Poetry Time

These are two short poems I have written.

"Pawn"

To my flanks are those like me,

first to fight and first blood shed.

Uniformed we stand together.

Behind me skills I can’t imagine,

moves and slides beyond my grasp.

Bound we trod, our pattern set,

my brothers follow, strength in numbers.

Death to those who rush ahead.

“Stay by me!” I shout in protest,

the hand controls the fate of all.

I see the danger, cry aloud,

god has stopped his ears this time.

I can’t fall back, the turn is done.

Omniscience sees a bigger plan,

he justifies the end and means.

And next:

"Peace-Made Man"

Silent night,

The air was still

The fog suspended mid-air.

Thirty-forth battalion crept

Along the edge of target.

Sergeant Lane

Determined quickly

Tonight would see the bloodshed,

Of some unholy target

Hiding in a foxhole.

Sights are raised,

Target seen,

Crouching in the distance.

Steady hand will find the bull,

The eye of villain target.

Through the fog,

And through the sights,

Sergeant sees the target.

Writing down the thoughts in mind,

No doubt, the pain of bloodshed.

Quickly falls

Determined valor,

A writer’s heart can see another.

Pain is equal on both sides.

Target is a man it seems.

War will make

A warrior-man,

But only peace can make a man.

Why destroy the peace-made man,

To make the man who targets man?

The Anatomy of Color

The Anatomy of Color

“Today?  Today, I am a pirate, Walter!  And there’s not one thing you can do about it!” 

With a bath towel hanging lengthwise around his neck and a broom handle sticking out in sword-like fashion from his belt, Sigmund waved his hands in exaggerated motions, mischievously drawing his weapon from its sheath and stabbing the absent foes surrounding him.  Eyebrows raised so high they might have leaped off of his face and into his curly blonde hair.  With wild, frantic leaps, around the brightly lit room his thin figure looked more comical than threatening.  His hair bounced and flopped with each bound and twist and excessive gesture he made.   

Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the corner of his mouth slid upwards in amiable amusement.  With bright eyes he watched his brother leap around the room defending his marauding vessel from imaginary attack. 

“A pirate huh?  Why would I want to stop that?  That’s a great idea, Sigmund.  Just a great one!  And what will your pirate name be?  You know you need to have a clever pirate name!”

“I think I shall be Captain…Captain…”

The sunlight was shooting through the window panes like golden spears stuck in the ground.  Sigmund fell in a dizzy on the floor and was becoming preoccupied with the rays on the ground that now pierced his hands and face.  Running his arms along the angled axis of the sun, delight filling his eyes.  The room was bright now, as somewhere outside the clouds found themselves pushed along on their way.  Sigmund sighed a long, exaggerated gasp, rocked back and lay facing the ceiling.  Closing his eyes he smiled.

“I can see colors, Walter.  So many colors I can’t even tell you.  Should I paint them

Walter?  I don’t know if I can, but I would try.  Do you want me to?”

On the far end of the house the doorbell was being rung and Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood up straight and reached for the handle of Sigmund’s open door.

“I would love to see you try.  Go get your paints while I get the door.  You need to promise me that you will not make a mess while I am gone, alright Sig?”

“As you wish Brother!  But I will paint you such a masterpiece, you might fall over in shock!”

“Yes, I just might at that!”

Smiling, Sam (for that was actually Walter’s name) shut the door and made his way down the hallway and down the stairs towards the front of the house.  The large double doors stood twelve feet high and the thick mahogany made the doorbell reverberate in the large foyer.  The door opened and a middle-aged brunette stood in the sunlight, holding a piece of paper and a black portfolio open in her hand.  Behind her, a black SUV sat in the large gravel driveway.  She stood for a moment, looked Sam over in one sweeping glance and jotted down a note in her book.  Sam’s young, slender frame was not an imposing sight. 

“Good afternoon.  You are Sam Rhodes, yes?” she said, in a flat business tone without eye contact.  “I am Ruth Meadows from the Department of Children and Families.  You were told to expect us?”

“I was, yes.  Won’t you come in, Ms. Meadows?  Sig is painting in his room right now.  Do you want to speak to him now?”

“All in good time,” she said as she walked into the sunlit foyer, her high heels making a harsh knocking sound on the tile floor. 

“I have some paperwork to fill out and a few questions before we get too far along.  You have been taking care of Sigmund since your mother and father’s accident?”

“That’s right,” Sam replied and looked at his shoes.

“By yourself?”  Her tone lent itself to disbelief and suspicion rather than admiration or respect.  “Eighteen-year-old brothers do not often choose to take sole custody of their special needs siblings.”

“He’s my brother,” Sam stated more as defense than explanation.  “He also has special needs, but first he’s my brother.”

A moment of silence ensued as they both looked at each other – only broken when Ruth resumed scribbling in her notebook, which was still cradled in her arm. 

“I understand that finances will not be a problem, considering your parent’s estate was considerably large?  Do you have a financial advisor to…oversee…that…you…”

“To make sure I don’t spend it all in one place?” Sam quipped.

“I suppose you could say that.” 

“Yes, my Uncle David.”

“I see…”  More scribbling.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Ms. Meadows checked boxes and jotted down notes in her file.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, suddenly remembering that he was a host, “would you like something to drink?  I have water, juice, soda…”

Ms. Meadow’s eyes slowly raised and narrowed at Sam.

Knowing her suspicion, Sam answered “No, there’s no alcohol.  I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” she said as she went back to her notes.  “Some tea would be nice.”

Sam started to head for the kitchen to boil some water for the tea.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.  “That’s…very considerate of you.”

Sam smiled and left the room.  Ms. Meadows found a chair in the foyer and continued her notes.  A few moments passed in silent writing, when from the hallway she could hear someone humming and singing quietly.  She stood, closed her portfolio and walked cautiously down the wooden hallway.  At the doorway she stopped and listened for the music to continue.  She quietly opened the door and the rays of sunlight caught her off guard.  In the far corner of the room, a blonde haired figure was bent sideways, staring at a canvas.  A bath towel was in a pile on the floor next to him.  His entire torso was cocked to the side while one hand jaggedly slung paint on the cloth.  She stood in the doorway and tilted her head to the side along with the painter.  The color wheel, with bursts of designs and swirls seemed to played tricks with her mind.  The extremities with the tails and waves decorating the circular center appeared to move and sway.  They seemed to wave at her and change color under the yellow sunlight.  An optical illusion like she had never seen.  Mesmerized, Ruth straightened up and slowly made her way to the back side of the couch and leaned forward on her arms, cautious not to make a sound.  It was a hologram.  On the canvas were layers of colors that danced with depth in her mind.  There were only a dozen or so colors the child was working with, but the layers and motions and force of the patterns gave dimension and colors, more colors than her mind could take in.  Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sound.

“Hello.”

The word was so casual and melodic; it hardly brought her out of the trance at all.  It was when she realized that the painter had not turned around or sounded startled that she saw it as an anomaly.  She smiled.

“How did you know I was here?  I hardly made a sound.”

She took a deep breath.  Now realizing it was the first real breath she had taken since she entered the room.  She felt as if she had just taken a nap in the sun, and was awakened by a pleasant aroma.  As she breathed, she could almost smell the flower that had woken her up.

“I saw it was different in here.  I can see it you know.  Most people can just talk about it or feel it, but I can see it.  Walter says it’s special, but I don’t see how.  It’s just what I see.”

He never stopped his movements at the canvas, fixed on his task, but willing to engage as a courtesy to Ruth.  At this point, he slowly turned around and studied her face quizzically.  His eyebrows narrowed and eyes zeroed into lasers.

“Can you see it?”

“See what?”

At this, his face shrugged and he whipped back to his painting, tilted sideways again and continued.

“Neither can Walter.  But he loves when I talk about it.  I don’t see why though.  It’s as plain as daylight.”

“What does it look like?”

He said nothing for a moment as his hand made two more marks with the brush.  He straightened up and took a step back. 

“Like this.”

Ruth stared at the hologram Sigmund had painted and tilted her head in confusion.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Startled, she straightened up and snapped her head to see Sam standing next to her with a cup of tea steaming in his hand.

“I’m sorry, the door—“ she stammered.

“You wanted to meet Sigmund?  You’ve met him.  I see you’re both getting along.”  Sam handed the cup to Ms. Meadows and smiled at Sigmund.

“She likes my painting, Walter!  Do you?  Do you like it?”

“Oh Sig!” Sam bounded around the couch to get a closer look and tilted his head to the side.  “This one is amazing!  I think I like this one the best.  I still have no idea how you do that!”

He stared at it for a few moments more and Sigmund gave Ruth a wide smile, bursting with joy and pride.

“Run and put it with the others Sig.  You are amazing!”

Sigmund made his way over and gathered the easel and canvas in his arms and took them across the room to an oversized filing cabinet. 

“I’m sorry” Ruth said; as she flipped open her files again. “Is your name Sam or Walter?  My files have you down as…”

“It’s Sam…legally.”

“Then why does Sigmund call you Walter?”

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sat down on the back of the couch and smiled. 

“If you have a question about why Sig does something, I guess you should ask him, huh?”

There was a moment of silence as Ruth pondered.  She walked over to Sigmund and knelt down.

“Sigmund, why do you call Sam, Walter?”

He set the canvas in one of the drawers and upon hearing her question burst out:

“Because it’s his name!”

Ruth jumped at the sudden volume that he produced and quickly looked back at Sam.  He was chuckling under his breath, hands still in his pockets, relaxed and casual.  Sigmund continued like a flight attendant giving instructions.

“Everything has energies and they all have colors and his colors are a Walter, not a Sam.  I can see the energies in colors, but no one else can because they are stupid!  Why do you even like the name Sam?” he shot at his brother.  “It’s not your name!  It’s terrible and it doesn’t even match anything.  You can’t see anything.  I can see it plain as day.”

There was a moment of silence and then Sam burst out into laughter, filling the room with his bellowing noise.  Ruth was next, and then Sigmund.  It was contagious.  As the mirth subsided and tears were wiped away from corners of eyes, Ruth asked, through the tail of a laugh,

“What about me?  Is my name Ruth?”

“Your name?  Your name is…is…”

He smiled and looked around, up in the air and in every corner of the room.  He fixed his eyes on the top part of the window and said,

“There!  There is your name!”

Ruth looked up and saw only the top of the window, sunlight still pouring through.   Sigmund grunted.

“You can’t even see it, can you?”

“No Sig, I can’t.  What does it look like?”

“I will paint it for you.”  

Workplace and Grace

I work in a restaurant. Specifically, I work at Olive Garden. But don’t worry; nothing in this article is critical of my employer. I want to talk about relational-based jobs, like restaurants.

When I say a “relational-based job” I mean a job where you rely on the cooperation of many people to get a task done, and as a result, it behooves you to be on good terms with as many people as possible to get your job done. Also, these types of work environments tend to be very vicious in the areas of gossip, slander, and passive aggressive problem solving (or creating). Any workplace that is so relational-based is extremely volatile. If you make the wrong people mad, you could find your food conveniently delayed or your table might not get wiped down as quickly as someone else. Money tends to make people happy in these kinds of environments. That’s why we tip our bartenders and bussers (or ought to anyway).

 Here’s a fun situation: If Jack doesn't refill the ice bin often enough, expect Sam and Brittany to tell anyone who will listen to them exactly how lazy Jack is. Then Jack hears what Brittany said and tells Jordan how many tables he had, and how he didn't have time to get the ice, and wouldn't it be nice if Brittany didn't talk about people behind their back. Except now, he’s done the same thing. Then Jordan, who is friends with Sam, tells him what Jack said about Brittany, which gets around to Brittany. All the while, Tony, Sarah and Tim have been running food for everyone else, which goes hardly noticed, since that’s what everyone is supposed to be doing anyway.

So why is virtue ignored as the bare minimum and vice held up as the greatest of crimes, to be passive aggressively discussed, with everyone but the person it concerns? If our workplace is a machine, then speaking poorly about someone behind their back is like an oil leak. Very quickly, it drains all understanding or empathy or grace that usually lubricates the social interactions of work.

Ever notice how when someone else doesn't do their job, it’s due to laziness, but when you don’t, it’s due to busyness. It’s like when we’re in traffic – someone cuts you off and it’s because they’re a jerk. But when you cut someone off, it was an accident or you were in a hurry or they were in your blind spot. If we extended the same grace to everyone else that we give ourselves, I imagine people would seem a lot easier to get along with.

So here’s my challenge – and coworkers, feel free to keep me accountable to this:
1) To speak poorly of no one - whether I think they've earned it or not.
2) To point out the good things that people do and not take them for granted.
3) To not speak about someone behind their back.

Doctrinal View

People have often pressed me for my particular views on some of the more sensitive issues in higher theological doctrine; predestination, free will, losing salvation, baptism essential for salvation, infant who die going to heaven or not, and so on. Here is my answer to all of them. If debating high levels of theology somehow brings either of us into a closer relationship with God, makes either of us fall in love with Jesus in a deeper way, or brings unity among brothers and sisters in Christ, then I will gladly discus it with you. If, however, you are arguing to gain spiritual points, or to prove that you have a better understanding of God than another brother or sister, or to win a convert to your faction of Christianity, count me out.

If you are arguing that Christ does not save us, or that one cannot be saved then there is some urgency for that topic. But, if we are simply debating the method by which Jesus does save us, or the mystery behind God’s hand in the world, then I wonder about the immediate need for an answer. The truth is that there are greater mysteries in our faith and bigger issues to which we trust God. Here’s the issue. We would rather argue over the ways in which God could save people, rather than be that means of salvation.

The thing about the debates over salvation is that it is almost always, as far as I have seen, not a debate for one’s own salvation. The debate is almost always whether or not someone else is saved or can be saved or decided to be saved or was destined to be saved and on and on. What I mean by this is that, the argument is always based on the premise that the person speaking is in fact saved, regardless of the method they believe it came about by. So regardless of which side you choose, both sides are believers in Christ—whether they believe that they chose that or that they were destined to be saved, or that they were destined to choose or chose to be destined… Here’s the bottom line: are you now, as this argument is being debated, in a relationship with God? One would assume that the people arguing about it are the ones who have crossed over anyway. If so, stop arguing and trust that the God, who saved your soul from the brink of Hell, knows what He’s doing whether you do or not.

the time it has taken for countless Christians to argue over the minutia of the mystery of how Christ came to save us, I wonder how much good could have been done from your position of having already been saved.

God said love those who hate you and make disciples of all the nations and that He would help you and I do it. I say we do it.

Midnight Drive

A short story:

The wind was colder than he thought it would be. The lights came on when he opened the car door, and he was caught off guard by how quickly the cold penetrated through his jacket. Clumsily, he closed the door and zipped up his jacket to his neck, even though it was a short walk to vending machines. He had only been driving for an hour or so, but at 1:00am, with the heater on full blast, he was starting to fight with sleep and this was the first rest stop he saw. Pete stared vacantly at the options in front of him. Typically, he would never go to a vending machine to buy water, but he knew he needed to this time. $1.25 and he didn’t have a quarter, so he inserted two single bills and retrieved his change. He glanced around at the other machines, wondering how far 75 cents would go. Gum. Spearmint. 50 cents. That would have to do. He put the last quarter in his coat pocket and fumbled for the keys again. He wanted to see a friendly face, so he could remark on the peculiarly cold weather this week, but friendly faces are rare that late at night. What is it about faces that look friendly or not? He concluded it was something in the eyes and turned back up the heat. He struggled with the gum package, his fingers too cold to do anything intelligent and ended up opening it from the bottom. No matter. At least it was open. All he had to do was stay awake for another hour and he would be home free. This mid-week trip home was more business than pleasure. His car needed some work done on it and honest mechanics are hard to find. Besides, two hours isn’t so bad, especially when he had been meaning to get back home for some time anyway.

5 miles down the interstate, a woman was driving the opposite direction. The headlights she saw were distorted as she tried to wipe the tears from her bloodshot eyes. The only time she had been yelled at like that was when she was a child. Why did he have to say those things? It was like he could see into her heart and knew what things would hurt the most. As waves of emotions swept over her, again and again, she tried to keep strong. She didn’t know why she felt she had to be strong; there was no one who would hear her cry. Maybe she had to be strong for herself; as if she could fool the one person who knew her. She didn’t know where she was driving to, she just needed to get away. Why did he have to drink so much? She never understood the impulse to drink. As a semi passed her in the left lane, the tall headlights illuminated a fresh bruise on her left temple. The lights hurt her eyes.

Pete drove another 3 miles, feeling more awake now. Between the cold water and the gum, he had jump-started his brain back into cutting-edge clarity. Nothing good was on the radio this late at night, so he chose silence over negative sound. Besides, he could think better when there were no sounds around him. He looked at the cars passing him in the other lane, noting the different states they were from, wondering about each of their stories, why they were on this road, who they were going to see. Pete liked people watching. He liked imagining what kind of people they all were. He wondered what the situations were that made each person who they are. He squinted his eyes to keep his night vision. He hated it when people left their brights on. He avoided looking directly at the light and flashed his lights to remind the forgetful driver to be more courteous. The driver got the message and returned their lights to normal. Pete tried to recover his train of thought, but it was gone.

She was just two exits from where she started, but she could feel the oppressive darkness right behind her head. As if everything that was behind her was everything she had known. Samantha hated everything she had known. Why couldn’t she just keep driving? Why not drive until she ran out of money and make a new life there? She caught her breath at the thought. She was standing on the threshold of freedom and all she had to do was keep going.
She felt the dark cloud of that evening’s events slowly lifting like a mist. Up ahead she saw freedom. In her rear-view mirror she saw darkness. She felt like an animal, wriggling free from a trap and running for the safety of anything else. He would never be able to find her, even if he wanted to; though she was pretty sure he would not. Why had it taken her so long to even want to break free from all of this? Tonight was the last straw. One by one, she disconnected the emotional strings that attached her to everything behind her. As each one flew off like elastic and disappeared into the darkness behind her, she felt one step closer to freedom. Her breathing quickened as releasing the strings came easier and easier. Finally, a fresh idea had come. Something wholly different that anything she had done before. She would leave and she would never look back. This was the greatest moment of freedom she had ever felt! She had two-thirds of a tank of gas and thirty-eight dollars in her purse. With those two, combining forces with her new sense of adventure, she would start a new life wherever she happened to land. As she sighed in satisfaction for the excitement ahead of her, something caught her attention out of the left corner of her eye. Someone had flashed their brights at her. Of course, she flipped her brights off and settled in for the adventure she had just given birth to.

Failed Goals

So my goal to write a book before the end of this year was a bust. Not a total bust, but if you can only cross of goals once they're finished, then it was just as much a bust as if I had never even tried. The truth is that, without any goals, I wouldn't have even tried. So this year, my goals will be to attempt goals...then I can cross off as many things as I attempt.

I like setting high goals for myself, with the full knowledge that I probably won't make it. That's not discouraging to me, it's idealistic. If I set goals I know I can achieve, they're not really goals; they're just declarations of activities before the fact. There has to be something wagered. A goal, to me, is me betting against myself, and betting that I'll come through. Even if (or rather, when) I don't, I probably got closer to the goal by setting it, than I ever would have just thinking about it.

So I set goals, and I don't make it. But I tried. Again. So this year? I'll keep working on this book. I'm also experimenting in short stories. I'm just writing paragraphs at a time, trying to get back into descriptions and scene writing, rather than essay writing.

Lessons Learned

"Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”

This verse always confused me on some level. Essentially, what I’ve always taken from this verse, is that ‘God will give me good things if I ask for them.’ So as long as I made sure that what I was asking for wasn’t evil, I was home free.

I had a 1988 Mitsubishi Montero, two door truck. It wasn’t a bad truck; I actually kind of miss it. The only problem I had with it is that it always broke down at just the wrong times. To start off, my Dad and I spent almost two years, off and on, trying to get it running for the first time. There was an entire laundry list of things that went wrong, every time we were ‘almost there’. Among other things, this truck taught me to be patient with inanimate objects. Other situations taught me to be patient with people, but this truck taught me not to waste emotions on just things. If I got mad, the truck just sat there, looking at me as if to say ‘tell me, what is it that you think you just accomplished by that?’ It didn’t care. It wasn’t even close to caring about my frustration—even though it was the sole reason for all of my anger and despair. It just sat there, seemingly oblivious to my anger. Obviously, it wasn’t going to change, so in the end, I was the one who ended up changing.

During the months and years when it was so close to being fixed, I kept praying that God would fix it. I analyzed the situation. Were my motives evil? Nope, certainly my motivations were not evil. Was I asking for something evil? Again, I was not asking for anything evil. So according to Matthew 7, God is going to give it to me, because "Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?” Clearly God would answer my prayer.

I don’t think I was wrong for believing this. In retrospect, I see that it certainly wasn’t wrong—it was simply incomplete. I knew that if I asked God for metaphorical ‘bread’, He would not give me metaphorical ‘stones’. So why wasn’t He fixing my truck? In fact, why isn’t He doing a lot of things we see as good? Why is he letting evil people rise to power? Why do women have miscarriages? Why do we pray for one good thing, and get something else entirely?

I don’t have answers to these questions. In fact, I don’t have answers to a lot of questions. I may not have answers, but I may have something better. I have access to Truth. I’m not talking about truth in the sense of ‘things which are true.’ I’m talking about Truth, with that capitol ‘T’.

Here are two things I’ve learned: the first is that the world is not divided into the two categories of good and bad. There are good things, there are better things and there are best things; all of which can be abused. Though it would be good for my truck to be fixed, God saw that it was better that I learn patience through a broken truck. The second thing I’ve learned is that often, we may think that we’re asking for bread and God is giving us stones, simply because He can. But picture this: what if the entire time, we’ve been asking for the stones and God, in His mercy, has been giving us the bread. We are like children, grabbing the bright shiny knife, thinking that that is exactly what we want or need. Our loving Father, who knows far better than we, holds back our hands—not from something evil, but something that He knows better than to give us. So we cry, like the children we are, for the things we think we need—a fixed truck, a fixed relationship, the money to go on that trip, the free time we think we need.

Here’s the bottom line: if you have already trusted God with your eternal soul, by trusting in His Son, Jesus, then you have no reason in the world to doubt His massive capability to govern your life. If He gives you what you did not expect, don’t assume that you know better than He. Our Father has always had the greatest regard for your best. Don’t doubt His intentions the moment you can’t see His hand.