It's so simple

For all the intellectualism I like to think I bring to things, it is all really very simple. We have a choice. We can accept God's love and our limitations and stop beating ourselves for not being perfect. And then we can know peace and produce fruit--not as an extra effort, but as a result of what we've become.

Or, we can refuse forgiveness and keep blaming ourselves and others and focus on our hurts and flaws. And we will miss peace and we cannot produce fruit.

It gets all wrapped up in the details, when it's really all quite simple. In the quiet predawn when I wake and lie there so I don't have to get up quite yet, I know what is right. I know what I need to do so I can see and grab hold of that forgiveness. The rest is my own creation.

On the Nature of Bullcrap

It has been said by people far more eloquent than I that politics is the residue of human interaction. I think that bullcrap is the residue of human interaction. More correctly, certain people or situations lend themselves to the production of immense amounts of bullcrap.

Bullcrap, at least in my definition, is the art of making difficult what ought to be easy. I've produced more than my share of bullcrap in 42 years, so I'm not holding myself up as bullcrap-free. But I understand the nature of bullcrap and I try not to produce it. And when I do produce it, I try to at least be humble about it.

Bullcrap is getting to me right now. These things go in phases, I know. It's like your bullcrap biorhythm. Mine is low right now. Other times, it seems, I possess a Moses-like gift to part the sea of bullcrap (often so I can blunder around the desert for an awfully long time).

But bullcrap, like anything else, is subject to one's own power. One can allow it to get under one's skin, then one needs immense amounts of first-aid cream to deal with the infection.

I guess the point is, the bullcrap tide seems to be in right now. One can either build a bulwarks, hold one's breath, or get up and move back on the beach far enough that the tide won't come that far.

Stewards of our own lives

Steve Irwin died this morning. He was 44. A lot of people are really sad about his death, and that's reasonable. He has an eight-year-old daughter who will never get to have Daddy dance with her again, or admire her prom dress, or walk her down the aisle. His son is two. He won't remember his dad, except on the reruns. And his wife will have a wound in her heart that will never fully heal.

And yet, in this case more than most, there is so much to celebrate. I truly believe that when we die and stand before God, we will be held accountable, but in a different way than most people think. Lust, envy, all of that's going to be part of the equation. But the bigger part is going to be an accounting of what we did with the tools and experiences He gave us. Were we good stewards of the gift of our lives. In his life, Steve Irwin was given a great deal. He was given a zeal for animals and the situation in which to use that zeal to fill his life's purpose.

I have no idea what kind of person Steve Irwin was. But based on the public part, and based on the fact that his wife seemed to love him and stayed with him, I think when he's asked if he took advantage of the gift of his life and produced something of value with it, he can truthfully answer that he did.

We're given passions for a reason. It's not a sign of virtue to purposely turn away from what makes us feel most alive. It's a sign of foolishness. It's a sign that we lack the faith that God knew what He was doing when He gave us those passions. In short, we are wired the way we are for a reason.

And at the end, if we look back and see that we didn't get it all our lives, I don't think that God will have to punish us. I think the awareness that we were given this fantastic gift and pissed it away will be more punishment than God needs to dish out.

Our lives--our own lives--are precious. If the mass of men live lives of quiet desparation, they they're missing it, and they'll know regret like no other when they die.

This and That

• I posted with passion about fasting for peace, and immediately forgot to do so that past two Fridays. It may make me complacent, but such is life. I've been praying a lot for peace, but I'm not perfect.
• I may be ripping off a guy named Steve Brown, but I've decided that I'm not going to get any better. I am where I am and what I am. I will die that way. Maybe by not concentrating on getting better, I will do better at the things I want to change. Sometimes with God, less is more.
• I'm pretty good where I am. I'm not saying that if I died today, I wouldn't have any regrets, but if I died today, I think God would be more or less pleased with where I am.
• I read in The Purpose-Driven Life that mature Christian prayer should not be centered on what I want, but on molding me and others to what God wants. I'm not sure I agree with that, but it gives me sometime to consider in my prayer ratio.
• God loves me and that makes all the difference. It is also the source of incredible freedom when I am in tune with that central fact.

Safety is Overrated

I've been home sick the last two days, which gives ample opportunity for watching daytime TV. One of the programs I watched was a Star Trek episode in which Captain Picard dies and meets a character named Q in the afterlife. Q is kind of an omnipotent pain in the butt, a member of a race that studies humanity and includes members more omnipotent than he.

Q talks to Picard about his life and regrets. Picard says that he does, indeed, regret his impetuousness as a youth and that if he had it to do over again, he'd do it differently. Q allows him the opportunity and Picard takes it. At the end of the exercise, Picard is whisked back to the present, only instead of being a Captain, self-confident and bold, he is a meek junior lieutenant, solid and steady and completely unremarkable.

When tells Q he wants it put back the other way, Q says Picard should be happy because he has set his past right and can now live in safety.

Safety. I'm a parent and a mortgage holder. I'm a Cubmaster and a mid-level functionary with a passionless job that pays the bills, all while I long for something more meaningful. I think I am capable of more, but I have never really put it all together to do more. Along the way, I've started to believe that maybe I can't do more. Results, after all, are results.

I've got responsibilities. I can't stop what I'm doing right now and start over in radio. But I can pursue the things that will bring me closer, and I can do the things I need to do in order to stand out.

In short, I can stop being afraid and yearning for safety.

We don't often think of boldness and courage in talking about being a good steward of what God has given. We think more of meekness and compassion, love and tolerance.

Jesus didn't die so we could be nice. He didn't die so we wouldn't upset people and worry about our every move.

I'm halfway through life. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that safety is overrated. If only I can remember what I've learned and have the wisdom to apply it.

Fasting for Peace

Worrying about the way the world's going to be when your children grow up isn't new. Past generations have had legiitmate worries. Parents in the 1930s must have wondered if their children would ever know prosperity. Certainly, the parents of the 1940s had their own worries about whether their children would grow up in a Nazi world. From the 1950s to the late 80s, parents worried about whether there would be a world or just a nuclear wasteland.

And so here were are today. There's a man in Iran who may see nuclear weaponry as the key to the return of the hidden Imam. He has openly questioned the right of a nuclear country to exist. Weapons of mass destruction seem easier to get and disseminate every day. And Russia and China wait in the wings.

Odds are that we will navigate through all this. At least I think they are. Probably. Maybe.

My daughter is starting to think about colleges and her future. A growing part of me has joined the legion of parents through the ages who feel concern about what that future will be. I don't know what it was like to be a parent in the 30s, World War II, or the Cold War. But I know what it is to be a parent now. I see where we sit and wonder what things will be like in 15 years, and for the first time in my adult life, I see significant doubts.

I want my daughter's world to be at least what mine was, preferably more. Increasingly, I don't see that as being possible without some significant prayer.

I know this will sound stupid to some. I know it will sound like self-flagellation or alarmism or any number of other things, but I have felt a growing inclination to fast on Fridays for the world my daughter will inherit. So that's what I'm going to do. If you want to, please join me. If you don't, that's okay, too. There's nothing I can do to change what will happen in the Middle East, short of praying. So I might as well do that.

Not peace, but a sword

"Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I came to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man's enemies will be the members of his household." -- Matthew 10:34-36 (NASB)

I've always struggled with this passage. I mean, God is love, right? And Jesus was the embodiment of love here on earth. He loved us so much that He died for us. He gave His very existence for us that we might have a shot at eternal bliss. So how can someone so loving, so willing to give it all, bring a sword?

Have a discussion some day with a diverse group of Christians about faith and works. Look at the history of the Catholic Church, or to a smaller degree, any other church. Look at what we do to ourselves over what we believe the Bible to say.

When I was laid off, one Scripture verse stuck with me: the one about how a believer who doesn't provide for his family being worse than a non-believer. I hanged myself on that verse. I didn't want to be worse than a non-believer. Of course, I did provide, and even if I hadn't, I did the best I could. I forgot the part about being worth more than sparrows.

The point is, if people can't even stop themselves from being conflicted, from having their selfish part battle with the part that wants to serve God, why should we expect to be different in reference to others.

Jesus didn't say that he wields the sword. We're good enough at doing that for Him.

Measuring Up

As I think back over the things I've written, I sense a level of smugness. After all, I assume that what I write is worth reading by someone. I assume my words carry enough meaning or wisdom that they are worth someone's time and attention. Having someone read and appreciate what I've written is a great complement.

Sometimes I wonder, though, about my supposed wisdom. I stand before a God who knows as well as I do what I've messed up and really have no standing to lift my head to Him. It is not so much that I am useless, as He is great. But I have some pretty big flaws. Can wisdom be gained from someone as imperfect as I am?

Or maybe it's imperfect that builds wisdom. Maybe it's the process of trying and failing and then trying again. And then repeating the process when you fail again.

I don't know. I guess the beginning of wisdom is that even though I fall short of what God wants of me, He lets me come to Him and continues to bless me more than I could ever deserve, not out of obligation, but out of love.

That's pretty cool.

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.

The Unclean Woman

The woman sat along the side of the road, alone in the crowd. No one recognized her. She might as well not be there. She was a woman of means, or had been once. Lauded for her works and her personality. The center of the social scene.

Now, money gone, she was reduced to this. She didn't care about the money or the attention. She just wanted some slice of what she'd had before. When Jonathan had died, he'd left her a good deal. She would never want for anything, and as a result, instead of moving in with her son, as was custom, she stayed on her own. Her son lived three days' walk away. Leaving would cut her off from everyone she knew and loved. The synagogue--this synagogue--was her life, even if she wasn't really a full member as the men were.

She laughed as she remembered. They'd been able to help so many, yet when she became...inflicted...when she became inflicted, the nature of her affliction cut her off from the same type of help she'd given so many others.

She was unclean. It wasn't that she could do anything about it. She couldn't. Neither could anyone else. All of Jonathan's money had gone to people who'd tried and failed. And, by Law, she wasn't allowed to be part of anything. She could live, though she's increasingly had to beg for food. She just couldn't be part of anything. Her life, once so rich because of her ability to be part of something, was barren.

Though she was cast out as unclean, she's still dared talk to G-d, approach Him and beg him for restitution. She didn't care about the money or the opulence. She missed the people. Elizabeth and Hannah and Ruth and Deborah, all of them. She could see their faces with her eyes open, even. Hear their voices. Feel their embrace, though not one had dared touch her in more than a year. Hannah had at first, which made her unclean, too. After a couple weeks, Levi had demanded she stop. He'd been spoken to about propriety and having an unclean wife, even if she were helping someone.

This morning, when she'd gotten up, she'd thought once again about ending it. She could walk out into the desert more than a day out, and wait for the end. Of swim out in the sea. With her luck, someone would stop and save her, bring her back, then understand what she was and cast her out again.

But as soon as those thoughts had faded, and they usually did, new thoughts replaced them. When she'd said her morning prayers, she'd first noticed the impulse. As she continued, it had grown stronger, until she was almost propelled to this spot where the throng had gathered. As she sat and waited, she became curiously peaceful. When she needed to do something, she'd know. She wasn't quite sure how she'd know, but she'd know.

Meanwhile, she sat. She supposed that if this didn't work, it could be the last thing. She could walk into the desert and disappear. Move away from the main roads and wait for final peace. She'd always found solace in those thoughts before, but this morning, something within her rebelled against them, almost violently, to the point where she stood up rather abruptly without even realizing it.

The crowd had changed now. Instead of milling around, the people were directed at something. At someone. When she following the focus of attention, she found herself watching a man walk away. He wasn't much of a man. In a fight, he'd be worthless. He was sinewy and small, but for a second her eyes met his and something happened within her.

Without realizing it, she followed him. She was drawn to that man, to his eyes. There was something about him. She followed him as if propelled at first, almost as if she were driven. She tried to fight it at first. After all, what could this simple little man have to offer her, the filthy, unclean widow? The embarrassment to herself and God that everyone avoid.

She didn't have to push anyone. Somehow they just moved to allow her to get closer. Before she knew it, she was within a man's height of him, then within arm's length. She saw her arm reach out to his cloak and though she thought it might be good to pull it back, so this stranger would not be unclean like she was, it touched him. Actually, she only got his shawl.

Whatever spell had driven her to him, and it must have be insanity borne of loneliness, it broke when she touched it.

What have I done? She thought. She slid away through the crowd, unaware that they had stopped because the man had stopped.

"Who touched me?" she heard the voice say. It wasn't much of a voice and he hadn't spoken loudly, though somehow she heard it above the din.

"What?" another man asked. She turned to face them. The other man was much bigger and had a dark tan and calloused hands. He looked rough. "Master, there are so many people here, how could you ask who touched you?"

"I felt the power go out of me," the slight man said. "Someone touched me."

The crowd now understood that something had changed and how now stopped and started looking around. She swallowed. This would be it, she thought. This would be the final humiliation before she allowed death to claim her. He would curse her for making him unclean and then she could die.

She looked at him, met his eyes again, and suddenly, she felt naked and vulnerable, as if all her secrets were known to him. She felt little, worse than she'd felt since the discharges had started.

"Who touched me?" he said softly, looking at her with those piercing eyes that knew everything.

"I did," she said, her voice so soft she could barely hear it. She trembled now and felt her own frailty more fully than ever before. The crowd parted before her and she approached the man. She felt like crying, like laying everything out to him and asking him for comfort. Instead, she fell at his feet. She knew her place and it wasn't speaking as an equal to this man. Although she'd tried to live a good life, G-d had obviously cursed her for something.

"I've had a discharge for a year. I'm unclean and nothing can stop it. I'm sorry to have made you unclean, too, sir. Please let me go so I can die in peace."

She could see the grains of sand before her eyes as she wished for the end of her now-pathetic life.

Then, she felt his hand on her back. This man knew she was unclean and yet he was touching her. The soft and gentle touch, almost a caress reminded her of Jonathan and she closed her eyes and pushed back tears.

"Get up," he said to her gently. She sat back so she was kneeling in front of him and he put his hand out. She extended hers to him and he lifted her from her kneeling position.

"Thank you," he said. His voice soothed her, like a thousand harps. Slowly she raised her head so that she looked him in the eyes again. She felt a jolt of fear. Somehow she knew this man knew all about her. But the fear quickly subsided.

"Why did you touch me?"

"I-I don't know," she said.

He smiled at her and she swallowed. His gaze was unflinching, uncompromising, but she was coming to realize that it wasn't threatening.

"Why did you touch me?"

"Oh my Lord," she heard her voice say. "I just want so much to be clean again."

She burst into tears, unable to stop them, magnifying this, her final, most public humiliation. He reached up with his other hand and touched her cheek, raising her face to his.

"Shhhh," he said. "My daughter, your faith has saved you. Go now, in peace, offer the appropriate sacrifice to God who loves you, and be cured of your affliction."

"What?"

"I promise you," he said.

"Ye-Yes, my lord," she said. He smiled at her again and squeezed her hand, then turned from her. She was homeless now, and there weren't many places a woman could find privacy, but she finally found one and looked and the discharge was gone. The stains in her clothes were gone. It was like it had never happened. She felt to her knees and wept again as the realization of her new circumstance saturated her. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up again.

"Hannah," she said.

Hannah smiled at her and took both her hands and helped her to her feet.

"Welcome home," Hannah said.

Alone again...not really

When I got laid off, I felt like I was alone.

As much as work in a pain in the butt, it's a social interaction, one where you can commisserate with those who are more or less in the same boat. After all, if a person or process is a pain to one person in the department, everyone else is likely in the same position.

When you're laid off, you lose that support structure. At the risk of being sexist, when you're a man, it's worse. After all, from childhood, you're brought up to be responsible, to be "the man" who brings home the bacon and makes the problems go away. You're supposed to be the unflinching, stoic rock who solves problems and makes things right, dispensing wisdom and making sure the bills get paid. For the kids of my generation, you're supposed to be Mike Brady.

When I got laid off, I felt a lot of pressure to make sure the bills got paid, but also to not add to the stress and the problems. And that's one of the places I have ample room for improvement if I'm ever laid off again. I tried to handle it all myself and encapsulate the stress and worry, and in doing do, I just added more stress, first to myself, and inevitably to the entire house.

To be sure, I had a wonderful support structure. My wife never even hinted, as hard as things got, at leaving. And I'm sure I made things much more difficult for her than they could have been.

I also have a group of guys I've met with on Saturday mornings since 1998. Without them and their support, I'm not sure what would have happened.

That's the great illusion of life. Though we're brought up, especially as men, to be rugged individualists, we are really part of a web of people. At times, we need that web to help support us, and that's okay because at times, we form the part of the web that helps support others.

In that way, our hands become, for lack of a better phrase, the hands of God, with support both freely given and freely accepted when we need it.

No matter how bad things are, the simple fact of the matter is, you are most likely not alone. The trick is to recognize that and accept the support.