One Thousand vs. Two

One Thousand vs. Two

By S. E. Smith



I have a confession to make: I like to walk around in pictures. I'm not sure if it's something I've always been able to do, nor do I know when the first time I did it was. It's like being in that moment again, you see. It's even more vivid than daydreaming, and I remember everything long after waking up. But for a long time I thought I was merely blessed with the ability to completely remember some of my dreams. It wasn't until one day, about a year ago, that I "awoke" from such an episode just before my secretary came through the door. "Mrs. Comeaux! I've been looking for you for nearly twenty minutes!" she cried, appearing both frustrated and surprised to see me sitting in my office chair.

"Twenty minutes?" I asked, confused.

"Yes. I came in here looking for you about twenty minutes ago. You weren't here, so I've been checking around the office. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. What's up?"

"Mr. Ericsson wants to talk to you whenever you have a moment to come to his office."

"Thank you. I apologize for the trouble."

But I wasn't nearly as fine as I had said I was. It would have been so much easier to think I'd just been daydreaming about the picture I have on the back left corner of my desk. But no dream is ever that real. I'd been there. Allan and I were twenty-six and newly married. Upon returning from our honeymoon, we had gone to visit an old friend of his, Andrew, who owned land near Waco with his wife Carly. On a whim we took a blanket, some food, and wine out into a pasture and ate and drank while the sun went down. Of all of his friends, they were probably the ones I enjoyed being with the most. We laughed and became sillier as the evening went on.

But that wasn't just three years ago. It was three minutes ago. That was no dream; the smell of the grass was still fresh in my nostrils, the taste of the wine was fresh on my tongue. I stared at the picture once more. Surely I was going insane? But there I was, once again, listening and laughing as Allan and Andrew recalled stories from their youths. This was not my imagination; I reached out and touched Allan's leg, and he smiled at me.

Only the thought of being missing in the office again brought me quickly back to the real world. At that moment I was quite glad that I now have my own office, as things would have quickly become very awkward had this happened when I had a desk near other employees. Mr. Ericsson wanted to see me; I needed go take care of that. Perhaps I could sort this out later. I didn't, though, not for quite a while.

Now that you already think I'm crazy, I'm going to go ahead and tell you some more about me that might not make any sense. I've become accustomed to the occasional feeling that I'm being watched. The gaze doesn't come from any particular direction, but from every direction. In fact, now that I think about it, to say that it comes from every direction does not do this feeling justice. Each time it happens I have this innate understanding that this glance does come from a particular direction, but in time, rather than space. It comes from a pair of eyes somewhere in the future, looking back at the present moment as you or I would look back on a memory of the past: sometimes with joy, sometimes with sadness and the wish that things could have turned out differently than they did. I told you I would sound crazy. Even if it's more than just my nerves randomly acting up and there is someone watching me, how could I know so much about that person? I honestly have no idea. Ah, you say, that proves that there's no reason to believe in those details, then. But you haven't experienced it like I have; if you had, you'd understand completely. I'm not saying that you should believe me just because I tell it to you. But do try to understand why I believe it so fervently.

I've been getting those feelings very often recently; they began just before I had our first baby, Rose, and recurred quite often in the weeks afterward. If it hadn't been for those feelings, my two months of maternity leave would have been the most perfect time that anyone has had on this planet. Rose is my world, my everything now, and everything little thing she does brings the utmost joy to my heart. It almost killed me to leave her at a daycare that first day I returned to work, which was this morning.

This evening, after I picked her up, I sit with her in my lap, telling her how much I missed her all day as if she can understand what I am saying. It certainly s true, but I am relishing the moment for other reasons. I know that as soon as Allan gets home from the bakery and Rose is asleep he'll be trying to get me into bed, complaining about how we haven't done it in months. While that also is true, I have no energy for it, and I can't see how he does, either. It is not happening as frequently, but Rose still wakes us up several times every night, and I have not yet been able to physically adjust to it like he has. And now that I am returning to work, I expect the fatigue to get even worse.

As I feared, Rose is falling asleep before Allan gets home. I rock her, rub her back, and coo at her to try to wake her up gently. Once I get her to open her eyes, and I try to then engage her, but to no avail, as my tired girl falls right back to sleep. As I put her in her crib I pray to whomever that might be listening that Allan will be as tired as I am and just not want to make love. I warm up some leftovers and begin to eat, leaving the rest out for him to prepare on his own.

My prayers are not answered (or, as some say, they are not answered in the way I was hoping). As soon as he comes in the door, Allan asks, "Where's Rose? Is she asleep?"

"Hello, honey. I'm great. And how are you?" I daren't even look him in the eye.

He doesn't seem to care about my lack of focus on him, but he does at least seem to catch my drift. "How was your first day back?"

"Very long. I've almost forgotten how much work I used to do in one day."

"I'm sorry, darling. You'll get back in the swing of it, like you used to." He looks me up and down. "Well, if she's asleep, then I say we get down to business." He begins to loosen his tie.

"I'm in the middle of dinner!" I reply, rather agitated now. He really can be rather insufferable. "I'd rather finish eating before even discussing this."

"That's fine. I'll be in our room." He walks off, humming some improvised melody in a major key and 3/4 time.

I yell after him, "Are you not hungry?"

"Nope!"

I shake my head. Either he ate something before coming home, in anticipation of getting some action, or he os lying just to get it that much quicker. "Then at least put up the food that I left out for you, please."

"I'll do that afterward. I doubt it will go bad before I get to it."

I sigh and clench my fists, trying not to throw the remote into the television. I understand his persistence; our sex was incredible at one time. But can he not take a hint? I finish eating, taking my time, lest he get the wrong idea about my own intentions. Unsure of how I will begin the conversation, I walk down the hallway as slowly possible. It is quite strange, actually, that I have turned this cold toward sex.

During the latter part of the pregnancy, after we were advised to put our sex life on hold, he made countless comments about how he couldn't wait until Rose was born so that we could get back to it. I found it funny the first few times, but I soon grew tired of it, but either he didn't notice or continued to forget how much it irritated me. Had that really made me so averse to the thought of sex itself? Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on Allan. Nevertheless, I don't want it, and I'm not going to give it to him just because he wants it.

He puts down the book he started reading and gives me a sly grin as I come around the corner. "Hey, sexy thing. Why don't you come over here and sit next to me?"

"No."

He sighs and shakes his head. I quickly interject, "Don't even give me that! I'm your wife, not your slave. I don't owe you anything." I have instinctively put my hand up, pointing it straight at his chest. I feel completely justified in doing so, too. But in some other life, in some other time, I'm looking back and wishing I hadn't done so. It's all rather confusing, and I'm growing even more angry.

"Well, I apologize if I'd like a little bit of your attention once in a while. Rose is my daughter, too, you know, but I still give you ample attention and affection. And I'll keep giving it to you, too, whether or not it gets returned to me. Pardon me for wanting to have some fun together." He pulls the covers over his chest and rolls away from me.

Impulsively, my rage now at its peak, I slide off my clothes and lie on my back next to him. "Take me," I say. "Have your fun, if that's what you want." At this point I don't care; I just want the fighting to stop, even if this is what it takes. 'What are you doing?' asks a voice within, though it does not speak in words, and it is like that pair of distant eyes in perspective. Allan cranes his neck to look at me, then shakes his head one more. "Who are you?" he asks, before resuming his position and falling quickly to sleep. Who am I, indeed? One side of me is disgusted and confused at the question, while another, growing part of me understands the question with a sense of hindsight. In my state of confusion I remain awake until just before one a.m., and I wake up several times afterward to look after Rose.

At around 5 a.m. I find myself staring at a picture from our wedding that sits on my dresser across the room; the light of the moon has fallen in such a way that I can make the picture out in the dark. Soon enough I am inside the picture, wearing the dress once more and staring into Allan's eyes. There is so much reminiscent joy in my heart, and throughout the ceremony I don't break my stare into his eyes. The familiar feeling of being watched from the future is with me the entire time, though it fades as we leave the church and make our way to our house that night. I relish every moment of that night, as well as the honeymoon cruise we embark on the next day. The eyes watch me during that trip as well. At some point, though I don't know exactly when, it occurs to me that the eyes watch every time a picture is taken. This time the eyes are not sad, but filled with the same joy that I experience.

It is about 5:40 a.m. when I finally leave the picture. Allan is sound asleep, as he wakes up for very little, anyway, and I cry myself to sleep, wishing that we could both go back to our wedding day.

Something was wrong when I awake again, though it takes me a moment to figure out what it is. Allan is already out of bed, and the morning sun is start to penetrate the curtains. I look at the bedside clock and begin to panic. I forgot to set an alarm, and now I'm going to be late! Why didn't he wake me up? As I rush through a sloppy make-up job and throw my clothes on I am haunted by this new side of me that has arisen; it tells me to stop hurrying to get ready, as none of it will matter very soon. Why wouldn't it? It is another day, and Allan is about to leave for the bakery, probably not caring whether or not I'm in time for work. Strange, certainly, for a man who told me last night that my coldness would not alter his display of affection for me. Obviously he didn't mean it.

But I can't fight what I'm hearing, not just in my mind, but now in my entire being. The eyes! The eyes, looking back from the future, appeared when pictures were being taken. They are the eyes of someone looking at those pictures and thinking, either fondly or with grief, of those times. I know what the feelings were behind those eyes, because they are my eyes. I'm walking about in the album of photos I once put together, starting from my late pregnancy and extending to when Rose was two months old. I stopped my work on the album for some time, because something terrible happened. I remember it, first dimly, then clearly: it was the morning after Allan and I had finally had our strange fight about sex, or the lack thereof. He let me sleep and be late for work, and he drove off without a good-bye. He drove off, to be hit head-on by a city cop. The cop was swerving to avoid another collision, only to encounter a slick patch of ice. He was unable to stop the car, and both he and Allan were going at least forty miles per hour when they collided. The cop was hurt badly, but survived, while Allan was killed instantly (right in front of a hospital, too! If things had been slightly different, if he'd been going just a little bit slower, or turned just a little bit quicker, he could survived). I got the news while I was on the way to work, and drove like a madwoman to the hospital after getting Rose to daycare.

For weeks I was completely inconsolable: our last words to each other had been full of spite and anger. I hear the garage door being opened. Allan is leaving to his certain end. I begin to weep. What can I do? This isn't even real, if I'm not going insane about this picture thing, and nothing I can do will stop him from dying again. Or can I? Can I keep him alive, if only in this world of pictures, and have a second chance with him?

And then it hits me: either way, I need to run as fast as possible to the garage and tell Allan what I should have told him the first time.

So I run, a half-dressed blur streaking through the house. He is halfway down the driveway when I burst through the garage door. He hits the brakes upon seeing me, but he does not get out of the car. He cracks the window as I approach. "What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry," I cry, hardly able to form the words through the sobs. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," he says, overwhelmed. "Really, it's fine. We'll make love when you're ready."

"It's not that. I've been taking you for granted for so long now. Rose is my world, but so are you, and you do so much for me. I'm so sorry, and I want you to know that I still love you as much as I ever have." I bury my face in my hands.

He puts the car in park and climbs out. "I'm sorry, too," he says as I nearly push him back into the car with my embrace. "Tell you what. Let's call in sick and spend the day together."

"No," I say, though in truth I want it so badly. This isn't real, and a part of me is staying level-headed enough to realize that I can't stay and pretend that it is. "We'll work it out this evening. You get to work. I love you." I kiss him passionately, relishing every millisecond of it.

"I love you, too. Have a good day." With a thoughtful smile on his face he climbs back into the car and backs out of the driveway, returning the kiss that I blow him. I watch as he drives away, the world around him suddenly going more and more out of focus, the way things always do as I leave a picture for the real world.

I'm not twenty-nine, I'm forty seven, and I'm alone in the house, staring at that old picture album. Why am I staring at it? Because I feel like I may have just lost my daughter. Twenty minutes ago she was here, and we were yelling at each other. I felt like she was throwing her life away, running off at eighteen to marry a nineteen-year-old boy she barely knew and who I did not like at all (I had met the young man a few times, and I genuinely did not like him and thought he would eventually mistreat my daughter in some way or another). The last thing I said to her...well, I meant it. "I'm glad your father isn't here to see what rash decisions his daughter is making." But I'm already regretting it. Now that I understand why I've been seeing the eyes recently, you see, I want to take it back, or at least to make this right again. I've been feeling the eyes for the past few months, starting when Rose received her acceptance letter to Tulane University. We had taken several photographs of her holding the acceptance letter, and then we even went to a photographer to let her model several Tulane jackets that I had bought her soon after. Then there was her high school graduation, just a week-and-a-half ago, and of course I had taken countless pictures there of her and the family members that had come to town to celebrate with us.

I know what happens next. Rose and I don't speak to each other for over a year, and things never quite heal between us. When this was actually taking place, though, I didn't know where Wayne, Rose's then-boyfriend, lived. I don't know for certain, but it seems to be the most likely place for her to have gone. She never returned any of my calls to her cell phone, either, and eventually she changed her number so that I couldn't even leave messages.

I can still remember the apartment where I visited Rose and Wayne two years later, as they were making wedding plans. It's worth a shot. I grab my keys and run out to the car, waving at a neighbor that has since moved away. It's only a fifteen-minute drive, and I see Rose's gold Altima as I pull into the complex parking lot. It was number 517, second floor, third apartment from the east end of Building 5. I knock hard on the door, four times, and stand to the side so that one of them might answer even if she uses the peephole.

Wayne answers. He's no bodybuilder, but he is still tall with broad shoulders and a fairly well-etched jaw, so he can be imposing when he wants. "She doesn't want to see you," he says upon seeing me. It's implied by now that he doesn't want to see me either. He begins to close the door, but I shove my foot in so that it cannot close.

"Rose, it's your mother. I just want to talk."

"Go away!" she replies from somewhere in the apartment.

"You've got a lot of nerve!" yells Wayne. "Get out of my home. Now!" He tries to kick my foot away from the door frame.

"Listen, Rose," I plead with what little time I have left. "I just want to say that I'm sorry, and I didn't mean what I said. You're a grown woman, and a headstrong one at that, who knows what she wants and doesn't let anyone keep her from doing it." Wayne stops trying to remove my foot from the door, appearing to sense that I'll leave once I say my peace. "I know that you have it in you to succeed, no matter what happens, even if you do things I don't agree with. That's all. I'll leave you alone now." I remove my foot from the door and let it slam in my face. With a sigh I begin to walk away. I can at least know that I've done everything that I could to mend things this time around.

As I walk toward the stairs I hear quick footsteps from inside Wayne's apartment, and the door opens again. Rose peeks her head out and looks at me. "Mom!" she says through her tears, and she runs at me with her arms open wide. It's all I need, and we embrace, now both crying. "I'm sorry, too," she says.

After a moment we part and see Wayne watching us from the door. "Is it okay if she comes in?" asks Rose. Wayne looks at me for a moment, then nods. "Do you want to come in?" she asks me. Of course I do. I want to ask her so many things, in fact, but everything is turning blurry again, and as I walk through the apartment door I walk out of the picture.

This is getting frustrating. I'm no longer forty-seven; I'm fifty-five. Not only am I remembering that I'm older, but, even now, I realize that my eyes have been watching me, and I'm still inside a picture of something. Of what, though? Of course. I'm in a different house now, because I moved from Dallas to Houston to follow a big promotion. More money, more responsibility. It was everything a single woman in her mid-fifties could ask for. Even when, due to the estrangement which had begun some eight years ago, I decided not to miss out on the biggest acquisition in the history of the company. For what? you ask. Rose was in labor, and she begged for me to come be with her, or at least be one of the first people to see my grandson. The acquisition was to last at least a week, and, again, I'd just been promoted; this is what I'd moved to Houston for, after all.

I must have just passed that picture of Rose with her college acceptance letter while on my way to the third day of the acquisition negotiations. I'm surprised that I even thought to put it in any kind of prominent place; I suspect that it helps me to imagine the life I wanted for her. Not that she and Wayne are struggling; on the contrary, after taking jobs at Allan's old bakery (which was bought soon after his death), they developed new ideas together that eventually led them to half-ownership of a second location in Fort Worth. They got married six years ago, and, from what little I know about their lives at this time, their relationship is now as strong as ever, even after they began trying to have children. It was a long and painful process, as they were unsuccessful at natural conception, and they had to try two different methods of artificial conception before having any success.

All I do remember is that it ends up being nearly three months after the child was born before I can clear my schedule enough to make the trip up to Dallas to see them. Meetings led to more meetings, late nights at work led to late weekend nights at work. New relationships led to new obligations. After three months I had three days of paid vacation saved, and I took off on a Wednesday morning to go visit. I had tried to call for several days to tell her that I wanted to come visit, but she never answered. I also called several times during the drive to Dallas, but still she did not answer. Well, I needed a vacation, anyway, so I could at least "drop by" during my tour of the town.

That may have been the worst idea of my life, and I have tried to convince myself for years that it was the lack of sleep which prevented me from seeing it for what it was. She slammed the door in my face, and then sent me a text message saying that if I couldn't make time to come around for the important things of her life, I shouldn't come around at all. I knocked on her door for ten minutes, called her, and texted back in panic. There was no response. I retreated to a hotel, determined to intercept her on her way out the next morning. I sat in my car down the block for nearly three hours until I saw the front door open and Rose walk out with little Jeremy in a carrier. My heart leapt into my throat, and I quickly climbed out of the car and nearly ran up to her.

"Why are you here again?" she asked me.

"I want to see you. Am I not allowed to see my daughter?"

"If you really thought of me as a daughter, you'd treat me like one."

I was dumbfounded. "Can you not remember all that I did for you as you were growing up? You cannot say that I haven't been a good mother to you. Honestly."

She said nothing, but simply slid a brief case into the backseat of her car. "Kiss Jeremy good-bye. I'll let you know if we make any plans for Christmas."

From there, for years, things healed incredibly slowly, and nothing was ever quite right with us. I often felt like she only let me come around to see Jeremy and their next son, Carson.

So now I am driving, having ditched the meeting (hey, what does it matter? This isn't actually happening). My grandson is a day old, and I will see him before he is two days old. The three-hour-drive up I-45 has never felt longer, but eventually I'm there hugging my daughter and holding Jeremy close to me. As I laugh and kiss the sleeping boy's forehead, the world fades out once more, just when things are starting to get good.

I'm no longer fifty-five; I'm sixty-one, and I begin to cry as I remember what's happening, particularly because I'm not to the point where I haven't been feeling the eyes watching me. This is actually taking place, in the present, where the choices made really do last forever. I begin to sob.

Things have soured terribly between Rose and me over the past year, and rightfully so. It began with her yelling at me when I came to visit about a year ago. For so long, as it seems, during my rare visits to their house (once a year, roughly) my occasional comments on Jeremy's upbringing, Wayne's manner of dress, the appearance of their house, and so forth, have been taken, silently, by Rose as snide, judgmental remarks. In hindsight I see how they were taken that way, but at that moment, as she snapped at me with years of bottled aggravation behind her, my defense went on full alert, and I left, our barely-existent relationship now seeming to have disappeared altogether.

Upon returning to Houston I dove even deeper into my work than ever before. Soon I ceased to even think about Rose and her family. It is quite evident now. My ever-increasing responsibilities to the company, combined with my track record of not being around in Rose's life, have even calloused me to the specter of cancer found in Rose's right breast. I played it off; medicine has come so far that it should be an easy operation. I came to visit once, during a diagnostic screening, and then I left the next day, even though I could tell she wanted me around longer. All throughout the largely unsuccessful chemotherapy I continued to make excuses, or tell her that it was ok, the next treatment would work. I sent her a card to wish her luck when her doctor recommended a risky surgery as a final resort to battle the illness.

And now she's lying in the hospital bed, days from death, and she told me during a phone call that she didn't want me there. I don't blame her. I've become something terrible in my striving to deny the possibility of someone else in my life, whom I love so much, without being reconciled. I've led myself both to believe and to act as if she isn't my daughter, as if I don't love her. It's more than that, actually, but I don't let myself think about anything past that.

But haven't I taken strides to make amends? Each time I came to visit, I saw it as a new chance to heal things between us. It was she, after all, who took the things I said the wrong way, who misinterpreted my intentions because of her mistrust. But it doesn't matter, because I'm still plenty at fault.

I look back at the picture of three-month-old Jeremy that I took just before leaving the curb that fateful morning. It would be so wonderful to just step back into the pictures and live out the rest of my days in a blissful world where I knew what was coming and could do the right thing. I'd been so eager to leave the pictures before, but now all I want is to go back into them. If I make a mistake, I can just find another picture that takes me back and do things right as I come to them.

But my real daughter, my Rose, will never know of all the things I've gone back and set right. In the real world she is dying of cancer while not knowing how truly sorry I am, and how much I regret the things that I've done (and the things that I haven't done). And to live in the world of pictures would mean to be forever aware of those eyes, at least until I got past any point at which real pictures were taken. Would I ever forget that sense of regret?

So now I'm driving once more up I-45, this time ignoring real calls that will affect my future. An ache is growing within me, exploding upon seeing the exit sign for the I-20 freeway. It's an ache that I haven't felt since moving from Dallas. Now I'm exiting west toward the hospital, and the ache has become an inner writhing, compelling me to turn around. There's something waiting for me, something that I've never allowed myself to see, but I keep driving. I'm pulling up to the hospital, along that road, within view of that intersection. I've tried to avoid it, tried not to think about it for so long. To see it again would be to recognize what I've lost, what was taken from me and what I let slip away. Yes, you've probably guessed it. This is the street where Allan died. Wayne's mother works at this hospital. This hospital is where Jeremy was born, and, of course, it's where Rose has been undergoing all of her operations.

I'm forcing myself to look at the intersection through tears. 'Allan's gone,' I continue to tell myself, breaking into greater sobs at each glance. 'He's gone, and you have to accept that. Your memory of him has to be enough.'

"Allan!" I suddenly scream as I pull into a parking lot. "I forgive you. I forgive you! I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what all of this has cost us." I beat the steering wheel, setting the horn off twice. Some people passing by look at me, concerned, but continue on their way. I climb out of the car after about five minutes and turn to look at the intersection once more. I'm still weeping, but the loss is suddenly not so palpable. "Allan," I repeat, now a whisper. "I forgive you. I let you go." A soft breeze flows across my face, a gentle caress on my cheek, and the rustling of leaves above seems to convey an approval of my choice. I take it in for a moment, then, still quite unsure of how I'm going to finish doing what I came to do, I enter the building.

My face is flaming red as I walk through the hallways of the hospital. No one notices; I'm sure crying people come through here every day. I ask the lady at the information desk where the Intensive Care Unit is. I make my way to the hallway where Rose is most likely to be.

There's Wayne, returning to her room. He doesn't see me, and he leaves the door cracked for some reason. I'm thankful. I step inside.

"Rose," I say, nothing like the way I've rehearsed a hundred times by now.

Rose looks at me, and immediately disgust comes across her face. Wayne says nothing, seeming conflicted and wanting nothing to do with this. "Of course," says Rose, "the one time I tell you not to come, you come right away."

I move closer to the bed. She says nothing, but continues to glare at me. She looks incredibly weak and thin. She has stopped wearing the wig that she bought for the chemotherapy, and her scalp looks to be a week out of boot camp. Her arms look so thin that I'd be surprised to see her actually lift something with them, and her face is gaunt, her skin clinging to the bones behind it. Her eyes betray a fatigue like nothing I've never known. I thought I had it rough, working eighty-hour weeks. Rose, my Rose, is staring death in the face with such dignity.

"Where are the children?" I ask.

"They're being taken care of. They'll be here in a little bit. Don't worry about them." She coughs, and Wayne offers her the glass of water sitting nearby. She takes a sip and thanks him before setting her head back against the pillow. "So, is this real enough for you? Real enough that you finally came to be a part of it?"

"Rose, I came here to tell you that I'm sorry."

She raises an eyebrow at me. "You're sorry? Hell just froze over. Sorry for what?"

I sit in a chair near the foot of the bed. "Rose, when your father died, he and I had been incredibly angry at each other, and when he left me like that, with you as a baby, I never quite forgave him, even though it was not his fault. I haven't been back here since then."

Rose looks confused. "Mom, did he die here, in this hospital? I thought you said he was killed instantly."

I nod. "He was killed instantly. But it was right out there, on that street." I point out the window. "I haven't been back by here since, even though it was not something conscious. Some secret part of my mind convinced me that I was too busy to do the things which would bring me back to this place, or to have any connection to it." I look over at Wayne for a second, then I look back to Rose. "I even let myself take a job that brought me away from Dallas altogether, so that I wouldn't even have the chance of passing by here again. Even though the job may end up killing me before too long. But you never left. You stayed here and made a life for yourself that kept bringing you here, and I sacrificed your part in my life just to keep from having to come by here and face what happened to your father thirty-two years ago." By now I can barely speak at all, and choke on yet another wave of sobs. How I still have the stamina to cry, I have no idea.

Rose is beginning to cry as well, and Wayne grabs her hand. I did always like that about him, even if I never let myself believe it: he can't stand to see her in distress. How he is getting through all of this, and how he's going to function after she leaves, is beyond me.

"Why are you telling me all of this now?" asks Rose. "What does this mean, now that I'm dying?"

"That's just it. I can't let someone else go with so much unresolved. Maybe there isn't much to do with the time that's left. And maybe you won't forgive me. That's up to you. But I can't let you die without saying that I'm sorry. And I am. I'm so very sorry, for everything. I love you."

My phone vibrates in my jacket, and I reach in the pocket to hang up on the caller. "Who is that?" asks Rose.

"If the last hundred or so calls are any indication, it's my boss, and by now he's probably letting me know that I'm fired. I don't care at this point."

"Oh, Mom!" Rose cries, and she raises those frail arms toward me. I stand up and move over to embrace her, not too tightly for her condition. "I love you, too. And deep down I didn't really want you to be absent when I die. If I had known about Dad, I would have done things differently all this time." She looks over at Wayne. "Except when it comes to Wayne."

"No," I reply, "this was completely on me. I should have learned how to forgive myself and move on. I should have learned to see things from your point of view. I'm so proud of you, and the life you've lived, even if I haven't shown it. I'm proud of the husband you picked, and I'm proud of the family you've made." She hugs me even more tightly.

"Stay with me?"

"Until the end."

Rose lets go and looks at Wayne. "Can you take a picture of us together? I want you to be able to hold on to this moment." Wayne nods and pulls a camera out of a duffle bag that he has brought along. I don't want a picture taken. It will just be one more temptation to return to walking about in pictures after Rose is gone. But that's my battle to fight, and it's time that I stopped putting my own security before my loved ones. I fix my hair, put arm around Rose's shoulder, and smile.

The Latest Ideas About Love

As one with history in the Protestant church I am able to comment on a distressing phenomenon we are witnessing. During the past several decades there has been a growing departure from the various Protestant denominations (and, possibly, from the Catholic and Anglican churches as well, though I cannot comment on those with any certainty) that has focused on the "lack of love" shown by many of the church's members. The sustained rate of this departure has resulted in many churches now advertising themselves first and foremost as "judgment-free zones" and the like. Alongside this ubiquitous emphasis on being able to "come as you are" has come an assumption of what love is (hence the claim that Christians by and large lack it). Both of these formations have served, for the most part, to further the incompleteness of what Christian life means both to the believer and the nonbeliever.

Consider the implications of the many claims about the "lack of love" shown by other Christians: that the speaker knows love completely. Often the people making these claims have been shunted in some way or another, and, wallowing in victimhood, draw attention to themselves and spite those who spurned them by pointing to their inadequacies. It is true that the Christ said "By their fruits ye shall know them," and we all fall short in showing love to others; there is much, much more that could be done with just another mustard seed of faith (spiritual effort).

But there are two things missing. One is the acknowledgement of the planks in our own eyes; public assertions of shortcomings in love are almost always one-sided, with no share in the blame taken by the person making the claim. It is not an appeal to a communal effort at reform, nor a call to prayer and fasting, but merely a vehement defense of rejecting other members of Christ's body for reasons that are otherwise indefensible.

Another thing that is missing is a solution. Pointing out of the errors of others is certainly not without precedent: the Gospel of St. Luke shows St. John the Forerunner calling the teachers of the law and others a "brood of vipers." But what comes after is a solution to the problem: "Bear fruits that befit repentance, and do not begin to say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father'; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham." As speaking in tongues is worthless to most without someone to interpret, so the pointing out of errors without also pointing to a solution to correcting them is worthless, and serves only to further divide the parties involved and cement them in belief of the righteousness of their respective positions.

As for "judgment-free zones," this reflects also the notion that God wants as many warms bodies singing praises to Him, or perhaps the notion that His Grace needs to be "sold" like a used car, packed with more incentives than that other guy offers. But God has told us that He wants us to be "hot" or "cold," not "lukewarm." Furthermore, the focus of the messages delivered are diluted with reminders that "we don't judge you" for this or that, instead of solemn attention to worship of the Lord.

Because of this "non-judgmental" aspect of the growing idea of love, the consistent conscious effort not to be judgmental or exclusive toward others is involved. But then this idea of love is just that: a conscious effort. There is nothing spiritual involved. A complete love is spontaneous, flowing from an intimate spiritual connection with Christ, the Source of all, whereas this idea of love flows from the mind, ultimately tied to the flesh and subversive to true love. Furthermore, by the fact that this is a consistent, conscious effort, the fact that the person is to be loving is often at the forefront of the thoughts, a foothold for the devil to instill pride in one that "I am such a loving person." Such a case is far worse than that of the one who errs in love but is humble and open to the instruction of the Holy Spirit.

In circumspect it is not surprising that this has taken place. Since the Catholic Church broke away from the Orthodox Church, taking errors with it, its countless offshoots have each broken away from each other based on some recognized error but carrying with them errors of their own, as the devil would have it. But in realizing what is occurring we can search for our own deficiencies in understanding love, as well as send up many prayers for true revelation to brought upon the faithful and shared with those that have ears to hear.

Pet Elections '12

The presidential elections this year have taken an interesting turn. One hand you have the Cats, whose candidate field has grown to unheard-of proportions. "House" cat Mitt Pawmney maintains a solid showing in the polls, but he is heavily challenged by Milk Party candidates Meowchelle Bachmann and Rick Purry. Candidates such as Gary Jumpson and Jon Huntscat have been given little media attention, while Herman Climb and Newt Clingrich hold on to hope in the eyes of the media and the Cat voters. Then there is the case of niche Cat Ron Prowl, who maintains a strong following among the Pets, but many find him to be too much of a Dat, a Cat/Dog hybrid who focuses on being as independent and inexpensive to care for as possible (as opposed to Cogs, who are known to manipulate and completely bankrupt their owners, though many deny it), and stands against moving on pounds to keep them from killing animals, so it is too soon to know what his chances are in the primaries.

Among the Dogs, however, incumbent Bark Opawma remains essentially unchallenged. Rumors have surfaced that one of the Blue Dogs might come to challenge him, especially as some see him as too much of a Cog, but many say that, due to lax efforts in breeding, few Blue Dogs remain these days, and those that do would not make viable candidates.

Many voters say they are fed-up with the fact that they only get to choose between Cats and Dogs. Some believe that a third party, likely birthed from the Milk Party due to its Dat influences, will appear within the next few years. It will certainly make things interesting if it does.

A Note, Seven Months In

I've been married for seven months now, and let me tell you, when you are irritated, flat-out angry, or insulted, don't keep it a secret. At the same time, neither let your forgiveness (which should always occur) be a secret. Be open to the impact that your spouse wants to have upon your life; let his/her encouragement lift you up from any depth.

Comments on St. Symeon’s “Practical and Theological Texts,” Part I

This is the first in a series of blogs based on The Philokalia, Vol. 4.

From the first of the “One-Hundred and Fifty-Three Practical and Theological Texts”:

To have faith is to die for Christ and for His commandments.

Denying oneself the sensual pleasures, giving up desires for food, comfort, recognition, and security, one acquires the humility to receive love through the Holy Spirit to follow the commandments (Love the Lord with all of your heart, mind, soul and spirit…Love your neighbor as yourself).

…to believe that this death brings life; to regard poverty as wealth, and lowliness and humiliation as true glory and honour…”

Without attachment to material things, or to high regard among others, one does not seek them but sparingly, when absolutely needed (if this ever occurs). In not seeking the material and recognition, one is uninhibited to search the Spirit and act in love toward others.

More to come!

A collection of thoughts on austerity measures for our federal government

These are ideas I've seen around the blogosphere that I like which will reduce our potential future national debt (and maybe even reduce the debt we already have!).

Eliminate the follow departments/administrations...
EPA
Department of Education (the evidence for its complete failure to maintain quality of education is incredible)

Reduce the size/authority of
DEA
FDA
Department of Agriculture
FCC
HHS
MMS (or whatever it is called now)

End agricultural subsidies, "green energy" subsidies, and cut foreign aid in half.
Repeal "Obamacare" and the recent omnibus financial regulatory law.
Simplify the tax code, reducing the need for IRS agents.
End the "War on Drugs," and legalise marijuana, if not other drugs as well.
Adjust the age of eligibility for Social Security to account for increased life expectancy.
Close our foreign military bases, or require that all expenses incurred in transporting troops and maintaining the operations of those bases be covered by the country the base is in.

Christ in the Tomb pt 2

Not only is the way of nature, the way of flesh, to kill of all traces of Christ, all holiness, but even the role of Christ is constantly attacked naturally by society. Consider that Jesus is increasingly thought of by many as a "good man," a prophet, a hippie, a great teacher, and a number of other roles that can be played by mere humans. His Deity is slowly eliminated, thereby reducing Him to a man, leaving Him in the tomb. We must remember and make known who He is.

Divestiture - Third Installment

On those occasions (by and large the trips to visit his parents in Tulia, in the Texas Panhandle) when he happened to encounter a peer from his youth, John rarely escaped questions regarding the coincidence of his financial success. He had by no means been talentless, nor was he ever lazy; he was salutatorian of 91 classmates and graduate summa cum laude from Texas Tech University (among those who applied for college (as many remained on the farms and ranches once their public-school tenure was complete) and made it in, a respected choice, as a good number of these had gone to regional junior colleges, and others had gone to Texas Tech or other universities to the south and east, while only two had gone out-of-state and one abroad). He had been a decent athlete during high school and had worked while getting his baccalaureate degree.

What John lacked for the longest time was a calling; passion escaped him invariable within weeks, sometimes days of acquiring a new pursuit. It became the trait by which he was known; a fellow student even once submitted a cartoon to the school newspaper in which a medium is consulted in order to predict John's next hobby, the medium replying with "this wouldn't be difficult even for a fake, because there's hardly anything left to pick from!" (This cartoon ended up generating trouble for the school, as some parents protested the "occult imagery.")

During his sophomore year of college he was changing his major for the second time when it occurred to him that a career counselor might be able to help him whom no ordinary, pre-specified work could satisfy. John, in a sense, felt dread at the thought of taking on a job created through the creativity and effort of someone else. It was all too clear to the counselor: John had the heart of an entrepreneur. That did not mean much to him right away, but it opened his mind to a new world of possibilities. His original attempts failed; he began with a lawn-mowing business, by which he hoped to gather enough clients to quit his other job, but he could not compete with larger companies in Lubbock. One of his roommates during his junior year was studying massage therapy, and so John convinced him to try to turn the house into a massage parlor with him. Again, he could not attract enough clients, especially in a college town. During his senior year he found himself writing a novel. It came to him while jogging one evening, a story about a police captain caught in the midst of espionage concerning a witness to a suspected murder and one of the officers on his force. He also met and started dating Kelly at this time. She and many of his friends thought the work was great and that he ought to publish it as soon as possible. He was even in the process of filling out the paperwork to apply for publishing with several companies (even though he wasn't supposed to, but who would find out?) he realized that this was the very thing he had dreaded all this time. He tore up the applications and threw them away right then.

He was, however, still determined to find a way to publish his work. It was at this time that he remembered a friend from Tulia, Sam Rizzo, who had left a year before him and gone to Austin to work for a bank after graduating from college. After saving up for a weekend trip, John and Kelly made their way down to Austin on a Thursday night. John walked into the bank the next morning and was almost immediately accosted by Sam, who was delighted to see a face from his past. Sam was only a customer service representative at the time, but he had, in anticipation of any possible impending promotion, already made himself fluent in all aspects of every financial product and service the bank offered. Sam led John through the process of determining the amount and type of loan he would need for the printing and assembly equipment he wanted, so that little remained to be done when John went to talk to the loan officer (who had some choice words for Sam later on).

John was approved for the loan, and soon he and Kelly, newly married and fresh out of college, were printing copies and petitioning bookstores as well as creating accounts on various market websites on the evenings and weekends. The business went very slow for the first year-and-a-half, with the pair selling only a few books per week at best, and sometimes none at all. John began working on his second book at this time.

They were well aware that John's parents had been plugging his book to their family, friends, and coworkers; what they were not aware of was that John's grandmother's cousin (whom he had met twice in his life) was a dear friend of a lady in Oklahoma City who hosted her own morning show. A viewer of the show wrote to her one day, asking for recommendations for books to get her father for his birthday, and John's book was mentioned. The orders increased that week such that John and Kelly were barely able to print and ship all of them in time. They saw that the book was tied to another on the hostess' list of recommendations on the market websites (in the form of "customers who bought this also bought..."). John called in sick to work on Monday morning from a motel room in Austin before meeting with Sam, now a loan officer, to negotiate another loan, this time for the purpose of purchasing another set of equipment and a tiny office.

Both of them quit their jobs and began printing the books full-time, and John completed his second book. Kelly's friend Thomas designed a website for A Priori Publishing, and almost immediately they received submission requests, despite not having asked for any. John ultimately chose his first client and added her first work to the company's list of products. They hired several college students, and there is little left to tell between then and the time of our narrative, other than that they moved the business to Austin after a few years, building their own small building and operating five assembly systems.

Even though Sam was now a branch manager of that bank, he still handled all dealings with A Priori Publishing himself. It was to Sam that John went today.

"Do you really think you're going to expand and add more clients? You seem to be pulling in the kind of income now that you always spoke of to me."

"It's not that. I need to safeguard against losing any of my existing ones. Simmons is getting old, and Fiorina just had a kid. I need to be sure I'm not going to have those less productive times and have to lay people off. I can add a couple more people, and I have a few employees asking for overtime, so I can make it work either way."

Sam nodded, not saying but understanding exactly what had prompted this decision in John.

"You remember my sister, Gemma, right?"

"Yeah, your older sister. I never knew her real well. I didn't see her much outside of when I went over to your house. She lives here too, doesn't she?"

Sam nodded again. "Well, her son Nathan's in his senior year of high school..."

"Oh yeah, I had forgotten about that. They got to that process right away, didn't they? Sorry, continue. Their son's a senior, and?"

"Well, he's a lot like you were back then."

John chortled. "You mean he's a kid that refuses to be satisfied and recklessly pursues what he thinks is freedom?"

"You know that's not what you were."

"Whatever."

"His parents also remind me of how your parents were then. Gemma has been asking me to come talk some "sense" into him."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you about that one."

"They'll be at the Andersons' houseboat party on the 4th."

John stared at Sam for a moment. "What, you want me to talk to him?"

"If fate allows it. It might be the best thing for him."

"And it might just drive him further into his dissatisfaction. He can't see things like I do. He won't believe a word of it."

"Believe a word of what? John, you've made it! You're your own boss, and you make great money."

"You have no idea how many times I've stood on the razor's edge between losing everything and getting by. One wrong step and it's all gone. And now...now I've lost the one thing that would have stayed with me, regardless."

Sam began to feel very uncomfortable. "Kelly's death was not your fault."

"I know. I don't know... but you see why I say I need to expand. I'm on that edge again, or I could be very soon. I'm sorry if I've ruined your day. I'll see you later."

"You haven't. Take it easy, and call me if want to talk or have some drinks or anything like that."

Outside, John climbed into his car and sat for a few minutes, staring at the highway before him and the hills on the other side of it. He thought about what it would mean to lose his business.

"God, how much more is going to be taken away?"

A thought approached from the back of his mind, arguably his own, but in a tone that made him fearfully unsure.

'Even if it were lost, things of far greater value remain with me.'

He started his car and pulled out of the parking lot. He was hungry, so he drove out to the moneyed enclave known as The Dominion.

Divestiture - Second Installment

At around eight-thirty sunlight was beginning to penetrate the window blinds. John had constantly argued in favor of getting wooden blinds or heavy curtains, but Kelly loved being woken by the sun. He rolled over and covered his face to block the light, but by now he was awake enough that the sound from the television kept him awake. As he sat up to reach for the remote control it occurred to him that the sound had probably been influencing his dreams throughout the night. An early local church service was on. He tried to watch, but an unrest grew within him, until he finally turned it off and went into the kitchen.

Besides, he was hungry. He quickly made coffee and eggs and ran outside to get the newspaper. There was very little in it that truly interested him, but still read every word on every page. He then walked into the living room and began searching through his collection of films. At length he though better of it and sat down in his study, busying himself with paperwork.

He had not missed a Sunday in church for 8 years, nor had he ever worked on paperwork for 6 hours straight in the 5 years since he had started A Priori Publishing. On this day time meant nothing, and work was now the most precious thing to him.

At around four o'clock, however, he stood up to stretch and looked down at what he had done. It occurred to him that he was now left with little to do while at his office for the next few days. It was probably time to stop for the day. 'Besides,' he told himself, 'I need fresh air.' There was no need for subsequent deliberation; he knew exactly where he wanted to go.

The man arrived at the mall dressed as a teenager might be: a t-shirt, jean shorts, and sandals. This deviation from his casual wear of choice, a business-casual look, did not reflect the natural apathy for appearance felt by a man on a day off, but rather demonstrated an intentional apathy, an apathy which acted as a means to blissful avoidance of truth.

John loitered in various stores and tried a Chinese dish he had never had in the food court. For once the large crowds did not bother him. In fact, he cherished them. In most faces there was contentment. Most of those who surrounded him had likely not experienced agony as he had. He could become lost in that sea of faces and the collective contentment could wash away his sorrows.

One face, however, was terribly distressed. The woman, appearing to be in her late twenties, seemed to be frantically searching for something or someone. As she came near his table he called to her.

"Ma'am, can I help you?"

She stopped and quickly blushed. "I'm sorry. I'm looking for my son."

"I can help you look for him." She eyed him suspiciously. "Oh, I'm sorry, I know how that must have sounded." From his wallet he produced a business card. "Here. To hold me accountable."

Still taken aback, she replied, "Alright. My son is about this tall, with green eyes and dirty blonde hair. His name is Dylan. If you find him, meet me at the top of that escalator." She quickly ran off. John left the remainder of his meal on the table and headed for the escalator. As he descended to the lower floor he saw her rushing into a small toy store.

'Perhaps,' he though, 'but a young boy loves exploration.' Behind and to the left of the escalator was a gift store. Upon entering he looked to the right into a maze of displays of electronic gadgets of all sorts. Sure enough, a young boy, fitting the height that the woman had indicated, and with dirty blonde hair, was there, playing, in the midst of so many highly functional devices, with a Newton's Cradle. None of the other adults seemed to be attending to him.

John ran back outside of the store and looked around. He spotted her heading in his direction, but not exactly in his direction, and a bi-directional river of shoppers flowed between them. He waved his arms back and forth, but to no avail. 'What was her name?' She hadn't told him. Panicking, he drew a sharp breath.

"Hey!"

Most nearby turned toward him, but few stopped, and none remained in place for more than a few seconds. Fortunately she noticed him and ran up to him. "I think I found him. In here." They both entered the store and he pointed out the boy he had seen. She sighed and quickly moved toward her son, embracing him.

"Dylan!"

"Mommy!"

"Don't you ever run off on me like that again!"

"I'm sorry!" he cried.

"It's ok, honey. You scared Mommy. Thank you so much, sir."

"It's John. John Peterson."

"I know. I saw it on your card. Rachel Miller." They shook hands. He was momentarily surprised and impressed at the firmness of her grip. "Is there any way I can repay you?"

"That's alright, ma'am. No need for that."

Somewhere inside John a feeling of guilt had slowly grown. He had missed church; he had basically ignored God completely that day. Perhaps this was his chance to make things right.

"Actually, I'd like to invite you to my church next Sunday."

Rachel smiled. "Dylan and I already have a church."

John's chest quickly deflated of that grand sense of purpose. "Oh. Well, then, it was good to meet you, and I'm sorry it wasn't under different circumstances. Glad I got to help, though."

"If you'd like, we can join you for a Sunday." This took a lot for Rachel to say, as will be evident later. "Where do you go?"

"Cornerstone Baptist. It's on Mopac, just north of Steck."

Rachel nodded. "And what time?"

"Ten-thirty."

"Alright, we'll be there. Thanks again. I cannot tell you how thankful I am. God bless you, John." With that she turned and led Dylan up the escalator. John went home immediately, making up for lost time in prayer along the way.

Quick note

My last post was titled "The Covetous -First Installment." I have decided early on that "Divestiture" works better as the title of the novel into which this hopefully turns into. The second installment is coming along nicely and will hopefully be completed by next weekend.

The Covetous - First Installment

The human psyche possesses the curious capacity for a number of self-perpetuating behaviors. Some are harmless, such as, perhaps, for a man, forgetting one morning to shave before leaving for the day. One that would be considered more serious is that of staying up too late. The most serious type of these behaviors, in contrast to those of lesser import, however, require no outward change, no physical manifestation, taking place entirely within the mind. An example of this might be comparing ones own attributes to those of others, whether with a favorable or unfavorable light cast upon either. In each of these cases it is only an extrinsic motivator, such as the demands of a work schedule, the desperate pleas of family and friends, or even the deliberate removal of oneself from the familiar, the denial of normalcy (which is the bane of inner attention and the refuge of the self-perpetuating behavior), which can bring the mind to correct itself.

It was one of these, of the most serious variety, which had been set in motion within our hero, John Peterson. In his case, it began with the understanding that the news which he had received that afternoon should have made him glad. His life had been shattered some nine weeks before, a great piece of his soul stripped away while she ran along Spicewood Springs Road in the cooler hours of the evening, drinking in the red and purple which had been painted into the clouds, as she always did. He imagined, hoped that the most beautiful moment had arrived just before she reached Mesa Drive, so that it would have been her final perception in this life.

Nine weeks ago she had been cut down, and today the murderer had been caught. John knew that he should be happy, but he could not find himself experiencing any such feeling. Knowing that he ought to be happy drove him further into despondency. He became even further distressed knowing that his inability to express any positive emotions was also spoiling the afternoon for Aaron and Shae, his brother and sister-in-law. John had driven to Houston that morning in order to spend the day with them, and had received the news via phone from Detective Carlisle shortly after arriving in Houston. The three of them had still visited the aquarium as planned, as well as dinner at Aaron and Shae's house with a neighboring couple, and when the latter pair had left had Shae put on a film for them to watch.

All the while what seemed to everyone, including John himself, to be a steady recovery over the past nine weeks was unraveled within an afternoon. About forty minutes into the film John abruptly stood up, excused himself, and quickly left, unresponsive to Aaron and Shae's protests. He did not stop for coffee on his way out of the city, as he always had on such trips, but drove in automatic fashion, his thoughts completely focused on banishing memories of Kelly from his mind.

He stopped on the west side of Brenham, pulling over at a gas station. He parked in front of the door of the store and walked out close to the highway. He had been sweating, and the humidity of the coastal plains, being reinforced by recent storms, did not help; though it was nearly eleven by this time, well past sunset, much of the heat from the late July afternoon remained. He looked up at the stars, but could not hold that gaze for long, being reminded of the old tales of the stars and the dead. Headlights appeared over the crest to the east, and the thought flashed in his mind. Perhaps he would be like so many deer. No, not like deer, because deer know only that the road is an open space into which they may run to try to escape; John sought a different form of escape within that everlasting instant.

He bought a root beer and continued home. The silence was too much; he selected one of the CDs he had owned before they had married, composed by one of the bands she had not enjoyed and at times playfully mocked. He, or whatever remained of him at this point, became lost in the heavy grooves and complex time-signatures. Nevertheless, the silence called to him all the while, beckoning him to that dark void of divestiture.

Once home he quickly showered and went to bed, leaving the television on whatever channel it happened to be set to, craving the noise it would provide.

Christ in the Tomb

In Dostoevsky's novel The Idiot, a character named Ippolit describes his perspective of Holbein's painting, entitled "Christ in the Tomb." It is, he says, "an out-and-out depiction of the body of a man who has endured endless torments even before the crucifixion[.]" He goes on to tell in detail how the effects of the tortures endured by Christ were captured by Holbein in this painting. Eventually he points out the point of this painting: "...if a corpse like that...was seen by all his disciples...how could they have believed, look at such a corpse, that the martyr would rise again?...one has the impression of nature as some enormous, implacable, dumb beast, or...in the guise of a vast modern machine which has pointlessly seized, dismembered, and devoured...a great and priceless being, a being worth all of nature and all of her laws, worth the entire earth-which indeed was perhaps created solely to prepare for the advent of that being!"

Through this description by his character Ippolit, Dostoevsky gives us a reminder of the undeniable monstrosity that is the world; the very God which created it and sustains its existence is put through such agony of body and soul, and then killed in the most humiliating fashion, once He has allowed it to occur.

The world (encompassing both Satan and the passions of the flesh) seeks no peace with holiness, and recognises no authority other than itself; there is no compromise with it. This is why Christ declared that no one can serve two masters; sin will continually seek full control and the destruction of piety, humility, faithfulness, prayer, and all other virtues of a life connected to Christ. While Christ suffered and lay dead, the world eagerly sought to kill Him, and reveled in that death, before His glorious resurrection.

(Alan Meyer's translation of идиот was quoted in this piece)

(The painting described can be seen at http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b4/Hans_Holbein-_The_Body_of_the_Dead_Christ_in_the_Tomb.JPG)

Let Us Ignite an Enduring Flame

Many libertarians, conservatives, and even moderates are now looking to what is happening in response to the passage of "healthcare" legislation (not to mention the government takeover of the student loan industry): states passing their own legislation to be exempt from the bill's many mandates and taxes, state attorneys general and law firms (such as Mark Levin's) poised with lawsuits against the bill's constitutionality, the Congressional races in November. While these are battles that need to be happening, we should also look at the bigger picture of the continued (indeed, one that will continue until the return of Christ, or something else causes America to cease as it is) struggle that we must undertake.

Electing conservative congressmen and women in fall 2010 and 2012 and a conservative president in 2012, while most likely to prevent further damages to our economy and our personal liberty, is merely a wadded-up shirt meant to stop the bleeding. There must be a shift of discourse in our conversation in this country. President Kennedy said "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country." The essence of liberty upon which this country was founded was being able to stand on one's own two feet, to, at the end of life, look back and say "There may have been a lot of hard times, times when I thought I wouldn't make it through, but I worked hard and got through it on my own."

There must be a great espousal of individual responsibility. Ben Franklin said "Idleness and Pride Tax with a heavier Hand than Kings and Parliaments; If we can get rid of the Former we may easily bear the Latter." It is true; who, the government having met the needs thereof for any considerable period of time, would vote against his benefactor? It takes a special kind of person, a particular brand of resolve and fortitude to break the bonds of dependency; it is this type of person we must extol. It is the kind of person our children and our peers must see in us. In my high school senior English class there was at one time an assignment in which we were writing our opinions on the social issue of our choice. One girl presented hers as such: "As you can see, I'm an African-American, and today I want to express my opposition to affirmative action. If I succeed, I want it to be on my own merits, not because of my skin color. I don't want to be hired because the government says I have to be hired" (paraphrased). It is with this attitude America's future generations will succeed; without it, we are at the mercy of the government.

We must understand what humility entails, and exalt the mindset. If one wishes his lot in life were better, he should pray and apply himself to improve it. If he wishes to be charitable and improve the lives of others, he should go about it with diligence and accept the help that willingly comes from others with the same vision, while extending the liberty not to be involved in the effort to those unwilling or unable. The "Tea Partiers" and conservative groups have been labeled as "selfish" for not supporting legislation purported to assist those in need. While there may be a great number of selfish persons amongst the ranks of the opposed, this accusation is neither just nor appropriate. In a constitutional republic, by means of votes and contact with representatives (or lack thereof), all citizens are part of the governing process; therefore, to endorse such socialist policies is to deny one's neighbor the liberty not to take part in one's own vision of improving the lives of others.

Ben Franklin also said, "I think the best way of doing good to the poor, is not making them easy in poverty, but leading or driving them out of it." The Gospels and other religious texts command us to take care of the poor, but improvement of life is not just about having one's needs met. We must begin to go about our work with true gratefulness, knowing that work is not simply a necessary evil for making ends meet and possibly buying ourselves comfort, but that meaningful work in itself shapes us into a better person, and in doing so, realize that providing work for the poor provides a much more profound and lasting impact than simply giving them money, food, etc.

As for those who neglect their own care, we must warn them of the destructive consequences of their actions and pray for them, but ultimately realize that it is their choice to make, and be there willing to help when they have fallen hard and are ready to make changes in their lives. As Thomas Jefferson said, "The care of every man's soul belongs to himself. But what if he neglect the care of it? Well what if he neglect the care of his health or his estate, which would more nearly relate to the state. Will the magistrate make a law that he not be poor or sick? Laws provide against injury from others; but not from ourselves. God himself will not save men against their wills."

We must stand and squarely face our challenges. The apostle Paul wrote "suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope."

We must take the time to listen to the ideas of all with openness, but also with scrutiny. I do not claim to have exhausted the list of what needs to happen with us, and recognize that there are many others who have valuable contributions as well. However, take the words of none, even of mine, to be absolute, and be ever vigilant. If we maintain our sense of self-worth, duty to others, perseverance, and deference to the liberties of others, we will be able to cling to what is true and reproach that which is not, and, perhaps, reach the point where our senses automatically revile messages at the first hint of falsehood.

Again, we must never cease. As Paul also wrote, "Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed, lest he fall." We must continue to fight for freedom and give of ourselves of our fellow man as long as we have breath in our bodies, and pray that others are struck ablaze by our flame.

Idols

You know. Those wooden or metal things that those weird people back in the day used to worship as if they were living, powerful beings.

The Israelites turned to them over and over throughout their history. One often wonders, when reading or hearing about it, how they could do this when they've visibly seen the supernatural power of God at work many times.

But let us examine the modern situation. Few people will ever bow before or pray to object anymore, but if you ask many Christians today, especially (in my experience) Protestants, they will tell you that the old idols have been traded in for new ones: money, power, sex, fitness, or whatever other things a person might pursue to excess.

That may be true, but let's think about what this implies. Why do people chase after these things (things which they also chased when wooden idols were still prevalent)? The answer is simple: it makes them feel good. It makes them feel complete. So is their god pleasure? Is their god completeness? What is it that they are seeking to worship? To me, this response says more about the Christians making the statement than anything else. If one believes that the world is turning to idols for comfort, completeness, or what-have-you, then Christians are turning to God for the same thing.

That's what an idol is. A substitute, or reminder, of God, and a thing that one relies upon to commune with God, turning to it first, instead of imploring the Lord and His teachings, first and foremost.

Idols can begin as very good things. I know I often write about the importance of silence as a means to escape noise and to begin the process of prayer. I, and others I know, love to escape civilisation to places of beautiful scenery (I shall forgo a plug for the Texas Hill Country here) in order to, perhaps among other things, be with the Lord. But once we begin to see these things as the only means by which we can communicate with the Lord, then they have become idols. Church becomes an idol. Silence becomes an idol. Nature becomes an idol. The Mysteries, Communion in particular, can become idols. Icons can become idols. Even faith itself can become an idol.

To expound upon the last statement, let me ask the reader to consider how many times (s)he has heard the phrase "My faith got me through the tough times" in some form or another. Though it is true that it is impossible to please God without faith, it is also impossible for faith to sustain anyone without God involved.

The trappings of this world are not idols, unless God's purpose is to provide comfort and protection to mankind. They are merely rudimentary elements of the veil of maya.

A New Energy Possibility?

http://www.world-nuclear.org/info/inf62.html

Thorium is a naturally-occurring, slightly radioactive metal discovered in 1828 by the Swedish chemist Jons Jakob Berzelius, who named it after Thor, the Norse god of thunder. It is found in small amounts in most rocks and soils, where it is about three times more abundant than uranium. Soil commonly contains an average of around 6 parts per million (ppm) of thorium.

Thorium-232 (Th-232) decays very slowly (its half-life is about three times the age of the Earth) but other thorium isotopes occur in its and in uranium's decay chains. Most of these are short-lived and hence much more radioactive than Th-232, though on a mass basis they are negligible.

Thorium, as well as uranium, can be used as a nuclear fuel. Although not fissile itself, Th-232 will absorb slow neutrons to produce uranium-233 (U-233)a, which is fissile (and long-lived). The irradiated fuel can then be unloaded from the reactor, the U-233 separated from the thorium, and fed back into another reactor as part of a closed fuel cycle.

In one significant respect U-233 is better than uranium-235 and plutonium-239, because of its higher neutron yield per neutron absorbed. Given a start with some other fissile material (U-233, U-235 or Pu-239) as a driver, a breeding cycle similar to but more efficient than that with U-238 and plutonium (in normal, slow neutron reactors) can be set up. (The driver fuels provide all the neutrons initially, but are progressively supplemented by U-233 as it forms from the thorium.) However, there are also features of the neutron economy which counter this advantage. In particular the intermediate product protactinium-233 (Pa-233)a is a neutron absorber which diminishes U-233 yield.

Over the last 40 years there has been interest in utilising thorium as a nuclear fuel since it is more abundant in the Earth's crust than uranium. Also, all of the mined thorium is potentially useable in a reactor, compared with the 0.7% of natural uranium, so some 40 times the amount of energy per unit mass might theoretically be available (without recourse to fast neutron reactors)

I think the article speaks for itself. I, for one, will be keeping my eye on this.

Ancient Faith Radio

A great source of recordings of Orthodox chants and hymns, as well as spiritual messages and teaching on Scripture and writings of church fathers.
http://ancientfaith.com/

Turnaround

For a long time I was quite apathetic politically. To me, the government was going t do what the government was going to do, and none of that affected how I was going to live my life: following Christ.

But then several things changed. As I stated in an earlier blog, a few years ago I began praying that God would make me the best husband, father, brother, friend, etc. possible. I'm most certain He's been doing that (as much as I often tend to fight it). And then another thing happened....I met Haley. The more we get to know each other, the more we love each other, and the more real the possibility of getting married and having a family becomes. Suddenly I begin thinking: what kind of place do I want my family to live in?

And then the truth hits. I don't want a world in which the government is able to come into people's lives as it pleases. And when one gets right down to it...in the United States, the people are the government (for now). Which means I'm a part of it. I have a responsibility to do what I can to ensure that my voice and my participation in the political process reflects the basic tenets that the country was founded on; each person possesses the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Gone are the days of reactionism to conservative demagoguery and personality cults. I had friends who nearly worshipped Ann Coulter (a practice, which, believe it or not, happens among liberals as well); I had a roommate who praised Rush Limbaugh for telling guests on his show with whom he disagreed to "just shut up" (because that never happens on the liberal side [1]). It's time to look past the followers and see the principles for what they really are: advocating freedom from government control to all people of the country.

I guess this may mean more political blogs (once I become more caught up with "who's who" in the political realm). I'm not really "out of things to say" insofar as the spiritual realm goes. I greatly look forward to eventually obtaining The Philokalia, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, and other spiritual books. However, most of what I've learned lately hasn't been in the mind, but in the soul, as prayer makes the mind and flesh submissive to the soul, and the soul, in turn submissive to God. We'll see what develops as this process continues.

1. http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2009/08/07/obama-tells-economic-critics-way/

Dear Commander-in-Chief

You continue to laud the "brave sacrifices" of the victims of the terrorist attack (1) , as if they were willingly giving their lives for their country here. Don't get me wrong, I definitely believe they were brave men and women. But they did not "lay down their lives" for their country...because they shouldn't have had to. Our troops should never have to be concerned about being viciously attacked within America's borders, especially when there has been reason all along to have removed Mr. Hassan from military service (2).

You should continue to praise the diversity and courage of the victims, though. They'd probably prefer that you do that instead of admit that the idea that religious extremism and religion-driven terrorism does happen and is preventable, but we might have to drop our (read: not actually mine) policy of political correctness.

1. http://abcnews.go.com/m/screen?id=9030873
2. http://michellemalkin.com/2009/11/06/the-massacre-at-fort-hood-and-muslim-soldiers-with-attitude/

Liturgy And Recited Prayer (Hearing God pt 2)

The common Protestant objections: too ritualistic, no heart in it, no room for the Holy Spirit, salvation by works, is too much like Buddhism et al.

It is, I concede, completely logical to say that when Christ gave us the Lord's Prayer, it was meant as an outline, a basic guide to the things about which we should be praying. I agree with this, and have for a long time. We should have spontaneous prayers that apply to our needs and the needs of others. However, there is also something to be said for Psalm 119:97, "Oh how I love your law! It is my meditation all the day." Why does the psalmist meditate upon God's Law? Because by keeping his thoughts focused and silencing the "other self," he is able to let the totality of the Law become real in himself, and thus God's word nourishes his soul, straightening it to walk uprightly.

When emphasis is placed upon the thoughts of the believer, the believer's own feelings, emotions, then growth is stunted. Noise enters, because no one can keep his mind perfectly clear when not observing himself. It is like saying "don't think of an elephant." The first thing you think of, of course, without being in the position to diminish your thoughts by observing and dismissing them, is an elephant. Similarly, if one goes about the day thinking things like "I'm not going to lust" over and over, he has already surrendered his thoughts to this battle, instead of taking away the fight altogether, and by placing his spirit subordinate to the mind (and, inevitably, to the flesh), he has cut off his only possible communication with God and sets himself up to fail. (Damascene, Christ: The Eternal Tao).

The advantage of liturgy and recitation of prayer is as of yet unresolved. Mere recapitulation does not benefit the individual at all, of course; what is needed is the elevation of the spirit above the intellect and the flesh, and the submission of the spirit, in turn, to God. Keeping the spirit subdued prevents the man from truly communing with Christ; but once the elevation is accomplished, something needs to direct the soul where it ought to go.

Here is the advantage of such recitations. With the mind and flesh subdued, the spirit observes the thoughts and takes hold of that which it truly desires; and if one belongs to the Lord, the simple recitation of prayer and liturgy allows for one to continually redirect one's spirit toward God and the service and glorification of Him. These things do not "lose their meaning" because they are then not attached to the feelings, which fade, nor the thoughts, which become tiresome or boring. There is a completely new dimension which is ever renewed in Christ. It is no wonder that when in passing I ponder eternity I quiver in fear of thought of never ceasing. Yet my spirit rejoices to be in the Lord and wants to abide there forever.

Now, with the words, songs, etc already prescribed, there is no more need to continue to awkwardly search for the right words while praying, or to lead oneself in, as in the NIV, "babbling endlessly like the pagans." (Matthew 6:7), or as in the ESV, "heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do." One is then aware of, perhaps, how long one has been going, or what great Christian vocabulary one has used, or how easy it was to remember to pray for this or that, and pride sneaks in. There is no more need to contemplate what songs to play, what turns of phrase to use. Such care for variety is an appeal to the flesh and intellect, in any case.

Continually step outside thoughts and hear God. Step outside dependence upon thoughts and let your spirit grow and lead the mind and flesh in holiness and submission to the Lord.

The Other Me (Hearing God pt 1)

The first thing that comes to mind is Eckhart Tolle's speech on this subject, concerning the question "Who is this "myself" that I cannot live with?" I remember rejecting outright everything he said because of some of his views on Christ. However, now, a year or so later, I am starting reconsider this point. It came at a moment that was not even of terrible importance, but it opened my eyes to it nonetheless. As you may have read in earlier blogs, I have a habit of getting a large pizza at least once a week and eating the whole thing in one sitting. As I was on my way back to my apartment from a walk on Saturday, I was planning some things out. One resolution I made was (for financial as well as health reasons) not to get a pizza after church the next day, but instead to eat something I already had at home, most likely soup. Immediately I thought back to other times where I would make such resolutions, but then when the time came to enact them, I didn't want to and went against it.

Why? If I am, at this point, intending to go through with something, why is it that I am suddenly wishing something else at another time? It seems, indeed, that Mr. Tolle has a point; there seem to be multiple entities at work, and these can often be in conflict. "We are not our thoughts." In a book I am slowly getting through, Christ, The Eternal Tao, the author describes the same situation. The spirit, the mind, and the flesh are all at work, and each has its own will. It is the place of the mind and the flesh to be subservient to the spirit, and the spirit to be subservient to God. What hinders many of us from communion with God is that we don't understand how this works, or the need for it, and may be trying, as is natural to people who have grown up in a society based on the glorification of rational thought, to simply intuit our way to communion with God, to, as Winnie-the-Pooh would say, think think think our way through faith. The answer is far more complicated, and the answer is far simpler. The answer begins with self-observation, stepping back more and more often to observe one's own thoughts and emotions. By doing this we can hold on to the thoughts which are godly and destroy the thoughts that are not.

Stay tuned.