Reflections

Every morning I see him. I'm usually only about three blocks from work, but there he is. I would guess he is probably in the sixth grade because he is walking toward the local middle school. He could be in seventh, but if he is he is small for his age. Lately, his face is barely visible with his hooded jacket pulled up over his head....the draw string pulled tightly so that a circle of cloth covers most of his face. His too long jacket sleeves hang down over his hands, probably a blessing on the cold mornings as he walks to school. I've observed him now for nearly a year. As I look upon this young man...still only a boy, I see glimpses of myself.

He appears to be lonely. Just the other day, my heart ached for him as I watched him run up the street to catch up with another boy walking to school. The other boy appeared older, at least six inches taller. It was like the young boy wanted to be noticed...to belong to a group, even if it was only a group of two. In my heart, I was hoping that I would see the two of them walking down the street in the morning...talking...laughing...doing the things young boys should be doing at that age. But the next day, and every day since, the young boys walks alone.

On those morning when I take the short cut and drive up his street, I can see him walking toward me instead of only away from me...going in the same direction as I drive. I look into his face and I rarely see a smile. He has never waved, which seems strange to me. I would think if you saw the same car every day as you walked to school, there would come a day when you would wave, if only to see if the driver would wave back. It makes me wonder what his young mind is thinking. Is he afraid? Has our culture and society become so dark and evil that a young boy wouldn't even wave at a familiar car? Would that be me?

That young boy isn't the only one that I've noticed in the past few weeks. As I stand on the stage at church each Sunday in the choir, I have a chance to look out over the congregation. I can see the faces of each person as they worship...or don't. There's a young man, probably twelve or thirteen who sits next to his adopted family. I know his story. His father murdered his mom a year ago and he and his brothers and sisters moved here to live with his aunt and uncle. He has since been legally adopted by them. A few months ago he gave his testimony during a Sunday night service...about how angry he was with God when his mom was killed. He told how the sheriff came to school to pick up him and his brothers and sisters to tell him what had happened.

I watch him during worship as he struggles to try to praise a God who loves him and to enter a place of peace and worship. He rarely smiles...but I can understand that. I can see his lips move as he sings the songs and I smile inside that he is able to do that. Yesterday, his hands tapped a drum beat on the chair in front of him as he joined in the worship chorus.

Yet as I watch him there with his adoptive family, I see a lonely boy who should be with the other kids from the youth group. Most of them are over in the other venue with the guitar driven worship designed for a younger audience. It makes me wonder why he is here...in this service, where he is the youngest in the room. Does he need the presence of his new family? Is there a fear of abandonment in his soul that if he doesn't stay with his new family, they may be taken from him too? I long to see joy in his face, but it doesn't appear.

There is one more boy who has drawn my attention this week. I would guess him to be about five or six. He was singing...or more accurately, a participant, in the children's choir at church last night. I'm not sure what attracted me to him. It may have been his wild, black hair that reminded me of my hair in my senior portrait when I graduated from high school. He has a beautiful smile, but he rarely revealed it last night. He was concentrating too hard on the choir director and the sign language he was supposed to perform along with the song he was supposed to be singing. His dark eyes matched his olive complexion. I don't know his nationality, but he appeared to be Mediterranean.

It was apparent from watching him that he had probably missed most, if not all, of the rehearsals for the performance last night. His mouth barely moved, not knowing the words to the songs. And his sign language gestures were usually at least a full sentence behind, his head on a swivel looking to the right and left to see what the other kids were doing and trying to follow. There were a few moments when a smile would brighten his face as he moved in unison with the other kids.

As I stood in the audience watching the kids in the children's choir sing and perform, I felt an ache in my heart. That question that occasionally comes to mind, did.

"Why couldn't I have been a part of something like this when I was growing up?" I don't know if it would have changed my life, but I believe that it might have. It might have given me a sense of belonging...a sense of purpose in my young life. It might have given me the courage and boldness to stand up for things that I knew were right when I became a teenage instead of becoming a part of the "group", just so I could feel a sense of belonging.

When I look in the mirror of my life, I too often see the lonely boy walking to school alone...awkward and different. I see the boy who stays with his family instead of finding friends his own age...afraid of being alone, of being abandoned. I see the boy who is intent on being a part of a group...any group, even if he doesn't really belong in it. I see a boy who seeks to please others....even at the expense of himself.

I see...me.

"Blue Fly"

I have to admit that there was a part of me that was still filled with fear as I walked through the steel doors and onto the main yard that very first time. Even though I knew that God had made promises to me to keep me safe, and to deliver me at the end of my sentence, my flesh was uncertain. I'd never been in trouble before, and I'd certainly never spent time around "felons". My vision of the men I was about to meet had come from the media only...and we all know how accurate it is. But I have to admit in this case, they weren't all wrong.

His name was "Blue Fly". I didn't know the origin of his name, but I'm sure there was a story behind it. If the casting director for "Law and Order" or some other mindless TV cop show was looking for a criminal to cast in one of their episodes, this man was it. He had "banger" written all over him. An African-American, his dark skin couldn't cover there abundance of tattoos that seemed to cover nearly every inch of his exposed skin. When he smiled (which never seemed to have the warmth that I looked for in smiles), the diamonds embedded in his gold teeth shimmered in the desert sunshine. There was a pretty large African-American population in the prison, and Blue Fly was one of the loudest, most foul-mouthed among the group. Even those men in his own gambling group got tired of his outbursts.

Like many of the men who lived beside me, Blue Fly was not a man that you would want to trust with anything that you might need the next day. He was a thief and a liar...and the rumors were, a snitch. Whenever he was busted for a violation and sent to the SHU...the "special housing unit", or as I like to call it, the "hole", he would soon be released back into the general population. And it seemed others would take his place in those solitary cells, compliments of Blue Fly's tongue.

I didn't have much contact with Blue Fly even though he lived in the same unit that I did. I intentionally stayed out of his way, as well as the paths of many other men like him. But a funny thing happened...he noticed me anyway and I didn't even realize it at the time. The truth is, I tried to stay invisible to most men in that dark place. If they couldn't see me, they wouldn't be able to ask me any questions. And if they didn't ask me any questions, I would be safer because there would be less chance that they would learn of my crime and why I had been sent here. But while I was trying to stay hidden and quiet, spending most of my time in my cube reading my Bible or in the Chapel at work, I was making myself stand out because I was different than most of the other men here. And in the end, it changed a life.

No one was probably more shocked than I was the day Blue Fly walked into the Chapel office.

"I hear you guys got free Bibles", he said. He stood there, not able to keep his eyes on me, glancing to the right and the left as if to see if there might be anyone who saw him in the Chapel.

I looked up from my work and took a moment to try to be sure I understood him correctly.

"Yes, we have Bibles for the men", I answered. "Would you like one?"

He said yes and I went to the shelf behind my desk and pulled out a brand new Nelson Study Bible that had been donated to the Chapel.

"I never read any of this before. Where's a good place to start?" he asked.

As I sat there, I was struck by a change in this man that I had been so uncomfortable with before. He didn't look nearly as scary or "hard" to me today. In fact, he looked somewhat vulnerable.

"A lot of people say to start with the Book of John", I respond "but I would start with the Book of Mathew and read all four of the Gospels. That way you can get a broader picture of who Jesus is."

He thanked me as he turned and walked out of the office. I am a little ashamed to say that I didn't expect Blue Fly to read more than two pages in his new book. I didn't know what had motivated him to come to the Chapel and ask for a Bible, but I was sure it wasn't because he was looking for Christ. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The next day, he was in the Chapel again.

"You got anything to help me understand all this stuff I'm reading?" he asked. He wasn't looking around sheepishly today. Something was different about him. He looked even less "hard" today and there was a determination in his voice and in his eyes that told me he was serious...even if only for a day. I told him about our library and some books that he might want to use as references. He would spend hours in the Chapel library each day pouring over his Bible and the resources that might make it make sense to him.

"Can I take any of these back to the unit?" he asked one day. "There isn't enough time here to be able to read all this stuff."

I told him which books he was welcome to take with him and which had to stay in the library and he was soon packing an arm full of books back to the unit like a college kid on any campus across the country. Each day as I left the unit to head to the Chapel to work, I would see Blue Fly at one of the tables in the day room with all of his books spread out...reading and studying. He was soon getting harassed by some of the other inmates for taking up an entire table for all of his stuff, but no one pushed him out.

About a month after Blue Fly first came into the Chapel for his first Bible, he came into the office again. He pulled up a chair and sat down across from me.

"How are you doing today, Fly?", I asked him.

"I'm not Blue Fly anymore", he said. "My real name is James and that's what I want to be called now."

It struck me what a change had taken place in this man in the past thirty days. I had seen a miracle of God performed in a federal prison in the middle of the California desert that I hadn't believed would occur. And I was to soon learn that God had used me to make it happen.

A few days later, "James" was back at the Chapel.

"I wanted to thank you", he said. "It's because of you that I started to read the Bible and learn about Jesus."

I sat there speechless. I quietly racked my brains trying to remember when I had ever talked to this man about Christ. And the truth is, I hadn't. I'd never invited him to church. I'd never told him he needed Jesus. I'd never told him he was a sinner destined to spend eternity in Hell. I'd made it a practice to not talk to him at all. As it turned out, it was my life and the way I was living in this little corner of Hell that drew his attention to me. The peace that I lived in. The calmness of my demeanor. My ability to smile when there was nothing to smile about and my unwillingness to fall prey to the lack of hope and futility that is bred in prison. I had simply done my best to "walk my (silent) talk" and live as a Godly man.

I'm not sure what happened to James. He continued to roll in and out of the SHU. He found himself more and more frequently persecuted by his "old friends" for seeking a way out of his old life. One day, he went into the SHU and he never came back out. The rumor mill said that he had been transferred to another institution. I pray that's what happened...that God in His mercy and sent James to a new mission field where he could start his life there as a Christian man who had been in bondage and had found freedom in a carpenter from Galilee.

Christmas "De"

Christmas season...2004! My first Christmas in prison and I had no idea what to expect. Some of the other inmates had told me about the Christmas "bag" that we would receive on Christmas eve, but for some reason, the idea of a bag of candy and cookies...and jalapeno flavor ramen didn't get me too excited. I knew that my contact with any family from the outside would be limited. Paula and I had agreed to cease any communication for about three months over the winter of that first year in prison. The months of December through February held too many memories...some of the happiest days of our lives...and some of the most painful. I honestly didn't know how I would survive! But God is a God of miracles...and God of great love. He always knows our deepest needs.

I had been singing in the church choir at church for about three months by now and each year the chapel put on a Christmas program for the entire compound. All of the different Christian
"churches" that were at prison were invited to attend and participate. As a part of the program, a combined choir was formed to sing a couple of songs together. And that's when God sent me a gift...a gift I will remember forever and who I occasionally think and wonder about. His name is De.

I had seen this young Vietnamese often in the chapel. He was a leader in the Catholic group and would often come into the chapel office to pick up their box for a Bible study or to get ready for their Wednesday afternoon mass. We had never really visited...just a shy smile on his part and a "howdy" on mine. I had never even bothered to ask him his name...he was just another face. But he is one of those people who have something about them that is attractive to me. It is probably the twinkle of his eyes...or the gentleness of his smile. Whatever it was, it had remained hidden from me until that first Christmas.

One of the songs that we did as a combined choir was "The 12 Days of Christmas" and the choir director assigned a part of twelve of us to sing the short verse about "our" day of Christmas. As it turned out, I had day eight, and De had day seven. As a result, I had to learn who it was I followed as I sang my little chorus over and over as we worked our way through the song. At first, when the director said that I followed "De", I didn't understand what he meant. I thought maybe I misunderstood what he said.

"Day?", wondered to myself. Does that make me "night"? But after a while, I figured out that De was the young man's name and we would often sit or stand next to one another during the practices. And it started to become apparent to me that this was a special young man. In my eyes, his smile began to blossom and his eyes shone like diamonds in the sunshine. I didn't know yet what a blessing this man was to be to me. I just knew that he was a nice guy and I felt good when I would see him or he would stop and say hello in the chapel office.

Prison is a very lonely place to be...and sometimes I think maybe it was lonelier for me than it might have been for some others. Because of my crime, I could never (and did never) share why I was there. What made it worse for me sometimes was the guilt that I felt because of the deeper nature of my crime...that the pornography that I had viewed was of gay teenage sex. My entire life, I've struggled with having any kind of feelings for another male...and those feelings virtually always resulted in feelings of guilt. I'm sure that's part of the reason that I had never been able to have kind of a healthy relationship with other men. My boundaries had been destroyed as a child and I never discovered where they were supposed to be. And I was to afraid..or ashamed...to ask anyone to help me find them.

But De helped to change that for me. De was a toucher...and my love language is touch. Deep within my being, my heart longs to be touched...to be caressed...to be acknowledged! I would find myself working at the desk in the chapel office when all of a sudden, I would feel firm, yet gentle hands, rubbing my shoulders as I sat at the typewriters. I would begin to melt under the touch of someones hands on me who was rubbing my shoulders simply because he believed it would feel good. No ulterior motive! No expectation of anything in return. Just a simple act of love that he will never know he demonstrated toward me.

Through his occasional shoulder rubs and his smiles....the gift of a hot cup of coffee on a cold January day...the package of cookies just because he appreciated all I did for all of the religious groups that used the chapel, he helped to define boundaries in my life when it comes to men. I would enjoy his touch without feeling guilt. I could accept his smile without wondering if something might be expected. I could return his shoulder rubs and relish in the knowledge that the closed eyes and the smile on his face were a genuine appreciation of the gift I was returning to him. A way of loving another man in a healthy way. Something I had never been able to do.

Christmas 2006 was the hardest Christmas I have ever experienced. I walked the track that evening with tears rolling down my cheeks, praying to God for Paula and the family that was having Christmas without me...praying that they might find some joy in this sacred day. And thanking God that He had not forgotten me in this unforgettable place. That He knew what it was that I needed...to know that I was loved, and how I needed to be loved. And He sent me a gift...a friend and new understandings.

Amputation.

As a 52 year old man, my body has had it share of hurts and pains. My hands are a constant visual reminder of careless times with objects with very sharp edges. My thighs a constant reminder of offending my dad...and of the price felt at the end of a willow switch. There are times when it is a struggle to get up from my chair at work after sitting in front of my computer for hours and I remember days when the pain in my shoulders was so great I couldn't write on the chalkboard of my classroom. The four inch thick mattress on a sheet of steel that I slept on for three years while in prison will probably always leave a toll on my back and my feet. But there is an interesting thing about all of those pains. No matter how hard I try to remember what that pain actually felt like, I can't. I only know that it hurt at the time. I am sure that is God's blessing because we all fall down at times and we all experience physical pain...some of us more than others.

But there is another kind of pain that I am feeling today...and have been for the past several weeks. I compare it to the "phantom pain" that people who have had amputations feel. It is the pain that comes from looking at back at the memories from my past and knowing that they are gone forever. Like the leg lost in battle in Iraq, the "phantom pain" the soldier experiences is akin to the pain I feel at the loss of a wife, a family, a career...at at times, my own self respect.

Last weekend I travelled to my sister's to spend the weekend and pick of the remainder of my possessions that have been in storage with friends since I was sent to prison. On the one hand, it was a wonderful weekend spent with my sister. Her love and support for me have been beyond expectation! Driving down to her home on Friday night, I had no concept of the emotional roller coaster that was facing me. I wasn't prepared for the memory flood that I was going to experience in the next 48 hours, and I still haven't recovered from.

As we descended into the dank, musty basement when my "stuff" was stored and rounded the corner where the boxes were stacked, I was immediately overwhelmed. I just didn't remember that I had left so many boxes here. I thought I would find two or three boxes that we would quickly put in the trunk of my car, go have lunch with my friends Gloria and Alger and be on our way to a day of antique shopping that we had planned. Instead, it was a process of going through every box to sort and repack so I could get it home.

My sister described to some degree the process of sorting through the items in a recent blog she titled "Courage". A strange title as I think about it. I didn't feel courageous...only empty. My tears were constantly right at the brim of overflowing, but it seemed that I had mourned all of this before. Why was I feeling it all over again? Why did I feel like a shell...all of my vitality somehow drained away? Why was the pain coming back like torrents in the midst of a hurricane?

I can only describe it as "phantom pain". The pictures of the most beautiful women I have ever met and a woman that loved me beyond measure...now only a memory. Pictures of my kids that are no longer a part of my life...now only an image on paper. The memory of holding each of my grand kids in my arms within minutes of their birth...fading with each passing day with the knowledge that I may never, ever see them again, let alone hold them. Pain in my heart so overwhelming that I can't describe it...except to say that I can still feel it long after it should be gone! Memories amputated by poor choices on my part, no matter how long ago. A part of my life, but no longer a part of me.

On MY Road to Damascus

I don't remember exactly when I started down this road. It may have been when I was molested for the first time. Or it may have been when I viewed my first pornography...or the second...or the thousandth. I may have taken the first stem on that spring day when I first discovered the pleasures of masturbation. Or was on my first sexual encounter with another boy near my own age. I'm not sure I will ever know. But, sadly, I've discovered that this road leads away from life...and toward a lonely, painful death.

I recently read the story of Paul in the Book of Acts again when he had his encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus. He went by the name of Saul at this point in his life. He was a strict Pharisee, as religious as they came. And he hated anyone who believed that Jesus was who He claimed to be...the Son of God. So he started down a path...a road...to try to rid the earth of as many Christians as he could. It appears that he was doing such a good job that he wanted to go after those who had moved out of his "hunting" range. Paul got permission from the big mucky-mucks in the church and went out of country to arrest Christ's followers.

But a funny...or not so funny, depending on your perspective...thing happened to Paul as he and some of his fellow travelers where walking down a dusty road leading to Damascus. God didn't seem to like what Paul was up to so He paid him a little visit. Appearing as a bright, blinding light, Jesus touched Paul and he fell to his knees in awe and fear. And in blindness. After a few words with the Master, Paul picks himself up off the ground to find that he can't see and his travelling companions guide him into town where he decides to fast for three days.

It's the next part of this story that has had the greatest impact on me. God tells a Christian living in Damascus to go to Paul and pray for him so he can receive his sight back. And when this man, Ananias, prays for Paul, the Bible says that "scales" fell from Paul's eyes and he was able to see again. I know what that must have felt like because I had been living with scales on my eyes for years...probably decades.

As I look back on the season of my life when I was more or less addicted to pornography and chat on the Internet, it is still difficult for me to comprehend how I could put so much at risk to look at some pictures or read the words that someone I didn't know and would never meet had written for me. How could I prefer to spend hours and hours in chat rooms with "fantasies" when the real world that surrounded me contained all that I loved and cherished. Many people have asked me that question and I never have a good answer. "I don't really know or understand" sounds pretty lame even to me.

More than one person has told me that I couldn't see it, even if I had been looking for it, because I was completely and totally blinded by the sin that I had allowed to creep into my life and establish a stronghold. Even though my wife Paula had told me in no uncertain terms that if I ever went back on-line to chat with boys again, our marriage would be over and I would lose my kids and grandkids, it didn't sink in. Even though I had sat in meetings where we were warned against the problems of pornography in the schools and among professional educators and the consequences if they got caught, I never saw it. And even when a teacher in one of the schools in the district where I was working as an administrator was suspended for having pornography on his school computer, it never occurred to me that anything like that could happen to me. I just couldn't see it!

In the Book of Acts, Paul thought that he had it made as he started out on his little trip to Damascus. He couldn't see the truth of the ancient Hebrew Scriptures that he most likely had memorized. All around him, prophesy was being fulfilled, but he didn't see it. It took an interruption into his life by Christ before he was able to actually see the truth that he had been seeking his entire life. As we read through the remainder of the Book of Acts, we see that the truth for Paul would bring him pain and suffering, and ultimately death. But at least he died seeing the truth.

Like Paul, God interrupted my life as well (not that I can compare myself to Paul). I was living in a life filled with sin that had blinded me from the beauty of the life that God had given me. So He showed up in a big way. I never saw the possibility of the FBI showing up in my office as I would sit at my computer for hours on end. The thought of having to face my board of directors and submit my resignation for being in possession of child pornography had been as likely in my mind as being elected president of the United States. The image of me curled on the floor of my condo, cold and alone, with tears spilling out and staining the carpet as my wife drove away had never entered my mind. But all of it happened.

I can look back now...from a distance of nearly five years...and most of the pain is gone. The loss is still there. My wife and family are still gone. My career is history and can never be an option for the future. The reputation and respect that I had enjoyed for years is still tarnished, though there are a few spots that still have a little sparkle to them. But something else is gone as well. The blindness to the sin that had bound me for so many years is no longer there. Like Paul, the "scales" that were on my eyes fell off...or more likely, were washed away by gallons of tears. I celebrate the day on the road to MY Damascus when I encountered the reality and relationship of God for perhaps the very first time. The day He took away my blindness. The day He turned me around and started me down a road that is leading to life...a new life...and not the death and Hell that I was living in.

Out of the Cave

As a young boy, I loved the mountain that rose up behind our farm. I can't count the number of warm summer days that my brothers, and sometimes my sister, would climb and play on that mountain. As we would look up at it from our dairy farm in the valley below, there were three "cliffs" that stair stepped their way up the side of the mountain. The highest one was made up of a giant rock that jutted out from the side of the hill, most likely left behind by a slow moving glacier many millenia ago. Lying at the base of the "third cliff" was a field of rocks and boulders that lay scattered randomly until they eventually disappeared into the forest below. The cliff and the rocks below provided the backdrop for countless adventures of cowboys and Indians, playing "Army" and hunts for hidden, buried treasure.

I can remember one summer day when my brothers and I decided to explore the rocks at the base of the cliff. We had climbed over the rocks numerous times, often times stopping at the "big cave". It wasn't a cave in the classical sense, it was actually a hollow created by the arrangement of the way the large rocks lay on top of each other. We would sometimes find bones laying on the floor of the cave, igniting the imagination...and perhaps a little fear...in the mind of this young adventure seeker.

What kind of bones could they be? Maybe the remains of some unlucky hiker ravaged by a hungry bear. Or perhaps the bones of a deer or some other wild animal that had spent their last moments under the protection of the large flat stone that served as the roof of the cave. The fact that most of the bones we found in the dirt floor of the cave had neatly sawed edges didn't occur to the active minds of those young boys. We were exploring and reality rarely invades the minds of an adventurous spirit.

As we worked our way along the rocks in the heat of that summer day, my little brother Geoff yelled over to us.

"I think I found a real cave", he hollered. "The opening isn't very big, but it looks like it goes back a long way."

My older brother Frank and I climbed up and over the rocks to where Geoff was on his hands and knees, his body neck deep into a small opening in the huge stack of rocks and boulders.

"How far can you see?", Frank asked. As the oldest, he immediately took charge, encouraging Geoff with a pull of his shirt tail to back out of the "cave" so he could get a better look.

Soon, Frank was working his way into the opening between the rocks. At first, his head and shoulders moved through the crack. His hips and finally his legs and feet soon followed. Geoff and I knelt on the hard rocks outside this newly unearthed cave, waiting and wondering what kind of treasure Frank was going to get to discover while we waited outside.

"Wow!", we soon heard coming out of the opening. "It was kind of tight getting in here, but it opens up into a big room. You guys should come in here."

It didn't take another invitation for Geoff and he was quickly slipping in through the hole, his body wiggling and sliding inside. I moved closer to the opening, slowly peering inside. It was a lot darker than I thought it would be. The "big cave" was never this dark. Of course the fact that it was only about eight feet deep with a six foot opening would explain that, but I wasn't thinking about that right at that moment. Instead, a feeling of fear and dread slowly crept around my chest, squeezing my heart and lungs until I could barely breathe.

"Come on, Mark", I heard from inside. I couldn't tell whose voice it was...Geoff's or Frank's. "Could they be that far in there?", I wondered?

I leaned closer to the opening. "It's probably getting pretty full in there with both of you now", I yelled in. "If I come in, we probably won't be able to move around or explore." I figured that my words and my "selflessness" would be warmly received and my brothers would simply start exploring this new discovery on their own.

"Come on, you chicken!" I didn't have to try to figure out whose words those were. My little brother was calling is as he saw it. I was standing outside and he was inside and he knew I didn't really want to crawl in that hole

"I'm not a chicken!", my voice weakly replied. "If we don't have room to move around, it won't be my fault", I bravely yelled in. I lowered myself to my belly and started to work my way inside this narrow cave. The air was cool and smelled of fresh dirt and an odor you can only discover by being underground. I soon found my entire body underneath the rock at the base of that third cliff, moving slowly deeper into the core of the mountain.

"How much further?", I called out.

"You're almost here", Frank replied. "Pretty soon, you're going to feel the edge of the tunnel fall away. There's about a two foot drop and then a big room." Sure enough, in a couple more wiggles of my body, I could feel with my hands that the floor of the tunnel was gone. I pushed myself a little deeper and as I bend over the edge of the end of the tunnel, I could feel the floor of the cave with my scraped hands. I soon found myself inside a room that was blacker than anyplace I could have ever imagined. No matter which way you turned, you couldn't see anything.

Suddenly, I was nearly blinded as the explosion of a match lit up the room. As the match settled into a small flame, I could see Frank and Geoff in the middle of a room created by the position of numerous rocks laying against each other. As the match slowly burned down, we looked around the room. Hoping that we might find treasure or maybe even Indian paintings on the walls, we were disappointed to simply see grey rock all around us. Geoff moved around the room, looking in the corners. Soon we were in pitch blackness once again and I could feel that tightness around my chest returning.

"Hey, light another match", Geoff called out. "I think I found another opening over here." The room was soon bathed in the warm, yellow light of another match as we looked around, once again seeing Geoff's legs and butt poking out of a hole in a far corner of the room.

"Can you see anything?" Frank asked. "No. It's really dark down there. Give me a match and let me see if I can see where it goes", Geoff called back. Frank handed him the book of matches as Geoff retreated from the opening. Grasping one of the match in one hand and the book in the other, he crawled back into hole. We could see the faint glare of light as it leaked around his body, poking out from the hole in the corner of this dark room.

"It looks like a tunnel that goes down for a while", Geoff said as he slid out of the opening and back into the room. "I think if I go in feet first, I can slide over the edge to maybe another room deeper in", he continued. That constriction grabbed my chest again.

"I...I dunno", I said, with probably a little stammer in my voice. "It's getting kind of late. We should probably head back don't you think?" The room was pitch dark, hiding the fear that would be so visible on my face and on my body that was visibly shaking by now. "Come on", Geoff pleaded. "Let me see if I can reach the bottom."

Outvoted, I stood back as Frank lit another match and Geoff moved into position at the opening to the hole, his feet wiggling into the dark opening. He continued to push himself back until only his face was visible. "I'm at the edge", he said. As the match faded, Geoff disappeared from our view as the cave was once again veiled in the darkest blackness.

Frank was just striking the match when we heard it. "Help!" We peered into the corner where the opening was and Geoff was no longer visible. "Heeeellllpp! I can't reach the bottom", he cried out. As Frank bent down, he could see Geoff's fingers on the edge of the tunnel ledge, his body completely out of view. "Hold on", he yelled. Dropping the matches, he slid into the tunnel after my little brother. I fell to my hands and knees, scrambling to try to find the matchbook as I heard Frank continue to tell Geoff to hold on...that he was coming. My hands worked back in forth in front of me, trying to find the place where the matchbook fell. Soon, I could feel the paper of the book cover and as I pushed back on to my knees, I grabbed a match and struck it with my trembling fingers on the rough strip on the back of the matchbook.

"Shit", I cried as I felt the match disintegrate without lighting. I opened the book and grabbed another match. I could tell without seeing that the book was almost empty. I tried to slow down my breathing as it felt like my heart was going to explode. I could still hear Geoff in the mountain, calling out...fear in his voice. Something you didn't often hear coming from my daredevil little brother. I could hear Frank's voice but couldn't distinguish what he was saying. I slowly struck the match and suddenly, the room was filled with light again.

"Hold on to my hands", Frank was saying. As I looked over, I could see his body slowly coming back into the room. At the end of his arms, my little brother's hands were clasping his. His face and hair speckled with dirt, my brother looked like the most beautiful thing I had ever seen as he finally emerged completely from the tunnel.

"Wow! That was sooo cool!" I shouldn't have been surprised to hear those words as they erupted from Geoff's mouth. I wanted to run over and hug him, but I think I wanted to hit him even more. Fortunately, the room was still bathed in darkness and the tears on my cheeks were invisible to both Frank and Geoff. We decided that it was time for this adventure to be over and Frank lit another match and pointed to the opening that would lead us back out into the bright, warm sunshine.

I was the first to volunteer to go out. It didn't seem to be nearly as long of a crawl going out as it did going in. We soon found ourselves back out on the sea of rocks and boulders, looking up at the big cliff above us.

"I'll bet that went down at least a hundred yards", he said. "When a couple of rocks fell away as I was hanging there, I couldn't even hear them hit the bottom of the pit. I never would have gotten out if you wouldn't have grabbed me."

I think of the darkness of that cave on that warm summer afternoon every so often. I can still remember the fear and weight of the darkness that was so complete and overwhelming. I've never liked the darkness...I don't know if it's because of that adventure or if it's just an innate fear that I think God put into all of us to a certain degree. I've felt that weight at other times during my life, even when the lights were on around me. The weight was the result of choices that I was making and the fear of being found out.

Of course, like that day in the middle of the summer during my childhood, I couldn't stay in that darkness for ever. It was a bottomless pit, and like Geoff, I never would have found my way out unless a hand would have been extended to me. For me, that hand was extended on a cold, February day in 2004 as my life crumbled around me. In His mercy, God extended his love and grace to me, shining His light into my life so that I could see the sin that I had immersed myself in. I had been in the darkness for so long that I had become blind to the choices that I was making and had no idea how to get out of the "cave" that I had crawled into. Fortunately, I accepted that hand that was extended.

There is a Christian song that's on the charts right now that remind me of the darkness that I was in and a reminder that I was never alone in that cave. It's a song by Meredith Andrews called "You're Not Alone". The song ends with the following verse:

"You're not alone

for I... I am here

let me wipe away every fear...

Oh yeah My love I've never left your side

I have seen you through your darkest night...Your darkest night

And I'm the one who's loved you all your life

All of your life"

I've come to believe the truth of the words to that beautiful song. Like most people, I've been in some of the darkest places imaginable. And even when I felt so alone...so afraid...I know now that I was never alone. He was there with me...waiting to lead me out of the cave.

First Love

The aisles are crowded and the air is slightly musty...but still I love to come to these places. Today, it's a new place...one I've never been to before. Though I've driven past it dozens of times, it remained hidden in the corner of the small strip mall. I'm not looking for anything in particular...just wandering, looking, picking items up for a closer inspection.

I find myself needing to sneeze from the dust motes hanging in the air, tickling my nose. I turn another corner and peer into the crowded shelf. There are items of colorful glass and cut crystal. Old tobacco tins and sewing kits. Even an orange juicer and measuring cup. And back in the corner I see the glimmer of silver. I go and find the clerk with her ring of keys and she comes and opens the case.

"The small bundle of silver ware in the back", I say, pointing in the general direction of the four spoons, tied together with a small piece of pink ribbon.

I take the spoons and look them over carefully. I notice they are marked "silver plate" which is fine. Sterling is too expensive and I'm not really looking for anything in particular anyway. I look closer at the back, noticing that the spoon handles are engraved with very small writing. I take my glasses off, hoping for a clearer look...hoping to be able to read what's written in small, italic script.

First Love

I look again and find that my eyes didn't deceive me...the two simple words "First Love" were engraved on the back of each of the spoon handles. My mind immediately began to think on those words. My ex-wife Paula came to mind first. Not that she is the first woman that I told that I was in love with, but she is the one that I can say that I was truly in love with.

I purchased the spoons and began the drive home, thinking of my "first love". My mind wandered back to fourth grade...and Shirla Cunnington. She was the first girl that I had a crush on...the most beautiful girl at Farmin Elementary School. Dark, curly hair. A smile that made my heart race. Eyes that twinkled. And dimples that made her whole face shine. She was my first date...a trip to a matinee at the Panida Theater. I held her hand...at least I think I did...or I might have...or...I know I definitely wanted to! In reality, I was just a little too scared to be that bold...we were only 10 and confidence was not my strong suit.

Over the course of the next several days, as I would look at the spoons, I would think about my first love, but every time I would think of a specific woman, there would seem to be a hesitation in my spirit. Something telling me that she wasn't the one. I continued to mine my memory, searching for that first love. Who could it be? Shirla? Mary? Lynn? Marla? Debbie? Darla? Paula? Something just didn't seem to fit.

It's amazing to me how simple life is sometimes and how complicated I/we try to make it. While I was expending my energies over that week, wracking my brains for the answer, a new realization was coming to me. My 'first love' wasn't not going to be found in the deep recesses of my memory. I wasn't going to find "her" in the pages of my school year books. In fact, it wasn't a "she" at all.

I don't even remember when it finally struck me, but when it did, it was as clear as some of the crystal I would look at in the antique stores I love so much. My first love has become God! In hindsight, it makes complete sense to me now. And it also helps me to see why it has been so difficult for me my entire life to love anyone the way they deserve to be loved. I didn't know how to love because I hadn't discovered the true source of all love that exists.

I spent yesterday with my older brother Frank. We've had a pretty strained relationship for the past eight years and it is slowly healing. We are both coming to know each other as we really are instead of as the men who hid behind masks of who we thought we were for most of our lives. As we sat on his boat...a dream of his for as long as I can remember...a dream not yet realized with workmen still coming on board each day to move a little closer to completion, he pointed to a buoy with the name of his boat on it..."Our Third Love". I didn't have to ask him what it meant. If you know Frank, you know he's going to tell you anyway...and he did. He explained that he and his new wife named it "Our Third Love" because in their lives, God is first, family is second and then comes the boat. His dream...but third on his list of priorities.

I found irony in his story as he shared...my own thoughts resting on that package of four little spoons that I had purchased several months before. He had it right, although it took him nearly as long as it took me. And I realize that I've figured it out as well. I hope to one day have a beautiful woman return to spend the rest of our lives together...it is a constant dream of mine. Not a boat. Not a big house. Just a happy marriage. And I realize that it is possible now because I've learned that to love my wife as I should, I must know who my first love truly is.