For Want Of A Nail

For want of a nail, a shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe, a horse was lost.
For want of a horse, a rider was lost.
For want of a rider, a battle was lost.
For want of a battle, a war was lost.
All for the want of a nail.

Today, it is popular to say, "Don't sweat the small stuff!"  Like many cliches, I think it depends on the perspective.  As you can see from my lead-in, whoever first wrote these lines understood the need to sometimes examine the "small stuff".

A couple of the schools, that I serve with my bus, have metal covered walkways between buildings and from one door to another.  In the spring of the year, barn swallows have taken to building their nests in the rafters, above the lights, and anywhere else they feel safe.  Some folks, adults and children, pay them no mind.  I love them.  They work so hard to build secure nests and lay their eggs.  As near as I can tell, both parents take part in sitting on the nest and in feeding the hatchlings.  They don't seem to have many enemies who can reach the nests and I enjoy watching fuzzy heads raise up to greet a feeding.  Most new sparrows have left the nest by now, but there are still a few left hatching and feeding.  Here is the small thing that has me a bit disturbed.  Today, these walkway covers were being pressure washed; birds, nests, fledglings, and all.  It is just a small thing.  The world won't miss a few more sparrows, will it?  I can't help but wonder, why couldn't this job be left for a couple more weeks?  Didn't anyone care or not want to "sweat the small stuff"?

You already know that I have a very liberal bent.  What you also ought to know is that for these couple of examples, there is at least one other side, but neither side causes many folks to sweat the small stuff.

In Columbine, Colorado, two students killed or wounded more than 30 at a high school before committing suicide.  From my view point, if guns were very much harder to obtain, perhaps this tragedy would not have occurred.  It is hard to imagine hacking that many to death with bayonets!  Still we continue to argue over gun control.  Most would say, "It wouldn't happen here.  Why sweat the small stuff?"

We sit in Congress and vote to tell a woman what she legally can and cannot do with her body.  I may be rare, I just don't know, in that I would not support abortion as an easily available means of childbirth prevention, but I absolutely would not put myself in the position of trying to tell any woman what she may or may not do in regards to abortion and her own body.  This has to be a choice between the woman, her doctor, and her God.  Yet, since abortion decisions do not and will not be a part of most of our lives, we are unwilling to make a strong statement or take a firm stand.  We just don't "sweat the small stuff."

School bullying can be terribly destructive (witness the docu-drama just lately at the theater - well worth seeing if you have a chance).  Most of us would say, "my son (or daughter) isn't a bully," or "my son isn't being bullied," or "I don't even have kids in school," or "don't we pay people to look after things like that?"  If it doesn't directly impact us, we just don't "sweat the small stuff", although we might well begin to prepare for another Columbine.

I can't bring about world peace, but I can be more friendly to one person.  I can't stop world hunger, but I can see that one more child is adequately fed each day.  I can't save every sparrow, but I can write a letter explaining the problem as I see it - maybe the solution is as simple as nicely calling attention to the problem.  I can't help but feel that the world would slowly, but surely, become a better place if we all find an appropriate way to "sweat the small stuff."

Considering Numbers

The hours that most folks are asleep bring very little peace to me.  I know others who battle depression who have the same type of nights, either awake in the dark or nightmares.  Frankly, since my nightmares scare me (and have been known to cause me to attack Sara in her sleep and to dive off the bed, face first, into the nightstand trying to fight it), I would rather be awake.  Sometimes I read.  Sometimes I let my mind ramble and just go wherever it might take me.

In the very wee hours of the morning today, I thought.  First, I thought about the state of my prostate.  Even though I have a good friend who has just lately been diagnosed with prostate cancer, a digital exam is not something that one just rejoices in having done.  Then I tried to remember all that I know about Alzheimer.  This was probably triggered by a James Garner movie that Sara and I watched together yesterday afternoon.  I either don't know much or I can't remember what I know.  Given the topic, I hope that its just that I don't know much! After thinking through those two things, my mind drifted to the consideration of numbers.

I thought about the number 14, as in May 14, and the fact that I am now officially 67 years old.  When I was 30, that seemed really OLD!  Now that I have reached that age, it doesn't seem too old at all.  Actually, having a wife in her 60s and children in their 40s makes me feel older than just being 67.  How could I possibly have reached such a dreadful state!  Where did that young chick and cute kids disappear to?

What if I had a million dollars!  I have some concept of what I could buy with a million.  I drive through neighborhoods, each day, where the value of houses range pretty close to that figure, plus or minus.  But, say I didn't want to buy a million dollar house.  How many new cars would I be able to buy if I went to my local Ford dealer and spent the whole wad on cars?  How many hungry people could I feed if I donated it all to a charitable organization?  You see what I mean?  It is the same million dollars, but the concept of spending it can become mind boggling based on where you do that.  Now, I thought, what if I had a billion dollars?  How many million dollar houses could I buy?  The arithmetic of trying to figure how big of a neighborhood I could own made my eyes cross.  I don't ever expect to have a million dollars and certainly not a billion, so I decided not to worry about those numbers any more either.

Then I got to thinking about family and friends in heaven.  I really don't like crowds, but, in all modesty, I fully expect all the angels and saints to rejoice when I finally get there.  The problem becomes one of numbers.  I really want to rejoin people I have known and loved on this side of the divide.  How am I going to find them among the whole crowd of saints waiting to shake my hand and pat my back?  Maybe God will allow me to do it like testing a strange swimming pool.  Maybe I can just stick a toe into heaven and see if I recognize anyone first.  Since I don't have an answer to that number problem nor do I know anyone who might, I shifted my thinking to a really big number... eternity!

When I get to heaven, I want to be one of the loudest voices in singing praises to God.  In fact, I am now.  I can't help but notice that folks at church, when I really start belting out praise songs, tend to move a bit more away from me, undoubtedly so that they can capture the full nuances of my voice.  So, as I am still laying awake in bed, here's where I started to worry about eternity.  I certainly enjoy singing and I don't know what heaven might have in store, but I'll tell you, a whole eternity of having to listen to my own singing might grow just a tad bit tedious.  Maybe I'll get to choose several different means of praising the Lord.  David danced naked.  Maybe I could volunteer for that.

The next two numbers I considered were 4:15 a.m. and 21.  4:15 a.m. is the time that the alarm goes off to get me out of bed, usually just as I have finally drifted off to sleep.  21 is the number of days left that I have to set the alarm and actually get out of bed.  As I turned off the alarm and drug myself out of bed, I was thinking that the next time I have a really great nightmare, I'll blog about it.  I just know that you will be waiting with baited breath!

The Man In Line

The line is long and I am very hot, tired, and thirsty.  Yet, I am much better off than some.  For all those in front of me, there are as many and more behind.  It was luck that I got here as soon as I did.  I heard the rumor as it spread and came running to see if it was true.

At least, standing in this line, I am not crowded.  No one will get near me.  I have had this cursed disease almost as long as I can remember.  I long so very much for the touch of human hands.  The last person that I can remember holding me was my mother when I was a small child.  I have no pain except within my own being.  Besides not being able to hug and hold anyone, the worst part is having to shout "unclean" wherever I go.  I don't feel unclean, just very godforsaken.  What did I do to ever deserve a life such as this?  I pray every day for God to either cure me or to end my life.

As I look around the line, there are not many well people to be seen.  Many are on canes or missing limbs or sight.  I saw a very strange sight earlier.  Four friends were carrying a fifth man on a cot.  They were so afraid that they wouldn't get to the head of the line, they carried the cot to the roof top of the house, dug a hole through the roof, and lowered their friend through the hole.  Just moments later, the man on the cot came running from the house jumping and shouting.  His friends could barely keep up with him.  Going ahead of others caused a bit of an uneasy stir in the line, but most of us have learned, because it was necessary, to be very patient.

I once heard the man in the house speak to a large crowd.  I couldn't get very close because of my disease, but I felt that he could look into my eyes, even at a distance, and see my belief in his words of love and healing.  Some say that this man is the son of God.  They say that he has performed mamy miracles, even raising the dead.  I believe that he can and will help me, if only I can get to him.

The line moves slowly.  I count as I get closer to the door.  There are only a dozen people ahead of me now.  Where once I waited hours, I am now down to just minutes.  Only three more people ahead of me and I feel my spirits lift.  I watch healed persons leave through the same door that they entered sick and lame.  Only one more person ahead of me now!  It is next my turn!

It is my turn!  I step forward to go into the darkened room.  Just as I take my step, a strong arm stops me.  It is placed across the door keeping me from entering.  A big, burly man announces, "The Master is tired.  You will have to see him another day."

See him another day!  How can this be?  I have prayed for so long.  I have stood in this line for so long.  I do not know where I might see him again or if I will even have the strength to do so.  How can this man, some say is God, be tired.  Doesn't he hear my prayers?  Doesn't he know of my woes?  Can't he feel my sorrow?  Doesn't he even care?

My Family

Let me tell you about my family.  I have tons of siblings.  There is one father for all of us.  I know he must be famous because he's had lots of books written about him.  In fact, the best seller of all times is about him.  Some of my brothers, who claim to know him best, say that he is very loving to all his children, at least that's what some of us have been taught to understand.  But, let me tell you about some of my family members.

Akira used to live near Sendai, Japan.  In March, 2011, a gigantic earthquake hit the area, causing a horrible tsunami.  The small factory, that Akira and his family owned, was completely erased.  His home was flattened.  Akira lost several family members and more than a few friends.  He wasn't even able to recover the family Bible, a treasure of several generations.  Luckily, Japan is an advanced country, so Akira's life, although greatly changed, will go on.  When I heard the news of my brother's bad luck, I did send him some money and paid for a few of my other brothers to go help with the massive cleanup.

Abu exists (you can't really call it living) in a refuge camp in the Darfur region of Sudan.  He doesn't understand the war that rages around him.  All he knows is that he and his family are never safe.  He heard that his mother had been raped and killed in another camp.  His nephew died of starvation,in his mother's arms, before he was ever able to celebrate his first birthday.  Although Abu mourns, he feels that his nephew might have actually been lucky since there would never have been a life, of any kind, for him.  I sent Abu word that I was shipping some rice and beans for them to eat, some tenting for shelter, and maybe even some medicine.  I let him know that I wouldn't be coming to help myself since it was much to dangerous for me.  I did promise to send him the book about his father, in his own language, so he could read about how much his father loves him.

My sister, Celeste, lives outside of Port au Prince, Haiti.  Since the earthquake two years ago, she and her family have shared a one-room house, made of tin and cardboard, with another family.  There is no kitchen, no bathroom, no running water, no work, no school, not much food nor medical help.  Although they have lived like this for two years, they really can't see a change for the better anywhere in the future.  A Catholic priest sometimes makes the 20 mile trip from the city to hold mass, a celebration of our father's love, but Celeste says that not many people in the camp attend any longer.  I did go down there for a week, all the time I could spend, to help with moving those people with nowhere to live into camps.  I was glad to do it, but I had to get back to my own family, home, and job.  Sometimes I take a moment or two to wonder about how Celeste is doing.

The last time I spoke to Akira, Abu, and Celeste, I reminded them how very much our father loves all his children.  Somehow, I don't think they were paying much attention to me.  I guess that they had other things on their minds.  I promised them that, some day, all of our father's children would have a big reunion.  I got the feeling that they probably weren't too interested in attending.  

Fiction?

Although I am trying to read more non-fiction, my second most favorite thing to do, behind talking to folks, is to read fiction.  I've helped to track down the worst of the serial killers.  I've saved the world from total destruction by catching the bad guys and stopping their evil plans in their tracks.  I've helped to build a great cathedral in Europe.  I've helped Hunter Quatermain find King Solomon's mine.  I've rafted down the Mississippi.  I've helped Ayn Rand to answer the question, "Who is John Galt?".  I've broken wild horses and wooed the fair maidens of the Old West.  This doesn't sound like much good would come from it except to rest and kill time.  However... I am going to quote a couple of things I've read just lately that seem to say, at least to me, that a lot of what I think is fact and not fiction.  Even fiction authors seem to want their protaganists to be real and, once in a while, I like what those characters are and what they have to say.  That said, here we go.

From "Unspeakable" by Sandra Brown:

     His travels had exposed him to different relegions.  He had sampled peyote with a shaman from one of the tribes in Arizona who believed the gods spoke through drug-induced visions.  He had caddied one summer for a golfing rabbi who had talked to him about God's covenents and the promised Messiah.  He had discussed the gospel with a group of Christian seminary students at an outdoor rock concert.
     All believed wholeheartedly that something greater than themselves was directing their destiny.  Something greater than themselves was at least helping them choose the right path.
     Jack didn't know which relegion was valid, or if any of them were.  He couldn't imagine a God who was omniscient enough to create the cosmos only to direct the lives of men with such petulance and caprice.  The reason for natural disasters escaped him.  He didn't comprehend why bad things happened to good folk, or why mankind was forced to suffer pestilence and famine and war.  He wasn't so sure about the whole concept of redemption, either.

From "Booked to Die" by John Dunning:

     Today I'm a mess of contradictory political views.  I believe in human rights.  I believe in due process, but enough is enough.  I'm a fan of a just and swift execution where vicious killers are concerned.  It's just ridiculous to keep a guy like Ted Bundy on death row for ten years.  I hate abortion, but I'd never pass a law telling a woman she couldn't have one.  I believe in the ERA, find it hard to understand why two hunderd years after the Bill of Rights we're still arguing about rights for half our people.  I like black people, some of them a lot.  I supported busing when it was necessary and would again, but there's something about affirmative action that leaves me cold.  You can't take away one man's rights and give them to another, even in a good cause.

Understand, I don't believe or endorse all of this, but the fact that you are reading fiction doesn't mean that you aren't thinking.

Here I Go Again!

As I get older, I find it harder to climb up on my soapbox. As long as I keep reading the newspaper and watching and listening to news reports however, I'm bound to continue to use that platform. Two items have made the local, national, and even international news over the past few days. I feel a strong need to comment on them both. The really good thing about my blog is that I do it mostly for me. If you happen to read it and agree with what I say, that's great. If you don't agree, I sure don't mind hearing from you. If you decide not to read it at all, that's okay too. Its not like I'm trying to make a living writing it.

The local item first. At East Forsyth High School, near Kernersville, a SRO (School Resource Officer - our euphemism for campus cop) broke up a fight by using a Taser on one of the two students involved. An argument began in a classroom and turned into fisticuffs in the courtyard. The SRO, a police officer assigned from the K'ville PD, followed his training and protocol to end the fight, by firing his Taser, when one of the two involved was slow in responding to the SRO's orders to stop. Evidently the weapon used is low-power since, although it knocked the student down, he was able to immediately follow the order to "put your hands behind your back" while on the ground. The K'ville Chief of Police and the school principal have publicly supported the SRO's actions as being correct. That said, I'm very sorry that the action had to be taken. I'm even sorrier that we have to have SROs on each school campus, from elementary through high school. The W-S Journal reports that East Forsyth has about 60 fights per year. That's about one fight every two or three days! The Journal has also reported that there are gang problems at East Forsyth. With that and the fact that we are really growing some big high-schoolers now, I support the SRO 100%. Here's where I have a real problem... both students were black and the police officer was white. S. Wayne Patterson, the president of the W-S chapter of the NAACP said that the "incident is outrageous." He continued that "If racism didn't play a part, then the officer would have talked to the students instead of using his Taser. Anything could have happened to that young man." He is right. The student could have had his head bashed in in the fight, been sliced with a knife, or had much more damage done while the officer was trying to "talk" to them. Race! Race! Race! Why is it I don't find it hard to believe that, if a black officer had tased a white student, under the same circumstances, and the white community had complained, Mr. Patterson would have accused the white community of being racist and defended the officer? As long as our leaders, at any level, use race as the culprit in any and almost every situation, we will never find peace and acceptance among the races.

Now the national and international incident. Four battle Marines will, sooner or later, be identified as those pictured urinating on the bodies of enemy combatants. These Marines, men in size but hardly adults in age, have been shot at, bombed, seen their buddies bodies torn apart by the ravages of war. They have suffered much more than most of us can possibly realize. I lament that the picture was taken and published, but I especially lament the fact that these Marines will be thrown to the dogs. The U.S. imprisons living human beings in Guantanamo and offers them no rights under law. In North Carolina, we debate whether or not a prisoner on death row should be able to use any legal argument in his defense. Many feel that the sooner we put them to death, the better. These are warm, living bodies. Where do we get the right to take the moral high ground and condemn the Marines. I'm in favor of telling the Taliban that, if you don't want the bodies of your folks urinated on, don't put them where they are going to be killed. I'm also very much in favor of keeping our troops where they have much less chance of being killed! During my generation's war, I heard more than once said, "If we catch one of those pajama clad bastards alive, we're going to rip off their heads and shit down their necks." Given what was happening in Vietnam and the U.S., I think I would have joined the line to do just that. Our Marines aren't perfect, but they are the best defense we have. If we grant them the right to kill the living, how can we condemn them for having no respect for the enemy dead? Semper Fi!