My Fortuneless Fames

No, you read the title right. It may sound a little awkward, but it’s what I meant to say. I have had a couple brushes with public fame, but none have so far brought me any fortune. But maybe you’d like to hear about them; and then again, maybe you wouldn’t. Either way, they’re the subject of this blog entry.
It’s really not easy being famous. You have the people bugging you, of course, and the constant requests for recognition or money (the latter of which I cannot offer). The worst part to me, however, is the tedious grind. Did you know you can get arthritis from getting famous? It’s true – arthritis in the wrist from the repetitive motion of pre-writing autographs on little cards so I can throw them into open car windows or put them on windshields or leave them in public places for lucky people to find. And then there’s the lack of privacy. But somebody has to do it.
The first time I got famous was on a New Year’s Eve, and it wasn’t even at a party. I was minding my own business (that’s the way fame often likes to strike) at the local junior-high track, working out. I had just finished a lap when a strange-looking man with an expensive-looking camera approached me very purposefully, as if I was just the man he wanted to see. And I was, for he asked (very politely, but very purposefully) if he could get a few pictures of me. It may have been my striking physique, but the fact that it was a strange-looking man asking the question disturbed me not a little until he explained that he was from the Houston Chronicle. He worked as a photographer for the section that covered our county (Brazoria), and as he swung by the track, he saw me and thought I might be an interesting subject.
Well, he wanted action shots, so I went back into action. It really is a strange feeling to have someone follow you and to hear their camera click at you. But I put up with it, and I even struck a somewhat dramatic pose every few passes. After he was done, he asked me a few simple questions (name, what I was doing there at the track, etc.) and then thanked me for the photo opportunity and left – it was that simple. A few weeks later, my fame arrived in the form of a Thursday newspaper edition with my picture in the corner of the front of the Brazoria County section, with its very own caption (but no article). Dad bought up several copies (one of which I still have), and I fielded a few phone calls of congratulations that day. Okay, maybe only one.
My fame lay dormant until just recently, as many of you are probably aware of. It again struck quite unexpectedly. It was the end of March, and I was with my Dad on a service project headed by my church. We were at an area elementary school helping it with various indoor and outdoor projects. Since my back is weak as well as my mind, I stayed indoors while Dad worked on the outdoor project. The project I found myself a part of was re-painting the principal’s office.
Now, I am certainly not a good painter, and nor do I play one on television. But they gave me a roller and a container of paint and told me to get to work, so I did. Of course, I got paint outside the acceptable lines as well as on my clothes, wheelchair, and hands in various messy ways (I noticed to my chagrin that all the other painters were as clean as they were accurate). But I painted away, and it came to the attention of a church photographer, who was no doubt documenting the event for the church magazine. Again, it must have been my striking physique, because it surely was not my mad painting skills. She camped out near me and began clicking away as I painted. Of course, being a veteran at this by now, I simply acted as if I was not aware of any cameras in the room.
I thought that was the end of the whole matter, but imagine my surprise when a friend told me, “Did you know you’re on the cover of the church magazine?” I didn’t expect any photos of me to even be published, and if they had, I’d have settled for inside the magazine or maybe even the back cover. But the front? This was amazing! I refused to believe it until I laid eyes on the actual magazine itself, which came out in May*. Sure enough, there I was, paint roller in my outstretched right hand and a very “down-to-business” look on my face. There was also my striking physique, but I’ve already mentioned that.
There seemed to be no end to the back-slaps and congratulations around church after that. “Hey, you’re famous!” they said. “Hey, you’re on the cover of ‘Sagemont Life’!” they said. I just smiled and quietly acknowledged the fact. And so this round of fame has at least another couple days left in it, before the next issue of the magazine comes out and a new person becomes famous. But that’s what fame is. It’s fickle, and it changes its mind so easily concerning on whom it shall shine next, and for how long. It has chosen to shine on me twice, and both times it has been in the form of a photograph. All I can say is – it must be my striking physique.

*Author’s Note: I personally have 13 copies of this magazine with the famous cover, and if any reader would like a copy, just let me know – and when you do, specify if you would like it autographed or not. You can also get a look at the magazine by going to http://www.sagemontchurch.org/learn/sagemontlife/index.htm and clicking on “May 2009”.

Of Wheelies, Spills, Stairs, and Stares

In thinking of something to write today, I remembered the old writer’s adage, “write what you know”; and then I made up another one, “write what you’ve already written.” The resulting blog entry (this one) is a combination of the two sayings. The first saying is pretty self-explanatory, but the second should not be taken completely literally, because no one wants to read a repeat. What I had in mind was an elaboration on a subject already introduced before in this blog.
You see, back around January, I wrote the article “A Reply to Vicarious Pleasure-Seekers”, about my lack of any desire to attach jet engines to my wheelchair and have at it. In that article, I mentioned that this is a frequent suggestion from friends (it is worth noting that just the other day I received the suggestion again) and is only one of the interesting experiences I have had in connection with being in a wheelchair. So today I asked myself, “Why not write about some more such experiences?” And this I shall now do.
If I had a dime for every time I have been asked this certain question, I’d never have to work. That question is, “Can you pop a wheelie in that (meaning my chair)?” Now, if you are uninformed, to “pop a wheelie” simply means to apply pressure to my larger back wheels in such a way that the front of my chair lifts up into the air, not unlike a bucking bronco. In my personal opinion, the “wheelie” is just about the most boring, most uneventful, and, quite frankly, dullest maneuver one can do in a wheelchair. I never do it for fun (that would be dorky), and I only do one when it comes in quite handy for getting over curbs and other speed bumps. However, my friends and, most often, children seem to think it is worth paying good money to see. So if they ask, I oblige and show them that I can indeed “pop a wheelie”. Oh, and if you worry that a wheelie done incorrectly will surely tip the chair over backwards, you are correct; but roughly twenty years of experience in handling a wheelchair is enough to ensure that this will probably not happen very often, if at all.
I have also been challenged to a race. You see, people like to see just how fast I can go in my chair, and sometimes they want to race me on foot. This does not happen all that often, but it’s a good workout when it does. Then there are those people who like to push me in my chair as fast as they can possibly do so while at a dead run. This has happened with ever-lessening frequency as I have gotten older, but it used to happen occasionally, at the hands of both adults and children, and unexpectedly just as often as otherwise. It makes the occupant of the chair not a little wary of the pusher’s steering skills.
Of course, there are the spills. These can happen in a variety of ways. I could fall off a steep curb. I could tip over backwards. I have also tipped over sideways, which is not common. Tipping over in a forward direction is actually the most common of all, and can be effected by hitting a bump, getting a front wheel caught in a very uneven patch of ground, or putting my weight too far toward the foot rest. I don’t mind taking spills – I’ve never been seriously hurt in one and I have no problem righting my vehicle and getting back into it. But the fact remains that spills are embarrassing. If it happens when someone is pushing me, it is embarrassing to them as well, and much time is spent in asking forgiveness or if I’m all right, when it’s all perfectly fine and to expected every once in a while. If the spill happens at my own hands, my chief desire is for it to be in as uncrowded a place as possible, lest I draw unwanted attention to myself. Actually, if you think about it, spills are kind of funny – but no one laughs when a person falls out of his wheelchair (except perhaps my sister). It’s politically incorrect. But I guarantee you I would laugh if I saw myself fall out of my chair.
Stores and other public places are always interesting, especially if there’s little room for my chair, which makes my person wider than it would otherwise be. Thus I often have to make sure I’m not in the way – and in crowded places this can be quite annoying. I have actually ridden an escalator in my chair, and getting up stairs is an interesting experience. I have approached a staircase in one of two ways. The first is to get out, climb the stairs myself, and have someone with me pull the unoccupied chair up separately. The second is to have anywhere from one to four persons literally hoist and carry me and my chair up or down the stairs. This latter method is actually fairly risky, but I have never had a carrier drop (literally) his end of the bargain, and nor have I ever fallen down a staircase.
For as long as I can remember, there have been stares. And this is to be expected, since a person in a wheelchair is different from the general population; you don’t see someone like me every day. Of course, most of the people doing the staring are children, which is perfectly understandable. I often hear them ask their mom (sometimes even as they point) “What’s wrong with that guy?” A few kids have even been brave enough to ask me directly what is wrong with me. The most common way they ask it is, “Did you break your leg?” As for older people staring at me, that is not nearly as common as with children, but when it happens it can be a little disturbing.* It may also surprise you, as it does me, that I have hardly ever been seriously made fun of (besides, of course, the jokes that the joker and I both find funny) for my disability, even when I was a kid.
I have been unable to walk since birth, so my disability feels very normal to me. It does not make me bitter or sad, though a little self-consciousness is always normal. I feel most comfortable when my friends and others treat me as “just one of the guys”; I don’t seek sympathy or pity or special treatment. Whenever I need help, I will usually ask, but more often than not I will try to find a way to do whatever it is myself.
However, since I don’t focus all that heavily on what makes me different, I don’t talk or write about it much, which may be unfortunate since I know some people are probably curious (but may not be comfortable enough to talk about it with me). I hope you find this article not only entertaining but a little informative as well.

*Author’s Note: Nowadays older people (particularly females) stare at me quite often, but that is a totally unrelated matter from the one discussed here.

In Memoriam

Stop. Whatever it is you’re doing. Maybe you’re at a get-together, or barbecuing, or shopping at a blockbuster holiday sale, or just sitting back, watching a ballgame, and enjoying the tail end of a three-day weekend. Whatever it is, stop for a moment. Stop and reflect on the fact that, whatever it is you’re doing, it came to you at a price paid by others. And that’s not just something we say because someone designated today as Memorial Day. It is a very real statement of fact.
Today we say “thank you” to those brave people who cannot hear us say it because they went to war “over there” and never came back. We remember the nameless, faceless figures who fill the pages of our history books, people our battle paintings, and are portrayed in our war movies. They may be only a concept to us, but each was a real person, with feelings and dreams and families and, in most cases, most of their lives ahead of them. But they chose to risk all of that for their country. Someone has wisely pointed out that America, for all of its great military power and reach, has neither asked nor gotten anything in return for its sorrow except enough ground to bury her dead. We are now, whether we realize it or not, reaping the fruit of the labors of those long dead, who neither knew us nor had us in mind when they died; they were thinking only of those back home, whom they would never see again – a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a spouse, a sweetheart, a best friend. We get to live the comparatively carefree lives they would have liked to have lived, in part because of their sacrifice.
Our generation is no stranger to armed conflict, and neither was our father’s, or our grandfather’s, or our great-grandfather’s. Perhaps you know someone who has gone off to war, and perhaps you know of one who did not come back. I myself have a ancestor, my great-grandmother’s brother, son of Slovak immigrants, who went back to the old continent to fight for the Allied cause in World War I. He was killed in a train accident just as he was coming back from the front when the war was over and won – a tragic way to die in a theater filled with nothing but tragedy.
But there were other scenes no less tragic. Think of the soldier who falls on a live grenade to save his buddies. Think of the man who died charging up that hill which no one ever noted or long remembered, or ever knew why it was worth charging up. Think of the countless numbers who died swimming ashore at Normandy and never got to liberate France or the rest of tyranny-enslaved Europe. Think of those hundreds of thousands who died at the hands of their own countrymen in the Civil War. Think of those surprised by death at Pearl Harbor, or taken off-guard by a harmless-looking suicide bomber in Iraq or an invisible guerrilla in Vietnam.
We can shudder as we read numbers. Over half a million died in the Civil War. Almost that many died in World War II. America was in World War I for only a year and a half, but over 100,000 died there. And there are thousands and thousands more. But behind all of those numbers – each digit and each comma – there is a face, a real person who once lived and breathed like we all do today. We have each and every one of those individuals to thank, and as Abraham Lincoln said, we cannot ever repay those who gave the last full measure of devotion.
They did not die just for watermelons and hot dogs and volleyball and baseball and furniture sales and fireworks. They died for freedom. They stopped living so that we could continue to live by the ideal that all men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Without their sacrifice we would be in danger today of being thrown in prison for disagreeing with the government, or put on trial for something we wore, or killed for being Jewish or for worshipping God. It is not only we who give thanks today, but hopefully all the millions in the other countries for which American blood was and is shed.
You can go on now. Eat your watermelon – it won’t be cold much longer. Get back to your conversation or your friendly game. Un-mute your TV or continue with your bargain-hunting. I just wanted to make sure we all remembered what this day was really all about. On the face of it, all these things are free – but they’re really not. Somebody else paid for them. Freedom isn’t free. If we ever stop stopping now and then to remember that, I suppose we won’t be free anymore. Oh, and one more thing – if you’re reading this and you did come back from “over there” – thank you. Thank you for your service to our great nation.

The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Chapter Four

Chapter IV. – In Which Byron Warren is Upstaged, not Once, but Twice.

Be he, or be he not, destined to grow up into the most interesting man in the world, a young firstborn lad in most average American families is bound, sooner or later, to be subjected the most unpleasant of indignities. Call such indignity what you will – newcomer, usurper, pretender to the throne, competitor, or rival – it is bound to be welcomed (or not welcomed, as the case may be) in roughly the same fashion by all young firstborn lads. This fashion is bound, in more cases than not, to be quite a surprising nuisance in the eyes of the parents of young firstborn lads; but be that as it may, it remains true, as many of my fellow former young firstborn lads may tell you, to a man.
Byron Warren was seven years old when it happened. In fact, he had but lately turned that bright age of seven, for the month was June. Mr. Horatio Warren had, for roughly nine months previous to this point, maintained a strange but nonetheless stoic and consistent silence around his son, which no doubt perplexed the latter and not a little embarrassed the former. However, though I speak entirely upon my own initiative in this matter (and not from direct knowledge of the case), I believe the cause for this unease between father and son is quite explainable, though not quite understandable or excusable to most of us.
You see, the notable Santa Claus episode had greatly damaged Mr. Horatio Warren’s psyche as a father, for obvious reasons to those who read that notable chapter. After finding that Mrs. Leona Warren was with child, Mr. Warren’s injured ego forced him to take drastic, though probably entirely unnecessary, steps. He determined then and there that he would not tell his son Byron about this development until the moment of birth was at hand. The fear that drove this action was simple – if he told young Byron that he was going to have a younger sibling, he feared he might be forced to sit down with the former and discuss the facts of life much too soon for either of their good. And since Byron was now bound to take most of what his father said with a grain or two of salt, Mr. Warren found it prudent to keep his mouth entirely shut. And since Mrs. Warren pledged that if her husband wasn’t going to say anything about it until the last moment, neither was she, Byron was simply not going to know until that moment – for when Mrs. Leona Nora Warren, nee Crabapple, pledged something, it was as good as backed by the full faith and credit of the United States government, and then some.
Well, you can imagine, since we all know that Byron Warren was a thinker even at that tender age if he was nothing else, that the young firstborn lad was wondering why his mother’s tummy had suddenly assumed a strangely round and ever-growing shape. You can be sure that he gave voice to his inquisitive thoughts and asked both his parents what was the matter with Mom. At which Mrs. Warren just quietly assured him, “You’ll see”; and Mr. Warren would nervously pick up a book or the newspaper and tell his son not to bother him. It didn’t help when he saw his parents furnishing a spare room with all manner of baby toys and clothes and furniture, things that even Byron knew he was much too old for. He tried to question even this, but all he got was a curt reply that he should stay out of other people’s rooms.
But at last the day, June 19, came. Mr. Warren did not yet know it was the day, for he was sitting quite calmly in his easy chair; however, Mrs. Warren’s shriek quickly jolted him to attention. He ran to where his wife was, and by a series of hand gestures, facial expressions, and semi-intelligible phrases, he was notified that “it” was coming, and would not wait.
Horatio Warren first attempted to help his wife walk out to the car, but she was not even able to arise from the couch. Then he attempted to do what he was not then in the habit of doing (that is, carrying his wife) and found himself unable to do it; whereupon Horatio Warren picked up the telephone and called Dr. Merrill.
Now, Dr. Merrill was not wont to make house calls, but this would surely be an exception. You see, ever since he had helped the Warrens name their firstborn son, and ever since the Warrens had obligingly named Dr. Merrill as young Byron’s godfather, the good doctor was never known to deny a request from that family. Indeed, he was known to dine with them on occasion and even to golf with Mr. Warren. On the day in question, Mr. Warren’s telephone call could not have come at a more opportune time. Dr. Merrill had no sooner heard Horatio’s plea for help than he at once cut short his appointment with old Mrs. Jennings, the hypochondriac, by giving her a placebo. Then he was off to the Warren residence at speeds well over the accepted limit.
Meanwhile, young Byron was very much perplexed by his mother’s pained wailing and by his father’s confused attempts at allaying her distress. When he asked what was wrong, Mr. Warren realized that the time was at hand to tell his son. Mr. Warren, as you shall soon see, could not have more royally botched his opportunity.
“Well, son, you see…ah…you know how your mother’s tummy is all big and round?” he began cautiously.
“Yes,” replied the boy.
“Well, it’s about to not get so big and round!” stated Mr. Warren as emphatically as if that was all there was to the matter. Byron’s scrunched face assured him otherwise.
“You see, son, your mother is about to have a baby. That means you are about to be a big brother!”
Byron smiled broadly. “Oh, so you mean it’s like what Freddy says about what happened with his mom and how…”
Mr. Warren cut his son short. “Yes, yes! It means you will soon have a new little baby brother or sister to play with!”
“But how did…” Mr. Warren did not let his son finish. Mr. Warren, in his excited state, was too ready to jump to conclusions. He assumed, incorrectly, that his son wanted more information than was needed, and since he assumed this, he did not give his son a simple seven-year-old answer, as you or I would no doubt have. Instead, he gave his son a three-year-old answer and told a totally needless whopper, as follows.
“Um…you see, son…when a mommy and a daddy are lonely and want a new son or daughter – not that we’re lonely with you around, son, but perhaps they want more than one child – you see, they send for the stork!”
“The stork?” Byron’s face was even more scrunched than before.
“Yes. The stork is a big white bird with long legs and a long beak, and he delivers babies to mommies and daddies!” The whopper couldn’t have been bigger if he had added that the stork makes dill pickles.
Even Byron knew this, which is why he ignored his father’s answer. “But how is mommy’s stomach going to get smaller – and why is it so big now?”
“Well, son…” The words were hardly out of Mr. Warren’s mouth when there came a sharp rap at the door. Before Mr. Warren could move to get the door, the door opened of its own accord – or should I say, it was opened by an energetic newcomer with a black bag.
“It is I, the stork!” shouted Dr. Merrill good-naturedly, as if delivering babies were the most joyous, knee-slapping good time you could imagine. “Where’s the patient?”
“She’s on the couch in the living…” began Mr. Warren, but Dr. Merrill strode past him as if he already knew the answer to his question. He kneeled by the couch and quickly assumed firm command of the situation.
“All right, Pa, no slacking now – we’re going to have a home birth here! Boil up some water, man – you should have been doing this fifteen minutes ago! I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s here before you even get back! And I just know it’s going to be a ‘he’ – I can tell by the way she screams! Easy, now!”
As Dr. Merrill was busy barking orders to everyone including the house cat, Mr. Warren was nearly ready to swoon. In fact, that is just what he did after he had complied with several of the doctor’s requests.
“All right, Pa, we need a couple more rags, wash cloths, handkerchiefs, whatever you have handy…Mama’s sweating up a storm, and what good is a Pa if he can’t – Pa? Oh, blast it all, he’s out cold on the chair. Hey, B. W.,” – this was Dr. Merrill’s pet name for the boy – “could you get me another wash cloth or a towel or something? Hurry!”
Byron was off in a flash, and he ran more than a few other errands for the doctor during the whole process. In fact, the boy even mopped his mother’s brow and soothed her by giving her gentle hugs around the neck – something Mr. Warren would no doubt have been doing himself if he was not still laid out on his easy chair. Mrs. Warren, as has been duly noted before, was a strong woman, and seven years had not abated her original child-bearing strength; besides, having a strong man and a competent doctor beside you and being surrounded by the comfortable environment of home don’t hurt matters one iota.
“Pa, look alive – here they come!” shouted Dr. Merrill. Mr. Warren was not so far gone that the sudden sharp cry from the doctor did not cause him to open his eyes and to faintly stir.
“What? What did you say?”
“I said look alive, Pa! Here they come!”
“They? Who’s they?”
“I’m not talking about the IRS, man, or the police! I’m talking about your twins!”
Mr. Warren slumped back into his easy chair, ashen. “Twins!”
“Yes, twins, or my name isn’t Dr. Merrill! B. W., looks like you’re about to be outnumbered!” At this the boy smiled broadly again.
Mrs. Warren even spoke up now in between her groans. “Are you serious, doctor? There’s two in there?”
“Yep…sure enough…unless it’s got two heads…only question now is who’s gonna come out first!” A shrill wail pierced the air. “Well! It’s a girl!” Byron frowned a little but a hint of a smile still remained.
“And here comes the other right now! Stop the presses! It’s a boy!” Byron let out an audible cheer even as a second shrill cry pierced the air.
Mr. Warren mopped his forehead with the back of his hand; one would have thought he had just given birth to octuplets himself. “There are two? Twins?”
“Oh, get a hold of yourself, Pa, and come look! You’re the proud parents of two wonderful identical twins!”
Byron smiled as he looked at the newcomers. “Hey, that’s just what happened to Freddy’s mom – she had identical twins, which means they both look the same! Neat-O!”
A shadow passed over Dr. Merrill’s face. “Now comes the hard part, you know – what are the names going to be? You know, I have a grandfather in Buffalo and two aunts in Trenton if it looks like I’ll have to arbitrate…”
“No, Doctor, that won’t be necessary!” said Mrs. Warren in a strong voice. “We’ve already decided on alternative names for a boy or a girl, and I suppose we’ll just have to use both – right, Horatio?” Horatio, for his part, was out on the easy chair again.
Mrs. Leona Warren looked proudly at her two newest children as she held them both for the first time – quite an armful, if I do say so myself. “The girl will be Alice Vera Warren…and the boy will be Robert George Warren!”
“Fine names, fine names!” said a beaming Dr. Merrill. “Now let me get all of the data copied down on a piece of paper…too bad my nurse isn’t here…I forgot to look at my watch as I was delivering…guess I’ll have to estimate…”
Ah, yes, but it was a fine, joyous, splendid day at the Warren residence, June 19. Strong woman that she was, Mrs. Warren even offered to get up and heat something up for Dr. Merrill, but Mr. Warren wouldn’t have it. He stumbled to the kitchen and popped a heaping bowl of celebratory popcorn for everyone. And that was the way the Warren family grew from three in number to five.
Young Byron was not as put off as one might have feared by the addition of two new siblings. He was already quite accustomed to entertaining himself, and he actually felt quite proud of himself as he helped his mother care for both twins. After all, he was a big brother – and there is nothing trifling about that job description.

The Simplicity of the Gospel

“For after that in the wisdom of God the world by wisdom knew not God, it pleased God by the foolishness of preaching to save them that believe” – 1 Corinthians 1:21

As the few years of our lives melt away into the endless eons of eternity, there is really only one simple truth that could be said to be essential for us to know. We don’t have to attend school for more than a decade to understand it, and we don’t have to trek into the wildest and most unexplored places on earth in order to find it. It is so simple that a little child may hear it and understand it as well as the most learned person with many years of living experience. It is summed up in 1 Corinthians 15:3-4 – “Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, and He was buried and rose again the third day according to the Scriptures”; and again in Romans 10:9-10 – “If you shall confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and shall believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you shall be saved; for with the heart man believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made to salvation.”
Knowledge of the world around us can be a wonderful thing, and sometimes we can take for granted the simple fact that we are able to read and write. Yet the main verse at the beginning of this piece tells us that the world has never yet come to know God through all of its wisdom. The scientific knowledge we have gleaned over the centuries has been unable to reconcile us to our Creator, and this is evidenced by the fact that the world’s scientific community generally rejects God’s very existence. All that the most beautiful mathematical formulas can do is help us appreciate God’s order, but they will never introduce us to the Designer of that order. History and philosophy are full of the tragic examples of man’s failure to make an ideal world for himself, and of his failure to discover ultimate truth. Man has poured many grand and beautiful thoughts into literature, but often all that those words express are gnawing uncertainty and even loss of hope.
According to 1 Corinthians 1:21, God in His sovereignty designed it so that there would be no way that people could come to know God through their own efforts and wisdom. Why? Verse 29 tells us – “That no flesh should boast in His presence.” In order that He alone would receive all the glory, God ordained His simple yet miraculous revelation of the Gospel of Christ to be the tool of salvation. Those who hear and heed its uncomplicated call to repentance toward God and faith in Jesus, who died for our sins, will be saved from their sin and belong to God forever.
Yet what is the world’s response to this? It scoffs at the Gospel as so much foolishness, believing that the answer to the human condition could not be so simply, easily, and plainly delivered to mankind as that. In fact, fallen humans would rather accept their search for truth as endless and even futile than accept the solution in the form of revelation from the hand of God Himself.
The Apostle Paul scanned the ranks of the redeemed and did not find many with such an attitude. In verses 27-28, he says, “But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and the base things of the world, and the things which are despised, has God chosen, yes, and things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are.” The Gospel is profound in its very simplicity, and it must be accepted just as simply, for Jesus Himself said, “Unless you are converted and become like little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”
Education and knowledge are very valuable things, and they should never be dismissed. Indeed, we must use them to our advantage if we are to be good stewards of the world that God has entrusted to us. However, let us not be discouraged if we do not have as much worldly education as another person; and, on the other hand, let us not boast as if advanced education equates with wisdom able to unlock all truth. The Lord has identified for us the knowledge that should be sought above all else and rested in once it is attained, and it is as simple as it is unsearchable in its scope. He tells us in Jeremiah 9:23-24 – “Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom; neither let the mighty man boast in his might; let not the rich man boast in his riches; but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows Me, that I am the Lord who exercises lovingkindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, says the Lord.”

Writer's Block IV; or, Lock and Load

I have been searching my brain all day for some kind of idea to write about, and I would have given up all hope of having come up with one if I had not found some unused ammunition. No, I am not talking about actual lead projectiles. The ammunition I have in mind is more figurative, but no less potent to solve my problem. You see, I discovered the happy fact that I have not yet written an official installment of “Writer’s Block” in the month of May! Having discovered this, I decided that, with less than two weeks to go in the month itself, ‘tis better to fire off that one unused round of ammunition than to leave it in the old bandolier. And lest anyone worry that that round will be needed but unavailable in the coming twelve last days of May, let me say that I believe my current writer’s block to be so bad that when it wears off (as I trust it soon will), it will give way to such a flurry of ideas that a near-fortnight shall not be able to hold them.
As long as we are on the subject of ammunition, let me hold forth briefly on a not-too-distantly-related subject – namely, firearms. I am not going to argue for or against gun control in this article, except to say that I am definitely a firm believer in gun control. That is, I believe strongly in having a firm, controlling grasp with both hands on my firearm at all times when I am using it.
I was not yet five when I first handled a gun. My father and I went out squirrel hunting, and he let me hold the .22 rifle. It turns out that’s just about all either of us did with that gun, although I seem to recall that he did allow me to fire it off once at a tree. I used that same firearm when Dad took me on my first target practice. I don’t know how well I did, but I remember I had a blast.
Those of you who are gun buffs and pride yourselves on having a veritable armory of your own (which no force foreign or domestic shall ever be able to take without an epic fight) will no doubt call me a sissy or a gun novice for having written so glowingly about my experience with such a piddling little thing as a .22 rifle. But let me say that I have shot all kinds of firearms.
I have shot a .22 pistol. Besides shooting other calibers of both rifles and pistols (both large and amazingly small), I have also shot an SKS and a shotgun. The SKS was a beauty to shoot, with its accuracy and comfortable feel, but the shotgun was a different story. It was the first and last time I ever shot one of those monsters, and I would not have done more lasting damage to the crook of my arm if I had put a full-blown howitzer up to it and blasted away. I would have thought that there was supposed to be more force coming out of the gun than going back the other way, but in that I was mistaken. Not only did the recoil blow me completely backwards, but it also left the most searing pain in my arm and shoulder. I almost believed I had been shot, and I know my arm was useless for some time after that.
Having said all this, I must admit I am far from an expert in guns. I have never shot at a living thing of any kind, much less hit one. I have gone to only one gun show, and I do not have the uncanny ability to know when the next show will be fourteen months in advance. I don’t have a gun rack in my room or any vehicle. I have not studied my clothes and my person in such detail as to know exactly which spot would be perfect to conceal a handgun. If anyone knocked at my door, I would not raise a .45 Magnum before inquiring “Who’s there?” I don’t dress like Rambo just for fun. You gun buffs and survivalists out there will no doubt say that I had better get on the ball, and I won’t disagree with you there. But suffice it to say that guns have never been a great interest and hobby of mine up to now, though I appreciate their value and I do know how to shoot them.
All this talk of guns reminds me – I haven’t been fishing in ages. I know you must be wondering how that reminded me of fishing. Guns reminded me of hunting, which I’ve never done since that squirrel hunting episode two decades ago, and that reminded me of fishing, which I’ve done quite often but not in a long time (my mind works like that when it is under the influence of writer’s block).
I am well-acquainted with salt-water fishing and all that goes with it – the stench of the bait shop, the mosquitoes biting you in the pre-dawn hours, pricking your finger with the hook as you try to attach the squirming shrimp onto it, casting your line out countless times during the day, and waiting tirelessly as countless fish treat themselves to a buffet line at your expense but never once come up for air at your reeling. That’s not to say that I haven’t caught some real keepers before. I once caught a hefty flounder, and the fight I had once with a fat redfish was nothing short of exhilarating.
I need to go fishing someday soon. But for that I need a fishing license. I could always go to a more uncivilized place and marry the two concepts of this article – guns and fishing – by lowering a shotgun into the water and seeing what I can catch that way. But I’d probably break my arm clean off at the shoulder if I did that. Another alternative would be to enter the water myself and wrestle the fish to the shore barehanded like they do in Arkansas (and I’m sure they shoot fish there, too). Whatever I end up doing, here’s to all the sportsmen and sportswomen out there, and to my inner sportsperson – and here’s hoping my writer’s block will soon go the way of the flintlock.

In Memory of My Grandfather

Today, May 18, it has been twenty years since my Grandpa Wilkinson passed away in 1989. I was five years old at the time, and I still vaguely remember my dad getting me out of bed in the morning when it was still dark to tell me about it. I had known from my parents’ conversations that Grandpa was sick (he had lung cancer), and news of his death did not affect me that much then. I was only five, and I barely knew my grandfather; yet from my father’s sad demeanor I knew something very serious had happened, and I still remember that moment.
I was probably with my grandfather in person only twice. There are pictures of him holding me at the beach when he visited when I was just a toddler. I vaguely remember him reading books to me on the couch and laughing and having a lot of fun. My dad told me once (and it’s hard to know if I remember this directly or not) that he made up a game in which we would see who could collapse and hit the couch faster.
What I know of my grandfather, Reginald Norbert Wilkinson, I know from what my father has told me about him. He was born on June 6, 1921, in Hollywood, Maryland, on a farm in the very same county the Wilkinson family had lived in since they arrived in America from England in the 1600s. He had only one brother but nine sisters. I believe he attended a military high school in Washington, D.C.
My grandfather entered World War II as a fighter pilot and fought in the Pacific theater. I know that he shot down one Japanese plane, but of his other travels or exploits neither I nor my father know much. It was on his 23rd birthday that his comrades far away in Europe stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day in 1944.
He married my grandmother (who is still living) in 1944 (I believe he actually took her up in an airplane when they were courting or recently married), and they had one child who died in infancy before having three surviving children – my Aunt Anne, my Uncle John, and my father. My grandmother is from Washington, D.C., and the family lived in nearby Arlington. My grandfather worked in construction, and he helped on the construction of RFK Stadium in the late 1960s.
Grandpa was an alcoholic, and he and my grandmother separated in 1971. But for all his flaws, my father recalls his father as a very kind and moral man. He loved his children and had a good sense of humor. He was old-fashioned; in fact, my grandmother once said that he was “born a century too late”. I may have inherited my love of classical music from him, because my dad said that Grandpa liked to listen to it occasionally. One thing he hated was foul language, and he had no problem asking (perhaps not so politely) anyone using it to stop.
Grandpa Wilkinson would have been 88 this year, and I would love for him to be still alive today. I would have written him letters (like I have for many years with my other grandfather), asked him about growing up and about the war, along with many other things I was never able to do with him. I would also have shared the gospel with him as the Lord gave me opportunity; he died before any of our family came to Christ, and I do not know where he stood with the Lord. However, I admire and love my late grandfather, and today, two full decades after he left this earth too soon at the age of 67, I dedicate this short and simple article to him in his memory.

Random Ramblings; or, A Close Brush With Death

This is not the May installment of “Writer’s Block”, a feature that has inexplicably become a fixture here on my blog. It has a superficial and, quite frankly, deceptive resemblance to that feature, but the difference between the two is as vast as it is deep. The “same-yet-different” effect is akin to listening to two versions of the same Schubert piano piece – one played by Alfred Brendel and the other played by Lang Lang. Or, to put it in terms that non-classical listeners may understand, it is akin to hearing two guitar licks – one played by Brad Paisley and the other played by Keith Urban. But then, in the latter example I had no idea what I was talking about, which puts us even, since in the first example you had no idea what I was talking about. Let me explain further.
If I were to write this month’s installment of “Writer’s Block”, there would have had to be a strict scenario already in place. I would have had to have not written a word in about five days, and my reading public would have had to be clamoring for a new article – yet I would be unable to oblige since I would have had nothing to write about.
This is decidedly not the case here. It is true that I have nothing to write about (observant readers will have already caught this), but it is not true that I have not written for five days; nor is it true that anybody is clamoring with any particular level of significant volume for a new article. I have written in each of the past two days, and the simple fact is that I want to write today – yet I have nothing to write about. You see, I am writing just for the fun of doing it and for the love of my craft and out of kindness to my readers, even though I have nothing to write about. It would be akin to my wanting to give you a million dollars even though I don’t have a million dollars.
Observant readers will expect that the article should have already ended by now, but such is not the case, for I shall go on. Sensible readers, sensing (of course, for that is what they are best at doing) that I am bound for a miles-long hike into unknown territory without any hiking shoes, backpack or provisions, will now stop reading and leave the computer, headed for tasks they should have been doing in the first place. Your intrepid author, who neither observes nor senses, will now fling caution and good judgment to the wind and continue upon his Journey to Nowhere, oblivious to the fact that the three readers he had left, who were hanging on only because of their naïve belief that there really was going to be a good article someday, have now deserted him.
Which is quite unfortunate for them, for inspiration has now struck quite unexpectedly. You see, mere seconds ago (it will have been hours if not days ago as you read), a ceiling tile fell out of my ceiling onto my bed, not even two feet away from where I sit. I must emphasize that I am not making this up for the sake of saving this article (which is past saving by now). Observant readers will now, via my expert analysis, understand that their beloved author has experienced a sudden, rare, and historic personal event of proportions so immense as to be larger than life – namely, he has narrowly escaped death while in the process of writing.
The aforementioned ceiling tile, which fell out of the ceiling onto my bed at close proximity to myself, is white. This has absolutely no relevance to the general story, which is why I make the point. It is made of an unidentified material, which I would identify if not for the fact that writers are generally not builders in their spare time. The tile, which is nearly square in shape (which would also make it nearly if not completely rectangular in shape), is not particularly heavy to hold; in, fact one might almost call it light. However, had the tile been positioned directly over my head, it might have killed me if A) it had struck just the right portion of my skull or B) the shock of the sudden blow had literally startled me to death. Even if it had not killed me, it would have killed this article (in which case some readers would have called the ceiling tile a God-send), because the pink insulation which fell out of the ceiling with the tile would have set me to itching myself feverishly, which would have taken away the use of my fingers to type.
This is not the first ceiling tile that has fallen out of my ceiling. In fact, this very same ceiling tile has fallen out before, only to be replaced. A very much smaller ceiling tile (which is farther away from where I sit and is definitely very rectangular in shape) fell out of my ceiling a few weeks ago and still has not been replaced. Thus I have two empty holes in my ceiling – one of them nearly square in shape and the other very rectangular in shape. Observant readers (who will have returned out of concern for my safety) will note that this is very much like the game “Whack-a-Mole”; but again we see a marked “same-but-different” effect. It is not like “Whack-a-Mole” in that you never know which ceiling tile will pop out next; rather, it is like “Whack-a-Mole” in that I am the mole, and I never know which ceiling tile may whack me over the head next.
Kind-hearted readers will have great compassion at this point, for they will feel deeply that I am not furnished with safe enough lodging, and their kind hearts will urge them to do their part to see that I am. I will end my ramblings by saying that I am accepting funds at my home address, and will consider any offers of temporary lodging until such funds become sufficient for me to procure my own on a more permanent basis.

Thoughts on Prayer

“The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much” – James 5:16

One of the areas of my own personal walk with God in which I feel the most concerned and convicted is my prayer life – or, I should say, my lack of a consistent prayer life. My own relative prayerlessness was illustrated to me not too long ago in my accounting class. The teacher asked each student in the class to share, very briefly, how they go about making decisions. I said that I think long and hard about my decisions and carefully consider whether each alternative is right or wrong. As I later considered my own answer, I noticed that I did not say that I pray about each decision I make (as well as that in my answer I could have been a better witness for the Lord).
At the church I used to attend, we used to have a time for prayer requests and testimonies about answered prayer. I would often write down the requests and “praise reports”, but I was often convicted that during the week I did not spend much time, if any, before the Lord concerning them.
I believe there are many reasons for a lack of prayer. One of them is that I often go about my business each day with my eyes only on the things I can see – not on the invisible, but just as real, spiritual realm. I believe I can figure out things for myself, or that they will just “work out as the Lord would have them work out”.
It’s not that I don’t acknowledge the Lord at all. Often I will whisper a brief prayer for wisdom or help before something fairly important. But I believe the Lord wants to hear so much more often from us than that. James 5:16, the verse at the beginning of this article, speaks of “fervent prayer” – prayer that is enthusiastic, deeply felt, earnest, serious, sincere, and pleading. It reminds me of the time I read and was convicted by something written by a saint of long ago (I have forgotten exactly what it was), and it asked something like, “When was the last time you wrestled all night before God about something?” I must confess that my prayer life is not nearly that fervent.
If Jesus knew the need to withdraw to a place by Himself and pray there all night before His Father, how much more should we need a deep, thriving prayer life? And how often I miss out on cultivating such a prayer life! It sometimes pains me to think that I am a child of God, for whom He gave His only Son and to whom He bestows every imaginable spiritual blessing (besides countless physical blessings), and yet my Heavenly Father misses the time He longs for me to spend with Him in prayer. How that must disappoint Him!
Our verse assures us that such earnest prayer is not a meaningless exercise in religion. It is “effectual” and “availeth much”, which means it works. Our Father stands ready to work on behalf of those who are His. 2 Chronicles 16:9 tells us that “The eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward Him”. And this was said to King Asa, who relied on his army for victory and did not seek the Lord beforehand. When the Lord looks for someone whose heart is right before Him, how it must delight Him when He sees one of His own on his or her knees before Him! I believe that God is always at work in countless different ways in our lives; but how much more might He like to work, if only His children seek Him for it?
There are many things to pray for. There are many cares, worries, stresses, and problems that each of us carry from day to day; we must, in prayer, cast our burdens on the Lord, for He cares for us (1 Peter 5:7). There are many brothers and sisters in Christ who also have various problems and concerns, and we are commanded to pray for one another in the first part of our main verse. There is the persecuted church throughout the world, and Hebrews 13:3 reminds us to remember those believers as if we were in their shoes. There are world leaders and world crises to remember before the throne of God, and we must always pray for revival, for there are countless souls who have yet to come to faith in Christ. There is no shortage of things to praise and thank our God for in prayer.
It is not for lack of things to pray for that we do not pray. It is because we do not make time to pray. Prayer is hard work. It is hard to pray when we do not see the answers to our prayers, and there are multiple distractions in the physical world around us. Our enemy Satan does not want us to pray and will often do whatever he can to stop us from praying. Yet we are told to always be in a spirit of prayer. This may be as simple as talking with the Lord in brief moments as we go about the day; or it may be as deep as finding some place apart from the hustle and bustle in which to spend as much time as we need to before God’s throne.
A deeper prayer life will not be found in a formula or in special words to recite. The only way to cultivate it is to do it, and to keep doing it. Prayer is one of the most effective tools God has given us to use while on this earth. By it we have free access to the God of the universe, and to all that He has to give us. He is listening and wants to spend quality time with each of us. Are we willing to make that effort to draw near to God, who promises that when we do so He will draw near to us? May this be an encouragement to all of us to “pray without ceasing.”

My Shopping Adventures

Readers will doubtless conclude from the title that the author, despite his protestations that he did in fact regain his full measure of manliness after the Banana Bliss Body Swirl fiasco, has really been so irretrievably entrapped in femininity as to cause said readers to decide that they will no longer read said author’s writing. The author begs to differ. There really is an explanation that should ease your minds; only the timing of it makes it suspect.
You see, only today I decided I’d go out shopping with my mother. Skeptical minds will now see in this proof not only that the Great Banana sucked my brain fully out of my head, but also that I have now grown to love shopping. Such is not the case – I needed a pair of shoes. This explanation is most unfortunate, given the fact that ladies love to spend their money on shoes. But I stand by it, and shall stand by it against all comers.
You see, I am cheap. No more need be said in order for you to grasp the full reason for why I rarely shop and need new shoes. I realize that you get what you pay for, and since I pay very little, I get very little. A couple pairs of shoes ago (maybe a year in chronological time), I paid ten bucks. Sure, they fell apart rather quickly, but I still kept them far longer than most people would have. My most recent pair (slightly more expensive) was in such disrepair as to scream for a replacement, and so I obeyed. I reluctantly shelled out over twenty dollars for these ones – and I didn’t even get a picture of Michael Jordan on them for my trouble. I should get another year out of them by my calculation.
That is all I got at the store today – sum total. For the most part, I stayed true to my personal adage of “Looking is not buying”. If you ever take me shopping with you, this will always hold true. I will look, but to ever see me take out my wallet for any reason at all would be akin to seeing a shooting star – you have to look a second time to make sure you saw it, and by then it’s gone. And forget it if you think I will take out said wallet on behalf of said shopping companion. It had better be your birthday or Christmas or some other good excuse.
Thus I rarely shop, and when I go out to the store, it is because I enjoy looking at (not buying) items for sale and watching the rich spectacle of human life which may always be found in a public place if you only look for it. The main point of this article (besides defending my manliness against skeptics) is to share with you some of my observations of human life in public places.
First, let us examine store music. It is everywhere, and I have yet to go into a store in which it is not present. It is as if the current generation (and several before it, no doubt) has decided that silence is not golden at all, and that constant noise must be added to the general ambience. A few stores I have been in have played classical music or oldies, and this I can stand. But as a general rule, you will hear in stores some of the dumbest music ever written. Maybe you might be able to blame my negative view on the fact that I couldn’t identify a member of the Top 40 if I were pressed to do it at gunpoint. In any case, when I hear such songs it makes me wonder about the state of music today. Some readers will recall that I heard the incredibly, mind-numbingly stupid song that asked “Are we human – or are we dancers?” in a store (please see the article “Songs I Don’t Understand”). I would come up with even more examples had I bothered to remember for more than five minutes the stupid songs I hear in stores.
For a person in a wheelchair, navigating a store is a lot like driving in a city with no traffic laws. Sometimes there is barely enough space to get through, and I always have to make sure I am not in the way of anybody. Then there are grocery stores, where people with carts careen around corners without even thinking about looking; to survive this, you must have excellent peripheral vision and a quick hand on the wheels.
I love watching people talk on their cell phones in stores – or better yet, talk on the hands-free device that looks like a Star Trek gadget attached to their ear. I have progressed past the point where every time I hear these kinds of people, I believe they are talking to me. Yet it’s still entertaining to hear how loud they talk and to think that they apparently don’t care how large a portion of the population knows what they’re having for dinner tonight or what so-and-so said to make them very angry.
Then there are the children. Every once in a while, you will see a cute little kid toddling alongside a shopping cart or sucking his or her thumb while sitting in the kiddie seat of the cart itself (I myself used to like to sit on the lower bed of the cart underneath the main basket; the only explanation of how I did it is that I have always been small). But most of the time the scene is far from cute. In fact, it often makes me wonder if, when Solomon said “Do not spare the rod”, he actually meant that we should take said rod to other people’s children as well as to our own. Whenever I hear the loud, shrill, and disrespectful antics of a small child close by, I brace myself for the strikingly strong possibility that the problem child will be not very far from where I am for the remainder of the shopping trip.
Many grocery stores have come up with a terrific idea – namely, sample bins. Now, I realize that the idea is not so terrific for germophobes who gag at the very thought of another human having touched a surface before them. But for the rest of us, this can be an exciting diversion from an otherwise fairly plain, boring, and routine re-stocking mission. It is especially satisfying when you are hungry to begin with, and some places actually offer good samples – such as gourmet cheese, fine bread, potato chips and salsa, and (best of all) cookies or cake. The drawbacks include not getting to the store before everyone else and finding the sample bin with your name on it empty; and there’s always the chance that you will find a sample not to your liking. For instance, once I reached in and pulled out a dried, salted green bean. It was not very good.
I could say more, but the preceding is sufficient to defend my manliness against all nay-sayers and claimers to the contrary. Look me in the eye and tell me – could the Banana Bliss possibly have been victorious if I, like any other self-respecting man, affirm that while shopping I pay attention to everything but the shopping as I wait for it to be over?
I tell you, no. If the Great Banana had sucked my brain fully out of my head, as my dismissive enemies would have you believe, I would have spent this article in telling you about the great deal they had on flip-flops today at Kohl’s.

A Tribute to Mother

The awesome depths of a mother’s love, care, and devotion for her children are rarely fully understood by those children. When we are growing up, we take her labor of love for granted half the time, and the other half we believe she is the meanest lady in the world because she wants to make absolutely certain that we do not experience anything fun during our natural lifespan. Then we grow up and begin having to do for ourselves the things she always did for us, and we begin to get a glimpse of just how wonderful a woman she is. Then, perchance, we have children of our own and experience an even richer epiphany of just how great a person a mother is.
Mother never gets the praise she deserves, and just one day out of the year is really a shameful pittance to offer her in comparison to the decades of debt we owe her. Do just a fraction of her work for only a small percentage of the time she did it, asking no financial compensation in return, and see if the second Sunday in May is sufficient thanks. Come with me on a brief tour which, honestly, can do no justice to the job description of “Mother”.
She changed our diapers multiple times a day for several years and then put up with the ordeal of potty-training so she would not have to do it for many more. She made our toast or waffles or oatmeal in the morning; then she made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch; then after that she slaved in the kitchen for hours to get our supper ready (knowing we wouldn’t eat half of it because we were too picky). And on top of that she was generous enough to give us snacks and special treats – and more than sometimes, it would be a delicious homemade one like pie or cake or cookies.
Mom was an accountant, and a purchasing manager, and an organizer, and a janitor, and a chauffeur. She made sure we were always well-stocked with plenty of food and clothes and shoes and even toys. She put all of our things in a decent order every day, when if it were up to us, they would lay scattered hither and yon, with no rhyme or reason as to their whereabouts. When we made a mess of our rooms or left dirt on the floor or spilled a soda or some fruit juice, she made sure there was no evidence left behind that it ever happened – though we should have been sentenced to do it ourselves, even if it took longer than five minutes to do it. Mom put thousands and thousands of miles on the family car over the years just so we could get to school, or a friend’s house, or the park, or to some other fun place we wanted to go (even when Mom would have liked to stay home and take a nap).
Mom was also a security guard. We never left her sight for very long, and even then we were never out of her mind. She made sure she knew where we were and what we were doing at all times. And if she heard the slightest peep out of us, she would come running to see what was the matter – and if anything was the matter, she quickly became the best nurse in the world.
The things we thought were torture were really the kindest things she could do for us. When she sternly scolded us for stealing our sibling’s toy or leaving our room in a mess or not saying “please” and “thank you” or skipping our homework in favor of the ballgame or eating too many M&M’s, what she was really doing was making sure we didn’t turn out to be selfish, rude, inconsiderate, uneducated, unhealthy dirtballs. If she ever needed to, Mom would occasionally take us aside and have a long talk with us, teaching us things we may not have wanted to hear but which were for our own long-term good. We may have heard those lectures over and over again, but it turned out it was so that we would never forget them – and we haven’t.
Mom did all of this and more – and she never once got a break because we never once stopped breathing and living and doing. She never got one dollar in exchange for her work, moreover, even though a fair accounting of her just reward would make the richest CEO in America turn bright green with jealousy.
Three hundred and sixty-five days a year (plus one for leap years), seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, Mom was on call for us. Today we stop – just for a little while – think about what that really means, and say thank you. It turns out there never really was, is, or will be any person on the planet quite like Mom. And so – thank you, Mother, from the bottom of our hearts. We love you.

The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Chapter Three

Chapter III. – A Description of a Nearly Indescribably Heinous Crime, and of How Byron Warren Stopped It.

The city in which Byron Warren grew up was never known to have a particularly bad crime problem. In fact, the incident which caused the greatest commotion in recent memory happened just a few months before Byron was born. The town was shocked when Old Man Lester went missing in the dead of winter, and there was hardly a man (or a woman, for that matter) who didn’t suspect foul play of some kind – especially since the Lesters were suspected of having marital problems, and especially since their old neighbor Specs Wilder was known to have a romantic interest in Mrs. Lester. Specs, for his part, denied every word of it, even though the fact that he was seen sipping tea with Mrs. Lester at the café five days after the disappearance didn’t help matters in the least, at least as far as Specs was concerned. But the whole thing was cleared up just three weeks after the disappearance, when Old Man Lester reappeared as if out of thin air, right back in his own front yard, muttering something to the effect of, he had gone down to the Creek because he “needed some time”.
Since that very notable public spectacle, things had died down quite a bit – at least until the time of our present story, well after Byron Warren’s sixth birthday. Young Byron had just started going to school, and he was very excited about it. He had a newfound sense of independence, as all young schoolchildren usually do, and he even made some very close friends in his class. For instance, he and Chet Westminster became fast pals after they discovered they had a common admiration for Gunther Booth, the pitcher for the local minor-league baseball team (whom everybody else made fun of for the gap between his two bottom teeth). Byron and Albert Sikes were “study buddies” and liked to challenge one another to impromptu spelling competitions. It was widely thought that Raquel Proudfoot had a crush on Byron, but like most six-year-old boys will, he paid her no mind. However, Byron was very open in saying that he thought his teacher, Ms. Gaffney, was very pretty indeed, and he made an effort to bring her an apple at least once a week.
But before any school day could get started, there had to be the customary school bus ride, and that is where our tale takes place. The rickety old school bus (which was not yellow, but green) was driven by elderly Mr. Pickens, a retired barber who loved children almost as much as he loved taking them to school. And the children loved Mr. Pickens, for not a one was ever known to act up while on the school bus; part of this was due to the fact that Mr. Pickens used to mesmerize the youngsters with his yarns, which he would deliver in his trembling but very dramatic voice as he drove (and the fact that he did this while he drove did not often endanger other drivers, because the traffic was light weekday mornings).
It was a crisp fall morning when it all happened. The rickety green school bus was coughing and sputtering its merry way down the road, and all the kids were all ears as Mr. Pickens held forth concerning the adventures of Jerry Miller, a common character in his yarns (and probably somewhat autobiographical to boot). Jerry had just caught his friend’s runaway cat when the story paused – for the bus had ground quite noisily to a halt. Old Mr. Pickens couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise over the commotion of the brakes, and besides, he didn’t care to, because he would always pause when he had a pickup to make. And this was the last pickup of the morning, outside Norbert Caldwell’s residence.
“Mornin’, Norb!” croaked Mr. Pickens as he opened wide the door of the bus. “Hop on in! It’s just gettin’ good!” By that he meant the story, which he would always be considerate enough to briefly recap when a new student entered the bus. However, this morning Norbert Caldwell was not quite himself, for he was ashen-faced and shaking with obvious fright as he clung to his sack lunch. This in itself was cause for alarm, because Norbert was almost always a jovial young man, except on the first day of school and test days, when he would keep to himself; but never was he known to be this visibly disturbed. The cause for his unease was not clearly visible, but it soon would be.
Norbert Caldwell cautiously approached the steps to get on the bus and hesitated with each step up.
“Why s’scared, Norb? Come on in – we won’t bite!”
Mr. Pickens’ appeal was lost on the young man, who stared out at nothing in particular as he reached the inside of the bus. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he never did – he only scrunched his face up as if he was going to cry.
Byron Warren quickly arose from his front-row seat and extended his hand to Norbert.
“C’mon, Norb, sit down here with Chet ‘n’ me; it’s okay – what’s botherin’ you?”
“Stay where you are!” came a voice that was most definitely not Norbert Caldwell’s. It was far too gruff and deep, and besides, it had a strange accent to it – very foreign to those parts.
The owner of that voice quickly stepped out from behind Norbert, and I doubt that either you or I have ever seen a sight so comical while at the same time so strangely disturbing. It had to be a full-grown man (he had a big black mustache on his lip and black stubble on his chin), but he was not even as tall as Norbert Caldwell. He wore almost all black, even his hat, boots, and mask with eye-holes, but he also sported a bold red cape that dragged along on the ground behind him. He looked like a mix of Yosemite Sam, Zorro, and the Hamburgler all rolled into one small but scowling package. The only reason not to laugh (and it was good enough) was the gleaming silver revolver he was pointing at Norbert Caldwell’s back. Still, some of the children did giggle a bit, at which the little man scowled all the more.
“Quiet!” he hissed. Mr. Pickens probably didn’t hear him, because he was hard of hearing to begin with.
“Hey, what is this?” the driver asked simply. “Are you tryin’ to hijack us?” Mr. Pickens had a very straightforward way of putting things.
“You will keep silent and do as you’re told,” said the little man. “Drive this bus to the bank!”
“Hold on a minute!” croaked Mr. Pickens. “I’m not stopping anywhere until I drop these kids off, so just hold your horses! You can do whatever you like to me, but these kids are going to school!”
“Silence!” the man barked as he whipped his gun as close as he could reach it to Mr. Pickens’ face. “You are going to the bank – am I understood?”
Mr. Pickens just frowned and faced the road again as he began to drive. Truth be told, in his younger days he would have picked the little hijacker up and tossed him unceremoniously out into the ditch without thinking twice about it; but now he was nearing eighty, and he had very bad arthritis in his wrists. And so he drove.
“Who are you?” inquired Chet Westminster, who was sitting calmly beside Byron.
The little man flipped his cape with his free hand and struck a dramatic pose. “I – am Shorty McManus!”
There was no name recognition whatsoever on that bus, but there was more amusement, for several children laughed and one (it sounded like Albert Sikes) piped up, “Yeah, you’re short, all right!”
At this the little man narrowed his eyes through his mask and pursed his lips. “That will be enough talking! You will all remain seated!” This caught the children’s attention enough so that a little girl in the back began to whimper and then cry. Byron Warren sneaked a peek and found that it was Raquel Proudfoot; then he furrowed his brow and began to think.
Meanwhile, it was not a very long drive to the bank; in fact, in that town it was never a particularly long drive to anywhere one might have a mind to go. Mr. Pickens pulled up to the bank and then stopped. He turned to face Shorty McManus.
“Is this where you wanted me to go?” he asked with no little annoyance in his voice.
“Yes, if this is the bank,” answered the small hijacker. “I assume it is?”
“Well, read the sign!” snapped Mr. Pickens. “Or can you read?”
This was not the time to be comedic, even if your comedy did have a deliberately sarcastic edge to it. McManus furiously reached back his free hand (which almost got caught in the folds of his over-large red cape) and slapped Mr. Pickens. However, since Shorty McManus was no taller than the level of the seated Mr. Pickens’ knees, that was the body part with which his hand collided. Mr. Pickens having a bad case of arthritis in his knees as well as his wrists, that was enough to make the old man howl in pain.
“Ow! Why you little…” Mr. Pickens remembered that there were children on the bus – and thus he didn’t say what he wanted to say.
“Now, listen! You will go into the bank and do exactly as I say.” McManus reached into his pocket with his free hand and produced a piece of paper, which he thrust toward Mr. Pickens. “Give the bank teller this note – and no funny business! I will be watching you very carefully from here…and if you do anything at all…” With a significant look he pointed his gun toward the seated children.
Mr. Pickens was very flustered. “And what if I don’t?”
Shorty McManus smiled wickedly. “I’m afraid you don’t have that choice.”
Mr. Pickens, still flustered, slowly got up and began to walk toward the door of the bus. Just as he was about to reluctantly exit, he was stopped cold by a sound that even he could hear very clearly.
“AAAAAAHHHH!!!! AAAARRGGHHH – GAAAACK!!!” With these garbled screams, the little would-be bank robber was thrown to the floor by the flying body of one Byron Warren, who had hurled himself out of his seat to tackle his enemy. As the two were struggling on the floor, Byron reached for McManus’s gun hand, which he bit with all his might (and, incidentally, left deep in Shorty’s flesh the tooth that had been loose for six weeks). Just before he dropped his gun, Shorty fired a fortunately harmless bullet up into the roof of the bus.
“I’ve got his gun!” Chet Westminster screamed as he leapt up, eager to help nab a real-live bad guy in any way he could. He snatched the weapon up and then shakily trained it on McManus, who was now pinned to the ground by the huffing and puffing Byron Warren, who was having surprisingly little trouble keeping him down.
“That’s the way, boys!” cried Mr. Pickens, who was no longer looking to exit the bus. However, he did peer out the door for a moment and at that precise second he spied a police officer across the street. However weakened he was physically with age, there was still one thing that Mr. Pickens could do better than anyone else in the county – whistle through his teeth. And that he did with a shrillness which would have temporarily deafened either of us had we been there.
The police officer heard it from across the street, and he jerked around with a start. Mr. Pickens urgently beckoned him to come to their aid, and the policeman, quite frankly, did not come all at once. He was quite unused to having to be called for anything.
But he eventually did come, and when he did, and saw what the situation was, he too whistled through his teeth (albeit quite a bit more weakly than the old man had).
“Well! What do ya know about that?” he said with a chuckle in his voice. “If it’s not Shorty McManus himself! We’ve been hearin’ about this guy for months down at the station. And to think we’d catch him right here in town! Boy!”
The officer was so amazed that he almost forgot to slap the handcuffs on his new prisoner, but he fortunately was not completely forgetful. The cuffs had no sooner clicked into place than Shorty McManus was carried away – quite literally – by the policeman, darting an unspeakably disgusted and ugly look at Mr. Pickens and his young charges as he went.
I don’t need to tell you how Mr. Pickens and all the children were the toast of the town for the rest of the year. Indeed, they held not one, but four parades in their honor, and in each one they rode in the very same rickety green school bus in which the whole thing happened. Mr. Pickens refused to take much credit for it all, saying that the children had done all the dirty work; however, he loved to tell the story to anyone who asked to hear it. He was indeed proud of the bullet hole in the roof above his seat, and he turned down several offers to repair it for free.
As for Byron Warren, the main hero of the day, he was quite humble in his fame. In fact, the thing he was proudest of was the fact that he had lost his loose tooth. Imagine his and Chet Westminster’s surprised elation when they discovered that the empty space left in between Byron’s bottom teeth made him look just like Gunther Booth! And ever afterward, when young Byron would stand up to some bully who was pestering Raquel Proudfoot, and say, “Aw, go pick on somebody your own size!”, his words had a profound and added weight. For Byron Warren had once done just that, but in a way nobody would have believed if it had not been entirely true.

Banana Bliss Body Swirl; or, A Day Which Will Live in Infamy

The title is not an overstatement – it was a day which will live in infamy. In fact, could he do so, FDR would come back from the grave, hold a joint session of Congress, and declare war on my sister – as well as on her allies in whatever country manufactured the horrid stuff – for that dastardly surprise attack. But I suppose it would be best for me to explain.
I fully expect no one outside of the men who read my articles to identify with me. My mind shrinks from the idea that most women think like my sister, but it is a possibility I must consider; and since it is a distinct possibility, I expect any female readers of this article will guffaw with outright glee (but with absolutely no respect for the victim) and wanton enjoyment of the sufferings of others. But let it be so. If such a description fits you, then know that your time and your just retribution tarry only so that you may see the light and repent. Now then, the story.
It all took place yesterday, and I must emphasize that I was Mother’s Day shopping with my sister Jessica. As Charles Dickens said in the outset of his classic “A Christmas Carol”, if he had not told you that Marley was dead, nothing wonderful could come of the ensuing story. However, nothing wonderful can ever come out of this story even if I made something up, so I will only say that I emphasize this small but significant fact in order to explain why I was in such an awkward position to begin with.
Our first stop on the journey was Ulta. The word alone will make female readers tremble with whatever it is that causes them to tremble at such words (and to laugh out loud at the fact that I entered the building), but every man knows that Ulta is the single worst place for a guy to be – and Mother’s Day shopping, while the best excuse that probably could be concocted for his presence there, hardly gives him adequate cover. After all, they make handy little items called gift cards, which dramatically lessen the need for the guy to even be spotted on the premises of an Ulta establishment. But I am not here to engage in wishful thinking, for the fact remains that I was at Ulta.
I will now make a detour for the sake of any ladies or dangerously clueless men (clueless, I hope, because they have not yet reached the age of eight; if for any other reason, we need to talk – preferably, for your sake, in private) who do not know why Ulta is such an off-limits place for a man. You see, there is simply no place to hide. Every square inch of that store is covered with something very feminine, whether it’s makeup or nail polish or bath substances or hair care or what-not. There is absolutely no section of that store sufficient for the purposes of pretending you are looking at something while your female friend (in this case my sister) shops around for a painfully long amount of time.
But you also don’t want to stand around blankly staring into space, because then you might make incidental eye contact with a store worker, who will invariably ask you if you need help finding something, even though you aren’t looking for anything and don’t want a soul to know you even exist at that moment. But this is the best-case scenario. If you were to pause at the nail polish section or the makeup section or the body wash section, and a store worker were to ask you if you needed help finding anything, your manhood is lost for at least 72 hours. What do you say to that? You definitely can’t say “Uh, yes, I wanted to know which shade of blush goes best with my shirt” and if you answer “No, thanks, but I’m just looking right now”, you have dealt an equally mortal blow to your own manhood by admitting you were looking. And saying “I’m not looking” would be telling the truth, but the worker would not believe you – only look at you warily and write you off as one of THOSE types of guys who live in closets.
And what of the worst-case scenario? The absolute worst thing that could happen is that the store worker you have unfortunately gotten the attention of is a man – and not just any man. He would be one of those frighteningly fruity men who sometimes work at places like Ulta (don’t ask me how I know; I just do), and believe me – there is nothing worse for one’s manhood than to encounter one of these men in an aisle of Ulta. Trust me.
And now that you know my frame of mind before anything at all even happened, I will tell you the story. My sister and I were in a section of the store that featured body wash and body lotion (I wouldn’t know about that stuff – I only read the labels), and we were smelling the different fragrances to see which one Mom might like. Now, although it was allowable to take the caps off and smell the product, they also had a few handy “tester” bottles. It is only a terrible reflection on the character of my sister that she saw one of these bottles and, almost without thinking and definitely without praying about it first, she yielded to the temptation that entered her mind.
My sister knows that I hate bananas. I have not eaten one in a very long time, and I will only eat them when they are concealed in banana bread. A few weeks ago I was surprised at a restaurant when I bit into what I thought was a cream-filled chocolate dessert only to find that there was a banana inside (my subconscious has since repressed that trauma).
My sister also knows that I am a man, and that I shrink from feminine body sprays of any kind. She knows these things, I say. Yet she deliberately chose to do this terrible deed. She picked up a “tester” bottle of Banana Bliss Body Swirl, and almost before I knew what she was doing and before I had a chance to call for security, she deposited a large amount of it on my left hand. While she laughed and giggled in a, quite honestly, demented way, I endeavored to no avail to get the stuff off me. Now I both smelled like a fruit I detest and had a woman’s substance on my skin. I might as well have put on a dress, high heels, and a Sunday hat while I was at it – that was how far gone my manhood was at that second in time.
I was partially incorrect when I said there is no place at Ulta for a man to hide. This establishment, at least, carried exactly one aisle of men’s colognes. I immediately repaired thither. I lost count of how many different “tester” colognes I sprayed on my left hand in an attempt to de-womanize myself, but suffice it to say that if a store worker had spotted me in the act, they would have thought me a very strange fellow indeed. I cannot say that I smelled particularly good after this. In fact, the combination of all the scents smelled more like raw tomatoes than anything else, and I will likely contract leprosy from all the mixed chemicals. But I no longer smelled like bananas, and the Body Swirl itself was but a distant memory.
However, the blow to my manhood still stung. Some friends suggested that I roll in manure, or belch loudly, or cut down a tree, or set a cat on fire, or withdraw into the wilderness with no supplies, or go on a Men’s Campout – all in order to regain my full measure of manliness. I never did any of those things, for I have come to a very profound conclusion.
You see, I am such a MAN and have such excess manliness within me that the amount of Banana Bliss Body Swirl that Jessica sprayed on me (too large though it was) was not able to put a significant dent in my manhood.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself. For now all I can really do is wait at least 48 more hours.

Alvin Community College -- A Retrospective

Today was my final day as a student at Alvin Community College, and as corny as it may sound, it was a bittersweet moment. Sweet because I graduated, and bitter because I may actually miss the place, at least for a week or two. I will take with me many memories of my four semesters there – almost all of them good. I will take a moment now to look back, however incompletely, on those four semesters.
When I began attending ACC in Fall 2007, it was my first time back in a public school setting since 1992, when I began homeschooling in the third grade. However, it was not my first college experience, since I had previously finished a long-distance degree with a Christian college. So I knew what to expect as far as college work, but I was a little rusty (to say the least) when it came to the classroom experience.
It actually turned out to be a seamless transition. In reality, college is not at all as stuffy and sophisticated as some may believe – at least not Alvin Community College, which to my knowledge has never been known as a chapter of Ivy League South. The people are normal, most of the buildings are at least 40 years old but not at all ornate or grand (though I grew to love almost every nook and cranny of that campus), and the coursework is very manageable – if you are on time, pay attention, ask questions, take notes, and study before tests. I know it sounds simple, and some may not believe me, but that really is the formula for educational success. Sometimes it’s hard work, but dedication pays off – at least at Alvin Community College, where you can get over 100% on your test grade. The math may be a little doubtful, but it’s the truth. Just ask my sister.
I mentioned that the people are normal. I meant the students, because not all of the teachers are normal. Just this semester, I had a math professor who had terrible people skills and even worse teaching skills. He expected us to be able to follow him when he launched into proofs of complex mathematical formulas we had not even learned enough to competently study (fortunately, such material never found its way onto the test). And under no circumstances would he allow open stretching and yawning during class – and if you were caught drinking something (out of your “drinking device”, as he strangely put it), you were doomed. The personality and teaching style of this professor coupled with the difficult subject of calculus made this one of the most boring yet unique of my courses at ACC. I was actually surprised that, given my poor math record in grade school, I made A’s in all three of my math courses.
I found that history, music, and English, my favorite subjects, remained right up my alley in college. However, though I still don’t consider myself a science nerd (forgive me, future and current science majors – “nerd” is used here in only the kindest of contexts), I was surprised at how much I enjoyed my two science classes, geology and biology. These classes took a lot of work, since they featured in-depth lectures (with large marker boards capable of holding gobs of test material) plus labs. Geology lab was stupidly easy at times, but biology lab was very challenging; the highlight there was a weeks-long dissection of a fetal pig. Some of the females and weaker men among us did not enjoy that. I thought it was rather interesting. But the “lab practicals” in which you had to memorize and identify organs and body systems of both humans and animals, as well as fairly complicated concepts and classifications, were just brutal to prepare for.
My degree program dictated that I take public speaking – otherwise I would never have taken it. I was extremely doubtful about this course, since I am not in any way comfortable speaking in front of groups. But I soon learned that there are a lot of other people like that, and that the more you do it the more comfortable you become with it. It’s still not my favorite thing, but I did pass the course, thankfully. The final assignment was a group speech, which was fun since it took a lot of teamwork. Our group had a lot of good ideas, but I was sure it would be a disaster since we barely even practiced before the final day. But sure enough, the teacher was impressed and gave us a full 100 (but not more than that; he didn’t go for the whole “105’s” thing)!
Other classes were not so fun. I had to take two government and two economics classes, mostly online. The subject matter, especially in economics (there’s a reason they call it “the dismal science”), was only marginally interesting, and the online tests were impossible. If you took the multiple-choice format (150-200 questions in all), you were assured no higher than a 75 – it was that hard. I usually took mine in the essay format, but that was still stressful because it would take about three hours – and the stress only grew when the internet connection was shaky.
My easiest course was without question the first of two English courses. The teacher (he has since moved on) was so incompetent as to be almost funny. Half the semester he didn’t even show up to teach, and the times he did, he would often forget where we were in the course or tell an only halfway-relevant story and let us out early. We had no tests, only “pop quizzes”, and the hardest assignment was a personal essay. But I did like his personality and was in a way sad that he couldn’t do a better job.
I am thankful that, as a Christian in an often anti-Christian educational system, I did not come across as much opposition to my beliefs as I had expected. The science courses never really went into detail concerning evolution, and I never had a teacher that was subject to random tirades against God and Christianity. I know some colleges are far worse. The hardest course for me to stomach, philosophically, was philosophy. Much of the material was interesting, but it was very hard to sit there and listen to teachers and students who thought they had figured everything out but were just as blind as ever to the truth. Many of the lectures went from covering the chapter to an in-depth examination of something like the justification for the war in Iraq. But even as annoying as that can be sometimes, there is even some value in listening to other opinions and differing worldviews – it makes us think about our own worldview and should make us desire even more to be well-anchored in the truth.
Perhaps the wildest experience I had at ACC never actually took place there. In September 2008, when Hurricane Ike struck the Texas coast, the college was completely shut down for weeks; but we managed to get as much coursework done as we could when we returned (and they extended the semester an extra week). The campus itself has still not fully recovered from the fairly extensive water damage it sustained during the storm. It was rather ominous to sit in class just a day or so before “the big one” hit, knowing that we might not be sitting in that classroom again for a while.
I am sure there are a lot more things I could say about my college experience. Of course, not every day there was a blast. In fact, being on campus two days a week and studying the other weekdays can become rather dull at times (especially when your course load keeps you on campus almost seven hours at a time). However, I never missed a day due to illness, though there were a couple times that I had to fight through a day because I was either getting sick or trying to get over something.
In all, Alvin Community College was a positive and rewarding experience for me, and I shall treasure it among my fondest memories – at least in the area of education. Each semester was different and had its own particular flavor – as did each building, classroom, teacher, and course. And so, ACC, as I move on, I bid you farewell. May each student who enters your campus find you as pleasant as I did.