the end of the second week. More each week after that. By the sixth week, people started to get the handle on things. Everyone but me. I was still checking the gate. By this point, we were up to about six and a half to seven miles on the run. My knee...well, it didn't look good. Still, I kept making it.

And the Bitch kept try to seduce me.

Seventh week. We're walking in the parking lot. I'm waiting for my DI. All of a sudden, they take the class back up to running speed. They start everyone down the serpentine road. The class turned the corner...and looked up at the Bitch.

Half of the class quit before we ever started going up. Just quit. Almost all of the rest quit within the first fifty yards. When we got to the half way point where it leveled off, there were only three other cadets still running besides me. My DI was waiting there for us. He turned the other three back around and sent them down. He smiled at me.

Check the gate, Blake.

Sir, Yes Sir!

And I did.

I'd like to tell you it stopped after that. I'd also like to tell you that I look like George Clooney, but unfortunately, my pictures on the blog. So, I won't lie about either one.

I had people after me while I was going through the Academy. Two DIs in particular. My DI wasn't one of the two.

I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't been running up the Bitch all of those weeks, I would have dropped just like most of the others. That would have been all either of those two DIs would have needed. But, because I'd been doing it, it was no big deal to me.

Don't get me wrong. I never liked it. It always hurt. I almost always cried in pain before I went home. But, it didn't beat me. They didn't beat me. I made it. And, I'm not certain that I would have...if I hadn't been put through the shit first.

We all go through things in our lives. Some, much worse than others. We all have our own version of the Bitch. It's hard to think about it being to your benefit as your running up it...when your legs ache...when you have the dry heaves...when you think you can't take even one more step...and you know that stress-recovery-stress is waiting for you...if you make it.

James chapter one does NOT say that the testing of your faith works patience. Bad translation. The Greek word is for Endurance. Patience is passive. Endurance isn't. It's work. It makes you stronger.

God wants you to be as strong as you need to be for what's coming. He's not doing you any favors letting you sit on the couch eating Bon-Bons if you have a marathon coming.

And this life isn't just a marathon. It's an obstacle course, gauntlet, marathon. And God wants you to do more than finish.

He wants you to win.

You get down when you're running up the Bitch. You get angry. Frustrated. Mad at God. That's all OK. It's normal. But, you don't have to run alone. We're running together. So, when your sucking wind...and you don't think you can take another step...talk to God...and yes, cussing Him out is still talking...you aren't going to shock Him. He expects it.

Then call up a Buddy. Go have a beer together. Howl at the moon together.

Don't run alone.

You can always talk to God.

And, you can always talk to me.

We'll beat that Bitch.

Together.

Human Cockroaches

2009-09-12T21:15:00.000-07:00

Cockroaches are disgusting. They'll

do almost anything to survive. A cockroach can live for up to a week after its head has been cut off. Most cockroaches are nocturnal and only come out at night. Any sign of light and they scurry away.

Human cockroaches are far worse. Once they take an interest in you or your family, they can't seem to ever let it go. They hide in the shadows and do everything surreptitiously. They live off of others, mainly through causing pain and suffering. They have no feelings for anyone or anything but themselves. They are filthy, vile, heartless and cruel. And, they are cowards.

The one main difference between the insect and the human varieties?

The human cockroach can't live for up to a week without its head.

I have had trouble recently with a couple of human cockroaches. They think they are clever. Smart. They believe they have been able to keep what they have done, and are doing, in the dark.

They're wrong. The evil deeds of these human cockroaches always come to light.

For CHESLIE...KATHY GRIFFIN, MATTHEW SHEPARD, PROPOSITION 8...The PARABLE of The GOOD SAMARITAN Part 2

2009-08-25T18:09:00.001-07:00

I found this post when I was searching for the Matthew Shepard video that Kathy had on her show. I must say that I am not a religious person. However, I am coming to realize the true message of Jesus.

My family never went to church so the only source of religious knowledge I got was from my (now ex-) boyfriend and some Christian friends of mine. They would constantly tell me that being gay was a choice and that it was a sin. Having a gay cousin and witnessing him growing up, I can say with certainty that being gay is no choice.

I think this is what initially turned me off to Christianity in general. The lack of acceptance and compassion was not appealing. This was in high school.

Now, I'm heading into my last year of college and I am starting to embrace Jesus. Not the "televangelist" version, but the Jesus that I know in my heart to be compassionate and understanding. Thank you for reaffirming that Christians can actually be Christ-like. I have to read the bible further to really understand Him, but He really does seem very different than what I understood Him to be.

With that being said, if he were to come back, I sincerely feel that we, as a society, would shun him. He would be standing up for equal rights and the homeless and hungry. The "Christians" that I know would call him a faggot and tell him to get a real job, if not worse.

Sorry for the long post, but you've really inspired me to educate myself further and it's so great to know that people like you are teaching their children the real lessons of the Bible. Thank you.
Cheslie

I get discouraged, just like anybody else. Frustrated. Angry. Bitter. As some of you know, I've had my work stolen over the years. Twice made into movies. Once more to add to a movie. No money. No credit. Nothing. I ask God why. He says nothing.

But, I have other discouragements. The work I do for Him. Not usually the best jobs. I get the Ezekiel jobs...after others have passed on them. Nobody likes Ezekiel jobs. Fewer people like Ezekiel. It's been hard on my family. Lonely for them. You rarely see positive results.

Sometimes I want to quit. Not just my writing. Working for God.

Then, I get a letter like Cheslie's.

A letter like that makes it all worthwhile.

I didn't teach her anything. Didn't tell her anything she didn't all ready know in her heart. God loves her. She loves Him. They have a relationship. It's personal. Private. Full of questions...and love. The way a relationship should be. Getting to know each other. All God had me do was reassure her. Let her know that what she was reading in the Bible was true...not what the "Christians" around her were telling her.

She's right.

They're wrong.

About a lot of things.

What would it be like if Jesus came today in the same ministry that He did two thousand years ago? Where would He go? Who would he see? What would He do?

He'd be at abortion clinics.

But not out front with placards of dead babies.

He'd be at the back door...with His arms open wide. Loving these young women. Comforting them. Accepting them.

He'd be active on Gay/Lesbian issues.

But not at rallies with signs saying, "God hates faggots"...and worse.

He'd be at Aids hospices...with his arms around the sick. He'd heal them. Every one of them.

And they would love Him.

He would encourage gay and lesbian couples to take in the children that others didn't want. So that those children could have a home. A home where they would be loved...valued...cared for...wanted. And they would love Him for it.

He would shame the churches, especially the mega-churches, into feeding the hungry and providing shelter for the homeless...instead of spending millions on fancier pews, private jets, and fancy clothes.

And then they would turn on Him...because He ate and drank with "sinners". The would mock and ridicule Him...and crucify Him.

And who would weep for Him then?

The women who had abortions that He comforted. Those with Aids that He healed. The Gays and Lesbians that he loved and accepted. The homeless and the hungry that He cared for.

The rejected of society...and the rejected of the Church.

People like Cheslie.

And people like me.

When I read Cheslie's letter, I cried. Not just because it touched the deepest parts of my soul. I cried because it made my heart break.

How sad is it, that God has to send Cheslie through this Rube Goldberg contraption of circumstances to find someone to reaffirm for her that what she believes about Him in her heart is right?

How much sadder that He has to send her to someone like me?

If you're a Christian, put your picket signs down.

Forget about politics.

Stop hating.

Start expressing the Love of Christ to those around you. Your life might be the only Bible they ever read. Your speech, your actions, might be the only examples of Christ that they ever see.

When times are so desperate in the Church that God has to send someone to me from thousands of miles away, just for simple love and acceptence, it's not just a shame.

It's a tradgedy.

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful that God loves me enough to let me be involved.

But how many people...people close to Cheslie...must have passed on the job for it to get to me?

Cheslie thanked me.

But my thanks, and my prayers, go to her.

Thank you Cheslie. May God Bless you and keep you...and all of those that you care for. If I don't get to meet you here...I'll be looking for you in Heaven.

Your letter was like a cool drink of water on a long, dry journey. My wife and my children read your letter. It made them cry too.

And they thank you.

The Hubble Ultra Deep Field...Gravitational Lensing, Superluminal speeds...and the mind of God

2009-08-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

My father-in-law is one of the smartest men I know. He is always studying...searching...learning...questioning. I try to do the same, so he sends me interesting links from time to time...like this one:

http://kottke.org/09/08/hubble-ultra-deep-field-in-3-d

Go and watch it...then come back.

Wow. Pretty incredible, isn't it?

I was drawn to astronomy, and then all of the quantum fields, at a very early age. I wrote a paper on gravitational lensing, and its implications on whether the universe was finite or infinite,expanding or static...and whether or not it might have started to contract already.

That was in 1970 when gravitational lensing was still just a theory. Actual proof didn't come until observation of so-called Twin QSO SBS 0957+561 in 1979 confirmed it. (You can find out about it here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twin_QSO

That led me to a second paper, one that I labeled "The rubber band effect". Basically, it had to do with the hypothetical outer limits of the universe causing a snap back of the mass towards its own center. This "snap back" could, in theory, cause the collapse to approach, and then pass, the speed of light. Our knowledge, or ability to prove such an occurrence, would depend on the point at which acceleration passed the speed of light. If it occurred late enough in the collapse, there might have been enough time for the light from the farthest galaxies that began to move inward to reach us before it was too late. If it occurred too early, we would never know it was coming.

Picture a train, speeding away from you, its tail lights fading in the distance. Now imagine that train going faster and faster, until it hit some unknown outer boundary that caused it to sling shot backwards. How would you know? First, you might see/sense that the distant train was slowing down. It might even appear to hang momentarily between going forward and heading back. Then you would see the lights on the train begin to get brighter and brighter as the train grew closer. But, what if, at some point, the train began to move faster than the lights? When would you know that the train was getting close?

Not until it ran you over.

Both papers were filled with the requisite formulas. Both were met with eye rolling and quiet derision by everyone in the department. By that time, at fourteen, I was laughing called "The rubber band boy"...except for one professor. He took me to lunch not long after.

His opinion mattered a great deal to me. He had told a story my first day in class that I never forgot.

I know most of you won't continue taking classes in astronomy. For most of you, it is elective class. You must take to graduate. I know how boring elective class can be. I go to small school back east...I don't know if you ever hear of it...it called MIT. I must take music appreciation class as elective. I do very bad in class. Only get B. Teacher teach only to those who know music. Not the rest of us. So, I try to do different. Make class fun for everyone. Not too deep. You have questions, you ask. I make time for all.

I looked up his CV later that day. Dual Doctorate from MIT. At Twenty something. His GPA was on file. 3.9999...you get the idea. That B in music appreciation was the only grade lower than an A he ever got. So smart he made me feel like amoeba slime. So personal and caring, he made me feel I belonged. We had become close in the years I had been there. So, I was flattered and happy that he wanted to take me to lunch. A little apprehensive as well. I needn't have been. He was as caring and kind as always.

He had, of course, read both of my papers. He felt that each had merit. That I had merit. But not the wisdom that comes form experience.

Your papers are very good. Make people think. Too much.

What's wrong with that?

You make them think about things they don't want to think about. They are mechanics, not philosophers.

Mechanics?

I will tell you story. My grandfather tell it to me many years ago, before I come to this country to study at MIT.

Long ago, men realize they live in a house. House is very nice. Perfect for them. But they know they not build it. Where does house come from, they ask? At night, lights come on. Some of the people worship the lights. Then, the mechanics come. They study the lights. Watch how they work. Follow cord down to plug in wall. Lights are not Gods, they say. Power for lights come from wall. People ask how power gets in wall. They worship wall sockets, wall and lights. Mechanics study for long, long time. They take wall apart. Find wires. Follow wires to outside wall where two BIG wires come into house. Wall sockets, wall and lights not Gods, they tell people. Power comes from these two big wires. People worship big wires. The people believe that someone had to make the house...the wires, the lights. Mechanics get mad. They tell people that the house, wires and power have always been there. There is only the house.

Finally, after many years, the mechanics go outside. At night. All of the people talking about who made the house drives them crazy. They look around. There are many houses. Many lights. Hundreds of them. The people marvel. Who made so many houses, they ask? No one, say the mechanics. They just are.

More years go by. A group of mechanics walk out of the neighborhood. Up a hill. Look around. There is a whole city beneath them. Millions of lights. They are afraid if they tell the people, they will really believe someone must have made it all. But, a wise old mechanic calms them. He tells them to bring the people out to see the city. Once they see it, most of them will believe whatever the mechanics tell them.

He is right, of course. The people are overwhelmed. They can't even plug in a lamp, let alone understand where the light comes form. The mechanics are smarter. They say the city has always been there: it's always been there. They say their house is just a small, insignificant house in a big city: the people believe them. Oh, a few still believe that someone made the city...but most just want to enjoy the lights and warmth of the house. Not think.

You talk about God. They can't laugh at you. You know too much. So, they make small jokes. Rubber band boy...and they hope you go away. Study something else.

What do you think?

I do not believe in God the way you do. I don't know if I can. I would want to ask Him things...not about the house, or the city...about the people. If I were God, I would not make people that do what...bad things. Very bad things. But, I have seen too much to believe that everything just is. Big Bang, Big Crunch...Big Bang, Big Crunch...for always? No. I think maybe I believe in Einstein's God. Something is out there. Something made the city...the house...the people. Something. But what, or who? I don't know. I'm just a mechanic...

Not hardly. Is that why they hate my papers?

Some...not all. You don't understand what your last paper means...at least, what it means to them.

What does it mean to them?

If you are right, if snap back can go faster than light, when could rubber band have started snapping back?

Anytime, I guess.

So, when could it hit?

Anytime...

Yes...you see now? Your face says yes, you do see. If whole universe could blink out, anytime...without warning...what will make people in the house play nice with each other? The mechanics may love chaos as theory for universe...not for their own lives. Survival of fittest? Mechanics not very fit, and we know it...I think.

You think people everywhere would just go nuts? Riot, steal, kill...all of that?

Why not? If no one built the house, the city...who will make them clean up what they break? Especially if it's all going to break soon anyway. Now, you never tell me...do you really believe paper you wrote?

Yes.

Then why you not afraid it happen tomorrow? Or today?

The answer is in my Bible...I don't think it will happen for at least a thousand years or so...but we might see signs soon...I don't know.

I hope you are right. In the mean time...I will work on the lights, like a good mechanic...and keep my questions to myself. Your God has a strange sense of humor.

I left the department not long after that. I was already a heretic at church...didn't need to be one in physics as well. Besides, they never even talked about, let alone wanted to play, sports. And they never, ever talked about girls...God's most glorious creation.

If you live in a city, like I do, it's hard to really see the stars at night. But, I grew up part time on a reservation in Northwest New Mexico. The way you could see the stars there...I go back in my mind...and marvel...

People used to ask me, how I could believe in God, knowing what I knew...

My answer back then was the same as it is now...

How could I not?

Hebrews 11:1&2

II Peter 3:10-14

KATHY GRIFFIN, MATTHEW SHEPARD, PROPOSITION 8...The PARABLE of The GOOD SAMARITAN

2009-07-31T12:54:00.000-07:00

You might think with titles like, crippled ex-cop and Scripture-based/pay-refusing minister, I might not be someone who would be a fan of Kathy Griffin...and you would be wrong. Her show, "My Life on the D-List", is one of my favorites...in fact, it's one of the few shows that we make a point of watching together as a family. Her combination of rapier like wit, pathos, and self-deprecating humor are intoxicating...a blend of Don Rickles, Rodney Dangerfield, and Mae West. Quite the combo, that lady.

So...we were watching her last show a couple of days ago. It had to do with Gay marriage, Proposition 8, and personal activism, for those of you who may not have seen it. Powerful, moving, and still funny. It enabled my beautiful wife Cherish and I, at its conclusion, to reaffirm some very important lessons to our 13 year old son: Compassion, tolerance, and equality under the law. Fortunately, he, like his older sisters, take after my wife. You notice I said "reaffirm", not teach. All of these traits are things that he already possesses...still, it never hurts to remind your children of the right way to handle things in this hate filled world.

The images from the show left such a strong impression on me that it became the topic of our weekly Bible Study group last night. I had prepared a number of Scriptures, but it was my wife, of course, who supplied the best one during our discussions. LUKE chapter 10:25-37...The Parable of the Good Samaritan, which we'll get to shortly. The images that I remember most vividly...that made the strongest impression on me, were...the tears streaming down the faces of the homeless young people she was mentoring as they watched the special on Matthew Shepard...and the pain and agony etched on the faces of the couple in Sacramento who weren't able to have health care for both because of their inability to get married. One of course, did have health care through his work. His partner(just typing that feels wrong...it should be husband) was denied benefits in the face of a crippling disease. Their love for each other...sorry. Words are inadequate. Watch the show. Watch it, and tell me those two men don't truly love each other. I shudder to think what would happen if my wife were denied for those same reasons...my grasp on Christianity can be extremely tenuous at times.

This is, first and foremost, a Constitutional issue. The Framers of our Constitution were very emphatic in their wording.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
You'll notice it doesn't say, unless...like, unless your a woman...unless you're a person of color...unless you practice a different religion...or, unless you're Gay. Now, I know a lot of people think it should. A lot of people, over the history of this country, have acted like it said some, if not all of those things. Some, unfortunately, still do. Those clauses, however, are not there. Never have been...and I pray to God, never will be. Remember these haunting words by Martin Niemoeller:
First the Nazis came…
First they came for the communists, and I did not speak out —because I was not a communist
Then they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out —because I was not a socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out —because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out —because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me —and there was no one left to speak out for me.

Simply as a Patriotic Americans...as those who have learned the lessons of history, we should be against this denial of basic civil rights...and more importantly, denial of basic human dignity. They may come for your group next.

Which brings me to point number two.
Shouldn't we, as Christians, oppose Gay marriage?

No.

See how simple that was. Should be the end of the discussion. It's not, however. All across this country, Christian Churches are doing the greatest disservice to their Savior possible through their hate filled speech and actions. Now, if that speech, and those actions, were directed against the majority of well known televangelists who prostitute Jesus like He was a $20 hooker, I wouldn't mind. I have always believed that Dante was wrong. There are ten circles of Hell, not nine...the tenth being reserved for pedophiles and most televangelists.

Why then, is there such hate speech directed at gays, people who've had abortions, etc. from the Church? Some of it is Fear...but mostly ignorance. Not ignorance of the world. Ignorance of the Scriptures.

Wow, Chris...hold on just a second. Who are you to say that other Christians are ignorant? Who do you think you are?

Nobody. Just a dirt bag...saved by Grace. But a dirt bag who reads his Bible...not commentaries. A dirt bag who taught himself Greek and Hebrew, because he had trust issues about what he was taught. A dirt bag who has never allowed himself to get paid for doing God's work...so that I can have the freedom to say, and write, what the Bible actually teaches without fear. Fear of losing my job. Fear of being ostracized. Fear of being disliked. I am fortunate enough to answer to only two people: God, and my wife. That freedom allows me to remind my fellow Christians of the following few items:

The Hebrew and Greek words translated "sin" are the terms archers used for "missing the mark", IE, not hitting the bulls eye dead center. God's shooting requirements? Every shot has to go through the same hole in the middle of the target, without even touching any of the paper. Every shot. That means, every word, deed, thought...so, for those of you Christians out there who have a real nice grouping around the bulls eye, and think you're God's gift to Himself, and humanity...screw off. It's a pass/fail test...and you failed, just as miserably as me...and I've shot more than targets.

Romans 3:23 says everybody missed the mark...and failed. That's right...even you.
Romans 5:8 says that God had Christ die for us while we were missing...the operative word being US...not me, and you maybe, unless you're a_____fill in the blank of the group you love to hate. US.
The Scriptures teach that, "...nothing can separate us from His love."
They also teach that, "...He will never leave us, or forsake us."...although I know sometimes, at least to me, it feels like He does.

The Scriptures teach us to "...love each other." To, "...love our enemies." I'm still working on that one. Not doing too well, but I'm working on it. Still have the urge to shoot mine. Always feel like I did a good job when the body count is it zero at the end of the day.
The Scriptures say that we should, "...love our neighbor as our self."

For those of you about to rationalize your way out of, or through this, it's time for The Dumbass' handy-dandy Bible lesson of the day.(I should trade mark that...and start printing buttons saying, "Proud to be a Dumbass"...but I'd be the only one wearing them.)

Let's go back to LUKE chapter 10:25-37, shall we? If you've never been part of one of my Studies before, be warned: They aren't for the squeamish...my vernacular tends to slip when I'm passionate or in pain...and I spend all of my waking(and most of my non-waking) hours in both...So, here we go...

The Televangelists of Jesus' day were always screwing with Him. Trying to make Him look bad in the eyes of the common people because He was eroding their support...especially their financial support. All of that, "Give unto Cesar" crap...what was He thinking? Idiot. They would all get together and try and come up with questions that He either couldn't answer, or would look bad no matter how He answered. The smartest minds of their day against a lowly carpenter. How hard could it be? Yet, if you read the Book, He serves them...every time. Must have been frustrating for them. Wish I could have seen it.

Anyway, they've already come at him on this issue at least twice. (Mark 12:28-34 and Matthew 34-40) Nailed them both times. Now in Luke, they've got the right answer...His answer. So, when He asks the question, a lawyer feeds Him back His own response. "Love God the best you can...and love your neighbor as yourself." Jesus tells the guy good job...but that's not enough for the lawyer...so, he asks the question, "Who is my neighbor?"

If you want to read those passages before I get going, go ahead...I'll wait. Done? Good. Now it's time for the Dumbass' handy-dandy parable updater(available for your love gift of only $99.95 at http://www.ifleecetheflock.com/)

First of all, let's change all of the Jewish characters in the story to Christians. So, the guy going down the road who gets jumped, beat up, robbed, and thrown in a ditch and left for dead is a well known, local Pastor who supports Proposition 8. He preaches about the evils of "those gays", leads demonstrations, etc.

Now, the first guy that comes by is a world famous Televangelist. You know the type. He's preached that AIDS is God's punishment on those Queers...prophesied(without much luck)that God would wipe out the homosexuals by fire in 1999, etc. He sees his brother protester in the ditch and thinks," Hey, what an opportunity. I can blame this on the fags, get more money...and it will be even better if he dies. Better get my sorry ass out of here before those robbers come back." He scurries away, sphincter as tight as a three year old's grip on a lollipop.

Guy number two comes along. He's a Deacon in a mega church. Helps set up the rallies for prop 8, even hand prints some of those lovely signs, like...GOD HATES FAGS...QUEERS GO TO HELL...DYKES ARE DAMNED, you know, all of those clever, catchy slogans of Christian love. He sees the guy down in the ditch and thinks, "He must have some secret sin in his life, or God wouldn't have let that happen to him. Probably a fag sympathizer...no, I'll bet he's a closet queen himself. If I try and help him, I'll probably get AIDS as a punishment from God. Better run." And, he takes off down the road.

Finally, someone else comes up the road. It's Matthew Shepard. He sees the man in the ditch. Recognizes him. This man spit on him at a rally and called him horrible names. It would be easy to just turn and go...but Matthew can't. It's just not in him. He goes down into the ditch. Bandages the man up using his finest clothes. Takes him to an emergency room. Gets him treated. Takes him to a hotel. Pays for his room, his food, and his treatment...and leaves his credit card. Tells the hotel manager to put any other charges for whatever the man needs on his card.

Now, Jesus asks who the real neighbor is...not to hard to tell. Then He tells the lawyer to act the same as Matthew acted.

I never knew Matthew...but I've read a lot about him. Everything I've read...everything I've heard about him tells me that being the "Good Samaritan", even to someone that hated him, was exactly what he would have done. You can find out more about Matthew, and find out how you can help at The Matthew Shepard Foundation: http://www.matthewshepard.org/site/PageServer

There is another name I could have easily used as the Good Samaritan, although I'm sure she would try and deny it...and that's Kathy Griffin. If you would like to show your support for Kathy...for all of the things that she does for others, go to: http://kathygriffin.net/bio.php

Buy some of her stuff...go to a concert. Watch her show on BRAVO. You can write to the folks at BRAVO here:http://www.bravotv.com/ Tell them you love her show and want it to stay on...forever.

Lastly, this is to my Christian brothers and sisters. It's time for us to start taking the stands we're supposed to be taking. Time for us to start showing, and sharing, the love of Christ the way we have been commanded. Time to stop the hate.

Try, each day, to find a way to be a Good Samaritan. Try and be like Maggie...we need more people like her in the world...God damn it!

LAMAR ODOM, JERRY BUSS, and The LAKERS: The Rich are Different...

2009-07-16T12:25:00.000-07:00

I'm a big NBA/Laker fan. Have been since 1960 when the Lakers moved to LA. Chick Hearn's talented way of letting you see the game through his eyes, even on the radio, made me fall in love with basketball in general...and the Lakers in particular.

Any of you who follow the NBA, or sports in general, may be aware of the ongoing contract negotiations between Lamar Odom and Dr. Jerry Buss, the owner of the Lakers. The basics in a nutshell:

The Lakers have reportedly offered Lamar two options...a three year deal f0r $30 million($10 million a year), or a four year for $36 million($9 million a year). Lamar is asking for a five year deal at $50 million. The most he can make with any other team without a sign and trade, except possibly Portland, is a 5 year, $33 million dollar contract. He is reported to be close to taking the smaller number with a different team, and the Lakers have pulled their offer off of the table.(Now they're negotiating again!)

I know what most of you are thinking:

ARE YOU FFFFING KIDDING ME?

I"LL TAKE EITHER ONE...PLEASE!

A few small points, before we get to the heart of this blog:

Owners make more than players.

Players have a short window in which to earn their money.

The Lakers won the championship this year.

Dr. Buss makes more when they win.

Lamar was an important part of that championship team.

Both sides are serious when they say, "it's not about the money."

Both sides are serious when they say, "It's about quality of life for my family."

Both sides are serious...dead serious, when they say it's about "respect".

I think both sides should be taken behind a woodshed and bitch slapped repeatedly.

Wow, Chris...that last one was a little harsh, don't you think?

Nope.

Stupid people, regardless of their economic status, piss me off. And make no mistake...both sides are stupid.

Not about the contract.

Not about the issues.

They're stupid to allow any of this in the press where the public...the people who have/continue to make them millionaires, can read it...

I worked with, around, and for many VIPs when I was a Deputy and then a bodyguard back in the 1980s. The vast majority that I met(not all...there were exceptions) displayed about as much common sense...and common courtesy, as the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan crashing the National meeting of the NAACP...in full robe and regalia.

The VIPs came from all fields: Sports, entertainment, politics, finance, etc. They ranged in age from mid teen to ninety plus. But most of them shared one, unendearing quality.

There are many words to describe that quality, but I'll use an example that most of you can relate to instead.

Have you ever been out in public and seen a three year old that is spoiled way, way to much? You know the kind. The parents have never said no to little Timmy, and God help the poor fool who does. You've seen the tantrums...and you think to yourself,"God, what I wouldn't give to go over than and just smack that..."

Multiply that by a googolplex and you've got an idea of what I'm talking about.

What is it that makes so many "celebrities" this way? The same thing as that three year old. They are surrounded, for the most part, by sycophants, riding the gravy train for all they can get. They are treated, by most of the people they meet, as if their every word was inspired by GOD himself...and that their shit literally doesn't stink. They are rarely, if ever, told no...about anything. They are given, freely, things the average person could never afford to buy. They rarely have to wait for anything, and are comped all the time.

It takes a rare, unique and strong of character individual to maintain any semblance of normality under those circumstances. There are powerful people like that. I've met them. I worked for one. But they are in the minority.

You know I like to tell stories to illustrate a point.

I could tell you about the young, superstar to be that I humiliated after his big break-through performance at the 1984 Olympics when he flipped me shit in public.

I could tell you about the white knuckle, E-ticket ride I gave to a very powerful man after he tried to humiliate me in front of Japanese diplomats.

But I think I'll tell you this one instead.

I was forced to retire from the Sheriff's Department in 1984. I was raising Crystal and Kaity by myself, and started doing bodyguard work. Met a lot of people...made a lot of money. But, most of that work is at night. Late at night. Hard to get, let alone keep, babysitters. So, I decided to go to work for a company. I was hired as security for a media giant. The executive director soon hand picked me to be his bodyguard/driver. Steady hours. Not many nights. Great pay. It was a much better situation for me...not as exciting at first, but stable.

The work load started to pick up after a couple of months. VIPs, mostly politicians, were coming in from all over the country, from all over the world, to meet with my boss. I had to pick them up from, and take them back to, the airport. Lots more hours. The overtime was great, but the schedule was murder. Up at three or four. Get the girls bundled up. Drop them at the sitter. Head to work downtown. Out to the airport. Back downtown. A lot of hurry up and wait until whoever it was had to leave. Back to the airport. Back downtown. Off between 9:00 and midnight. Back to the sitters. Bundle the girls up. Take them home. Tuck them in bed. Do laundry. Clean house. Power nap.

And then do it all over again.

I finally had to tell my boss I needed some nights off. He liked me. His wife and daughter loved me. I had done something special for the daughter. We'll just leave it at that. So, the boss says OK. Just one favor. The owner of the company wanted to "borrow" me for the day. He promised my boss I'd be done by four.

I should have known better.

The owner was a billionaire when that really meant something. Old money. Powerful. The family owned half of downtown LA. Half of the forests in Oregon(for the paper). He was born to be the Golden boy, and he looked the part. Big, strong, athletic, handsome. And he always got his way.

Always.

I picked him up at his office about three. We started driving through downtown. He gave me directions from the back seat of the limo. Pretty soon we're in a shady part of South Central. Not the kind of area you'd expect a man like this to want to visit. A couple of turns took us to a non-descript warehouse. The only thing special about the outside took a trained eye to see. Almost completely camouflaged around the perimeter was one of the most elaborate security systems I had ever seen. He pulled a remote control from his coat, and the gate slowly slid open. We drove inside.

The inside of the warehouse was in sharp contrast to the outside. The floors were polished to mirror like precision. Everything was surgically clean and sterile. And, lined up and down the warehouse proper, was the most impressive private car collection I had ever seen. (The collection sold a few years back, after this man's passing...for a then record of over $36 million dollars.) He proudly pointed out a few of the cars to me, then glanced at his watch. He was being picked up by someone in a few minutes. My job was to wait here at the warehouse for a special shipment. No one was to come in but the deliveryman, and I was to inspect, and sign for the delivery. The tone of his voice, and the urgency of the orders let me know this was extremely important to him. You don't bring an armed, ex-cop to a collection like this to receive a delivery without good cause. I was to report back to his office personally after the shipment was delivered. He left me wondering, as I heard the gate close outside, what kind of car might be delivered soon. It was a little after three in the afternoon.

The buzzer finally rang at 5:45. I adjusted my weapon and went outside. Opened the gate, expecting to see some vintage car rolling off the back of a truck. I found, instead, a short, heavy set Latino in coveralls. He was carrying a large bundle wrapped in brown paper. I took him inside and looked at the receipt he handed me. Whatever was in the bundle cost more than I made in a month. I opened the package carefully, not wanting to damage the valuable cargo inside. My jaw dropped when the last of the wrappings came off to reveal...

You know those reddish cloth rags mechanics used to use all the time? That's what was inside. Dry cleaned. I was brought out to wait for dry cleaned rags. I was so pissed off I couldn't see straight. I thanked the deliveryman, locked up, and headed back downtown. I was ready to check in with him, and head home.

The fun, however, was just beginning.

I got back to the offices around six. Waited outside of his for half an hour, his secretaries glancing at me nervously. They knew me. They could tell something was wrong. Women are smart. Finally, he strode out of his office. Just one more little thing. He had bought a little "Bistro" for his wife downtown. They were supposed to meet some business associates down there. He wanted me to drive him down, and wait. Should only take a minute or two. Then I was "finished with my duties." I knew about the Bistro. It was a whopping four blocks away. I gritted my teeth, and took him out to the car.

I pulled up in front of the Bistro a little before seven. His instructions were explicit. Wait right here. Only a few minutes. There were a couple of problems with that. He had paid to make sure that the curbs in front of his wife's new place were all red...no parking. LAPD patrolled the area. I was retired LA County. LAPD and LA County had a rivalry, back then, at least. The first patrol car pulled up fifteen minutes after he went inside. Made me move, my retirement credentials, and Company insignia on the limo not withstanding. There was street parking about a hundred feet from the front door. All taken at this time of night. Which meant circling the block. Park in the red again, until LAPD came back. Rinse. Lather. Repeat as necessary.

LAPD came back every fifteen minutes.

I moved...every fifteen minutes.

I became more incensed every second.

I had promised the sitter I would pick the girls up by four-thirty, at the latest. Had to call her. This was back in the days when my car phone required extra car batteries in the trunk...and my "mobile" phone was an entire briefcase...just to hold the batteries. The babysitter was mad. Told me it was the last time she'd watch the girls.

And the hits just kept on coming.

7:30...8:00...8:30...the clock kept ticking...LAPD kept coming...I kept circling...the babysitter kept calling...9:00...9:30...10:00...

10:45 was when the cars started to thin out. I didn't see LAPD again after 11:00. I pulled up to the curb in the white zone, about a hundred feet from the front door of the Bistro. Got out and went to the back of the car. Leaned on the trunk as I lit a smoke.

He came out with his party just before eleven-thirty. Just his wife and another couple. He stood staring at the curb in front of him for a few seconds, obviously perplexed. Where could I be? His head turned down the street, then back up at me. I was on smoke number three, still leaning on the trunk. He looked at me, waiting for a response to his glare. I took a long pull off of my smoke and let it drift slowly out of my nose. I saw his jaw clench tighter, and he held up one hand, snapped his fingers, and motioned to the curb in front of him. I repeated the gesture, snapping my fingers, but pointing at my crotch instead of the curb.

As I'm sure you can imagine, that didn't go over too well.

I could see, even in the fluorescent lighting on the street, the deep red color cover his face. He turned with almost military precision and stormed up the street toward me.

Many of my Father's phrases have stuck in my head over the years, and I seem to hear them at the most opportune moments...like that night. The first one I heard as he came barreling at me was:

I was looking for a job when I got this one.

It was followed almost instantly by:

If you're going to go, go out with a bang...not a whimper.

I had planned to say something before the whole finger snapping began anyway, and I knew I'd probably get fired for it. Now I knew I was going to get fired, so...

I was a lot younger back then. Not as badly crippled...and mean. Having your own people try and kill you and then threaten your daughters tends to do that to someone like me. Basically, I just didn't give a fuck. I was expecting the usual witty repartee...you know, I'll have your job(you don't want it...the pay sucks and the boss is an asshole), but he wasn't talking. In fact, the closer he got, the less I thought we were going to say very much. His hands started coming out at me when he was about ten feet away. That was a mistake.

No need for a blow by blow account. Let's just say I had a behaviour modification talk with him. Explained his slight error in judgement. And, when I finally let him breath, he agreed...kind of. I told him to get his wife and guests and get in the car. That's when he told me that his wife had her car. He only needed me to drop his guests off at the Bonaventure Hotel. Please. That's when things went really south of the border of sanity.

The Bonaventure was about three blocks away heading west on fourth. He and his wife lived in Hancock Park...about a mile or so farther west. The Bonaventure was on his way home. To explain what happened next, I'll have to reveal a little something about myself that I didn't learn until I was on the job. It's not pretty. I don't really like to talk about it. But, it's crucial to the story.

I grew up thinking that my ten, on a scale of one to ten for anger, was when I got really loud and shook. I thought that until Certain things happened to me when I was on the job. That's when I found out that my previous thought of ten was really only about 8.5 on my personal Richter Scale. At 9, the shaking got even worse. But, a funny thing happened at 9.5-10. The shaking stopped. I became completely calm. Quiet. My ten looked just like my one. Except for my smile. A few of the people who had seen me at my real ten told me about it. They said it was, well, let's just say unnerving. The smile on my face was the same...but they told me my eyes went dead. Lifeless and dark. I don't know what that means. Never have seen myself at those times. But that's the way I was when I had my little heart to heart with the big boss. Cold.

Now, I was back down to 8.5. Hot. White hot. Started yelling about him keeping me so late for bullshit. Making my little girls wait on his sorry, dickless...well, you get the idea. He just stood there. Said nothing. I motioned to the other couple to come and get in the car. They looked like they were on the Trail of Tears as they walked woodenly to the car. I opened the back door, let them in, and slammed it shut. The Big Boss just looked at me. Not red in the face anymore. Just stared. Kind of like a kid at the county fair staring at a two headed cow. Never seen one before. Didn't expect to ever see one again. He turned up to his wife. They went around to her car without a word. I got in the car and took off for the Bonaventure, the couple behind me in the back seat glancing nervously back and forth from each other to me. Looked like they thought it just might be their last ride.

I was back down to a 6.5 within a block. Felt bad for the couple in the back. Not their fault the Big Boss was a dick. I apologized for my language. They both started talking at the same time. They understood. Didn't blame me. They had kids too. Started to recite kids' names, ages, hobbies...in other words, please don't kill us. We have a family. I felt bad. I was going to make a big show of opening the door when we got to the Bonaventure, but they were out the door before the car came to a complete stop. The man tried to tip me. I don't know how much was there, but one glance told me there were nothing but Bejamins in his hand. I politely declined, and wished them a good night. Headed home.

The light and sound show started about ten minutes later. Just enough time for the big boss to get home and pick up a phone. My car phone, briefcase phone, and pager all started going off at the same time. Technically, I was still under the security department. The three heads of security were all ex-cops like me. I didn't know which one was on each device, but I knew they were all hopping around like chickens with no heads. I wasn't about to answer any of them, so I just turned them all off and enjoyed the silence on the way home.

Picked the girls up. Got them home and in bed. Pondered the night. One thing the couple had told me was about their meeting. The big boss had flown them up to discuss selling them one of his cars. Personal business, not corporate. So, instead of paying for two cabs; one for a janitor to go to his warehouse, and one to take him to the Bistro(total cost back then of about twenty bucks), he had the company pay me almost $400 in overtime. How the rich get richer, I guess.

My little tape answering machine(remember those?) was blinking like Robbie the Robot. I only listened to part of one of the messages. The gist, from the head of security, was this: Why was I crazy? Why did I jeopardize all of their lives and futures? I HAD to meet them IMMEDIATELY downtown at corporate....oh, and by the way...WHY ARE YOU CRAZY?

I arranged for a sitter from some backups I had around 5:30. Went in around 7:30. The security bosses never got in until 9:00 at the earliest. They were all waiting for me when I got there, however. It was obvious they had been there all night trying to figure out damage control. They ordered me over to sixth floor corporate. NOW. Their jobs were on the line. So, I did the only reasonable thing. Went over to the little coffee shop next door. Got a cup. Stood in front of their window while I drank it and smoked. They all came out. Cursed. Swore. Begged . Pleaded. I'm a sick fuck, even more so back then. It was a very entertaining show. So...I bought another cup of coffee. All the better to appreciate their performance. Their pagers kept going off. One after the other. They would slink into their office to use the phone. Storm back out. Go through the show again. I knew I was going to get fired, so, why hurry? Might as well enjoy the opening act...especially since the end of my career was the headliner.

I finally went over at about 8:50. Took the elevator up to sixth floor, corporate side. I took the elevators on the southwest corner of the building, which opened not far from my actual boss' office. His secretary, Eileen, glanced causally at me as I walked over. She motioned to a chair in front of her desk.

Some one's been naughty. What did you do, Chris?

I just shrugged. No need dragging her, or my boss into it. I liked Eileen. Loved my boss. Wasn't about to cause them anymore grief.

He's a little busy now, Chris...he'll see you in a bit.

Good enough. I sat and waited, replaying the previous night and this morning. The three security managers had let me know my fate: not only was I being fired, the big boss wanted them to let me know I'd never get a job in Law Enforcement, Security, or anything like that again. Period. In fact, he was going to see to it that I couldn't get a job, any kind of job, ever again. He had the juice, the power, to get it done if he wanted to. I didn't doubt he would, considering how things had gone last night. So, I was trying to think of some kind of back-up plan for employment when I saw him get off of the elevator at the northeast corner of the sixth floor.

There was an atrium in the middle of the sixth floor. The offices all surrounded it, affording all of the executives up there a bird's eye view of downtown. I could see the elevators diagonally across from me, and had glanced their way whenever I heard them open out of habit. The big boss' office was at the opposite end of the side my boss' was on. He was walking toward it when he happened to glance in my direction. The red was climbing back up his neck like a thermometer as soon as he saw me. Instead of continuing straight into his office, he took a sharp left and headed straight for me. I slowly scooted to the edge of my seat, my legs and body coiled to strike. If he was looking for round two, I was determined to make sure there was no round three. Ever.

He was only about ten feet from me when I heard it. My boss, from deep within his office. He barked the big boss' name...then three words...

GET IN HERE.

The big man froze in his tracks. Stood there staring at me. I could see him swaying slightly between me, and my boss' door. Undecided which way to go. Then my boss barked one more word, and the stalemate ended:

NOW!

That was it. In he went. I heard him start to yell at my boss. Then my boss, again. Slowly. Clearly.

Sit Down...and shut up.

That was all I heard. They were in there together for about five minutes. That's all. Just five minutes. Eileen never looked up. But, I had noticed her flip a switch on her intercom when the big boss went inside. She was listening to every word...and smiling.

He looked like a completely different man as he exited my boss' office. Shoulders slumped. Head down. He looked like a puppy that had his nose rubbed in his accident and scolded. He never even looked in my direction. Walked slowly down the aisle to his office. Went in and shut the door.

This had been quite the spectater sport. All of the secrateries(and each of those executives had at least three, except my boss)had ringside seats. They were joined by their various bosses before the fireworks had even started. Everyone on that floor had witnessed it all. They slowly went back about their work, glancing occassionally at me with expressions that I couldn't read. I remained in my seat. Waiting.

Eileen finally looked up at me about ten minutes later.

Chris...what are you doing here still?

Waiting for my check.

What check?

They have to give me my check when they fire me, Eileen.

When they...who said anything about you being fired?

Well...I just thought...

Do you really think the good Doctor would let him fire you? Now, be a good boy and go get me a coffee.

I learned a lot that day about power. Real power. About who had it...and who didn't. I also learned that some "business" decisions were really "personal" ones.

I also learned a couple of things about myself. Power could go to my head just as easily as anyone else's...and I could really be an arrogant prick when I wanted to be.

I found out that the majority stockholder of the company couldn't get me fired. That my boss had more juice than anyone else. That I was the right hand man to the most powerful man in the company(later, I would find out he was far more than that), and that I was bullet proof as long as he liked me. I made a point of calling that "big" boss by his first name every time I saw him...especially in public. (I told you I was an arrogant prick) He was always overly polite to me, especially in public. People became afraid of me...powerful people...and I liked it. I liked it a lot.

A reputation spreads like wildfire within a given community. My stock soared, not just within my own company, but with others. A number of other wealthy CEOs and VIPs tried to recruit me. I became very popular with the opposite sex. I always had between $200 and $300 dollars in my pocket. I drove a company car, had an expense account, and all of the other perks that were reserved for people with far more money than I made. All because my boss wouldn't let me get fired. I am sorry to admit that I reveled in it...every aspect of it.

I told you I was raising Crystal and Kaity by myself at the time. Something happened a number of months later that served as a wake up call to me. I'm not going to talk about it now...this blog is long enough. But, it made me stop...and really take a good, hard look at myself.

I didn't like what I saw.

I walked away from it. On my own. Turned my back on that life...and lifestyle. the power...the money...the perks...none of those things were worth what they were costing me...or my daughters.

I'd like to think I could handle that kind of situation better now. But...there has to be a reason why God has allowed others to profit from my work, and my family do without. Perhaps He feels I still haven't matured enough to handle that kind of success in my writing.

Only time will tell. In the mean time...

I've been on both sides of the equation: I've seen what it does to others...and I've seen what it did to me. Not pretty. But...

The last thing I need to hear about, as I struggle to pay my bills on my disability retirement...knowing that my talent, in my given field, is just as bankable as theirs...is to listen to two millionaires poor mouth each other in the press.

Don't allow the insular nature of your lives to make you sooooooooo stupid.

By the way...if any of you millionaires out there really want to invest your money wisely, buy one of my screenplays.

I promise not to be offended by your offer.

Really.

MICHAEL JACKSON, KOBE BRYANT, AND ME: DOES THE MEDIA REPORT THE NEWS...OR CREATE IT?

2009-06-29T13:34:00.000-07:00

I was greatly saddened, as were millions of others, when I heard of Michael Jackson's death. We watched, as a family, the early coverage. It soon became apparent that the media was going to do what it usually does, so we turned off the coverage. My oldest daughter, Crystal, has a couple of Michael's DVDs(she's a big fan). We put one on and watched...amazed again at the genius of the man.

Kobe Bryant has also been in the news lately, due to the Lakers winning the NBA championship...and Kobe winning the Championship series MVP.

I am a crippled ex-cop...a minister who refuses to be paid for his work for God...and a writer.

What could I possibly have in common with these two Legends...one living...one now tragically dead too soon?

I like to tell stories to illustrate a point...true ones, if possible. It may not seem like the story I'm going to tell has anything to do with the topic, but trust me...I'll tie it together at the end.

My oldest daughter, Crystal, was born in 1977. The doctors' knew something was wrong right from the start, but they wouldn't say what. I overheard two nurses talking late in the afternoon about what a "shame it was for that poor baby". They tried to deny they were talking about Crystal when I confronted them, but she was the only baby there. They referred me to a doctor. He told me that they suspected Crystal had a "minor" heart problem, but it would be easily fixed with surgery. They were going to transfer her to Children's Hospital of Orange County(CHOC) that evening.

I couldn't ride in the ambulance with her, so I tried to follow in my car. It was an unusually foggy night, and I lost them. I finally found my way to the hospital, and, after many wrong turns, found her. She was in Pediatric ICU. I was allowed to go in and feed her every two hours. I stayed up all night.

I had just finished feeding her around nine the next morning when I was told her new doctor wanted to meet me and discuss her condition. The nurse sat me down in the ICU, just a few feet from Crystal. The Dr. came over and sat next to me. He asked what I new about my daughter's condition. I told him what I had been told: minor heart problem, but easy to fix. The following was the rest of our conversation.

Shit! Stupid God Damn idiots...

What's wrong?

I don't know why they...OK, here's the deal. Your daughter has a condition called Tetralogy of Fallot. Basically, four different things wrong with her heart. There are two basic courses to follow. One is immediate surgery. Her odds with that are 50-50 at best. The other is to wait...give her an opportunity to get stronger...but her odds that way are 75-25 against.

What would you do?

We have the best in the world here...her surgeon helped to pioneer the surgery...

But?

We just did the same surgery yesterday on a little boy. A little older than your daughter...bigger...stronger...better chance to survive. The surgery was a complete success...couldn't have gone any better...but the little boy died on the table. Just too weak.

Fuck...

The only thing keeping her alive right now is the ductus...it usually closes right after birth. If hers closes, by the time we know it's closed...it takes a couple of hours to set up an OR for this type of surgery. She'd be dead before we could start. You're the only one who can make the decision before that happens...and you have thirty minutes to decide.

I stumbled out of the ICU. Down in the elevator...outside. I was crying. The only people I trusted, that I could depend on, were my parents. They were 1100 miles away at the Mission in New Mexico. I didn't know what to do. I collapsed on a bench. Prayed. My gut instinct was to have them do the surgery.

I didn't hear Orson Wells voice...or John Houston's. Just a small, still voice.

If I want her to come Home, there's nothing they can do...if I want her to stay with you, she'll stay...give her the time.

I had never gone against my gut feeling at that point in my life, without it blowing up in my face. But I went with that voice. I made a vow to God: I wouldn't leave the hospital until Crystal did...one way or the other.

I stayed at the hospital for the next eight days. I was afraid to go to sleep, because her blood oxygen and other counts could change at any time. I didn't sleep for the first five days...went in and fed her every two hours. Talked to her...sang to her...and cried.

The morning of the sixth day, I finally stretched out on the couch in the parents' lounge after her four AM feeding. The next thing I knew, I was awakened by a vacuum cleaner at about 6:10. I rushed to the scrub room, upset with myself that I had fallen asleep. I could see her little incubator through the small window in the scrub room as I washed with betadine. Her incubator was empty. I rushed into my gown and into the room.

There was a note attached to the incubator...but no Crystal. None of the nurses knew where she was. The note said, "Call social worker." I used a phone in the ICU. The social worker asked me for my religious preference for Crystal. I cried.

"When did she die?"

"Die? I just need the information to complete her insurance forms..."

I slammed down the phone and went through the room like a madman. I finally found Crystal around a corner in the far end of the room. The late shift had moved her so they could clean her incubator. Someone forgot to tell the day shift nurses.

I can guarantee you that never happened again...to anyone.

Three days later, I took Crystal home. There were numerous mad rushes to CHOC's emergency room over the next two years...I almost lost her a few of those times. She had the corrective surgery right after she turned two. Her condition was far worse than they originally thought. They told me they would only call me away from the waiting room if she...

I got called away two hours into the surgery. I shuffled slowly to the phone at the desk. Picked it up.

"Hello?"

A slow, southern drawl on the other end.

"Hi...Crystal's dead..."

I dropped the phone and slid to the floor. The phone swung slowly back and forth inches from my head. The woman on the other end was still talking, but I was numb. Finally, I took the phone back to my ear.

"What happened? Was she just too small still, or...?"

"What do you mean? Nothings happened. I just wanted to know if you wanted someone to bring you some coffee or..."

I won't repeat what I said to that poor woman from Georgia, but suffice it to say, she never called anyone "dad" in that drawl of hers again...only "father".

The operation took twice as long, and they couldn't fix everything.

They told me she would never live to see thirteen.

Crystal is thirty one now. Every day with her is a blessing.

That was, at that point in my life, the worst set of experiences I had ever faced.

I have faced far worse ones since.

Some of you who read this blog know me. Some of you may feel that you have come to know me through my writing. If you're new to this blog, read TWO DOGS over on the side bar. It will give you an idea of my temperament.

Now, I want you to picture me going through those times with Crystal...and having the press following me...hounding me...filming everything I did...everything I said...sticking cameras and microphones in my face.

Trying to take pictures of Crystal.

By the time I was done, the paparazzi would have thought that Sean Penn was Mother Theresa.

Someone would have been hurt bad...or dead.

Picture the worst moment of your life...go ahead, get it firmly in your mind.

Now, picture have the press covering you, as you go through it...covering you the way that Michael Jackson has been covered his entire life...or Kobe.

Every mistake, real or imagined. Magnified a million times. Every private moment, every agony...

My work has been good enough to be stolen...more than once. One of the movies made from my stolen work did over $200 million. Another resurrected an actor's career. But...there's a reason why my work has never sold. Only God knows the reason why.

But, if I had to guess...

I'd say the He wanted to keep the body count down.

Kobe may be an arrogant prick...or, he may be a saint. I don't know. But, cut the guy a little slack for his mistakes.

As for Michael Jackson...

I hope he has finally found the peace that eluded him his entire life. I hope that the vultures leave his children alone. They've suffered enough.

And I hope that God allows Michael's version of Heaven to be...

The second star to the right...and straight on till morning.

Answered...and Un-Answered Prayers

2009-06-03T17:22:00.000-07:00

We all get discouraged from time to time...at least I know that I do. That's why I haven't written for a while.

The director who asked for my screenplays hasn't read them...or the numerous one page treatments he asked for. I allowed that to get to me. Un-Answered prayers. Yet, in my heart, I know the Lord has His reasons. He had His reasons when two of my previous ones were stolen and made into movies. He had His reasons when other works of mine have been stolen and incorporated into movies. He has His reasons.

And yet, we doubt Him...from time to time. At least, I do.

And then, in His Grace, He allows us to see His majesty...and then we wonder why we ever doubt Him at all.

My daughter Lacy got a call last night from a dear friend of hers...and ours. A very fine young man, whose privacy I will not violate. He's the kind of young man you would want to be a part of your family:

Kind, strong, extremely intelligent, brave, loyal, thoughtful...just a few of the qualities that he possesses.

His mother has had an illness. That's all you need to know. We; Lacy, my wife, myself, my son and our other daughter, have all been praying for her. This fine young man was considerate enough to call last night to let us know that his mother was dramatically improved.

What a wonderful answer to prayer.

If God gave you the choice...

Between your wildest dreams...

Or the life of the mother of someone you love...

Which would you choose?

Pretty easy, isn't it?

And yet, in my selfishness, I forget...

Thankfully, God reminds me...

And I thank Him.

TO B(roadcast) or not to B(roadcast)...That is the question...

2009-05-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

I need all of your help.

If you read yesterday's blog, you know that Cherish and her friends did their first radio blog cast. Cherish has been after me to do one of my own.

The question is: should I or not?

I could do one strictly on the Bible...kind of an anti-Bible Answer man...just the scriptures, with no pontificating...or tithing...

Or, I could do one that is more like my blog...

Some Bible, some conspiracy, some family stuff...a little bit of everything. I would love to hear from all of you to see what your thoughts are. I do have some broadcast experience, so it wouldn't be too huge of a stretch.

So, leave comments telling me what you think...and then I'll let all of you know soon.

MY WIFE IS A BITCH!

2009-05-04T11:24:00.000-07:00

That's right...I said it...

And so are her friends!

All right, all right, calm down...

They want to be called bitches.

In fact, Cherish and two of her good friends, Cindy Bruckart and Bridget Pilloud, have started their own radio show, aptly titled:

3 Bitches Barking...you can find their first, and upcoming episodes here:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/3bitchesbarking

Bridget is an Intuitive animal communicator...you can find her here:

http://blog.petsaretalking.com/pets_are_talking/3-bitches-barking-radio/

Cindy is a certified professional dog trainer, and owns two doggie daycares...you can find her here:

http://www.dogstardaily.com/blogger/9

My lovely wife is a recognized leader in dog nutrition, as well as the owner of THE DHARMA DOG, a one of a kind Dog Boutique...which you can find here:

http://www.thedharmadog.com/

Their first show, yesterday, was incredible! Each of these bitches(ladies) brings not only their years of experience to play in fielding questions...they also bring their own unique personalities to the table...which makes listening a sumptuous buffet to the ears.

The show itself was informative...funny...compassionate...witty...and just plain fun. As someone who has done countless hours on air, I can tell you that most professionals don't come off nearly as well as our proud Bitches! If you're looking for answers to pet questions...good entertainment...or, if you just want to howl with the Bitches...

This is the show for you!

Tune in...send them a line...and get ready for a great time...

I give 3 Bitches Barking 4 paws, two ears, and one tail...way, way up!!!!!

Way to go Bitches!!!!!!

If you have to knock somebody down...Chance and the Bully

2009-04-29T14:20:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been gone for a while...

Each member of my family; my wife, my daughters, and my son, are my heroes. Each of them have done things so out of the ordinary, and/or beyond the call of duty, that they continually lift my spirits...and give me stories to tell.

The world would be a better place if we never had to fight to protect ourselves or those who can't defend themselves...of course, the world would be a better place if I looked like Denzel Washington or Brad Pitt and had Bill Gates' money...but that's not happening either. We are required to fight sometimes...which brings me to my story...

My son Chance is a wonderful young man. Great son, brother, friend, you name it. He's the best. Good natured and kind...he has always looked out for others. This story goes back to when Chance was in kindergarten.

Chance would come home every day from school and go straight to the bathroom...where he would pee for about five minutes. (the boy has my bladder) Cherish and I got concerned when he told us he couldn't go at school. We took him to a urologist, but he checked out fine. One day, a few weeks later, Chance finally told me why he couldn't go at school. There was a boy in his class who waited in the bathroom for the other boys. He was literally twice their size, and would push, hit, or kick them if they went in.

I went to the school to meet with the Principal. I was shocked to find out that the Principal was completely aware of the problem...and so was the entire staff. This boy (who was two or three years older than the others in the class) had also assaulted the teacher, kicking her in the stomach while she was pregnant. I couldn't believe he was still in the school.

The mother apparently knew how to "play the system." She threatened lawsuits at every turn. The boy had already been kicked out of more than one school, and now the district had backed down. He was supposed to be supervised by an adult attendant at all times, but the mother protested...and won. Now, everyone was afraid of this boy.

I told the principal that if the district wouldn't let him do his job, I would take care of the problem myself...and, to quell his fears, I didn't mean going after this boy myself. I told him that I was going to teach Chance how to take care of himself...and that I better not hear one word about it if Chance fought back.

Chance and I went for a walk that night. I told him about a circumstance in my own life growing up...and the advice my father had given me.

Walk away from any fight you can...but if the other person won't let you walk away...then you knock them on their ass...and don't let them get up. Every time they try to get back up...you knock them down again.

Chance looked at me a little dubiously. This boy was literally twice his size. Chance had seen the boy kick and hit his teacher...two other teachers...and the principal...all with impunity.

But I was his Dad...and I told him he could do it.

There was quite a commotion at school the next day when I went to pick Chance up. A group of boys from Chance's class ran to meet me at the door.

Chance kicked his ass, Mr. Blake...Chance really laid him out...Chance beat him up good...

The boys were very excited, to say the least. Chance came walking out of the Principal's office a minute later...followed by the boy and his parents. Obviously, the boy's parents had been called...and I hadn't. I wasn't sure what to make out of that. The Principal brought Chance over to me.

Is Chance in trouble?

No. Not at all...

Good.

I don't think I've ever seen a more perplexed, confused look on some one's face in my whole life, than was on the face of that boy. He kept staring back at Chance as his parents were dragging him out of the school, like Chance was an alien with eight eyes, five legs...and purple. Just bewildered.

I asked Chance what happened...

I just did what you told me to daddy...am I in trouble?

Not one bit stud...not one bit.

The principal called me later that afternoon. This was the story he gathered from the boys who were in the bathroom.

Afternoon recess. All of the boys are supposed to wash their hands before going back to class. All of them are outside of the bathroom...because they know the bully is waiting for them inside. No one moves. Finally, Chance hunkers down his shoulders and marches in. The rest of the boys follow...waiting to see Chance get beat up.

Chance goes to the sink and starts to wash. The bully comes over and taunts him. Chance just keeps washing. The bully pushes him.

Don't do that again.

Oh yeah? What you gonna do about it?

Don't do it.

The bully laughs as he pushes Chance away from the sink. Chance takes both hands, steps forward, and puts them square in the bully's chest...just like I taught him. The bully goes down...a surprised look on his face. He starts to get up...and Chance knocks him down again. Apparently, from all of the boys' stories, this happened at least five or six times. Finally, the bully just sat there...stupefied.

One of the boys had run to the Principal's office when it all started. The principal told me he ran as fast as he could to get there, fearing for Chance's safety. He was pleasantly surprised to find Chance standing over the bully...yelling at him to try and get up again.

The bully never came back to the school. The parents transferred him to another district. I felt bad for the kid...but not bad enough to have my son be afraid to go to school.

Sometimes, your only choice is between being intimidated...and being the intimidator. Not a hard choice, as far as I'm concerned...especially for my wife and children.

I'd like to tell you that Chance became a hero at school after that...but that's not how life works. All of those boys, many of whom were bigger than Chance, were embarrassed to see someone else take a stand. You see, as long as no one does...then no one is really a coward...but as soon as someone stands up for what is right...the majority who have stood back have no excuse. The telling moment was when the bully pushed Chance...and no one came to Chance's aide. There were at least fifteen other boys watching. Three of the boys were almost as big as the bully. Any group of three or four of the boys could have put a stop to it...but, just like adults, no one wanted to risk getting hurt.

Chance has taken other stands since then that have cost him...cost him a lot. He has stood up for a friend...and then have his teacher try and screw him over...and the friend turn his back on him.

Still...he always tries to do what is right...knowing that it will probably cost him. That is the truest test of courage...and character.

A father could never ask for a better son...

Hopes and Dreams

2009-04-21T17:42:00.001-07:00

There are many things that we hope and dream about as we grow up...

What we would like to do...where we would like to live...who we would like to marry...

I was lucky enough to marry the woman of my dreams...

I'm still working at what I want to do, and hoping for a good outcome...

I still dream of living in Hawaii someday soon...

But...my wife and I share our ultimate dreams together...

And that is for our children...

That they may be happy...and have the opportunity to chase their dreams...

Our daughter Lacy is about to finish her first year of college at AMDA(see my links)...

She has done so well, that she has earned additional scholarships for next year...

Most importantly to her mother and I, however...

She is becoming...

She is becoming all that she has hoped to be...

But...

She has always been what every parent dreams of...

The best daughter in the world...

She comes home next week...

And I can't wait to see her...

Tu Padre Te Amo Bene Sai...Bene Sai...

The maze of memories...CLINT WALKER and CHEYENNE

2009-04-17T17:12:00.000-07:00

I was flipping the channels a few weeks back and heard the start of this...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4h9rUNf64cw

Suddenly I was a very young boy, sneaking out of my bed to do something I knew was very, very wrong.

We bought our first "Big" TV in 1960 when I was four. The old TV was put in my bedroom, with one caveat: don't watch it after bedtime.

I still remember that old TV set. It was about four feet tall and three feet wide. The screen was maybe nine inches or so across. There must have been a dozen knobs across the front, but the only ones that I think worked were off/on-volume and the vertical/horizontal controls. The small antenna was on top, and you had to turn it to try and get a picture. I needed a small stool to reach it.

My bedtime was seven o'clock back then. All of the good shows started after that, of course...so I would wait...as patiently as a four year old can, for my parents to think I was asleep. Then I would pull the small foot stool out from under my bed(carefully hidden behind a stuffed animal), turn the TV on, and adjust the antenna to get the best picture I could. It was magic.

I had a few shows that I loved. Disney, of course. The Flintstones. Alfred Hitchcock(yes, I've always been bent). Red Skelton. Bonanza. Have Gun Will Travel( Richard Boone was soooooo cool...and talk about another iconic theme song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZzY6KZuLUo ) Maverick( another great theme song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_DQC3iaWbg&feature=related )And of course, Cheyenne.

Clint Walker brought something unique to the screen...and to a four year old boy. He was larger than life(6,6" tall with a 46" chest and a 32" waist), and ruggedly handsome. But there was something else. He made me feel safe. I liked Paladin, but I always thought that he might shoot me as well as the bad guys. Not Clint Walker. There was something in his eyes that made me feel that I would never have to worry about that from him. That soothing, deep baritone voice conveyed assurance. That's a very nice thing when your four years old.

That was almost fifty years ago. Fifty...wow...

And yet, at the sound of that music...

I'm four years old again...sneaking out of my bed to the TV.

Music is an amazing thing. What it does to your memory is even more amazing.

I've always believed that teaching, especially the most difficult topics, should be done to music. Why? Music is a key to memory. Don't believe me? Recite the pledge of Allegiance. Get through without stumbling? OK...now try the Gettysburg Address. Any luck? Probably not.

Now, turn on your radio(or your computer's music) to what for you is an "oldies" station. Depending on your age, that could mean songs anywhere from the forties to the nineties. Now listen for a while. Eventually, a song will come on that you haven't heard in forever...and you'll remember most, if not all, of the lyrics.

Why does music have such an impact on us? Not just on our memories, but on our emotions? I think it has to do with the harmonics of the human body, and the way sounds resonate within those harmonics. Our bodies are bio-machines that run on chemically generated electrical impulses. Harmonics have a huge impact on, and interaction with, electrical impulses.

But enough technical talk...I didn't start this blog for that...

My miner's flashlight is lit. I pull the covers back...oh, so slowly. The coarseness of my father's Navy blanket scratches my skin...almost like sandpaper. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and look down...the drop seems enormous. I will myself over the side, praying the sound of my feet hitting the floor won't give me away. I freeze, like a statue, at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen. The 91 freeway hasn't been built yet, so the night is still...except for the crickets. The sound recedes, and I creep softly to the TV. The light from the small screen pierces the darkness. I adjusted the antenna earlier, because I knew what I wanted to watch tonight. The sound is on so low, I can barely hear it. Then, it begins...

Cheyenne, Cheyenne where will you be camping tonight? Lonely man, Cheyenne, will your heart stay free and light? Dream, Cheyenne, of a girl you may never love Move along, Cheyenne like the restless clouds up above.

The sound carries me away...

The wind that blows, that comes and goes, has been your only home. But will the wild wind one day cease and you'll no longer roam?

I'm on a mesa, overlooking the mission school, in my mind...

Move along, Cheyenne, next pasture's always so green. Driftin' on, Cheyenne don't forget the things you have seen, And when you will settle down where will it be? Cheyenne... Cheyenne!

And now I'm back there again...a small boy...full of hopes...fears...dreams...

Now...think of your own memories...close your eyes and drift back...

Where will you be camping tonight?

SIGNS OF THE APOCALYPSE

2009-04-12T10:49:00.000-07:00

Flipping the channels this morning...Rick Warren, author of the Purpose(porpoise) driven life, Obama's new pastor(pimp) is on Fox news...giving his Easter service...

Really? A news channel broadcasting a man who prostitutes scripture for his own gain?
A man who teaches that you have to choose God, because he didn't choose you?
You have to choose to be a part of God's family?

Really?

Did you choose your family, or were you born into it?

What does Jesus tell Nicodemus in John chapter three?

You must be born from above(the proper translation of the Greek word, Ano)

So...just exactly what the heck did you have to do with your physical birth?

Nothing...you were just along for the ride...same with your spiritual birth...

What we choose, is what we're going to do as a member of His family, and when...

Not very empowering, which is why no one popular is teaching it today...

Very humbling...but liberating...

God does the heavy lifting...

You don't have to Find Jesus...He isn't lost...

You don't have to Accept Him...He doesn't need your blessing...

You don't have to help Him get His work done...He's pretty good at it...

I had planned an Easter blog on the actual days of Pascha...the Last supper on Tuesday...Crucifixion on Wednesday...rising from the dead Saturday night...should have done it...I do it every year...

Now I see this blasphemous opportunist teaching people that God needs them to accept Him, so they can change the world the way He wants it to be...and it's on a cable news channel...

So, here's my question for you...

Do you believe in an Omnipotent God...or an impotent one?

My God doesn't need my help...in fact, when I try and help, I'm just in the road and make the work harder for Him...

But He lets me try...because he loves me...of course, this doesn't jibe with most Pastors today...

I will always remember having this discussion with a Pastor many years ago...his response?

"...that's fine for someone like you, Chris...I consider myself, however, a fine instrument for God's service...He needs me for His work..."

Any God who "needs" me to get the job done...is a God who would be too inept to ever save me...

Have a nice Pascha(Easter)

What's up?

2009-04-05T13:13:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been gone so long...

Through the help of some very good friends, I've been put in touch with an A list director...been working on treatments, screenplays, and now one pagers...hard to condense it all to one page...some advocate teaser format, others, "just the facts"...which to do?

Say some prayers...shouting out to those friends who interceded on my behalf...you know who you are...

Back soon...This is a huge opportunity...want to make sure I give it my best...

LOST: NAMASTE...WHAT DOES SAWYER KNOW?

2009-03-19T16:12:00.000-07:00

"I respect that divinity within you that is also within me."

That is the meaning of namaste...taken from the Sanskrit namah and te, literally, I bow to you. It is a greeting of respect. The position of the hands, palms together, fingers pointed upward, denote the feet of the divine(the right palm) with the head of the follower or devotee(the left palm). It symbolizes the concept of divinity in all, and submission to one another.

Something rather lacking in Lost, wouldn't you say?

Nothing very Eight fold path about what the Dharma people, or the "Others" have been practicing. Which leads me to...

What does Sawyer know?

That was my main question throughout, and after, last night's episode of LOST. I think it should be the most important development on the show to date...and I'll tell you why.

First of all, to those of you who are followers of the show, I want to ask you a question. How many of you have screamed at the TV at least once when one of the main characters gets some time with a character that has way more information that they do...and never asks them a friggin question? Come on now...doesn't that drive you nuts? Cherish and I have complained about that for years now. One thing either of us would do, and I think most of you are the same, is ask someone...

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

EXPLAIN (FILL IN THE BLANK) TO ME, OR I"LL CUT YOUR (FILL IN THE BLANK) OFF.

AT LEAST TELL ME WHO THE HELL THE GUY WITH THE EYELINER IS...AND WHY HE'S THE ONLY ONE WHO GETS TO DRINK FROM THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH?

Anybody else, or just Cherish and I? Now, back to topic.

Sawyer is in, what appears to be, the most unique position of any character on the show. He is one of the original surviving members of the 815ers. He has knowledge of the future(in particular, the Purge) that the Dharma people don't. He has jumped back and forth throughout time and seen things(like the statue), that some of the Others, and maybe even Richard, haven't. He has, over the last three years, had access to Juliet's knowledge of the Others and Richard. He has had access, as chief of security, to most, if not all, of Dharma's plans and secrets. He has also had, at least twice a year, the ability to go to the mainland on the sub.

Sawyer was a con man. The most valuable thing to a con man is information. Information leads to knowledge. Knowledge is power. What did he say to Jack?

"All you did was react...I'm thinking..."

"I heard that Churchill read a book a night...even during the blitz..."

Here are some Churchill quotes that Sawyer might have read over the last three years...

A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.

A prisoner of war is a man who tries to kill you and fails, and then asks you not to kill him.

Battles are won by slaughter and maneuver. The greater the general, the more he contributes in maneuver, the less he demands in slaughter.

Continuous effort - not strength or intelligence - is the key to unlocking our potential.

Everyone has his day and some days last longer than others.

For my part, I consider that it will be found much better by all parties to leave the past to history, especially as I propose to write that history myself.

History is written by the victors.

History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.

I always avoid prophesying beforehand, because it is a much better policy to prophesy after the event has already taken place.

If the human race wishes to have a prolonged and indefinite period of material prosperity, they have only got to behave in a peaceful and helpful way toward one another.

If we open a quarrel between past and present, we shall find that we have lost the future.

It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations.

It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link of the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.

Let our advance worrying become advance thinking and planning.

Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

Play the game for more than you can afford to lose... only then will you learn the game.

Study history , study history. In history lies all the secrets of statecraft.

Sure I am of this, that you have only to endure to conquer.

The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you can see.

To build may have to be the slow and laborious task of years. To destroy can be the thoughtless act of a single day.

True genius resides in the capacity for evaluation of uncertain, hazardous, and conflicting information.

War is a game that is played with a smile. If you can't smile, grin. If you can't grin, keep out of the way till you can.

We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out.

We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.

When the war of the giants is over the wars of the pygmies will begin.

One ought never to turn one's back on a threatened danger and try to run away from it. If you do that, you will double the danger. But if you meet it promptly and without flinching, you will reduce the danger by half. Never run away from anything. Never!

Think about those quotes in light of the plot of LOST...then think about Sawyer. What is he? A con man. He didn't want to leave the island. He had nothing to go back to. Now he finds himself in an unusual position. What is the first thing he did in 1974? Con Horace about being shipwrecked. Remember the episode, "The long Con?" Sawyer's closing monologue?

"How 'bout you listen up, because I'm only going to say this once. You took my stuff. While I was off trying to get us help, get us rescued, you found my stash and you took it. Divvied it up; my shaving cream, my batteries, even my beer. And then something else happened. You decided these two boys here were going to tell you what to do and when to do it. Well, I'm done taking orders. And I don't want my stuff back. Shaving cream don't matter; batteries don't matter. The only thing that matters now are guns. And if you want one, you're going to have to come to me to get it. There's a new sheriff in town, boys. Y'all best get used to it."

Don't you think Sawyer would have started a plan, which he would improvise as he learned more? The return of his friends, however, might put a crimp in that plan...speed it up, or change it completely.

Think about how the barracks, where Christian met Sun and Lapidas. Do you remember there being any Dharma signs, photos, paperwork, etc...before? No. The Others had removed all traces of Dharma in "Otherville" after the purge. Why are they back? Did someone, or something alter the timeline?

I still think that Widmore is the real bad guy...more on that on another post. If so, who would Sawyer side with? Widmore's group...or the "Hostiles"?

What has he been planning?

What does he know?

Is he hiding Rose and Bernard?

What were his plans before Jack, Kate, et al arrived?

What are they now?

If you were in Sawyer's position...what would you do?

Whose side would you take?

Who

is

Jacob?

Lessons from Kota

2009-03-13T17:22:00.001-07:00

Our three year old Dobie, Kota, passed away a few days ago. He had been acting not quite himself for about a week, so we took him in to the Vet. He was a little scared when we went in the exam room, so I sat on the floor and had him lay his head on my lap. Gave him a treat, and I thought he went to sleep. The Vet came in a few minutes later, and...he was gone. I didn't even know it. Still petting his head. Just gone.

The Vet did an exam. Kota had a heart attack. Congenital problems with his heart, liver and kidneys. His parents weren't supposed to breed. Cherish didn't know any of that when she rescued him two years ago. He was malnourished when we got him...covered in sores, and very skittish. Acted like he had been beaten. The Vet said with all that was wrong with him, if Cherish hadn't rescued him when she did, he probably would have been dead in a month.

So, we gave him two good years...and he died peacefully. His last act on this earth was eating, which was his favorite thing. Then he went to sleep...and woke up in heaven...probably at my Mom's feet in her kitchen. Knowing my Mom, she had a steak cooking for him on the stove...with gravy. Good deal for Kota. We should all be so lucky.

Everyone who knew Kota was aware that he wasn't the sharpest dog out there. Handsomest Dobie you ever saw, but not overly bright. People would stop their cars when we were walking the dogs just to admire him. We used to make jokes about how he might have been cheated in the brains department, but damn...was he good looking.

I try to learn from everyone and everything I encounter...I may be an old dog myself, but I like to think I can still learn a few tricks.

Here's what I learned from Kota:

You don't have to be smart to appreciate what you have.

A roof over your head, a hot girlfriend, a loving family and great food, should be enough to make anyone happy.
If you're only good at a couple of tricks, do them well...and be proud of them.
Enjoy every walk. Smell the air, look at everything, rub up against your babe...you never know if it might be your last one.
Cuddle the ones you love whenever you can...even if they don't want you to. They'll be glad someday.
You have no control over where you were born...or to whom...or with what. Let it go.
You can control where you are today. Make the most of it...and don't look back.
It's OK to walk in circles...as long as you're still moving forward as you go.
Howl when you feel the need. People may laugh at you...but sometimes they'll join in.
It's OK to be afraid of deep water...as long as you're willing to jump in anyway.
Run, don't walk, run to the door when your loved ones come home.
Enjoy whatever is a treat to you to the fullest.
A warm fire is a good friend on a cold night.
If people you love give you silly clothes, were them anyway...and with pride. You'll make them very happy...and who cares what strangers think? They don't feed you or scratch you in just the right spots.
Don't be an asshole to the ones you love just for attention...a hard lesson for Kota...harder for me.
Be gentle with little ones. Dogs and people.
Protect your family from anything...it's better to bark at the wrong times than to be too afraid to bark at all. If they don't need your help right then, they'll tell you to shut up.
Give it one extra bark...just to make sure.
If your Mom tells you that squirrels are evil, chase them away from her whenever you can. She'll love you for it.
Try not to bite people when they wake you up. They don't know your nightmares, or why you have them...and if you love them, you don't want them to.
Never try to be somebody else. You'll fail twice, instead of once.
A collar and a leash are wonderful things...they mean you belong to someone...and they don't mind being seen with you in public.
A homemade sweater from your Mom...or one of your dad's shirts...both mean love.
If you hurt someone you love, go and lay at their feet with your head down. You may not be able to say I'm sorry, but they'll know what you mean.
Actions definitely speak louder than barks.
Loving...and being loved...are better than brains...better than looks...better than food...better than anything.

I know that when I close my eyes for the last time on this earth...they will open immediately in Heaven. I will be greeted by my Savior, my loved ones...and all of my wonderful dogs...and I look forward to each one...

I love you Kota Bear...tell Granny I said to pour a little extra gravy on your food...and tell her to get the fried chicken started...we'll all be there before you know it.

LOST: The Statue

2009-03-08T19:11:00.001-07:00

There have been many theories about the Statue on LOST, ever since the four toed foot was seen in "Live together, die alone" in season 2. It appears to have been seen again in "LaFleur".

I believe that it could be a statue of SEKHMET.

The name Sekhmet derives from the word "Sekhem", which means power or strength. SEKHMET literally means, "THE POWERFUL ONE". She was originally linked to PTAH, the Creator, although her myths predate his by hundreds of years. In later myths, she is called the EYE of Ra. It is said that Ra was so angered by mankind that he sent Sekhmet to destroy them. She did too well, however, and Ra had to get her drunk(on beer stained red like blood) to stop her.

Among her many titles are: The One before whom evil trembles, Mistress of dread, Lady of Slaughter, Avenger of Wrongs, the Scarlett Lady, and the Lady of Flame.

She carried a unique duality:Powerful destructive force and Avenger, as well as ruling over women's menstrual cycles and being the Goddess of healing and physicians.

She was said to have given birth to the most notable of Pharaohs, as well as being mother to Imhotep, who we will cover in a future blog on LOST.(Think Richard)

Sekhmet's action is always the right, or 'appropriate action'. When She destroys it is an appropriate destruction or vengeance. It is never chaotic or random. It is always what is needed at the time. Even though Sekhmet is not intimately linked with the aspect of destruction, as Netjer Set is, She removes threats and punishes those who do wrong against Ma'at.

Ma'at is the concept of balance or justice. Thus, Sekhmet is also known as "The One Who Loves Ma´at and Who Detests Evil"...even though Her actions might not always seem to mortals as just.

More Lost blogs to follow...on Horace(Horus), Jacob, Ben(ben-oni/ben-jamin), the Hyksos, and Imhotep.

Look at the statues...Sekhmet standing always carries an Ankh, and sometimes a papyrus sceptre...and is frequently depicted with four toes...

Anti-Semitism, Replacement Theology, and the Church

2009-03-01T14:19:00.000-08:00

I heard something on the radio the other day that angered, upset, and saddened me. A noted radio host, The Bible Answer Man, had a caller who questioned the antisemitism of Martin Luther. She was fairly new to Christ...had been raised in a Lutheran Church...but had never read the vile, hateful things that Luther had written about the Jews. She was understandably confused and shocked. What followed, from the supposed "Bible answer man", can be found here...
http://www.oneplace.com/common/player/oneplace/CustomPlayer.asp?bcd=2/26/2009&url=mms://wm.salemweb.net/a3186/o29/oneplace/wm/bam/bam20090226.wma&MinTitle=Bible+Answer+Man&MinURL=http://www.oneplace.comhttp://www.oneplace.com/ministries/bible_answer_man/&MinArchives=http://www.oneplace.comhttp://www.oneplace.com/ministries/bible_answer_man/archives.asp&Refresh=&AdsCategory=MINISTRY.BAM&Show_ID=243
beginning at about the 40 minute mark. Listen for yourself.

There is no place in the life of a Scriptural Christian for antisemitism, no matter how you couch it. There is no justification...no excuse for the vile, hateful rantings of Martin Luther. Period.

There is no place in the Church for any doctrine, even one solely on eschatology, whose end result brings about hatred...especially of the Jews. If you can't see the error of that, then may God have pity on you. I don't.

When the Church adopts the hate speech of racist groups...whether they be Klan, white supremacists, Nazis, etc...it is a shame to the Cross of Christ. If you speak against the Jews with hate, you are a disgrace as a Christian. If you attempt to mask that hate with feigned logic and reason, you are a coward. If you attempt to misuse and distort the Scriptures to justify your position of hatred toward the Jews, then you are anathema.

I had planned on this being a long, scholarly piece on the inaccuracies of the preterist position on eschatology and its end resulting error of Church involvement in world politics over the last 1600 plus years...and that involvement leading to the absolute disgrace of the Church, both Protestant and Catholic, being the number one persecutors of the Jews.

I can't...at least not right now. My hands are shaking as I type. I feel the same right now as I would if someone prostituted the words of my beloved wife to justify such a truly evil position.

Search out the Scriptures for yourself. Search out history. Try and find, within the Bible, any justification for what the Church has done, is doing, and continues to do to the Jews. There is none. None.

I am ashamed. I am angry. I hope that you either are, or will be.

My son was watching a special with me on TV many years ago. The special was on antisemitism. One of the scenes showed a cross burning while the words of Luther were being read. Chance was only about four years old. He looked at me, puzzled.

Daddy, is the man talking a Christian?

He was supposed to be son, yes.

Isn't Jesus Jewish?

Yes son, He is.

Then that man is stupid...and so are those people burning that cross.

Then he got up and left the room.

Out of the mouths of babes...

There is No "I" in Church...the failing of the Church in the last forty years

2009-02-24T16:25:00.000-08:00

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Philippians 4:13

No...you can't.

You can't save anyone. Especially yourself. You can't condemn someone to eternal punishment. You can't change the sentence that God has passed on Satan. There are a multitude more.

So...no, you can't.

Why, then, is this verse in the Bible?

The constant miss-use of this verse over the last forty or so years is emblematic of the number one problem in the Church today. "I". "I" is not the actual subject of this verse, nor should it be the subject of our focus or attention. Christ is the actual subject of the verse, just as He should be the subject of our lives.

Panta/ ischuo/ en/ to/ endunamounti/ me/ Xristo.

All these things/to be strong/in/the/who strengthens/ me/Christ

It is Christ who empowers me to be strong in all these things.

Christ's indwelling power enables me to do these seemingly impossible things.

Greek, as I've told you, is a funny, yet powerful language. The structure is not the same as ours. The correct reading of the verse, in today's language, is closer to the last one I've written. How can I be so sure? Outside of giving you boring lectures on Greek grammar and syntax?

Easy...the three Cs. Context...context...context.

The context of the verse within the passage. The context of that passage within the book that contains it...and finally, the context of both within the Bible as a whole. So, let's first look at the context of the passage.

But I rejoiced in the Lord
greatly, that now at the last
your care of me hath flourished
again; wherein ye were also
careful, but ye lacked
opportunity.

Not that I speak in respect
of want: for I have learned, in
whatsoever state I am,
[therewith] to be content.

I know both how to be
abased, and I know how to
abound: every where and in all
things I am instructed both to
be full and to be hungry, both
to abound and to suffer need.

I can do all things through
Christ which strengtheneth me.

Paul is speaking to the Churches of Philippi about their gifts. He thanks them, and reassures them. Not their fault they hadn't sent anything in a while. They didn't know what he needed. But they should never worry about him anyway. The Lord has taught him to be content in any circumstance.

Now he tells them something else. Something amazing. Something that, to the human mind, is impossible. God has taught him to be humble and exalted...at the same time! To be hungry and full in all things...at the same time!

Think about it...I command you to be faster than the speed of light...and never move...at the same time. I command you to be taller than a mountain, and smaller than an ant...at the same time. You would think I'm crazy...or at the very least, unfair. How can you be up and down...North and South...frozen and boiling...all at the same time? These are not just extremes...they're extreme opposites. Impossible!

If Christ commands me to do two impossible things at the same time...He will give me the power to accomplish what He has commanded me to do. The focus from Paul is on Christ...not himself.

The second "C" is the context of the book of Philippians. It is a book that exemplifies contrasts. Extreme contrasts.
For me to live is Christ...to die is gain.

Let this mind be in you,
which was also in Christ Jesus:

Who, being in the form of
God, thought it not robbery to
be equal with God:

But made himself of no
reputation, and took upon him
the form of a servant, and was
made in the likeness of men:

And being found in fashion
as a man, he humbled himself,
and became obedient unto
death, even the death of the
cross.

Wherefore God also hath
highly exalted him, and given
him a name which is above
every name:

That at the name of Jesus
every knee should bow, of
[things] in heaven, and [things]
in earth, and [things] under the
earth;

And [that] every tongue
should confess that Jesus
Christ [is] Lord, to the glory of
God the Father.

The first is the opposite of how we think...to live is Christ? To die is gain? Yet Paul tells them he's in between a rock and a hard place. He's ready to go...wants to go...home. But he knows it's better for them if he stays for a while longer. Not how we look at life.

The second is mind boggling to me. The All Mighty God came and put on a tent of human flesh. Lived like us. Was scorned. Spit on. Beaten so badly His face wasn't recognizable as the face of a man. Every hair of His beard plucked out. Mocked to the point of His death. The ultimate in power made Himself nothing for us. Wow.

The third "C" is the Bible itself. The Bible does not glorify man. It glorifies God. It doesn't start out, In beginning Man...

The first sin, by Lucifer, was the five "I wills". We sin, or miss the mark, because, "to will is present in me." We are saved by Grace...we are the called out ones...chosen.

The Greek word for Church is Ekklesia. Ek/out...Kaleo/to call. To ekklesia/ the out called ones. Once again you see that the specialness is in being called out by someone else. Not yourself.

Why is this problem so prevalent in the Church? It starts at the top. I can't tell you how many Pastors I've heard this little gem from..."I'm a fine instrument for God's use." Yeah...right. No, you're a dirt bag...just like me. My only saving grace is the fact that I know I'm a dirt bag. No delusions of grandeur here. I'm not doing God any favors by doing His work. It's the other way around.

Where do they get it from? I would think, from what I've learned, that it's systemic. It begins with the teaching at the seminaries. Pastors are taught that they know more, know better, than their congregations. Most of what they are taught, especially in higher criticism, can't be trusted to the masses. Too dangerous. It's the old shell game of the heresy of the Nicolaitans: you must rule over(Nicos/completely conquer and vanquish) the laity/people(laoston/people) for their own good.

The Bible expressly forbids this. Jesus taught that we should call no one Master or Lord(Reverend or Pastor) because we are all brothers and sisters in Christ...we have but one Lord and Master...Christ Himself. Paul took on the title of doulos, or bond servant, which we translate minister. It means far more than that. A bond servant was someone who screwed up so badly that they were sold into slavery for their debt. Their Master paid the debt, and they had to work for that master until the debt was paid. In our case, as Paul's, the debt is our life...which God paid for with the life of His Son. So, our debt will never be paid off...at least not in this lifetime.

If you look at yourself that way, it makes it much harder to have your ego fly off into flights of fancy...to elevate yourself, or your knowledge, above others. To think that "I" can do anything.

Sadly, that is the state of the Church as a whole today. I name it and claim it. I have needs. I sow my seed. I need extra classes at Church for what I want. I need support groups to minister to me. I need God to bless me financially. I need God to heal me. I need...I need...I need...sounds like Bill Murray in "What about Bob", doesn't it?

Story time. I told this one at my Fathers funeral.

My dad taught me everything I needed to know. How to be a man. How to be a husband. How to be a Father. Most importantly, he taught me how to be a servant to my Lord and Master. He didn't teach me these things by preaching to me...or at me. His testimony was his life...the way he lived it...the way he treated me...and the examples he set.

I can still remember the time my brother and I "painted" the shed for my dad. I was about four years old. My dad had built the garage on our lot back in the forties after he and my Mom bought the house. He built a little shed onto the back of it a few years later. Now, it was time to paint them both. My dad was going to paint the garage. We wanted to help. We were still young enough to have that desire...to help our dad.

He took us around behind the garage to the shed. Set us up with paint...brushes...rollers...the whole deal...then he went to paint the garage.

We painted the sidewalk...the brick wall behind us...the avocado tree...the dogs...the dirt...and each other. I think we might have accidentally gotten some paint on the shed. We had quite the high time back there.

My dad came around back when he was done with the garage. Cleaned us up and sent us in to my Mom to take baths. Then he had to clean up our mess...and still paint the shed.

Any time anyone came over for the next six months or so, they commented on how great the garage looked. You could see it down the drive way from the street. My dad would make sure I was around before he led them behind the garage...to the shed.

"Look at what a great job my boys did on the shed".

My chest would swell in pride every time. My dad was proud of me.

I was crying when I said this at my dad's funeral. I'm crying now.

I didn't realize I hadn't helped him paint the shed. I was only four. I hadn't helped him at all...in fact, I'd been in the way. He had to work ten times harder, just to let me help. He cleaned up all of my mess, and still did the job.

I looked back on this, and many other things that my dad did when I got older. Why would he go to all that trouble? I knew the answer not long after my oldest daughter was born. He wanted me to learn, at an early age, that it's not what you are able to do that counts. It's your attitude...your willingness...your desire. He wanted to reward that...and make me feel good about myself. Most importantly, he wanted me to know that he loved me...that he was proud of me...no matter how ineffective I might be.

He loved me.

But...he also wanted to teach me what it means to be a servant of Christ. We are, all of us, four year olds painting the shed. We aren't helping God...in fact, we're in the way...and not even aware of the big job He's doing while we're screwing up the little one he gave us...the one no one can even see. He cleans us up...does the job...and then praises us to everyone for how hard we worked...when we never did a thing worthwhile.

Read Hebrews chapter 11 when you have time...and you'll see why I call it God's wallet. He takes out the pictures of His kids...and brags about them...but if you read their stories in the rest of the Bible, you'll see what monumental screw ups these "heroes of faith" really were. Most of them would never even make it into a Church today, let alone be in any position of importance...but to God....well, they're His kids. He loves them. He's proud of them...in spite of their faults.

You see, everyone of them was a four year old painting the shed...and that's what God wants from us. He wants us to have that earnest desire to serve, like a four year old...and yet, at the same time, He wants us to grow into the maturity of knowing that we can't do anything but screw up...and still show up anyway.

Some people here today have asked me if I think I can fill my Father's shoes. The answer is painfully obvious...no. But I can do my best to keep them shined...because he taught me how.

I love you dad.