My own opinion is that adults do this, sometimes. They use their positions of power to intimidate, control, and demean those within their charge. One need only consider the recent Penn State scandal to be reminded just how ugly abuses of power can be.

While not even in the same ballpark as Pen State, I know about trusted adults who take liberties with their power, because I have experienced it myself.

My third year of college, I signed up for a Chaucer class. I have no idea what possessed me to do this. When I picked up the textbook, I thumbed through it and thought there had surely been some mistake. The whole stinking thing was written in a foreign language! What? Did someone expect me to read this? Hello? English major here. On the first day of class, I learned that it was, indeed English—who knew?—but that it was middle English, which basically meant it was one step somewhere between stone tablets and Shakespeare, I think. Anyway, non-technical linguistic definitions aside, I was sunk before I even started.

For reasons, I’m not quite sure, I worked my tail off that semester. I read that middle English, and those positively dumb and ridiculous stories; I took meticulous notes; I highlighted, dog-eared, and otherwise riddled my textbook with all manner of post-its, bookmarks and tears. When it came time for the semester test—which was to memorize—yes, memorize, in middle English, i.e., a foreign language—the first twenty-some-odd lines of the Canterbury Tales, I was ready. I’d written it a hundred times over. I’d read it out loud, whispered it under my breath in the grocery store, played it in my head to the beat of T.Rex playing on my Walkman as I walked, walked, walked, all over campus and beyond, all for the glory of the perfect recitation. For weeks, I ate, slept, and breathed Chaucer. I even had the accents down, thank you.

When test day came, I performed. I nailed it. I was sure to get an “A.” I could feel it. The professor—a short, bald little man with thick round glasses—had other ideas, though. There was to be a pop quiz—a spontaneous reading from the text, just to make sure I’d gotten the lingo. He instructed me to turn to a pre-selected page, and I did so, and began reading. It was going well. I was sailing through it with flying colors. About half way through, the back of my neck started to feel warm. The flush crept up my neck and to my face and I struggled to continue. See, my professor had chosen what could politely be referred to as the “bawdy” parts of Chaucer for me to recite—the surliest, most embarrassing part of the entire Canterbury Tales—apparently, sex and potty jokes were big in Middle English. What was he up to? Why—of all the hundreds upon hundreds of lines of Chaucer—did he choose those? When I came to the end of the assigned section, I nearly gulped for air.

He then proceeded to spew out a layer of praise that would make even the most easygoing, confident person on the planet want to turn and run. You have an extraordinary grasp of the language, you have a master of pronunciation, very impressive—ad nauseum. Which would have been fine, had he not just contributed to quite possibly the most humiliating moment of my life, right there in the sacred halls of Englishdom. But then, the kicker. He said, quite plainly—and arrogantly, I might add—“I suppose you’ve gotten over the fact that you’re pretty by now.”

Excuse me? What the hell? There were so many things wrong with what had just transpired that I couldn’t even begin to list them. First of all, no, I didn’t think I was all that pretty. Secondly, how exactly does one get over being pretty? And finally, what does being pretty—or having come to terms with it, for that matter—have to do with my performance as a student in his class? I wanted to scream. I was pissed—no, I was seething, by the time I left that office. I ended up saying what probably anyone in the same situation would say. Nothing. I simply sucked it up and left without a word.

Do adults sometimes intentionally intimidate? Embarrass? Test? Do they create situations to gauge the limits of their own desires or self-imposed delusions of grandeur? My answer, of course, is, unequivocally, yes. Had I been older, more mature, and not completely out of place in my own skin, I might have reported that professor’s behavior. I might have pointed out, quite eloquently, that I did not have to put up with such treatment. I might have stood up for myself. But I was just a kid, really. And kids sometimes can’t be trusted with their own hearts when they lack the courage or wisdom to know what they need, and what they are worth.

I know now. I will teach my children, particularly my daughter, that those in power are not always right, that she can trust her instinct, and that I will back her up 100% when she is confronted by a situation that pierces her sense of self-worth—whether wounded by the actions of someone she trusts, or some random assault. I will teach her, as written in Proverbs 4:23: Above all else, guard the heart, for it is the wellspring of life.

In the 1920s, an unknown farmer named Wilson Bentley devised a way to photograph the intricate design of snowflakes using his own equipment.  Over several years, he perfected the method, producing some 5,000 photos, going on to garner attention from the scientific community, which honored him as a pioneer in the field of photomicrography. (http://snowflakebentley.com/WBsnowflakes.htm).  Bentley lived a modest life; he certainly didn’t die rich.  You could say his ingenious work was the proverbial labor of love that was the likely origin of the well-known phrase, “No two snowflakes are alike.”

Acording to CalTech researcher Kenneth G. Libbrecht, it is safe to assume no two snowflakes are alike:  “Now when you look at a complex snow crystal, you can often pick out a hundred separate features if you look closely. Since all those features could have grown differently, or ended up in slightly different places…. Thus the number of ways to make a complex snow crystal is absolutely huge. And thus it’s unlikely that any two complex snow crystals, out of all those made over the entire history of the planet, have ever looked completely alike”  (http://www.its.caltech.edu/~atomic/snowcrystals/alike/alike.htm).

 Is this near limitless potential the result of the random molecular activity, or the product of intentional, carefully considered design?  Are complex structures like snowflakes merely nature’s evidence of an intelligent designer?

The term “intelligent design” (ID) has been circulating in scientific communities for years.  With regards to living organisms, the IDEA (the Intelligent Design and Evolution Awareness Center), defines ID thus:  “intelligent design implies that life is here as a result of the purposeful action of an intelligent designer, standing in contrast to Darwinian evolution, which postulates that life exists due to the chance, purposeless, blind forces of nature” (http://www.ideacenter.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/1136).

One way to understand ID is to look at an organism’s CSI (complex and specified information), which basically means that the processes of a natural organism are deliberate and functional.  If an organism uses all its parts to function, if it requires all its parts, it has a high CSI, which basically means it was intelligently designed.  According to Darwinian theory, life is random.  ID says it’s purposeful, all pieces working together in a perfect system.

How do we make the leap from something that is a perfect system to one that is simply unique and beautiful?  If function were the most important gauge of a perfect design, why bother with the beauty and variety that literally abounds in our universe?  If the universe were merely the product of an intelligent designer—rather than God, the author and creator of all things—wouldn’t it be simply boring?  Would we be surrounded with the multitudes and layer upon layer of color, texture, and artistry that is our natural world?  We certainly don’t need snowflakes, much less require them to be so fascinatingly diverse and beautiful.

We have yet to scratch the surface of what God has in store for us.

For example, did you know that the human eye can only perceive about 10 million out of an infinite number of colors?  Because color is affected by light, viewing conditions, and even the particular way each individual sees it, color possibilities are endless. (http://www.cis.rit.edu/fairchild/WhyIsColor/files/ExamplePage.pdf).

There are colors we have never even seen, combinations until the end of time.  Infinite possibilities.

Let me take this a step further.  Did you know that there are as many as 100 million different species of living things on the earth and that science has only identified about 2 million of them (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20109284/).  Further, scientists say that about 99.9% of all species become extinct. (http://nitro.biosci.arizona.edu/courses/eeb105/lectures/extinction/extinction.html).  This suggests that species can die off before we ever discover them.  Species that existed millions of years ago do not exist today, and species exist today that didn’t exist a million years ago.  Further, the process of identifying a new species is a tedious, laborious process.  In fact, scientists don’t even agree on how to define a species, according to the University of Michigan.   While some distinguish according to appearance, others distinguish based solely on biological characteristics  (http://www.globalchange.umich.edu/globalchange1/current/lectures/speciation/speciation.html).

There may be an endless number of “species” on our planet—the creative combinations, endless.

Did God design our world this way, as evidence of his infinite creative genius? I believe so—but He is more than just an intelligent designer…

As much as I like the idea of intelligent design—as a reasonable affront to Darwinism at the suggestion of a creator—it doesn’t quite hit the mark.  God is an inventor, and invention is, by definition, creative—and creativity can be a messy, chaotic and beautiful process.  A beautiful design can be born out of experimentation, playing around with possibility, and it can even be accidental.  While the intention behind creative work is deliberate and purposeful, the end result is not always planned.  That said, let me be clear:  Life is the result of intention and purpose.  It doesn’t just happen.  As a creative force, God knows what He is doing.  But He isn’t just interested in a universe full of efficient machines.  He isn’t simply a designer.  He is a Creator, who loves everything he makes, whether it is perfect or not.  Look into the eyes of a child born with a severe disability and you will see the hand of God.

I have no idea what Snowflake Bentley had in mind when he set out to capture these amazing images, no idea what religious beliefs, if any, he had.  But what’s clear is that he saw the beauty and value in something to which most people would never give a second thought.  I believe this is how we come to know God.  We see him in the small, seemingly insignificant places, and when we look in those places with a more discerning eye—a mind and heart interested in the depth of life—we see the loveliest, most complex masterpiece we have ever seen. If we dare to look, we see that truly, “no two are alike.”  And that is just fine with me.  It just means God’s labor of love never ends.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.  Ecclesiastes 3:10-12

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.  Psalm 139:13-15

Fox news recently interviewed Dr. Steven Garner, New York Methodist Hospital Radiology Chair, on the Massachusetts  case, citing several animals that are known to carry rabies, including bats, raccoons, foxes, coyotes, and, surprisingly, domestic cats.  The disease, he points out, is 100% preventable with vaccinations.  Bats, because they are so small and have tiny razor sharp teeth, can actually be inside your home and bite you unawares.  Garner says if a bat is found in your home, unless you can trap the bat and have it tested, you must be vaccinated because “you just don’t know.”  The CDC reports that the most common cause of rabies in humans is from infected bats.  (http://www.cdc.gov/rabies/bats/education/index.html).  While unlikely, exposure to rabies can, and does, happen.  Not only that, but we should be diligent when we come into any sort of contact with them, especially in our homes.

Bats used to have sort of a bad rap, stemming, I guess, from vampire stories and old wives tales.  Then, sometime in the eighties or nineties, bat awareness, education and conservation came on the scene and suddenly, bats were everybody’s best friend.  People were buying bat houses and trying to protect the habitats and reputations of the sorely “misunderstood” critters.

I’m all for conservation.  I love animals.  I believe in humane, respectful treatment of nature.  But I think the bat movement pulled a fast one.  People have always known, I guess, that bats carry rabies, but somehow, I missed the day my school teachers talked about rabies because they were likely too busy talking about how cool bats were.  In college, some friends and I went walking through the infamous “Bat Cave” on some old property just outside of Lebanon, MO.  It didn’t even dawn on us that we were surrounded by—you guessed it—bats.  We had nothing to fear.  Bats were our friends.

I can tell you a short personal bat story that has changed, forever how I feel about them.  For me, this is the real truth about bats:  They are not my friends.  About four years ago, I found my two kids playing with a comatose bat in our yard.  I picked the thing up to get it away from them.   After sending it off for testing through a local veterinarian’s office, we learned it was, in fact, rabid, and that they would have to undergo a series of rabies shots immediately*.  Not only would that, but I, too, have to get the shots because of possible exposure.  In short, we got the shots and recovered with no long-term effects beyond the emotional trauma of the whole experience.  For the skeptics:  Imagine, learning you’ve been exposed to a deadly virus in your own back yard, getting a personal phone call from the Health Department.  A year or two later, on a field trip with my son’s class, while on a nature hike, I noticed some kids huddling around something, talking excitedly amongst themselves.  When I approached, I discovered it was a bat lying on the ground.  Instantly, I went into hyper-bat-alarm mode and bellowed, “Get away from the bat!”  Ironically, on another field trip just a week later, we were at a conservation department watching an educational video about how interesting, cool and misunderstood bats are.  I wanted to raise my hand and say, “Bats may be cool, but they are one of the top carriers of the deadly rabies virus in the U.S.  Don’t get too close to them.”

Somehow, I’d gotten through 40 years of life without learning about the dangers of bats.  Is the bat conservation movement to blame?  Maybe.  Sometimes, the best lessons come through experience.  And though this one isn’t one I’d care to repeat, I now know it’s prudent to keep a safe distance from these creepy critters.   In other words, I’m not leaving the light on for them.  No bats allowed at my house.

*I  must add here that if not for the suggestion by one of our doctors that day, the unthinkable might have happened.  Shortly after finding the bat, we had an appointment at the dermatologist’s office.  Joseph was going on about how it was so cool that he’d found this bat.  The doctor was the one who suggested we send the bat off for testing.  Had we not had that appointment that day, who knows what would have happened?  Joseph possibly got bitten, as he had said the animal “scratched” him.  He was young enough that discerning what really happened was difficult.  The doctor could very well have saved his life that day!

Chapter 1

I requested an open casket for my father, even though I knew he’d hate the idea. George Lamb was proud to a fault, and any shred or flicker of emotion was to be sucked up quickly and neatly, sealed away in some secret compartment in the brain that was reserved for only a certain kind of man—a real, bona-fide strong man whose salty tears hadn’t seen the light of day since 1947. True to his stoic pride, my father would have seen death, the inevitable and relentless foe that it is, as weakness, pure and simple—and weakness was ridiculous. Death, to my father, was the final pie in the proverbial face.

I stood in the foyer of the funeral home, waiting for Rachel to arrive, glancing periodically at my son, Drew, who sat in a red vinyl chair, his legs draped over the arm. He was playing his portable Nintendo with headphones plugged in his ears. Even at eight years old, he was already hooked on technology, approaching every new electronic and digital gadget with cool confidence, as if he’d already used it for years. I, on the other hand, was essentially illiterate when it came to anything beyond my personal and office computers, the word processing and grade entry software I used on a daily basis. I found myself gazing in admiration at him, lounging there, impervious and serene. Intuitively, I raised up my hands in a box frame, placing him slightly off-center, with a long hallway extending to the left. I found it ironic and somewhat humbling that I’d found such a beautifully composed picture at my father’s funeral. Everything around me was saturated with grief. What right was there, really, to see anything more? Still, I framed my son with a pang of love stabbing my gut. He was perfect. And as my dumb luck would have it, I’d forgotten my camera.

I sighed and made my way over to him, placing my hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Drew, glassy-eyed and focused, as if immersed in a bubble, didn’t budge. I started to say something, then simply turned and went back to waiting for my wife.

Rachel arrived late, driving a rented car.

“How was your flight?” I asked, meeting her outside the door.

She didn’t answer.  Her enormous purple patent leather purse dropped to her forearm like a weight, and I half-expected her to topple over with it. Her sweet, flowery perfume embraced me as she leaned in to kiss me lightly on the cheek. “Jack, I’m sorry. Are you ok?”

I shrugged. “Fine, I guess. It was peaceful. He died in his sleep.”

She frowned. “Well he didn’t suffer,” she said. “How’s Drew taking it?”

“He’s ok. I don’t think he really gets it yet.”

Rachel nodded and went inside, greeting Drew, who pulled off the headphones and gave her a hug. “Hi mommy,” he said. “I’ve already gotten to level three! Look!” He held out the game, brimming with something like excitement—a subdued animation at best—over his small achievement. Rachel listened with interest.

They sat down and began chatting quietly while I went back out to see if Lily and Aunt Joan had arrived yet. Undoubtedly, they’d be late or show up at the last minute. Joan had trouble getting around and Lily was late for everything. When Rachel and I got married, she practically missed the ceremony, slipping in the door just as we were about to twirl around and face the congregation as Mr. and Mrs. Lamb for the very first time. I know because I heard the door open and saw the last sliver of bright September sun squeak through as it shut.

After a few minutes, I was surprised to see Joan’s grey Buick gliding up the drive, Lily at the wheel. When they were close enough, I saw Joan’s spindly hand wave at me through the filmy windshield. Lily parked in a handicap spot, got out, tossed a cigarette on the ground, and went around to help Joan out of the car.  Joan was feeble, but she looked nice, dressed in navy blue skirt and jacket. Lily had on a black dress that went almost to her ankles and a long-sleeved brown linen jacket. A gust of wind came up, grabbed her skirt and it whipped around her legs like flame.

With her blonde hair and sunglasses, Lily could have passed for a movie star. My sister, the tinsel town train wreck, red lips and all. Even her name—Lily Lamb—smacked of Hollywood glam, marquis, and tinted windows. It would have been a beautiful shot—the sunlight sparking like a fuse on the lens of her glasses, the wind tossing her hair, those dangerous lips. But suddenly the picture was snatched away, and there she was, ambling toward me awkwardly, teetering on ridiculously high black patent heels, her blonde hair hanging in unkempt tousles. Even beneath the loose clothing, I could see that she was overly thin, her body a contraption of sharp, tentative angles. She was the starlet who never got the role she wanted, her cheeks dotted with blemishes, hair a mess of dark, tangled roots, teeth stained with nicotine. “Hey bro,” she said. “You ok?” She hugged me. Her arms felt like steel clamps.

Joan managed a weak smile. “Jack, how’s Drew?”

I took Joan’s arm. “He’s good.”

“I’m sorry, Jack. Your father meant a lot to you, I know,” Joan said.

“It’s just the way it is,” I replied, and it was the truth. “He put up the good fight.”

After the funeral, Drew and I drove home in a solemn silence, Rachel following behind. I helped unload Rachel’s two small bags and carried them across the walk, pausing briefly to watch them go inside. Rachel walked beside Drew, her arm draped protectively over his shoulders. It was clear they were happy to see each other.

It was the first time the three of us had gone anywhere together for months. Rachel had been in Chicago on business, training for a new job, and we weren’t sure yet if and when we would move. I guess you could say we were separated, though neither of us had said the word, and certainly not to Drew.

Before she left, we’d fought furiously about her plans. There was a house to sell, moving, taking Drew out of school, away from friends. I didn’t want to uproot the family, especially Drew, but Rachel made more money than me, and she used that advantage to obscure any concerns I had, including the fact that I had a contract at the college to finish. Regardless of what we decided, it would be at least the end of summer before I could join her, and when Drew would go out was still up for debate. I expected him to stay with me, of course.

“What about our life here?” I’d told her. “You have a perfectly good job. You’re going to just throw that away after all these years of working so hard to get where you are?”

Rachel had sighed with exasperation, one eyebrow jutting up like spontaneous punctuation. “Jack, this is a good opportunity. It will be good for all of us. For our marriage.”

“Oh, so all of a sudden you’re the loving wife?” I fumed. “You’ve barely said hello to me for the past two years. This is crap.”

“It’s not crap, Jack. It’s life.” She paused, twisting her mouth.

“Oh, now you’re going to lecture me about life, about how unfair it is? About how sometimes you have to make sacrifices? News flash Rachel. I don’t know about you, but in my worldview, sacrifices generally mean there’s some payoff down the road. You sacrifice something, you get something. Where’s the payoff, Rachel? Enlighten me, please.”

“So this is all about you, isn’t it? About how life turns out for Jack Lamb.”

“What happened to the whole ‘it will be good for us’ drama? Or was that crap too? If you had even half the compassion and concern for someone else as you have for yourself, you’d figure out that I’m talking about our son. Drew? Remember him? What’s the payoff for him in all this?”

Stunned, Rachel had opened her mouth, then stopped, took a deep breath, sat down hard on the sofa, and began rubbing her forehead. “What do you want from me?” She’d said, throwing her hands up defensively. She paused then, her eyes darkening. “There is another option,” She said. “You could stay here.” Her voice cracked. She was clearly distraught, but dead serious. “Drew and I will go.”

And just like that, I’d actually started feeling sorry for her. Guilt seized me. Everything had been my fault. The problems, the coldness, my inability to keep our marriage together. Any far-reaching stains on Drew’s life from now on would add another facet to my guilt, regardless of who was at fault. Everything would be on my watch. If we moved, Drew would resent me for letting it happen. If Rachel and I divorced, Drew might blame me and take her side. I couldn’t bear the possibility of losing Drew in that kind of mess.

“You can’t just take off with Drew,” I told her. “It’s not right and you know it. We have to find another way. That’s what I want from you—another way. A way that Drew keeps both his parents. We can’t ask him to give that up no matter what our problems are.”

“Then you’ll go?”

“Rachel, this is a hard time in a boy’s life. He’s going to be in middle school soon, a tough transition age and a new school on top of that? He has so much going for him here. It just isn’t worth a fifteen-thousand-a-year salary increase, especially in Chicago. Think about it Rachel. How much do you think it’s going to cost to live in the city?”

“What do you expect me to just give him up? Go alone?”

“I didn’t say that—you did. But maybe it’s not such a bad idea.” I’d said, immediately regretting it.

Her eyes glimmered, her head cocked sideways. For a brief moment she’d looked almost demented, her face elongating and morphing before my eyes. “Are you insane?” She asked.

Maybe it was true, on some level. Love can generate madness in the calm nest of intention. I was no exception. I didn’t want Rachel to move away and take our son, certainly, but even deeper was my profound aversion to the idea of his growing up without me around. It was the age-old cliché, the selfish, ugly reason lurking beneath my defiant facade. Drew was my son. The supreme sacredness of the father/son bond would be breached. In the absence of this constant bond, part of him would cease to exist. No one could or would ever love him as I had loved him.

On the other hand, I also didn’t want him to grow up without a mother, like I did. I was just five years old when Mom died, and I’d vowed a long time ago to do everything in my power to protect Drew, keep him safe from tragedy. And even though I knew in my heart that I couldn’t do that, still I believed that everything that I did or said or believed would have a direct impact on who Drew turned out to be. If he grew into a menace to society, it would hinge on something I did. If he became a world leader or a champion philanthropist, couldn’t I take some small shred of credit? If anyone or anything was going to screw Drew up, it was damn well going to be me.

When I realized Rachel might try to take Drew with her, permanently, that I might lose him, something snapped inside me. What if—in all my shortcomings and my self-inflicted criticisms about my role in my life—what if all of that didn’t matter? What if the fact that he had a neurotic, self-deprecating father was not as important as the fact that I had a father at all? That he had a father who was present, who was willing to take part in his life, no matter how messy?

In the end, we had compromised. Rachel would go out for the job. We’d give it six months and she would come home every few weeks. Drew could come visit her. After the six months, we’d reassess, make decisions.

When we were finished, Rachel had closed her eyes, lay her head down on the couch, whispering, “When did we make such a fucking mess of things?”

God help me, I loved her. I always had, from the beginning.

*

The only thing I remember about the day I met Rachel Graves is that it was not raining. I was on my way to Cardinals stadium and I had tickets. I had just heard the weather report on the radio and it looked like a perfect afternoon for a game. I was living outside the city at the time and had stopped to get gas before I hit traffic. When I returned from paying the attendant, there she was, leaning against a brand new white Toyota Camry, dressed in a white blouse and grey slacks. She was frowning, digging in her purse, obviously frustrated. She looked up briefly as I passed. At first, nothing registered, but then, as I was reaching for my seatbelt, I noticed her hair and I thought it was pretty—long, deep dark brown, almost black—obviously styled and curled with care. She had given up looking for whatever was in her purse and was now just standing there looking a little lost.

What possessed me to get out of that car and approach her? It was a gorgeous September day. I had tickets to the playoffs burning a hole in my pocket and I’d been waiting for it all week—all season, for that matter. I was already late. But the hair—looking back, it seems silly to blame my inexplicable behavior on someone’s hair, but that’s the way it was. She had something of a glare when I approached her, as if she mildly resented being offered help. It wasn’t until years later that I learned to recognize that look as the one she got when she saw something she wanted to change, the fire of motivation that flickered when she saw that the kitchen needed to be painted, or a door just wasn’t closing right. The look that knew (better than anyone else) just what was needed to make something a little worn out and broken work again.

“I couldn’t help but notice—but I wondered—”

“It’s ok. No, I’m fine.” She looked directly at me, her dark brown eyes glowing with confidence.

“Are you sure? I can call someone for you.”

Her eyes softened a bit and she ran her fingers through her hair. “I locked my keys in the car,” she said simply.

Stupidly, I reached into my pocket, as if by magic, I’d find her keys there. “Can I call someone for you?” I asked, gesturing toward the station building.

“No. Thanks.” She turned away slightly and I meandered back toward my car, hands in my pockets.

I got in my car, watched her as she entered the building. After a few moments, she came out, and started walking toward me. I rolled down the window.

“My sister is coming with the extra keys. She’s my roommate.”

I was puzzled as to why she’d thought it necessary to let me know this, but I smiled and nodded anyway, and without thinking, said, “You want to have a cup of coffee while you wait?” I knew I’d be late for the game, but I hadn’t really expected her to say yes.

By November, we were having conversations about how many kids we wanted and what college we wanted them to attend. How outrageous it all was, that two random people could meet at a gas station and start planning their lives together two months later, but it seemed like perfectly normal behavior at the time. I was like a giddy, overgrown teenager in an adult world. The idea of having smaller versions of myself running around had never crossed my mind, not once, throughout the twenty-four self-absorbed years of my life. I’d never had a serious relationship with anyone, much less a polished, business-minded woman with long brown hair who could not only tell me who won the 1973 world series, but could do it while wearing nothing but a piece of black lingerie. She impressed me as much with her sports knowledge as her beauty. She was the most impossible, confident person I had ever met and I couldn’t get enough of her.

Sometimes she had to travel for her job, which sent me spiraling into a grumpy pout for days on end.  She was a marketing manager for an industrial plastics company that supplied major companies with things like tanks and pipes and gaskets. It was a dull job description for such a charming person—an entry level job. But she was fresh out of college, and she was good at it. She traveled and paid her dues, moving up the ladder quickly. Once she had to go to California for a trade show. We’d been dating for about six months, and the trip would be the longest we had been away from each other since we met. She left during spring break from classes at University of Missouri-Rolla where I was teaching part-time, and I was so disoriented that I went to class anyway, puzzling all the way about the nearly deserted campus. By the time I’d sprinted up the stairs to my office, heaving for air, I was convinced the campus was under a terror alert and that I’d be trapped in my office, forced to live off peanut butter crackers and Evian for three days. Nothing about that mental cocktail made sense, of course, but I was already frazzled, and things were obviously not right. Inductive reasoning screamed at me: “The campus is always buzzing with people on Monday mornings; therefore, it should be buzzing with people today.” Logic was going to kill me one day, stand before me in a silver suit and with one sardonic comment and a powerful arm, knock me right off the edge of the world.

I figured it out when I saw the banner above the English Department office that read, “Have a Great Spring Break, and in the words of Rilke, ‘Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.’” After I got over feeling stupid, I remembered how much I admired Rilke and went to my favorite used bookstore downtown–Rubidoux Books–scouring the shelves for a book of his poems. I spent the rest of the week immersed in them, forgetting for one week that I was a grown man who knew better, but wanting to drown in whatever it was that was happening to me all the same. I will never say this out loud, but it was love, baby.

Life returned to an acceptable level of normalcy once Rachel returned. We slept together thirteen times in three days. It was a long weekend. That summer, when our work schedules had gotten comfortable and being single already seemed like a thirtysomething dilemma, we decided to get married. I asked her one morning over coffee and it just sort of tumbled out, a flat, expected question, like I’d asked her to pick up my dry cleaning. I was immediately disappointed with myself. After all the long years of school and all the poetry I had lumbered though, studied, memorized and loved, that was the best I could do? I felt like a poor, illiterate clod, but she said yes, and we were married almost immediately.

Our first decision as married people emerged when we realized that together, we had too much stuff. We had decided to move me to her house because it was bigger. On moving day, I walked into the foyer, deposited my scuffed old loafers on a rug by the front door and stood there holding a box of 1970s albums, wondering where I should put them. I sat the box down on the kitchen table and starting flipping through the titles.

Rachel came into the room and looked over my shoulder. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” she said.

“They might just qualify as antiques now. Where should I put them?”

“Let’s say anything older than 1980 goes in the basement, does that work?”

“Ok, but that would apply to me and about 75% of everything I own.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry I’m not sending you to the basement. But, what are we going to do with all the extra furniture?” She looked at me tentatively, maybe a little worried that I might haul my worn plaid couch in and plant it next to her brown leather sofa. “I just don’t want it to look all thrown together. This is our place now. What do you think?”

And so we made the all important decisions about where to put—or hide—my old junk and in the end, it was a relatively smooth, painless process. I certainly wasn’t attached to my couch, for example, and I was still ecstatic and a bit flabbergasted that someone like her had married someone like me, so I didn’t object to putting most of the smashed, road worn boxes that contained my life in a storage room in the basement. I didn’t even know what was in most of them. There was a taped-up file box I’d carried around with me since graduate school, multiple boxes of books, a beanbag that I wasn’t sure how I’d acquired. My albums found a home on the top shelf. The plaid couch became a bed for the cats. Our basement looked like the back room of a flea market and my life was reduced to rummage. Except for some reason, we never got rid of any of it. It just sat there, year after year, doled out, partitioned into flimsy boxes, while I cruised the aisles of the supermarket and the department stores looking for a newer version of myself. Whatever it was I needed, I could find it in a store. My old life didn’t meet the requirements any more. I was in that half-formed state of love when the novelty of everyday life must somehow be outwardly expressed in things. I bought an electric razor for the first time in my life. What was wrong with the old way? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. But it was shiny, new, and it just seemed like the kind of thing any man who hung around in Rachel’s world would own. I was a backwards intellectual who grew up in the 1970s and by all outward appearances, had stayed there way too long. I had a lifestyle to grow, and Rachel was there coaching me all the way.

Drew was born on a cold day in November 2001, a week early. Against my instincts, I was in the delivery room, feeling physically ill the entire time, until the nurse presented my son, pink-faced and open-mouthed, wrapped in a white blanket, and placed him gingerly in my arms. He was crying, quite loudly at first, until I began to speak. I have no idea what I actually said. I could have been giving a run-down on the Rams football game earlier that day for all I knew. But Drew quieted, moved his head, however slight, in recognition. I was aware that babies in the womb can hear and connect with the voices around them, and I felt a sense of overwhelming pride, as if I’d had passed the first test in parenthood. I had calmed a baby—my baby—with my voice. This moment would forever change my place in the universe. A bond had been created, fused, sealed forever.

*

After Drew had gone to bed, I sat at the kitchen table, going through the mail with an impassioned desire to put the day behind me by immersing myself in domestic obligation. Bill paying would do the trick. Rachel came in, opening the bottle of wine she’d left in the refrigerator months ago. “I can’t believe this is still here,” she said, pleased. “Thanks.”

“Why? I don’t drink it.”

“Would you like me to make you a drink? Something else?”

“No thanks, I’m going to turn in after I finish here.” I sorted a few of the bills, placing them in piles. “Did you know we’re spending $45 a month for a gym membership neither of us has used for six months?”

Rachel sat down, taking a sip of wine, examining her nails. “Are we locked into it? Can we cancel?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call next week.” Rachel was fidgeting a bit, not unusual for her, but it seemed rather pronounced this time, or maybe I was just in a mood and was easily irritated. I stared at her too long, apparently, because she sighed and said, “What?”

“You’re tapping your nails.”

“So shoot me,” she said, taking another drink—longer this time.

Nah, I thought. The neighbors would talk. Then I snickered, out loud.

“What’s so funny?”

Go ahead, tie one on, I thought. That will make everything better, won’t it? Rachel had always been more of a drinker than I was. I hadn’t taken more than a drink or two a week since college, when Friday night quarter pitchers at the downtown lounge were required activity for the locals and students alike. “Not much,” I said. “There’s nothing much funny about any of this.” I tossed the rest of the bills on the table.

“I’m sorry Jack,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry about your father.”

As much as I hated to admit it, she was sincere. She knew my father had been important to me, regardless of how stubborn and distant he could be, how seemingly devoid of love at times. You might know a bit about that, I thought. “It’s ok. He hasn’t been well. It was inevitable.”

Rachel’s mouth dropped open. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Wow.”

“Half of wisdom is knowing what to say. The other half is knowing when to remain silent.”

Rachel sighed again. “Here we go.”

“Rachel, what’s going on with you?” I said, firmly. “What the hell is going on and where do we go from here?”

Rachel tapped her nails again, finished the glass of wine. I got up, brought the bottle over to the table and starting filling it up again. “I’ll stay until Friday, help if you need me to, then I want Drew to come back to Chicago with me for a while—a few weeks. He’s out of school now, and I think he’d enjoy visiting the city.”

I got cold, suddenly, my skin tingling. Now how’s that for crappy timing, I thought. My father only a few days gone, just buried, and now she wants to take Drew. I felt edgy, a caged animal provoked, yet too weak to do much about it. I opened my mouth, expecting something combative to come out, but nothing did.

Rachel eyed me cautiously, then, as if trying to ward off a fight, she said, “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to do anything drastic here. Nothing’s changed. I just want him to stay with me for a while.”

You’re right. Nothing’s changed, Rachel. We’re caught in a perpetual state of inaction, denial, Drew caught in the middle of our feeble existence. My mouth came open again, but all I could say was, “I’ll talk to him about it in the morning. I’m sure he’d like that.” After all, he was her son too, and, admittedly, he would love the chance to go. My stomach was tangled up like the inside of a baseball and I was mad, but the truth was staring me down with his self-righteous, over-the-glasses kind of eyes, and there was Rachel, sitting with her wine and her tapping nails. Truth seemed right at home in her eyes. And there wasn’t a shred of fire in them. There wasn’t a damn thing she wanted to fix.

“…[P]eople in our culture want too much out of a marriage partner,” he writes.  “They do not see marriage as two flawed people coming together to create a space of stability, love….”

Keller suggests that we often rely too much on our partner to be the “other half,” as if to form the ”perfect” union, instead of seeing ourselves as imperfect, self-centered individuals who simply unite.  Quoting author Denis de Rougemont, Keller points out:  “Why should neurotic, selfish, immature people suddenly become angels when they fall in love?”

While Keller says “marriage profoundly changes us,” it is not in the way we imagine.  The fact is that marriage does not make us perfect.  If anything, it magnifies our imperfections.  We become all too real.  Since no two people are truly alike, the concept of compatibility becomes a myth.

It’s a myth, of course, that begins when we are little children, especially for girls, as they often lose themselves in stories about lonely, oppressed, trapped or lost princesses who would be doomed without rescue by a willing prince.  The message our culture often sends to girls:  You are more valuable if a man takes interest in you.  You are more secure if a man includes you in his life.  You are happier if a man approves of who you are.

The result?  Girls who place attention from boys above most things, women who continually seek fulfillment and validation from the men in their lives.  Women who take risks with their emotional and physical health, who chase unrealistic ideals of beauty, and who choose badly, in relationships, and yes, marriage.

Many thinkers and authors have written about the importance of loving yourself.  Loving yourself makes you more lovable and gives you the ability to love others better.  Yet Biblically speaking, self-love can lead to many sins.  So which is it?  Perhaps it’s not so much about loving ourselves as knowing ourselves.  For Christians, this means knowing who we are in Christ.  And that means, of course, total acceptance–of our sinful nature, of our flaws, and all the little quirks that cause us to annoy and frustrate those around us.  If we are married, and Christ is the center, guess what?  Total acceptance is a two way-street.   It won’t be a perfect union, but Christ is perfect, and if we place the focus on Him rather than on how another person makes us feel, we get closer to the relationship He wants us to have.

Here is a trustworthy saying:  If we died with him, we will also live with him; if we endure, we will also reign with him.  If we disown him, he will also disown us; if we are faithless, he will remain faithful, for he cannot disown himself.  2Timothy 2:11

If we accept Christ, he becomes part of us, even when our faith is shaky.  We have, in a sense, a “perfect union” with Christ.  Putting Christ first is about endurance and strength.  So we endure many things in marriage and will be stronger in the long run, no matter the circumstance.

It seems we are surrounded by marital difficulties these days.  I have personally seen many of my friends endure these problems.  Many of them gave up the fight or are in the process of doing so.  I came from a family of divorce.  My parents, myself, and two of my three brothers have all been through it.  I spent many years making really bad choices because I incorrectly believed who I was hinged on who I was with.  This is a fact I am not proud of, but I think God often uses me to be a sounding board for others who are on the verge of divorcing.  Because of my experience, I understand completely how difficult it can be, on both spouses–regardless of who ultimately ends the relationship.  While marriage can be difficult and painful, I still believe most marriages are worth saving.  And while sometimes they can’t be, if we have the foundational relationship with Christ, we are still saved.  All is not lost.  Though we may suffer a bad marriage or even a divorce, we have something that can never be taken away.  Christ is our rightful “other half.”  This is the only way we can truly love others: because we know who we are, and we know who we are in Christ.  We should never rest our sense of self-worth on another flawed human being.  We should never expect someone else to meet our every need.  We should never see a relationship as a personal accomplishment.  It’s not.  A personal relationship doesn’t make you better, more worthy or deserving of some accolade.  Marriage is a commitment, and commitment is a prerequisite for achievement.  Commitment doesn’t mean you’ve achieved anything.    It just means you are going to keep trying.

My comfort in my suffering is this:  your promise preserves my live.  Psalm 119:50.

A few facts:

The U.S. Federal Government employs an estimated 2.5 million people.  In 2009, Ohio Senator Brown Voinovich was responsible for an earmark that allocated nearly $1.3 million for solid oxide fuel cell systems development for the Rolls Royce automobile. (You can find a pork barrel spending database at the following link:  http://www.cagw.org/).  Rolls Royce is an ultra-luxury automobile maker that originated in Great Britain.  The average cost of a Rolls Royce is $400,000.  A fuel cell is used to convert chemicals from fuel, usually hydrogen, into electricity to power a car motor.  The Rolls Royce earmark was categorized under ”Energy & Water” spending.

Beyond the obvious REALLY??!, lies the larger question.  If we are going to spend money to study the viability of fuel cells in the development of electric motors, why the hell are we spending it on an uber-swanky car that only the “one percent” can afford to drive?  Why not put that money into the development of your average mini-van, something that real people are actually using, every day?  Nobody takes their kids to school, commutes to work, and picks up the groceries in a stinking Rolls Royce.

If you buy the idea of the 150 rule (or even a 150,000 rule!), is it any wonder our government is out of control and failing miserably?

I have always wanted a really big garden–the kind I grew up with–with row after row of lush, thriving vegetables.  I had dreams of perfect soil, no pests, enormous harvests.  The problem is, I’ve never had a place to put a garden like that.  And besides, I lack the practical and somewhat mystical skills required to make something like that happen.  I brought up the idea of a community garden with a couple of neighbors one day and they liked the idea, but everyone admitted it would require a lot of work, and it would be a challenge to convince others to help.  I joked with one friend, it would be like that old story, “The Little Red Hen,” who asks everyone in the barnyard for help preparing the wheat for bread and when none of them come forward, does all the work herself.  In the end, when the smell of the fresh bread fills the barnyard, all the animals come expecting a slice.  But the hen shares it with no one but her own chicks.  The moral, of course, is that no those who refuse to help should reap no reward.

Does the 150 rule, then, work the opposite way, too?  If too few people are on board, is a project doomed to failure?  Possibly.  But, if I take any wisdom from the little red hen, it is this:  The power of one is an amazing thing to behold.

Think about this.  Most successful, worthwhile endeavors happen because one person took it upon him or herself to make it happen.  That bread would have never gotten made had the hen, upon witnessing the lazy indifference of her peers, decided to just take it easy.  She couldn’t.  She had chicks to feed.  Necessity won out.

I have to wonder, though, if the hen had just been a single gal, would she have forged ahead with the all-important bread making?

I like to think she would have.  There’s something just plain inspiring about the little red hen.  She didn’t give in to negative thinking.  It would have been real easy to say to herself, “Well, this is a waste of time.  There’s no way I can do all this by myself.”

Yes, we live in a world that fails and stumbles upon its ventures when too many people get their hands in them, but on the flip side of mismanagement, incompetence, and dysfunction, is the power of one.  And while, one person can make a stupid, detrimental decision (Rolls Royce earmark), I still believe in the ability of one person to make a positive difference–not just a difference, but an impact.  One person can make something work, and work again when it’s broken.

Has a small child ever walked up to you dragging a fishing pole, a tumbleweed of tangled line in his hands?  Have you felt the utter panic when he/she asks, ever-so-sweetly, “Can you?”

Well, can you?  If it is possible to follow a thread through the hundred gnarly knots and terrible twists of a snagged fishing line, isn’t anything possible?  The fact is, 149 helpers are not going to get that line untangled any faster or better than the steady fingers and cognitive focus of one person.

Now that I think about it, the snagged line is a good metaphor for where our government is right now.  A singular vision exists; it just got pulled in too many directions.  Where is that one person, the nimble-fingered hero we need?  The one that will get that vision strung back on the pole so we can get back to fishing?

Perhaps those running for public office should endure the fishing line test (it’s a good indicator of so many things, patience and determination topping the list).  Just put them in a room with a big old ball of a mess, and let them unravel it.   Maybe, just maybe, faced with a seemingly impossible task, our potential leaders would be fired up by the impassioned purpose that only the power of one can ignite.  Most people, upon setting their mind to a task, will stop at little to accomplish it.   Maybe a colossal cluster has the potential to bring out the best in all of us.  Call it the Little Red Hen rule.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,700 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 45 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

1.  Keep it clean and concise (i.e., don’t include your senior picture, quotes, one-liners or jokes)

2.  Put it on nice, clean neutral colored  or white paper

3.  Keep the resume and letter to one page each

They would then direct you to a page in the textbook, where you’d find a generic cover letter that starts with something like “I would like to submit my resume…,” tell you to model it, and then send you out with instructions to research all the companies you want to work for, network (the favorite buzz word) and find someone who works there to whom you can refer by name, preferably the top dog.  Sounded so easy, right?

I’m just wondering….was the job market back in the 80s and 90s really that unoriginal and rigid?  How were you supposed to snag an interview when your potential interviewer was falling asleep in his Maxwell House wading through all that white paper?

I heard a piece on the radio the other day about how the “rules” for job hunting have changed dramatically in recent years.  In short, the commentator said that gimmicks–not conventions–are not only gaining acceptance–but, in some cases, are actually working to the advantage of job hunters.  He cited a woman who had written and recorded a song about the company she wanted to work for, a man who created an entire website devoted to the hunt for his dream job.  People who get creative can, and do, get interviews.

So just how creative can you get?

Here’s something that doesn’t work, according to this commentator (because employers say it’s been done to death):  Putting your resume in a shoebox with a note inside that says, “Just trying to get my foot in the door….”  Oh, brother.  I can’t believe someone (er, many someones) tried this.

I must admit, I like the idea of gimmicks.  After all, there are just so many darn ways to get attention these days.  So, in the spirit of the new job hunting rules, here are my top ten ways to stay unemployed, guaranteed:

10.  Tattoo company’s name on your rear end.  Take pic, include caption: “I would be an asset to your company…”

9.  Occupy:  Need I say more?

8.  Crumple up resume, put in small garbage bag and mail with a note:  “I know you’re going to trash this, so I saved you the trouble.”

7.  Dress up in a cowboy costume and pose as a singing telegram to the CEO.  Sing your resume to the tune of William Tell Overture.

6.  Put yourself in a large box.  Send via certified, grade-A crazy mail.

5.  Write resume on toilet paper.  Include note:  “Just go ahead and wipe your *** with those other resumes…”

4.  Write resume in blood.  Include suicidal note.  “If I don’t get this job…waaaaa!”

3.  Create giant replica of your dream company’s logo out of cheese and post it on FB with the caption, “Hire me!  I have too much time on my hands!” Tag all relevant, potential employers.

2. Your resume, envelope, white powder, note that says, “Now that I’ve got your attention….”

1.  Life-size cardboard cutout of you.  Recording in your voice: “I’m a real people person…”

Waaaaaaaaa

We will not be saved from heartache, nor from bad relationships, nor pain, nor death, nor illness.  We will not be saved from disappointment.  We will not be saved from deceit, nor from the misinformed and judgmental eye of others.  We will not be saved from doubt, nor rage, nor hatred.  We will experience all these things in this world, and more.

But yet we will be saved.  We have a Savior.  What does that mean?

There’s a song on the album Lost Christmas Eve by Transsiberian Orchestra called “Back To A Reason.”  If you’ve never listened to this song, I highly recommend it.  It’s one of my favorite Christmas songs.  The following is a link if you’d like to check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EqHNktfDJ4

I think the song speaks to not only “getting back” to the true meaning of Christmas, but also to rediscovering the core of who we are.  We have all suffered;  we’ve all been lost.   We’ve all stood at the “great divides” looking for the “bridge.”  That bridge is, and will always be, for me, Jesus Christ.  He is the Savior that will bring us across the bridge, back to the reason, the part of us that began, so long ago, with a simple birth.

The vocalist drives home this point in a soulful arrangement that concludes with a passionate statement that says it all:

… somewhere in the dark beyond all the cold there is a child that’s part of my soul.

Did you notice, the scripture, Luke 2:11, says born to you?  As it turns out, the New Age mantra that became a silly cliché and the source of many jokes, ”find your inner child,” doesn’t miss the mark by too far.   There is, indeed, a child in our heart.  And as we all know, the heart isn’t always a lovely, perfect place.  But even there, a savior can be born.  Born to us.  Born for us.  The birth of Jesus holds a distant, oft forgotten part of who we are.  Sometimes spend our whole lives trying to find it, and yet, it’s been there the whole time.  Everything we need to be saved is within us.

It’s sort of like Dorothy’s ruby slippers.  She had the power to go home, all along, even when things got scary and tough, and confusing.  Even when things seemed about as far away from the comforts of home as one could get.

As the song “Manger Throne” by Third Day goes:

That dirty manger is my heart, too I’ll make it a royal throne for You
My heart is a throne My heart is a throne for God’s own Son

If a manger can hold a King, our beaten down, imperfect hearts can surely hold one.  No matter the condition of your heart, it’s valuable beyond measure.  It’s where the final authority is born, and rests.

Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.  Proverbs 4:23

Merry Christmas to all.  May you find the child that is part of your soul.

My initial reaction was ambivalence, then came an onslaught of questions. Was he indeed praying? If so, about what? Is it trivial to pray about things like football games? Does God indeed hear all prayers? What is the message, if any, that Tebow intended to convey?

One Facebook user pointed out that Tebow has actually donated a significant amount of time and money to various charities and missions work. His actions, in the real world, seem to reflect a devout Christian faith. His public expression of faith, then, is not only appropriate, but genuine. On the other hand, others argued that his actions were somehow self-serving, on the level with those players who “dance in the endzone” in an arrogant display of self congratulations.

Obviously, we have no way of knowing what this man is praying for. Yes, he could be asking for touchdowns. On the other hand, he could be praying for children in Africa. Further, prayers are not always requests. Prayers are also a way of praising God for what he has done for us. And anyway, the content of his prayer doesn’t really matter.

The Bible says that only God knows the interior of our hearts. He knows the substance of our prayers–our desires, our concerns, our praises–even before we know them ourselves:

Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him. Matthew 6:8

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. Romans 8:26

Who are we to judge his actions? If he is a devout believer–if he is a genuine Christian, his prayers are genuine, no matter the content. God knows his heart.

It is not only appropriate to pray in the midst of a football game, but anywhere, any time. The Bible says we are to pray continually (Thessalonians 5:17).

Indeed, our lives should be a prayer, lived in constant reminder of God’s glory and ultimate authority:

And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people. Ephesians 6:18

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. Philippians 4:6

Finally–and most importantly–the subject of this man’s prayer is far less noteworthy than the message his actions send. Here is a believer with a ministry. What if he inspires even one person to be curious about God, enough to go to church, to open his Bible, or to get on his knees and simply ask, Who are you?

God has just as much place in football as anywhere else. He isn’t picky when it comes to where, or under what circumstances, the Gospel is delivered.