Speaking of Life, Death, and Hockey . . .

I still love the feel of holding a book, the smell of the paper and the crisp sound of a page turning. I admit that it annoys me when someone buys a book they saw on my Amazon wishlist but ignores the detail that I wanted it in hardback. I don't like the foot thick mass market paperback that's impossible to read without blowing out the spine. I suppose I'm something of a bibliophile (and yes you can translate that to book snob). Even odder, I've owned a Kindle for a year and haven't ever read a book on it. Yes, there's something wrong with me I guess.

For those of you who are normal and have found that reading on a device is as enjoyable as turning a page, Speaking of Life, Death, and Hockey will be available in the Kindle edition on Monday for the low, low price of $4.99. It won't smell the same, but enjoy anyway!


http://www.amazon.com/Speaking-Life-Death-Hockey/dp/061555718X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1353169455&sr=1-1&keywords=speaking+of+life+death+and+hockey

I recently asked someone the classic Alice in Wonderland riddle. Even after discussing the answer, they were still somewhat confused. It's much harder to explain the answer than I thought, so I made this little video. Hope it helps!

9/11 Thoughts

In college psychology they teach you about flash bulb memory--a shared moment in time where very large groups of people remember exactly where they were. It was absurd to me that they used the assassination of JFK as an example when I was in college. Despite being older than most of my fellow students, I hadn't even been born yet when those tragic circumstances unfolded in Dallas. This made remembering where I was at the time quite difficult. I thought the explosion of the Space Shuttle Challenger was a better example for Americans my age. I remember that clearly. The events of September 11, 2001 are probably the most current example of a flash bulb memory. I bet you remember where you were when you heard the news that both World Trade Center buildings and the Pentagon had been struck by planes.

Personally, I felt like the last person in the country to find out about it. I had spent the early part of day writing, listening to music and avoiding the distraction of the internet. At 3:00 p.m. I jumped in my car and headed to the office to drop off some paperwork before going to supervise the night shift at the coffee shop I managed. With a CD playing in the car, I had no idea that anything out of the ordinary had happened until I noticed the electronic sign over the highway read, "Airport closed until further notice." Strange.

Curious what could cause an airport to close, I tuned to the radio and heard the terrible news. At the time I had three relatives who worked in the Pentagon from time to time. I had no idea if they were there, if they were safe. I dropped off the paperwork at the office. Shell shocked, I spoke to a few people there, expressing in no uncertain terms my opinion that we should close all the shops for the rest of the day.

I went to work, spent an hour on the phone there talking to friends and family. We closed at 5 p.m. instead of 11 that night and no one minded one bit. It was a day to mourn, not to buy coffee. It didn't feel right trying to hand someone a cappuccino with a smile on our faces . . . if anyone had wanted a cappuccino. The entire shopping center was bordering on becoming an eerie ghost town.

We won't likely remember this 9/11 in ten or eleven years, but let's take a moment to say a prayer for those who were affected by the events of this day in 2001. For today, and hopefully for a while longer, let's remember the bravery, the sadness, the heroics, the loss but mostly the unity that we felt as a nation in that moment. Let's move forward with a commitment to what was likely the only good thing to come from that moment, our sense of oneness as Americans and our love for one another.

What happened to my manners?

There’s long been a rule of decorum, you don’t discuss politics or religion with guests. It’s a good rule so I’m not going to talk about anyone’s political ideas here. I don’t want to take a side. I don’t want to start a discussion (we call discussions about politics, fights these days and I’m not a fighter). As far as I’m concerned politics should be a four-letter word. Your mother should gasp if you utter it. So I’m not going to talk politics here. Let me make something clear, I’m not going to support any side, any issues any candidates. What I am going to do is talk about what’s wrong with politics.

There is an old joke--you can tell a politician is lying if his lips are moving. It seems to me that in this particular presidential election the lies and hate have evolved to a new level. They don't even have to move their lips anymore. I don’t care which side your standing on, both candidates have played dirty. Don’t fly off the handle to tell me about how wonderful your candidate is. I don't care! I’m personally not going to endorse either of them.  They’ve stripped one another of any virtue worthy of the leader of our country. They’ve taken the mightiest nation in the world and turned us against one another by frivolously pointing fingers at each other and name calling like a couple of six-year-old bullies puffing up their chests on the playground. Are you really so excited about one of the candidates that you want to punch one of your friends in the throat for making fun of them? Have you quit taking your meds?

I want my president to be above name calling. I want him to tell me what merits his election, not why I shouldn't pick the other guy. It's like telling me, "Don't buy that used Pinto. They're know to explode." That's all good and fine until I realize the used car salesman is trying to push a Yugo on me instead. Point me to a car that has some positive value if you want to sell me one!

Yeah, I got sucked into the battle. I was tired of the name-calling and finger pointing. I was appalled that anyone could stand behind “that guy.” I was so annoyed, I did what anyone would have. I started name-calling and finger pointing. Of course since I was doing it, it was perfectly fine (I am a genius and everyone should know that what I post is absolute truth, right?)

A couple days ago I realized that every time I saw a post on facebook about how crappy one candidate was, I kind of wanted to punch someone in the throat, myself. I don’t like wanting to punch people in the throat. I suppose if it actually made me feel better and people were alright with it, that might be another story . . .

“Hey, why did you punch me in the throat?”
“Ah, it’s the stupid upcoming election. It just makes me so mad.”
“Oh no worries. I know how you feel.”
“Cool, you want to punch me in the throat? Go ahead. Really! I feel much better after punching you.”

So here’s the deal. I’m going to write in Franklin D Roosevelt for president this election. There haven't been a lot of good ones since him. Besides, he isn't complaining about the other guy. Sadly, I'm pretty sure he won’t win and with having served more than two terms already and being dead, I’m not sure it would matter anyway. You vote for whoever you want to win. I’m not going to worry about it anymore. In the long run I know God is going to sort it out anyway . . . aw, now I’ve done it; I strayed into a religious discussion.

Religion can be fatal

I was walking across a bridge one day, and I saw a man standing on the edge, about to jump off. So I ran over and said "Stop! Don't do it!"
"Why shouldn't I?" he said.
"Well, there's so much to live for!"
"Like what?"
"Well... are you religious?"
He said yes. I said, "Me too! Are you Christian or Buddhist?"
"Christian."
"Me too! Are you Catholic or Protestant?"
"Protestant."
"Me too! Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?"
"Baptist"
"Wow! Me too! Are you Baptist Church of God or Baptist Church of the Lord?"
"Baptist Church of God!"
"Me too! Are you original Baptist Church of God, or are you reformed Baptist Church of God?"
"Reformed Baptist Church of God!"
"Me too! Are you Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1879, or Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915?"
He said, "Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915!"
I said, "Die, heretic scum", and pushed him off.
—Emo Philips

You might think I’m a pretty religious guy from some of the things I post here. I’ve gotta tell you the very opposite is true--religion is pointless in my opinion. Obviously, the Emo Phillips story above is humorous, but how far is it from the truth? Countless wars have been started by idealistic individuals who felt compelled by religion. People who claim to share the same faith often argue over the finer points. The problem is simply, it’s humans. We make everything more complicated than it needs to be.

Christianity is really pretty simple. Here is an illustration:

There’s a man who owns a widget company. Based upon his own unique set of skills and experience he expands, builds all of the required machinery and opens a factory. He sets the expectations for his employees based upon his personal widget building speed on the machines. The factory owner has numerous years of experience building widgets and extraordinary manual dexterity. While he’s trained his employees to the best of his ability, none of them is capable of meeting the quotas he’s set for them. Eventually the man’s son comes to work in the factory and becomes the only employee who ever meets the standards.

The man’s son is the only truly excellent employee he has ever had and a true friend to everyone he meets. Nonetheless there is a small group of petty and jealous workers who insist that his presence is creating issues. Eventually the son is forced from the factory by the labor union at the direction of these men. The son is a gracious man. His father’s son, he is wealthy beyond measure. He has great compassion for his blue collar brethren despite the fact they’ve forced him out. At the very labor union hearing that removed him from his job he offers a generous retirement package to any employee working in the factory. They need only ask his forgiveness for voting him out and their retirement is assured.

The boss is a gracious man as well. He loves his employees like his own children though they constantly disappoint him with their slow and sloppy production. Still, he pays them very well and continues to train them in the hopes they will meet his expectations. He is devastated to find that many of his employees are taking extra long breaks, calling in sick to work when they are well, stealing from the company and committing other offenses. Despite this, he fires no one right away, instead adopting a three strike rule based upon a strict set of rules and production quotas.

In light of this development, his employees have different reactions. They know that none of them is capable of meeting the owner’s expectations. They all need to feed their families, but they realize that it’s only a matter of time before they don’t have a job anymore. The standards are just too high.

Some employees don’t try any harder; knowing that the factory owner truly cares about them they believe the owner won’t fire them as long as they work hard and don’t steal, lie or cheat. Others work as hard as they can, believing they will meet the quotas, but their limited skill and agility with the machinery makes it impossible to keep up both quota and widget quality. A few, jaded by the futility of trying to please a master with such high standards, decide he must hate them and quit. But one group realizes that the only solution is to accept the offer from the man’s son despite knowing that unable to adequately perform the job, the offer is more than they deserve. Eventually they are all fired, but only those who accepted the gift of the son’s retirement offer are given any severance.
Keep that little parable in mind, here is what I believe:

1. God is all-powerful (omnipotent)1, all-knowing (omniscient)2, in all places at all times (omnipresent)3, perfect (perfect, yeah that one was easy)4 and unchanging (immutable)5.

2. We are not omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, perfect or immutable (my apologies, if you think you ARE any of these things, but I must inform you, you are not).

3. God loves us, but as he is all of those perfect things and we are far from it, we are separated from him.6

4. Jesus Christ is the crucified and risen Son of God who paid the sacrifice for our failures. It is only through his grace that we can be united with God.7

5. The Bible is the Word of God.8 As God is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, perfect and immutable, by extension His Word is perfect as well. It will only be irrelevant when God becomes irrelevant (that’s never for those of you who were confused by immutable in #1).

6. God communicates through the Holy Spirit to those who have accepted the gift of his Son. That nagging feeling that we should do the right thing even when we’d rather punch someone in the eye, is often at the prompting of the Spirit. If I can borrow a lyric from the Fray, “sometimes the right thing and the hardest thing are the same.” and that’s often the leading of the Spirit as well.

Some of you are confused. You’re thinking, “That sounds like religion to me. What’s that moron Scott talking about?”

Here’s the difference: religion is a set of rules stating, if we behave like this, we will earn your eventual reward. Christianity states that there is nothing you can do to earn your eventual reward. You can try to be a good person, but you cannot ever meet God’s standards, which are perfection. We all screw up; no matter how hard we try we will fail. We are all terrible widget makers. It’s by the boss’s grace alone, through his Son, Jesus, that we can be redeemed.

Yeah, we could make it complicated. we could argue and fight about the infinitesimally small details of what is right and wrong. We can point fingers and accuse one another of being wrong. But ultimately we should be pointing with our thumbs and saying, "Me too! I'm flawed!" None of us is blameless. None of us is worthy. No one in heaven is going to get what they deserve . . . we all deserve condemnation, but grace is ours if we take it.

Supporting Scripture (NIV)

1. God is Omnipotent

Matthew 19:26 - . . . with God all things are possible.
---
Jeremiah 32:17 - "Ah, Sovereign lord, you have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and outstretched arm. Nothing is too hard for you.

2.God is Omnscient

Psalm 139:2 - You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3 You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
4 Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.
---
Matthew 6:8  . . . your Father knows exactly what you need even before you ask him!

3. God is Omnipresent

Psalm 139
7 Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
9 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
10 even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
11 If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,"
12 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

4. God is perfect

Psalm 18:30 - As for God, his way is perfect; the word of the LORD is flawless. He is a shield for all who take refuge in him.

5. God is immutable

James 1:17 - Every good gift, every perfect gift, comes from above. These gifts come down from the Father, the creator of the heavenly lights, in whose character there is no change at all.
---
Malachi 3:6 - I the LORD do not change . . .

6. God Loves us

Isaiah 54:10 - Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed," says the lord, who has compassion on you.

7. Jesus is the only way to God

Romans 6:23 - For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
---
John 14:6 - Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.7 If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him."

8. The Bible is God’s Word

2 Timothy 3:16-17 - All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness

9. God speaks to His people

Ezekiel 37:14 - “I will put my Spirit in you and you will live, and I will settle you in your own land. Then you will know that I the Lord have spoken, and I have done it, declares the Lord.'"
---
John 14:26 - But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you.

Procrastinating in Bemidji

The following is based upon a true story I heard years ago. I wish I could tell you the names and places, but they've long faded from my memory. Rest assured, while I filled these things in, the majority of what you read here actually happened.

The City of Bemidji snow plows had been running non-stop for two days. Their efforts to clear the streets created four to five-foot high walls of snow along the city walks. Atop one such snow pile at the corner of Washington and Roosevelt sat Chris Collins and Jeremy Saunders who had hollowed out frigid, but otherwise comfortable seats in the snow. It was cold--bitter cold. Colorless snow fell in great, swirling waves from an equally colorless sky. The weather offered no promise of relief to the Bemidji plow crews.

Sitting bundled in matching Minnesota Vikings parkas, Chris and Jeremy were two splotches of purple staining a landscape that was otherwise simply shades of grey. The intersection, normally busy, was quiet this Saturday evening. Few people had any destination important enough to brave icy roads and falling temperatures.

The boys had been quiet, catching snowflakes on their tongues as they waited. Eventually, Jeremy fished in his pocket surprised to find a forgotten Sky Bar there. “Whoa! I forgot I had this. You wanna split it, Chris? You can have the vanilla and peanut parts.”

“Yeah, I'm starving!”

After breaking off either end, Jeremy handed Chris the center portion of the candy bar. Chris nodded. “Are these any good frozen?”

“Probably, but that one's gonna taste like dirty gloves.”

Chris shrugged and took a bite before his friend continued, “I should mention that my dog was chewing on my gloves this morning. They were covered with slobber when I put them on.” He thought Jeremy was grinning, but it was hard to tell with their hoods pulled up so tight. Chris took another bite.

Jeremy continued after sniffing his gloves, “Seriously, I think he might have crapped on them too. They wreak. Could be cat puke, no idea.”

Chris popped the last bit into his mouth, chewed and swallowed it. “Delicious!”

Jeremy shook his head. After swallowing his portion of the candy bar, he moaned, “You coulda died, man . . . still might.”

“Yeah well, everyone dies.”

The conversation faltered for a moment as they looked up at the swirling white flakes. Both attempted to catch a few in their mouth, a futile attempt to wash down the chocolate. Jeremy finally broke the silence by asking, “You ever think about it?”

"Eating dog crap?"

“No moron, dying. Doesn't it scare you, Chris?”

“We're twelve, Jer. I don't need to be scared of dying for like thirty years, maybe forty.”

Jeremy nodded. He asked, “What do you think happens after you die?”

“Heaven or hell, everyone knows that.”

“You think? I’m kinda scared of going to hell when I die. Aren't you?”

“Yeah, well no one wants to go to hell. That's probably why my Mom goes nuts when I tell my sisters they should.”

“But that's what I mean. Our parents are always mad at us for something; why wouldn't God be mad at us and send us to hell? That’s in the Bible somewhere, right, obey your parents? Is that why you go to church all the time--to make up for it?”

“No way! I wouldn’t be caught dead there except my parents make me. Besides, it doesn't work that way. You don’t make up for the crap you do, at least that's what they say at church. You have to accept Jesus to be forgiven and stuff to get to heaven.”

“So you did that, Chris?”

“Nope, I got it all figured out though. Church people can't do anything fun. You have to listen to your parents, no cussing, no drinking, no smoking, right?”

“We don’t drink or smoke.”

“Yeah, but it must be fun since we’re not supposed to do it. Besides the point, I'm going to just have fun right now and do what I want to do. But when I get older, when there isn't so much fun stuff to do, you know, like when I have kids and stuff, then I will get saved. I don't wanna miss all the fun by being a church person now.”

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, sounds like a good plan, I guess," his tone implied he might not be convinced. If he had more to say it was interrupted by a red Volkswagen Beetle. It approached the intersection, the engine whirring with the bravado of a chirping, vintage biplane on final approach. The driver eyed them warily through his horn-rimmed glasses as the car slid to a stop.

The boys waved then laughed as the car chugged away. Chris noted, "VW's are no good. The bumper is too low. Driver sees you every time too." Wanting to move on to a new topic he said, “I wish there was a game on tonight.”

Jeremy groaned at their misfortune, before joining in on the new topic, “Why don't the Viking's play everyday? There's nothing to do when they aren't playing.”

“You think they're gonna win the Superbowl this year?” Chris asked.

“Tarkenton is the man. MVP last year--we're gonna win it this year for sure!” Jeremy grinned, then added, "The first two tries were just warm-ups."

The sun was fading as evidenced by some patches of gray which had turned black. The street lights had been on all day. What little traffic there had been seemed to have fizzled out. Chris announced, “I'm freezing. I think I'm gonna head home.”

Jeremy protested lightly, “One more car, then we can go. We'll be headed toward home anyway. Why not bob home, right?”

It did make sense. They were here to hooky bob, why not get towed partway home? If he walked, Jeremy might hitch a ride right by him. The thought of his buddy getting in a last ride and ending up safe and warm before first didn't seem right.

“OK, one more.” he consented. After pausing to breathe into his gloves he asked, “Hey Jer, remember last year when we were Hooky Bobbin' in the neighborhood and your mom pulled up behind us and we were sure she was going to yell at us.”

Jeremy smirked and replied, “But she only yelled at me . . .” In unison they bellowed, “Jeremy Saunders! Put on your hat this instant!”

The two of them fell into a long fit of laughter which subsided when an Impala station wagon pulled up to the stop sign. Behind the wheel was elderly woman bundled in a fur coat. She appeared an elf, so small in the huge car that she could barely see over the dashboard. The boys grinned at each other.

Jeremy punched Chris playfully in the arm. “See Chris, aren't you glad you didn't go home?”

The pair hopped from their perches. Unnoticed, they grabbed the bumper of the enormous blue station wagon. The tires slipped on the slick road for a moment before gaining purchase. With a loud scraping sound, the back of the Impala shifted sideways a foot before the car began to move. The boys looked at each other and smirked. They'd get in their last bob of the day and cover the first leg of the trip home in one step.

“Old ladies are the best,” Jeremy announced. “They never notice bobbers and they never drive too fast.”

Chris agreed reservedly, “Yeah, but sometimes they drive so slow it's less fun than walking.”

As expected the Impala cruised slowly to a maximum speed of about eight miles an hour. They proceeded north toward the grocery store. Settled in for a dull ride, Chris looked dolefully at Jeremy when the Impala slowed to a crawl in front of the grocery store. He wondered if she was going to just stop in the road.

“Walk up there and tell her the grocer is closed so she can drive a little faster,” Chris joked.

“You're on the driver's side, you tell her.”

They barely had time to laugh before the car accelerated up the wrong side of the road. She was headed toward Highway 2, in the wrong lane! The car was creeping up on speeds that bordered on frightening when Chris yelled, “The railroad tracks! We need to bail.”

They'd long ago guessed that the maximum safe speed for crossing the railroad tracks while bobbing was ten, maybe fifteen miles an hour. Chris calculated their current speed to be approaching twenty. Bobbing was all about the thrill though. They were daredevils and there was no glory in playing it safe. He was considering the possibility of making it across the tracks when Jeremy yelled, “We can do it. Come on.”

He nodded and adjusted his grip on the top of the bumper. Peeking around the side of the car, he looked for the tracks. A tractor trailer was cruising up the highway a good quarter mile away. The old lady would have plenty of time to get to the right side of the road. The tracks were close. He yelled, “Get ready!”

The car thumped lightly over the tracks. Though both boys stumbled lightly, they held on and remained upright. As the adrenalin rush of surviving the possible twenty mile per hour face plant eroded, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. They had defied the odds, beaten their self calculated point of no return and crossed the tracks.

With that hurdle passed, the fact that the woman was heading down the wrong side of the highway didn’t seem like such a big deal. Chris carefully peaked around the back of the car once again. The cold wind and snow stung. Though he could barely open his eyes, he saw the tractor trailer flashing its headlights as it moved over to the shoulder. Thankfully, the car had stopped accelerating once it reached a slightly-terrifying, completely-exhilarating twenty-five or thirty miles per hour.

From the end of Washington Avenue, it was only four blocks until the boys would arrive at their personal highway exit. Chris listened to the silence around him. The crunch of snow under the tires, insistent warning of the truck horn and hiss of his boots on the snow were lost in the rush that enfolded him. Even the freezing cold faded away. He thought to himself, this is the kind of thing church people don’t get to do. I’m not supposed to cross the highway, let alone play on it.

A moment later things turned on their side, literally. The woman, suddenly realizing she was on the wrong side of the road pointed the car across the concrete median. It fishtailed slightly then lurched violently. Chris’s feet hit the curb, his hand slipped and found himself rolling head over heels. Everything went black for an instant. He could hear Jerry yelling. Stunned, he rose with a gasp and realized he was in the highway. Instinct screamed for him to run, which he did, right into the path of a pair of oncoming headlights and the blast of an air horn.

Jeremy, having managed to exit the ride unscathed, watched through the sheets of gray as his friend ran in front of the semi. His mind could barely comprehend what was happening as the trailer tried to pass the truck before the whole rig toppled on its side. It slid the length of a football field. It twisted slowly as it did, trailing boxes from a gaping hole in the trailer. The Impala continued on, driver apparently unaware that anything interesting had happened. He stood mouth agape for a moment, wondering what to do, fighting off his tears.

Jeremy ran the last quarter mile home at a full sprint, falling more times than he could count. He crashed through the front door screaming through the tears that could wait no more, “Dad, help! It’s Chris . . .”

Minutes later, half a dozen fathers from the neighborhood arrived on the scene. Alternating red and blue spots from atop a pair of police cruisers cast a surreal pall on the oddly silent scene. In the wooded area west of the road, flashlights swept back and forth. The only sound was the hiss of flares and the occasional sizzle of cold snow dripping on hot metal.

Chris’s father, Dean, was crunching heavily across the snow at a full sprint having stepped out of the woodside AMC Hornet Wagon before it came to a stop. The truck driver was wrapped in a blanket leaning on the back of the police cruiser talking to a police officer. Dean interrupted, “Where is my son?”

The officer tried to usher him away, saying, “We’re trying to figure out what happened, sir. We think he probably landed in the woods if the truck hit him.”

The driver stood up appearing worried, distraught and perhaps a little defensive. “I did everything I could. He ran right in front of me. I don’t know how I could have avoided him. But I swear, I don’t think I hit him.”

The other fathers jogged toward the police officers searching in the woods. Dean walked toward the big rig, alternating between the most intense anger and sorrow he'd ever felt. He didn’t want to find his son's body in the woods; he'd come to bring him home. Dean found himself praying, “Please let him be alive.”

He approached the front of the enormous truck. While the wreckage seemed to sag like a worn out swing set, up close the cab seemed relatively unscathed. He scanned the front of the bumper with his flashlight, fearing what he might find yet hopeful it would be nothing. The chromed metal was snow splashed and dirty, but there wasn't a smudge on it anywhere. The grill of the truck was equally untouched. Despite resting on the passenger side, the Powerliner cab was practically unscathed. There was no sign that anything or, thankfully anyone, had been struck by the front.

Dean walked around the massive snub nosed cab over engine tractor. The trailer did not escape as cleanly. The quilted, aluminum trailer looked as if someone had taken an enormous can opener to it. The highway behind the accident was littered with fifty feet of frozen food boxes, many of which were in a similar condition to the trailer they had escaped. Among them Dean spotted a boot which he was sure belonged to Chris. Torn with grief, he took a step toward the boot. He was stopped by a tiny whimper.

“Chris!” he shouted. A surge of hope pulled him closer to the truck where he was sure he'd heard it. He spotted a glove between the cab and the trailer. The flashlight beam swept down revealing an arm, a shoulder, a torso and finally his son's disoriented face. He was alive.

Chris fluttered in and out of consciousness finally waking up completely the next day shortly after noon. He found himself propped up in a hospital bed, a tube running from a bag sticking out of his arm. Jeremy was sitting in the chair next to him reading a paperback copy of Jaws. Chris greeted his friend, “Hey.”

Jeremy put down the book. He smiled weakly and returned the greeting, “How do you feel?”

Chris ignored the question asking his own, “Where are my parents?”

“They left after the third time you woke up. They went down to the cafeteria to eat some lunch with your sisters. You want me to get them?”

Chris shook his head and found that he hurt everywhere. It was not that he wasn't thankful for Jeremy's company, but he he felt a little ripped off. Here he was waking up in a sterile white room, with no idea why and his family was off eating lunch? He thought for a moment and pieces began falling back in place. He had been here for a while. He had spoken to them. He was run over by a truck. There was some sort of surgery, his spleen he remembered.

He remembered tears with his mother, father and sisters at the bedside. He remembered visits from half the church congregation it seemed. The number of cards, flowers and stuffed animals in his room indicated there were indeed a lot of visits . . . flowers, stuffed animals? Seriously did they forget he was a boy? Still he was grateful for the thoughts.

“Jer, I got run over by a truck. How am I not dead?”

“Actually the truck fell on you, which is much cooler.” Jeremy replied with a smirk. “You ended up right between the trailer and the cab. The cops said that if the driver hadn't jack-knifed the way he did, you would have been crushed. Instead you ended up just getting pushed along by it I guess.”

“So now I can tell people a truck fell on me and it barely hurt, how tough is that?” Chris joked.

“That's definitely tough.”

Silence encroached on the conversation for a moment as Chris thought about his brush with death. He never expected something like this could happen . . . at least so quickly. He turned back to Jeremy and asked, “Remember when you asked me if I was scared of dying?”

Jeremy nodded.

“I really wasn't. I figured it didn't matter yet, you know? If something happened, there was an accident or whatever, I would just call out for Jesus to save me and I'd be covered. That was my plan. Just have fun until I got older or something went wrong, how long could it take to yell, 'Jesus save me,' right?”

“Except you know what? When I ran in front of that truck I wasn't thinking about Jesus at all. I was thinking was, well . . . I was cussing, not praying. I think maybe I'm not going to spend as much time having fun, Jer. Sorry, but I think I might wanna be a church person from now on.”

Jeremy laughed as he leaned back in the chair, “And what, you don’t think I’m gonna hang out with you anymore cuz you don’t wanna end up in hell? Fat chance moron.”

What I learned from riding the school bus

A quilt of dancing shadows spread like long fingers as they filtered the morning sun across the dewy lawn. A tawny-haired three-year-old wandered restlessly about the front yard, his brown eyes happily smiling. Oblivious to the backpack sitting on the sidewalk, he chased a neighbor’s cat. The tiny feline responded by rolling it’s mottled coat in the grass as if the child might want to play. However, the giggling boy was off to the next thing that might briefly capture his attention.

I'm pretty sure this is how Asher sees his school bus.
(It's not nearly this cool)

Prompted by his mother to stand on the sidewalk, the boy instead made a game of jumping off the curb. He laughed in childish defiance, more playful than obstinate, as his mother told him, “Not in the street please.” As if to prove his independence  he stepped on the sidewalk, looked her in the eye, then jumped off the curb again. He laughed once more oblivious to the repeated chiding of his mother. Eventually a white bus appeared. It stopped and the doors yawned wide beckoning him to enter. Dad looked on, camera recording the event as the boy was about to board it for the first time. The child fully embraced the concept, apparently thinking that a big white vehicle whisking him away to adventures unknown was an exciting thing indeed.

I wondered what might be going through the little man's mind as Asher rode the school bus for the first time. My personal memory of the first day riding a bus to school is lost in the haze of many years. How many is none of your business—suffice to say it has been enough years that I no longer remember if that first day riding the bus was scary, exciting, mundane or a little of each. Of course things were different when I was a kid.

At five I walked several blocks to school by myself. The very concept of allowing a five-year old to walk anywhere unsupervised seems insane now. But when I was a kid we played outside all day whether it was cavorting in the woods, fishing at the local pond, wading in the creek, playing football or baseball at fields a mile away or riding our bikes a few miles to the General Store in the next state. I didn’t actually ride the bus until second grade after we moved. Even then we stood on a corner, a block from the house, with no parents in sight, until the bus picked us up.

For Asher, the trip to school is much different. The bus comes right to the house. I don’t have to worry about him being abducted or suffering acute hypothermic shock while standing on a corner somewhere. But I do worry about him riding the bus, because there are no good memories associated with bus rides for me. Yes, there’s an aid who makes sure he’s in his seat and not causing trouble. But the bad and evil things I remember happening on the bus are more powerful than the assurance of a county employee’s presence.

The first of these memories involved a rather odd character who I believe was named Chip. If Chip’s person had to be described in a single word of third grade vernacular it would be gross. He was particularly proud of the fact that he could release gaseous bodily emanations on command. In third grade a guy who can fart whenever he likes seems pretty cool . . . unless you have to sit behind him on the bus. Despite my misfortune of constantly ending up in one of the stinkiest portions of the bus, I tolerated this. Let’s face it, lots of elementary school kids smell funny anyway.

However, one very cold day, Chip decided that he would demonstrate how poorly the bus heater was operating. It was obvious to anyone that the bus was cold. However, the question on Chip’s mind was whether his spittle would freeze to the ceiling of the bus before dripping. He hocked a big loogie on the ceiling of the bus over his head. Sure enough it formed a disgusting little stalactite. Of course results need to be repeated to be offered as scientific evidence. Thus Chip made a second attempt. I don’t know if the mucus to spittle ratio was off, or the heater had raised the temperature of the bus just above the freezing point of disgusting, but this one dripped from the ceiling . . . right onto my head.

It marked the first and possibly only time in my life that I felt the raw and unstoppable urge to make someone digest a few of their teeth. I jumped out of  my seat, yanking Chip by the scruff of his neck. I threw a flurry of fists that might have maimed him for life, or at least bloodied his lip, had he not been wearing a snorkel jacket. He had the hood closed so tight that it seemed impossible that he was able to spit out of it—picture a prototype of Kenny in a blue jacket, who was apparently invincible rather than dropping dead every episode.  I punched him in the head approximately 47 times, with no discernible effect. Finally, he apparently became bored and threw a couple punches my way. Without the benefit of fist-proof headwear myself, I was relieved to see that we were pulling up to school where the principal magically appeared to escort both of us to his office.

My Middle School bus
driver as I remember her

Middle School brought with it more fun. Our bus driver was a rather nasty old-woman with the apparent singular goal of causing us bodily harm with her driving. Those fish eye mirrors that allow bus drivers to see children walking in front of the bus? I suspect they invented those to take away her excuse for running over bad children, “Oops!” Conversely they should have removed the large mirror over her head where she could observe our behavior inside the bus. I’m not sure how she ever delivered us safely to our destination while intently watching the mirror as if it broadcast nothing but Superbowl commercials.

To my recollection she never spoke, instead making her rules clear with offensive driving. In order to remind us that standing was unsafe, she would slam on the brakes. More than one child was transferred violently to a seat a few spaces forward of where they started when she employed this devious tactic. When the unsuspecting children who suddenly had an extra seatmate protested too loudly, she reminded us to be quiet. This was achieved by flinging the wobbly bus into turns at speeds that Micheal Schumacher or Mario Andretti would have balked at in a Formula One car. We routinely jumped to the other side of the bus in hopes that our weight would be enough to offset the centrifugal forces and save us. To this day, I’m certain it’s the only reason we all survived middle school.

Aftermath on Main Street of the typical
bus ride home from Middle School.

After each school day, our buses lined Main Street monopolizing both lanes in a quarter mile procession of bad children being returned to their parents. Had someone on a bike or motorcycle accidentally slipped between these lines of buses, I’m certain they would have been killed. Their likely demise would not have been the result of being crushed by buses, but by the multitude of things thrown back and forth between them. We viewed our buses like a pirate ship and traded broadside barrages with any takers. Pencils, paper-wads, a seatmate’s notebook, backpack, or shoes: these things all made excellent ammunition. My mother, not realizing my pencil was broken into tiny pieces for ammo at the end of each day, couldn’t figure out why I used so many of them. (This also spared me from the inevitable lecture on the likelihood putting someone's eye out with a pencil).

Once an enterprising deviant even managed to extricate the cushion from his seat. It was without a doubt the largest thing to ever go out the window, but not until we were far from Main Street and moving quite quickly. It bounced off the windshield of a Cadillac behind us. Fortunately the car’s driver, despite swerving wildly in the hope of avoiding it, managed to stay on the road. I’m sure he or she needed a change of underwear after the event. But as impressive as nearly killing someone with a bus seat cushion is, more epic was the most massive broadside battle Main Street ever witnessed.

Armed to the teeth with our bus-mate’s prized school possessions, we opened our windows as the parade of yellow buses came to a stop. Never before had two buses come to a complete halt side by side. We felt the monumental importance of the event with a surge of excitement. Surely, our opponents would remember the day we hailed school supplies upon them like brimstone. A flurry of graphite, paper, rubber and fabric ensued. The riders on both buses reeled with paper-wad cuts and the rare shoe to the head trauma. It seemed clear that we were prevailing. Then they broke with the traditional rules of gentlemanly battle; they released biological weapons. Moments before the buses started moving our bus was struck with tater tots, pizza slices weighing in at about five pounds each and dozens of half pints of sour milk. Those evil geniuses had repatriated cafeteria food, from the trash by the smell of it!

We lost what was perhaps the first food fight between buses in history, simply because we failed to have the forethought to bring food. Worse, our bus remained stained white with sour milk for weeks. Outwardly, our whitewashed ride marked the shame of our battle loss. Inside the bus it reeked like last month’s dairy processing plant explosion. The ride was revolting for some time. But the guy who had it worst was the one who tossed his seat cushion out the window. We all arrived for class each day with a foul odor imbued upon our sinuses, but he also had a sore backside.

High school was where things got even more interesting. The driver was a young guy. He apparently majored in something trendy in college then realized with a bachelor’s degree in pet rock psychology, the only actual job open to him was bus driver. In spite of this he didn’t seem bitter. He was the cool bus driver in fact. He didn’t mind that half the kids on the bus lit up a smoke for the ride home. Hey, school is tough, why would the bus driver deprive a bunch of fourteen and fifteen year-old kids of their relaxing end of the day nicotine fix? Of course he didn’t need to protect the rest us from second hand smoke since we were impervious to its effects (we didn’t need seat belts either, people were much tougher in my day). Nonetheless, this eventually led the smokers to question, “If the bus driver is cool enough to let us smoke, will he let us smoke pot on the bus too?”

It only looked like this when the door opened to
let us off the bus.

Of course the driver didn’t care. He was a college educated guy driving a bus. If he faced this issue it might bring his facade of calm toppling down with the requirement of also facing how poorly life had turned out. With his psychology degree he likely knew that burying the truth was his only hope at false happiness. Furthermore, the deviant smokers were at the opposite end of the bus from the steering wheel. No one had coined the term plausible deniability yet, but he was using the tactic. I’m sure he’s in politics now (if he’s not still driving a bus).

Eventually, the fact that I smelled like someone had tossed an ashtray and some bong water on me at the end of each school day led my parents to ask some serious questions. They didn’t believe that a bus driver would let people smoke anything on the bus. The recovery of the remnants of a matchbook  from the laundry seemed further damning evidence. If it came from my pocket it was used  to set off illegal fireworks, not to assist in smoking anything. While I was reasonably sure we always used a lighter rather than matches when blowing things up, I certainly wasn’t going to plead my innocence by entering a guilty plea to something they didn’t know about. So I was sentenced to a hundred years of hard labor on a purely circumstantial case despite my actual innocence in the matter of smoking. I have since escaped the labor camp . . . but that’s another story.

So what have I learned from this? Buy my son a snorkel jacket for warmth and self defense. Make sure his bus has seat belts and he wears a helmet to middle school. Inventory his school supplies and if he is consistently short on pencils suggest he take a dozen eggs to school daily (just in case). Lastly, if he comes home smelling like pot after a bus ride, I’m going to want to believe him when he tells me it’s the other kids on the bus. But I’m still going to sentence him to 50 years hard labor. Why not a hundred? I’m a softy.

The Mentor - A Hockey Tale

The veteran tapped his stick loudly on the ice. The final note of the national anthem faded through arena like a retreating ghost, chased away by the stark contrast of booming anthem rock music and the excited passion of raucous fans. He shouted encouraging words, a battle cry to his teammates who moved to their positions for the opening faceoff. Their expressions were grave as if they had been called to identify the body of someone they barely knew and were still processing how to mourn the passing. The veteran knew the opposite to be true; hockey brought out the best and worst in players. But it did so because of the deep love they held for the sport. Though they looked as serious as if they faced the shock of death, he knew each of them realized few were so blessed as they.

He slapped Sully, his left wing, on the shoulder, causing the man’s pads to wilt slightly under the friendly blow. The veteran told him, “Let’s go get ‘em.” By way of reply, Sully flashed a quick grin showing off a still intact set of teeth before remembering this was a somber occasion. 

If the team was his family (which in many ways it was) Sully must be his twin brother. He’d been fortunate enough to play most of his career with the man. On the ice they knew each other’s moves as easily as dancers in a well practiced routine. Sully was like a water strider when he moved on the ice. Tall and lean, he was all legs and arms, moving with an economy of effort that belied how fast he was actually going. Many an opponent had realized this only when the puck was gliding past their goalie’s outstretched glove. It was Sully’s skill that allowed the veteran to score prolifically during his career. 

While the casual observer wouldn’t have noticed, nothing was as simple for the veteran as it had been the previous season. Despite an increased exercise regime, it took him longer to recover after each practice, joints stiffer, muscles softer. Things that were once easy often came with great effort. The fans might not notice. He could still score and did so frequently, in fact almost as frequently as he had in the previous season. Yet it was apparent to some of his opponents that the numbers lied, this he knew. He was thankful for his friend, brother and teammate, knowing without his skill and their shared prognostic connection his decline would be apparent to all.

It had all started with his legs. His stride was less explosive. He couldn’t turn the corner on the defense as easily as he once did. The snap on his shot wasn’t as crisp, the release a little slower, the placement slightly less precise. He knew that this season would be his last. Everyone on the ice was suddenly younger, stronger, faster and more skillful—he was tired. Really, everything in hockey came down to the legs. He’d hang up the skates before the statisticians and fans could bemoan the decline of skills. Maybe he’d coach, anything to stay in the closest family he’d known for the last eighteen years.

On this night the stands were an ocean of white bedecked with rare patches of the visiting team colors. He’d found it odd that on special nights they gave away shirts in visitor’s white. Even stranger on this particular night, those who supported the visitors wore predominately red jerseys, the same color his team donned before taking the ice. It was as if the partisan crowd was confused as to who they were cheering. Regardless the crowd flowed like ever changing clouds on a gentle breeze and roared their delight as the opening faceoff approached. They nearly drowned out the music joining in chorus with the silvery rumble of the rink announcer as he intoned his catchphrase to start the game. He drew out each word making it a symphony unto itself, “I-t-’s . . . h-o-c-k-e-y . . . t-i-m-e-!”

Moments earlier, they’d retired the number of the man who wore the captain’s “C” before him. The veteran thought fondly of his mentor—the man who had taken him under his wing when he’d come to the league a nineteen-year-old rookie thinking he knew everything about the game. How young he’d been! Despite the copious supply of arrogance he’d packed in his suitcase, there was a sense of awe at not only meeting the man who he’d idolized as a child, but playing on the same hallowed sheet of ice with the legend of his youth. The lesson of how little he really knew about the game came quickly while suddenly playing opponents who were all as good or better than the best he’d ever faced. If not for the wise tutelage of his mentor who showed him how to be patient with himself, gracious for the coach’s input, realistic in his introspection and generous with his teammates, the first year of pro hockey might have destroyed him as he sought the delicate balance between confidence and pride. 

He turned his eyes upward, where earlier had been hoisted the banner bearing his predecessor’s name and number. The captain subconsciously touched the letter C, now stitched on his chest. It wasn’t the same piece of fabric that his mentor had worn. It wasn’t even the same piece of fabric that had adorned his jersey for the fourteen years since his friend and tutor had retired. Still, there was a connection. The symbol had been worn with pride by dozens of men before him—each a leader and a mentor in their own right. He regarded it as a symbol of the wisdom that each of them had passed down through the ages, making those who followed better players from the legacy they shared. He considered who might wear the letter next season.

Plenty of young players had come into the system and failed. To a player, those who fell short were filled with equal parts vim, vigor and pride. They pointed fingers every direction but at themselves when things went wrong. It was the goalie’s fault, or the defense didn’t transition right, the center didn’t finish, or the wingers made bad passes. After eighteen years in the league, he could determine the players who wouldn’t make it before the the first week of training camp ended just by listening to the way they spoke. The washouts always bragged about what they’d done right in one breath and complained what everyone else did wrong in the next. The good ones, congratulated teammates, realized their own weaknesses and asked the right questions of their peers and coaches.

It was the great ones, those who made the players around them better, that were the hardest to read. These rare individuals often trod a narrow path confident that they knew the game but dangerously cocky. They questioned little, innately knowing more than anyone so young should understand; they played to their own strengths and weaknesses; they saw everything on the ice with clarity. Perhaps most importantly, they shared their knowledge of all things hockey with anyone wise enough to listen. These were the players who needed to be gently nudged away from arrogance without chipping away their confidence. Uncertainty was just as crippling in a player as pride. 

The captain glided to the faceoff circle, checking that his goalie and defensemen were ready. He noted their exact positions as the linesmen moved into place for the start of the game. The referee, puck in hand, pointed to each goalie before nodding slightly to him. They’d been on the ice together more times than the veteran could count—so often that they called each other by familiar nicknames when discussions of hockey rules and their implementation in the moment were required. Though the refs were far from perfect, the veteran was pleased that Remy was one of the two referees on the ice. He’d moved up from linesman to referee about the same time the veteran earned his captain’s spot. In a way they’d come up in the league together. Though their positions were sometimes adversarial, there was a mutual respect.

Looking over the other team, he noted that the opposition had changed up their starting defensive line. They’d moved up a speedy youngster to replace the side of beef they usually paired with their lanky, blue-line sniper. He had anticipated it might happen. It made sense. It was a sign of respect for Sully’s speed and passing skill. Sully might have dipped and spun and left the usual right defenseman gasping for air and checking his own shadow. 

His attention turned to the kid lining up across the faceoff dot from him. He was young, really young. Geez, he still had a couple pimples. The veteran wondered if he himself had ever been that young. Aside from the pimples, the kid looked every bit the part of the company poster boy he already was, regaled neatly head to toe in the brand paying all his bills this season. His skates, bristling with whatever technology big hockey was touting, practically gleamed. Helmet, gloves and stick proudly shouted the company message of, “Buy us and you can play like this kid.” The veteran almost shook his head at the sight, suspecting the company logo was embroidered on everything the kid wore all the way down to his skivvies.

The rookie looked at him through a tinted half visor, yellow as if he needed more contrast to see though some nonexistent haze. Don Cherry would be somewhere groaning about the visor in terms that were insulting to anyone outside of North America. The kid grinned at his older counterpart then gushed, “Wow, it’s amazing to be on the same ice as you, Captain!”

The veteran scrutinized the kid. It wasn’t the first time a rookie had been excited to meet him. None had ever embarrassed themselves before the opening faceoff though. The veteran thought back to the hours of game film he’d watched. The rookie had squared up with half a dozen of the best centermen in the game and never broken his game-face once. He didn’t remember the kid gushing at any of them. It was as if the rook was trying to stroke his pride just to knock him off his game. He’d take his compliments afterward if they were due. What he’d done yesterday didn’t mean anything in this game. There weren’t any goals awarded for showing up. He nodded to the kid, nonchalantly.

The rookie continued speaking his smile twisting into a half grin of contempt as he chirped, “I mean, it really is amazing. I think was five the first time I saw you play. How are you even still alive?”

Now this youthful banter the captain understood. While a small part of him wanted to punch the kid in the face, he pushed his anger down, funneling the energy into his legs and belly. Calmly he told the rookie, “So what you’re saying is you were in diapers when I was winning championships, you sure you want to brag about that kid?”

If the rookie had spent countless hours composing more banter to share, it was interrupted by the shrill announce from Remy’s whistle. The kid lowered his stick to the ice. The captain watched his hands. He’d watched film of the last hundred faceoffs the kid had taken. When the rookie flipped his bottom hand, he knew he was going to try to pull the puck back. The kid turned the stick lightly, then settled it—his tell. If he won the draw cleanly, the puck was going to the left defenseman.

The captain bit back the urge to tell the kid, “Watch and learn.” Instead he settled in his faceoff stance, looking the kid in the eye for a moment before putting his own stick on the ice. There were times in his career when the puck dropped as slowly as a puff of goose down. He remembered those moments with clarity, some ingrained on his mind so vividly he could still see every line that a skate blade had etched into center ice, smell the stale beer, cold ice and fried food of the arena, hum along to the pounding beat of the music that had been playing, hear the roar of the crowd, but mostly feel the cold stick in his hands and the impact as puck rocketed off in the exact direction he chose. Those days were long behind him now. As he slowed down, the game seemed to increase in pace around him. He had no expectation of things moving slowly today, but he knew exactly what the kid wanted to do.

When Remy tossed down the puck it moved like it was shot from a cannon. The rookie pulled the puck back where the veteran had slipped his stick. It touched perfectly, just enough to slow it. He put his shoulder into the rookie throwing him off balance then sidestepped him. He was aware of the speedy defenseman drifting toward Sully who had slipped by their right wing almost unchallenged. Bernie, the lanky defenseman, moving up for the puck was the only thing between he and the goalie. Last year, the loose puck would have clearly been his; this season, it was two strides away—two strides less explosive than they were last year. While the captain had the rare fortune to play his entire career with one team, Bernie was well traveled, on his fifth squad in seven years with the league. He was a good player, but often irresolute in his confidence. His primary failing was indecision. This, the captain knew, could be his one advantage.

The veteran willed himself to believe he could beat Bernie to the loose puck, overcoming the doubt that so frequently crowded against his own confidence of late. He pushed, two strides. Those two strides, if once explosive like a bomb, felt like the whimper of a firecracker to him. He quickly glanced in Sully’s direction, despite knowing instinctively that Sully was in the clear. No, the glance was for Bernie’s benefit, a gambit to sow a grain of hesitation. The puck was inches away from his stick now, equally close to his opponent’s grasp, but he knew the gambit paid off. Seeing he was outnumbered, Bernie glanced up ice to determine where to pass a puck that wasn't yet his. The captain lunged, poking the puck beyond his reach, then turned away from the inevitable hit, his opponent’s only remaining option. He spun like a matador avoiding the horns of the bull by the narrowest of margins.

The captain left Bernie surprised to be checking merely the breeze where his opponent once skated. Four strides and a spin into the game and he was in the clear. He’d beaten two opponents, slipping a body check that he was sure would have been shown on instant replay for months to come. It was briefly disorienting that he could have made such a move and remained on his feet, let alone untouched. Quickly, he pointed himself toward the goal.

The puck was drifting lazily between the top of the circles. Two strides, this time there was a little more response from his old legs. The puck tapped on his stick. One thing he still had was soft hands. Upon retrieving the puck, he’d never look at it again until it left his stick. It was down to him and the goalie now. They’d faced each other dozens of times in the past. He knew that once they would have squared off as equals in this situation. Now the captain knew that he was slightly over-matched, the odds were in the goalkeeper’s favor.

This goalie knew him well enough to anticipate his every move. He’d seen it all before. The captain thought about the last time he scored on this goalie. It was a backhand fake to a forehand move toward the end of last season. The goalie would remember that move, but would he expect it twice in a row? The veteran had another idea from the hours of tape he’d watched on his own shot.

He deked backhand to forehand for the shot. The goalie moved to cover that side of the net. The captain knew there was nothing to shoot at and he was running out of room. He dipped his shoulder pulling the puck back into his shooting position. He’d watched himself dip his shoulder on the hundreds of shots he reviewed on video, a little hitch in his technique. It was a bad habit that the wise observer would realize forecasted his imminent shot. The goalie dropped to the ice, committing to the save an instant too soon. The captain, in a shower of snow and ice, pushed himself into a spin reversing the puck all the way around to his backhand side. His legs were not as cooperative as they once were. Correcting his balance wasn’t as easy with his waning strength. It all started with the legs, and despite soft hands the falter in his balance caused the puck to bobble slightly. He was forced to glance down to secure it before snapping his head around to see the net.

The captain expected he’d have to put the puck high to score. He pulled it the rest of the way around, as he fought his legs for balance. He knew the bobble and his footwork had cost him. The release was poor. Instead of the satisfying feeling of watching the spinning puck fly over the keeper’s shoulder, it skittered along the ice. He followed it, repositioning his feet and stick for the rebound he was sure was inevitable. Then he realized the net was wide open, the goalie still flailing to fight off a forehand shot that never came. He had baited the hook more perfectly than he expected using his own weakness to his advantage.

When the goal light flared red and the siren roused the delight of the fans, the captain tried not to act surprised. Remy was pointing to the goal, signaling he had scored, which made it real. Sully had his stick in the air. His team was whirling about him, slapping him on the back. The bench erupted with his teammates pounding their sicks on the dasher boards and screaming their adulations. The crowd had become a joyous cacophony of sound. Still the rafters shook with joy as the loudspeaker boomed with the announcer’s voice, splitting through the other noises like an ax through a dry piece of firewood. “With a new team record for the fastest goal to start a game . . .”

His legs felt a little stronger as they carried him back to center ice. The rookie glided to his side of the dot and stood outrageously silent, waiting for the officials to resume the game. The captain remembered fondly that not all of his mentors were his teammates. As the rookie flipped his hand over on the stick then turned it slightly and settled it on the ice, the captain smiled and told him, “Kid, it’s a good thing to know your own tells.” 

God Hates Fags?

Westboro Baptist Church is renowned for their anti-gay protesting. They crash funerals chanting, "God Hates Fags." and waving signs vilifying the military. They've picketed at high visibility events, including the funerals of Micheal Jackson, Steve Jobs and Whitney Houston. Somehow they connect these events to homosexuality, often with the thinnest strand of imagination available. Their message declares that God is pouring out his wrath on America for the decay of our nation's moral values. But their platform is rather singular, focusing on homosexuality.

It's pretty easy to see that the people of Westboro Baptist have a few screws loose (maybe all of their screws are loose in fact). They've earned the well deserved moniker, "Church of Hate." Most people would likely rank them somewhere between Nazi Germany and the Klu Klux Klan for their contributions to the world. Simply put, they are a misguided hate group.

Westboro Baptist Church might barely be relevant or current except for the sudden prevalence of same-sex marriage in the media. Barack Obama changing his stance and North Carolina's ban have brought the subject to the forefront recently. While the country is divided on the issue of same sex marriage, it's fair to say that we're fairly galvanized in our disapproval of Wesboro Baptist Church. Clearly, their methods are all wrong. What about their poorly delivered message: Does God really hate homosexuals? Does God really hate America for our failing moral values?  Or, is it more likely that he hates the people of Westboro Baptist?

Clearly the leadership at Westboro Baptist read their Bible up to at least Genesis 19 where God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. It might be their favorite part. The two towns of Sodom and Gomorrah were singled out for corruption, especially sexual immortality. Foremost among the charges levied against them by God were homosexual acts. If one were to read simply this portion of the Bible it might be construed that God does indeed hate homosexuals. Happily, there's a whole lot more Bible than this one chapter.

Let's put this into a different context. Let's suppose that Sodom had a catchy marketing slogan to the effect of, "What happens in Sodom stays in Sodom." Now Someone who is omnipotent (God being the only One who comes to mind) might think to Himself, "I know what happens in Sodom and I don't approve." Does that mean God hated the people who lived there? Not at all. God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah because of their influence on everyone who heard their message of, "Do whatever you like, it doesn't matter." More importantly, he destroyed a place which symbolized a conscious decision to sin. Those who chose to live there, chose to separate themselves from God's love, which doesn't mean He didn't love them still.

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. - Romans 5:8 (NIV)

I am certain that God loved everyone of His children who died in Sodom and Gomorrah. He destroyed those cities to protect those who loved Him, not to punish those who flaunted their defiance of His will. If God loves us enough to sacrifice his only Son, why shouldn't he be willing to protect us from that which He deems self destructive? The God I follow wept for every soul lost in the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Jesus wept. - John 11:35

Similarly, God loves the people of Westboro Baptist Church--which is a good thing for them because really, who else could? The simple fact is that all of us do wrong and God loves us still. God even loves Americans in spite of our continuous moral decline. His love of Americans is likely something the people of Westboro Baptist Church would vehemently debate. But even though God loves Americans, that wasn't the question that I posed previously. The real question was whether God loves America.

I'm not about to render that judgement. It isn't my job. But I will point out that as a nation, America has increasingly attempted to remove God from our culture. Our constitution's first amendment stipulates that there will be no official state church, such as Catholic Church in France, Spain and Italy, or more relevantly,  The Church of England. Remember that the founders of our country opposed a tyrannical King George who was essentially the head of the English church. The bill of rights was added to our constitution so that we'd remain a nation under Christ rather than a nation under a church run for the profit of the government. In fact the entire Bill of Rights was created to protect the people of America from the types of oppression they fought to free themselves from in the Revolutionary War.

Look at how we've twisted our First Amendment freedoms:
Separation of Church and State was meant to keep the government establishing a state religion. Now it is used to remove every vestige of our Christian heritage from any and every entity associated with our government. The first amendment has been reinterpreted and perverted to censor Christianity, the very faith it was intended to protect.

Freedom of Press, Speech and Assembly was intended to keep people from being imprisoned for questioning the practices of their government in the hopes of improving a democratic nation by holding it accountable. Now it means that we have to tolerate people spewing destructive agendas of hatred with no positive value, whether by publication, ranting or picketing.

As America runs from a God who loves it's people, we increasingly embrace tolerance. Don't get me wrong, it's a good thing that words like retard, cripple and faggot are now unacceptable to describe people. But it's foolish to believe that we can force people to love one other through legislation. The goal is correct, but as so often happens when the government is involved, the route is completely wrong. Laws cannot erase hate.

It seems like we continue to expand American's rights under the law. But do we consider the expense of expanding those rights? I'm angry at Westboro Baptist Church for doing repugnant things and calling themselves a church. But I'm more angry at the nation that allows them to crash the funerals of soldiers who have fought for our rights. It isn't Westboro's right to point fingers and to judge. But we as Americans have decided that we need to tolerate insane, hateful, destructive drivel because of how we've distorted the very foundations of our county. I have no doubt that if Jesus were to visit a Westboro protest, he'd slap down their picket signs and give them an earful for spreading hate in his Father's name.

On the other side of the equation is the question of same sex marriage. Jesus would no doubt handle this with much more aplomb. I suspect if confronted with the question he would answer with one of his own, "Who are you seeking your approval from, God or people?"

There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the One who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor? - James 4:12