Kobayashi Maru

As most of you know, the long weekend in Canada has come and gone already. And my US based passengers just enjoyed it this last Monday. Something in the Canadian psyche requires them to do things like this. May long weekend is one week earlier than the States. July 4th? We do that on July 1st. Thanksgiving is a whole freaking month earlier. It’s amusing in its consistency. But that is not the point of this post…

I spent the Canadian May long weekend with the Muppet’s Godfather. The godfather and I have been tight friends for years. He was there for us when our nice tidy little life fell apart and went all to hell. And we walked with him and his wife through the loss of his son. Neither of these things were especially fun, but walking that path with someone when it isn’t your path to walk…well, that is the true measure of friendship.

The godfather and I went up to Grand Forks where he (and I to some extent) has been building a cabin for some time now. And I do admit that calling that structure a cabin is like calling Texas a little state. It qualifies as freaking huge. We have been working on it for like 5 years, going up whenever we get time on a weekend or vacation break. As it stands now, all four walls are up and the roof is on. All the windows are in as well. There is still much work to be done on the interior – electrical, plumbing and finishing work and the like. But this weekend we did not so much as lift a hammer. That was not the point really. There was no agenda when we got there. No list of things that needed to get done, or ought to get done really. Sure we thought getting a good long horseback ride in at some point would be nice, but it was okay if we didn’t. We went just to go.

Ok, so maybe we took his 12 gauge tactical shotgun with us. And maybe a box or two of quality ammo made the trip as well. But outside of a strong desire to assert our dominance over nature through explosive projectile weaponry, we really did not have a schedule – we would get there on Saturday morning and leave sometime on Monday (after all we did have to go to work on Tuesday). SO Saturday morning we left and started the trip to GF. It was awesome. It was a bit like living in a Seinfeld episode – a trip about nothing. And just as much fun (but no soup Nazi.)

Saturday we made a fire and sat around it. Then we finally got up and picked up the tactical 12 gauge (which I simply HAVE to say, is a sweet gun. It holds 6 rounds plus one in the chamber and is a pump action to boot.) and went to see how well we could shoot shit that we threw up in the air. We actually went looking for squirrels, but after the last few years of such behavior, there simply weren’t any to be found. Seriously, in 3 days we saw/heard NO squirrels. But we sure taught the cardboard boxes that the shells came in a big lesson. One they will not soon forget let me assure you!

After we ran through most of the ammo without taking the life of any of God’s creatures (somewhat to our chagrin admittedly), the godfather pulled out his finely honed hatchet. The one with the razor sharp blade that you could shave with (if you were into that…and if shaving somehow made it onto the priority list of a guys weekend away in the bush). It was then that we decided to throw said hatchet at a makeshift wooden target for sport. It soon became a contest, as such thing do when two guys do something, and we started keeping score – cause really, what’s the point of doing something if you don’t have a definitive winner. (not that it matters, but I won both contests at both close and distance throwing. No one really cares about such things I know. So I’m not sayin’…I’m just sayin’.) That night we played 2 full games of farkle – it’s a dice game. Not that it matters, but I won 2 out of 3. Again, not that it matters.

We slept in on Sunday until 9am – which is pretty much unheard of when we go camping, but hey we did it this time cause there was nothing pressing to get up for. But once we got up we started a campfire again and sat around it. Finally we decided to drive into town and the godfather got a hankering for rum and coke (which, of course, is a beverage that God smiles on), so he obtained some Appleton Jamaican rum from a local distributor and we went back to the cabin, to make another fire. There we proceeded to imbibe said rum and coke for the rest of the afternoon.

So why do I tell all this? Do I really think that you care about the exact details of the weekend? Naw, I honestly hope that most of you do have more of a semblance of a life than that.  Is it just so that I can casually mention that I WON…not that it matters? Naw That’s all build up. That’s called setting the stage my friends.

You might even wonder why this post is out of order chronologically – it should have gone up before the ToT post since it happened a week earlier. Well, sometimes you have to mull on something a while. Sometimes you have an experience and you have to wait for a context to tell it in. And sometimes your wife takes the laptop with her when she travels to Texas and you have no computer at home to work on.   Whatever the case, I am getting to the story now.

I feel that one of the most over-looked things to most of us is true rest and leisure.  God himself took the 8th day off.  Now, while do not know for sure what He did with that day…I am more than happy to speculate.  I think He simply sat back in a recliner and enjoyed what He had created by watching it.  Sure, he probably cracked open a cold one with J.C. and the Holy Ghost, but not with any kind of agenda.  Just hanging with the boys for the sake of hanging with the boys.  After all, he had already made all the hard decisions…

I honestly think that the art of full body relaxing is being lost.  The godfather and I practiced it for a full couple of days, and I can say with complete integrity that our relationship is better for it.  It required us to talk.  To delve deeply into discussion and that act alone will undo half the things that the devil tries to screw up relationships.   The devil hates relationships.  He abhors intimacy.  Wilfully entering into dialogue with another allows us to “confess our sins to one another“.  Which again, is something that we are loathe to do.  So very few of us actually do that.  Be it fear, shame or whatever that keeps us from it, we do not seem to be comfortable following that particular Scriptural mandate.  And yet, the sheer freedom that comes from it is phenomenal.

I encourage you to go find your cabin.  Go there with your godfather (or whatever nickname your friend has) and just be.  Be in the presence of one another.  Have no agenda.  Sure, take some quality libations if you want (and some nice mixers).  But just go.  Take a board game.   Take a weapon and targets.  Take some cards.  Whatever.  Just don’t take: agendas, to do lists, or expectations.  See if you even CAN just be.  Then let me know how it went.

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I ended the week with some very cool things. On Thursday I left work a bit early and drove with a buddy to Vancouver (at a rate of speed that kept our guardian angels desperately trying to keep up with us - Hamie thinks he channels freakin Speed Racer when he gets behind the wheel). I spent an evening with some friends and flew back to K-town early the next morning. I spent the late night with Q-Tip and G-string (yeah, I’m using the Badger’s suggestion - he wins the contest.) He is a great man and it was so good to see him - it always is. It was the best thing I have done in quite a while.

An evening of God, Guinness and Goa. Theology on Tap. Basic premise: Get an group of folks together at one of the very best pubs in the world and bring in a wizened man (David Goa) to pontificate on some deep spiritual issues from an orthodox background, and drink Guinness and/or Johnny Walker Blue. Then open the floor for discussion and allow friends to break out into groups to discuss where they agreed, where they fully disagreed and where it caused them to think deeply. It was incredible. I have spent the last few days mulling over the things that were said and discussed. Part of me feels like blogging about it will actually diminish it in some ways…and the other part of me doesn’t give a rat’s ass because everyone should really do something like this often and with regularity.

So I give you some quotes and personal thoughts from the evening. (This will work better if you pour a cold one, or a double scotch and enjoy it while you read. My southern baptist readers can have some grape juice and pretend it’s communion wine - Go ahead, I’ll wait. Ready? Good.)

There was lots but the two things that I have been chewing most deeply on were:

ONE: “It is dangerous to read Biblical texts alone. It is too powerful and you are too foolish to even hope that your interpretation of the very words of God is correct. Biblical texts are meant to be read with 10 people there, so that by definition you are forced to “enter in” to dialogue.

TWO: Christianity is not a moral religion. It is about renewal of our minds, not about adherence to a set of rules. Moral systems are the source of our judgment - NOT the basis of our salvation. It is less about morals and more about virtue - how we come to wholeness. Morality is heresy (yeah he called it heresy) because it reduces transformation of spirit to a set of rules of behavior. Morality is heresy because it’s a substitute for a relationship with Christ. (and my personal favorite) Morality is to Christianity as a condom is to venereal disease - we use it for protection.

Ok, everybody awake now? Yeah,that last thing got my eyes open as well as my mouth hanging open. It was one of those fart in church lines. Everything kinda stopped for a bit and then we giggled.

SO…I am going to open up the phone lines here for a bit. I will get into my personal perspective on his talk, but first I wanted to “enter in” to dialogue with any passengers who feel the itch to talk. All the lines are clear and we’ll start with caller one…

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Ever read the Wittenburg Door? Here’s a piece by Ole Anthony, Issue #198, March/April 2005

Maybe you’ve heard about the Dallas Project, a program we started in 1987 to address the problem of homelessness.

But then again, it’s more likely that you haven’t. It’s been a big bust.

Actually, it’s only our effort to get other groups involved that’s busted. The methodology itself of a small group of people taking responsibility for a homeless person or family does work. We’ve experienced it for 20 years.

But it’s a hard sell.

The Dallas Project concept is that if every church, synagogue, mosque and temple in America were to take in just one or two homeless persons or families, homelessness in America would be eradicated overnight.

This method is effective precisely for the reason that welfare programs do not work: the interaction is human, not programmatic. Rather than further alienating welfare “clients,” we draw them into a caring community, which is what they desperately need both psychologically and spiritually.

When our community agreed this was a priority, it was a transforming moment for us. Some of our families have had a succession of people living in their homes for years. Hundreds of needy folks have received help.

But more importantly, their presence has provided a way for us—and our kids—to escape the selfishness that permeates our culture, and ourselves.

Still, only a few Dallas churches picked up on this idea. For the most part, congregations politely said “No thank you” and went back to whatever they imagined their real mission was.

Except for the occasional Thanksgiving meal or handout, most congregations feel the homeless and the poor are the responsibility of government and social welfare professionals.

This attitude reminds me of an incident that has recurred over the years around our neighborhood. A stray cat wanders by. Someone feeds it with no intention of taking responsibility for it, then later is surprised to find the cat crying outside their door. This infuriates me, because it reminds me of people who run into a homeless person or someone with a need, then give him a few dollars and send him away. Or worse, they bring them to us, or drop them off at some “agency.”

This is not much different than the example in James of the man who tells the poor “Be warmed and filled” without doing anything for them. Sure, the kitty is glad to get some food at the moment. The homeless person is grateful for the handout, no doubt. But both of them really need something different.

I’m ashamed to say that occasionally we’ve had to force a congregation to take responsibility.

One woman and her four young children had been living in fear on the streets for almost two years when she came to us. She was in her 30s, attractive and well educated. The problem was that her husband had been severely abusive to her. He was a former policeman and had access to databases through which he could track her down if she applied for any type of assistance.

After they had been with us for several weeks, she happened to mention her church in a prosperous area of the city. I was dumbfounded. Why was she homeless if she was part of a church community?

I called her pastor, but he was only mildly interested in helping. I was so furious that I didn’t trust myself to say anything.

I immediately called the leader of the church’s denomination. He took my call immediately and I explained the plight of one of his flock. I then asked him if he was familiar with our work. He said that he was, and gushed about how much he appreciated what we were doing to expose religious fraud, etc. We discussed what her local church had proposed and he seemed satisfied with that solution.

I then told him that unless his denomination provided a safe and secure place for this young woman to raise her children, he would have more negative publicity about his denomination than the worst televangelist.

Within a couple of weeks, a district court legally changed her name and social security number so her ex-husband could no longer find her, the denomination bought her a home, and a church adopted her and her family. The national church body also established a fund for her and her children.

That was a happy ending. But we shouldn’t have to engage in that kind of manipulation. So here’s the deal:

Since religious people seem to think that the poor are solely the government’s concern, I have a modest proposal (with apologies to Jonathan Swift). Nationally, there are more than 1.3 million churches, synagogues, mosques, temples and other 501(C)(3) organizations, most of which have meeting human need in their charters. Donations to them are tax deductible. At any given time there are about 600,000 homeless people, most of them in big cities.

Let each city council reinstate their anti-vagrancy and panhandling laws. But instead of placing the violators in jail, take them to the nearest abandoned military base. (Surely some of the billions of dollars the government is already spending on the homeless could be used to repurpose these facilities to include drug and alcohol treatment centers and medical facilities). Each of the 501 (C) (3) organizations in the area would be placed on a list and assigned one or more of the persons or families who are in custody, assigned proportionally according to each group’s income.

Groups of 10 to 20 people in each organization would be responsible for the welfare of that individual or family. They would provide housing, help them find a job and medical, dental or legal assistance or face revocation of their charitable tax exemption by the IRS.

Don’t like my proposal? Think government shouldn’t intrude into these matters? Then instead, let’s all start obeying the clear words of Jesus to love our neighbor as ourselves.

I suppose that we could read this and go - “Yeah!” and then go back to our lives. Or you can go to your pastor (unless of course you are the pastor, and then just go to your mirror) and ask the hard question…”Who are we specifically and holistically helping get off the street and back into society?” “Who have we provided permanent housing for in the last year. 2 years, 5 years?”

Ok, this is much too convicting and I need to go read something that makes me feel better about myself and my church and our theology in general in North America…

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I know that it is late in the day, but it is still Mother’s Day and so I am taking the moment to write a little sumthin. And let’s be clear that I AM NOT DOING THIS SIMPLY BECAUSE Badger did it first. Sure, he technically got his up on his blog first, but what’s a technicality between friends?

This is the 2nd mothers day that we have celebrated with Ferf as a mommy. Sure, it’s the 36th that I’ve celebrated with MY MOM as a mother, so I do have a lot of practice at it. But celebrating mother’s day from the perspective of being a father is relatively new to me. I’ve now done it twice, and let’s be honest, the first time was quite a blur. But here is what I do know…

I am constantly amazed at the fact that the Muppet even exists. She is a wonder; a verifiable miracle actually (in fact she verifies it each and every day.) And Ferf is the most amazing mom in the world (apologies to my mother, since obviously SHE IS ALSO FREAKIN AMAZING.)

I remember when Ferf and I got married…she made it exceptionally clear to me that she was not the mothering type. In fact, she let me know that as a professional woman with a law degree, her main focus was being a wife and future CEO. (Emphasis was on wife first, which is nice) But mother was not a title she aspired to. She explained with clinical precision that she had absolutely no maternal instincts, and her prophetic leanings suggested that she never would! Fast forward 6 years, and she decided that maybe, just maybe, she might have the tiniest nigling little tingle of maternal potential pooling somewhere in the sub-cockles of her heart.

The amazing thing was that as fetal Muppet grew so did Ferf’s desire to be a mommy. We decided that Ferf would be a stay at home mom when Muppet was born, and Ferf has never once regretted that decision. She loves her days filled with Muppet-esque things, be they Dora related or otherwise intended to amuse a 2 year old. She does look forward to adult conversations and social interactions, but at the same time can sing every song from almost every episode of Dora and the Backyardigans, as well as the intro songs from like 15 different cartoons.

She is the epitome of mommy. She is the standard by which mommy-isms are judged and I love her so much. Not just because of the mommy stuff, I loved her just as much when we were DINKs. But watching her be a mom is something that constantly leaves me in awe.

That brings us to today…Mother’s Day 2007. Today was, according to Ferf, the greatest mother’s day ever. And for the purposes of confession, that was because today, Ferf had two husbands. Ok, take a breath…just cause our church closed down a bit, does not mean that we have taken up polygamy - in practice nor concept. BUT, when a Badger is in town and staying at your house on Mother’s Day, well, your wife will take full advantage of that fact - if not of him. So today was all about Ferf and what she wanted. And she wanted a hell of a lot. So much that it took two husbands to fulfill her wishes. Moving, plumbing, minor construction, renovating, woodworking, breakfast-in-bed (ok, maybe not that cause she was up so freakin early, but it was on the schedule originally), taxi servicing and cooking and Chinese food purchaser. All of which was of such size and substance that it took both Badger and I to complete it. There was some consummation involved too, but that did not require the Badger’s input (rest easy Goddess). It did inspire some conversation about the concept of multiple spouses though. Everyone always immediately thinks multiple wives when they think about polygamy, but what about 2 or more husbands? That is a little strange to think about. That would take some serious meshing of personalities. Not sure it could be done really. (Not to mention that the woman would have to be a serious nymphomaniac. But Ferf said that the household project and “honey-do list” part of it would TOTALLY ROCK. Hell, she would even think about it, if I could get past the whole sharing my wife or becoming bi-sexual thing and she could get past the whole moral and ethical issues (and vice versa for each of us really). If it weren’t for that, then she’d be all over it.

But as it is, she will be completely content sharing the Badger’s newly acquired renovating and construction skills at least once a year. And I am always happier when my Badger is around. My life enjoyability quotient goes off the chart when he’s here. So thank you my Dogger (he was a dogger before he was a badger, so every now and then I reserve the right to call him that), thank you for sharing yourself on this Mother’s Day. Thank you for being not only my brother and my friend, but for being my wife’s other husband for the day. Now we have polygamy to share as well - if only for a day and if only in concept. Still, we got it! Add it to the list.

And Ferf, you are my world. Happy Mother’s Day. You make my every day happy.

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Even though the last post got me a eerie silence from the passengers of the Maru (not that I hold that against you, just stating the obvious), I saw this on CNN (yes, I do occasionally find myself on the pages of CNN, after all they have to be right at least some of the time in the accuracy of their reporting) and thought, “gosh, people ought to read this. People ought to think about it. People ought to have another chance to comment on a topic like this on my blog.”

So here it is for you.

Whatever life we get is bonus

The following post is written by Miles Levin, a young cancer patient profiled on tonight’s “360.” Miles’ personal blog can be read at www.carepages.com , page name “LevinStory.”

Looking through my living room window, I suspect being outside would feel wonderful, but I really wouldn’t know. As I write this from my bed, my entire body feels saturated in a sticky, toxic nausea, with chemotherapy pumping through my 18-year-old veins. Like Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, chemotherapy has this strange way of moving a person another step towards life and death at the same time.

Twenty three months ago, I was diagnosed with stage IV rhabdomyosarcoma, a rare pediatric muscle cancer affecting only 350 children a year. With odds like that, and with a 20 percent chance of survival, I can only deduce two possibilities about the universe: God’s plan is evident in every little shifting of the breeze, or it’s totally random. I don’t see how there could be much middle ground.

I remember my first chemo round, staring at the ceiling and trying not to cry. The agony was stunning. I’ve long since learned to go ahead and cry. How could this have happened? Yet as with anything that happens, it happens, and then suddenly you find it has happened, and more things keep continuing to happen. Chemotherapy has instilled in me a visceral understanding that all bad things will pass in time … but that all good things will too.

I set out on a 19-month course of treatment, chronicling the journey on an online blog. Little did I know that my little Web site intended to keep extended family and friends informed would find readers all across the country and even the world, including such countries as Japan, Australia, Germany, Brazil.

My journey became our journey, with treatment finishing last December. For a brief, hopeful month in January, it appeared to have been successful. My scans were clear. But, as is so common with cancer, there were still sub-detectable rogue cells lurking in distant corners of my body. Within weeks, they swarmed forth again and my body was infested once more.

A recurrence of my kind of cancer has been hitherto incurable, although I still cling to a slim ray of hope. But in all likelihood, I am in the last few months of my short life.

Unlike many cancer patients, I don’t have much anger. The way I see it, we’re not entitled to one breath of air. We did nothing to earn it, so whatever we get is bonus. I might be more than a little disappointed with the hand I’ve been dealt, but this is what it is. Thinking about what it could be is pointless. It ought to be different, that’s for sure, but it ain’t. A moment spent moping is a moment wasted.

I accept what is to come, but I cannot rid myself of a deep mourning for all those experiences — college, marriage, children, grandchildren — that will probably never be mine to celebrate. What solace I do find is in the knowledge that I have done everything I can to transmute this terribleness into something positive by showing as many people as I can how to endure it with a smile.

I don’t believe you can ask for any more, but if I could ask for something, it would be to be able to go outside into the glorious spring air, feeling healthy and blissfully clueless as to how lucky I was for it, if only just for an hour.

– By Miles Levin, Guest Blogger

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In the last few years I have had the privilege and honour to walk with two friends through the difficult process of each of them having a child die. One was well into the second trimester and one was a son around 20 years old. Both fathers were crushed and deeply wounded. Both were caught off guard by how quickly the plans for tomorrow ended. Ferf and I have spoken at great length about the concept of dying suddenly as opposed to knowing it is coming (all three of our parents who passed away did so after long illnesses). I believe that even when you know it is coming, when it finally does come, you are always caught off guard by how quickly it comes. For those who have the knowledge of their own pending death, I think it is an opportunity to learn how to die well. It is interesting to me that we spend so much time learning to and trying so hard to live well, but we are never really taught to die well. This is truly unfortunate because, it turns out, that dying is not a solo sport. It is a team event. It affects everyone – family, relatives, friends, etc. Ferf has said over and over again that amongst all the life lessons that she passed on, her mom taught her how to die well. Taught her what it is really all about.

It is about giving up the dubious comfort of the earthly, of human appearances where everything works or seems to. It’s about giving up on the superficial, in order to go way down below. It’s about the willingness or necessity of being wiped out of what you think holds you together, to face a benevolent annihilation, without all the stuff that you think defines you, the stuff where we live, which we think is reality. Because you have to give up some false stuff to get to the true.

Personally, I think it is a terrible system. I think they should let you have your true authentic healed whole self and the cool car. I think you should get to have an awareness of the eternal now and washboard abs. But as a species, we’re pumped full of the longing for more. We need more. We need to think about to morrow for better security, to ensure that the race will go on, to guarantee the system keep running. And all this worrying about tomorrow, it runs roughshod over the fragile material of the soul. The bottom line is that it is more thunderous and more compelling than the parts of us that are free, that we lived in and were surrounded by when we were in the womb, unattached, full of light. We quickly forget that as we grow up, and call it “learning”.

As Jesus said from the cross (OK, so I’m paraphrasing), “Look, you’re a human, you’re basically FUBARed, you’re in desperate need of grace. And you will die, much like I am dying up here. But we can surrender: We can commend our spirit into my father’s hands. We need to forgive everyone first, though, because we don’t want to die angry, like other people I could mention …” (I love that He didn’t name names. I love that Scripture does not read: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do, except for that awful Tex, who in 2,000 years will usually know exactly what he was doing EVERY FREAKIN TIME HE DID WRONG. But We’ll forgive him anyway, but only because You said to.“)

Jesus opened himself up entirely to the fear and suffering even though he would have preferred a little something from Column B. He said, “If it is possible, let this cup pass from me,” but he kept his eye on the prize, which was feeling loved by God, which is new life. And he let people he loved keep him company in his suffering, which is about as radical a concept as I can imagine. I seriously don’t want people’s company when my life is falling apart. That is precisely when I prefer total alone time. (Cause then I can also bitch about how nobody’s there for you when life sucks and the fit hits the shan.)

But when the 2 friends of mine opened up to me and showed this willingness to have companionship as they suffered through the greatest loss of their lives, it indicated that at some point they found themselves involved with material that enabled them to hook onto something bigger than the grasping, crying “I.” They plugged in to all of life that surrounds us, that shimmers with loss and light and movement, the very broth of creation, the salty, the sweet, what’s real, the light and the shadows, the blackness, the cold, the streams of warmth, the little floaty things that we aren’t sure what they are, but you know God put them there for a reason.  In that moment (which is much longer in time than “moment” sounds) they were able to tap into it, fully embrace it,  and drink deeply from it.

Here’s the real bitch about it: I SO wish you didn’t have to feel so f-ing stressed to do this, but you do. You do because you have to do it when you’re not acting. It happens when you’re raw, in grief and withdrawal, when you have to shut down into the depths entirely. Catastrophe puts us in the situation of even being able to think, “This is so shitty and I hate this so much…but if I hang out here without armor or drugs or my personal coping mechanisms, then being here will shine a dark light onto the garish distracting stuff, and then past it, and onto what is maybe true.”

Being at the end of your rope is usually what it takes to convince your ego — your little armed Brinks guard — to say, “Hey! We can throw all this shit off the side of the boat! We’ll be fine.” And under normal circumstances, NOTHING in you is going to believe that for a second (which is why it can be a gift to be in crisis). The crap gets thrown overboard, and you come to with that having happened. It is a bit like the whole Jonah and the Whale story. Everything is in turmoil until you throw the shit overboard. And for most of us, in the midst of turmoil, we clutch tighter and tighter to our stuff. Our emotions, our feelings, our preconceived notions of personal strength, our habits, our coping mechanisms – and all the while God is saying, “this isn’t about coping damnit! (because when He’s really ticked off at us for being stupid, He says damnit) This is about not being able to cope. About letting go of everything that you think you can find comfort and solace in and discovering that true comfort comes from totally not being in control. And nothing is more out of your control than death – yours or someone else’s. It is the final test of faith. And that is what it’s all about really.

Our entire existence and time spent in this meat-suit, is about whether or not we can let go and have faith in God when everything around us screams into our ears that no God would allow (insert personal emotional tribulation) to happen. Though I find it funny that somehow people think they know what GOD would or wouldn’t do. Like there is a rule book that God has to follow and while they were on their way to the store to buy some tofu, they found it lying in the parking lot. And now that they’ve read it, they have the scoop on the limits of God and what He will or won’t do. And if those things happen, then there is obviously no God – but then what does that make the rule book they found!?? Who wants a God that is that easily packaged? The best line from the whole Chronicles of Narnia series of books was when Lucy was talking to Mr. Beaver in reference to Aslan:

“Is he safe?”

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King.

Anyway, I digress…I guess my point is that when the world comes crashing down on you (and it will), when you lose what you feel is the most precious thing ever to you (and you will), when it seems like there is no way out (and it will) THAT is precisely the time that we need to be open to the fact that we need others.  And though I started this post by referencing physical death, I want to go on record acknowledging that there are many types of death. Dreams die, plans die, financial loss is a form of death, in fact the loss of anything that is of serious value to you is a form of death. That is when we need friends the most. That is what the proverbial band of brothers is for. Do you have a groups of people that you trust enough to allow them to rally around you in the inky blackness of the unknown. When everything that you put some form of trust in is crashing down around you as a false idol, can you invite them to be there with you in the midst. When you seriously fook something up royally, can you admit it to them and tell them the whole story and allow the truth of a mistake to see day light? THAT is dying well too. Solitary confinement is the worst form of punishment, and yet the most frequently self imposed discipline that we have as humans. We tend to pull that particular punitive measure out of our tool box FIRST!

But that is precisely when we need to embrace the divine in others and allow them to share that with us. Verily Verily I say unto thee - be sure that they will probably in some way screw that opportunity up. They will say something they shouldn’t or do something they ought not to, or maybe they will just start to piss you off cause their lfe is so freaking good compared to yours - WHATEVER. The point is that while you are looking for the divine in them, they themselves are not divine. But that is okay. In fact it is what makes it okay. We need others. It is not good for man (OK, or woman) (ok, ok, or those who are confused as to which they are) to be alone. This is where we learn everything that burns off the dross. This is where we skim the bubbling surface to purify the remaining part of us. This is the part that matters. This is why dying well matters. Living well is easy under the right circumstances…dying never happens under the right circumstances, that is why doing it well is SO IMPORTANT.

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p.s. In case you are reading this Mom- no, I’m not dying…I’m not even sick.

...Comment [2]

So as promised to everyone in the virtual office. I give you, in all of his glory, the world famous VooDoo Bob:

For those not who are not co-workers in the Virtual Office, give me enough reasons and I can give you the history on VooDoo Bob as well. But ONLY if the requests are of sufficient number and worth - to be judged solely by me with some input from VooDoo Bob.

...Comment [1]