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Tattoos

I have always had a thing for tattoos. When I was a child, one of my favorite cartoon characters (Popeye) had one; a cousin in the navy had one; and my uncle had one (a snorting bull under which he later added the word “wife”.) Some of the artwork and colors used today are extraordinary. I don’t have any tattoos myself, but last year I considered getting one of those temporary ones on the boardwalk–but I couldn’t find an anchor like Popeye’s.

At the same time, I have always viewed tattoos as a matter of taste. Robert Ripley and Ray Bradbury both presented overly-painted individuals as freakish; and my masculine associations with tattoos leave me confused when I see women all tatted up. A lady with a small heart, or butterfly, or cross in an out-of the way place doesn’t send off any alarms; but a woman with tattoos all over her arms or her neck reminds me of an attractive postage stamp with a heavy postmark stamped across it.

Don’t get me wrong: I defend anyone’s rights to tattoo anything anywhere. If I don’t like it, that’s my preference, but I refuse to condemn anyone for their personal choice in the matter.

At the same time, before the next generation gets the full Sherwin Williams treatment, they ought to be aware of a few caveats.

The Bible clearly told the Jews not to get any tattoos (Lev. 19:28). There must have been a reason, and if that constitutes a general spiritual principle, we ought to consider it as we make our decisions.
Even with modern technology, tattoos should still be considered permanent. Everyone I have known who got a bad tattoo ended up getting it covered by an even bigger one, rather than having it removed.
As popular as tattoos have gotten, they still have strong associations with prisons, rebellion, and gangs.

Which brings me to the inspiration for today’s cautionary tale.

A story in today’s Wall Street Journal details the difficulties faced by some immigrants trying to live down their tattoos in order to get ahead in the US. Actions, even long past actions, have lasting consequences.

Isn’t it just the same in our Christian lives? There is behavior that may be legal, but it might not be expedient, and it might leave lasting marks on our reputations or even our bodies. Paul spent years trying to live down his years of persecuting The Way, so that he could be recognized and minister among them. Solomon may have gotten straightened out later in life, but he will always be remembered for the many wives who led him into idolatry. Every Sunday School student still knows about David’s sin and Peter’s denials.

Before we get caught up in a fad of our popular culture, we ought to consider the consequences that our actions may have not only on our lives and ministries, but on our children and grandchildren. We certainly don’t need a black mark against our name.

Author name:: rdbowker
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Gray Squirrel

I like to see

Your flicking tail,

And hear your chatter

When I fail

To chase you from

My property.

Fearless, carefree,

Mockingly,

You scurry up or down a tree,

Or in the feeder, or

On the ground

Eating seeds the birds

Have missed—

And I don’t mind–

Not seriously–

To look and see

You doing this.

I only wish

You wouldn’t be

In my garden quite

So frequently.

My spinach is gone, and

Lettuce, mostly;

Some of these days

I admit I’d rather

Look outside

Where you used to gather

And see you ghostly.

Author name:: rdbowker
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Stories from the Psych Ward #3–Trevor’s Story

(This is another fictional account inspired by people, conditions, and situations I encountered during my stay in the hospital.)

Trevor’s Story

“Pick a card—any card!” Like any good huckster, Trevor called to the passersby around him and fanned the deck smoothly and beautifully before him. The others in the hall ignored him, but Cindy and I stepped over to see what he was doing. Anything to offset the boredom. The receptionist frowned disapprovingly at the cards on the counter of the nurses’ station.

Trevor went through the motions with a flourish, making the cards we chose appear like magic at the top, middle, or bottom of the deck—wherever we wanted. After a couple of minutes, I tired of the game and decided to head on down the hall.

“Pretty good trick you’ve got there,” I said, “but I’ll catch up with you later.”

Even as I walked away, he said, “I can do it every time—nothing to it!” and when I didn’t comment or turn back, he called out, “What’s next on the agenda?”

Well, since Trevor was new on the floor and seemed to want somebody to talk to, and since I was standing right in front of the white board where the schedule and announcements were updated twice daily, I stopped and waited for him to catch up with me.

“It says here there are ping pong and checkers tournaments in a few minutes, and then snacks.” I pointed to each item on the board so that he would know where to look next time. He spent a moment scanning the schedule for himself.

“When’s the poker tournament?”

I looked at him and shook my head. “They haven’t had one since I’ve been here.” “Maybe we can start one. I’d get in on the checkers tournament, but everybody has their own set of rules. You have to know the rules if you’re going to play the game, I always say. By the way, my name’s Trevor.” And just like that it seemed I had a new best friend, at least temporarily.

Over the next several hours I heard Trevor’s story. I don’t remember all of it, and I can’t tell it like he did, but it went something like this:

“I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m here because I’m a drunk. I don’t go to meetings and I have no interest in stopping. Drinking is my hobby, and I can’t wait to get out of here and have the next one.

“They tell me the police brought me in last night. I don’t remember what happened, but know I was just drinking at home, and I must have said something to somebody, because the next thing I know, the cops are there, and they say I blew a blood alcohol of .44, and it was either jail or the crisis center. I would rather have gone to jail, because I’d be out by now, but as it is, I’m here on “involuntary” admission and I have to wait for the doctor and a judge to agree to let me out. I didn’t see the doctor this morning, so hopefully he will sign off when he does his afternoon rounds, and get the process under way.”

I didn’t tell him my experience was that the doctor only came by in the morning.

“In the meantime, I’ll play the game by their rules. I’ve done it before, you know. Not here, of course, but four years ago I went into a rehab facility upstate, and I went to their meetings, and followed their instructions, and did my chores, and graduated from their program. I even have a certificate saying I’m fixed! I stopped at the first gas station I saw and bought a case of Budweiser on the way home.

“My wife—my ex-wife—made me go to rehab that time. She said my drinking was ‘just getting to be too much.’ That’s nonsense. I never drove drunk, I never hurt anybody, I never lost time from work (I was working at the bank back then), and I was home every night. What it really came down to was she wanted kids and I didn’t want any part of that. I turned 35 while I was in rehab, and she came to see me on my birthday. I thought she would be happy to see me clean and sober, just like she wanted. But no—she served me with divorce papers—just like that! On my birthday!

“I didn’t fight her. I finished the program and came home and got an apartment and let her do her thing. I had some friends in NASCAR, and they got me a job on one of the pit crews, so I was out of town most of the time and didn’t even have to run into her at Walmart. I could drink to my heart’s content and never have to listen to her complain. One thing changed, though—I started drinking more of the hard stuff and less beer. I’ll still have a beer or two to be social, but I’ve graduated to vodka these days. Not the cheap stuff, either—I always said, if you’re going to have a hobby, you’ve got to be willing to spend some money.”

As it turned out, the doctor was not inclined to recommend Trevor’s release until he had “gotten some benefit from the program”; and once Trevor knew that, he became a model member of the community. He attended every meeting and activity. He met daily with his therapist and his social worker. He opened up and told his story in group session, admitting that he was a drunk, and that his drinking had gotten out of hand recently. And then he began to share the issues behind his addition.

“My parents are both gone, and the only family I have left is my sister. She and I are best friends, and she lives just down the street from me, so we see each other every day. I have dinner with her and her husband Stan two or three times a week.

“When she got pregnant, she was thrilled, and so was I. She had a difficult pregnancy, and Stan had to be out of town quite a bit, so I spent a lot of time helping out. So when my nephew was born, it was almost like having a son of my own. I wanted to make sure that he had all the world could offer, and I was the best uncle any child could have. For 18 months, I was happy and had everything to live for. And I never drank if I knew I was going to see him. Then, three months ago…he…he…”

At this point Trevor broke down and started sobbing. Eva handed him a box of tissues, which he used thoroughly. No one spoke as he wept in anguish and utter despair. Minutes passed. Then he spoke again, through the tears.

“One morning, he just didn’t wake up. They said he had a heart defect. Even the doctors hadn’t known about it. One day he was there, the next day….We were all devastated. My sister tried to kill herself—took a bunch of pills, but they didn’t work. I started drinking more—a lot more. Even today…I don’t know how…I can go on without him.”

The tech in charge of the meeting made sympathetic noises that were meant to give comfort, but Trevor wasn’t quite finished.

“His name was Ethan…Trevor…he was even named after me…. I don’t remember much about the last three months. I know Stan came to check on me once, and took away six or eight bottles of vodka, but he didn’t know about the case in the trunk of my car. And here I am.”

“Are there others of you who have lost a loved one?” the tech asked. More than half of us raised our hands. “There will be a group session on Bereavement and Grief this afternoon at 1:30, right here. I encourage you to come and listen to Angela—we share her with the hospice program, and she’s really good. I think it would benefit you, Trevor, and some of the rest of you, too. Thank you for sharing.”

“I’ll be there,” Trevor said, dabbing his eyes one more time.

And he was. He never missed a meeting, session, or activity, and he never missed the opportunity to tell us that his daily goal was to get clean and sober to honor little Ethan’s memory, and to be there to help his sister deal with her own grief.

On Friday the order finally came through for his discharge. I went with him as he had his vitals taken, he was given his med list and prescriptions, and he got his belongings back from the secure room. As he stood by the nurses’ station and put on his belt, he said to me, “See? I told you they’d let me out of here—piece of cake. No jail time, either! You just have to play their game.”

The receptionist hung up the phone and told him that his taxi was waiting downstairs. That struck me as odd. He pushed a button on the elevator, and as he waited for it to reach our floor, I asked him a question.

“Why’d you have them call a cab? I thought your sister would be coming to get you.”

The elevator arrived and he entered it and turned to me with a smile.

“Sister? What sister? I don’t have a sister.”

And the elevator door closed.

Author name:: rdbowker
Discussion:: 1 Comment

Am I a Terrorist?

Over the past two days, I have been sending my essay “Rockets’ Red Glare” to everyone I can think of, encouraging patriots to stand up and speak up to protect our nation from the freedom-robbing cancer attacking our country’s vitals. I have sent it to various politicians as well as private individuals, because I want them to know that I for one will campaign and vote FOR freedom and responsibility, and AGAINST overreaching governmental programs and the economic slavery that comes with them.

Now, today, I find that, according to a study funded by the Department of Homeland Security, I may be suspected as a terrorist. The remarks in bracket are mine, just in case there was any question.

The report takes its definitions from a 2011 study entitled Profiles of Perpetrators of Terrorism, produced by the National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism, in which the following characteristics are used to identify terrorists.

– Americans who believe their “way of life” is under attack; [That’s me!]

– Americans who are “fiercely nationalistic (as opposed to universal and international in orientation)”; [Me, too!]

– People who consider themselves “anti-global” (presumably those who are wary of the loss of American sovereignty); [Yup!]

– Americans who are “suspicious of centralized federal authority”; [You bet!]

– Americans who are “reverent of individual liberty”; [Amen, and Amen!]

– People who “believe in conspiracy theories that involve grave threat to national sovereignty and/or personal liberty.” [Not so much.]

The report also lists people opposed to abortion and “groups that seek to smite the purported enemies of God and other evildoers” as terrorists. [They got me there, too.]

If that’s what they think a terrorist is, then I (and a whole bunch of my friends) just got labeled. Check out the article and let it motivate you to “fight the good fight” for liberty.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never stop me from standing up for the right.”

Author name:: rdbowker
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The Rockets’ Red Glare

Once upon a time, our ancestors paid dearly for munitions to throw at the enemy, just for the right to survive.

Today, we throw our munitions into the sky so that we can watch and listen and admire their artistry. The sound of artillery punctuates our music, and our firearms are props carried in a parade.

Our Independence Day celebrations bear out the truth of John Adams’s famous line:

I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain.

But what’s the next step? We have been the grandchildren, blessed to live in a world of culture and education–but what will be left for our children? I fear that the beautiful blessings our generation has enjoyed are becoming too expensive and impractical for us to pass on to the next generation–which, I fear, is potentially unprepared to earn its own. To whom then will they turn? The ancient philosophers suggest that the natural progression is either anarchy or tyranny.

How can we prevent that disaster? We must bring Adams’s quote full circle, and we must study politics (and hopefully NOT war) in order once again to establish a nation of peace that cultivates science and architecture and commerce and industry; and we must raise a generation willing and able do dedicate themselves to the labor of building their communities, without the temper tantrums or appeals to Washington for bread and circuses.

It will not be easy. Public opinion polls show that most Americans are tired of politics and have stopped paying attention–the perfect recipe for cold left-overs. Case in point: where is the Tea Party? From what I can tell, they have dried up and are merely stains in the bottom of the cup. Fellow patriots, step up! Educate yourself on the issues and the candidates! Speak up! Don’t be afraid to offend your liberal neighbor–our children’s future is at stake! Pony up! Stake your “…lives, your Fortunes, and your sacred Honor…” for the cause! Encourage one another as the early patriots did–around the dining room table, in church, and even in the local “public house.” This is not about Romney or Obama any more than the War for Independence was about Washington or George III–it’s about liberty, and justice, and the rule of law, and opportunities for our children and grandchildren to accomplish something and become something greater than we are.

Need a conversation starter? I heard last night that the Fourth of July fireworks show in the nation’s capital this year will be the biggest display in the country. It’s just one more thing that Washington, D.C. has taken over from our neighborhoods and our communities. “We can do it bigger and better than you can do it yourselves…”–that’s the consistent, continuous message that our young people and children are hearing. Is that what you believe? Is that what our forefathers fought and died for?

Don’t let this Independence Day be a sham. Join a modern-day “Committee of Correspondence” and use your Facebook, your Twitter, your e-mail address book, and every contact you have, to get the message out: we want America back, and we will play politics to get it.

Author name:: rdbowker
Discussion:: 2 Comments

Chief Justice Roberts and the Media

Whatever you think of the Affordable Health Care Act (AKA Obamacare), last week’s Supreme Court ruling should have sent up all kinds of red flags. As the information became available, I took note of several curious aspects of the ruling:

Chief Justice Roberts wrote the “majority opinion” himself. No one can assign the writing of an opinion to him–he must choose to do it. It was intentional.
There is a precedent for the Chief Justice to side with a close majority in order to control who writes the opinion, and thereby to weaken or limit the effect of the ruling.
All four of the other justices in the “majority” wrote a concurrent opinion, but strongly disagreeing with the Chief Justice’s conclusions about the Commerce Clause and the Taxation clause.
All four justices in the minority issued a dissent, never referring to the Roberts opinion, but calling the liberal concurrence a “dissent”.
Roberts’s vote put him in the majority, but his reasoning gave the weakest possible justification for the ruling. By calling the mandate a tax, which the government had not done in its argument, he made the ruling both political and narrow, and put the issue back in the hands of Congress. (A ruling on the Commerce Clause, which the government wanted, would have had far more reaching effect on governmental power.)
Chief Justice Roberts is on record as being very concerned with the public/media perception of the court and its balance of power between its left and right factions.

My observation and conclusion was that something unusual happened behind the closed doors of the Supreme Court, and that the Chief Justice manipulated the opinion to minimize public/media outcry toward the court, while putting the issue back on the table of public debate in an election year.

Then today I see a news article that, if true, supports my conclusions about what went into the court’s decision. I should be glad that I was right in my perceptions, but the article is troubling for another reason: The court is leaking.

The Supreme Court has been and needs to be about secrecy. Nothing about private deliberations or disagreements is ever published until years after the fact, when the issue is long settled and the majority of the justices involved are no longer on the bench. But here is a story, based on anonymous sources familiar with the conservative side of the deliberations and machinations of the writing of the opinion, published before the ink is dried on the decision. That is disturbing.

IF the Chief Justice is indeed susceptible to the pressure of public/media opinion; and if the honor code of secrecy has broken down, allowing sources close to the court to leak information and potentially shape that same public/media opinion; then the Supreme Court of the United States has become another political branch of government, controlled by outside pressure rather than the Constitution and the justices’ ideological approaches to it. And that’s scary.

Thank God for Justice Thomas and his refusal to read the New York Times. As the saying goes, may his tribe increase.

Author name:: rdbowker
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Stories from the Psych Ward #2–Andy’s Story

(This is another in the series of fictional accounts and character sketches inspired by my stay in the hospital.)

Andy’s Story

“Hey, Andy,” I said to the big man as he carried his dinner tray over to my table. “Missed you at lunch. Thought maybe you wore yourself out on the piano this morning.”

He put his tray down and settled himself across the table from me without a word. He took the cover off his plate of baked ziti and carrots, and placed it off to the side. He picked up the menu slip tucked under the bowl of cottage cheese, and compared it to what was set out before him. “I asked for two rolls,” he said in disgust, and pushed the one in front of him first one way and then the other, as if thinking that the second one might be hiding.

When satisfied that what he had was all that he was going to get, he took a long drink of black coffee (decaf, of course) and looked up at me.

“Got some bad news,” he grunted, and started salting his carrots.

“I’m sorry,” I said, conscious of the fact that my therapist kept telling me that I wasn’t supposed to be sorry for things that I didn’t do or couldn’t control. But old habits die hard, and I didn’t see what it could hurt to be polite.

I wondered if Andy was going to say any more as he dug into his meal as if he hadn’t eaten in, well, at least six hours. He usually was pretty predictable: ask him a simple question, then just listen and nod as he rambled, riffed, repeated, and ranted over the topic at hand, or any others that came to mind. His favorite topics were popular music from the ‘40’s; classic action movies from the ‘70’s and ‘80’s; literature that he hoped to read one day; ancient and new age religions (which he considered one and the same); and government excesses. After three days I couldn’t tell if he was a republican or a democrat—he was an equal-opportunity critic.

But this time he didn’t follow up his remark. He ate everything on his tray, and even a piece of pizza that Ben put up for grabs. We weren’t allowed to share food, but the techs didn’t say anything, and Andy really seemed to appreciate anything we didn’t like, didn’t want or hadn’t ordered. At 6’1” and 300 pounds, he looked like he might have been a linebacker 40 years ago. The big man enjoyed this institutional food more than just about anyone else on the ward.

Only after he had put the cover back over his plate and the tech had picked up the tray did he speak again.

“They’re putting me out of here tomorrow,” he said.

“That’s great!” I responded stupidly. He had called it bad news, and he had said they were “…putting him out.” Most of us talked about being discharged, going home, getting out, or splitting the joint. Some, like Artie, told us every day in group meeting that his goal was to be discharged “tomorrow.” We all knew that he wouldn’t be going home any time soon—he was plain crazy and just didn’t know it. At least most of us realized that we were only moderately sick and would soon be better and be glad to go home.

But Andy was different. He used a napkin as a tissue, and then wiped what might have been a tear off his cheek. “This place is like a vacation to me,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, growing genuinely interested.

“It’s quiet here. I can sleep when I want to, my meals are delivered to me, somebody else remembers to give me my pills. The halls are wide enough that we could have wheelchair races if they would let us have wheelchairs. I can play the piano as much as I want, and I can watch TV and complain about the food.” He laughed heartily and pounded his fist on the table. I wasn’t sure if it was out of exuberance or anger.

“You can’t do those things at home?” Duh—another stupid remark. If he could do those things at home, then this wouldn’t be a vacation to him, would it? But he answered me anyway.

“I can complain about the food, but who’s going to listen? I cook for myself. I used to be a good cook. These days it’s mostly microwave crap.” He paused to blow his nose again. I refrained from saying anything stupid.

“They cut off my cable, but I have a TV and a good collection of movies I can watch—I probably have 20 or 30 tapes I’ve picked up over the years. Did you ever see Terminator? I’ve got all those movies. They have some pretty good tapes in the tv room here, too. They don’t have DVD’s because they don’t want anybody breaking one and going on a cutting spree. I could have DVD’s at home, but I have a VCR that I picked up at a yard sale for five bucks, so that’s what I use.”

Andy was getting more serious. “My house is in pretty bad shape,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I need to get to work on it. I’ve been meaning to for a long time, but I just couldn’t. It’s not a good place to go back to.”

“Where do you live?” It wasn’t exactly a stupid question, but Andy looked at me as if it was. We both knew that we weren’t supposed to share personal information that anyone could use against us when they got out. Spill your guts in group—tell everybody your worst fears and most twisted imaginations, but for heavens sake don’t mention your last name!

“I mean, do you live in the city or out in the country?” I mentally patted myself on the back for a good recovery. That made it sound like a reasonable and non-intrusive inquiry.

“In the city. Down on Union Street. That’s one of the problems.”

“That’s not one of the worst sections of town,” I countered.

“The city says my house makes the rest of the area look bad.”

After a moment he continued. “Two years ago they took my dog away. The neighbors said he barked too much, but hey—a dog’s gotta bark. You know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“Last year they gave me a ticket cause I didn’t cut my grass. Cost me almost a thousand dollars to pay somebody to clean up and mow the yard, and then pay the fine. And they’ll be after me again when I go home.”

“Don’t you have a lawn mower?”

“Oh, yeah—I have three. Two of them don’t run, but I got them cheap a few years back, and once I get the parts it won’t take anything to fix them up. The other one is out back, and it worked the last time I tried it. I’m not sure it will start now, though.

“The neighbor wants me to take down a tree that’s leaning over the fence, and I’ve got a bunch of tires stored in the back that I need to get rid of. I used to pick them up and resell them, but it got so I had more than I could sell, and you can’t put them out with the trash, you know? And there’s quite a bit of other trash, too; I bagged it all up and put it on the curb, but the city won’t pick it up unless you put it in their pretty green bags, which I didn’t have the cash to buy, so my black bags sat by the sidewalk till the city threatened me with another ticket, so now they’re on the front porch. The neighbors called the health department. That’s why I’m here, you know.”

“Oh?” I didn’t want to pry, but Andy didn’t need much encouragement to continue.

“Yeah, the health department came to my house, and they looked around and made some calls and asked my some questions, and brought me over here. I told them I was fine with the way things were, but they didn’t agree. I have a lot of things, you know, and I’m working at sorting through it all…to be honest, I’ve been saying that for years, but I really need to…I can’t even get to my piano. It’s been a long time–that’s why I was so rusty this morning.”

“I could tell what you were playing.”

“Yeah, thanks…but…they’re gonna take it all, you know. They’re just waiting for me to get home, and then …I can’t go back there.” The despair—the hopelessness—the helplessness—his entire being sagged under the weight.

“Isn’t there somewhere else you could go?” I protested.

“No.” He rose and started to leave. As he passed me he put his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for singing with me this morning. It made me feel good.”

“Me too.” And then he was gone.

An hour or so later an alarm sounded and we all had to gather in the activity room to be accounted for, and to keep us out of the way of the crash cart and emergency responders. Andy wasn’t there.

The nurses and techs can’t say anything, so nobody asked. But eventually the rumors started He had a heart attack. He threatened his therapist and had to be restrained. He tried to force his way through the security door. He went into diabetic shock. No one knew, but everybody had a guess.

Dan, his roommate, said that Andy had told him that if they tried to make him leave, he would slam his hand in the bathroom door and break his fingers so they would have to keep him longer. But Dan was always after attention, so nobody took him seriously.

All I know is that I never saw Andy again. I’ve been tempted to drive down Union Street, but I haven’t gotten to it.

Author name:: rdbowker
Discussion:: 2 Comments

Motivation

I was wondering today why it is so hard to shower and shave. I know, I know–it’s not hard for most people, but for the severely depressed, it is a classic symptom of the illness. One writer attributes it to the fact that the sufferer doesn’t want to be around people, and so has no reason to get presentable. But that doesn’t explain my own situation, for I know I am going to the bank and the library–so why is it so hard to shower and shave?

After I finished (because most days I do manage to accomplish the task), I was wondering why I had no motivation–no energy or impulse to get up and do something–and it came to me that the word motivation might have two distinct but related meanings:

The energy to move; and
The reason to move…

So I got out my dictionary. It turns out that motivation always refers to that which initiates or causes motion–whether a logical argument, or a simple desire or emotion. I decided that the emotion of depression was conflicting with the logic of cleanliness, and now I know why it is so hard to do. But will my new understanding make a difference? Only time will tell.

But while I was on the topic, I pondered the motivation that leads people to make decisions for Christ. We all know from the Scriptures that we have sinfully offended the Holy God, and that we owe him a debt and should repent and allow Him to adopt us into His family in order to inherit the blessings of this life and all eternity. But we also know that our estrangement from God causes the emotions of fear, regret, guilt, loneliness, desire for love, and gratitude for the sacrifice of Jesus Christ that allows us to establish a personal relationship with Him.

So is the true motivation for salvation a logical conclusion reached in the brain, or an impulse having its root in the heart?

Ask Paul on the Damascus Road. Ask Thomas in the upper room. Ask Moses at the burning bush. Ask Peter at the lakeside. And then maybe we will have a logical understanding of the emotions of spiritual conversion.

Author name:: rdbowker
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Proofread, Edit, and Rewrite

This week I finished reading the most recent in the Thursday Next series of books by Jasper Fforde. These books involve a complex fantasy where the characters of Bookworld are the written inhabitants of books, who perform for the reader when called upon, but who then have time for cross-genre and intra-literary adventures when not being actively read. The series is humorous and a delight for people who love literature and popular writing.

Then, as I was walking this morning, I heard a song* on my MP3 player that said…”the blood of the Lamb rewrote who I am…” and it sent my mind on a ride down the Stream of Consciousness, through the Creek of Contemplation, and into the Eddy of Edification. Here a just of few of my random thoughts:

In a real sense, we are characters written by the Great Author of the universe;
As such, we fit into His perfect outline;
The Author reserves the right to proofread and edit the plot of our lives
And even to rewrite us to better serve His purpose;
He expects us to be actively involved in our own character development;
We all have character flaws, but good subjects will overcome them;
As characters, we must interact with each other to make up the Novel of the Ages,
And it is a full-length Novel, not a short story;
We must be content even to be a minor player in a subplot
Because we are not all written to be the Hero (or, Heaven forbid, the villain);
There will come a final conflict resolution and God will write the Afterward!

I also pondered to what extent we are created and have our outcomes determined, as opposed to having some personal influence on the direction we take–the old Sovereign Grace versus Free Will argument. I do not claim to understand how it all fits together, but I thought about a situation that has occurred sometimes when I have when I have written well, and had an epiphany:

On occasion when I have created particularly interesting and realistic characters, those characters may seem to take on lives of their own, and suggest to me how they would present themselves or what they would say and do–all within the context of the outline and plot development I already have in mind. Author determination and character involvement working together… Predestination and Free Will serving a single purpose? I think I could wrap my mind around that analogy.

Is that an insight, or am I all wet from my trip down Babbling Brook? You, dear reader, can be the judge.

*”I Know That I Know” by Joel Lindsey and Wayne Haun, performed by the Mark Trammell Trio on their Always Have a Song CD

Author name:: rdbowker
Discussion:: 1 Comment

Disrespect–an act or an attitude?

A recent news article reported that a number of junior high school students were kicked out of the World Trade Center Memorial in NYC for throwing baseballs, plastic bottles, and other litter into the memorial pools.

While virtually all the adults and some of the other students deplored the act and called it disrespectful, one young scholar offered this quote:

“No one was disrespecting. It wasn’t nothing like that,” said one student. “No one was being serious. Everyone was kind of bored and it was just something to do.”

The poor grammar aside, this young person defined for us old fogies just what disrespect means to some youth today:

Actions themselves, no matter how egregious, are not disrespectful;
A serious attitude and intent to show disdain must motivate any action if it is truly disrespectful;
Any action can be justified if it is done out of boredom.

I have often encountered this argument that only intentions matter, as in “I didn’t mean to do that,” [as if that excused the action.] I am convinced that certain words, acts and deeds are inherently wrong and must be avoided; and my standard response was, “But you didn’t mean NOT to do it,” [so you did it and it was the wrong thing to do, and the discipline about to come your way is fully deserved. Next time, think about your actions and intentionally avoid the wrong.]

My question is, Where were the teachers? Why did the memorial officials have to put a stop to the actions, rather than the teachers? Oh, I forgot: teachers are innocent victims of student misbehavior, not paid supervisors responsible to correct and discipline misbehavior.

Rene LaRosa, of Saddle Brook, N.J., pinned the blame squarely on the shoulders of the students. “If these kids were in middle school, then they’re old enough to know better,” said LaRosa, a preschool teacher.

Which reminds me of the school bus aide who has been in the news lately for being bullied by middle school children. The students were wrong–but what was the aide hired to do? She should have had that driver pull over so she could radio back to the school and have those miscreants on report, in detention, and off the bus quicker than YouTube could play the video. She was reported as saying that she didn’t want to make it worse–but if stopping bad behavior and disciplining disrespect makes the problem worse, then there is no hope under the sun for the next generation.

Adults, be the kind of adults that you want these kids to grow up to be–by whatever legitimate means possible. Please.

Author name:: rdbowker
Discussion:: 2 Comments

Unjoyment and Uncouragement

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in? For my sighing cometh before I eat, and my roarings are poured out like the waters. (Job 3:23-24)

I return to the topic of my depression–not as an expert, but as a sufferer. My remarks are anecdotal, but true as I understand and can convey them.

I choose the word sufferer on purpose. Until one has been through a bout of severe clinical depression, he cannot fully understand all its ramifications. In my case, it produces terrible physical pain; every arthritic joint hurts more than normal, and I get sharp pains in my chest, accompanied by a feeling of pressure as if a wide band were wrapped around my rib cage and being slowly tightened. My heart, liver, stomach, lungs, etc. have checked out fine–it is the pain of depression.

My mind wants to dwell on the struggles in and around me, but I seek out ways to retreat into safe and peaceful states of mind. Unfortunately, because of the energy it takes NOT to think about things, my brain operates at low efficiency and I find it very difficult to concentrate. I am easily distracted and frustrated. I cannot enjoy the things that once brought me pleasure, because my brain is in a constant battle for balance. Did you ever try to read a book, or play golf, or talk to your grandchildren, while you were standing on one foot with a pebble in your shoe? It can be done, but not well and not for long.

The quote above is from the 3rd chapter of Job, in which he curses his life. After sitting in silence for 7 days, he describes his suffering in dramatic and powerful images. He does not curse God, but neither does he praise or glorify Him. Job is too low for that.

Then his “friends” try to “help” him. They spend the next 34 chapters or so trying to assess the blame for his tragedies, to analyze his responses, and to accuse him of impiety. I’m sure that they thought that they were helping him by telling him to confess, repent, and rejoice evermore. They operated under the assumption that he had forgotten God’s love, mercy, grace, and goodness; and they believed that if they just argued him into a right state of mind that his problems would be solved.

But no amount of talking would bring back Job’s family or possessions, and no amount of talking would take the pain from his soul. Depression is a disease that needs God’s healing touch; preaching and motivational posters are no substitute. Job told his companions before they even started that it didn’t make any sense to hand a lamp to a lost man–all it would do is to enable him to better see the unfamiliar surroundings in which God had imprisoned him. Their well-intentioned words merely made his misery more apparent.

So how are my friends supposed to help me? Don’t try to fix me–just sit quietly with me, pray, and wait for God to do His healing work. He will, and I am told that I will be better off for the suffering I have experienced. One day, some day.

Author name:: rdbowker
Discussion:: 5 Comments

Contempt of Congress?

Attorney General Holder has been cited for contempt of Congress by one committee, and the full House of Representatives will vote next week. But what does it all mean?

Absolutely nothing.

Some history: Holder has turned over 8,000 documents, and has refused or neglected to turn over roughly 132,000. The ones already submitted show that the agency knew about problems with operation Fast and Furious, but didn’t want Congress to know that they knew. Many of the withheld memos etc. are believed to hold clues as to the discussions that went on within the agency concerning how they ought to address Congress–what they should say, and when they should say it. In crude agricultural terms, they realized that they had a manure pile on their hands, and they had some discussions about who should man the shovels (or if they could get by with just using a few air fresheners). The President has declared that the strategy discussions fall under the general confidentiality of the executive branch, and are therefore privileged information and need not/may not be released.

The claim of executive privilege is probably justified, unless the strategy discussions in question constitute conspiracy to commit a crime. More likely, they consist of discussions on how to justify a misguided and horribly failed program. Courts historically will not get involved in questions of executive privilege unless an impeachable crime is in question, and I have not heard anyone suggest that there is such in this situation.

So what if the House of Representatives votes the Attorney General in contempt? They turn the issue over to the US Attorney to take it to a grand jury to seek an indictment. The US Attorney works for the Justice Department, under the leadership of the Attorney General, appointed by a President who is known for choosing when and if to enforce the laws. So absolutely nothing will happen.

Oh, it may be uncomfortable for AG Holder to testify in the House again, because they have the technical authority to have the Sergeant-at-Arms detain him and hold him in jail for not less than 30 days, nor more than one year–but that procedure has not been followed for decades, and is not under consideration here.

So what’s the upshot? The Executive Branch is and has been in contempt of the current House of Representatives since the Republicans took the majority after the 2010 elections. The only difference is that after next week’s vote, it will be official.

Author name:: rdbowker
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Look the other way

Several years ago when I was working in a Christian school, we had a policy that said that students were not allowed to listen to certain types of music–EVEN AT HOME. Apart from the issue of interfering with parental rights, this policy had another drawback. As my wise principal told me: “They know we are not going to come into their rooms and check what’s on their stereo; and when we make a rule that we have no intention of enforcing, we are encouraging the students to rebel and disobey.” I have always accepted that reasoning, and tried my best to follow through by applying the credo, “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep, or a threat you won’t carry out.”

Well, Congress has made some laws that have penalties that COULD be carried out, but the executive branch, responsible for enforcement, has decided not to enforce them. It started with federal laws against marijuana; it continued with the Defense of Marriage Act; and most recently has been applied to immigration laws. The law of the land, passed by the representatives of the people by majorities in both houses of Congress and signed into law by a former president, will officially be ignored by the current administration. Those in charge DO NOT care about representative democracy, the will of the people, or the dangers of encouraging people to break the law by eliminating the penalties.

I could respect a statesman who worked in Congress to repeal what he considered unjust laws. I find it despicable for a politician to pretend that the laws don’t exist or don’t matter. Which laws won’t exist next? What is the opposite of integrity?

Let what you say be simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; anything more than this comes from evil.
(Mat 5:37)

Author name:: rdbowker
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Ted’s Story

Here is an offering from what I hope will one day be a collection of stories inspired by my stay on the mental health ward. The characters were inspired by people I met, but the names and situations are changed, and their histories, motivations, and thoughts are completely fictional. I came to trust and appreciate the members of my “community” too much to expose them to ridicule, disrespect, or even public exposure. There was no “Ted”; but there was a man who inspired me to create “Ted” for my own enjoyment (?) and possibly yours. Methods and practices portrayed are accurate enough to give you an idea of what life was like as a patient on the ward. Warning: this is not a “feel-good” story, but few of the stories from the psych ward are.

Ted’s Story

Ted lay flat on his back, his arms at his sides. The room was dark, but by the light from the hallway he could see water stains on the ceiling. The open door allowed the conversations and random sounds from the nurses’ station to enter the room uninvited.

As long as he was awake, Ted thought he might as well do his physical therapy exercises. No one would put the bed rails down for him, so he couldn’t sit on the edge of the bed or reach his walker. He determined to do his therapy regardless of their efforts to restrain him.

He wiggled his toes. He couldn’t see them or feel them, but he assumed that they were wiggling. They had better be, he thought. Then left foot toes curl, straighten, point, repeat. Right foot toes curl, straighten, point, repeat. The twinge in his ankle told him that pointing his toes toward the wall was working. He wondered how many times he would have to do the exercise before he was steady on his feet again. It didn’t matter. He would get there. Or die trying. Or die giving up. Or just die.

He bent his arms at the elbows. That was better; he could see his hands in his peripheral vision. Back down, and up again. Straighten the fingers. Straighten the fingers. He tried to focus his gaze on first one hand, then the other. Both were knotted into fists, and neither wanted to let go of the anger and frustration it held. Ted gritted his teeth and lowered his hands to his sides.

“Theodore….Are you awake, Theodore? How are you doing, buddy?”

It was Wallace, the tech. They didn’t call them nurses or even nurses’ aides; they called them techs, short for technicians, as if they thought the body was a machine and the mind was a component that could be adjusted or reprogrammed. Ted ignored the young man and continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Theodore….Wake up, Theodore. We need to get some information from you.”

Idiot. Do people sleep with their eyes open? And what information could they possibly need in the middle of the night? And how many times, the patient asked himself, did he have to tell them that he wanted to be called Ted? Only his mother called him Theodore—or his wife when she was angry with him. He stared at the ceiling.

“Theodore, I can see that you’re awake. I need to ask you some questions.”

Ted slowly and deliberately closed his eyes.

“I’m still here, Theodore, and I’m going to ask you some questions which will help us to take care of you. Do you understand?”

Ted made no response.

“We’re here to help you, Theodore. We need to make sure that you get the right medications, and the right diet, and everything you need to help you get better. But we need you to talk to us. Okay, buddy?”

The patient opened his eyes, but pointedly did not look at the tech.

“Ted,” he said.

“Okay, that’s a good start. You like to be called Ted? I’ll make sure that your nurse knows that. Now, how are you doing?”

Long pause. “Fine,” Ted said, a little louder than necessary. He wondered if the tech could detect the sarcasm in his answer.

“Well, you wouldn’t be here if you were really fine, would you Ted? Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.”

“That’s right, and we’re going to take good care of you here at the hospital. Do you know what day it is?”

It was Saturday when I came in, thought Ted, but who knows how long I’ve been here, being poked and interrogated and locked into this bed? Give me my watch and a calendar, and maybe I could tell you!

But he kept his thoughts to himself.

“Do you know how you got here, Ted?”

“Wife.”

The tech checked the paperwork in his hands. “That’s good! Your wife Elaine brought you in yesterday, and you spent some time downstairs while we waited for a bed. It’s Sunday morning now.”

“Eileen.”

“Do you know why you’re here, Ted?” the tech went on, ignoring Ted’s correcting him about his wife’s name.

Not that it mattered to Ted. He had no feelings for her one way or the other. Except that he would never forgive her for what she did, as long as he lived.

“Do you know why you are here in the hospital, Ted?”

At least the tech changed the tone of his voice when he repeated the question. Give him that.

“Ted, stay with me buddy. Do you—“

“Tried to kill myself.”

“When did you do that, Ted?”

“Last night.”

“Have you tried to kill yourself since you have been here?” Wallace asked.

Ted groaned inwardly. How could anyone do anything in this place? They had taken his belt and his shoelaces; the windows were sealed; there weren’t even any call bells, because the cords might prove to be a choking danger. And someone looked in at you every fifteen minutes to make sure you were still breathing. The only thing he could possibly do was to slam his head in the door—except for the bed rails that kept him from getting to his walker. He ignored the question.

“I need you to answer some questions about how you want us to help you. Can you answer some questions for me?” Wallace sounded insincere again, and maybe a little bored. Ted just looked at him.

“So, if you are having a bad time, how would you like us to help you: talk to you, or put you in a quiet place?”

“Quiet place.” Ted wished this was a quiet place.

“When you are having a bad time, do you like to be touched? Do you prefer to be touched on the hand, the arm, the shoulder, somewhere else, or not at all?”

Ted was quiet for a long time. “No touch.”

“That’s good. We need to know how we can help you and make you comfortable while you are here….”

Every curse word Ted knew was in full force as he formulated his responses; but he kept them to himself. He refused to lower his dignity to the level of these….even his alternate vocabulary failed him for a moment.

“If you are having a bad time would you rather be helped by a man, a woman, or either one?”

Ted just shot Wallace a look of disgust and disdain.

“During a bad time, do you prefer to be helped by a man or a woman?”

“Man.”

“And why is that?”

Ted shut down. Why did it matter? Why ask him his preferences, if they weren’t going to accept his answers at face value? Why nag at him for answers that they wouldn’t like? It was as if they had been taking lesson from Eileen, may she…

“Ted? Stay with me buddy….”

If only she had minded her own business. He could have made it down into the garage—it was only one step, for Heavens sake! He had it all planned out: get to the stair, turn the walker sideways…

“Ted—I need you to answer my questions. Why do you prefer men to help if you need to be restrained?”

…lower the walker onto the step, and move down after it, then again to the garage floor…

“Ted, you know that you need to talk to me. Are you thinking about the answer?”

…shuffle past the driver’s side door, then open it and get inside, at least enough to turn the ignition….

“Ted. Ted. If you don’t answer my questions, then I will have to put you down as ‘Uncooperative.’ You don’t want the doctor to think you were uncooperative, do you?”

…then just relax, breathe deeply, and in a few minutes, go to sleep…

“Ted—I’m going to ask you just once more. Why would you rather not have a woman help you when you are having a bad time?”

“Eileen.”

“Good. Thank you, Ted. I’m sure they will let her come see you tomorrow. But are you ready to answer my questions? We don’t have many more, and then I can let you go to sleep.”

“Go ahead.”

“All right. We’ll go on to the next one. If you have a severe response to a situation, would you prefer to be restrained, or to be given a shot to help calm you down? We know this isn’t going to happen, but we have to ask so that we have it on record just in case. When we’re done, I’m going to tape this paper inside your closet door, so that any of the nurses or techs have access to it right away. So what is your preference?”

“Repeat the question.”

“If we need to restrain you…”

“Eileen.” Let Wallace the tech think he was being uncooperative; Ted knew the truth. He could imagine her in a strait-jacket, or getting a tranquilizer shot, or both. Maybe one day he would forgive her for stopping him and calling the ambulance; but until then, he could enjoy his little fantasy. It gave him something to live for.

Ted smiled, closed his eyes, and pretended to go to sleep.

Author name:: rdbowker
Discussion:: 2 Comments

Follow to the Logical Conclusion

There is an ongoing debate concerning NYC’s attempts to ban large sugary drinks: is personal health a private matter, or an issue of “…the general welfare…” of the country? [BTW, that’s a quote from the Constitution, for certain federal judges and others who didn’t recognize it.]

IF health is a matter for the government to manage for the general welfare, justified under the “necessary and proper” clause of Article I Section 8, then it only follows logically that government has the responsibility:

to provide universal health care;
to ensure that there are enough doctors and medicines for all citizens and conditions;
to control the use of all harmful substances, including the banning of alcohol, tobacco, processed sugars, and red meats;
to require proper exercise and vitamin/supplement regimens;
to provide safe and healthy housing to everyone;
to include all residents, regardless of their legal, enemy, or criminal status;
to dictate to all our trading and immigration partners how they need to act to avoid violating our standards;
to determine how children should be raised and live from the cradle to the grave; and
to pay for its implementation, oversight, and enforcement by uniform taxation throughout the states.

And there you have it. Look over the list and you must reach one conclusion: Consistent government control over personal health is not possible, affordable, or desirable; and anything less than a consistent approach means that some rogue agency will determine which aspects and which citizens get left out. That approach not only eliminates liberty, but justice as well.

IF health and health care are NOT civil rights granted, guaranteed and protected by the government, then under what circumstances would the nation/state be justified in getting involved in the issue? It is apparent that there is a class of people that could not survive, let alone thrive, without government intervention. I believe that the private sector (including the church) ought to do everything within its power to see the the needs of the poor and elderly are met apart from federal or state involvement; and that the government should get involved only in cases of genuine need regarding those who utterly lack the means of helping themselves.

Does banning sugary drinks meet that standard? I don’t think so. Does banning smoking in public places (such as sidewalks or college campuses) meet the standard? Yes, because non-smokers in public have no way to protect themselves apart from avoiding those public places, which is unreasonable. How about private places such as bars and restaurants? Non-smokers have the reasonable ability to avoid those establishments where the owners have chosen to allow smoking, so Uncle Sam should keep his hands off.

What about the argument that people can’t control their consumption of sugary drinks, and that’s why we need regulation? Phooey. Their lack of self control in no way rises to the standard of compromising my liberty, justice, and taxable income. Step up America! You don’t want Marxism with its social engineering? Then start at home–grow a brain and a backbone and eliminate the justification for government intervention.

Author name:: rdbowker
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