Budo 101: Conclusion.

*Warning: This story describes an offensive event, and so language and situations may be offensive to some and are not intended for young children.

Part I is here. Part II is here.

Budo 101, Continued:

Jack was left sitting in his chair, staring at the principle’s desk, trying not to make eye contact. So that was her dad? No wonder she went berserk. Shit! That’s a dude who means business!
Mr. Merckle, sat in silence for about thirty seconds. Then he looked up at Jack. “Go back out in the office and wait for your parent to get here. Ms. Hagg has your suspension letter.”
Ashley and her dad were still out there. Dan was talking with Ms. Hagg, who was smiling at him like a middle-aged fan girl. “Yeah, I think I probably did enjoy that a little too much, but you know, it’s just wrong, and something needs to be done. I’m not sure what, but Sharon and I are going to think about it.”
Ashley noticed Jack and looked away from him. Whatever, bitch. It was just a joke. Just wait until I see Deek again, Jack thought. I’m going to... But he knew he was going to do nothing. He was going to play it off as no big deal and go right back to being Deek’s minion just like he always did.
Dan turned and saw him. Oh shit! Jack slouched into his chair and whipped out his phone.
“Ashley, here are the keys, I’m parked out by Evergreen Street. I’ll be along in a minute.”
“Okay, dad. I’ve got to grab my stuff from my locker.”
“Okay, baby.”
Dan walked over and sat down in a chair one seat over from Jack.
When he didn’t say anything, Jack glanced up at him. He was just sitting there, scratching his five-o-clock shadow, staring at him with a musing expression.
“Look,” Jack said, “If you’re going to give me the speech about ‘stay away from my daughter or else,’ save it. I swear I’m not interested in her at all. It was just a stupid joke.”
“Oh I know,” Dan said. “I know it was a joke, and I believe that it wasn’t your idea.”
“My buddy dared me. He wouldn’t let up until I did it.”
“Sounds like a great friend,” Dan said with unconcealed irony.
Screw you, man, Jack thought. What do you know about high school? Back when you went it was a one-roomed schoolhouse probably.
“So are you tired of it?” Dan asked.
“Tired of what?”
“Being a punk.”
Jack stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m not a punk.” Why was this guy even talking to him?
“Well, I don’t know what else to call you. I don’t think you’re a bad kid, and I sure as hell know you’re not a good man, because a good man knows when to tell his ‘friend’ to go to hell. A good man doesn’t grope teenage girls. You’re not bad, you’re just a punk. I know. I was a punk when I was your age.”
“Gah!” Jack rolled his eyes. “What do you want from me? I’m just a kid! I won’t do it again, okay, can you just leave me alone?”
“Oh believe me, I know you won’t do it again. Everyone in this school knows that you have wandering hands, and you got beat by a girl.”
“She didn’t beat me,” Jack yelled. He stood up and punched the wall. Dan’s expression did not even flicker. “She got lucky, she surprised me, and I don’t hit girls.”
“I know that. Dude, I know she wouldn’t beat you in a fair fight, and she knows it too. She fought like I taught her to, just hard enough and long enough to get away without getting decisively engaged. She did the right thing. You could too, you know.”
Dan stood up. Up close and personal Jack saw that he was not quite as tall as he looked from a distance, he just stood like he towered over everyone, so people thought he did.
“I want to give you this,” Dan handed him a business card. On one side was the name, “Five Senseis’ Shotokan Karate” and an address. On the other side was a picture of a fist covered by an open hand and the words, “Admit one for Budo 101.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an invitation.”
“To your karate school?”
“Well it technically isn’t my dojo. My friend Tanner Sensei owns it, I just help teach some evenings and weekends.”
“So you want me to learn karate?”
“No, this is a special class. Budo 101 is a special six-month program that I developed with Tanner Sensei, for teenage guys such as yourself. It is invitation only, or judge’s order.”
“Judge’s order?”
“We have an arrangement with the county courthouse. It is an option for first time juvenile offenders who are given probation.”
“Do I look like a fucking juvie?” he threw the card on the ground.
Dan very mildly crouched down, without taking his eyes off of Jack, and picked it up. “No, you’re not a juvie. And I want to keep it that way. Only about half of our students are juvies, the rest are referred by school counselors, parents, pastors, that sort of thing. I think you would benefit by it, so I am inviting you, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He handed the card back.
Jack thought about not taking it, but something about the older man’s straightforward demeanor made him stretch out his hand. Dan was not yelling at him or cussing him out. He didn’t even seem mad anymore. Jack looked the card over again. “How much does it cost?”
“It’s free.”
“Yeah right.”
“No, seriously. I am a dentist and my wife is a child psychologist. We don’t need the money. But free does not mean that it is cheap. It is invitation only, but it takes a serious commitment. You show up six nights a week for six months. If you miss a night you apologize to the entire class and make it up on Saturday. If you miss two, you are done.”
Jack scoffed. “And if I come? You’ll teach me, what? How to fight?”
“Among other things, yes. You will learn how to treat people with respect, for starters, how to be somewhere on time, and in the right uniform. How to let a boss know if something comes up and you can’t make it. You will push yourself mentally and physically. If you make it to the end you will learn how to relate to women in a way that is based on real life and not on porn videos. You’ll learn how to pick friends, how to stand up to your friends, and yes, a basic level of how to defend yourself or others against physical attack.”
“Basic level?”
Dan smiled and shook his head. “If you make it all the way through, you get a green belt in Shotokan karate and are eligible to join the intermediate class if you want, but there is no obligation. Some stay, and some kids who get through Budo 101 are glad to be done with us.”
“So green belt is...”
“It usually takes students a year and a half to two years as a white belt to earn their green belt, but that’s because most only come once or twice a week.”
Jack was silent. This was crazy. This guy had just called him a sexual predator and now he was offering to teach him freakin’ karate. “What’s in it for you.”
Dan shrugged. “Well, I’d tell you not a damn thing, but you wouldn’t believe me. Think it over. When you get tired of being pushed around by your ‘friends’ and taking it out on teenage girls who have been trained not to stand up for themselves, give us a call or drop by. The class is continuous, so you can start at any time.”
He offered his hand, slender but veined and muscular.
Jack didn’t take it.
“Well, you have a nice day, then,” Dan said. He walked out of the office.
Jack sat down and put the card in his pocket.
He looked at the clock, which barely read 3:30 P.M.
I hate my life, he thought.

Budo 101: Part II*

*Warning: This story describes an offensive event, and so language and situations may be offensive to some and are not intended for young children.

Part I is here.

Budo 101, Continued:

Mr. Merckle looked up from his computer with a ponderous sigh, his face red before he even said a word. His lower chin wobbled as he pushed himself back as far into his chair as he would go. “What is it now?”

“Fighting in the hall,” Mr. Sink, the English teacher, delivered up his captives.

Mr. Merckle sighed again and shook his head, causing fluid waves in the loose flesh under his jaw. Jack watched the ripples with amusement. How hard would he have to shake his head to get a ripple to go all the way around his neck and come back on the other side?

“Names?”

“John Snyder and Ashley Tildford.”

Mr. Merckle made a note. “You both understand that we don’t tolerate fighting in this school?”

“I wasn’t fight...”

“He grabbed...”

“Quiet, both of you!” The principle had a way of booming his voice and leaning his head forward with little eyes glaring out over cherry red cheeks. It worked every time, and had been known to stop cafeteria food fights dead in their tracks.  The two teenagers in the tiny office were no match for it. Even Mr. Sink jumped.

Jack subsided into his resentful thoughts.

“I am too busy to deal with you two at the moment. Ms. Hagg will telephone your parents and we will discuss what is to be done with you later. In the meantime, both of you will sit out in the office and Ms. Hagg will keep an eye on you until your parents get her. You may work on homework if you like. Dave, let Ms. Hagg know on your way out, would you?”

He thrust himself forward to his computer again. Clearly they were dismissed.

Damn it, Jack thought. They’re calling dad.

He didn’t think his dad would care too much about him fighting at school, but he would never hear the end of getting beaten by a girl. Well shit, how was he supposed to know she was into freakin’ karate or kung fu or whatever? And she didn’t beat him, he just wasn’t expecting it. She just surprised him that’s all.

And anyway, what was her problem? It was just a joke. It was just a little boob grab. He knew guys like Deek who did that all the time. Walk down the halls, grab an ass, feel a girl up. Those chicks always giggled and maybe shoved back a little, in a playful way. They didn’t go berserk and turn into vengeful teenage warrior goddesses.

Ashley, that was what Mr. Sink had called her. She was curled up in a chair on the far side of the office, as far away from him as she could get, almost with her back to him. A cell phone chimed some synthesized classical music, and she fished a flip phone out of her butt pocket.

She did have a nice ass, Jack thought.

A fast, shrill buzz sounded on the other end of the line.

“Hey Mom.”

Buzz buzz buzz.

“No, I’m okay. I know. No. I’ll see you tonight. No, Mom, I’m okay.” She gave a short, nervous laugh. “I beat the snot out of him.”

“Bitch!” Jack muttered, “You just got lucky. I wasn’t trying to fight cause I don’t hit girls.”

She ignored him.

“I know. I’m fine. Love you too. See you tonight. Bye.”

She snapped the phone shut and put it away, turning even further away from him. He pulled out his phone and started playing “Angry Birds.”

Five minutes later he heard a Bruce Lee kung-fu yell coming from her pocket. It was her cellphone again. She answered, “Hey Dad,” without checking the number.

This buzz was deeper and slower. The girl hugged herself and sank even more deeply into her chair. Jack, for his part, lounged even more emphatically, stretching himself further out into the office. Phone calls from two parents? What a momma’s girl!

“Yeah. I’m okay,” but she sniffed back a tear.

The phone buzzed a question.

“He...” she swallowed. “He grabbed me.”

Buzz.

“Around my chest.”

Silence.

“But it’s okay, Dad.”

Emphatic buzzing.

“No, I know, but I got him good. Then the jerk tried to come after me again. I hip tossed him really hard.”

Buzz Buzz.

“Me too.” Her voice got lower and quieter. “I wish you were here, Dad. I need a hug.”

The buzz was deep and soothing. Jack found himself wishing he could hear what it was saying, in spite of himself.

“Really?” Ashley said. He could hear the smile in her voice. “When? Okay. I will see you when you get here. Thanks, Dad. Love you too.” She closed the phone with a smile.

About an hour later a tall man in his mid-forties walked into the office. Jack didn’t like the look of him. He was wearing khakis, button up shirt and tie, but he didn’t look like someone you messed with. He looked like he was over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and long arms. His hands were slender, but looked strong. He carried himself like an athlete with upright head, alert eyes, moving from his hips like the guys on the wrestling team. Not the kind of guy Jack really wanted to have pissed off at him.

But Mr. Tildford did not even look at him or at Ms. Hagg. He walked straight towards Ashley’s chair like a man on a mission. She didn’t hear him coming until he was almost there, but when she turned and saw him she leapt up and jumped into his arms in a flying hug. He caught her and hugged her back, holding her face against his chest and smoothing her hair. “Hey Ash,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

How long were they going to hug, Jack thought. Was she crying? What a baby! He rolled his eyes and looked away with burning cheeks.

“You okay?” Mr. Tildford said.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She nodded and brushed her hair back behind her ear.

“What are we waiting for?”

“Mr. Merckle said we had to sit here until he was ready to deal with us.”

“Oh, really? The message I got was you were suspended.”

“What!?!?” Her jaw dropped and she clasped her hands to her cheeks. “Suspended? I didn’t do anything. He didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”

Jack sighed and dropped his head in his hands. Suspended. Now his dad was really going to blow a gasket.

“Right. Well, I think we should have a talk with him, shall we.” Mr. Tildford stepped over to Ms. Hagg’s desk. “Could you let Mr. Merckle know that Dan Tildford is here to see him.”

“Certainly Mr. Tildford.” She relayed the message into her phone.

“Send him in,” boomed back, cracked and staticky but clearly audible.

“You may go in, right through that door, Sir,” Ms. Hagg pointed with her pen.

“Thank you. Come on Ashley.”

Jack watched them go in and lounged as far back as he could in his chair.  His butt was hanging off the seat and his legs were stretched out into the aisle. Back to the Angry Birds, then. He didn’t expect his dad to be around any time soon. He didn’t get off shift until 4:00.

About ten minutes later, Ms. Hagg got a call. She looked up and called Jack’s name. “Please go into Mr. Merckle’s office. He wants to talk to you.”

What did they want with him? Jack slouched to his feet.

“Mr. Snyder, come in, sit down.” Mr. Merckle pointed him to a chair. “Mr. Tildford thinks you should be here for this. Now, continue Mr. Tildford.”

“Call me Dan.”

“Dan.”

“All I’m saying is, I really think you should listen to what these two have to say before suspending them.”

The principle shook his head and smiled condescendingly. “Dan, do you know how many troubled students come through this office on a weekly basis? Do you know how much time it would take for me to listen to every single one? Our policies are very clear, fighting is not tolerated. The penalty is suspension. I really am not interested in what they have to say. They will be given a letter explaining the policy and terms of the penalty.”

“So you are not interested in, say, who started it?”

Mr. Merckle sat up stiffly and frowned. I guess he’s not used to being argued with, Jack thought. “Excuse me, but I don’t think it matters who started it.”

“Oh excuse me, but yes it absolutely does.” Dan scooted his chair forward a couple of inches closer to the desk. “If my daughter is attacking random people and abusing her karate skills then I need to know so I can ground her and remove her from karate class. If, on the other hand, she is defending herself or someone else from bullying or sexual harassment...”

“Really, Mr. Tildford...”

“As I said, if she is defending herself or someone else as I have taught her to do, then we are going on a father-daughter date this weekend, wherever she wants.”

Jack almost snorted but silenced it. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Dan, but he didn’t feel like drawing attention to himself.

“Mr. Tildford,” the principle shifted and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I understand that teenagers can sometimes be insecure about some peer interactions in school. We have school counselors who are trained to assess and intervene in situations like that. However, we do not believe in using violence to solve our problems.”

“Who is ‘We?’” Dan looked irritated. He was leaning back in his chair with his hands folded in front of him, tapping his index fingers together, and the muscle in his jaw was bulging.

Why the hell do I need to be here to listen to this, Jack thought.

“Pardon?”

“Who is ‘we?’” Dan repeated. “You said ‘we’ don’t believe in violence. Do you mean the people in this room? Or maybe us as a society? Or are you just using the royal we?”

“Mr. Tildford! If you are not going to discuss this in a reasonable fashion I will have to ask you to leave. My time is extremely valuable.” He was using his food-fight stopping voice.

“So is mine,” Dan shot back, not the least bit phased, “I had to reschedule two patients this afternoon to be here and you will damn sure do us the courtesy of listening to both sides of this story before you pass judgment on my daughter.”

Jack raised his eyebrows and allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction. It was good to see someone put the principle in his place for once.

Mr. Merckle swallowed a shocked expression. “All right, fine. What do you two have to say for yourself?”

Dan looked at Jack. “Go ahead, son. What happened?”

I’m not your freakin’ son, Jack thought. “It was just a joke!”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I just, like, touched her a little.”

“How did you touch my daughter?”

Jack shut his mouth. Something in the tall man’s eyes made him extremely reluctant to answer that question.

“Ashley?”

“He grabbed my... breasts. From behind.” Her face was scarlet.

“Is that true?” Dan turned a clenched jaw towards Jack.

“It was just a joke. She didn’t have to freak out about it.”

“No? And why didn’t she have to freak out about it?”

“Shit, that stuff happens all the time. Everybody does it.”

“Who is everybody?” The questions came at him almost before he could finish his replies.

“All the guys. It’s just, like, I don’t know, flirting.”

“Hell no, it is not flirting! Do you know what that’s called in the workplace? Or anywhere else in the real world outside this school? That’s called sexual assault, and it’s a crime. It results in fines, jail time and potentially being labeled a sexual predator for the rest of your life.”

“Come on!” Jack’s voice cracked. He suddenly remembered horror stories he had heard about guys getting put on watch lists for silly things like peeping in windows and stuff. Sweat was breaking out all over his back. “Come on, I’m not a predator! It was a dare. I didn’t even want to. A friend made me do it.”

“Do you think that will hold up in court in the real world,” Dan’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was hard as ice, and his eyes were blazing.

The principle broke in. “Mr. Tildford, aren’t you being a little severe? You cannot threaten this boy with being labeled as a sexual predator, ruining his life forever, because of a harmless prank.”

“Mr. Merckle, I am not planning on ruining anything or labeling anyone. We have no intention of seeking legal action. I am doing this kid a favor by reminding him that outside the narrow walls of this school, actions like that have consequences.” Dan was leaning forward, stabbing his finger into the top of the principle’s desk to emphasize his point.  “He had better wise up before that real world catches up with him.” He sat back again and turned to Ashley. “What happened, Ash?”

“He grabbed my breasts from behind. I elbowed him and knocked him back with a mae giri. I yelled, ‘back off creep,’ like you taught us. He tried to grab me again so I knocked him back again. But then he tried to grab me again with both hands, so I took him down and dropped a knee on him. Then I got away. That’s what you taught, right?”

“Yep,” Dan’s face seemed to smile in spite of him. “You did good.”

“Mr. Tildford, I repeat that this school cannot condone fighting. There are other ways of settling our conflicts.”

“No offense, Mr. Merckle, but that is the dumbest thing I ever heard. You just heard this boy confess to sexually assaulting a girl half his size, and not only that, but he boasted that this is a normal occurrence in this school. It ‘happens all the time.’”

The principle’s face was glowing red and a vein was pulsing on his forehead. “Don’t you think ‘sexual assault’ is a harsh description for a teenage prank?”

“Not at all. I think that is the technical legal description. I am a fourth degree black belt in Shotokan Karate, and I teach a self-defense course for women and minors every week. Placing your hands upon another person against their will is technically considered assault and battery, under law. Doing so for the purpose of sexual gratification is sexual assault. That is what he would be charged with if he did that in a military unit, or an office, or on the street somewhere.”

“This is not a military unit, an office, or the street. This is highschool...”

“A highschool that is failing royally in not preparing this boy for the real world.” He turned to Jack. “How old are you, son?”

“Fifteen,” Jack muttered, “And I’m not your freakin’ son.”

“I am sorry. Fifteen? You look older. I would have guessed 16 or 17,” Dan turned back to the principle. “In three years, he is going to be a legal majority and something like this will get him put in prison for a long, long time.” He stabbed his finger into the desk with every word, and then paused to let that thought sink in. “Not to mention it will ruin his life afterwards, being put on a sexual predator watch list. ‘Harmless pranks’ like this have a way of sticking with you.”

“Your opinion is duly noted,” Mr. Merckle snapped. “Did he do wrong? Yes. That does not justify the use of violence.”

“There we will have to agree to disagree. What you are telling me is that sexual harassment and abuse is rampant in this school, that the young girls here are powerless to protect themselves, and that the school faculty does absolutely nothing to protect them or put a stop to it.”

Mr. Merckle was silent.

“Can you understand why this is frustrating to me? As a father of a teenage daughter?”

“I understand that this is emotionally disturbing for you...” the principle began.

“Don’t give me that. Emotionally disturbing? Hell yeah it is emotionally disturbing!” He sighed and rested his chin in his hand, propped up on the arm of his chair. “I am not going to change your mind, am I? I think we’re done here. I’ve made my case and you have confirmed my opinion of this school. What is your decision?”

Jack was watching the exchange, almost holding his breath. And this dude was a black belt in karate? Shit! I hope I never piss him off. Wait, I already have. Way to go, me!

Mr. Merckle shrugged and held out his palms, helplessly. “The policies of this school. We cannot tolerate violence.”

“So you are suspending these two?”

“I have no alternative. I cannot make exceptions for one student that I will not make for another.”

Dan sighed. “For how long.”

“Our policy for first time offenders is three days.”

“Well, Ash, looks like you’ll just have to go help Tanner Sensei at the dojo for the next three days, after your homework is done, of course.”

“Bummer,” Ashley said, trying not to smile.

“You have a nice day, Mr. Merckle,” Dan shot straight up to his feet and strode out the door, followed by his daughter. He stuck his head back in. “Oh, and one more thing. My brother in law is editor of the Summersville Dispatch. If I ever hear that my daughter was sexually harassed in this school again, you can bet he will be hearing about it. And that goes not just for my daughter but any other girl in this school. And you can also expect to hear about this at the next school board meeting. I suggest you come up with a plan to do something about it.” The office shook as he slammed the door.

Budo 101: Part I*

*Warning: This story describes an offensive event, and so language and situations may be offensive to some and are not intended for young children.

Budo 101

“What do you think of that one?”

Jack followed the upward lift of chin and eyebrows down the hall to an open locker on the other side. A group of girls was standing around it, chatting, while one of them seemed temporarily stalled in the act of putting something into the locker, or perhaps taking it out.

“Which one?”

Deek Davidson tossed his thick blond curls and gestured with his chin again. He was too important to be bothered to point. “The brunette in the red tank top.”

“Nice,” Jack agreed automatically. “I’d tap that.”

“You’d tap anything that spread its legs for you,” Deek bumped him off balance with a shoulder. “Don’t lie. You’d do any one of them if you got the chance. You’d do fat-ass Maria ‘Pig’linski if you could find the right fold.”

Jack tried hard not to turn red. He laughed derisively and retorted, “Oh if only you knew!” What else could he say? He couldn’t deny that he was still a virgin, or Deek would have demanded details, a name, place, date, time, etc. details that he would have been unable to supply.

“But seriously, what do you think about the brunette?”

“Meh, she’s cute enough,” he adopted a tolerant, superior attitude. Oh yeah, she was fine. She was okay, if that was the best you could do. If you weren’t a 15-year-old sex god like he was.

“Yeah? Which one would you do?”

Actually, he secretly knew the brunette in the red tank top was the cutest of the bunch, but he felt rebellious. Why should Deek be right all the time? Which one was the next cutest? Not the little blond who looked like she was barely out of a training bra, and not the Asian chick who looked like a dude. Black girls? Hell no.

“I’d go with blue t-shirt.”

“Bullshit!”

“I’d do her all night long.”

“She’s got no boobs!”

“She’s got great boobs. Nice little handfuls. And look at that ass!”

“She looks like a track chick, and those bitches be crazy.”

“She’s hot.” Okay, “hot” was stretching it. She was tall but petite, toned and athletic looking. He could see divisions in the muscles of her upper arms when she brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She wore jeans and a blue t-shirt, and her bra strap showed nicely through the back, but otherwise her outfit was not super revealing.

“Bullshit.” Deek snorted.

“Whatever, man.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove it! Go up and talk to her. Better yet, go up and grab her ass.”

“That’s retarded.”

“Do it or you don’t have a hair on your balls. Pussy!”

“Come on, man. I gotta get to class.”

“Don’t try to chicken out! You said her boobs were nice little handfuls, right? Go right up behind her and grab them. Chicks like that. They pretend they don’t but they really do. Why else would they dress like that?”

“No, man, this is stupid. I’m not doing it.”

“Chicken! Buck-buck-ba-buck! Pussy!”

Each syllable hit him like a sledgehammer across the head, beating him into submission. As Deek continued, getting louder and louder, Jack could feel eyes around the crowded hall turning to look at him.

“Screw you, man,” he said. His body turned in a rush. Quickly now, he had to get it over with before he thought it through. Make it seem like an accident. Or a joke. Laugh and walk away....

He was right behind her. An agonizing pause. This was dumb, just forget the whole thing, but he heard a soft hiss behind him, “Pussy!”

He stepped forward, reached around her from both sides and grabbed.

A thrill of triumph shot through him. Nevermind that he had missed with his right hand, and had mostly a handful of ribs, he had done it. His heart was in his mouth, and he was seeing the world through a red haze of victory, while his pulse pounded in his temples like a marching band and a thousand cheerleaders.

“KIAI!!!!” The back of an elbow connected with his temple and he saw stars. Backing off with his head in his hands and a knot of deprecating excuses tangling his tongue, he saw the girl pivot to face him with her right knee raised to the level of her ear, it seemed. Then POW! Her sneaker shot straight out like a hydraulic piston, like King Leonidas’ sandal, and plowed into his sternum.

“Back off, creep!”  she yelled as he staggered back about six feet.

There she stood, eyes flashing, face burning with shame and anger, hands shaking and knotted in fists at her side. One leg was poised slightly behind the other, lightly on her toes, as if she was daring him to try again.

“What the hell is your problem?” she yelled.

“Hey, come on, chill bitch, it was just a joke,” he said reaching out to grab her. Why was he doing that?

He never got a hand on her. One hard little fist pummeled the inside of his forearm, batting it away, and she lunged forward with the other in a stiff arm to his chest, knocking him back again.

“I said, back off!” her voice was quieter now and she was unmistakably crouched in a martial arts stance.

“Come on, Jack, are you going to take that? Show that little bitch who’s boss,” Deek gave him a push from behind.

Jack reached out to grab her head with both hands but she was not there. She was behind him. A foot stomped on the back of his knee and it buckled. He threw his hands behind to catch himself, but she wrapped both of her arms around his head and twisted him around her hip. He spiraled face down on the ground and she dropped a hard, pointy knee into his back as he hit. He tried to roll over and grab her ankles but she bounced away.

“What the hell is your problem, dude?” The girl’s friends were surrounding her and a crowd had gathered, cellphones out like paparazzi cameras.

A pair of khakis pushed through the swarm of lenses. “What’s going on here?”

“Bitch went crazy!” The words tumbled out of Jack’s mouth.

“He grabbed me,” the girl retorted. He couldn’t tell if she was frightened or angry or both.

“That’s it! You, pick yourself up. Both of you follow me. Principle’s office, right now.”

Jack picked himself up and eyed the surrounding crowd. Cell-phones were still out snapping pictures right and left. He could practically hear the videos whirring. Perfect. This was probably going to be on youtube in five minutes. He didn’t know any of these kids.

Deek was nowhere to be seen.

Deadlift

Crushed my soul today

With three-fifteen times forty.

Useless without love.

The Price of Mastery

A little over a week ago I was deadlifting, which is one of my favorite lifts. It is a very heavy lift, in which the bar is resting on the ground and the lifter simply grips it and picks it up. I like the lift, but this particular time I went a little too heavy, and I lost my form. I tried to muscle through it anyway and ended up pulling a muscle in my lower back. So for the last week and a half I have been taking it easy. The whole next week I did not work out at all, and this week I am only running and biking. Next week I will add body weight exercises, and work my way back up.

The day after the injury I was visiting with my family in South Carolina, just sitting around eating ice cream, and I went into a series of back spasms that felt like they were bending my spine in half backwards. Never having experienced physical pain like that before, they rather took me by surprise, but eventually I took a muscle relaxer and the spasms stopped, or at least reduced enough so that I could function. It did not prevent me from continuing to visit, albeit from a prone position on the living room floor.

My Mom and my Aunt, lovely women that they are, went into full on maternal mode, offering every possible remedy and comfort they could think of, from a hot shower to a left over hydrocodone. My Aunt especially is an empathizer, to the point where I truly believe she feels pain sympathetically. She was more upset about it than I was. As I hobbled to the car, bent over like an old man, I told her, “It happens, you know? It’s just part of the price for living life. Sometimes the price is higher than others.” I don’t think it comforted her much, but it made a lot of sense to me.

In the intervening weeks of slow rehab I have been thinking about that statement, and I realize that I was touching on a far-reaching principle. To put the same thing another way, there is no greatness without sacrifice.

My cousin was once show-casing his photos at a photography show and an admiring person admitted, “I wish I could take pictures like that. You know, I wanted to be a photographer once. I got a camera and tried to learn, but all of my pictures were terrible.” When describing this event afterward my cousin said, “What I wanted to say was, ‘No you didn’t want to be a photographer. If you really wanted it you would have kept doing it over and over until you got it right. I can show you my early photos if you want. They suck. I just didn’t give up, that’s all.’”

The key component of talent, it seems, is the desire to do something. However, this desire is not simply the thought, “Oh, wouldn’t that be nice,” or at least it cannot be for very long. Unless you happen to be Mozart (prodigies do exist, although they are very rare) your initial attempts at any kind of greatness are not going to be great at all. They are going to be terrible. Even Mozart’s first compositions were not great compared to his mature work. They were comparatively great, great compared to the work of all the other three-year-old composers in the world.

In the same way, on a slightly less abrupt difference curve, the little girl who wants to be a dancer is not a great dancer. She does not have strength, grace, discipline or control, except compared to other little girls her own age. All she has is the raw desire, to dance, and a certainty that she can, in fact, do it. Whether or not she ever becomes a great dancer is entirely determined by what happens next. What encouragement will her efforts receive? Too little approval and she will lose confidence and give up. Too much, or the wrong kind of approval and she will think she already is a great dancer and will not work hard enough to achieve her full potential. Will she get distracted by lesser pleasures, such as parties, flirtations, pop-culture and allow the greater interest to be crowded out? Will she find a better goal, such as becoming a mother or a nun, and give up the lesser one to pursue the greater one?

(In any study of mastery there are two major questions: How does one become a master any given pursuit? And how does that mastery fit into the greater context of life? I only address the first question in this blog. The second would be topic enough for a book, rather than a blog.)

On thing is certain: if that little girl truly wants to become a dancer, she will have to sacrifice for it. She will have to turn a critical eye to her dancing as it is, comparing it to what it could be. She will have to avoid the temptation to blame her shortcomings on others, (“I would have, but I couldn’t afford lessons, my parents didn’t encourage me, it was a silly dream, I never had any encouragement, I wasn’t pretty enough, Lilly Perfect won that competition because her Dad knows the judges, etc.) She will have to choose to see failures as learning opportunities, and most of all she must not give up. She must pay the price.

The price is in getting up early or going to bed late, saying no to that extra slice of birthday cake, practicing your chosen pursuit when others are going out to the movies. It means being misunderstood by friends who do not see what you see, and think your insistence on following this particular echo very silly, especially when you are foregoing so much fun on the way. The price is in the sore muscles, or the physical discomfort of pushing your metabolic conditioning farther than it wants to go, or carrying heavy cameras up mountains to get that one perfect shot of the sunrise. The price is paid in injuries, sickness, boredom, hours and hours of mind-numbing, repetitious practice of the same basic scales and arpeggios over and over again.

So it is with deadlifting. When you rip a 450 Lb. bar off the ground and stand up straight and strong with a primal roar, feeling the steel flexing under the weight, feeling the power and stability from the soles of your feet, through flexed calves, knees straight but not locked, thighs hard as tree trunks under the strain, butt and hips tight, compact and locked, spine perfectly aligned, shoulders upright and sucked into their sockets, with every muscle of chest and back perfectly tensed to hold the posture, arms straight, forearms clenched, and fingers locked around the bar, there is a vitality in the experience that you could never feel without the risk, without the pain. There is more life, in the moment, a tiny expansion of the heart and body’s capacity for being alive. If you pay attention with mind and soul alive, there is food for them as well.

And then the price continues. As we age and get older, injuries become more frequent. Bones and joints become less resilient, muscles less flexible, pain more and more a constant. The abilities that we struggled so long and hard to perfect become harder, shakier, and eventually they slip away. We are left with the mystery of mortality, the loss of everything that we sacrificed so much to achieve, and the question, “Was it worth it?” But this gets into the second question, which I said I was not going to get into.

The point of this blog is simply that if you want to be good at anything, you must be willing to sacrifice. If you want to be great at something, you must sacrifice greatly. These are the beginning rumblings of a much further reaching set of thoughts. Who knows, maybe someday I will write a book. It will have to be a lot more organized than this, though.

Civilians is Silly

The other day I got to help my younger brother move furniture. He and his fiancee' are preparing to merge apartments as their wedding approaches, and moving several pickup truck loads of furniture was the next step. It was great to help out with that, because, both of us being busy adults, we had not gotten time to hang out in a few weeks. I was in Georgia, studying for my National Registry Paramedic exam (which I passed, thanks be to God) and he was, is, and still will be for some time, preparing for a wedding.

It is great to have a brother. Friends are great, a wife is awesome, but no one is ever going to understand you like a brother. We can talk about things with that, "You know what I'm saying?" "Yeah, I'm right there with you," "People just don't get it," "No, they don't," kind of agreement. We have different opinions and interests, but we get similar things because we start from the same principles.

Civilians, for instance. Both of us share a similar attitude toward civilians and city folks. We grew up on a farm and were, if not exactly dirt poor, at least soil rich. We liked to build things, break things, learn things, discuss things, argue about things, think about things, and question things. Every thing had a million functions, only a handful of which were included in the instructions. "Ready made" was not in our vocabulary.

Then both of us joined the military and spent years being shuffled like a bad card trick from one side of the globe to the other on various missions. We had no control, we had to be ready to pick up and go at a moments notice and so we learned to discern what was needed and what could be deleted or returned or simply done without. If it doesn't fit in a C-bag or rucksack, it obviously is not required or can be acquired, jury-rigged or hot-wired on-sight, overnight, in flight, on the go.

We have a casual disdain of plans, because they never work. When you make a plan, you have only succeeded in describing one of the million possible ways in which it definitely will not go down. More often than not you have blinded yourself to the one or two ways in which it probably will go down. Best to keep it loose, and just make it up as you go. Screw it, we'll do it live.

One of the biggest discoveries we have both made, which we sometimes commiserate about, is that civilians freak out over the silliest things. Whether it is running late for work, or the color or layout of party decorations, or whether or not they might get a black eye from sparring with friends, or how hard it is to walk up a mountain at 2 mph for a couple of hours, they freak out about it. I once saw a patient in the hospital who was a veteran. He was working in retail as a manager, and when one of his subordinates started freaking out about some boxes that got knocked off the shelf, he told him, "Shut the f--- up and quit crying. No one's got their arms or legs blown off by a suicide bomber have they? No one is dead. No one is getting shot at. So what's the big deal?" This resulted in a complaint, a trip to his superior's office and subsequent trips to a psychiatrist's office. He was unable to wrap his head around the concept that you can't talk to people like that in the civilian work force.

I get where he is coming from. Sometimes I get frustrated and just want to shake people and say, "Wake up! Are you seriously complaining because the server made you wait five minutes before he took your order? Are you starving to death? Are you that important? Do you realize that right now, in a hundred countries around the world (including this one) there are millions of people who are not eating at all? Broaden your horizons and stop being so small and pathetic." People who complain about office politics especially unnerve me, because A: I just want to tell them they haven't gotten shot, lost a patient, or blown themselves up so quit crying; and B: I am going to have to make it in that civilian workplace eventually.

I can talk about this with my brother. He gets it. I can talk about this with my wife. She gets me. Most people start to nod and nervously back away, so I learn to let it go. You see, while our background gives us advantages, it also comes with some drawbacks. Neither of us is good at relaxing. Or rather, what is relaxing to us is incredibly strenuous to others. We want to be engaged, mind, body, heart and soul. The glory of God is man fully alive, and we don't want to be even the least bit dead until we are all the way dead. So a relaxing Sunday afternoon might involve hiking up a mountain, or discussing astrophysics, human genomics, and the moral ramifications of both. As a matter of fact, if we are hiking up a mountain, we are probably discussing some heavy topic at the same time. So we are great at relaxing in our own way, but we have been living at such a high level of intensity for such a long time, that our idea of relaxing is skewed, and neither of us does well with boredom. He goes to school full time and works nights full time. I feel like a day that doesn't start at 4:30 AM and run non-stop until 10:30 PM is wasted. 

We sometimes have a hard time being patient with people who aren't patient with the vicissitudes of life. As my brother says, "We had no control over our lives for so long, we learned to just go with the flow and not stress out about it." (He split that infinitive, not I. I merely left it in, in the interests of historical accuracy.) It isn't life's ups and downs that frustrate us. It is the people who get frustrated at life's ups and downs.

All in all, we are well on our way to being either incredibly active and useful citizens or grumpy old men.

Whichever we end up becoming, we will probably be whole hearted about it. As my brother likes to say, "I never half-ass anything. I always whole-ass it." (Which I believe is a Ron Swanson quote.)

Or, as I would put it, "The generation that carried on the war has been set apart by its experience. Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire. It was given to us to learn at the outset that life is a profound and passionate thing. While we are permitted to scorn nothing but indifference, and do not pretend to undervalue the worldly rewards of ambition, we have seen with our own eyes, beyond and above the gold fields, the snowy heights of honor, and it is for us to bear the report to those who come after us. But, above all, we have learned that whether a man accepts from Fortune her spade, and will look downward and dig, or from Aspiration her axe and cord, and will scale the ice, the one and only success which it is his to command is to bring to his work a mighty heart." Oliver Wendel Holmes, 1884 Memorial Day Speech.

Real Men!!! Rawr!!!

The fact that you can pose with a chainsaw does not mitigate the fact that you are shaving.

 Yesterday my wife and I were video chatting with my parents to congratulate them on their 31st wedding anniversary. The conversation wandered, as conversations will, to gluten, autism spectrum disorders, the emerging links between ASD and autoimmune disorders, and the prevalence of hand sanitizer parents. We agreed that children probably need more dirt and less hand sanitizer in their lives to give their little immune systems more practice. Big, strong, barrel chested immune systems, that's what we need. This led my wife to tell a true story about her great-grandpa. 

One day, while he was working at the saw mill, a fan blade fell off of a scaffold and hit him in the head. It knocked him over and cut his scalp open. So he climbed down to the ground, picked up some dirt and stuck it in the wound to stop the bleeding, and then climbed back up to finish work. After the job was done they drove him four hours to Seattle, where the doctors opened and cleaned the wound and put in a steel plate to replace the missing piece of skull.

Of course both my wife told the story with gusto, pride and appreciation, and my Mom listened to it with the same feelings. How could you not? That is a Real Man! 

I looked at my Dad and said, "You see how they are both in awe of that? Just watch! What would happen if either you or I ever did anything like that?" 

My Dad laughed at the memories (he actually has things like that a time or two and so speaks from experience). "Oh, we would be dead! The fan wouldn't kill you. The wife would when you got home!"

As a case in point, when my dad got his leg caught in a grain auger, which miraculously broke and did not drag him in and chew him into sausage, he did not bother telling Mom because it was just a scratch. He only lost a few square inches of skin and muscle, and a pint or so of blood. Nothing to worry her about. He let my brother and sister know when he got home, expecting them to let Mom know when she got home. It wasn't his fault that they did not pass on the message, and her first clue was the blood soaked socks on the bathroom floor. Oddly enough, that did not go over so well.

It is part of the paradox of manhood, I suppose. I have written about it before, how women always want a "real man." They are attracted to men with strength, courage, determination, and a certain hardiness or indifference to physical hardship and danger. These virtues can take a lot of different forms, from soldiers, firefighters and rescue workers, to youth ministers, farmers, fishermen, mechanics, outdoorsmen, what have you. These virtues can also be found in men who work white collar jobs, although they may not be quite so obvious.
The point is that while these virtues may be attractive, they can also be inconvenient. Nearly every virtue is at some point. My wife doesn't like me to tell her about my Afghanistan days when I was digging up IED's with my field knife. She is all for having fewer IEDs in the world, but she doesn't want me to be the one doing it (I don't either. It was a pointless mission). A firefighter's wife might agree that someone should be putting out fires and rescuing the people trapped in them. She just doesn't want it to be her husband who has to do it.
That's why I love this picture. That is strength. The strength to be crucified. I have to remember that, but not only when endurance of pain, hardship or risk is required. I also have to remember it when the desire for these things comes. You see, if we are honest, I think we men admire stories like that, and sometimes we take the tough guy thing to an extreme because we want to be tough guys, and we want to be known as tough guys. I am not suggesting that Great Grandpa or my Dad was doing that, but I know that a lot of my crazier adventures, if I am honest about them, have not really been strictly speaking necessary. I did them to prove to myself that I could. A more enlightened manhood, I think, simply does what is necessary. If it is easy, he can live with that. If it is hard he can handle that too.

Occasionally he wrestles bears too. Just because it is fun.

Questions and Questions

I was talking with some guys today about Judges 13, the chapter where Samson's parents get the message from the angel that they are going to have a baby. It was interesting that the general consensus among the guys present was that the angel came to the wife first because she was more willing to trust, rather like Hannah, Elizabeth and Mary (although not like Sarah.) One guy even said that God might find it easier to work through women because they don't question as much.

Now to me, perhaps because I am a natural born questioner, that raises the question of what the purpose of the men is, then. Throughout the Church there seems to be this assumption that women are "more spiritual" and somehow more naturally "religious" than men, and that this somehow accounts for, or even excuses, the fact that most of the Catechism teachers, parish staff and pre-daily-Mass Rosary sayers are women. There seems to be a hidden attitude that the spiritual, naturally religious women are going to put up with the coarser, more cynical, more "questioning" men and coax, nag and all but drag them into heaven.

So what is the point of men? If you grant that men are more likely to ask questions and be pigheaded (which I may or may not grant) then what is the purpose of that? It was not intended to be an obstacle, but rather an aid to doing God's will. No trait that exists in any gender, personality type, or individual was designed by God as an unfortunate byproduct, but rather as a glory and a stairway to heaven, if used correctly.

So for myself, it helps if I remember that there are two kinds of questioning that I typically engage in. I question either rhetorically, "What do you think you are doing?" or I question wonderingly, "What are you doing, Lord?" The first is a challenge. I am expecting God to justify Himself to me, explain His actions so that I may judge and approve or disapprove them. The second is a request for education. I want Him to enlighten my mind so that I understand His ways, so that my thoughts become more like His thoughts and my ways more like His ways.

That typically masculine curiosity, and the desire simply to know things for their own sake, to understand ways and means, is not a bad thing. It is a good thing, if the attitude is one of humility, acknowledging that there are limits to what we can understand. If the fundamental attitude is one of trust that God has a reason and that His ways are good, then all the questioning in the world can never harm us or prevent us from doing His will. It can only draw us closer to Him, make us better students, better friends, and better sons (and daughters) of Him who delights to teach. I believe that God will eventually answer all such questions, and I certainly believe He means us to ask them, and to keep asking and asking, so long as we leave room our minds for His answers, not for what we expect His answers to be.

In this sense, that questioning attitude is a means of emptying the mind to make it more capable of holding the Word that made the Universe. Never give up your questions, or the fundamental trust that leads you to ask them in the first place.

The One Thing Necessary for the Triumph of Evil

In keeping with my last post, here is some food for thought that my little brother shared on facebook.

Granted, there is no point in jumping half cocked into a situation where you might end up getting stabbed or shot, and not do anyone any good. On the other hand, the sort of bullying shown in this video could easily have been stopped by nearly any college age adult with a half an ounce of confidence. People choose not to step in, not because of any reasonable fear of personal harm, but because of a kind of psychological and moral paralysis, which may be the subject of my next blog.

The decision about when and how to step in in more dangerous situations is a thornier question. I think I might do a blog on that as well.

In the meantime, I hope this video has given you some cause to think.

Why Chivalry Still Matters

To balance out my last post, I have always been an advocate of a modern chivalry, going so far as to write a book and a surfeit of blogs about it. Despite the fact that it is no longer a primary focus of mine, I still think it is both good and necessary. Make no mistake, the need for chivalry, for protection of women by men, is still very real in this world. However, a fake chivalry that thinks its duty fully discharged by having held the door or paid for a meal is not going to cut it. The only solution for a crime against women like that pictured to the left, is a real chivalry, with brains and balls, muscle and a soul of steel, and the willingness to suffer (or perhaps inflict) violence if necessary to protect the innocent. 

That  picture is an extreme, although not at all uncommon, example. Perhaps acid throwing and nose cutting happen only in Afghanistan or India or Timbuktu or some such outlandish place but I can almost guarantee that on your street, right now, there lives at least one battered woman or abused child. If you are a public school student I can promise you, you walk past a half dozen scenes of bullying every week. If you work in an office you probably witness at least one or two incidents of verbal abuse, sexual harassment or oppression a day. This is the field of modern chivalry.

Most of your cardboard armor "knights," whining and complaining that no damsel wants him to be her savior, endlessly going on and on about how chivalry is dead and feminism killed it, they are just not up to that challenge. Unless they stop living in a fantasy world and open their eyes and train themselves long and hard, they never will be.

Chivalry and Charity

Recently my cousin posted a link on facebook to an article about chivalry which sparked a bit of a long comment thread on the subject. There were numerous pro and con arguments, but the only con argument against chivalry that seemed any good to me was the question my cousin had, that if chivalry is simply a matter of courtesy and serving other people, then how is it any different from Christian Charity? It is a just question, and I have been thinking about it quite a bit in the weeks since. Most of this post comes from that thread, but some is the result of those weeks of thought.

First of all, it is important to understand that they are not the same thing. Charity is supernatural, and the culmination of all virtues at their essence. Chivalry is a humanly defined collection of virtues. An analogy would be the difference between “Star” and “the big dipper.” “Star” is a concept which includes all possible aspects of the true essence of star, from the scientific to the poetic, discovered and undiscovered. “Big dipper” on the other hand, is our word for a specific group of stars which bear a certain relationship from our two dimensional view, but which would be meaningless viewed from nearly any other point in three dimensional space. This does not mean that the concept of “big dipper” is useless, especially for someone trying to find polar north without a compass, but if we ever go to another solar system and search the night sky for directions we may find ourselves hopelessly lost.

Chivalry is the same way. It is a human concept with a specific historical origin and evolution. It is also a word for a specific collection of virtues. These virtues differ from one time and place to another, but they historically have always included at least these three: some martial or at least athletic connotation; the idea of scholarly excellence in a general, non-specialized sense; and a certain mannerly and respectful way of treating others, with an emphasis on those in positions of vulnerability.

Chivalry is not about holiness; it is about self-improvement. It will not get you to heaven. (See John Cardinal Newman’s “Idea of a University.”) It may make earth more enjoyable but it will not save your soul. If diligently followed it will make you respectful, athletic, a respectable fighter, interesting, sophisticated, dignified and a great conversationalist (already we are far removed from the idea of chivalry as a portable doorman for highly manicured ladies). These are all good things, and well worth pursuing if you have the time and inclination. However, chivalry will not make you humble or compassionate. It is no guarantee that you will ever learn how to love.

Chivalry is particularly interested in the relation of men and women because of its origin in the middle ages. It originated (according to Brad Miner in “The Compleat Gentleman”) specifically as a means to teach big, rough, tough, skull-crushing, Saracen-gutting, half-barbarian warrior types to regard women as people with rights, rather than merely as property. The element of service to women is an attempt to subdue the aggressive, lawless and particularly masculine to service of order, beauty and peace. Holding doors for women is a somewhat pathetic remnant of that.

Since it is a man-made concept, it must evolve with the times, something that most of the “bringin’ chivalry back!” (BCB) crowd does not realize. A lot of BCB-ers lament the absence of damsels in distress because they feel that distressed damsels are necessary for them to be chivalrous. As long as the damsels get through life steadfastly refusing to be distressed, you can’t blame the boys in cardboard armor for being a little put out. 

 The fact is that somehow or other, women do in fact manage to get through doors, get into and out of cars, and procure food items for themselves, even when men are not around. They seem to do it rather well. Therefore, if holding doors and paying for dates is seen as the measure of what chivalry is, well, thanks but I have better things to do

A more mature chivalry sees women with a critically balance poetry. He sees what is, namely, that women now-a-days are not as exaggeratedly vulnerable and crying out for a rescuer as Sleeping Beauty and his behavior towards them respects that. On the other hand he also recognizes that the vulnerability that the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale symbolizes is not a bad thing. Vulnerability is worth fighting for. It is worthwhile to cherish and value that side of a woman, while recognizing that it is not her only side. She is a fellow shipwrecked passenger, just like I am, and her ability to be vulnerable and beautiful is one of the most powerful strengths she brings to this lonely island. It would be a shame if that were lost because there was no one around to value it.

You see, a truly chivalrous man knows that it is a good thing to treat a lady like a lady, and knows also that a “lady” is not a euphemism for spoiled brat. A true lady is a very dangerous and powerful person indeed. She is not a Disney princess. She is not a tame lioness.

But that is the long way round. At its best, chivalry like all other virtues must first resemble and then finally be drawn into charity if it is not to become obsolete. Charity is better. While chivalry is an exclusive virtue in that some people can develop it and some people cannot, charity requires only that you be willing to know and love the other and be known and loved. It is open to man, woman, child, old person, scholar and day worker, athlete and invalid, fat, skinny, strong, weak, genius or dunce. It is better to be even the littlest of lovers than it is to be the greatest of knights. 

However, in the last year or so I have not thought about practicing chivalry at all. I have gradually been shifting my focus towards striving after charity. This does not mean I think that my previous focus on chivalry is superseded. I think it was valuable and worthwhile, for several reasons. 

Firstly, it was the search for chivalry that brought me to the point where I could recognize that charity is superior. That was the most powerful draw for a man of my personality, and I think it could draw other men just as strongly. That is why I will certainly teach it if I ever have sons, or am in any way in charge of the education of boys.

 Secondly, I do not think that concentrating more on charity will make me less chivalrous. Quite the contrary, I believe it will fulfill and make complete the chivalry that I have been practicing for years, but, alas, have still not mastered.

And thirdly, charity is as individual as people are. Every human's love is different from every other human's love. Chivalry was the most influential part of the raw material, and it imparts a strong flavor or color to the shape that my charity will take, when by God's grace it is full grown.

Tacloban, Part VI

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You know, people are beautiful, crazy things. When I went back to camp to catch some sleep the night that we finally got the airfield moving at night, a Filipino man called out to me as I walked by. “Hey, Sir!”

He was squatting on the concrete, with his wife and their littlest baby squatting next to him, and six or eight little dark eyed chitlins squatting all in a row behind him, along with some aunties or big sisters or some such relative.

“Hey Sir,” he said again and gestured to the line behind him. He was hopelessly at the back of the crowd, and there was no way he was getting on an airplane tonight. But he had seen lines of people being moved to the airplanes, and he had figured out what we were doing and had separated his family and lined them all up in a row, ready to go.

“Wow,” I said, “All lined up?”

He nodded and smiled hopefully and his wife and babies all looked up at me with big, dark, hopeful eyes that just made me feel like the biggest ogre on the planet for not getting them out right away. (Okay, so I am a sucker for little brown babies with big brown eyes. So sue me.)

What a leader! What a man! I could see that he truly cared about his family, and keeping them together and making sure they were safe was the most important thing to him. They trusted him. They squatted in line behind him, one behind the other, keeping quiet and still and cheerful among the chaos all around them.

What I would not have given to move them right to the front of the line, right then! But I could not. That would have caused a riot, in all likelihood, and that would have shut down loading operations. I had to smile and say, “Good for you. Hang in there,” and walk away.

When I went back again the next day, they were still squatting there, all lined up, and he smiled at me hopefully again. He was still cheerful, but he looked worn out. Other people were still in line ahead of him. I had to get Marilee’s people out, because I had promised, and I owed her. He watched that plane leave sadly, and moved his family into the next spot.

After that I was no longer running the airfield. The Marines had taken over now and I had to go do other things. As I left for the last time, he smiled at me, still hopefully, but with a bit more fear in his eyes. All I could do was point to the only seven rows of people still in front of him, count them out and smile encouragingly, and then walk away.

He was able to get his family out later that afternoon, I think, because there were several planes in later that day, and I didn’t see him again.

Blessings upon him and his family.

Deep Roots

"As to this salvation, the prophets who prophesied of the grace that would come to you made careful searches and inquiries, seeking to know what person or time the Spirit of Christ within them was indicating as He predicted the sufferings of Christ and the glories to follow. It was revealed to them that they were not serving themselves, but you, in these things which now have been announced to you." 1 Peter 1:10-12a

"Truly I say to you, among those born of women there has not arisen anyone greater than John the Baptist! Yet the one who is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he." Matthew 11:11

"Ryan, you do realize that you can't impress God, right?" Fr. Matthew Pawlikowski, LTC(Ch) U. S. Army 

Ever since I was a kid I dreamed of doing great things. My head was filled with stories of knights in armor, kings, saints, explorers, sages, writers. I have always dreamed of leaving my mark on the world, hopefully for the better. I did not want to be average. I wanted my name to be known and to influence the lives of hundreds of people, or thousands. These dreams have taken a multitude of shapes and have led me to do extraordinary things. They led me to sacrifice a decade of my life to the military with ruthless single-mindedness. The caused me to spend my life trying to build myself up into a warrior and a scholar, in the hopes that when the opportunity came, I would be ready to step up to the plate. 

These dreams all have one thing in common. None of them have come true. I find myself in the odd position of having spent my life thus far chasing the means, and being (it seems) no closer to the ends than I ever was. The means fail to satisfy, as they inevitably must, and I, like everyone from time to time, am left with a feeling that I am wasting my life and my gifts. 

At times like this, you need someone who loves you, because she (assuming that it is in fact a she, although a he could do it in a pinch, though not in the same way) will see you more clearly than you can see yourself. If she is close to God, she will be able to give you just a tiny glimpse of how God sees you also, which is the only point of view that really matters in the end.

She will point out that no life is wasted that is lived with love; that ultimately it is up to God to put a value on your life, not you; and that simply because you cannot see the fruit of your actions, that does not mean that they are not or will not bear fruit. 

She will remind you of the great cathedrals, like Notre Dame, which took ninety years to build from 1160-1250, and even when the main construction was finished in 1250, remodeling and other building processes on smaller elements continued for almost another hundred years. The men who broke their backs and spent the the strength of their youth laying the foundations of this magnificent act of worship, never saw its completion. They were long since dead, having left behind a solid base to build upon and strong sons to build upon it. They left millions of tons of rock in the ground, and the Rock of faith in the hearts of the next generation. Even that generation would not live long to enjoy the completed cathedral. Ninety years is a long time. Three generations of men could put in thirty good years of labor on that one building before any of them would see it completed. Did the old gaffer who spent his entire life putting tons of anonymous gravel into an oddly shaped pit by hand, waste that life?

I took a trip to about a year ago to give a talk at John Paul the Great Academy in Lafeyette, LA. The school is housed in an old monastery that the school purchased in a miracle $10,000,000.00 fund raising campaign last summer. The grounds and building are beautiful, old, immaculately kept by volunteers without pay, the perfect venue for a classical Catholic education. The school was established by local Catholic families who simply wanted an alternative to the larger and more expensive parochial schools, or the public schools. They put a lot of time and effort into making this school a thriving organization. It is not an exaggeration to say that they offered up their "lives, fortunes and sacred honor," to providing a worthy education for their children.

One of the things that most struck me about the school grounds, one of its most amazing features, are the trees. (Just so you know, I love trees!) The grounds of JPG Academy are full of gorgeous old oak trees, all well over a hundred years old.

This one was my favorite!

 
The trees are a great metaphor for the school itself, especially the trees that line the front drive. They were originally planted back at the turn of the century, and then ten or twelve years later dug up and moved again to make the lane wider to accommodate automobiles. Now, over a hundred years later, they shade the drive up from the road to the school building. The contrast is unreal. You turn off of a fairly busy country highway, which was baking in the August Louisiana sunshine when I was there, and find yourself in a long, quiet, cool, peaceful tunnel. The tunnel leads you gently away from the noise of traffic and the heat of the exposed highway into the school grounds, and the great old stone building, and the shade of ancient trees, and the sounds of children's laughter. 

Some man saw all of that, or perhaps only part of it (he probably did not foresee it being a school) and he designed and commissioned the driveway. He chose trees of good stock and set their roots in good soil. His successors tended those trees, as just one of their many responsibilities, keeping the Spanish moth and diseases in check, weeding around them, keeping the lawns, maintaining the pavement, cutting back the ivy when it showed up. They did not see the drive as I saw it.

And I did not see it as God sees it. But God does, and that is all that matters.

Greatness is worth striving for, as is renown and influence and changing the world. All of these are good to aspire to, mostly so that you will learn faster that they are illusions, and the only greatness that matters is the greatness of doing God's will, doing the work that He gives you to do, and doing it well, forgetting about yourself and your own glory and simply looking at Him.

He is all that matters.