Life In A Hermetically Sealed Box

Its human nature to seek security and safety. When we are young, we seek the protection of our parents against all manners of scary things - real and imagined. We seek the shelter of a warm home. We assume the abundance of good food and clothes and time to play with our friends. As we get older and discover more of the world, or as the world challenges us by removing some of our safety blankets, we grow up and realize that this child like view of the world is an illusion and that our safety is very much unsure.

We leave our homes and seek a place in the world. We first make certain that we have a shelter, and that we can eat, and that we have gainful employment or training for some sort of gainful employment. Eventually, when we are settled in our way, we seek out other things - friendship, companionship, social interaction. We build up walls of a safe and secure life.

When we were kids we thought nothing of riding our bike without helmets on the hard streets, now we obey the rules of the road and wear helmets lest our brains get dashed on the pavement. When we were kids, we'd eat anything before us, now we pick and choose the foods that we know, and that we know are good for us. Our walls begin to grow thick and strong and we start using them to keep the rest of the world out.

We don't talk to strangers - even neighbors. We're very cautious about that foreign couple down the street - they seem very edgy and strange. We watch our children like hawks - buying nanny cams to make sure they're safe, using GPS locators in their clothes, staying home rather than risk losing them in a crowded place. We stop going to movies and order them online instead.

We have perfected the safe little world and have locked it up tight and secure in a hermetically sealed box. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out. We are very happy here.

I hate leaving my hermetically sealed box. I don't like to try new things. I don't like the anxiety of adventure. But ALL THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE OUTSIDE MY BOX! They won't come to me. I have to go to them.

I have to lose my Monday and Tuesday evenings to take film classes - even though I already have a college degree and a good job. I have to lose two more of my evenings to be an unpaid intern on a TV show that I can't even watch because I don't get cable - because that's where I might want to go in the future. I give up my Saturday evenings to run a youth group - just because its fun and because it pleases me. I give up my Sunday's to sing in the church choir- purely out of the joy of my ability. I visit friends and family and fly to Vegas and drive to Idaho and take vacations when I don't have the money. Financially, I live life on the edge and it scares me. Professionally, I do not have a secure, high paying, job. Socially, I have many friends, but no girl friend. The anxiety of all the insecurity in my life can be very high.

And so, I like to retreat to the safety of my box. I like the close the doors and windows and pretend that I am happy and safe and secure in my life - maybe watch a little TV, maybe just read for a while, maybe tinker on a project here or there. I like to pretend that complacency is the same thing as security.

But to borrow a phrase from the 1970's Battlestar Galactica, "Life here started out there." I may store my safe and secure life in the hermetically sealed box and let no one in, but life is not in there. Life is out here. Life is messy. Life is dangerous. Life is thrilling and crazy. Life is fun. Life is never complacent. Life is always changing.

I think, from now on, I'm going to roll back the stone that covers my hermetically sealed box and embrace life as much as possible and leave the dead things in the hermetically sealed box where they belong - only to visit them with the respect of one who is visiting a tomb.

Won't you join me?

She's Rich...

Errrh!
I'm listening.
She's rich, powerful... look, if you were to rescue her, the reward would be...
What?
Well more than you can imagine.
I don't know, I can imagine quite a bit.

And all you have to do to get this treasure is pretend to be stormtroopers, break into a prison cell block, shoot up all the guards, rescue Princess Leia, escape from the trash compactor, escape from the Death Star, fight off tie fighters, and then dogfight with the Death Star until it is destroyed. Simple.

How well can you imagine that treasure? Well... that's nothing!

I've only just started in John Piper's "Desiring God" or How To Become A Christian Hedonist, but he had me hooked with one thought - God isn't disappointed that we think so highly of earthly pleasures. He's disappointed because we aim so low.

Or, in other words, we're easily amused. We think we can imagine quite a bit, but God's treasures are infinitely more vast, infinitely superior, infinitely more satisfying than anything we can imagine.

Wow.

I can imagine quite a bit, but I'm not sure I can imagine that much. I used to think that to be a Christian on Earth meant that you had to suffer. Treasures were to be stored in Heaven - a bank account like a post-retirement account. On Earth, we were to be dirt poor and we were to love our enemies and we were to look like Ghandi and die like so many millions of martyrs. Where's the fun in that? But Piper has opened my eyes. God doesn't want us to not enjoy our pleasures and suffer. He wants us to enjoy His pleasures and celebrate!

What might those pleasures be? Love, instead of sex, for one. Family instead of lonliness. Prayer instead of solitude. Joy instead of depression. All the things that we embrace for pleasure are nothing as to what God can give us if we just ask Him.

Piper says it better though. I'd buy this book and see what he has to say.

Will - Out!

P.S. I got the internship. I will be working for a for real TV show come April which you'll be able to watch come August. I'll give you more details as I can.

The First Step Out On The Limb...

A while back I declared that I was ready to move on and gave a target date of April in 2008. Since then I've... done pretty much nothing. My mind has kept the target date and the concept of moving on alive in my mind - seeking opportunities and new prospects. But if someone were to ask me what I planned to do come April of next year, I would have probably just shrugged my shoulders.

Well, all that intentional planning has paid off. Through no fault of my own, I'm probably going to be interviewing for an internship with a production company next week. Probably. Maybe. The thing is that I still sort of have a job and that kind of thing can get in the way of working for free as someone else's virtual slave. However, the internship does come highly recommended from the potential slave master, so I might have to reconsider.

If I'm being vague, well, I just have to be. Of course, the surest fire way of getting new readers here at ICON would be to blab to the whole world about how cool my new internship is going to be and then let every potential future employer in the world come and look at my blog. It might not do my possible future career any good, but it'll drive up readership!

Anyway, vagueness aside, I have finally taken a possible potential first step away from the safety of the tree trunk out on to the limb of life and with any luck, I might be able to finally step all the way away by April of next year. Or not. It all depends on what happens next.

You know, sometimes for fun, I take my hands off the wheels just to see what will happen ;)

(Of course, the car then bounces on the center rail a couple of times and the ride people give me a mad look and I stop pretending I'm five years old and driving on the Autopia for the first time and start driving normal again. E-Ticket, my patootie!)

Ego Enlargement

Harlan Ellison described the process of writing beautifully as a manifestation of a person's ego. In a manner that can only be described as egotistical, Ellison noted that to be a writer, to get published, etc... you needed to have a very healthy ego. Because the first challenge to any writer is to overcome that doubt that says, "Who wants to read what I have to write anyway?" To be a writer is to be confidant that what you have to say is of vital importance to everyone. Not, please read this you might like it, but, READ THIS! IT MIGHT JUST SAVE YOUR LIFE!

Being egotistical is hard work for someone like me. I wear ego poorly, like a coat that's two sizes too small. Its not to say that I'm not confident about who I am or what I like, but more the fact that I don't want to flaunt it. My choices are not your choices. I know what I like. I'm confident that what I like is great. But I also recognize that you and I might have different opinions about what's great and what's not. That can be a problem when it comes to writing because it can manifest itself in a desire to write something that EVERYONE will like. I have always been at my most succesful when I just tried to please myself while writing.

So I have to fight this urge and get my ego groove on in order to write. I have to be extremely confident that not only is my novel good, its quite possibly the greatest single document in the history of the English Language. Sometimes, I go through the motions, but I don't feel it. I say how good my novel is, but deep inside, I'm feeling like the thing is the biggest pile of feces in the history of the English Language. And so I have to struggle with these feelings of inadequacy by asking myself why I feel the novel is a moldy dung hill and how I might improve it. Sometimes, the feelings go away on their own. Sometimes I do find a change I like. Sometimes I just mope until I feel better. My novel makes me bipolar. My novel makes me crazy.

Is it any wonder I just want to be done with it?

Anyway, I'm half way through now. It gets better every time I touch it. In fact, I think its safe to say that it may well be the greatest thing ever written, next to the Bible. But ask me again next week and I might tell you a different story.

Have You Got Your S*** Together?

Recently at my church we had a Sunday of good old fashioned Gospel music and Mardi Gras fun. We sang traditional spirituals and gave some glory hallelujahs some time out of the religious closet. The children's choir even did a great rendition of the gospel classic, "Ticket To The Promised Land" complete with train whistle.

Everyone had a good time. Some more than others. I heard comments afterwards. "They just don't understand that we're much more intellectual here in San Francisco. We like High Church. We're more sophisticated than some of those suburban churches." Now, don't get me wrong. I love my gospel. But I also love my Mozart. And I know that in the past I've balked at some of the hillbilly changes proposed for our church like modern music and electric guitar praise band because I've considered those methods of praise to be beneath a church like mine. We're much better than that.

It got me to thinking about the gospels. They are so different, one from the other, and in some ways portay Jesus in a different light as well. I'm currently rereading the book of John and I find that the theology of John is very sophisticated compared to the "simpler" gospels of Matthew and Mark. I'm finding that I like John the most this time around. But, in putting the two thoughts together, I came across a revelation that seems to cut across the four gospels.

Everyone in the gosples that has their s*** together is screwed! Every single guy that society would have portrayed as being respectable, sophisticated, and above the rabble is, in fact, way too worldly for Heaven. Or, to put it another way, if you ain't broke, you ain't getting saved.

Wow. I think we've all overachieved. We live in a world that praises us for being useful, respectable, sophisticated, and above the rabble. If Jesus were to happen today, most of us would miss the boat entirely. Not only would we not know Jesus, we wouldn't even know He existed. He'd be off talking to the really screwed up folks - the folks that even Jerry Springer won't have on the show - and healing them. He'd be telling us that everything we think we know about God is wrong. He'd be going into our sanctuaries and turning over our money making ventures. He'd be walking through the bad parts of town as one of them. And the people who knew Him would be praising Him in whatever way they could manage, and telling their friends. And what would we want to do to Him. We'd want to see this trouble maker dead, of course, for bucking the system and for challenging us to do His work.

Its all well and good to want Jesus to return because we picture Him arriving in a golden cloud and fixing all the troubles of the world with a glance. But just like the father who comes home and takes out the trash that you were supposed to but forgot about, you'd better be prepared for a whooping.

Being together. Being unbroken. Being responsible. Being sophisticated. Being respectable. Being quiet and polite. These are all well and good. But let's not use them as walls between us and God.

James Cameron is a Poo Poo Head

Just some odd thoughts, cheap shots, and connect the dots on this lazy Tuesday afternoon.

James Cameron is a poo poo head. And not entirely because he produced a rather salacious and stupid documentary about the Tomb of Jesus being found in Jerusalem. The whole concept of the documentary is just insane and the worst sort of science. I'm an archaeologist and I've just uncovered a tomb in Jerusalem from 2000 years ago and, HEY LOOK, there's some ossuaries with names written on them and one of them says Joshua, son of Jesus. THEREFORE, 2000 YEARS OF RELIGION MUST BE WRONG! Cause, quite frankly, that's the ONLY conclusion we can reach from this chain of events, right? Dumb, dumb, dumb - idiots! But rhe real reason James Cameron is a poo poo head is Aliens, T2, Titanic, and then... The Tomb of Jesus. Wow! Way to underwhelm me, film guy. I'm the KING OF THE WORLD! Now let me take off my clothes and run around naked in the streets! Get off your lazy money grubbing butt and start making real movies again and leave the theology to the professionals before you hurt something!

And speaking of dumb and stupid and wrong conclusions, I read a headline yesterday that made me check to see if it had been written by The Onion. But, no, in fact, it was written by real news writers who were actually reporting the real news. Crazy. It seems that the young actor who plays Harry Potter, Daniel Radcliffe, has been stretching his acting limbs in interesting ways. Trying not to be forever typecast as a teenage wizard who flies around on brooms, young Daniel auditioned for and received a role in the British production of EQUUS. He plays a troubled young man who has a thing for horses and, at one point, walks onto stage entirely in the nude - with his little wand hanging out for all the world to see. You can see where I'm going with this right? You can see the protests coming from parents all over the world that young Harry Potter is on stage with his little broom hanging out there? Well, you'd be wrong on that. There are protests all right, but not about wee nudity. NO! The Horror of the Situation Is... HE SMOKES! That's right! With Real Cigarettes! On Stage! There's no word on whether he lights up in the buff, but that hardly matters! When parents take their impressionable young ones to see Harry Potter in the All Nude Horse Review, their kids might be traumatized by Harry smoking a cigarette! Mr. Radcliffe, my advice to you is to get a sensible job where people don't give a crap whether you smoke or walk around naked with horses... um... I'm sure there's a job out there like that somewhere... probably in Vegas.

And finally, I just realized that if I lengthen my penis, enhance my breasts, refinance my mortgage, take hundreds of prescription medications, and help a poor guy in Nigeria with his financial windfall... I'd still have an e-mail cache filled with SPAM. Makes me want to go on a Viking raid!

An Inconvenient Film - Just When You Thought It Was Safe

To make a really long story just long, I am taking a film class and I had to make a 3 minute Super 8mm film this weekend. I chose to make the film at the beach.

Problem #1: Having already overcome the lack of equipment, and the lack of time to make said film, I finally only had the one weekend to make this movie, and it was supposed to rain - hardcore - all weekend long. So, Saturday morning, in the hour and a half I had before the basketball game I was doing stats for, I ran down to the beach in the darkness of a pre-storm morning and tried to make the film by myself. The first couple of shots, other than having to run away from the waves a couple of times, were just fine. But when I got to the middle of my film and a montage sequence of people walking, strolling, jogging, riding bikes, etc... I discovered a little flaw in my plan - there were no people at the beach besides me and the birds. Time was up anyway, and I drove home, wet and frustrated.

Problem #2: Problem already solved since I had already arranged help for Sunday from a friend of mine. Even though it was supposed to pour down rain all day Sunday, I figured there might be some sunlight. So when Sunday dawned bright with occassional showers, I was pleased. I ducked out of church early, grabbed my friend and headed for the beach.

"I need to be back home at 1pm."

"What?"

"Yeah, my Mom needs help hauling something."

We filmed five scenes (shooting over again with more light) and then had to go back to his house - then drive across San Francisco to Bernal Heights, pick up a desk, haul it back to his house, then go to lunch in the Inner Sunset at a great Indian food place where I had Chicken Vindaloo and Naan. It was 3 o'clock before we were able to head back to the beach.

Now rushing to finish ahead of the incoming storm (again) and the dwindling light, there was still the problems I had faced the day before, finding people to walk, job, run, etc... I was creative, but it wasn't easy and it took a big chunk of time. I got through that stretch of film as the tide started rolling in, only to discover that the next sequence on my shooting script calls for waves smashing off rocks - which means getting close to the waves and the rocks. Down I run to the waves, film, scream like a little girl, and then run away. At one point I was filming waves as water completely surrounded the rock I was standing on.

But I don't have time to slow down, I have to keep filming, the light continues to fade, the waves keep getting closer, my stuff keeps getting further and further back on the beach, and I keep getting as close to the waves as I can without getting wet.. ter.

Finally, with the filming done, my friend and I head back to my car and load the equipment inside and climb in. We're wet, chilled to the bone, and tired. And just as I start the engine, the rain started to fall.

You can take your Oscar anytime... to me, this is what film making is all about!

Bittersweet Bloke Bludgeoned By Buxom Biddies!

Or... Why I blame Ariel for this post.

Innocent me, minding my own business, I was strolling through the blogiverse yesterday, as I'm wont to do sometimes, looking for enlightenment, when I came across a post by Ariel at Bittersweet Life (see link in the side panel). This innocuous looking post reminded me of a certain apple on a certain tree. It looked juicy and innocent... but it hid the DEVIL! Or, to be more accurate, the Devil in the form of a link to another innocent looking post from an Australian blogger about Why Men Don't Attend Church.

Being completely naive about such things, I read the post and found that some of the words confused me and made me agree with them. I was bewitched I tell you. I started thinking things like, "Damn straight!" and "Ooh Rah! A man's gotta be a man!"

This, in and of itself, would probably not be so bad. And, in fact, it had no immediate effect on me. I went about the rest of my day and early evening feeling manly and not having an ill effect on anyone. Until I arrived at church last night for choir and met, "As A Deer."

For a guy who has been singing since I was in second or third grade, I have never once questioned the manliness of what I do. This is God's gift after all, and I usually get so uplifted afterwards. I have never, not once, considered the manliness of being a Choir Boy. But last night, after singing "As A Deer" I wanted to rip hairs off my chest, wrestle an alligator, or perhaps ride a motorcycle without a helmet at a high rate of speed while being chased by a Hell's Angel gang. But still, I was not in trouble. No.

The trouble came when I innocently noted to the entire choir, "This has to be the sappiest song I think I've ever sung." For some reason, I immediately had 20 sets of female eyes narrowed on me in that disapproving sort of way that says, "You've crossed the line buddy!" It didn't help that the three other guys in the choir all had their heads and eyes turned away from me in a manner that clearly said, "You're on your own, Rambo!"

I tried to explain. I tried to plead my case. But I was just too outnumbered. I had been done in by an Australian blog and a sappy song combining in my church like The Perfect Storm. I felt emasculated.

And so, I went home, opened the first e-mail I saw and ordered a Penis Enlargement kit... No, just kidding. Had you going for a second though, didn't I?

Unboobified

While I wish the title of this blog could refer to a miraculous reappearance of my manly physique, that is only wishful thinking right now. What it does refer to is the clean mental air I breathed last night on the first night of my TV fast for Lent.

I did not feel good last night. I think the oncoming symptoms of a cold finally started to train wreck me. So after spending a few hours reacquainting myself with my computer, and specifically with the programs I need to update my website (hint, hint, hint...), I crawled into bed early to read a good book. Had I known that there was only about three pages left in the book I was reading, I might have spent more time on the computer. Five minutes later, I was done with the book and I was too tired to do anything else. I just lay on my bed, not watching TV, and letting my mind wander.

I discovered something that I had forgotten. At first, it was just words. Then entire sentences began to race around my mind like kids rediscovering Disneyland for the first time in years. I suddenly realized that I was thinking... yes, THINKING! Imagine that. Ideas, thoughts, feelings, concepts... it was a smorgasbord of mental activity. And underlying all this delightful mental gymnastics was the single thought, "So this is what it's like when you turn the TV off!"

The cobwebs fade. The noise disappears into a mere echo of itself. There is no TV in my existence for the next 39+ days.

Thank God!

What DO you believe?

This blog post marks my 300th and I can think of no more appropriate discussion to signify the 300th post, let alone as a topic to begin Lent.

I've been disturbed of late by an ever more aggressive attack by Atheists on Christianity in specific and religion in general. Their arguments, though now conveyed by all the modern conveniences, have not changed in thousands of years. How can We believe in the things that are written? How can We believe in a man who claimed to be the risen Christ? How can We believe in an invisible creator who made everything, even us, and yet, does not reveal Himself to us? Isn't religion just a trap? Isn't it something make believe that We all want really really badly, so we made it up? There is no evidence for any of it and any of us who believe it, therefore, are delusional. The world would be better off without religion.

Perhaps they're right. We must, for a moment, concede the fact that We can not physically see God. We must concede the fact that much of the life of Jesus Christ is a mystery and that none of us can empirically prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that He existed, much less was raised from the dead. We have no proof that the universe was created. We have no triggering mechanism for life and nobody that We can see has ever stepped forward and claimed to be the creator. Religion has been the cause of so much turmoil and destruction that perhaps we would be better off if it had never been discovered.

And so what does that leave us with? What is the alternative to a world filled with religious belief and faith? What DO these atheists purport to believe in?

Anthropology can't grasp religion. Despite the fact that science has tried to understand the dynamics that make it work, change, and effect so many people, science can't grasp what religion is exactly. They can't define it. It is as elusive to anthropologists as the GUT theory is to physicists. They have tried to define it as a system by which a society controls its members. They have tried to define it as a social heirarchy that exists on a level outside of society, but that has a defining presence on any society that it contacts. But one thing pure science can not allow is a definition of anthropology that includes the existence of a divine being or beings controlling the universe - which is sort of like trying to define an Oreo without believing in the existence of cream filling. It can't be done. And when you really think about it, there is no such world that could exist without religion.

Many atheists say that they believe in a moral universe, not a religious one. But moral to who? And to what purpose? What does it mean to be good? Or evil? If there is nobody that will judge your ultimate actions? If our existence is merely tied to one life time on Earth, give or take all, one roll of the dice, and then... oblivion; what does any of it matter?

Without a backbone of belief, law has no meaning. Without a backbone of belief, good and evil have no meaning. Without a backbone of belief, existence is purely chemical. We are no more and no less important than the flea on a dog, or an amoeba. We exist. Our life is meaningless. Our existence is a cruel joke - a longer lived May Fly. To what end?

The universe boomed into existence. The universe expanded, cooled, created worlds, created Earth. Life formed. Life evolved. We're born. We grow. We procreate. We die. The universe cools. The universe dies. How very depressing.

If an atheist truly believes what they say they believe, then none of this matters. Life is just existence. Love is just chemical. Joy is just hormones. Sunset is just science. Money is just economics. Everything is controlled by an immutable set of laws that just popped into existence of their own accord and we are just cogs in the wheel of existence.

But I don't believe that for one second, and I don't think there's a single atheist on the planet that does either. You couldn't exist if you truly thought that. There'd be no reason to exist. There'd be no point in raising your child. There'd be no way for the human race to have ever survived. We'd have never had a reason to evolve.

God created every single one of us. We all have a purpose here on Earth. Each of our purposes is hopelessly entangled with each other's purposes, so that no matter what we do, it involves interaction with one another. None of us is more important than any other and none of us have it completely right. We all matter. We're all important. And we all share in the bounty of God's love.

You can decide what you want to believe. I can't decide for you. But as for me, I'm going to believe in something, because quite frankly, there really is no other choice.

Let It Be

I am not a patient person. I never have been. And while God has been working on me, my patience is still not endless. But I have managed to attain a certain amount of Godly wisdom over my years, whether I practice it or not, that there are times when the best thing to do is nothing.

When I was a teenager, the thing that scared the bejezus out of me was nuclear weapons. I used to wake up with nightmares. I'd be driving along in my car, panicked, in a hurry, and then I'd see a flash behind me and there'd be a mushroom cloud rising over San Francisco and then I'd wake up with a start and covered in cold sweat. Way too damn serious for a kid - and ultimately nothing I could do about it. I just had to hope and pray that God would keep me safe. Eventually, the cold war ended and nuclear weapons stopped being such a great fear, but by then I had moved on to other worries.

For me, anxiety is a full contact sport. I shake and shiver and wind myself up about ready to explode. I'm the kind of person who gets to the airport four hours early for a one hour flight - just to make sure I am safely checked in and past security before the plane leaves. When I reach my final destination, I can finally relax and move on to some other anxiety. But while I am gripped with anxiety, I feel like the other shoe is about to drop.

I have never really connected my anxiety with a lack of faith. I am sure that I'll be extremely anxious on the day of judgment as well - hopefully for other souls, and not so much for myself. But anxiety is almost universally a state produced by a lack of faith - whether in God or yourself. And its simple cure is to abandon your anxiety and throw it at the feet of God and let Him take care of it, which is usually much easier said than done.

In July of 2001, while I was driving in New York, I was trying to find the turnpike that would take me to Boston (I never did find it). I was driving by myself with only a rudimentary map and no previous driving experience in the area. As the city melted away into rural countryside and I started seeing "familiar" landmarks like Westchester County (home of the X-Men), I realized that I was what most people would refer to as lost. My anxiety was growing by the minute and I felt ready to pull off the side of the road and rage against my outrageous misfortune.

But then a calmness settled over me and I heard an inner voice speak up. "Will, you're the smartest guy you know. If anybody can get out of this situation its you. You couldn't get lost if you tried. And even if you did, with all your travel skills, you'll easily be able to find your way safely. You need to trust in your abilities. These gifts weren't given to you to be hidden away. Don't be afraid to use them occassionally."

I drove on, my anxiety forgotten. Ten minutes later, I found a highway that went east, and thirty minutes later, I connected to the turnpike that took me to Boston. I wasn't anxious for a single moment the entire rest of the trip - trusting in my God given abilities to navigate my way anywhere I wanted to go.

Sometimes when things seem darkest, we all need to be reminded to just let it be and God will handle it. That is the only way we grow in faith.

Mysteries of Faith - Part Three

This question only came to me recently while reading through the Gospels again, but I can't shake the question or its implication. So, I need people to weigh in with their opinions.

If the essence of being human is that we are flawed creatures who sin (we can not avoid this if you follow the doctrine of Original Sin), can we really say that Jesus was Fully Human and Fully God if he never sinned?

I know I must be missing something obvious. Please enlighten my dull witted spirit.

A Valentine's Day Message from Andy

1If I speak in the tongues[a] of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,[b] but have not love, I gain nothing.

4Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

8Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. 9For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. 11When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. 12Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

13And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Love is not chocolates. Love is not flowers. Love is not dining at the fanciest restaurant. Love is not a Vermont Teddy Bear sent to the office so that your spouse's co-workers can admire you. Love is not a Hallmark card.

Love is making dinner when its not your turn. Love is taking out the trash every night, even in the rain. Love is climbing under the house to see if the kittens have been born. Love is staying home to take care of sick kids. Love is holding each other's hands when the doctor tells you the bad news. Love is swallowing the words you meant to say in anger.

Love is not Valentine's Day.

Love is every day.

While Andy's Away... Part One

While Andy (Mile From The Beach) is away tending to God's business during his Blogfast, I thought I'd turn things lively here in the old blogverse. I had suggested in a post a while back that one thing I'd really like to see is a debate about the idea of homosexuality and Christianity. What I'd like is a loving debate where both sides present their arguments, people read and listen to these arguments, and respond in a loving and compassionate way. NO FLAMING! NO DEROGATORY REMARKS! Peaceful, kind, safe, intellectual, heartfelt, and Christian in the best sense of that word!

Well, as it turns out, Suzanne left this comment to my last blog:

I wanted to talk about something and I hope that someone responds. Today at a church I started attending lately, one of the ministers (a women), in her sermon about "love", announced that she married another woman in San Francisco a couple of years ago. I didn't quite know what to feel about it. To me, even if legal it seems weird. But who am I to judge? I am certainly a sinner that needs to repent everyday. Now I am not sure if this is the right church for me. What do you think?

I thought, this is the perfect opener to this debate. So I'm opening the discussion to everyone. Please, remember to be Christian in your responses. And please, don't just say, "Because the Bible says so." If it does say so, please leave a Chapter and Verse.

Okay, everyone, let's discern the Will of God!

P.S. I will give my opinion in the comments as well.

I have so much to say...

I have so much to say, that I can't say a thing. My brain is in gridlock. Thoughts, feelings, strategies, reminders, contemplations, prayers - everything is jammed in there tight like Fibber McGee's closet (now I'm pre-dating myself! ;) But I feel like blogging darn it, so that's what I'm going to do. I'm communicating that which makes no sense to me. It might seem like rambling to you, but to me, its mental ex-lax (that's an image to keep you up at night - imagine if all the crap in your head came flying out at once; old locker combos, ex-girlfriends phone numbers, partially remembered recipes, half spoken prayers, lots and lots of useless trivia, gossip, and political diatribes. The entire world would be buried waste deep in smelly communication. Hey. Now that I think about it - that kind of describes MySpace ;)

My default meter is set to humor. I'm sorry if you don't think its funny. Its all my de fault. Ba da dum!

Somewhere lodged in my brain are the following things:

1) Atheists posting a challenge on YouTube asking young people to publicly reject God and Jesus. Thousands of kids, according to the news article, are taking them up on this challenge. Probably because they think its cool. This sort of story makes me sick to my stomach. I don't consider myself to be overly evangelical. I'm perfectly fine with some people being atheists. But this smacks of anti-evangelicalism. This smacks of the Enemy launching a major salvo at humanities salvation. Yet, I'm sure that Pat Robertson is too busy wondering how to assassinate Hugo Chavez to worry about something like this. Where is the outcry for things that really matter from our religious leaders? We're worried about two men kissing on a Snickers commercial but not worried about our youth being led into making public declarations against God?

2) I couldn't say no to the start of T-Ball season. I don't have the time for it. I can't imagine shifting everything around to add it to my schedule. But its something I need to do. Like smelling fresh grass every spring, tasting that first brat with spicy mustard, hearing the crack of a wooden bat, watching the man-powered scoreboard change in right field; T-Ball has become part of my hope of spring eternal.

3) My unfocused brain scares me sometimes. Last week I had a great story idea about a cruise ship for elderly people who wish to euthanize themselves. I'm scared to think what I'll think up next if I don't finish my novel soon.

4) No LOST, no Heroes, No NCAA Basketball, No Amazing Race: All Star Edition, No Extreme Home Makeover, No BSG, No Jericho, No Prison Break... what the hell was I thinking exactly? I may be ready to follow Jesus to Calvary by the time I'm done with Lent this year. I will have lost all will to live. Especially if LOST starts to get good again. ;)

5) Duke is down. USF doesn't have a prayer. CAL has lost five straight. Honestly, I picked a good year to not watch the NCAA's. Who cares about UCLA, Florida, or Kansas? Really? One of those teams, especially, seems so Self-ish. ;)

Well, I have to get back to work now. Thank you for letting me unclog.

Have a good weekend.

Overstimulated

As near as scientists can tell, an autistic person is one receives outside stimulus (lights, colors, touch, etc...) and has a hard time processing it. When things are calm and normal, an autistic person will react normally - even though they are being bombarded with things we consider normal - but when things are not calm and normal, when they are trying to deal with a confusing overabundance of outside stimulae or new stimulae that they've never dealt with before, an autistic person will freak out (that's not the scientific term). They have yet to discover what causes autism and I will not venture to guess here, but I did have a realization the other day that may help me to understand the situation.

I spent the day on Friday at my desk taking numbers from one computer, writing them down, and then reentering them into another computer. It was boring work and my brain was going on overdrive trying to process all of these numbers. At the end of the day, I climbed in my car and started the engine and the radio kicked on. I immediately switched it off as the sound of people talking was suddenly just too much. I accelerated out of the driveway, turned on to the road, and immediately became agitated driving behind someone who was barely going the speed limit. And that was when it occurred to me... I was reacting like someone whose brain was overstimulated and who suddenly found it impossible to handle all these conflicting stimulae without freaking out.

We live at a time where this is more stimulus than at any other time in history. We are constantly bombarded with images, sounds, thoughts, emotions, smells. Our phones can now take pictures, receive pictures, play music, play video games, send and receive e-mails, play TV, play video... and make phone calls. And these are just our phones.

Ten years ago I was manager of the Hyatt Movie Theater in Burlingame. During the six months I managed the theater, I had two days off. Not vacation days. Not sick days. Two days, period! And one of those days, I still went in early to open the theater for the employees. During that time, I remember one thing very clearly, the phone constantly rang - and everytime I answered it, it was bad news. I got to the point where I hated the phone.

I still do. To this day, I can't hear the phone and immediately go into sensory overload. My phone rings and a little touch of panic runs through me. I talked on the phone so much in six months, that I learned to loathe the device. Today, while I have a cell phone and a phone at home, I still use it very infrequently to call people. I much prefer e-mail.

I think we are experiencing a period in our history where we as a society are making ourselves autistic. We are cramming so much stimuli into every situation (its not enough to watch a good football game, we have to have 65 hours of pre-game, Billy Joel singing the national anthem while Blue Angels fly overhead, fireworks, a marching band with neon lights, 2.5 Million Dollar 30 second commercials, and Prince singing a half hour half time show with electric guitars and even more half naked cheerleaders) that we are literally overdosing on the stuff. It is causing us to freak out. We are unable to react normally to situations. All of this extra stimulation is preventing us from keeping a sense of perspective about life and about the world. We are ADD Cafinated Sugar Laden children trying to have a time of quiet prayer and reflection. Good luck.

Its no wonder we go into our homes and try to shut out the world. We'll happily trade the relatively quiet stimulation of an IPOD for all the outrageous stimulation that American life is trying to throw our way. We don't have to deal with too many things that way. We can try to be alone with our thoughts by blocking everything else out with a song that we've heard so many times that it no longer distracts us.

That's why I've decided this Lent to give up the one thing that overstimulates me the most - Telecommunications. For forty days and forty nights, I will not watch or listen to television, radio, video games, movies, etc... Unfortunately, I can not include computer on that list since I have to work on one (and I have film classes as well as a novel). I will spend the time instead reflecting and trying to work on real life relationships - stimulation of a positive and healthy nature - with friends, family, and God.

It will not be easy. In addition to missing Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, Lost, etc... I will also be purposefully missing March Madness. This will be a great sacrifice for me. But, hopefully, it will open up new channels of communication and allow me to exist in my world in a more satisfactual way.

How Long To Sing This Song?

(Sorry, Andy, but you got this song stuck in my head...)

With regards to my novel...

I've been putting off this post because many of you will be asking me what exactly is going on in my head. To be quite honest, I've been wondering the exact same thing lately. The ticking of the clock is a constant threat to me, as if I can look around the corner and see oblivion and obscurity awaiting me.

The short answer is, my novel has never been better.

The long answer is much more complicated. It seems that you can't just take the first act of a three act story and turn it into a full fledged novel with a few quick changes to the text. You see, stories have these high threshold demands - like a beginning, middle and end. And the first act of a story, as needs be, is usually just the beginning. So, when you try to convert one into the other, well... it turns out that you need to create a middle and end. So, the more I wade into this rewrite, the more that I discover needs to be done. I'm halfway through the novel and about half the material so far is brand new. Furthermore, in a three act story you can introduce characters in the first act who don't have anything to do until the third act. Its acceptable. But in a converted novel, you actually have to have a reason for introducing that character in the first act, which means you have to give them something to do that isn't a complete waste of time and space. See, much more complicated answer.

To top it all off, I've been fooling around with college again. Yup. I started back to classes a couple of weeks ago - taking Basic Film Production (a class I need like another hole in my head but that I have to have in order to take anything else) and a course in Film Producing. These classes severely limit my time to write, but then inspire me to want to create. So, as a result, when I have had spare time, I've been spending all of it working on my novel. But there hasn't been as much spare time as there was before.

Now, this may make you wonder how I can possibly think the Novel is in a better place than its ever been. Well, in just about the most convoluted way possible, the story has been strengthened incredibly in the last three weeks or so. You see, while at the library the other day, I picked up a film book to read in conjunction with my film classes. The book was written by a former head of the CAL ARTS Film Program and it was supposed to be about Directing. I thought it might teach me a thing or two about getting those darn actors to do something other than look pretty. Well, I was wrong. I haven't learned a damn thing about acting. What I have learned, however, is how to fix the problems with the novel. In breaking down the problems most beginning screen writers have with their film scripts, I realized that every single problem the former Director was talking about was a problem that I had with the structure of my novel. It was like he had been sitting with me for the past four years helping me write my novel and could recite the problems off the top of his head. Suddenly, in the space of 28 pages of this guys book, I knew where the problems in my novel's narrative lay, and had a solution for how to fix them all.

End result: For the first time in five years, I am confident that I will finish the novel and it will be published. It will still take me some time to finish the rewrite and then to do one final edit (some of the new material is pretty raw and could use some polishing). And then I'm done. Finished.

I know, I know... I should be done by now. Many times over. And it sticks in my craw every time I turn on the computer to start writing again. But the truth is, I started this project with the idea that first and foremost, I was going to learn if a) I could write a novel, and b) how to write a novel. I can confidently say that when I am done, I will have definitively answered both of those questions.

P.S. If you're still reading this and you want more details, go on over to The Thin Line blog. I will make a few comments on some of the changes coming.

An Ordinary Love - Chapter Five

Its funny the way we first begin to notice the passage of childhood. Its never obvious to us the day we walk out of the house. Its always something abstract, something normal, but not normal for us. Our first paycheck, perhaps, or the first time we rent a car or get a hotel room on our own. For me, it came in the Navy, in the third week of boot camp.

I'd always considered myself independent and emancipated from my parents. I hadn't really missed my family the first three weeks of boot camp. There was just too many other things to worry about - saluting correctly, our first inspection, our first physical fitness test, our laughable swimming test. I probably didn't even have time to realize how much I was changing, or had already changed. My hair was gone, sure, but it was growing back. My sense of humor was sincerely dulled, but it was just waiting for a chance to get out and express itself. Many of the same needs and desires I'd had before I'd joined the Navy were still there, so I didn't feel any different. But like a forgotten toy, when we put our childish ways behind us, we tend to forget that they were even there. We just become adults. And we don't notice the transition until something jars us back to where we used to be.

I received a letter from my Mom. I could tell she was having a hard time writing the letter. It was heart felt and aching in its text. She was trying to capture a feeling in words, and while the words didn't make sense, the feeling came through loud and clear. She missed me and she wasn't dealing very well with my departure from her side. In fact, she ended the letter by hinting that the pain was too much to bear and that she'd have a hard time going on living.

My Mom had spent many years in mental hospitals dealing with depression. By the time I was in the Navy, I'd grown used to her moods and such threats. Needless to say, I wasn't shocked. But I was concerned. I was in boot camp and I had no way of just calling her and finding out if she was okay. Suddenly the huge gulf between me and my home opened up before me and I saw how far I'd come in just three short weeks.

I went to the CPO Hill and showed him the letter and he let me make a phone call. It took me a few times to get through to someone - my Dad and he said that he hadn't discovered any problems at all. When I finally got my Mom on the phone, she didn't even remember writing the letter. I didn't remind her of it. To this day, I don't think she ever remembers the letter, but I keep it all the same.

Ironically, two days later, a kid from the unit next to ours jumped to his death from the third story of the Education building. His suicide rocked our brother unit hard. But for us, being young and invincible, the mandatory stand down time was used to relax, take a breathe, and get ready for more boot camp.

The following week, I was given a new job as assistant education petty officer because I'd scored second highest on the first exam (basic Navy exams like how to dog a door, and what Condition Zebra means). My job as runner up education PO was to help teach the unit during test cramming. As it turned out, two days later, the Education PO was busted and held back a week and I was promoted to full time Education PO. After four weeks, I shrugged it off. What could happen?

The next day, our education continued with Fire Fighting training. As Education PO it was my job to lead the unit during educational excercises. That meant that when it came time to fight the fire, I went it first. Now, if you've never had fire fighting training, I need to explain to you that we're not talking about a little dinky kitchen fire. No sirree Bob, this hear was a Class A jet fuel fire. They had a special facility set up in a giant warehouse and in the middle of this warehouse was basically a gas main that shot flames fifty feet into the air. If you were to stand next to the flame when it went off, you would probably catch fire yourself - no matter what sort of flame retardent suit you wore. As Education PO my job was to lead the first hose into the room, ease in close to the fire, and direct the nozzle at the base of the flame. The second team's job was to move in behind us with a giant sprinkler hose and spray us down so that we remained relatively cool. We had bulky fire retardent fire suits. It was already a blistering hot day. We were carrying a heavy fire hose under high pressure, and we were fighting flames that could melt us if we were unprotected.

No problem.

After all, I was an adult now.

What A Strange Long Month Its Been...

Dear Readers;

I am sorry for a lack of content. This month has been the strangest month in my professional career. At the end of December, I only had orders for seven loaves and two fishes. But all of a sudden, I've been feeding 5000 every single day. Metaphors aside, just this week I've been handling orders for $200K from Brazil, $60K from two different companies in the U.S., and I've had a complete product meltdown. Our biggest trade show is on Monday of next week and I've been trying to place orders for huge orders coming down the pipeline in April and May. Hectic doesn't begin to describe it and I feel at times like a quadraplegic juggler.

Anyway, I just stopped in here to say something. SOMETHING. And now I must get back to work.

See you in February... I hope!

An Ordinary Love - Chapter Four

The thing I most remember about Boot Camp is the fact that just when you started thinking you had it down, someone pulled the rug out from under you.

To march properly in Boot Camp you need all the necessary parts. To start, there is the Recruit Chief Petty Officer or RCPO and his assistant, the LCPO. Our first RCPO was a guy by the name of King. He was a New Jersey kid who we later discovered had been sent to boot camp as an alternative to prison. He was one of those natural born leaders of people - if you were looking to get into trouble. For LCPO, we had a kid from the south by the name of Latrell. Latrell was intelligent and quiet. He took orders as well as he gave them. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and when to tell someone off. We all liked Latrell, but I'm not sure he liked any of us. He was classic officer material. After that was the rotating list of squad leaders. Each one lead a column of the unit, but other than that, their role was pretty much ceremonial. These guys came and went so often, I don't remember any of their names. We also needed a guidon - the person who held our unit flag and consequently led the unit. There were two rear guardons as well who rotated. Their job was to rush ahead and block roads or passes while the unit marched along. And finally, the most important job, there was the caller. It was the caller job to call the cadence. Callers always started out lame, "Left, right, left," and always ended up extremely colorful, "I want your left, ow... Its mighty, mighty, to let it all hang out." Without these basic elements, we couldn't go anywhere.

To march, we would line up in six columns to start. The Chief would tell the RCPO to move out. At which point, the RCPO would call the company to attention and give the order, "Ready, march!" The caller would immediately start the cadence and we'd start shuffling our feet and then the RCPO would issue the marching orders, "By twos, column march," or some such. The columns would form into ranks of twos and proceed, or threes or fours or sixes. It didn't really matter. We'd start marching and it was up to the RCPO to change directions, "To the left... march!" And one by one, we'd turn left. We were told to never change directions without an order. At each intersection, the RCPO would call out, "Guardons, POST!" And the two guardons would run ahead into the intersection, and immediately stand in the way of oncoming traffic at Parade Rest until the columns had passed, and then allegedly await for the RCPO to recall them to the unit - this actually seldom happened since the RCPO was at the front of the column - and the guardons would usually just run back to the unit.

This all sounds simple. How hard can it be to walk, right? Wrong! The first two weeks of boot camp, in addition to losing your hair, losing your identity, learning to fold clothes and make beds and getting shots, was all about marching. March here and march there. After a few days of marching, though, we were starting to feel like we could do this thing - like maybe we had this boot camp thing figured out and it wasn't so bad after all.

As it turned out, King was not a very good RCPO. We discovered this during the second day of the King era when he marched us into a wall because he got flustered. This started a feud between him and a black kid from the Philly area by the name of Bubbles. Bubbles and King didn't like each other and Bubbles was sure that he could run the unit better. The day after King ran us into the wall, Bubbles and King had words and Bubbles took a swing at King. Unfortunately, he did it right in front of Chief Hill.

All heck broke loose. Chief Hill immediately stepped in like a East German referee in a Soviet Wrestling match. He parted the two men, took statements from the witnesses and then had Bubbles sent before Captain's Mast. Captain's Mast, we all knew, was where the serious punishments were meted out. We were certain it was the last we would see of Bubbles. The fracas had only lasted a split second. It was nothing more than what you'd see in a typical day in high school. But, suddenly, we were starting to understand the seriousness of our situation. One mistake could ruin your life.

As it turned out, Bubbles did return to the unit that night. He'd been given the ultimate punishment. He was allowed to stay with the unit until graduation, but he had to report to Marching Party every single night until then - which was nearly seven weeks away (let me tell you, Bubbles lost a lot of weight under the kind tutelage of the Navy Seals for 7 weeks).

A week later, distracted by a beautiful girl visiting the barracks of a graduating recruit, King marched us into another wall. This time, it was in front of a real life training officer. The officer demanded King's ceremonial RCPO sword and King was so flustered that he handed it to the officer - which was the symbolic equivalent of saying, "Sir, I surrender my entire unit to you." The officer was so stunned, that he told King to march us back to our barracks and report to Chief Hill. Less than five minutes after we reported to Chief Hill, King was fired as RCPO and was replaced by our new and final RCPO, Miller - who was a good old boy from West Virginia. He was also quiet and efficient, but there was the sort of fire in him that you knew he'd never surrender his sword under pain of death.

I didn't see a lot of Ron in those first two weeks. Once, at a large training session, Chief Hill asked if anyone had any questions and Ron asked why he hadn't seen me in nearly two weeks even though we'd signed up on the Buddy Program together. Chief Hill explained that we were in the same unit and that had to be good enough. After that, for a short time, Ron was given the nickname, "The Stupid Question Petty Officer."

At the end of the second week, I was just starting to get the hang of the daily program. I was starting to get normal sleep and to make some new friends. And then everything changed forever.

We were called in to the barracks and told to quietly sit on the floor. As this was not on our schedule, we all wondered what was going on. The Chief looked nervous and agitated. He called the company to order and then introduced a Lieutenant from the Division Headquarters who had something to tell us. The doors were shut and guards were posted.

"Gentleman, as of an hour ago, The United States is at war with Iran."

The air sucked out of the room. I could feel this cloud of oppression fall over me. Iran? War? Oh my God!

"Early yesterday morning, the Iranian Navy launched an unprovoked attack from one of their missile boats and an Exocet missile hit the USS Kitty Hawk (an aircraft carrier based out of San Diego at the time). There were over four hundred casualties and, unfortunately, the carrier was sunk. Last night, in retaliation, we launched an airstrike that hit several military targets and also destroyed many of their oil platforms in the Persian Gulf."

It was real! We were really at war! A shooting war! We all looked around at each other in shock and sadness.

"As a result of the declaration of war, this recruit training center is being ramped up to a war footing. As of now, all recruiting classes will be shortened to four weeks. From there, you will be sent out to the fleet to join a ship at sea. Also, any infractions of the UCMJ will now be taken before a full Captain's Mast and punishments meted out accordingly."

Slowly, imperceptibly, it happened. The shocked eyes turned into the eyes of the determined. I was going to live. I was going to get through this.

"Men, I know this is not what you were planning. But its time to grow up. The tiniest mistake could cost the lives of you or your shipment. You need to pay attention to details. You don't want to be the one that causes your entire ship to sink."

Everyone nodded. We were pumped up. We were ready to fight a war, if fight we must. We were ready to charge out of that room and storm the beaches of Bandar Abbas and kick some ass for all the Iranians that had messed with the U.S..

"Are there any questions?"

There were several practical questions about graduation ceremonies, making sure loved ones were taken care of, etc... For thirty minutes, we sat there contemplating the beginning of a war and our ability to fight it.

"There's just one more thing before I go," the Lieutenant said. "I'm lying. We're not at war with Iran. But had we been, this is all the warning you might have received. You have to ask yourself. Will you be prepared for it?"

The shocked looks returned and then our units Caller said, "Oh Thank God! I nearly crapped my pants!" And we all laughed and the tension left the room. But ever after that point, we took boot camp very seriously.

Faith Like A Child - A New Thought

Ariel over at Bittersweet Life was asking about the phrase, "Faith Like A Child," that Jesus used in one of his many lessons. Specifically He mentioned the fact that we should all have faith like a child if we wanted to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Ariel was wondering what we all felt that that meant. At the time, if I gave an answer, it was probably pretty lame. But the question didn't leave me. It was something I thought I understood intuitively, but that I couldn't quite place into words - and now I understand why.

I've often admired the way a really good pastor can speak to the littlest of children about God. They often have to take the most complex theological sayings and expressions and boil them down to their bare essence for the littlest ones to understand. Our Pastoral Intern started out this year, well to be generous, as a disaster. Conveying these thoughts is not easy and I've seen the attempt fail spectacularly. Little children have a tendency to see things about God that we don't expect - with often hilarious or unintentional results. They ask embarassing questions and we just smile because we know their questions are often the first ones we asked as well - "Where did Mrs. Cain come from?" And yet, we think its sweet when they sing songs like, "Yes, Jesus Loves Me," because we know that soon they'll be able to sing more adult songs like Handel's Messiah. We know that as they grow older and understand more they will come to appreciate God more fully, to know Him more completely. But for now, well... we just have to spoon feed it to them in tiny amounts that they can grasp.

On Sunday it suddenly occurred to me what Jesus was trying to say. It wasn't the full blown theology with the five hundred encyclopedic volumes of information that He wanted us to embrace and grasp. It was these kernels of spoon fed religious faith. He was saying that to get into the Kingdom of Heaven we have to believe that Yes, Jesus Loves Me Because The Bible Tells Me So. Its that simple. We, being skeptical adults and sinners, find that hard to grasp. Wait? Isn't there more to it than that? There's got to be more. What about...

There is no more. There is no what about... There is simply the truth and its core. The disciples didn't get it. And truly, as adults, we don't get it either. But kids grasp it, understand it at a fundamental level. They understand the concept that people can love them for just being themselves and that they will be sheltered and fed and clothed and taken care of by those who love them. They don't need to know any more. And really, we don't either.

Our Faith needs to be that simple - and man, is that a hard concept to grasp.

P.S. The continuing saga of "Phil and Ron in the Navy" will return as soon as I remember... I mean, as soon as I completely fabricate from scratch more stuff. ;)

An Ordinary Love - Chapter Three

They called them gigs. They were like demerits. If you got gigged for something, well, you were screwed. There was no such thing as a small gig. A first offense - a first gig - would earn you a trip to the Marching Party. This was a lounge filled with 80's music, beer, and hot women - NOT! It was a giant macadam filled with other offenders doing incredibly harsh aerobic exercise under the watchful eyes of disgruntled Navy SEALS. It was designed to make you feel pain for about two hours. To add insult to injury, you were not allowed to shower afterwards. By the time you received your third gig, however, you went straight to the Short Tour. The short tour was two hours of intense drilling with a 30lb drill rifle. If that doesn't sound tough, imagine doing 800 jumping jacks while holding the 30 pound rifle over your head. After that, the only remaining remedial punishment was called Vietnam. This was the Short Tour in full gear (Jacket, Belt, Combat Boots, etc...) in a stuffy room with all the windows and doors closed - in San Diego - in the summer. These were the remedial punishments. After that there was the social punishment - washing out. If you washed out, you didn't get to go home. Instead, you were sent backwards to another unit to repeat the same week of boot camp that you'd just finished. Not only would you add a week of time to your boot camp stay, but you'd also lose all of your friends, and furthermore be classified as a screw up by your new shipmates. Of all the punishments, it was the one everyone wanted to avoid the most. Beyond that, there were things known as administrative dismissals - you get out of the Navy, but you can never get back in - EVER! And the whole slew of UCMJ punishments (Universal Code of Military Justice) like prison time and Bad Conduct Discharges that would basically screw up your life. We learned all of this stuff early on because fear was the number one deterrent in the first couple of weeks of boot camp and considering what we were about to go through, it was good to be scared of the alternatives.

That first morning we stood in front of the temporary barracks for about half an hour as we tried to line up by height at 3:30 in the morning. Its dark out at 3:30am and its not really the best time to make social introductions. I stood next to a nameless face to the left and right of me judging them only by their so called height. I was on the relatively tall end of the spectrum. Once we were lined up, they formed us into ranks - four abreast - and then they posted sailors on all sides of us and told us to march.

If you've never seen a group of 80 guys march on their first day of boot camp, its kind of a funny site. As a group you look like a drunken centipede with a nervous tick. We marched down the road and across a bridge. Up ahead was a giant open space - like the parking lot at a football stadium. We could see that other groups of boot campers were lining up in similar fashion. We marched up near the front and then stopped. The sailors started yelling at us, "Tighten up there, Nuttobutt, nuttobutt!" It was the first Navy word I would learn. Nut to Butt, as it so colorfully describes, was a admonition to stand so close to the person in front of you that it was almost pornographic. But that was okay, because the guy behind you did the same. It wasn't a very comfortable way to stand, but it was warm. As there were no trees and as it was almost four in the morning, it was rather cool in San Diego. What I didn't realize as I squeezed close enough to my neighbor that I could have felt him break wind, was that we were going to be standing there for a long time. How long?

The Boot Camp system for serving chow is rather unique. It basically works by inverse logic. Those who are still relatively new to boot camp arrive first. Those who have been at boot camp arrive last. The last unit to arrive eats first - unless there is some special requirement that requires units to eat earlier. Though we arrived at the parade ground at 4:00am, we didn't get in line for breakfast until 6:00am. We were at the back of the line.

As we finally made our way into the chow hall, many recruits looked up at us - some with shock, some with humor, but most with compassion. "Don't worry, man. If I made it, you can make it." We just stared ahead in shock. When we finally reached the food line, we grabbed trays and were pushed through quickly. I don't normally eat breakfast. And, after standing in line for three hours, I wasn't really feeling all that hungry at that moment. I grabbed a piece of toast and some bacon. Which was just as well because almost as soon as I sat down, I was being told that it was time to leave. I think I must have given them a look of disbelief because they reitterated the importance of my moving. Three hours in line to sit down for approximately 45 seconds. I stood up, crammed the toast in my mouth, and hurried to catch up to the rest of my unit.

We marched back to the temporary barracks and stood out front in the courtyard again. Our names were called and we were told to do something - I couldn't hear what they said. You see, I hadn't noticed this during the darkness, but now that the light was coming up and I was beginning to see around the place I had come to realize that we were quite close to the San Diego International Airport. Every couple of minutes a plane would go roaring overhead. I did hear my name called and when something else was said and I saw everyone scrambling, I went scrambling too. We went back inside the temporary barracks and got our things and then we ran back outside and got back in line.

When I came back, there was a new man at the front of the large group. All those whose names hadn't been called were gone - I don't know where. The man introduced himself, but again I couldn't hear. He was a normal sized man - not incredibly buff or tough looking. He looked cunning, like a basketball coach or something, not dangerous like a linebacker coach. He introduced another man - Philipino, for sure - who looked at us like he was the head guard at a maximum security prison. Together the two men formed us into lines again and off we marched.

As it turned out, we headed to our barracks - the first barracks in the first division of boot camp. We were Company 101 and our Chief Instructor was CPO Hill and his assistant was CPO Perez. We were sent into the barracks in some sort of order and told to select our racks (bunk beds). I chose one in the corner farthest from the door. My bunk mate was a kid named Dietz. He was from Ohio. Though I knew I'd heard Ron's name called, I hadn't seen him. In five minutes, we reported back outside with our seabags and marched back the way we'd just come.

It hadn't even reached 7am yet. By the time lunch rolled around, we had been shorn, clothed, and ID'd. We had even started stenciling our name and last four digits into all of our clothes - yes, even socks and underwear. Our seabags were left behind as we formed into a slightly less discombobulated column and headed to lunch.

Again, we waited nuttobutt. Again we slammed something edible into our mouths before we were rushed out the door. We continued stenciling our names into everything we owned after lunch. And then, we went back to our barracks for a little siesta, some margaritas and... Nah, just kidding.

We were each given notebooks. But these notebooks were not meant for doodling. They were a first line defense in the war. We were to use them to carry communications, passes, and our orders wherever we went. We sat down in the barracks on the main floor and Chief Hill started reciting the 10 Standing Orders. We were told to write them down and to not deviate from the spelling or grammar. We were encouraged to memorize them as we might be asked at any time by any one to recite any of the standing orders. If we did not know the orders, we would be gigged.

He then went on to explain the entire method of indoctrination into the military. In the first two weeks, you need to break down the recruit into nothing - absolutely nothing. It was done by sleep deprivation, lack of food, heavy physical and mental stress, and fear. Lots and lots of fear. Anything we did wrong could not only get us gigged, but one day, in the real world, it could get our shipmates killed. Even as I sat there that first day, I had no thought - no memory even - of the real world. My entire existence was in that little room.

Eventually, the day came to an end. I don't remember getting much more done other than learning to fold and put away our clothes, make our beds, and clean the entire barracks top to bottom in the space of about twenty minutes (80 people a day, every day, for forty years - there wasn't a whole lot of dirt to clean anyway). We got about a minute for a shower at night crowded twenty naked guys deep in a small shower room with luke warm water. Then finally, we crawled into our racks and turned off the lights. It was 7:30pm. I never slept deeper.

At 3:40am, the sentries turned on the lights and ordered us out of bed - and the whole process started all over again.

An Ordinary Love - Chapter Two

Every year Americans remember June 6th as the anniversary of D-Day - the Day we stormed the beaches in France near the end of World War II. For nearly the past 20 years, I've commemorated the day for a different reason. It was the day Ron and I went off to boot camp.

Before the sun had even risen, I had gathered my things and said my goodbyes to my parents. It was a short walk from my house to Ron's house. His parents were up as well - his stepfather would be giving us a ride downtown. His mom made us pancakes. The nourishment was welcome, but my nerves kept me from eating more than a couple. Like two condemned men heading to our sentencing hearing, Ron and I left his house behind and climbed into his stepfather's car. It was a short ride.

The recruiting station was downtown on Market Street near the Civic Center Plaza. It was a little hole in the wall place, no bigger than the ethnic video rental place next door. Several recruiters were crammed inside the place trying to remain professional while they conned unsuspecting people into joining the military. I don't blame them for their job. Nobody knows whether they'll like the military until they join. A recruiter, in this case, is more like a waiter - trying to entice us to have the Chef's Special. He wants us to be happy with our choice, but he's not going to lose any sleep over it if we don't. We were the first to arrive at the recruiting station and we had to wait in a bad neighborhood for our recruiter to arrive.

Our recruiter seemed annoyed at having to take us over to Oakland to be processed. I was a little confused at this attitude, but then I realized that as far as he was concerned, his job was done. He'd got us to sign on the dotted line. It was up to us what we did from here on out. If we hadn't shown that morning, nobody would have come looking for us. By showing up, I had reaffirmed my decision to join. As soon as our recruiter arrived, he poured himself a cup of coffee and then walked us over to the government lot and signed out a government sedan. As dawn broke over the city, we joined the traffic crossing the Bay Bridge for the first leg of our journey.

A month before we had gone across the bay to the Oakland Processing Center for a physical. The doctor had scrutinized us, poked us, prodded us, made us cough, and then gave us a lecture on our health with express warnings that a failure to stay healthy would make us ineligible for military service.

As we arrived in Oakland, off 12th Street, we walked into the same building and proceeded into the giant medical queue. First came the paperwork. You can't do anything in the military without paperwork. We sat and gave our name, address, social security number (last four digits), etc... again and again and again as the bored and tired secretaries typed our information over and over again on different forms. The line was a lot longer than you would imagine. There had to be close to 200 young people there being processed through on that day. They were from all races, all backgrounds, all walks of life - male and female. There was no talking. It was like a giant hospital waiting room. After the paperwork came the same battery of tests that the doctors had performed before, but suddenly I could see behind the facade. They did the tests, noted the results, and moved us on as if on a conveyor belt. Had I suddenly sprouted a second head, they would have written it on the form and sent me on to the next station. The medical warnings I had received had merely been another test of my resolve. I had passed yet again.

I somehow managed to stay close to Ron, but at some point we were separated and he had gone on ahead of me. After the medical exam, then, we waited to have our paperwork processed and then, all too quickly, we were called into a small theater shaped room. There was a pulpit at the front and an American flag behind it. An official petty officer stood as witness. The doors of the room were closed and the officer in charge welcomed us and then told us to repeat after him. In the space of five minutes, I had been sworn into the military and had vowed to protect and defend the constitution of the United States of America.

This was only the halfway point of my day. After the ceremony, we continued the processing. I found Ron in the next waiting room. We talked tersely - the fatigue and stress of the day making us look like deer caught in the headlights. Finally, I was called over to the personnel woman who had me sign a gazillion forms and then she handed me plane tickets and a stack of paperwork that I was to carry with me to my recruit training center in San Diego, CA. She told me that I was all done now and that I only had to wait to get a ride to the airport.

Ron and I were processed together, but we didn't say much as we waited for the van. The ride to the Oakland Airport was short and quiet and we boarded a nearly empty flight from Oakland to San Diego. We sat in the back with two other recruits and, as it turned out, a sailor who had just returned from sea duty. He had been aboard the U.S.S. Stark - the ship that had been hit with the French Exocet missile in the Persian Gulf by an Iraqi missile boat by mistake. He had described in glowing detail the battle to save the ship. It was both fascinating and nerve wracking - like someone giving you a first hand account of the shipwreck they had just escaped while standing in line for your Hawaiian cruise.

It was night by the time we arrived in San Diego. We exited the aircraft into the terminal and found our way through its emptiness towards the place where we were to board the bus to boot camp. There was nobody there and the place looked deserted. But we were already in military mode and we just stood there and waited. Soon other flights arrived and other people joined us. Nobody spoke. Ron and I remained tightlipped. A bus arrived and we filed aboard. There was no fanfare, no screaming drill sergeant. We rode down a dizzying set of streets and highways until we entered Recruit Training Center - San Diego. We pulled up to a small squat one story square building with a large courtyard in front and the doors to the bus opened.

A sailor stepped on to the bus and told us to follow him. He was pleasant and we flowed out of the bus and crossed the courtyard to the building. We were told to enter the room, find a number and step on it, and to drop our paperwork on the ground in front of us. We did as we were told, feeling at last that this boot camp stuff wasn't so hard.

An officer appeared and welcomed us to RTC - San Diego. He had us repeat the oath again (we did) and then several sailors scrambled in front of us and collected our paperwork. While the officer explained the procedure to us for the rest of our evening, the sailors arranged the paperwork, copied the names onto some sort of roster, and then handed the roster to the officer.

He called us out in groups of ten. First, the piss test. Ron went with the first group. He disappeared out of the room and the room became quiet. Five minutes passed and another group of ten went. I was still in the room. In the fourth group of ten, I headed to the bathroom.

Wouldn't you know it? Performance anxiety. As I stood there, parched, tired, nervous, strung out - I just couldn't piss. I had nothing in me. They got tired of waiting for me and told me to come back later. I ran out with the others, suddenly realizing that I didn't remember where it was we were going.

I'm not sure I would have gone had I known what was coming next. We crossed the courtyard and entered the bowels of a much larger building. We went along wooden floors in a warehouse type area and ended up in a room with long communal wooden tables that looked like some sort of woodshop. We were the last group of ten to make it into this room (and this company as it turned out). Standing in front of the room was a short Puerto Rican sailor with a chip on his shoulder as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon. In broken and thickly accented English he said something that amounted to, "This is where you get your stuff. As I call off each item, take it from the table and put it into the sea bag on the floor next to you."

Nobody had understood a word he said, but we quickly got the gist of it. The room was hot, stuffy, and we were all tired and jet lagged from a long day of it. That combined with the man's nearly indecipherable accent, and we looked like an assembly line of dunces.

"Psst... what did he say?"

"I think he said sewing kit."

Everyone who put the wrong object in the bag got yelled at and sent out of the room. I saw Ron get kicked out about halfway through the process. Somehow my entire table made it through, mostly as a result of guess work. After another hour, we had managed to fill our seabags, complete the necessary paperwork, and head out of the room.

We were escorted out of the room by a sailor and taken across the courtyard to a barracks building (temporary). We were told to grab a rack, and then shit, shower and shave before lights out in ten minutes. I was so nervous I cut my face shaving about fifteen times. Just as I was standing looking in the mirror at my bloody stump of a face, the officer informed me that I had to report back to the first building to take my piss test.

I ran back to the first building, reported for the test, and stopped the officer cold.

"What the hell happened to your face?"

"I cut it shaving." I was already thinking that boot camp was designed to make you look like a dumbass.

I finished the test and returned to the barracks. It was past lights out and I had to find my rack in the dark, climb over someone to the top bunk, and pull myself under the covers. By that point, I had been virtually awake for 36 straight hours. My head hit the pillow and I was out.

A second later, or so it seemed, someone threw a trashcan down the center aisle of the barracks and I heard screaming.

"REVILLE! REVILLE! GET OUT OF YOUR BEDS AND MUSTER ON THE QUAD! COME ON, PEOPLE! MOVE IT!"

I threw myself out of bed and dressed as quickly as possible, thinking, "Oh my God! I have totally made a mistake!" I shuffled out of the room with everyone else, and discovered to my horror that it was 3:30 in the morning. We walked out into the moonlit morning on the quad and lined up and stood. In the darkness, I could see Ron in front of me and I suddenly had a vision of strangling him with my bare hands for having one of the most stupid and totally insane ideas and for dragging me into it. I was in Boot Camp now and there was no turning back.

An Ordinary Love - Chapter One

The Golden Gate Bridge was far above us - criss crossing girders that sounded like a strange musical instrument when heavy trucks went across it. Directly in front of us was the mouth of the San Francisco Bay and beyond, the Pacific Ocean. Waves crashed occassionally against the shore, like one of those peaceful meditation tapes. Somewhere off in the darkness, Ron and his date - some girl he'd known in High School - were off doing who knew what. I didn't care. Tonight was the last night on Earth and I couldn't see the darkness, or hear the waves, or smell the sea, or feel the fog. My world was in front of me - a short, beautiful, sweet angel sent to Earth to make me happy. Her name was Chelsea and the sound of her drowned out the rest of the world.

"Why are you leaving? I still don't understand." She had tears in her eyes now. The clock showed us that we were running out of time. Her traditional mother would only let her stay out so late - even if she knew it was because I would be leaving tomorrow for the Navy.

"I can't explain. I just have to." It was a lame excuse then. Its a lame excuse now. I'm still not sure I have a better answer.

There were a hundred reasons I had joined the Navy, but the shortest explanation is that I had to. I was floundering, really, and I had panicked. Unable to deal with the new found freedom of college, I had let my grades plunge and had effectively washed out of film school. It wasn't that the subjects hadn't been interesting - it was more that a case of lethargy had seized me and wouldn't let go. My brain just didn't want to function any more. I had enjoyed three very productive writing years in High School, had written nearly ten full length stories, and had thought myself ready to transition to film. I was going to be the next great movie mogul. But when I finally achieved film school, finally sat down in the class, finally opened a notebook - I became soul wearily bored. I wanted the fantasy of film school. I wanted the fantasy of freedom. Reality was a drag.

There was more, really. Ron had passed a note to me in Script Writing Class - "I'm joining the Navy." The bombshell had nearly shaken me out of my seat. For the next thirty minutes I scribbled madly notes back to him telling him why he was an idiot. I continued after class for another hour and then left him for work at my Dad's shop - but I didn't leave the argument. It raced in my head, exploded in insane rants that I couldn't keep locked up in my head. Talking to myself, I addressed all the hundreds of reasons why joining the Navy was a monumentally bad idea. But somewhere along the line, I convinced myself to join with him.

It wasn't a dramatic schizophrenic moment, but more of a subtle shift in logic. As I named off all the reasons he shouldn't join, I realized that the arguments for joining the Navy overcame a lot of the obstacles I currently faced. It was a job - a paying job. It was an adventure - a real adventure. I would have time to write and things to write about. And, perhaps, I could get into a real college at some point and become a real film maker. The Navy could pave my way into UCLA or USC. I was a patriot. My Dad and Grandfather had both served. And it wasn't like there was going to be a war any time soon.

I informed my family that night - then I called Ron and told him I would join him. He seemed relieved. The next day we went down to the recruiting station and I watched as the recruiter's eyes got about three sizes too big when he saw my ASVAB test scores. He knew he'd just landed a big fish. We tried to get into the Navy's film program, but they couldn't gurantee anything until after Boot Camp. Without hesitition in my heart, we signed on the dotted line and our fates were sealed.

I saw Chelsea that night and as we sat on a bench waiting for her bus, I broke the news to her. She took it really well. She was confused, sad, shocked, but she said she understood.

Our remaining days together - about three months - before Boot Camp were unusually tense. We had been seeing each other for nearly three years at this point and I didn't think we could possibly get any closer to each other. There was nothing we hadn't done together as boyfriend and girlfriend. Though we both knew we were too young to get married, have kids, and start a life together, I was under the assumption that it wasn't age that was keeping us apart so much as a lack of will. When we were ready to take that next step, I knew we would. I had no doubt about it. I loved Chelsea with all my heart - our lives together were inevitable.

On my final night in the real world, Ron and his date and Chelsea and I had gone out together. We went to see Crocodile Dundee 2. I was too nervous to enjoy the broad comedy. Sitting in the dark with Chelsea at my side, I couldn't help but contemplate the immediate future. After the movie, we went to dinner at Mel's Diner. It was forgettable - even if it was cliche for someone heading off to the military the next day. We ate without joy only to stave off the inevitable parting. We drove away from Mel's and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin, taking the first exit on the other side and heading down to the base of the bridge. It was dark and almost private.

Chelsea and I made our way to the end of the path, under the bridge, and sat with other couples watching San Francisco twinkle across the bay. We snuggled tight for warmth and kissed gently. But the anticipation was too great. It was a dark cloud on the very near horizon. We walked slowly back to the car - tried to create some sort of lasting memories to tide us over through the time to come - but, all too quickly, we were back at the car.

Chelsea dried her tears before we got to the car. Ron and his date were waiting for us. The dread spread from that moment, spread like a disease. I tried to be cheerful, tried to sound normal, but my heart was beating in my chest and tears were just underneath my heavy eyelids. We reached Chelsea's house and for what could have been the last time, I got out and walked her to the door. We kissed quickly. I wanted more, something more. But her mother was there, mad that we were out so late, and Chelsea had to go. She gave me a limp, "Goodbye," and went inside.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Ron and I stayed up til late in the morning and then I headed home. I climbed into bed with my dog. Said my silent goodbyes to my brother and sister. And when the early morning alarm woke me not a half hour later, I grabbed my bag and said goodbye to my parents and headed off to seek my fortune.

For the next three years, I regreted ever leaving that house.

The Following Preview is Rated R

Ariel over at Bittersweet Life wrote yesterday about rekindling his relationship with his novel. He wanted some advice and offered some quotes from various different authors about their relationship with the written word. One of the quotes listed was; "Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it. Give up yourself, and you will find your real self. Lose your life, and you will save it." - C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity. This quote obviously stuck with me last night as I tossed and turned and tried to sleep.

Insomnia has been gnawing at me lately. It is a productive time as the cares of the world wash away in half dreams and half baked ideas that have been unusually productive. In the past so many weeks I've had three really good ideas either during my "sleep" or directly upon opening my eyes. I've tossed and turned and sounded like a hard drive laboring to render a movie, play You Tube, and run Itunes at the same time. But DING! - and I get the answer I've been trying to discover without realizing it. Last night, that quote had a productive ring to it.

As I'm trying to consummate my relationship with one book, I'm about to start an affair with another. This story has been floating in my head for years - lost, without a rudder, on a wide expanse of story ideas. A couple of weeks ago (again, while asleep) I found a rudder and have been steering the story idea to shallower waters so that I could hop aboard. But last night, with C.S. Lewis in my head, I realized that I wasn't quite ready to set sail with a fictional story until I truly explored the factual story that might as well serve as a prequel.

All of this is a long, convoluted, and round about way of saying that starting tomorrow I will be writing a long, long, story here in the ICON blog. This story will take a while to reach a conclusion. It will likely be uneven and sometimes vague - bad writing will no doubt abound. I will be using the story to flesh out ideas for my second novel. Although it will likely be something close to 90% autobiographical, names and incidents will be changed as it suits me to either enhance the story, protect national interests, or to keep from being sued. (oh, also because I really care that some people might not want their names in my blog... really... ;)

The reason for the warning is that it will be R rated. I will not be pulling any punches. You may like some things and hate others. Be that as it may, I'm sure you'll discover that I like some things and hate others too - but I have to live with both of them.

So, starting tomorrow, a new story and a new adventure here at ICON...

Someone Explain This To Me...

I'm going to make this simple and let you do the math.

The price of a barrel of oil ended 2006, the same as the end of 2005. So, to recap, oil is exactly the same price now that it was a year ago. YET... January 1st, 2006 - Price of Gasoline was $2.08. January 1st, 2007 - Price of Gasoline is $2.71.

Anyone got any answers?

The Annual Review

If today was the Judgment, I am sure that I'd be chaffed with most of humanity. When I see what it is that Our Lord calls for us to do, I am sure that I am not even close to being considered near the top 10% of humanity in regards to that summons. There are many, indeed, who do not even know Christ who are much better Christians than I will ever be. But as my year end assessment begins and I focus on the areas that are much in need of improvement for next year, I am certain of one thing - hope. I have received an abundance of it this year and I carry forth its remnants into a new year filled with its afterglow. Hope will be my banner for next year.

I am still way too selfish. Jesus's words convict me constantly. I am not anywhere near like the beggar woman with her two small coins. I retain far too much wealth for myself and spend it foolishly on things and needs that I do not require. It seems as if the more I try to disentangle myself from this consumerist society, the more I fall lock step with it. Though my not purchasing a PlayStation 3 or Wii should count for something ;) Yet, I have hope that I might break free of the cycle that has kept me from spending wisely and that has encouraged my overspending. I have hope that I shall learn not to need so much of this gift that has been given to me and that I might find a way to put more of it to His use.

My heart is still too dark with thoughts and feelings that are not worthy of inclusion in Heaven. I wish to embrace the love of Christ and to be its conduit to the world. But the vast amount of love I receive remains locked inside of me - there to heal my own wounded heart. I hope to be mended so that I might mend. I hope to love, so that I might be loved. I hope to cast away the fear and the pain that has kept me in dark places. I hope to forgive, truly, and not to carry dark thoughts with me. I hope to go forth and sin no more.

I have great hope. On my birthday, I prayed for a gift that was real and I was filled with God's love for me and for the world. It lightened my soul like a solar tower in a coal mine. I bounced for a week before I felt the lightness slip from me and I became burdened again with the world. And again, this Christmas, I prayed for a glimmer of hope and there she was with a smile meant just for me - a bright spot on a gloomy day. A glimmer and nothing more, but a promise of things to come, a sign for my soul of a path on which I am about to embark. A spark just bright enough to give me a flicker of the world to be and to light a fire within my soul. Hope is a wonderful thing.

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for. And I have had my faith rekindled in hope. Sometimes we all need a glimpse of that for which we strive - a vision, a smell, a touch, a sound, a taste of the one truth. That hope is enough to brace us for the battles to come.

I am not there yet. I have a long way to go. But I have every hope that I will be there in the end.

May 2007 be better than 2006 for you and all your kin.

Will Robison

Peace on Earth

Even in Hawaii, war is a bad place.

I spent Gulf War One in a barracks in Hawaii. On a daily basis, I'd get up from bed around 4pm, shower, get dressed, grab a bite to eat, and head to my intelligence building to work. We worked from roughly 6pm to 6am every day. My job was the analysis of satellite imagery from the Gulf region. It had been my job for nearly two years at that point, but until GW1, nobody had ever paid any attention to it. All of a sudden, with the start of hostilities, I was briefing Admirals and watching my analysis show up on CNN. Interesting stuff.

We were not directly a target. Fleet Headquarters shared the same complex as us. We were the eyes, ears, and brains of the entire Pacific Fleet. When hostilities started, our threat level assessment went to the highest you can get without patrolling dogs, machine gun posts, etc... While most of the country was unaware of the dangers we faced in the United States from terrorism, we were very aware of our surroundings and suspicious activities in our area. Fear, while not great, was a presence.

Our work load increased as the ground war got closer. We were now engaged in real hostilities in a part of the world. We stopped looking for the sake of looking and started looking for real danger. Missing something that was right there in front of us was not an option. Threats had to be found and eliminated. Failure meant death for our friends and fellow soldiers. Compared to that, what is real life? Stress levels soared. Fatigue soared. More than one sailor in our building lost it and found themselves hospitalized from nervous breakdowns.

Drinking was rampant. Destressing became a priority. I was not immune from this behavior. After nearly punching a Lieutenant out, I went home and smashed my fist into a wall several times. The pain calmed me down a great deal. I nearly broke my leg kicking a chair during a Nintendo session. I steered clear of any additional stress. Christmas came and went. It was not my happiest holiday that year. As the war dragged on, there was a real possibility that I would be forced to stay in the military longer than I had anticipated and possibly miss the fall semester of college the next year.

When the day of the greatest battle arrived and I sat listening to a blow by blow account of helicopters massacring tanks and trucks and troops with hellfire missiles, I cheered their destruction. Iraqi soldiers, teenagers not much younger or older than me, were being torn to shreds - their lives being snuffed out - as I cheered on their end. It was not my brightest moment, but it was a great reliever of stress.

War is hell. When you tell young people to kill each other for nebulous reasons, how can it not be? It is a situation that we should always avoid at all costs and should never be entered into lightly. But beyond the emotional, mental, and spiritual anguish it causes, war also takes other tolls.

I returned home from GW1 a changed person. Its hard not to be pushed to the brink and not be changed. Within six months, my fiancee and I had broken up. Part of it was just normal young love coming to an end, but part of it was what the Gulf War had done to me. And I hadn't even come close to the combat zones.

I am reminded of all this because a young man I know through an acquaintance returned home from a tour of Baghdad. For six months he was deployed inside Baghdad, learning to kill or be killed. It was a hard tour for him. He was required to machine gun a man who had done nothing more than hold a cell phone - because that is a tactic used by Al Qaeda. Killing this cell phone man saved him and his comrades. As punishment, Al Qaeda killed the man's family because of his failure to detonate the road side bomb. Five innocent people were killed in one afternoon. It is quite a burden to place on one person's soul - the death of five people, the stress of nearly being killed, the knowledge that you have taken someone else from this world. This young man returned home a couple of weeks ago and found out that his wife wanted a divorce.

People who have never fought in a war or been in the military during a war can never know that everyone in uniform makes sacrifices - that we all suffer, and that you, the citizens who authorize the war, suffer as well. We put ourselves in this situation again and again - and like crazy people we expect a different outcome each time. But war is never succesful. Never. It is always a failure. Every time, no matter the outcome. It is a failure of vision, of faith, and of love.

What I most want for Christmas this year is Peace on Earth. Or, at the very least, less war.