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

Rube Goldberg

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction — Newton's Third Law

Newton’s Law makes the Rube Goldberg device possible. It would be great if it applied to people. Sadly, it only works in the realm of physics. Even knowing the laws of physics, it took Honda 607 takes to get everything to work right in the commercial. People are even less predictable. Granted if you punch someone in the face, you are somewhat likely to have the equal and opposite reaction of receiving a punch to the face. Aside from knee jerk reactions, there’s no way it could apply to people, could it?

Tom, my boss, was asking every employee for their opinion of his new haircut. It was his typical haircut. No one would have likely noticed it aside from his queries. As any good employees might, we decided to tell him it was a little short on the right side (even though it wasn't). As expected, he grew increasingly concerned. We figured we’d let him off the hook before the day ended. However he surprised us all by disappearing for half an hour and returning with a much shorter hair cut.

So what was the equal and opposite reaction to what we had intended as a good-natured joke? We employees spent the day setting up a prank that, if properly executed, would have us all laughing together with Tom when we let him off the hook. In our failure, we felt bad for making him get a second haircut. Tom was upset that he needed a new haircut and a little embarrassed that he’d been wandering about with a supposedly off-kilter coiffure most of the day.

It goes much further than that though. Our customers suffered for half an hour while we covered for Tom’s absence. Some might have left angry. A hairstylist missed out on a paying customer fixing a mistake that didn’t really exist. The stylist who originally cut Tom’s hair might have been reprimanded. Some  long-haired customer likely waited an extra fifteen minutes during Tom's second haircut. Perhaps that customer was late for an appointment . . . and on it might go, like the ripples after someone tosses a bunch of stones into a lake.

What would have happened if we’d told Tom his hair made him look just like David Hasselhoff instead? Honestly, I’m not going to speculate on every path of joy he might have spread. Let’s just say that Tom was a very emotional leader and we would have all been getting proverbial pats on the back. No one would have gone home and kicked the dog after work.

I have a friend in the T-shirt business. He created a shirt that read, “I’m for the Separation of Church and Hate.” At first glance I found the shirt offensive—not because I’m a fan of hate, but because someone would think that the church is. If you’re spreading hate in the name of Christ, then you need to read your Bible a few more times. When you find the part that says God hates you or where Jesus preached a message of intolerance, feel free to email it to me—I apparently skipped that part more than once. I realized after I thought about it, I’m for the separation of church and hate as well.

Almost everyone knows that Jesus said if someone strikes you, turn the other cheek. (Luke 6:29). Did he literally mean that you should let someone beat you senseless? I doubt it. What if he simply meant for you to snuff the equal and opposite reaction? The second half of Luke 6:29 reads, “If someone takes your coat, do not withhold your shirt from them.”

Huh, if we responded to anger with love, how would that work? What would happen if:

• When someone is having a bad day, we gave them a pat on the back instead of insulting them?
• We spread love and encouragement to anyone we can?
• We bite our tongues instead of saying something negative?
• If someone attacks us, we respond with kindness?
• We did a better job pulling pranks on our boss?

I wonder what the equal and opposite reaction of that might be?

Hebrews 12:15 Make sure no one misses out on God's wonderful kindness. Don't let anyone become bitter and cause trouble for the rest of you.  

What's the point of you?

THE TWO MOST IMPORTANT DAYS OF YOUR LIFE ARE THE DAY YOU ARE BORN AND THE DAY YOU FIGURE OUT WHY - Mark Twain 

It was Tuesday when God stepped into Jake’s office. Jake had no idea of standard protocol for a visit from The Almighty. He wondered, Should I rise to greet him? Fall down on my face? Shake his hand. Meet his gaze, avoid it? Jake sat unmoving by no conscious choice.

The Divine Creator of the Universe settled into one of the leather chairs on the other side of the polished mahogany desk and spoke, “Good Day Jake, do you know who I am?”

There was no doubt in Jake’s mind. God smiled at him, a genuine sort of smile that put Jake at ease. For a moment he almost forgot that this sort of thing didn’t happen. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and nodded in reply.

“Excellent. Now how is your life?”

The moment of comfort ended. This wasn’t an easy question. Jake thought about his lovely wife, healthy son, the fine automobile he drove, his prestigious career, beautiful home and many friends. Certainly these were things he was grateful for. But here across the desk sat the Omnipotent Giver of Life. What answer can I give that God doesn’t already know? It seemed presumptuous to even reply. Still when faced with his Creator asking a direct question, it seemed imperative to answer. Jake squeaked, his reply more question than answer, “Good?”

Heaven’s King leaned forward and asked, “Are you sure?”

God dismissed the question with the wave of a hand. Jake felt a wave of relief that the question posed was rhetorical. How could he, an imperfect being, reply to a question posed by All Knowing Perfection? Clearly his first answer had been a guess; he wasn’t sure. God leaned back into the chair and told him, “Actually, I’m here for your question, child. You have one question, what would you ask Me?”

Jake wondered, What’s the most important question I can ask? God is literally sitting in my office, which answers a number of questions in itself. A moment of disbelief flickered through his thoughts, of course, I could be going insane.

God interjected gently, “Even while I sit right here, you can doubt?”

Apparently the sanity question was a freebee, not that it matters. If I am insane, it was answered by my hallucination. Jake shook off the thought. He knew full well that this moment was completely lucid. It was impossible to doubt the existence of God while sitting in His divine presence.

While he’d believed in God, Jake never expected a personal visit from Him . . . in his office . . . without an appointment. Yes, he’d had his doubts. Who didn’t? He’d also had times when there was no doubt whatsoever. Belief was not a significant question, certainly not now.

Jake pondered his life thus far. During elementary school he hadn’t put much thought into what he wanted to do with it. Despite his present success, he felt a little envious of those who’d figured out at age seven that they wanted to be a neurologist or Ambassador to the United Nations. How awesome it must be to know what you are made for and to run after it with youthful exuberance! By age seven he had no idea, not even vague dreams of being a submarine captain, robot designer or circus ringmaster.

By high school, he dreamed of and worked toward being a music star. Two years after graduation, his doggedly hard work paid off. His band cut their first album. The euphoria dissolved into three months of bickering while touring before the band split. Jake, who had signed the contract, ended up with 8,000 unsold copies of the only album he’d ever made. With them came a rather large bill.

He’d wanted to change the world with his music, to make it a better place. He remembered, with the King of Kings sitting across his desk, Divinity was the driving force behind that music. Overwhelming debt at age twenty changed his view. It seemed a sign that it wasn't meant to be. Music was done for him. It was time to grow up. Now he wondered, Did I fail a test there? Did I give up too easily?

Those kids who knew what they wanted to do at age seven rarely picked anything that didn’t have some potential to make the world better. They all wanted to be cops, fireman, veterinarians, pop stars, pro athletes and teachers. None of them picked real estate developer, corporate accountant or investment banker. Kids don’t need to be realistic, they don’t have bills to pay.

He was disillusioned over his shattered music dream and the travesty of footing a $30,000 bill for albums he knew he could never sell. This signaled the first step toward where he was today. Jake had made his way through college working two jobs while sleeping about four hours a week. He managed to pay off the record company and obtain his law degree in eight years. At twenty-nine he passed the bar exam. He became the youngest partner in his firm before his thirty-fifth birthday. His salary was substantial. By every worldly standard he was a success. But he knew he wasn’t being measured by worldly standards when God was holding the ruler.

The driving force behind his law degree was a belief that victims needed a voice. He wanted to rescue any others out there with $30,000 in worthless recordings before their dreams were crushed. These ideals had faded when challenged by practicality. Law school left Jake with student loans that rivaled a home mortgage. A non-profit firm was going to pay half what a private firm offered. The money was good, but his moral fortitude had grown calloused earning it. Significant pro bono work wasn't exactly encouraged.

Jake thought hard about the decisions he’d made. How have I gone from someone who wanted to change the world to someone who wants nothing more than to profit from it? Does God really care that I have a seven bedroom house? A country club membership? A one handicap in my golf game? That I donate some money to charity when it pleases me? . . . What’s the point of me? There’s nothing that I can accomplish that will impress my creator, is there?

He looked upon Majesty, the most important question in his life forming in his heart. God nodded. “Go ahead and ask, my child. You are ready.”

Jake swallowed hard, cleared his throat three times. With a deep breath he asked the question. He feared the answer knowing it might change his life forever. “What was I born to do?”

God smiled approvingly. Rather than answering, He asked Jake, “What’s the difference between a busload of school kids driving off a cliff and a busload of lawyers driving off a cliff?”

God came to tell me a lawyer joke? Jake thought. “I don’t know.”

“The world considers one of them to be a tragedy.”

God smiled sadly then continued, “I might consider the other to be a bigger tragedy.”

“The lawyers?” Jake guessed, unsure why.

God nodded. “I love all my children, Jake. But children more often remember what is required of them where adults more often forget. How much more tragic it is for those who have lost their way to run out of time before they find it again.”

Jake nodded, although he didn’t feel like he understood. Is God asking me to quit my career? To leave all I've worked for behind? To start from scratch? He waited a moment knowing that he didn’t need to speak for God to know what was on his heart.

God held his hands up, indicating the opulent corner office on the twenty eighth floor with the expansive view.  “Would you leave all this behind for me?”

Jake felt a lump in his throat. He feared the challenges of life without the backing of his substantial salary. His wife, his son, would they understand? Still, he feared this less than he feared disappointing the Holy One who brought him into this world. He knew if God asked, he would walk away from it all. He nodded, mouthing, “Yes.”

“This is good, but it is not what I require of you this day. I’ve known every detail of your life since before creation. My child, your path has always been your own. Where you are now might not be where I would prefer, but it fits my plan. It is good. You were born for the same purpose as every man and woman. You were born to do what is right, love your fellow man and to walk with Me.”

Jake felt as dense as a block of Indonesian teak wood. He replied meekly, “I don’t understand.”

“It isn’t so much what you do, my child. It’s how you do it. Truly, I've been served well by musicians and kings. But I've been served just as well by tent makers, shepherds, even criminals. My own Son was a carpenter. Be the best lawyer you can, Jake. But do it in a way that pleases Me.”

Not everyone can serve God as publicly as Mother Teresa, Bono, Billy Graham or Tim Tebow. Still, we all have the same purpose in life. Even the most innocuous job offers the opportunity to find what we were born for.

If God sat down in the room with you, would you be brave enough to ask what you were born for? Are you brave enough to ask him even if he isn't physically sitting in the room?

Micah 6:8

. . . And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.

1 Peter 4:11

If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever. Amen.

She didn't handle grief very well . . .

She didn't handle grief very well and he knew it. He forlornly retraced his steps back up the front walk, a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. If there was a worse way to start a day, he wasn't sure he could think of it. Her cat was dead and he had to break the news. Making it worse, he was certain that somehow this would be construed as his fault.

How could I possibly know that stupid animal was taking a nap under the hood of my car?


The door groaned slightly as he pushed it open. The sound of the creaky door was an echo of the way his gut felt. She loved that cat. As far as he was concerned the animal had been nothing but trouble. Its shedding was constant. The litter box reeked. A perpetually unfriendly creature, it had returned any attempt to pet it with a taste of its sharp claws. It constantly left vile gifts of small dead animals in random places, sometimes even sneaking one into the bedroom.

Yes, he'd hated the cat, but this wasn't the real issue. He'd been very vocal about how much he hated the cat. Because of this she'd certainly blame him for killing it even though it was a practically unavoidable accident. Who looks under the hood before stating their car? No one! he thought building a defense in his mind. He called her name and she came down the stairs looking perplexed.

"I thought you left." she half stated, half questioned. He tried to keep his face free of emotion, but clearly failed. Her look of confusion shifted to one of dismay. "What is it? What happened, honey?" she asked.

He ushered her across the room to the couch. Even as he did so, he fumbled in his mind trying to find the right words to break the news. The cat had been hers before they were married. In a life where things were no longer his or her's, the feline was a sole exception. I killed her cat. How do I break that news to her?

She was on the edge of the couch kneading her hands as if to alleviate arthritic pain. He knew she was not arthritic. To make her wait much longer would be torture. What things might be going through her mind, he wondered. She could be making this out to be something worse. Her father has cancer . . . her sister was in an accident . . .


In a passing instant he pondered that allowing these things to stew for a moment might diminish the blow when she found it was only the cat. She sat gazing up at him, expectant dread in her eyes. He couldn't make her suffer. He sat down beside her, took her hand and tried to look at her. He failed to meet her gaze.

"I'm so sorry, Honey. Your cat is dead."

Her reaction was unexpected. She laughed. For a moment he thought her insane. Perhaps she had heard him incorrectly. Now he was the bewildered one. She was crying from laughing so hard. Was this some sort of shock? Hysterical panic?

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she finally exclaimed, "That cat? I hated that cat! I only ever got a cat because I thought you liked them."

Six impossibly unimportant questions of life

GUILTY CONSCIENCE
When a cop pulls up beside you in the car, why does it make you feel guilty?

Even in the rare cases I haven't committed any traffic infractions in the last couple moments, there's always a twinge of doubt. Is he going to pull me over for looking at him? . . . not looking at him? Be calm. Just watch the light and wait for it to change. Don't accelerate too quickly or too slowly. Is it just me?

CLASSIC TELEVISION
Why on Earth are Scooby and Shaggy still afraid of monsters? 

I'd guess they've seen several thousand of them unmasked only to be a criminal. Wouldn't it make more sense if they were wary of distant uncles, college professors and anyone who went by "Mr. . . "? Then of course we have the classic question of just what is a Scooby Snack? I suppose that answer might shed some light on their misplaced paranoid behavior.

WRITING IMPLEMENTS
When you really need a pen fast, why is it so hard to find one?
It seems like the availability of a writing implement is directly and inversely proportionate to the need for one. More importantly, when you do find one right after a car accident or equally cataclysmic event, why is it out of ink?

MAN'S BEST FRIEND?
Why do we blame the dog? 

It's unfair, but it happens. There are two things we sometimes blame on the dog: unsavory fragrances of a bodily nature and any injury deemed too embarrassing to speak of. On the first front, it's a fairly obvious choice; the dog actually is responsible for some exceptionally pungent odors from time to time (that's gas for those of you struggling to keep up). The second isn't really fair though. Yes, I suspect it would be embarrassing to tell co-workers that your 90-pound wife gave you a black eye. Still I ask, when is the last time someone really tripped over a dog and got a black eye? Further I wonder, is this fair, blaming man's best friend on either of these things? Finally, how is this fair to the poor schmuck who does actually have the misfortune to trip over his dog and blacken his eye? There's no way anyone is going think his wife didn't hit him. Of course his other option is to claim he ran into a door. Running into inanimate objects isn't at all embarrassing.

YOU KNOW I'M GOOD FOR IT
Why do people sometimes convey the exact opposite of what they want to say? 
You ever have someone borrow money then need more time than agreed upon to pay you back? Invariably they will tell you, "You know I'm good for it." Of course, you thought they were good for it when you made the loan. Any uncertainty which bloomed did so as the result of their attempt at reassurance. Unfortunately, this very statement is more of a confirmation that you should write off that debt than it is that payment will be forthcoming. Why don't they just blame it on the dog?

SMART KIDS
How come no one needs to teach kids how to be a smart aleck?
Take your typical three-year-old boy and he's going to find the things that flip your switch. In the case of my son one of them is literally flipping the light switch on and off. He finds this most amusing if it's the light that I'm using to read a book. The more you tell them no, the more they do it. Easy enough to write this off as basic obstinate behavior, but if I tell him, "Please go play with the light switch," he still does it. How does he know it annoys me?

One could blame it on boys being trouble makers, but my niece was just as clever. Many years ago, before she could even talk, she was wandering around Grandma and Grandpa's house. In her little hands she had a pouch of fruit snacks (sharks if I recall). Poppy, as she calls Grandpa to this day, asked if he could have one of her snacks. She toddled over to his chair with a huge grin on her face. When he reached for the bag, she ran away laughing. I asked her if I could have one fully expecting that she would tease and deny me as well. Instead she proffered the pouch and allowed me one of her prized snack morsels. To punctuate her comedic genius, she then bait and switched Poppy once more. She twirled away laughing as he grasped for air once more. We all roared in laughter.