The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun, part 2

is talking to them.

Killing them just ends them.

My life verse

This is a thing, apparently. No one in my peer group growing up had this as a thing, and if my parents or their friends did, they never talked about it, but a fair number of Christians apparently choose a "life verse" - one verse out of the thousands that they find most important, most informative to them, of what they ought to do or ought to think.

I'll be honest, I don't quite get it. I mean, I appreciate breaking things down into pieces - I like Lego as much as, if not more, than the next dad - but I don't quite understand picking just one verse. Over the years, I've had a few responses.

When I was a teenager, and a smart-mouthed one, at that, my response was usually, "Ezekiel 23:20." If you're not familiar with that verse, do NOT look it up. Seriously, don't. You might giggle, you might be horribly offended, regardless, just remember that it was the smart-mouthed teenage me that said that.

If I was being sincere, though, I would say, "And so, as we go into this world, let us hold on to what is good, honour all men, strengthen the faint-hearted, support the weak, help the suffering, share the gospel, love and serve our Father in the power of the Holy Spirit, and may the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all." When asked for a citation, I'd point them at my church's senior pastor, Ron Gannett. It's not a Bible verse, at least not really. It's a compilation of bits of various Bible verses put together in a particular order that I found - still find - useful.

Most particularly, I like that, "share the gospel" comes after strengthening the faint-hearted and supporting the weak. While I do share the gospel, in the sense of telling people about the lover and joy that comes with knowing the Father and the sacrifice of His Son, I know for myself that almost all of the things that have changed my life haven't coming from reading something or being told about something, but have come from seeing it acted out.

Talking is good. Words are good. Actions are better.

Anyway, it's a good little homily, but it's not a verse, and so apparently doesn't count. Next on my list: the book of James. The whole thing. Seriously, I once worked that up as a spoken word performance and used a portion of it as an audition piece and it is amazing. Like Shakespeare, I think James need to be spoken aloud to really get it. There's so much passion in the words that I think gets missed when you just read it.

Still, doesn't count, I know.

So, I picked one. Oddly, it's something that I thought was just a popular homily in Christianity: do justice, love mercy, walk humbly with your God?

Well, it actually doesn't show up quite like that, as it turns out. Micah 6:8:

He has shown you, O man, what is good;
And what does the Lord require of you
But to do justly,
To love mercy,
And to walk humbly with your God?

So, there it is.

Love is not a victory march

I've heard there was a secret chord

My uncle Wayne was a scientist. I mean, like the Platonic ideal of a Scientist, a man who seemed to love nothing more than asking questions about the world and being utterly delighted when the answers conflicted with what he'd expected (but seemed especially excited when he was closer than the last time).

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

Whenever we met, we seemed to spend at least a few minutes talking, just the two of us. What made these conversations remarkable was that, from the very first one I remember, he talked to me like I was just a person in the room with him. Not like I was a burden or responsibility, not like I was a child, even, but just as a person. I'm sure we talked about childish things, but he always seemed to enjoy it.

But you don't really care for music, do you?

One thing we never talked about, that I can remember, was music. If he's anything like my dad, he liked the classics - Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, The Beach Boys. Unfortunately, I'll never get to talk to him about music.

It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth

It was late in the day on the 4th when my dad called. Honestly, I'd anticipated the tone of voice he had. Pensive, nervous, sad. I'd imagined it would be a call about my grandfather, who's over 90 and has had some setbacks in his health. It wasn't. My Uncle Wayne died that day. We don't know too many details, and will never know all of them, but I don't really care about any of that. I took the next day off work and spent the next couple of days moving between trying to live and reeling from what had happened.

The minor fall, the major lift

On July 7th, I drove my son Graeme to the Ranch at Word of Life. It's his first week awake at camp. Over the course of the four-hour drive, we listened to audio books, sang to the radio and in all other ways greatly enjoyed each other's company. It was wonderful, really, and even the ride back, through the beautiful countryside, felt like a celebration. It was life. It was glorious.

Around the Vermont/New York border, Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" came on the radio. At the first few notes, I pulled over into a strip mall parking lot. I listened all the way through, crying so hard that tears ran down my arms*. When it was over, I gathered my wits about me, and prayed. Then, I headed home. Catharsis.

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

There's no good thing that I can see coming from death. Yeah, I know, "God works all things together for good," but my uncle Wayne is dead and he's not coming back. I can't think of anything that can counterbalance that. What does balance it? I still have his books, and he's instilled in me a lot of that curiosity he always showed. When I talk to my boys about science, I hear Wayne's words said in my voice, and it makes me happy. He taught me to smile, and to talk to children like they're humans. He taught me well, and, hopefully, if I'm doing this "living" thing right, I've brought him a little of the joy he gave me. I don't think I can ever fill the hole he left, but it's something.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Amen and amen.

* Yes, my arms. How does that even . . .?

Short story writers

A Facebook friend asked me about short story writers. This needs a blog post.

Lovecraft - Sure, he's not the best of the "eldritch" school, but his work is classic for a reason. It's creepy and unsettling, even today, although the near-blatant racism is rather jarring.

Samuel Clemens - It's sort of unfair that someone should be this darned good at a brand new art form. I mean, really, there have been great short stories since Clemens, but they're all held up to him.

Washington Irving - Well, Clemens, or Irving. He's the man.

Stephen King - Yes, yes, he could publish his grocery list and it would sell a million copies, but hear me out. The Long Walk. Survivor Type. The Night Shift. These are great stories, and that's not even talking about his best story ever - The Last Run on the Letter. If you get the chance to read it, read it. It's excellent.

Ray Bradbury - With a singular style caught somewhere between poetry and prose, Bradbury is singular and amazing.

Flannery O'Connor - If anyone ever inherited the mantle of Sam Clemens, it's O'Connor. From outright humour to biting social commentary and deep character studies, she does it all, and she does it all really, really well.

Philip K. Dick - Until he gets into his later , bizarre period, Dick is an amazing writer. I mean, he's so dark that he makes Kafka look like a circus clown, but it's worth it.

Arthur C. Clarke - Goodness, but this man can write.

There's more, of course, but these are the ones I can think of on a 90+ humid Saturday afternoon.

Of Consequence

Leonard Wieseltier, literary editor of The New Republic, believes that, "Moreover there isn’t a lot you can say about anything consequential in 300 words."

Ahem.

"My name is Christy."

"Do you want to get some mozz sticks?"

"Sure, I'd love to go, if you're there."

"Of course. I thought you knew that."

"Jim, you have to understand this - I like you because you're you, not because I want there to be some perfect you."

"Yes. Of course, yes."

"I can't believe we're doing this."

"I do."

"I think we have enough."

"He's beautiful."

"They said it might be bad news."

"I think you should do it."

Consequential to me, at least.

The Adventures of Mullet Boy and Bangs Girl

My work schedule is a little weird. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, it's really not odd at all, but instead of working 9 to 5, as tradition holds, I work 8:45 to 5:15.* Consequently, though, when I'm leaving work, I'm uniquely equipped to, y'know, actually leave work. The more traditional shift is either 8 to 4:30 or 8:30 to 5, so I'm one of the last ones out the door and can exit with a minimal use of my PILWSDT** and get into my car and immediately drive away, uninterrupted by parking lot traffic.

As such, I get to the cutoff to the road home at almost exactly the same time each day. It varies by two or three minutes at most, really, and that's if traffic's especially gnarly. I am intimately familiar with the nature of life at the Bow bypass between 5:18 and 5:21, is what I'm saying. This is how I know Mullet Boy.

You might think it an insult to call him "Mullet Boy" but, 1) I'm Canadian and 2) this guy wears his mullet the way Superman wears his cape. Some people have awesome hair, others have awesome hair thrust upon them, and the case of Mullet Boy there can be no question that his hair is his responsibility, his burden. He bears the scars of so much business in the front and so very many parties in the rear that I'm amazed his face can still bear a smile. But it does.

When I first adopted this new schedule, last year, he was perhaps 14, with a slight hint of facial hair on his lip and that particular cocky swagger I remember attempting to perfect around the same age. He does it well, if a little perfunctorily. He always walked alone, but seemed to enjoy the company, a rare feat at that age. As time passed, though, he would occasionally have the company of a young woman that I like to call Bangs Girl. And, yes, it's because she has bangs.*** I liked her instantly. She started walking with him at the beginning of the school year, so I presume they attend together. We had a decently chilly September, and this girl was - get ready for it - wearing a jacket!

It saddens me that this is a remarkable observation. Even when I was a lad, though, many girls had already adopted this stance that jackets were, I don't know, not cool or something. I really didn't know enough girls to ask, and now it would be just really creepy. A thirtysomething guy with a pot belly and a scraggly beard sidling up to a teenage girl to ask why her arms are bare when it's forty degrees out? Yeah, even I'm creeped out by that and, in this situation, I'm the creep. Still, there's something to say for a young woman who actually dresses for the weather. That's not why I knew they'd be a couple, though.

I have this thing. I'm pretty sure someone has a fancy New Agey name for it, but in short I have a slightly unnerving ability to tell when two people are going toe end up in a relationship. It's not universal - I can't just look at two people and say, "They're going to end up dating" - and it doesn't predict length of the relationship****. So far, it's batting about 24 for 25. My guess is that it's something to do with reading body language and word choice. I say word choice because one of the marriage I predicted was between two people I'd never actually met in real life. Because I'm a geek, I call this my "spidey sense."

Anyhow, when I saw Mullet Boy and Bangs Girl walking together this last September, my spidey sense pinged. And I was right.

My first confirmation was in November. It was a very cold day, and windy. For those of you who haven't been through one of these days in New Hampshire, it's kind of hard to describe what it's like to try to go for a walk in this kind of weather. It's a little like walking in a NASA wind tunnel, but a wind tunnel that hates your guts and wants you to die. The wind is steadily pushing you back, but whenever you open your mouth the speak, it seems to know and kicks up just a notch, right at mouth level so that you choke. If you turn in a way that leaves you a little off-balance, it gives an extra push just below your centre of gravity. It's like zombie wind, a weather condition that hates the living.

When I passed them, Mullet Boy was jacketless and carrying two backpacks, and Bangs Girl was wearing two jackets, one ridiculously overlarge. Now four minutes from work with the heater on, the cold wind was still whistling through my bones, I felt Mullet Boy's pain. I got the impression, though, that he wasn't feeling any. The skin on his bare arms was red, and looked chapped. He mullet flew behind him like a windsock. And he just didn't care. Walking two steps behind Bangs Girls, his face was beaming.

Over the next few months, I saw them walking together more and more, sometimes close together, sometimes not. He never made a move on her while I was watching but, well, it's a busy roadway. I would've played it cool in that situation too. They were never on their phones, never listening to music, just walking and talking together.

Something happened in March. I'm not sure what it was, but Mullet Boy walked alone. It was a cold March, too, a hard time to be lonely. He didn't strut, he shuffled, and he never looked up from the road. The weeks went on, and still, he was alone. He seemed to walk with a bit more confidence as time went on, but there just wasn't a spring to his step anymore. I was getting worried about how life was going for this total stranger. This went on until last week.

Bangs Girl was back. They were walking hand-in-hand the first time I saw them, and then, on Friday, he was walking his arm around her shoulders. I was stopped at a light when he said something that made her laugh. He smiled and pulled her closer. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a second.

Why do I tell you this? Well, life is hard. Some days, it hardly seems worth it to get out of bed. The thing is, there's always a reason to.

Sometimes, life is amazing, even when it's hard. Thanks, Mullet Boy and Bangs Girl, for reminding me of that. I hope you have a fantastic romance this summer.

* I wonder why the "9 to 5" thing persists - I mean, virtually every office worker I know has two unpaid fifteen minute breaks. I suppose "9 to 5:30" just doesn't roll off the tongue.

** Personal "I'm Leaving Work So Don't Talk" field. C'mon, we all have one.

*** Okay, so it's not a very clever nickname, but the purpose of giving people nicknames is that you remember them, and while it was tight running between Bangs Girl and Definitely Not Chloe Deschanel, I eventually found myself defaulting to Bangs Girl because it's simply easier to remember.

**** Well, that's not quite true. It has two settings - "these people will date" and "these people will end up getting married."

Our greatest weapon of war

Christians and pagans, friends and Romans, we have found it. After an exhaustive and thorough analysis and a staggering search over thousands of years, we have found the greatest weapon of war.

It's this.

Okay, you probably need some context here. Last week in London, there was a vicious and brutal attack in broad daylight against a member of the British military. The man was hacked to death in the middle of the street by, if sources are correct, a pair of Muslim men. There have been a variety of responses to the attack and a lot of them against Muslims.

Quite a few of these attacks seem to connected to an organization called the English Defense League, which is a loosely bound coalition of soccer hooligans, neo-Nazis and Christian fundamentalists*. To my church friends, no, you're not hallucinating that last bit. There are Christian fundamentalists who think that the most Christian way to respond to violence is to offer it in response. And, no, I don't get it either.

They decided to stage a protest outside a mosque. And by, "protest," we really meaning that they were planning to show up, shout racial slurs and try to incite violence. They've done it before. And then, this happened.

Now, at this time we can't be sure that the custard cream alone was what did it. It might have been the tea as well - these people are British, after all - but the research is promising enough that I'm confident in saying that custard creams are our greatest weapon of war.

Or maybe it's this. Maybe turning the other cheek, and denying the power of violence** and actually talking to people is the best way to turn away war.

Hmm. It seemed simple at first. I guess it's not. Further research is clearly needed.

. . .

Anyone want some Oreos and tea? Fresh out of custard creams.

* There serious needs to be a "three guys walk into a bar" joke here.
** Not a universally Christian concept, and a concept that more than a few Christians seem to struggle with, particularly lately.