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!

From the Flight Deck

The last US combat troops left Iraq in the wee hours of the morning. After years, many dollars, and more than 4,000 lives lost, we are finally coming home. Was it worth it? I wouldn't want to ask that of those who served nor especially those who lost loved ones. However, I do believe that in 10 years, maybe as few as 5 years, the situation in Iraq will not have improved significantly for those still trying to live in the country. John Prine once sang that we were trying to "save Viet Nam from the Viet Namese." What we succeeded in doing was losing some of the best and brightest of my generation, proving that maybe the French Foreign Legion wasn't all that inept after all, and filling a memorial wall in Washington with names. One of the saddest war pictures, to me, is that of the last US helicopter evacuating what few people it could from that Saigon rooftop. The Russians were kicked out of Afghanistan. It is surely only a matter of time before we follow them. Will there ever come a time that we Americans learn that our military can't save the world, that democracy won't work everywhere, and that morals can't be legislated? I pray that time will come, but I don't expect to see it.

On a bit of a lighter side, my dreams are driving me crazy! The other night, I dreamed that I was driving my school bus and, at the same time, delivering the morning newspaper from the bus. What a job! Why can't I dream of reading by the ocean, dating Angelina Jolie, or driving cross-country with the dog? At least delivering papers from a school bus is easier than my dreams of trying to solve computer problems using an archaic language.

Back to some heavier stuff... over the past few weeks, I have been the only adult around when two of my bus students had major melt downs. The first, I found curled up on a bus seat crying. I thought, at first, he was in real physical pain. I found out that he lives in a small house with a single parent, his mother, and with his brother who is barely into his twenties and unemployed, his brother's girlfriend, and their infant child. My guy has no privacy and way more responsibility than he should have at his age. My second student was leaning against a support pillar on the high school bus loading ramp and sobbing as if his heart would break. This is his first year in high school and he is being picked on in gym class. I see this happening and I think of Columbine. I also think that I would like to take a baseball bat to those who are bullying him. In each case, I let the child, and they are still children no matter how hard they try to be grown up, have my contact information and told them I would be available to them 24/7. Neither one has contacted me and I hope that things change, in their lives, so that they don't feel that they need to do so. In the meantime, I'm looking for some kind of training that will make me more able to understand and help them. I hugged them both, but I learned long ago that hugs won't cure the world's ills. Pray for them and for me, if you will.

Please take the time to rejoice in this season. Keep your eyes open for opportunities where a smile, a greeting, or a dollar may make a difference in someone’s life and take that opportunity. I know from past experience, hard learned, that they won't come again.

Merry Christmas!

Steve

I'm ready to come out of the closet. Steve and I love each other. As teenagers, we would never have used that word to describe our relationship, but that's what it has always been, love! Today, he is my brother-in-law, but we are probably closer than most brothers. Steve would do anything in this world for me and I would do the same for him. He knows things about me that I wish that he didn't know, but he is willing to accept me just the same.

We grew up together. He was as comfortable in my family home as I was (probably a bit more since he wasn't too worried about being punished for raiding the refrigerator just before dinner.) Just like real brothers, we had a bunch of disagreements and a couple of fights along the way. It was from Steve I learned that my strong desire to pop someone in the nose with my fist could often be abated by someone having an equal desire to pop me in the nose - and a 4 inch longer reach! This was a lesson that I learned the hard way, but didn't put to much good use in later years. Even though I was known as an exceptionally good looking , student-athlete, it was his tall, skinny old body that took him to All Conference recognition as an offensive lineman (of all things!) You've probably read about swimmers struggling to escape when trapped in a mass of seaweed. I felt the same when I had to practice against Steve with all those long arms and legs. Actually, it was probably more like a meatball trying to escape from a plate of spaghetti!

In the early days, Steve and I didn't put much value on higher education. We both took time off from work and study at someone else's expense. I enjoyed my vacation on campus at NC State while he took a mountain vacation at Appalachian State. Somehow, we both ended up in the Marine Corps and I'm pretty sure that it did both of us some good. It taught us a lot of things about ourselves and what we were capable of doing, with the proper motivation (a motivational form that I appreciate for the results, but not one I ever enjoyed for the technique.) The Marines trained me in Information Technology when it was in its infancy. A college degree wasn't required in those days to advance in the field. All you needed to be able to do was to wire panels, punch cards, and code COBOL programs like a mad man. Surprising no one, except maybe himself, Steve went into sales after the Corps and found that he was very, very good at it. I really believe that, given the opportunity, he could have sold halo polish in hell.

Just lately, I've come to recognize that I've failed him. While I am a loving Liberal, I've somehow allowed him to become a hard headed, right-wing Republican! I suspect that much of the fault can be laid to all the times he got hit in the head playing football! From this, you may rightly infer that we don't talk politics. We have agreed to disagree, which is pretty big on my part since I'm sure he is wrong. To borrow a quote from a Willie Nelson song, we just "talk about the good times we've had and all the good times to come."

Steve is a lot older than I am, a full seven months. I just don't know how much longer his advanced age will let him hold on to life on this earth. I do know this... whichever one of us kicks the bucket first will leave a huge void and ache in the other's heart. Oh well, I am convinced that being a Republican is not enough, in and of itself, to keep you out of heaven, so we will have each other to love for eternity (and I'll probably still be trying to figure out how to get inside of that extra four inch reach.)

La Migra Viene

My brother-in-law, Steve, never reads the comics in the newspaper. There are many days when I think that's all that I should read. Most days, just glancing at the front page makes my blood pressure spike.

Chuck Brodsky is a well known folk singer / songwriter. He calls Asheville, NC home and I've been lucky enough to hear him perform several times. One of my favorite songs, of his, is "La Migra Viene" (the Imigration Police are coming.") It tells of him being a part of an apple picking crew. It's hard work and he isn't nearly as good as his co-workers. Right in the middle of work, a shout goes up, "La migra viene!" and many of his fellow workers and friends jump and run, afraid of being put aboard a big yellow bus and held for deportation.

In an article in today's Winston-Salem Journal, it is reported that Legal Aid of North Carolina "has filed a federal complaint against the N.C. Department of Labor alleging that state labor inspectors have failed to ensure safe working and housing conditions for migrant farmworkers." The filing states that "many migrant housing units are overcrowded, in disrepair and have unsanitary cooking and washing facilities." There are other allegations, but you get the picture.

Speaking for the N.C. Department of Labor, Dolores Quesenberry said, "This letter is just a political stunt to promote a leftist agenda. They're always talking about unregistered camps and horrible conditions, yet they will not provide adresses or locations. If they did, we'd go and inspecct. Instead of playing politics, we need to find solutions to everyday problems and help the hardworking men and women of our agricultural community."

I'm not sure why this would be considered a leftist plot. North Carolina's governor is a Democrat. Does the N.C. Department of Labor really think that those darned leftists believe things would be better if the governor could be discredited and a Republican be elected to office? For myself, I think that Legal Aid probably has valid grounds for the filing. I have friends in farm worker ministry who could take me to camps, like those described, today. Even without those connections, I believe that I could find such camps within a couple of weeks. Why do you suppose it is that NCDL can't find them without someone taking their hand and leading them?

If I was an Hispanic farm laborer, in this country legally, and happened to know that some of my co-workers were undocumented, I believe that I would still run when I heard, "la migra viene" rather than try to prove my legal status from inside jail. I also believe that any NCDL convoy showing up to inspect reported camps would be lead by an ICE bus. How trusting would you be?

Also in today's Journal, Alabama's new imigration law is creating hardship for plant and business owners, schools, and both legal and undocumented aliens. Both legals and illegals are frightened. It seems that it is very hard to prove you are innocent in an environment biased toward believing you guilty until proven innocent just because you are fluent in Spanish.

Getting It Said

It has been 3 months since I last posted to this particular blog. I once saw a pressure cooker explode. I don't want to do that, so I'm climbing back on my soap box while my old knees will still allow me to step that high. At this point, you know that you are going to hear my opinion on something that is really bugging me. If you don't want to read it, class excused. Otherwise, I'd really like to hear your thoughts on some of the things I intend to address over the coming days, weeks, months, years.

ACC used to mean "Atlantic Coast Conference", a onetime conference with a reasonable number of teams (home-and-home schedules were possible for basketball and in football, you were able to play all other conference members) and a certain amount of parity. That went away several years ago with the addition of Boston College, Virginia Tech, and Miami. Now, Syracuse and Pittsburgh are joing the conference. I think that it is not unreasonable to rename the ACC the "All for Cash Conference". Somehow it is hard for me to imagine several bus loads of rabid Syracuse fans trucking south in order to celebrate that well known rivalry between them and Miami. Who is really going to care if Carolina beats Pittsburgh in basketball as long as they can schedule (an up-in-the-air question) and defeat Duke? Several years ago, I chatted with sportscaster, Brent Musburger, when he was in Winston-Salem for a WFU - Duke game. Wake had already beaten Duke at Cameron Indoor and had high hopes and a great team capable of defeating them at home (they did!) Somehow, I don't see anyone other than ESPN3 sending a team to cover the Pitt - Miami basketball game. The latest expansion of the ACC is a done deal and I will learn to live with it. I do have one last question that I would like to propose to the powers that be... where will the conference basketball tournament find a place big enough to play and where will the tickets come from if less are alloted per school?

This one really drives me crazy. The NC State Legislature, in their infinite wisdom, has voted to place a referendum on a state constitutional amendment defining "marriage" as legally being only between a man and a woman (can you say, Pontius Pilate?) Those of you who know me, know where I stand on this and, I promise you, I'll be there to vote next May. What really sticks in my craw is the cost! The Winston-Salem Journal has carried articles for the past few days in which proponents of the vote, opponents of the vote, political analysts, and legal and financial experts have talked about the huge amount of money that will be collected and spent on ads in support of one side or the other. In my state, people are going hungry. At one of my schools, a copy can't be made unless you furnish your own paper. There is not enough school budget to buy copy paper! The Food Bank of Northwestern North Carolina has empty shelves! First responders of all types and educators at all levels are loosing their jobs! Where are our priorities? How can a person spend even a dime on amendment ads when their neighbors are hungry and the teachers of their children cannot adequately prepare for a class that is now too large? If you have an opinion on the amendment issue, I urge you to vote. I urge you to speak up in forums. I urge you to discuss the issue with family and friends. I urge you with all my heart to spend your money, not on TV ads, but on those who can use the help so badly.

I pray in silence and God hears me in silence.

The End

Thoughts tumble in my mind. It seems to me like watching clothes dry in a machine with a glass front door. My thoughts are picked up on the bottom, carried to the top, and then, with a solid "thump", coming crashing back to the bottom. I imagine myself as a hamster in a glass cage. I run and run on the wheel, going nowhere. Once in a while, knowing beforehand that it will be hopeless, I go over to the glass wall peer out and scratch on it, just trying to reach for something different in my life.

I've determined that this will be the last entry in my blog. I grow tired and angry and I don't really feel disposed to share that, over and over, with anyone. Over two years ago, I just knew that God had called me. "Here I am.", I called back and did what I thought I was being asked to do. In the past two years, I've found God to be failing in many ways. There are darn few of "His" children, with whom I have any contact at all, that I care about identifying as my brothers and sisters. Those that I don't know, God seems to not know either.

Here, where we are mostly fed, clothed, warm, and dry: We want to go armed so we can kill. We drive as if we are more important than anyone else and the safety of others, even children in our own cars, can't be our concern. Politically, we try to legislate morality as we see it, telling women what they can and cannot do with their own bodies and telling others who they may and may not love. Financially, we seem to have an "I've got mine and I don't intend to share it." attitude. On Sunday morning, we attend a pep rally for God and then we leave the game to be played by "professional" Christians.

I've always felt that the example of management went a long way in establishing the demeanor of those being managed. If God doesn't care, why should we? Even if I agree that God doesn't cause bad things to happen, how can I deny that, with all of his power, He doesn't do anything to stop them either. Do you stop one child from touching a very hot stove and then allow another child to be badly burned? When a child dies, I don't want to hear that "God has a plan." or that "God must have needed another little angel." Using that logic, God must have a gracious plenty of young angels who have starved to death or been killed in wars.

I fear God. I fear His anger. I fear His indifference. I fear that I will never feel His arms around me. James writes that, if we draw closer to God, He will draw closer to us. The very best that I can do is to approach tentatively. I am not able to run enthusiastically to His arms no matter how much I long to do so.

And so now, I return to my hamster wheel where I'll continue to run and run and get nowhere. I am such a coward that I could never cause harm to myself. On the other hand, there are many times that I ask God for painless release from the tedium and weight of this life. How long must I run in this wheel, my God?

Blessings and MoWing

My granddaughter, Reese, who doesn't turn 6 until the end of this month can teach us all something about blessings. She is really into leading the mealtime blessing. We all hold hands and she prays out loud. She thanks God for as many individual blessings as occur to her (sometimes the blessing goes for an extended time, but always worth paying attention.) On occasion, she has been known to end the blessing by saying, "God, please don't send us any more blessings. We have enough already." From the lips of a child to the heart of this adult; there is a real lesson to be learned here and probably a sermon or two as well.

Since March, I've been MoWing. This isn't a typo, it is the acronym for Meals on Wheels. Since I have a school bus driving gap each day about the same time as MoW delivers, I've managed to find 3 days a week that I can take a route. The blessings are many. It is logical, of course, to figure that some blessings accrue to those receiving the meals. I'm ready to tell you, however, that those blessings don't begin to compare to the blessings that I receive.

First off, I get to work with and for two very special people. Sally McLeod and Anita Abernathy have had plastic surgery... I'm sure because they never stop smiling (is that natural?) They seem to love their jobs and they make all of the volunteers feel needed and valuable. MoW can always use more volunteers (336-721-6910). They begin delivery about 9:30 a.m. and most routes can be completed in an hour to an hour and a half, usually twelve to fifteen stops. MoW will be glad to put you to work one day a month, one day a week, every day, or some combination. They are wonderful about working out a schedule to fit what the volunteers are able to give. So far, I've met volunteers who are old friends from Maple Springs UMC, First Baptist Church, and Old Salem. There are probably others that I know, but our days just haven't overlapped yet.

The folks to whom I deliver meals are just like everyone else in that they have good days and bad. I run mostly the same two or three routes, so I see them at least once a week and sometimes more often. Many have pains. Some try to hide them and some share their anguish. Many are immobile and you can tell that they would like to be working in a garden or on their yards or just walking the aisles of WalMart. Many seem to enjoy the couple of minutes that I visit with them more than the meal itself. They all have life stories and, slowly, I'm hearing them and getting to know the folks as individuals. One wrote a well known, early '60s hit song, sung by one of the "girl" groups. When I see him, I always leave singing it. Some of the professional caregivers that I meet at the homes are all heart and, I believe, would probably work for free if they could and the need was there.

Besides the blessing of getting to know people, God has placed a couple of reminders on my heart. I am never allowed to forget that there are and always will be people in worse circumstances than my own. A day out on a route reminds me that there is always food in my refrigerator. Another blessing dawned more slowly. As you might imagine, some of the neighborhoods are not the best. Though this is true, I began to notice that squirrels still play in the yards and trees and birds sing without regard to their surroundings. This is God's reminder to me that we are all His and are blessed. Sometimes, we just have to open our eyes and ears to know it.

Spittin' Steam

I am so mad that if I were to spit, it would probably come out as steam!

Today, you saw my school bus coming down the road as you neared the stop sign on your side of the intersection. Instead of stopping, you floored it, ran the stop sign, and jumped in front of the bus. You didn't care that I was doing the legal speed limit nor that I had a bus full of elementary school aged children. You gave me almost no time to react. I locked the air brakes on the bus and just avoided creaming the rear of your car. You didn't even glance back. I threw kids onto the floor, into the back of seats, and into each other. Physically, there were only bumps and bruises; no serious injuries this time. I had a bus full of terrified, crying children. I didn't have time to even get your license number and, you probably knew, no one would do anything to you anyway. Little did you care about more serious consequences like broken bones, including skulls, necks and spines. You were just glad that you weren't held up by another "damn" school bus.

This scenario didn't happen as described. Not because you didn't do just exactly as described, but because I anticipated that you would. I did end up with some upset children and it wouldn't surprise me to hear from some parents. In fact, I hope that I do!

I anticipated your stupid move because of expert training by my bus driver instructor. She had a mantra that she taught us: "Anticipate. Anticipate. Anticipate!" What she didn't say and what I've learned for myself is to anticipate idiots, fools, and those whose life is so wrapped up in "self" that other drivers or pedestrians make no difference to them.

Idiots are those who think that a 15-ton school bus can stop in the same amount of time and distance that it takes a compact car to make the same stop. They either don't consider or don't care that it is not possible to stop an ocean liner in the same distance that a speed boat can be stopped. Often times, I am driving my bus at the posted speed limit, but that just isn't enough for many drivers. Speed limits aren't really laws anyway, are they? They aren't like, "Thou shalt not steal." Aren't they actually just parameters showing us how fast we can drive without much chance of getting a speeding ticket? Everyone else speeds, so if a school bus can only do the speed limit, why shouldn't you be in front of it?

Fools are those who either can't tell time or have no self discipline. Every single school day, school buses drive exactly the same route at almost the exact same time. It shouldn't be rocket science to figure out that leaving home a few minutes earlier or later or taking an alternate route might help the problem of being caught in school bus traffic. Yet, as it happens, every single school day, I get to see the same drivers in the same cars jump through stop lights and stop signs at the same intersections trying to get in front of the same school buses. Fools must truly be those who do the same thing time after time and yet expect a different outcome each time.

I probably have the least patience with those of you totally wrapped up in "self". School buses are required to drive very slowly in bus parking lots and student pick-up zones. The reason for that should be obvious. I see you every day drive past a sign that clearly says "School Buses Only" because you cannot or will not wait in the long line that other parents are in waiting to drop off their children. You drive much faster than any bus is allowed. You are on your cell phone. You are putting on your makeup or eating your breakfast. At least one of you has a pet in arms. How absolutely uncaring can you be! School buses turn on flashing amber lights before turning on stop lights to pick up children. If you see the amber lights, your thought process seems to be, "If I hurry up, I can get past the bus before the red stop lights come on." Some of you make it and some just go on through the red lights, just like you do at intersections. What you fail to consider, since it is only you that you are thinking about, is that a child might be running a bit late and, seeing the amber bus lights, might hurry across the road without waiting for the red lights as well. You believe that you might win the lottery, but you don't for a minute think that you might kill a child!

I could spit steam out of the sheer frustration of failing to get you to see the ultimate cost of your poor decisions. I will promise you this... if any of you who read this are guilty of such actions near my bus and I happen to recognize you, the next time we meet, I will be so much in your face that you will think that you've donned a Ross mask. Please, please read this carefully and then read it again. Share it with someone. If, between us, we can keep even one child from being killed or injured, isn't it worth the effort? You and your job just aren't that important. If all else fails, be a little bit late getting to wherever you are going and feel good about doing it safely.

Who Would Really Want To Be "Meek"?

If one reads the Beatitudes, as found in the fifth chapter of Matthew, it can be said that the rewards that they promise will be delivered in heaven, all except for one: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

The following are headlines or parts of headlines taken from the Sunday, April 17th edition of the Winston-Salem Journal newspaper:

"Youths beat a gentle man; One beat the system"

"Woman accused of assaulting father in '02; She is now charged with stabbing her boyfriend to death"

"Experts warn of Facebook stress"

"Barrage said to kill at least five civilians in rebel-held Misrata"

"Violent storms kill several in N.C."

"Tornados kill dozens across Deep South"

"Bomber kills 5 NATO, 4 Afghan troops, interpreter"

"Mothers killing kids isn't so uncommon"

"Husband kills wife, 3 children, himself"

Who would really want to inherit this earth? If there is indeed a heaven, being there doesn't have to be much better than the earth as we know it in order to be wonderful! As far as my share of this old earth might go, you are welcome to it.

Running Away

I caution you that this is going to be long, so you may just want to skip it. I would guess that almost everyone, who tries to write, does most of the work in their head before putting it down on some media. I know that this is the case for me, although my organization of thoughts may often be disjointed.

I'm ready, for about the 5th or 6th time, to run away from home. All of us had the "I'll show them. They'll be sorry." thoughts when we were young. Maybe we even made it around the block, but we always came back before anyone missed us. Later years bring real desires to run. Maybe it's a terrible job, an unhappy relationship, too many responsibilities, a choice that must be made, but can't be faced or a combination of many factors.

I think that I missed my absolute best chance to run when I got out of the Marine Corps. All I could think of was getting back to college (the damned expected route - "I'm now grown up and must do as expected!") Sara and I were young, very much in love, and had no real obligations to anyone other than our partner. We were used to living in small towns and very large cities. We were used to living in houses and efficiency apartments. We were used to making a living on our own. The love and the lovemaking didn't depend on geographic location!

Do you remember Tod Stiles and Buzz Murdock traveling Route 66 in their Corvette? How about "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo" travelin' and a-livin' off the land? Sara and I couldn't have afforded a Corvette, but we might have been able to afford some old clunker or even, in those days, taken a Greyhound bus. A year of exploring the US, with maybe some side trips into Canada and Mexico, wouldn't have made a difference in the grand scheme of things, but what a golden opportunity was missed.

Today, I want to run away again. I want it to be Sara and me and a dog named Lenny. For lots of reasons, I know that this just isn't going to happen, but the road calls to me with such a strong Siren song that sometimes I think I'll die of need to travel it. I don't think I've changed that much from the young Marine who was willing to go, but Sara has changed a lot. She has a family and friends and likes the idea of knowing where her next meal is coming from, where she will sleep tonight, and what she can pretty much expect from tomorrow. I would gladly give up those things, but I won't give up Sara, so the road may sing, but I cannot answer.

I don't run from work. Let me work, but let me do it my way for awhile. Let me deliver meals to the needy in Detroit. Let me drive school buses in Denver. Let me rebuild houses in Port au Prince. Let me prepare federal tax returns in Shiprock. Let me clear tsunami damage in Japan. Let me teach at The Gathering schools in Cielo and Nazaret. Let me live instead of exist.

Winston Groom, the author of "Forest Gump", also wrote a book titled "As Winters Die." I didn't care much for the book ("Better Times Than These", about Viet Nam, was better), but the title drove a stake through my heart. How many more winters might I see die and how many more springs will I see follow? Sometimes I think that I will burst from need. Who knows, maybe life on the road would take me away from the constant depression that I medicate daily and will medicate for the rest of my life.

What would I expect from the road? Sights, sounds, smells, feels, tastes. The stories of people I've never known. The opportunity to meet those who are trying to make their little corner of the world a better place to live. The chance to comfort those who need a hug or a friendly ear or a shared meal. The greatest expectation would be that the shared experiences would bring Sara and I so closely back together that one of us would not be able to breathe without the other inhaling.

I will love Sara forever and will stay with her wherever that might happen to be. On the other hand, in my truck, I keep a spare toothbrush, a bag of dog food, a clean pair of underwear (a lesson from my mother), and an atlas. So... if you ever see the little black truck, front seat filled with a smiling fool and a huge yellow Lab, heading out of town, don't expect to see it come back any time soon.

Random Thoughts (Again)

Gulliver: When anyone mentions the classic story, "Gulliver's Travels", the image that comes to mind is almost always that of Gulliver spread-eagled on the ground, surrounded by Lilliputians and staked to dozens of ropes. I have no trouble being empathetic to his plight. Like Gulliver, I'm tied to the ground by many ropes and surrounded by many Lilliputians. Some of the ropes are called responsibility, attitude, compassion, love, and ownership, among others. Some are strong enough to anchor an ocean liner while others are as thin, and yet as sticky, as a spider's web. My Lilliputians are known as family, friends, bosses, church, school bus riders, tax clients, and just people I meet on the street. As you know from the story, Gulliver was able to break from the bounds of the Lilliputians and continue with his travels. I do not believe that is going to happen to me. Itch: I have come to the conclusion that one of the worst itches to have, if you can't scratch, is the desire to trade automobiles. Sleep: Sara tells me that she very seldom dreams (and she almost never gets up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom!) I wish I could say the same. I never lay down to sleep that I don't dream. I have taken naps that lasted no more than thirty minutes and had a dream or dreams. I don't really know when a dream ends and another begins. Some nights it seems like there are many dreams and other nights it seems that I have only one dream, but it has acts and scenes within it. My dreams are vivid and often violent. I've been known to attack Sara in my sleep, which quickly ended her sleep. I have been known to dive out of the bed, dreaming that I was fighting with someone, and ended up knocking over the nightstand and lamp (needless to say, this also woke Sara.) I never have peaceful dreams. If dying is akin to peaceful, dream free sleep, it may not be too hard to anticipate. Lenny: I have a new dog, an old yellow Lab. I rescued him and went for an older dog so that he and I would match each other's life style pace. Lenny loves to be hugged and scratched and I love to hug and scratch him. Lenny loves to eat and I love... well, at least I don't mind buying all that food and feeding him. Lenny loves to curl up on my feet in the evenings when I'm home and I love warm feet. Lenny loves to chase things thrown for him and, as long as he brings them back, I don't mind throwing them. So far, Lenny doesn't do steps and we don't know why. He doesn't act like his hips hurt, but in his foster home, he never saw the upstairs. We only have a couple of steps into the house and he does those okay, but I'm still trying to find a way to get him into the front seat of my pickup. I can't lift 93 pounds of dog no matter how much I want him to travel with me. Vultures: If you have read the Peanuts comic strip for any length of time, you have seen Snoopy perched on top of his dog house pretending to be a bird of prey. That's the image that comes to mind as I sit in my bus waiting for the middle school children to be released to go home. Our buses are parked side-by-side and the drivers are all seated peering over the steering wheel and hood. As the children are let out of school, we gobble them up like so many kernels of corn. When all bus vultures have feasted, we take flight and deposit them across the county as if they we just so many seeds passing through the vulture body. Maybe it is no wonder that I dream the dreams that I have.

Climbing Back On The Soapbox

On the front page of the Winston-Salem Journal one day this past week, a member of the U.S. House of Representatives from North Carolina was quoted in a way that makes me ashamed to be from North Carolina and to have him as one of the national representatives of our state. He announced that he is opposed to government medical assistance to those suffering from HIV / AIDS if they caught it from living a "perverted lifestyle." As I read the article, I could feel my temperature rise. The "gentleman", based on this published statement, previous published e-mail from him, etc. is clearly homophobic. This is the same type of person that, several years ago, would have used the "N" word and thought nothing of it. I would guess that he realizes that there are more voters of color than there are of a different sexual orientation, so he tones down one set of rhetoric while increasing another. He is still no one that I would want for a neighbor nor for whom I would ever cast a vote. It is very hard for me to believe that he ran unopposed and I hope that doesn't happen again. While it may be true, and I've not studied enough to know, that AIDS was once spread mostly by homosexual activity, that is not the case today. AIDS has reached a pandemic level on the continent of Africa, the country of Haiti, et. al. Does this man think that the population of those places are all gay or lesbian? Again, I do not know if it has been largely controlled in the U.S., but I do know that we cannot let the sick suffer! Based only on the picture of him published with the article, I suspect that he is overweight. Surely we are intelligent enough to recognize that eating unhealthy foods and failing to exercise are often causes of stroke, heart disease, diabetes, and other diseases. Since he probably lives a perverted lifestyle of eating unhealthy choices and exercising seldom, it would follow that he wouldn't want any government medical support of persons suffering from the mentioned diseases and others. Where would he draw the line? I see his thoughts and statements as a perversion of the type of persons that God would have us be. I have two prayers: my family and friends will continue to be merciful toward the sick, no matter the cause of the illness and that those reading about this person will realize that, while he represents North Carolina, he is not representative of North Carolina. God is good!

To Autumn, Maddi and Reese

Autumn, Maddi and Reese you would not believe how very precious you are to me. I love you with all of my heart and being. Here is something important that I want to share with you. Just the other day, in the ice and snow, I helped Autumn out of the car. She looked up at me and asked, "Papa, will you hold my hand?" My heart filled to overflowing. I told her that, "Of course I'll hold your hand. I'll always be there to hold your hand." I want all three of you to know that I will always be there to hold your hand. As you grow older, life will not always be easy or fun or even fair. Sometimes your friends will hurt your feelings. Sometimes you will be sick. Sometimes you will think that your mother and father, your grandparents, or your teachers have blamed you for something that is not your fault. Sometimes you will not get what you want even though you have worked and wished very hard for it. Sometimes your family, friends and even your pets will leave you to go to heaven. I want you to never forget that, when these things happen, I'll be there to hold your hand. Someday, I will die and go to heaven. I'm very sure that I'll be going to heaven, because God has promised me. When I get there, I believe that God will understand that I still want to hold your hand very tightly when bad things happen. There will be times that I can't reach out to take your hand even when we are both living near each other. I'm pretty sure it will be hard to take your hand from heaven, so here is what you need to do when I'm not right there beside you. Close your hand into a little bit of a fist, just like you were holding on to me and I was holding on to you. You will feel your hand grow a bit warmer. When this happens, remember that I am there for you, holding your hand, will always be there for you, and will love you all forever.

A Quick Ride With Santa

Tonight, I took a ride with Santa. Our first stop was a church in Virginia. It was crowded with people, from the very young to the very old, who were there to celebrate the birthday of the Christ child. There was warmth, light, food, music and fellowship. Children dressed as Mary, Joseph, shepherds, angels and wise men sang and played in the certain knowledge of being loved and cared for. The misfortunate of the neighborhood had been invited to dinner and a food bank. It was easy to believe in the presence of God in this gathering. In the wink of an eye, we zipped across the Appalachian Mountains and into Harlen County, Kentucky. We visited a very small church in the middle of the mountains of the coal mining business. It was a wood frame church, hard to heat and to light. There was a palpable tiredness within the membership of the gathered congregation. Hands and faces were permanently tattooed with the blackness of coal and lined with hard labor and hard living. Snotty-nosed children shivered as they sang birthday welcome songs to the Babe of Bethlehem. There wasn't any food to spare for the occasion, but there was a big pot of hot coffee on top of the old wood stove. The joy in the knowledge of a living Christ child made it easy to know that God was even here in this almost forgotten place. Once again and very rapidly we took to the air. This time, we landed in a refugee camp just outside of Port-au-Prince, Haiti. There, as Santa delivered very few presents, I held a very young girl-child who was dying of starvation and cholera. As the parents wept and their friends kept vigil, the Star of Bethlehem shone brightly in the sky above. That star, alone, seemed to provide the only proof that a loving God might be present as the child breathed her last breath, never having seen even her first birthday. Santa's laugh sounded almost hollow as we next visited the Darfur region of the Sudan. Almost all Christmas joy had left me as I helped to bury a mother who had been raped and murdered in front of her husband and children. I prayed over her grave, but I prayed alone. It was not possible for those families, living in constant fear and want, to believe that a God of love actually exists, no matter what they hear about Him sacrificing His own son. As dawn was drawing near, Santa asked if I had time to make one more quick stop before dropping me off at my home. Of course I agreed. We made a stop very near my home in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The place to be visited was a one-bedroom apartment in a fairly shabby complex in a not so safe neighborhood. An extended family of 12 persons called the apartment home or at least were using it for shelter. The family appeared to be Hispanic. I couldn't tell by looking if they were in the United States legally or illegally, but it didn't make any difference to Santa. Three men in the family were the only ones able to find work. Two of them weren't at home this Christmas night because they only jobs they could find required them to be working. As Santa and I enjoyed a quick and graciously provided dinner of rice and beans made with gifted food from a local church food bank, the children eagerly shared with us what they were learning in school and at church. In return, we shared a few simple gifts that were accepted as if they were the crown jewels of England. As we left this family, they all wished us feliz navidad, merry Christmas, and it was clear that God, through Christ, lived in the hearts and lives of these people. In these little vignettes, I have actually visited both churches and have been in the apartment that I describe. Of course, I haven't been in Haiti or Darfur, but I've read of the terrible things happening in both of those places along with countless other places in this world. Do I want to change places? That's a silly question. Of course not. I like my life the way it is. What I would like is for the God that I love and who loves me to be more even handed. As my friend, Heather, pointed out to me not so very long ago, Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus. Even though Christ knew, absolutely knew, that He was going to raise Lazarus, He wept because of the pain suffered by those gathered to mourn the passing of Lazarus, their friend. I know that Christ joins me today in weeping for the people of the world who suffer. I just wish and pray that somehow, life could be kinder to them all.

Why Not?

I have been arguing with one of my sons this afternoon. He is convinced that the world, at least the United States, is populated almost entirely by greedy, self serving persons. He argues that one person cannot make a difference, so why should he be involved in trying. In my heart, I want so badly to be able to change his mind. I want to be able to argue vehemently that one person can and often does make a difference. I want to be able to do those things, but I find that I can't. God doesn't want me as one of His people trying to make a difference. It seems to me that most of those that I have previously called on for spiritual support are no longer accessible. It seems that roadblocks rather than smoother roads are almost always the case. Job's wife advised him to "curse God and die." I won't curse God, but if I can't and won't ever be able to make a difference, including as an example to my son, why not just die?