Building Your Foundation

It's what we do when times are good that determines how we do when times are bad. Right now, things are good. My kids are healthy and wise and gaining a wealth of childhood experience that should serve them well when they grow older. My wife is as wonderful a partner and mate as I could expect. Work's a pain in the butt some days, but they keep sending money twice a month and it doesn't seem like they're going to stop any time soon.

But eventually, things will be less bright. Parents die. People get sick. Bad things happen from time to time. These things are as sure as the sun rising tomorrow. Life isn't life without them. So why am I thinking that maybe I'm not setting myself up well to weather the storm that will most certainly come some day?

The wise man built his house upon the Rock. It's more than a Bible verse or a song. It's Truth. I've recently watched Schindler's List and read Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl, a survivor of Auschwitz. I'm currently reading a book by Deitrich Bonnhoeffer, a brilliant theologian who was cut down in the prime of his life by Nazis.

Frankl could have escaped his rigorous journey through hell. He had a visa to the United States, but decided he couldn't leave his parents behind to face the monster alone. The Nazis murdered them. And his wife. His work, Man's Search for Meaning, describes how a person who sees a meaning in life, a worthy purpose, can weather almost anything. Those without a purpose gave up. It was actually a very clear progression, he wrong. One morning, the man didn't get up. No matter what, he refused to get up. Then, he decided to pull out the one hidden cigarette he had and smoke it, rather than save it or trade it. Within a few days, he was dead, a victim of the Nazi death machine, but of his own surrender to it, as well.

I don't know much about Bonnhoeffer, but it seems that he, too, could have escaped his fate, if only he'd played along. He didn't, and he died. But he died with dignity and a purpose.

Frankl's purpose, his determination to live, literally carried him through circumstances that should have killed him. Bonnhoeffer's cost him his life, but on his terms. In both cases, these men had built themselves an unshakeable foundation, and it weathered the storm.

My foundation is stonger than it was. But it should be stronger than it is. Instead of building it while times are good, I spend time on the frivolous and the suspect. I should be building for the storm that will most certainly come.

Never Again? A lie.

If it were to happen now, we would have a precedent that we could look out for, so it wouldn't happen again.

A woman, unnamed on the DVD, in the Voices of the List part of the Schindler's List DVD. If this were to happen now...

"Never again" has been said less and less my adult life. The people who lived through the Holocaust are nearly gone. And the people who they raised are dying. And soon, the Holocaust will be nothing more than something we covered once in Social Studies.

Imagine, if you will, being told that because of your religion or ethnicity, you have to wear a special tag so everyone will know where you are. Imagine that one day, by fiat, the government takes what you have the in the bank and your investments, then comes and rounds you up and takes you out of your house and herds you into rundown apartments, six to eight to a room. You can't go anywhere without permission. You can't buy or sell or own anything. People you know, friends and relatives, are herded into trucks to be forced to work at hard labor, then never returning.

Imagine the world turning upside down as if it were a nightmare and no one does anything. Imagine that there's no visible chance that it's going to end. Don't just read the words, but yourself in that position and feel it. Feel what it is to watch indiscriminate murder every single day and wondering when it's going to be your day.

In one of the extras on the DVD, they talk of the day they took the children from the camp and sent them to Auschwitz, never to return. Imagine watching as your children, your babies, are herded onto a truck and knowing that you will never see them again. Imagine being told to lie on the ground as you watch them leave or you will be killed.

One of the pictures was of a boy, eight or nine years old, with big ears and a crooked smile. In the picture, an old black-and-white, he looked happy and very pleased with himself. He was one of the children who never came back.

I can't imagine it. It's all bigger than I can think of.

But it happens. It still happens. Never again is a lie. Anti-Semitism is a on the rise in Europe, and we may turn into an anti-Muslim country. The murmurs are there. But they're faint and don't seem to be threatening. Maybe they didn't in the mid-1930s.

Never Again...As If That Were Likely

Apparently, I've had nothing to say lately. Part of that revolves around my new habit of waking up at 3 am (give or take) every morning. When you struggle just to stay awake, posting riveting, thought-provoking material on a website you don't get paid to maintain isn't a priority.

But, this morning, I actually slept until nearly five, though it took a long time to fall asleep last night.

You see, my daughter flies to visit a friend in Germany this week. As part of her time there, she will visit Dachau. So, to prepare her, we rented Schindler's List and watched the first half of it last night. I toddled off to bed around 10, but then wound up walking back out and hanging around until about twenty of eleven.

The last thing I watched was when Ralph Fiennes' character decided to pick off the Jews in his camp, randomly capping a couple from his balcony with a high-powered rifle, while his sex partner grew annoyed at him for boring her. Then, as they built a barracks, a Jewish woman engineer came to him and said that they needed to rebuild it because it would collapse. He had her executed and then had the barracks rebuilt.

I haven't seen Schindler's List since it came out in 1993. It's not the type of movie you watch to fritter away an afternoon. When I watched it the previous time, I remember being overwhelmed and sad. Last night, I was angry. I was angry at a movement that killed the beauty of a whole class of people simply because of their religious beliefs. Angry at a man who ended human life with less regard than most people give to swatting a fly. Angry at a human race that could become such a thing. And maybe a little angry at God for allowing it.

"Never again," was a refrain from survivors of the Holocaust, but it's happened again. It hasn't happened to European people as part of a World War, but in Rwanda, Serbia, and any number of any other places, it's happened.

And it will happen again. And maybe this time it will happen closer to home.

Happy Thursday.

Rossy

My grandfather is probably still my favorite person ever. For whatever reason, we always called him Rossy. His name was Ross, but Rossy meant love.

He died when I was six or seven and there's still and empty spot in me where he used to live. I don't remember his voice any more. If it weren't for cameras, I'd have long since forgotten what he looked like.

But I'll never forget him. He probably wasn't a big man, but he seemed like it. His hands seemed big to me, too. They seemed big and strong. Maybe they weren't, but they seemed like it. God, I loved him. I think I loved him more than anyone I've ever known. He knew me and I was okay with him. He loved me and accepted me as I was and he was happy to be with me. The thing I remember most was how gentle he was.

When he died, the spot he occupied in my soul died with him. And I've never been gentle like he was.

Jesus, according to the Gospel of John, was gentle with the woman accused of adultery. He was gentle with the woman who touched his cloak and with the rich young man. He took away the boulder on their souls. It'd be interesting to know if they were able to resist taking it back.

You can't be gentle and have peace until you put down the things that you carry with you. To put them down, you have to acknowledge them and acknowledge that they are yours and what the results were. You can't put down what you don't acknowledge. And only after you acknowledge it, all of it, can you shed it and go to the throne as what you really are.

That's what my grandfather taught me, was his unreserved joy at being with me. But for me to share his joy, I had to be able to be unreservedly joyful with me. Until very recently, I haven't been able to do that.

I think I understand now. I understand what his presence was supposed to teach me.

I think he's happy that I get it.

Zero. Fun. Sir.

I've been posting on message boards or one type of another for nearly 15 years. I started on Prodigy, which was really cool when it first came out. If I remember correctly, the first thing I posted to was a thread about the relative merits of minor leaguers Eddie Zosky of the Blue Jays organization and Larry Jones of the Braves organization. You may have heard of Larry. He goes by the name Chipper and is the primary reason the Mets didn't make it to the World Series in 1999.

Most of the message boards I've belonged to haven't really been that diverse. They've had a core group of users that more or less define the board's collective stance on things. Or, on other boards, there are two groups of users, more or less equally divided, who live in a constant state of peaceful co-existence.

Either way, it's taken me 15 years to realize that what passes for discourse on the Internet is typically the same people saying the same things over and over again in different ways, then aligning the facts to suit their position. Including me.

It used to be fun.

I wouldn't want to be on this jury

In February 2005, nine-year-old Jessica Lunsford was abducted from her home and raped. After being tied up and put in a closet, she was wrapped in plastic bags and duct tape--her hands bound in front of her--and buried alive. She died sitting in the bottom of a four-foot deep grave, holding a stuffed pink dolphin and trying to scratch her way out of the plastic bag. Police found her body on March 19.

John Couey, her accused rapist and murderer, was apprehended several days later in Augusta, Georgia. During interrogation, Couey graphically described to FBI agent Terry Wetmore what he'd done to her. He said where to find her body, as well as exactly what police would find. However, in other interrogation the day before, he told two Citrus County (Florida) detectives eight times that he wanted to talk to a lawyer. His requests were ignored.

As a result, Florida Circuit Judge Richard A. Howard ruled that the taped confession Couey gave Wetmore was inadmissable. Because the confession was eliminated, prosecutors can't even tell jurors that Couey directed them to the body. Judge Howard also ruled that prosecutors can't mention a previous burglary in which Couey went into the room of a 12-year-old girl and put his hand over her mouth.

The jury in this case is being imported because the publicity made it impossible to give Couey a fair trial. Jurors will come from nearby Lake County.

What if the prosecution doesn't prove Couey's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? According to the law of the land, the jury cannot convict. Police misconduct has already turned what ought to be a slam-dunk conviction into a more difficult case to prove.

If the prosecution doesn't prove the case, would you be comfortable finding this guy not guilty, even if you thought he did it? Would you be comfortable being identified as one of the people who let little Jessie's killer walk? If Couey's found not guilty, I've got five bucks that says public outrage won't be directed at the two detectives whose conduct got the confession thrown out of court. It will be directed at the jury who let him walk.

What would you do?

There's not enough money in the world to put me on that jury.

A Sharp Tongue

A mild answer calms wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. -- Proverbs 15:1

I'm a witty guy. When I'm in the right mood, I can make anyone laugh. I'm articulate and though my tongue sometimes slips, the words are typically crisp and well-stated. My mind usually works pretty fast with the snappy retort.

And sometimes I get angry and judgemental. And my words, though clever, vivid, and sometimes funny, are often harsh. In those times, my ability to choose the right words amplifies my anger and redoubles my rage.

It's pretty clear that's not how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to do better. And though God will forgive my slipping and backsliding, He'd prefer less complacency about it.

Today is the day I do better to melt away the anger. And failing that, tomorrow is the day. It will, however, be done, so that I can be in better fellowship with those around me.

My Fourth

We gathered about an hour before the parade started, in slot number 30. I'd hoped for more boys, but Josh showed up, and Logan and Zach and Austin and Phil. Another boy, Chris, showed up, even though he was in another pack, and marched with us.

The parade route was about a mile and a half long, and we exhausted the beads we had about three-quarters of the way through. I'd tried to put them on the first kid I gave them to, a little girl who didn't have any. Her father got irritated and took them from me and said "thank you" with a little more attitude than necessary. The rest of the parents were happy when their kids got beads.

I'm new at CubMaster and I had to throw this together in a week (most of which I wasn't around for) because no one else did. Next year, the communication will be better and we'll have budget for more beads and hopefully more kids.

It was hot--it's July in Florida; that's the rules. I have salt rings in the shirt I wore under my scout uniform shirt and it's still damp. As I walked back, I met up with Chris's mom. He was in day camp, too, and was a lot of fun to have around. I told her that, and she seemed very happy to hear it. Unfortunately, this was probably his last event in Scouting. He's a great kid.

I'm not an enthusiastic person. I don't get excited about stuff. I'm excited about these kids. They're good kids. Really good kids. Every time I'm with them, I come away happier than when I started.

I came away happier again today. The last item in the Beatitudes for Leaders says "Blessed is the leader who considers leadership an opportunity for service." I hope that I see it that way. And I hope that I honor the opportunity for service I've been given with these kids.

My Church: My Other Family

Church is like a family. Sometimes you love the people; sometimes you hate them. Sometimes you wish you were alone and think you're better off. If you'd asked me two years ago about my church, I'd have told you that it was, at best, a necessary evil. At worst, I thought it was collect of self-important petty tyrants serving God even if it meant hurting people.

But as I look back, I've gotten far more out of my church than I've put into it. And this, in spite of being involved in at least seven different ministries at one time or another.

For me, at least, church is like family. You love them; you hate them; at times, they can carry you when it's hard to carry yourself.

To be sure, my church is far from perfect. It tends to be run by the more well-to-do parishioners, and the reasoning behind what's officially supported and what's not sometimes seems arbitrary and capricious.

But each week, I can go there even when the rest of it is bad and approach my Father with other people who are like me. At its best, it's the place I can go where everything else is going wrong.

I have a group of guys I've met with on Saturday mornings for almost eight years. Outside my blood relatives, I would trust these guys more than any other group of people I know. They know more about me than anyone other the maybe my wife.

You may not have the same group of people I have, but church, like family, pays you back based on what you put into it. I've put a lot of Saturday mornings into this. I'd love to stay in bed until I feel like getting up, but this is more important.

If you aren't getting anything out of church, it might be worth asking what you've put into it.

P. O. W.

The men thought they'd endured the worst after their capture and the harsh march to this place, wherever this place was. The fence looked almost ricketty, made up of rough-hewn logs, squared off by forced labor. Those who were able to think of such things knew the rickety appearance was mirage, for though the wall appeared to have been put up quickly, the logs were easily a foot thick and were guarded by men on what looked like pigeon roosts every hundred feet or so.

The smell was the first thing they noticed, easily half a day ago. As they neared what would be their new home, they started to hear a din of voices and movement, even over the 20-foot wall.

The man commanding the transport party told them to stop. Then, the giant doors opened, revealing a log portico, a buffer zone between the hellish mirage that they'd known and the true hell into which they would soon be cast.

Their metal cuffs were removed and the door swung shut behind them. Only then did the doors in front of them open, casting them into the sea of humanity that would serve as the place they stayed--but never a home--until they either died or somehow release came.

Camp Sumter, they called it, though it was anything but a camp. At its peak, the 26.5 acre stockage housed more than 30,000 men. who were forced to scavenge for what they could to provide shelter. The only source of water was the stockade branch. On paper, it was a stroke of genius, the prisoners could get their water where the stream entered the stockade, and relieve themselves where the stream left the stockade. In reality, the plan didn't work. The logs cut the water entering the stockade to a trickle. The water leaving the stockade was also backed up, creating a toxic marsh that men would sink to their hips in just to get fetid water.

Over its life, about a year, more than 45,000 men were housed at Andersonville. About 13,000 of them died.

The experience of being a prisoner of war must be among the most humbling. Sent out to fight for your country, you are taken and then must rely for your subsistence on whatever your captors allow. Typically, the captors allow near-starvation diets, torture, hard labor, solitude, and psychological manipulation.

The Prisoner of War Museum at Andersonville paints a vivid picture of the POW experience and the hell endured by both the POWs and their families. Two testimonials stick in my mind.

A pretty blonde woman about my age told how she would feel when other childrens' fathers were released from Vietnam and how she longed for the same experience they had, in meeting their fathers when they returned. Only her father never returned. He died as a POW.

In another story, a man taken prisoner in either Korea or WWII (I don't know which) held on to the vision of coming home to his wife. While he was in captivity, though (for several years), his wife re-married. Although the first instinct is to condemn the woman for not staying true, the stories of the other families make her decision understandable. The families, too, are prisoners of war.

The stories at the museum end with the release of those who survived and touch on the coming home. It's not the time of euphoria you'd think. It's a time of fear and trepidation. What about this man--or woman--coming home? Is this the same person who left? Will this person be changed, ruined, by what happened? Will I live with the shell of my loved one and what will I do if he or she isn't the same?

Will they accept me back? Will they even know me any more? Am I damaged beyond repair by this experience? Can I be a good spouse, parent, child, and friend again?

We do some horrible things to each other. Makes me want to re-examine what we're doing at Guantanamo.