Sacred Heart

Today the grass was a little more green; the sky seemed a little more blue; the air felt a little more life-giving. I stepped out of my door to greet the day and felt so alive that I couldn’t help a smile on my face. I looked up to Heaven and said “thank you” to the God who made this and every day for me the last fifty-one years.

I had been released from the cardiac center a survivor only twenty hours before.

I survived a major heart attack.

I collapsed at work, took a ride in an ambulance that I thought would be my last, tasted the artificial sweet of nitro under my tongue three times on the way to the ER, wondered how near death was, knew that it wasn’t far, saw the EKG scratching my erratic heart rhythms on the scroll of paper in front of me, heard the hospital calling to “give him another dose” of nitro, could see the hospital just one block away through the window of the ambulance, wondered if I’d make it there alive, saw the driver open the door, rode a bumpy gurney ride out of the daylight and into the blinding florescent lamplight inside, had my clothes and shoes and jewelry ripped from my body, lay naked and helpless while four people pulled me off of the stretcher and onto a table, felt pokes and pricks and prods as the trauma team prepped me for heart surgery, felt sticky cold heart monitor leads attached to my skin.

I was whisked away towards the operating room, saw my Mom and Dad in the hall, thought I’d never see them again, watched the robotic x-ray camera hovering above my rib cage project images of the inside of my heart onto three giant flat screen TV monitors, thought that was pretty cool, heard the Cardiologist crack a joke to his assistants during what seemed to be a delicate moment with my life in his hands, wondered if he was really taking this seriously, cracked a joke back that surprised the team working on me (they thought I was asleep), felt the surgeon’s instrument follow a narrow path through a catheter in my leg all the way to my chest cavity and into my heart (“No. Just processing what you said.” I replied.), marveled that I was awake and watching/feeling the skilled hands and technology at work inside my body (they all laughed), prayed that I would be okay, hoped to see another day, heard the words “it went very well” through my worry, thought about Jesus and what I’d say when I got to meet Him, spent the next thirty hours recovering in the ICU, and then moved to a private room where my every breath was monitored as if it were my last.

Fortunately, none were my last and I was presented back into the world as one who had just dueled with death – and won – this time.

So this new day, today, may seem more beautiful than all the other 18,615 days that went before, but that is how I see it. And that’s how it is for me now.

When my boss came to visit me in the ICU, all the nurses were telling her what a “cool guy” I am. Not that I’d disagree with that sentiment ; ) But they were amazed at my positive get up and go attitude so soon after a major heart attack.

Heck, to be honest with you, I was pretty happy to still be above ground. It didn’t look too good on the ambulance ride over, that’s for sure.

They told me later that typically folks get really depressed after a major life-threatening event like a heart attack. I can understand that.

It’s just the opposite for me during times of great despair. At least it’s different for me now than it was before I was born again. But I had to learn how to trust God. It wasn’t always like that for me and I do understand the other point of view in an intimate way.

When I lost my job four years ago I came unglued at first. But God was right there beside me saying, “This won’t be easy, but I’m with you all the way.” He never abandoned me and He gave me the strength to accomplish what I never could have accomplished by myself.

I have had a few “wake-up calls” since then. This new challenge is just another mile marker on the road to God’s Glory. I actually felt much better emotionally in the days after my heart attack, than I did the day before. It’s a miracle, I know.

Miracles are to be expected!

I have God and all of His angels (the people who wrote, called, visited, cooked, and prayed for me) to thank for my positive attitude. Because they were with me, I was able to see God working in my life. His presence was all around me. And through Him, all things are possible – yes, even miracles.

I have gone through many changes since I became a New Creation. I have been challenged. All of this has been good for me. It has taken me away from the darkness of sinful behavior and put me onto God’s lighted path. The tragedies and hardships and afflictions have without exception been part of the journey to a better place. I have grown for all of it. Each experience with adversity, whether it was a job loss, death of a loved one, an unhealthy relationship, illness, or bad behavior, has helped me to understand that we do not please God when we ignore (or try to justify) our sins. He is pleased when we acknowledge them, when we turn away from them, when we repent. I have been so blessed and it is because I have done the 180.

God says that our bodies are a temple. I have let my temple run-down, become sick, unhealthy, out of shape, and therefore not God pleasing. There’s much to be learned from this experience for me. Like I have chosen to be a better steward with money (and God has certainly rewarded me in many ways for that life change), so too must I become a better keeper of the one life and one body that God has given me.

I don’t know how I’ll do it yet? Yes I do! I will pray.

Prayer has helped me before. It helped me build a new career out of the ashes of my former life. It comforted me in hard times and in lonely times and in times of great fear and anxiety. It helped me overcome the adversary’s hold. Prayer has been the calm in the storm; it has led me to finally do the right thing, when all my life I have been so bad at that. And it will help me rebuild my temple – stronger, healthier, and even more committed to God’s purpose for me.

I have always been a tough customer – one who will not go down without a fight. The heart attack may have knocked me down, but it won’t keep me down. I am determined to get back up. Heck, I was doing laps around the nurses’ station twenty-four hours after my surgery.

I’m confident that all of my brothers and sisters in Christ will stand with me shoulder-to-shoulder to greet every new day with the joy that Jesus Christ has put in all of our hearts.

He’ll put it in your heart too – if you let Him.

To God be the Glory!

“The old ones speak of winter
The young ones praise the sun
And time just slips away

Running into nowhere
Turning like a wheel
And a year becomes a day

Whenever we dream
That’s when we fly
So here is a dream
For just you and I

We’ll find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Look for the light
And find the Sacred Heart…

Oh, sometimes you never fall
And ah – You’re the lucky one
But oh – Sometimes you want it all
You’ve got to reach for the sun

And find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Oh look to the light…

You fight to kill the dragon
And bargain with the beast
And sail into a sight

You’ll run along the rainbow
And never leave the ground
And still you don’t know why

Whenever you dream
You’re holding the key
I opens the door
To let you be free

And find the Sacred Heart
Somewhere bleeding in the night
Run for the light
And you’ll find the Sacred Heart”

Ronnie James Dio

______________________________

The Sacred Heart (also known as Most Sacred Heart of Jesus) is one of the most famous religious devotions to Jesus’ physical heart as the representation of his divine love for humanity.

God Speaks; I’m Listening.

When I first opened my eyes Monday morning I knew that it would be a day unlike most. For one thing, it was the day I’d be saying goodbye to a dear friend who died one week before – unexpectedly. Cora was a special soul and my church family was set to gather for her memorial service in the afternoon. But I still had to go through the motions of a half-day at work, even though my heart really wasn’t into it.

Just then, the snooze alarm woke me up – again – ten minutes later, telling me to, “Wake up slacker!” Okay! I got it.

Off then to work, gazing at a gloomy morning through a dirty bus window in mourning for a dear friend and walking through the proverbial “to do list” in my mind. I wanted to turn it all over to the substitute a smooth-running flawless learning machine. (By the way, I’m a special education school teacher.)

I got the kids off the busses at 9:05 am and we headed to breakfast.

On the way I was still thinking, “Attendance: check! Lesson plans: check-a-rooney! Note to sub explaining the afternoon’s activities in great detail: check again! Wow! I wish I could have it all together like this when I’m here all day… If only!”

At 9:20 am the first period bell sounded. That’s usually the signal for us to gobble-up the rest of the vittles and then head to our room for “morning meeting.”

For my kids, morning meetings consist of enthusiastically welcoming the new school day by posting the daily calendar, running through the days of the week, months of the year, counting to whatever day it happens to be. Monday was the 19th of March – considerably more ground to cover than way back when it was March 3rd, but time does fly. Counting all the way to the 31st will be a bumpy ride indeed.

I’m usually in my room during our morning meetings, and for all the daily activities, so when general ed students occasionally approach me to say, “You have so much fun in your class!” I generally agree, but I never really understood what an objective outside-my-classroom observer meant by that – until Monday.

I had to excuse myself temporarily and left my assistant in charge. Five minutes later I came out of the main office door (a considerable distance – and around a corner – from my classroom) and heard our typical “morning meeting” already in progress echoing through the vacant school halls. And I must say, boy was it swingin’!!!

I could hear the days of the week, counting to 19 (a great accomplishment, as I have already pointed out), months of the year, identification of pictures associated with the calendar holidays, and most of all, I heard the loud and proud cheers of encouragement that my students have learned to share with one another from day one, in order that they all should feel good about every accomplishment they make – and recognize one another for those accomplishments.

I stood and listened for five minutes in total amazement at what I have been a part of every day for seven months, but never really heard from an outsider’s perspective.

And are you wondering why this audio image hit me so hard? Well, it could have been the fact that, out of nine students who started the school year in my classroom, way back in August, only three could speak recognizable words – only these same three offered to make any real sound at all. The others were silent, except for occasional brief unrelated-to-anything-else sounds, or crying tantrums.

That was back in August.

The reality that eight out of nine of my students use words regularly now (and the ninth uses sounds in a more purposeful way – i.e. to get something, or communicate wants and needs and emotions), was not lost on one of those people who have been working very diligently to get the voices singing. No, it wasn’t lost on me at all.

In fact, to say that God was speaking to me through my kids’ voices on a morning I needed so badly to hear from Him, just goes to show how in tune He really is with us all – every second of every day.

How is this possible? Because He’s God, that’s the only explanation I have.

Cora’s passing left a hole in the world – a hole in my world too. Through my kids, God let me know that my work here is important – that I need to carry on until I am called home. I have a purpose greater than self and that is my hole to fill. He let me know, even though I had to say goodbye to Cora, everything is going to be okay, because He’s in control.

It’s comforting to know that, considering I still feel like crying about every thirty seconds. It’s a bitter pill, but through my kids God said, “Tomorrow will be a better day and the day after will be better still.”

God Speaks; I’m listening.

So, there I was, sitting in the choir risers, high upon the chancel with about sixty others, overlooking the sanctuary filled with about six-hundred guests, ready to sing Cora’s farewell.

We all wore white robes with beautiful silky white stoles around our necks. I couldn’t believe how heavy it was – the robe – not made of a flimsy material at all. I felt elegant, angelic almost. But then I got hot and started to sweat as I am known to do in any situation where the temperature rises above fifty-five degrees.

I’m a Chicago boy. What can I tell you? Collar and sleeves are not an option usually, even where snow is a concern, but I was wrapped to the wrists and tripped up the stairs from the choir room to the chancel on the long train like I was wearing a prom gown and high heels for the very first time.

I was very nervous sitting there waiting to sing, which didn’t help the blast furnace I had going on under my robe any. I am not a member of either choir, but was invited to join in the voices anyway. I was thrilled and wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

I don’t sing. I play bass in the praise band and the running joke (at least I think it’s a joke) is that the Music Director won’t let me have a microphone. She was seated straight across from me and I tried hard not to catch her eye out of fear she’d come over and tell me to, “Just move your lips, Bob… no one will know you aren’t making a sound.”

We all stood to sing Cora’s anthem and it was wonderful. From my place I could see the family, but I tried not to look there too much. I found comfort in the baptism candle, which stood tall next to the baptism font only a few yards in front of me. Lit only for baptisms, Easter, and funerals, the candle made me feel Cora’s presence. I’m sure she was pleased to see me there within the ranks of not one, but two really good choirs. She’d probably say that it took real “chutzpah” to pull it off. Yeah, I think she’d use a word like that to describe it?

I looked around the big sanctuary. It was full of my church family mostly. Yeah, it could have been broken-down into individual family units, but it wasn’t like that for me. I’m an only child from a family that could never have been considered close. No, that’s not the word I’d use anyway.

So, when I looked out there it was all family to me. And although most of them will never know how much they mean to me, the fact that we were all there together to say goodbye to Cora made them even more important in my eyes – infinitely more important.

...all the time. And all the time, God is good.

I heard God speaking again during the service. He said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”

His grace resonated in the hymns, in the scriptures read, in the enormous sound of the pipe organ, and in the Pastor’s voice. I heard Him comforting us, cleansing us, telling us to move forward, even though we felt so much pain on that day. I heard Him say that everything was going to be alright.

I know one thing’s for sure… I believe every word.

Tim Tebow: Humble Servant; Media Lynch Mob Target

Tebow’s very existence is somehow controversial. He’s a walking pro-life testimonial.

I saw amazing displays of ego and self this weekend in the NFL coming from every team. All cheered by fans. Players celebrated personal gain through shameless and grotesque displays of human expression. Hardly team play, as far as I’m concerned. Yet all anyone seemed to be able to criticize and find fault with was a player kneeling to pray.

Unreal how the words of Jesus ring true so often, that we will suffer for following Him. Look what happened to His disciples.

Looking back at the history of bad behavior in all of professional sports – from double murderers, to drugs, to prostitutes, to alcohol abuse, to spousal abuse, to illegal guns in night clubs and on airplanes, to sexual assault, etc. etc. etc. – it is difficult to understand how the angst over Tim Tebow has reached such a fever pitch. To say hatred, would be an understatement. You have to really know someone to hate them.

This is something else and Jesus warned us about it. The seething anger towards Tim Tebow exposes a much larger enemy that dwells among us. We should recognize it as such.

The Lambeau Leap, The Ickey Shuffle, The Super Bowl Shuffle (sorry to critique my Bears, but they are guilty too), players stowing cell phones in the end zone to make dramatic celebratory displays of self after a score, placing bows on footballs to give to fans in front of the live network cameras, and simply acting like fools – all warrant more scorn than a player taking a knee in a personal moment with God on the sideline. But silly displays of self are touted and celebrated, while prayer is ridiculed in the media, on the streets, even in churches.

I’m not surprised. And neither should you be.

This past summer Texas Ranger Josh Hamilton tossed a ball into the stands and it cost a man his life. The fan reached over the upper deck railing and fell. Some call Josh’s practice a noble gesture and say he should keep doing it in spite of the fact that someone has died.

Is Tim Tebow kneeling an improper display of faith? Show-boating? It can be taken that way, although I doubt Tebow’s intent would justify the accusation. We’ll never know either, because he probably won’t speak about it much.

What about Josh Hamilton? Could he not save those baseballs and give them to fans in a more private (and safe… and proper) setting? Sure he could!

I love Tim Tebow for persevering through the relentless criticism and kneeling in the face of the adversary. I pray he keeps on “Tebowing” throughout his (surely to be) very long and successful career.

I am a fan for life.

Go Tebow!!!

“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.” John 15:18-20

During the Broncos’ regular season loss to the Buffalo Bills, for instance, “progressive” troglodyte and pseudo-intellectual funnyman Bill Maher tweeted about the game, encapsulating [the] visceral hatred for Tim Tebow in 140 characters or less: “Wow, Jesus just [expletive deleted] #Tim Tebow bad! And on Xmas Eve! Somewhere in hell Satan is tebowing, saying to Hitler ‘Hey, Buffalo’s killing them.’”

A Glimpse of Home

“Life is a luminous pause between two great mysteries, which themselves are one.” – from Homer’s Odessey

In adult Bible study today we discussed “home” and “homesickness” as these terms relate to our perception of, and perhaps position within, our own life and relationship with God. We each were asked to present an example of “home” as we remember it from our childhood. This would turn out to be an exercise that would evidently point each one of us in two opposing directions at the same time.

The first direction would be a look backwards at the beginning of life and a search for union, love, belonging, and home. Perhaps, as the required text put it, “the foundational seed of a possible and ideal paradise.”

The second direction, of course, would be looking forward. Our one memory of “home” would serve each of us as an inner compass or “homing device” always pointing forward.

With this “device” planted within us, “the end is in the beginning, and the beginning points toward the end.” We all yearn for home, as even a child with an abusive or sad childhood longs for some idealized form of “home” or “mother” and wants to somehow return to it.

My mind instantly took me to the dining table on Christmas Eve – December 24th, 1960 something? I don’t know how old I was in the flash of a memory? Probably around eight years of age (that would make it 1968), as my parents had just moved into their “dream house” in Darien, Illinois on Halloween less than two months before. I could see into the living room from my dinner chair, all the presents carefully placed under the large fake green tree with anticipation and love. That’s what I saw anyway.

I knew this wasn’t our old house, mostly because we had a fake white tree over there – with one of those funky spinning color wheels that would turn the tree blue, green, and red about every thirty seconds. I liked the way it turned the walls, ceiling, drapes, carpet, people, dog, furniture, and snow outside the window different colors too.

What did I know? I was just a baby.

OMG! That's the one.

I think we even had one of those aluminum Christmas trees at some point in our old house, but don’t quote me on it. I was either too young back then to recall for sure, or I am drawing a blank now because of the embarrassment over the possibility that we would fall victim to such a pitiful mistake of fashion. “Tree by Reynolds Wrap.” Bleeeech! No wonder we had to move.

The Christmas trees, however, were not why this particular memory came to me so quickly, while I was being pressed to come up with a childhood image of “home” in my Bible study class this morning. No, not even toy race cars, choo choo trains, trikes, bikes, soldiers, cowboy pistols (save the NRA comments please), or favorite games pierced the cobwebs of my aging mind like the vision of that dining table did so effortlessly and with clarity.

Do you remember by your sense of smell? Yeah. Me too!

Every once in a while I get a whiff of that Christmas Eve meal; it takes me right back to the kitchen where my grandmother (mom’s mother) prepared every holiday meal throughout my whole life, until I was in my twenties and she passed away. I never thought I’d miss the commotion and fit my father would throw every time he had to carve the hot turkey. (He still pitches that same fit, but I intervene when I can and carve it myself – no angst, it’s just a hot bird. You dig?)

But I do miss it! I missed it when the table popped into my head again this morning. I miss the smell of it.

Mom was at one end of a seemingly endless red tablecloth; red linen napkins, our best silver and china, and crystal wine goblets provided a forest of shiny things reflecting the lit candles in the center of the table, semi-blocking a view of my dad way down at the other end. The food my grandmother, Helmi, had been preparing for days was strategically set all around steaming in pretty serving dishes and I know for a fact that I just wanted to get past grace and the obligatory Christmas Eve toast fast, so that I could dig in – to the gifts.

Grandpa (my dad’s dad) always had the honor of giving that toast. I don’t know why? Maybe it was some ancient patriarchal custom, or maybe that he wanted to get it over with too, so that we could get to the vittles? Whatever the reason, he was selected year-in-and-year-out to say a few words of wisdom.

I’m fuzzy over his exact words, as “some” years have since gone under the memory bridge, but with lifted wine glass he would make a similar – no exactly the same – offering every year:

“Another year has come and gone, let’s be thankful we are all sitting around this table once again.”

I wanted so badly to wolf-down my food and then rip-open the gifts. Grrrrr! It was the longest meal of the year for me.

My grandmother, the chef, died in 1989. My grandfather shortly thereafter. The details are not important. She broke a hip in 1988, spent a whole year recovering. A few days after she finally made it home from the nursing center, she broke the other hip and did not recover from the pneumonia that developed. Near the end, grandpa George had Alzheimer’s and a pretty bad case of Emphysema (from smoking two packs of filterless Camels since he was a young boy).

They left this world pretty close together. Apparently he missed her cooking? I know the feeling.

You know, up until the last time they were together, they would address one another as “Mrs. Kaal” and “Mr. Chochola.” I don’t believe we have anywhere close to that degree of respect and decorum left in this world right now. Seems some of that died with them too?

The Christmas Eve dinner table guests left one-by-one until it didn’t really look like Christmas Eve to me any more. For a long time I pretended to not care that holidays felt so different, so empty, or that I had to work. That was actually a relief. I stood tough as cousins moved away and started families of their own. My dad’s family was never very close and when grandpa was gone, so too was the force that brought that side of the family together.

On mom’s side there wasn’t anyone but mom and my grandmother to begin with. They barely escaped Estonia through Nazi Germany during World War II and came to America just the two of them. My grandfather on my mom’s side had died when she was a small child and everyone else, except for a few friends, didn’t make it out.

That old memory I’ve been keeping tucked-away and out of sight really blew my mind this morning. From out of nowhere, there I was, eight years old again. It really bore a striking resemblance to Leonardo da Vinci‘s The Last Supper (Italian: Il Cenacolo or L’Ultima Cena). It also reminded me of the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper that I celebrate with my church family. And that really made me smile.

For many years I have had this horrible empty feeling like the past is gone and I cannot get it back. I’d miss those days when I could see, touch, and smell the sensations of family – of the union, love, belonging, and home.

That’s what the Holy Spirit has given back to me through my church family. Folks probably wonder why I always sit up front. But I like to watch every part of every service (especially the Lord’s Supper) from a front row seat, simply because I don’t want to miss anything. I take it all in with delight like I’m eight years old again and really cannot get over how moved I am to watch the faces coming forward. God feeding His people and I want to be right there to see it all unfold. Is that a bad thing?

Suddenly I am at the table once again – a foretaste of things to come. In many ways that’s what the Christmas Eve dinner table was so many years ago. I know it now. It was a foretaste of the Lord’s Table with grandpa George and grandma Helmi, with my church family, and with all of God’s children.

It’s a beautiful thought isn’t it? It’ll be a beautiful reality when our “two great mysteries, which themselves are one” come together with God at His table. I know “Mrs. Kaal”  wiil be there – probably cooking if she has any say in the matter. And “Mr. Chochola” will most certainly greet us with a toast.

Until that day, may we all maintain the seed that points to an eternal paradise in our hearts and in our memories.

Amen!

Life After “Deathly Hollows”

I just returned home from the movie theater. Got to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows with some of my church family. I certainly have nothing but good things to say about the film and highly recommend it for everyone. If you are looking for a great movie, this is it. But buy your tickets in advance – theaters are packed.

Hollywood has produced some real crap over the years – never so much crap as in the last 10-15 years, or so. But Harry is the one bright spot behind which all the freaks, dorks, dweebs, and bozos in tinsel town can hide their shame.

You’d think they would learn a lesson? I mean, most films these days are box office flops by the time you take into consideration how much money they spend on production and salaries. And the pain of it is that all they seem to produce are re-makes of old movies, or worse, old TV shows. Hollywood really hasn’t had many fresh ideas in a very long time. And the multiple part serial torture they put movie goers through is the worst.

Then along comes Harry Potter. Harry has grossed 6.4 billion dollars at the box office to date and that number was released two days before this latest installment’s opening weekend. Duh! What other evidence is there that folks are looking for good entertainment, fresh ideas, solid writing, and something more than lots of special effects and macho “heroes” spewing the F-bomb every other script line?

What makes this film series so different from the rest of the garbage cinema we normally get, other than the fact that there is no gratuitous sex, violence, or profanity, is that the whole Harry Potter sensation stands tall on its artistic prowess. Good art is hard to find nowadays, especially at the movie theater. Not in this case, however.

Twilight is on Harry’s heels to capture lightning in a bottle one more time, but I have serious doubts about pulp fiction having any lasting impact like Rowlings’ work. Rowlings penned a good story – the rest took care of itself. The copy cats are nothing but cookie-cutter impostors coming to cash in.

J. K. Rowlings, otherwise known as the 6-billion-dollar woman, proves she is worth every penny that she has earned by penning the book series that turned two generations of strict non-readers (my middle schoolers would rather wrestle a hungry alligator than a novel and most of their parents are the same way) into rabid – I mean rabid – readers. She really deserves credit for doing what I thought could not be done.

This series is on par with many great works of fiction too. Rowlings’ Harry Potter books have been compared to the likes of C. S. Lewis, which makes her in pretty good literary company.

On the film and merchandising front, Ms Rowlings gets 10% of the gross. And that’ll add up to more money than… well, when I think of anyone to compare her to, I’ll get back to you.

Harry Potter was a superb book series and a rare work of genius as far as Hollywierd is concerned. They’ll never do it again – unless Rowlings writes more books.

Here’s a pretty good review of the last Harry Potter – Deathly Hollows – which opens in theaters this weekend.

Go see it!!! You won’t be disappointed.

Memento Harry 
Lessons from the final Potter film.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This review contains spoilers.

There has never been anything quite like J. K Rowling’s Harry Potter, the hero of a hugely popular series of seven books followed by a successful set of eight movies. The decision to split the last book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, into two films turns out to have been a wise one. While part one, which ended abruptly after covering two-thirds of the material from the book, was somewhat anticlimactic, part two is a lean and dramatically satisfying finale. Director David Yates, who has been at the helm for the last three books in the series, and screenwriter Steve Kloves, who has penned all but one of the film scripts, move effortlessly between the large and the small, between grand battle scenes and moments of intimate, human interaction. The special effects are dazzling and the human drama gripping. The film also strikes a nice balance between the serious and the humorous, between tragedy and comedy.

In an age of increasingly decentralized media, in which sub-cultures of interest in TV shows, films, and music abound, Harry Potter is the common, unifying cultural marker for individuals between the ages of ten and 30, and perhaps well beyond that age. If the fictional characters and story-lines are woven into popular culture, the actors are equally well known, particularly those who play the three main characters: Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe), Hermione Granger (Emma Watson), and Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint). All three give fine performances in the last film, as do Ralph Fiennes as Lord Voldemort, Gary Oldman as Sirius Black, and Matthew Lewis as Neville Longbottom. The battle for, and at, Hogwarts, whose culmination is the ultimate faceoff between Harry and his nemesis, Voldemort, allows for the return of a host of well-known characters, all of whom are aware of what is at stake.

Given the malevolence of Voldemort, the books become darker as the story progresses. Particularly in Deathly Hallows and its immediate predecessor, Half-Blood Prince, deaths of major characters occur. Beyond her creation of memorable characters and plots, Rowling has crafted a mythical universe where remembering and preparing for death are central virtues. She revives the medieval theme of memento mori, the virtuous cultivation of the memory of death, as a counter to modernity’s vacillation between unhealthy obsession with and tragic forgetfulness of death.

This theme is powerfully coupled with repeated illustrations of (a) the unnaturalness of the project of overcoming death and (b) the way the practice of evil, murderous arts destroys the practitioner. In Half-Blood Prince, Dumbledore informs Harry that Voldemort’s pursuit of immortality has “mutilated” his “soul beyond the realm of what we might call usual evil.”

The contrast between Harry and Voldemort’s approach to death is palpable. The opening of Yates’s Deathly Hallows Part Two finds Harry and Voldemort occupied in two quite different activities. Harry, refusing to use magic, is physically digging the grave of his friend Dobby, the loyal house-elf who gave his life defending Harry.

Meanwhile, in an act of desecration of the dead, Voldemort is stealing the Elder Wand from the grave of Albus Dumbledore. At various points in the story, the Elder Wand is cited as one of three components (along with the Cloak of Invisibility and the Resurrection Stone) of the Deathly Hallows, the possession of which is believed to make one a “master of death” — the object of Voldemort’s quest.

At the center of Voldemort’s search is his performance of the darkest of dark arts: the creation of horcruxes, which preserve splintered pieces of his immortal soul, and which can only be created by committing murder. As Harry and his pals seek to discover and destroy the horcruxes, the only way that Voldemort himself will die, Voldemort pursues invulnerability and permanent rule over the world of wizards. The scenes featuring the destruction of horcruxes are among the most spectacular in the entire series of films, even as they heighten the dramatic tension and the sense of inevitable, final confrontation.

With threats imminent, there is no longer room for self-pity or teen angst — elements that were tiresomely common in the middle, overly long books in the series. Friendships deepen and in some cases blossom into love; the film contains two brief (and very nicely scripted) moments of passion, one between Ron and Hermione and another between Harry and Ginny. But this film is about what the books and previous films have always been essentially about: the practice of the virtues of friendship, loyalty, courage, and leadership.

In the midst of battle, there are revelations, small and large. We learn about the courage of Mrs. Weasley and Neville Longbottom, though Yates prunes important elements from Rowling’s version of their stories. Matthew Lewis is just right as Longbottom, capturing Harry’s rather plain and self-effacing classmate, who in the final film best combines valor and wit.

But the big revelations involve Snape and Dumbledore. The greatest reversal in the estimation of a major character in the entire series concerns Snape, who has throughout appeared to be Harry’s enemy and the Dark Lord’s servant. Realizing that Snape is of more use to him dead than alive, Voldemort bluntly informs him that his services are no longer needed, stuns him with his wand, and sets his snake, Nagini, to feed on him. Harry, Hermione, and Ron arrive just as this brutal murder begins. With Voldemort and Nagani departed, Harry finds Snape within seconds of his death. A tear falls from Snape’s eye, and he tells Harry to store the tear and take it to the Pensieve, a device for uncovering memories. As Harry captures the tear, Snape’s last words are, “You have your mother’s eyes.” Using the Pensieve, Harry learns the truth about Snape’s deception, not of him or Dumbledore, but of Voldemort. Snape had in fact vowed to protect Harry, out of his love for Harry’s mother, Lily, even as he elicited from Dumbledore the promise “never to reveal the best” of Snape to Harry. The revelation enables viewers to re-think the entire arc of the epic series, to see the plot from Snape’s vantage point.

A further revelation concerns the afterlife. Injured by Voldemort, Harry has a vision of Dumbledore, who reappears in his proper role — a teacher of the young. Harry and his deceased mentor are at King’s Cross, which looks like a cathedral bathed in light. Dumbledore instructs Harry on life and death. The fundamental lesson concerns the true way to conquer death: Do not cling to life but be willing to offer one’s life for the sake of others. This theme in Harry Potter calls to mind C. S. Lewis’s notion in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe of the deeper magic, a magic unknown to those who pursue vengeance and immortality by their own powers. As Wardrobe’s Aslan explains after he returns from the dead, “When a willing victim who had committed no treachery is killed . . .  the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward.”

Throughout the series, Rowling has stressed the way in which evil, instead of freeing, enslaves; instead of increasing, diminishes. Indeed, after his first attempt to kill Harry, Voldemort becomes a disembodied shell, kept alive only by his horcruxes, a parasite feeding off the blood of innocent unicorns, seeking a body in which to lodge his wandering spirit. In the end, the very devices he chooses to gain absolute control turn against him, in an illustration of another classical teaching, namely, that vice is its own punishment — that it harms and ultimately defeats the perpetrator.

In the course of their final duel, Harry manages to extract the Elder Wand from Voldemort’s clutches. With that, Voldemort is defeated. Harry’s final decision, to destroy the Elder Wand, reiterates a theme that goes back to the first book and the philosopher’s stone, which promises limitless life and wealth. Some of the things men desire most are precisely the things most likely to destroy them. Here Rowling calls to mind, not so much Lewis as Tolkien and the ring of power, whose destruction, rather than use, is the only sure means of fending off evil.

In her description of Harry’s retrieval of the Elder Wand, Rowling writes that he caught the wand “with the unerring skill of a Seeker.” Of course, Seeker is the position Harry plays on Gryffindor’s Quidditch squad. But Harry’s character is also that of the classic seeker, an individual on a quest with personal and social significance, a quest to defend the innocent and fend off evil, a quest for self-knowledge rooted in a profound awareness of mortality. Hooked by the plot of the first book, readers were likely unaware that such a quest could be anything other than morbid. In Rowling’s hands, coming to terms with death is not tragic; instead, it is a comic affirmation of life over death, love over hate, and community over isolation. It is a mark of the success of Yates’s film version that it will lead viewers to feel and affirm the final words of Rowling’s sprawling series: “All was well.”

— Thomas S. Hibbs, an NRO contributor, is the author of Shows about Nothing.

Happy 4th of July and SEMPER FIDELIS

(Original post July 3rd, 2011)

The 4th of July is truly an All American holiday. It’s all about lounging around the backyard with family and friends. It’s all about hot dogs and hamburgers. It’s all about watching the kids play with sparklers. It’s all about fireworks, apple pie, baseball, and ice-cold watermelon.

Summertime fun… That’s what it’s all about! Have it. Make it. Breathe it into your soul. Enjoy life on this 4th of July and make the most out of your time with your fellow Americans.

There’s one thing I want to ask you to do this week before the 4th of July, 2012. But first, I want to remind everyone that Wednesday is actually called Independence Day. Why is this so important? Let me tell you…

It is my belief that everyone living in this country, a free United States of America, owes a HUGE debt. I’m not talkin’ about the national debt. I’m not talkin’ about the debt we owe because of DC bureaucrats. That’s all argument for another day.

I am talkin’ bout the debt we owe the American Soldier.

I’ve lived fifty-two years. In that time I have come to the conclusion that not a single one of our precious rights as Americans – call them freedoms – has come to us by the actions of a peace activist. Not one!

All of the rights we share, without exception, were given to us by the heroism of the American Soldier. Heroism! True heroism.

I’m not a “war monger” by any stretch, but some would surely accuse me of that. I am a “reality monger” who likes to remind folks that while “peace bro” is a sweet yet vague popular sentiment, our peace here at home is solely due to the grit of those who have sacrificed in war. Like it, or not, this is reality. And no amount of tie-dye peace sign t-shirts will ever deny that fact.

So, on this holiday, July 4th, 2012, I want all of you to take a moment to reflect upon those who have paid the price and those who continue to sacrifice in far away lands, for your freedom to relax and have fun. Make it about them this year.

(Here’s the part where I ask you to do something.)

To help you reflect, I am posting a link to a speech transcript that tells a story of true heroism. And if you are like me, you understand the word “hero” today means nothing more than celebrity in our shallow modern media culture – celebrity that rarely lives up to the status of hero and so often disappoints us with human dysfunction and failure in the end.

I aim to change that.

Heroes abound. But you won’t find any of them in the NBA, living in Hollywood, at the Grammy’s, on the golf course, on TV, in a newsroom, surfing the net, at the app store, with your smart phone, sitting in a fast food joint, or on your morning jog.

You will find heroes on the battle fields around the world, still doing the job you don’t have to do, so you can live free – like you often expect to do.

I’ve sent this speech out before, but believe it’s worthy of a re-visit once in a while – like on the 4th of July. General John Kelly, USMC, tells us of the bravery of two American Marines he recommended for the Navy Cross (posthumous). The Last Six Seconds is a story that will forever go down in history as a true act of heroism:

http://bobzilla.tv/supportourtroops/thelastsixseconds.html

 
Don’t take freedom for granted. As Ronald Reagan so correctly put it, “Freedom is never more than one generation away from being lost forever.”

Are we getting close to that point yet?

 

Happy 4th of July and SEMPER FIDELIS

Go (Muskie) Green

I gotta tell you, I am green. Green, green, GREEN with envy. Green because my muskie hunting crew leaves for Canada tomorrow and I am not going with them. Grrrrr-een!

View of Dryberry Lake's west side.

This is the third straight season that I have missed, because my financial crisis does not permit vacations of such magnitude. Heck, I got myself so broke that I couldn’t afford to get out of sight if it cost a quarter to go around the world. That means Canada’s out – for now. That’s what I get for starting over at fifty. Like it was my idea, right?

I am almost out of the woods, so to speak. And I do plan on using time off when November gets here (Thanksgiving break) to head north of the border, so I can get back in the muskie groove. It’s been a long time coming. Too long! I’m praying – a lot.

I say “I’m green” with tongue in cheek. Actually, I am thrilled that my friends are going and wish them all the luck in the world. I love them like Brothers. But they’d better send pictures back, or I’ll FedEx them each a rotten carp from Joe Pool Lake gift wrapped in a New York Times.

Spanky Joe's first muskie - EVER!

Going on this trip will be Mike and his son, Pat (my longtime fishing partner), Spanky Joe, and Pat’s Nephew. Spring is a good time of year to go fishing in Canada, provided the ice has melted. That statement will send shivers of terror up the spines of my friends from Texas.

No worries, it has been in the 70’s this week on the lake and water temp is 55. You know, that sounds very refreshing after 103 in Ft. Worth today.

We call it “the opener” because muskie season doesn’t officially start until today. They do that to protect spawning Spring muskies and it is a good deal for the anglers too, as we reap the rewards down the road with huge muskies in our boats.

We are all proud members of Muskies Inc., an organization dedicated to catch and release, safe handling, and stocking programs. That all benefits the species we love to catch (and release). So, lots of photos and NO EATING!

Daddio chowin' down on a chili dawg!

We do eat: steaks and burgers and chili dogs, of course! We usually bring our food in, but on the occasion we have a hankerin’ for fish, there are plenty of trout in Dryberry Lake to go around.

I’d like to send a prayer out for my friends’ safe journey and all the fish they can stuff into their huge Beckman nets. Dryberry Lake is a wonderful experience, but it can be dangerous, as well. The nearest medical attention is in Kenora, Ontario – anywhere from two to four hours away, depending upon where you are on the lake when the attention is needed. Plus it’s a long ride up, so God be with my Brothers and their family members.

On that note, my mind will also be on a fishing journal entry that I wrote a few years back after our Fall trip in 2008. It made the pages of both Midwest Outdoors and MUSKIE Magazine one year later in 2009. You know, it’s a story about the last trip I made. Perfect! It’ll wet my appetite for my NEXT trip.

Oh, I have to mention, Dryberry Lake is (usually) a great hunting experience in the Fall too, even though we primarily fish. But we met a group of bow hunters from Iowa that year. It was the two of us and the four of them – that’s it! Six guys on a two-lake area that spans roughly fifty-thousand total water acres and more than twice that much land mass.

With those kind of odds you’d expect us to have the upper hand over the finned and furry critters of the North Woods, right? Uh, not so much.

Here’s my journal entry with eyes, hopes, and prayers on the Fall of 2011:

HUNTERS’ REMORSE By Bob Chochola

Mike bagged this 53-inch monster trolling the Granite Triangle.

It’s hunting season again, but this time of year always reminds me of one special fishing trip. This is the story of three prancing reindeer, one really big muskie, and four not-so-lucky deer hunters.

My fishing partner and I thought October in Ontario was going to be cold and gloomy. What we got was sun and relatively warm mid day temperatures – almost like summer – most of the time. We met our camp neighbors, four bow hunters from Iowa, quickly and every evening turned out for a gathering that featured dinner, cards, and cold brew. We’d sit out on the screened porch until we were too tired to keep our eyes open. We really hit it off with Otto and his crew.

Fishing was pretty good and we boated a few muskies around the 50-inch mark in short order. Smallmouth bass and bunches of northern pike kept us busy in between muskies.

Bow hunting, however, was not kind to our new-found friends.

Morning after chilly morning they would wake-up way before first light and head out by boat to their designated positions in deer stands placed meticulously throughout the forest. They always beat us back to camp and each evening about an hour after dark they’d hear us rumbling into camp giggling like a couple of school boys and spouting great fish stories, only to be forced to tell us that they had no luck at all. They didn’t even see a deer all week.

Pierre Pont facing east towards Gull Island. Can you spot our boat in this photo?

Our fortunes were much better – with one exception. We had located a pretty active muskie on a spot about fourteen miles from camp early in the week. She would follow lures of every kind like she meant business, but never cracked a smile to eat. Every evening we’d return to the spot several times, raise her, and then she was gone. Sometimes we’d raise her three and four times with no luck.

Bow Hunter Otto was particularly interested in our success even though he had never been muskie fishing before. So, when my partner Pat decided to sleep one afternoon, I took Otto out to do some casting.

We took off from camp straight for the spot Pat and I had been raising the big muskie. I figured that I had beginner’s luck riding with me and I would use that tool to my advantage.

I had to give Otto a crash course in the operation of a baitcast reel and he of course made his first two casts just like someone who is used to sitting in a deer stand. Cast number one splashed ten feet in front of him and I had to hold-in a chuckle.

“Nice and easy – let that big muskie rod do all the work.” I told him, as he was undoing a bird’s nest in the reel caused by the wild first chuck.

Cast number two was better – about fifteen feet – but I encouraged a higher trajectory and a little more focus with the eyes on a target area picked in advance. I said, “Look at where you want to cast and then point the rod tip to it.”

Bingo! Cast number three was a dandy and right to the weed point where we had been seeing the big muskie all week-long. A couple of cranks of my reel handle later I glanced over my shoulder to watch Otto’s figure-eight (yes, I told him on the ride up how to do it and he did a good job on this first time).

It’s a good thing too, because as his big spinner bait neared the boat I saw our muskie turned almost completely on her side, moving-in at warp speed, fins spread out like she was in flight, and mouth wide open – one foot behind the lure and closing fast.

Otto made a left turn with his lure moving towards the bow and the chasing muskie rolled to the right and under the motor area. Then Otto made a costly rookie mistake in assuming immediately that when the muskie turned in the opposite direction, she was gone. He pulled the bait out of the water. Pat and I have both had experiences like this and we know to keep the bait in the water and make big deep circles and sudden speed changes with the lure. This can and will trigger a strike. Otto gave-up too soon and lamented his “almost” trophy the rest of the day.

So, we motored back to camp with heads hanging. Actually I was kind of pumped – this was as close as we got to this fish and I knew she was ready for a photo shoot right now.

The other Mike with a 52.5-inch Dryberry muskie he caught casting in a high wind near Bald Rock.

Pat and I were feeling sorry for the bow hunters by the end of the week. These guys were troopers. While we slept-in, they were stumbling around in the dark trying to get a jump on those elusive deer. All we had to do was roll out of bed by noon and then start casting.

They struck camp a couple of days before we did, but not before we exchanged cell phone numbers for future outings together. We said our goodbyes then Pat and I hit the water, while our friends headed home.

A few hours later we took a lunch break and came back to camp. And guess what we found there? Deer! That’s right – three of them walking right past the bow hunters’ cabin. Of course, we just had to call them on the road to tell them what they were missing – and to let them know they could have bagged a trophy without even leaving the front porch.

Pat and I munched-down a hefty portion of this muskie hunter’s favorite food – chili dogs. We got a bit of shuteye too. Then we were awakened by the pitter-patter of rain drops taping on the roof of our cabin. A sound we both knew would put our hungry muskie into total frenzy mode. We put on our rain gear and took-off full steam ahead on the fourteen mile journey.

I set up a drift down the rock point that would take us out near the weedy spot in a cast or two. Pat was in the bow and aimed right at the sweet spot. We joked about how funny it would be if one of us caught the fish on a third cast like Otto did earlier in the day.

When Pat let cast number three fly it landed pretty much in the same spot as Otto’s third. This time, however, I didn’t have to wait for the figure eight.

I watched Pat’s spinner lure (same one Otto was using) start to work with his first crank of the reel handle and almost immediately a huge head appeared and devoured it.

The elusive beast - finally caught - was successfully released a few minutes after this photo was taken.

Lessons Learned…

We have embraced a number of fishing facts. And I consider some of these to be “myth busters” that shatter conventional muskie wisdom.

First and foremost is the fact that we still cast into the fall – a lot – when everyone else has switched to troll only mode. We find weeds even in Canada late in the year. Maybe not thick weeds and maybe not rich and green weeds, but weeds still do exist in some places and casting is still a favored tactic, particularly in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and points further south where you can find good weeds late in the season.

The weedy point in this story has but one thin line of weeds and is away from the main bed. Even in July this spot has only a few greens on it. But it is a long under water extension of a rock point with deep water on one side and VERY deep water on the other. We have caught and seen some monsters here.

Another myth shattered is that you can “overwork” a muskie, or that once you no longer see the fish on a spot then that fish has left the area. Not true!

How many times have you left a spot where you have raised a fish, because you think that once the fish has seen your boat, or your lure, it is spooked? Not true either.

A scenic point overlooking Dryberry Lake.

Have you had a fish up on a figure eight only to leave the spot quickly in order to not “overwork” her?

I used to think this way too, but have since changed my tune. Once I find an active musky, I like to persist. I will make several passes through the area and maybe change baits a few times.

It doesn’t end there. I like to hit a spot where I’ve seen an active fish several times during the course of a day. Just because there are no fish at 3pm, does not mean there are no fish at 6pm. If it holds fish, sooner or later the beast will show up again. The odds of making contact with an active fish that you have already raised go up by returning to the spot at peak times of the day, or during a change in weather conditions – like bright sun to a light rain perhaps.

I guess the last myth is the effectiveness of beginners luck. Otto raised that fish and

I have some big fish stories of my own!

so did we – at least twenty times. He had the best shot at a trophy though. Until his encounter she had frustrated us as much as those pesky deer taunted our bow hunting neighbors.

I knew all the way back to the dock with Otto that Pat would have been much more likely to bag that fish had he been in the boat. Otto’s rookie mistake had me wondering if I had blown it. We were so close – would she still be there later?

That question was answered in a big way and I was happy that Pat got to hold her for the photos.

Sorry Otto.

Soar High On Wings Like Eagles

I had about a dozen hot wings tonight for dinner. Buffalo hot wings. I think they call them “Buffalo Wings” because they have their origin in the city of Buffalo. I could be wrong about that?

Nevertheless, I’m here to tell you that eating chicken wings is quite popular nowadays. In fact, It’s hard to drive down the street without finding at least three wing places that specialize in this simple yet desirable fare. You’ve got Wing Stop, Buffalo Wild Wings, and Hooters atop the long list of wing places, but there are many more, this I will assure you.

Did you know that Burger King now sells hot wings? I don’t know about you, but I’m really not all that impressed by BK’s burgers, and that’s their specialty. It says so right on the building! I’m certainly not brave enough to sample the stuff they aren’t noted for – like chicken, for example.

Speaking of chicken, every chicken place (just about) that specializes in chicken, has got their signature version of hot wings. Of course, not to be left out in the cold, Church’s has a variety of flavors of wings and sauces. I tried Church’s traditional hot wings followed by their teriyaki and was thinking that if these chicken joint wings are any indication of how bad a fast food burger joint’s wings might be, then I will avoid the King’s wings at all cost.

The Asian buffet place serves “Buffalo” wings too. Go figure!

I did a search online and found some amusing artist interpretations of hot wings. Some I’ll post here for a bit of comic relief.

It’s all so bizarre this American obsession with hot BBQ style chicken wings. It reminds me of a t-shirt I bought when I was seventeen years old, while on vacation with my family on Miami Beach.

I found the shirt whilst perusing the many selections at one of the million gift shops on the Collins Avenue strip. You know, every shop sells sea shell necklaces, hermit crab snow globes, expensive cheap jewelry, and t-shirts with everything you can think of printed on the front (and sometimes the back too), from your favorite rock band to clever sayings like, “My Mom & Dad went to Miami Beach and all I got was a lousy t-shirt.”

Maybe you should be thankful that you got a t-shirt, if you’re sour enough to complain about it?

Anyway, I was looking over the designs when I spotted the perfect shirt. The cartoon printed on the front was of the inside of a restaurant. Two people were sitting at a table eating. There was a kitchen door and a sign that read, “Today’s Special: Frogs’ Legs.” Coming out of the kitchen were a bunch of legless frogs in wheel chairs and on crutches. (I found the French version still online.)

It was truly tasteless. I get it! But it was funny to a seventeen year old. Hey, what did I know about being sensitive back then? The shirt drove my Mother crazy and I believe very strongly to this day, that had I not slept with the shirt under my pillow from the moment of purchase, my Dad would have burned the darn thing.

Why am I suddenly reminded of that t-shirt? Well, I often wondered what they did with all those poor legless frogs after so many restaurants served their daily special of frogs’ legs? Granted folks weren’t eating frogs’ legs as if they were an endangered species, but there were enough chowing-down to make you wonder.

Of course, we all know what they do with the rest of the chicken, but it’s fun to speculate and create – even if it’s not a real possibility. Although I do know of at least one major food store chain that sells very cheap deli fried chicken, from chickens that were just about to reach their expiration date over on the meat counter and (barely) got saved by the deep fry – at least I hope they were saved before they expired?

Nah! They were.

All jokes aside, I love hot wings. Heck, I just love wings. And I did so long before it was cool to like wings.

You see, back when I was a kid (I won’t go into that in too much detail, but let’s just say gas was 35-cents a gallon and milk was about the same and I was maybe ten years old), a chicken wing was a cast-away part. Nobody, I mean nobody, ate those little suckers. They were dry, often burnt, and you could barely get any meat off the darn skinny things. I loved ’em!

Makes you wonder how they get ’em so meaty these days though? I’m sure it’s the corn feed and doesn’t have anything to do with radiation.

C’mon now! I’m just kidding.

I did eat them every time we made a chicken for dinner. I had first dibs on both wings.

Dad would say, “One of these days you’re gonna fly away!”

You know, I’ve been waiting for it.

Remember the Seinfeld episode when Elaine started a restaurant with her former boss called, “Top O’ the Muffin To Ya!” The argument they had over using the exclamation point (funny) and how their unique idea of serving only muffin tops (because nobody eats muffin stumps) was priceless. But they had to dispose of the stumps, right? The garbage dump rejected the muffin stumps and when they started leaving them at the homeless shelter, the lady who ran the place yelled at them saying, “Why don’t you bring-over some chicken skins and lobster shells while you’re at it?!”

Back in the day – my day – you couldn’t even buy chicken wings at the grocery store (Uh, except for the ones that came attached to the chicken). Somewhere along the line I can remember stores selling bags of frozen wings for next to nothing. But this is about the time I started to wonder where the surplus of wings was coming from? Always thinkin’ I am!

By the time I reached my mid-thirties everyone was riding on board the hot wings bandwagon. Kids, Moms and Dads, firemen, teachers, plumbers… everyone was licking red sauce off their finger nails with delight. Okay! Maybe not plumbers.

What used to be tossed into the trash without a second thought, unless I happened to be over for dinner, now costs about five bucks a pound and is the most expensive per pound part of the chicken, bar none. Hard to believe!

Haste does indeed make waste, but a good idea is a good idea is a good idea – even if it takes fifty some odd years to refine it. I’m just glad they saw it coming and didn’t genetically alter chickens to hatch without wings altogether. What kind of disaster would that have been – all that celery rotting and ranch dressing down the drain.

_____________________________

But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.

Isaiah 40:31 (New Living Translation)

Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word

A few days ago I was having a discussion with Mom about my job. I am a special education middle school teacher with seventeen wonderful sixth, seventh, and eighth grade students who combine a wide range of physical, emotional, and learning disabilities into a LINC (Learning In Natural Communities) class I affectionately refer to as, “my kids.”

I am blessed, you see. I have never fathered a child of my own, although I have had a major role in raising a few. That void of not having any biological offspring could have come with many regrets. But the way I look at it, between the constant flow of children in the public school system and the kids I work with at church, I have many wonderful children all around me all the time. They are children I can enjoy being around, but at the same time, send them home to their parents when they get tired, sick, or cranky.

Talk about being blessed!

Sometimes people ask me how I relate to kids so well; they cannot help but notice that I have a natural ability and a gift that is pretty unusual – I must admit – for a guy without any kids of his own.

I was just about to make this point when Mom unleashed her wisdom on me and let loose this observation, “Well, you’ve always felt sorry for those kids.”

Huh? Those... kids? I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. Because if there’s one emotion I have never felt around any of the special needs kids, it is sorry. Yuk! This has never crossed my mind.

I’m not sure where Mom was coming from, but I am amazed at the certainty of her observation. After all, she never even asked if I indeed felt (Gulp!) sorry for the kids. She just assumed.

I am blessed for knowing each and every child that I have had the opportunity to learn, play, fish, grow, explore, sing, dance, read, laugh, and pray with. Never more so than when I am surrounded by my special needs kids. They are a joy; they are gifts from God each and every one of them. When I look at their faces, I see Jesus looking back at me. I love them. And if anyone tries to say otherwise, they’ll have to answer to me.

I do feel sorry sometimes. Sometimes I see a student outside my realm behaving a certain way and recognize that he or she should have extra help, but the parents are too poor or too proud to get it.

Other times I feel sorry when I see a perfectly normal child, in a perfectly normal classroom setting, purposely throwing away an opportunity to learn by behaving badly, or by just plain not putting any effort into their day. I see them sleep. I see them fight. I see them bully. I see them deface school property. I see them steal. I hear them curse. I feel their disrespect. And I have even been part of the bloody aftermath of one student who murdered another over a girlfriend.

There’s plenty to be sorry for in our schools. But my kids are not among the pitiful. They are gifts from God. They may never reach half of the potential of some of those other so-called “normal” kids, but they give 100% every day without exception. This is what fills me up. I leave work smiling, not because I felt sorry for someone, but because I helped a child reach a new goal. I helped them climb a new mountain they never thought they’d ever be able to climb.

Far cry from the implied act of charity that comes to mind when the word “sorry” is used to describe my intentions. I can’t help wonder how it is that I got here to this point of being with – longing to be with – children with special needs. After all, if you’d have told me five years ago that I’d be working with deaf kids, autistic kids, MR kids, and kids in wheel chairs, I’d have told you to lay-off the caffeine.

I love it here, because God put me on this path. That’s right! You heard me. God’s will is my work. But all it took for me to reach this crossroad was to stop trying to control it all myself. Like I know the first thing about what God’s plan is for me.

I let go of it three  years ago and this is where He has led me. I may not be making the big paychecks that life in television put into my bank account, but what have I got to show for all of that now?

So, if you talk to Mom and she says she’s proud of what I am doing now, believe it. She is. But if she goes on to say that I’m doing it because I feel sorry for those kids, you now know that I could never feel sorry for those with whom I have come to love so deeply in my spiritual journey towards God’s Glory.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word.

http://www.disabled-world.com/artman/publish/article_0060.shtml