The Night Calls

I was getting sick and tired of seeing the same pictures…of going to the same sites.  It was after 11:30 PM and I was alone in my hotel room.  My wife Paula was in Walla Walla visiting her parents while I attended the conference.  Often, she would travel with me but this trip brought us within an hour of her folk’s place.  A part of me wished she that was here with me now.  But another part was glad to have this alone time, this time to surf the internet in search of images…not knowing what I was searching for or aware of the power drawing me there.

The room was quiet except for the clicking of the mouse and the tapping of the keys as I’d enter another URL into the navigation bar and the incessant grinding of the air conditioner by the windows.  An ocean scene was hanging from the wall of the otherwise bare room.  A second queen-sized bed had my briefcase haphazardly tossed on it.   Several pair of Docker’s slacks and golf shirts hung in the small closet space.  Occasionally the sound of the elevator doors opening could be heard, following by the laughter or conversation of  travelers making their way back to their rooms or out into the night.

I closed the top of my laptop and went in to the bathroom.  As I stood there relieving myself, I stared at the image in the mirror staring back.  It was the body of a man aging.  Grey hair was beginning to replace the dark, black curls that capped my head only fifteen years before.  Even the thick eyebrows and mustache were showing signs of a lighter color encroaching into the once dark hairs.  The smile that seemed to rarely crease the face was absent tonight, as it had been frequently in the past few years.  There appeared to be some dimming of the sparkle in the deep, blue eyes. 

The firm chest of the former coach, built through hours of work in the weight room with is players had begun shifting, the pecs beginning to sag a bit.  The definition in the arms had become camouflaged with a thin layer of body fat.  The belly had also been caught up in the avalanche of former muscle that was morphing into something completely unwanted.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of water flushing as I absent-mindedly pushed the lever on the side of the toilet.  I took one last look in the mirror as I turned the light off and went back into the hotel room and began to put my clothes on.  Unsure of where I was going…or even why, I pulled the locked door closed behind me and walked down the second floor hallway of the Best Western.  I took the stairs and stepped out into the warm, August night air. 

It was still about 80 degrees in city of Richland, Washington.  Located in the high desert of central Washington, the temperature had reached triple digits earlier in the day.  The parking lot was quiet and many of the parking spaces on this back-side lot were empty.  I walked across the lot to my Jeep Grand Cherokee and slid behind the wheel.  Starting the engine, I checked my bearings and pulled out of my space heading across the lot to the main street that passed in front of the hotel.  I turned right and entered the mostly empty roadway.  A mid-week night, there wasn’t much traffic.  Most people were home in bed or watching Lettermen, getting ready for the next workday.  I followed the street to the first main intersection and turned left.  Though not completely familiar with Richland, I knew some of the major streets on this northwestern end of the city.  I drove east without really caring where I would end up.  I’d turn down streets randomly, feeling drawn by a power but not know what I was seeking.  Careful not to get too far off a familiar street, I drove the streets of quiet neighborhoods, silently passing the dark houses of sleeping occupants.  Houses like the one I lived in with my wife of 14 years. 

Time passed…thirty minutes, then forty-five.  I found myself back in the parking lot.  Time wasted.  Nothing found.  My mind still unsettled.  An emptiness deep within that I couldn’t seem to fill.  I sat in the car staring out the windshield.  As I opened the door, the music of Nsync was cut off mid- song.  The parking lot was dotted with fewer empty spaces as the occupants had returned during my sojourn.  I made my way back to the entry door and slid my keycard in to unlock the heavy glass door and took the stairs back to my room.  The clunk of ice falling interrupted my thoughts as I walked down the hall to my room.  As I twisted the deadbolt and turned and entered the room, the laptop lay there…calling to me.  A quick glance at the floor and my decision was made.  The room quiet save for the tapping of fingers on the keyboard.

Under the Bridge

The blue summer sky was dotted here and there with white fluffy clouds as the warm breeze bent the tall grass along the creek.  There were few sounds audible…the occasional car or truck passing by on the highway to Canada a few hundred feet away.  The soft trickling of the water in the creek as it passed over the larger boulders who dared to stick their heads above the moving stream.  Robins sang their summer songs in the tree and a lonely crow flew overhead…crying at no one in particular.  It was a scene as peaceful and serene as an artist could wish for to paint a portrait of a summer day.

But there was more going on here…things that you couldn’t easily see.  An old bridge crossed over the creek on the northern edge of the dairy farm.  The decking made up of old timbers wedged into the soil on either side of the moving water.  Underneath the bridge, the air was cool, almost cold.  The air was still…filled with the odor of moist soil and decomposing plants that couldn’t find the nourishment they needed to live in that dark space.  The embankments were made of soil, tapering slowing down to the edge of the stream where the transformed into rocks and pebbles.  It was darkest near the top where the bridge deck buried itself under surface of the ground.

As you moved closer, you could hear sounds that didn’t fit with summer chorus of birds and traffic and moving water.  In the deep shadows at the top of the embankment, a young boy in tattered cut-off shorts and faded t-shirt was on his knees between the legs an older boy in his early teens.  There were muffled moans as the young boy tried not to gag as his head was held down in the teen’s crotch.  The damp, musky odor of the earthen slope filled the dark space as the boy’s body trembled and shook in the cold air.

Unseen by either of the boys stood a figure…transparent and ethereal behind the young teenager.  An evil smile hidden in the darkness creased the face of this once “most beautiful” of the angels.  Speaking to no one in particular, his laughed softly as he said “I have another one.”  If you could see him, the hatred in his eyes for all things living sparkled in his eyes.  His pride swelled as he considered that one more soul was starting down a path of death and destruction.

Suddenly the darkness surrounding the fallen angel in this supernatural space unseen by the boys was filled with a light.  Standing behind the young boy still on his knees stood a man, cloaked in white.  As tears slowly wound their way down His face, He looked up from the ground where the teenager continued to hold the boy between his legs.  His eyes flashed as He glared at the Enemy across from Him.  “This one is NOT yours!  He is mine.”  The Prince of Darkness turned and started to move away.  Suddenly he stopped and looked back at the boys…then at the Prince of Peace.  “Then this is war” he mumbled as he slunk back into the darkness.

Photo - Unknown Source

 

 

The Challenge

There’s probably nothing better than a couple hundred miles of empty freeway to allow my mind to reflect and process.  Well, maybe not so empty with the beginning of the Easter and Spring Break vacation travelers finding their way back home.  But in between the little old lady in the Ford Taurus who clearly hadn’t figured out how to operate her cruise control and continual need to use my windshield wash to clear away the road grime spraying up from the wet roadway, my mind did find some time to think about the weekend.

I’d spent the past four days with my Sister Deb and her husband Walt and highlight was attending a Christian Writer’s conference on Saturday.  I was hoping that it would provide the catalyst that I’ve so greatly needed to jump-start my writing again.  The presenters were outstanding and all seemed to chant a common mantra…one I didn’t really seem to want to hear.  “Write!  Write!  Write!”  That seems all well and good but the struggle that I’ve been facing…the obstacle that I can’t seem to find my way around or over or under has been what to write. 

I’ve felt a calling to write my book since I got out of prison.  My life is in many ways unique, but also in many ways like the lives of many people in our society that haven’t faced their life yet.  It’s a story that I think should be told as do some of the closest people in my life…most notably my companion at the conference, Deb.  But several of the presenters challenged us with the same question.  Why?

That one word rolled around in my head for the past 150 miles.  Why do I want to write this book?  Why should I write this book?  Why should I think that the story I could tell would be important enough for someone to pick up and read, let alone pay $15 or more to purchase it?  That question still challenges me.

I believe my struggle that I wrestle with is that I have two stories that are fighting to get out.  They are related with some common threads but I don’t believe they belong in the same story.  I’m not sure which one I’m supposed to write.

Even when I was in prison, before I was introduced to writing again by my Sister I felt called to write a book.  Deb asked me this weekend if I would have written a book if I hadn’t gone to prison.  I wasn’t sure of the answer when she asked it, but in reflection the answer is yes.  My ex-wife Paula has reminded me several times that I’ve always wanted to write a book after I retired from education.   I didn’t know what it would be about, but the desire has always been there. 

As Deb prepared a wonderful breakfast this morning of bacon and sausage, frittata and our Mom’s coffee cake, she made a statement that set me back and probably started the wheels turning on my drive home.  She said that is seemed like I had lost my passion to write.  The words actually stung like a sharp slap in the face.  Sometimes, slaps hurt.  But sometimes, they wake up you up.  This was a “wake up” slap.  I doubt that was Deb’s intent when she made the statement…really more of an observation than an accusation.  But it did have the effect of leading me into a time of reflection.  I DO love to write.  And I believe that it is one of the many gifts that God has given me.  I know that I’ve squandered some of His gifts.  Some, I’ve just simply never opened out of fear or shame; I’m not certain which.

The trip home didn’t end with a beautiful rainbow sneaking through the light mist of rain that was falling and miraculously answer my question about which story I am supposed to write.  But it did end with me at the keyboard…answering a calling that I know I’m intended to answer.  Finding myself facing a challenge in the only way that I know how.  I respond and meet it head on.

A Good Day!

The boat arrived at 9:45 AM.  It was a beautiful 22 footed that resembled the old Chris Craft boats that were seen often on the lake during the 1950’s.  The young man on the dock helped us load the golf bags onto the boat while Paul and I got settled for the ten minute ride from our condominium to the golf course on the opposite shore.  The air was a little crisp as the bright morning sun shone down on us. 

It was our first, full day of this golfing vacation that we had been planning for quite some time.  More than a year ago, one of my closest friends, Paul, had called to tell me that he and his wife, Mary, wanted to thank me for watching their house and dogs on frequent occasions by giving me a week at a time-share on Lake Coeur d’Alene in Idaho.  It was also a week to celebrate the fact that my supervised release would be over and I would be a “relatively” free person.

As the boat pulled up to the dock, a tall, slender Asian girl tied up the lines and took our golf clubs.  She introduced herself as Lauren and told us that she would be our caddy for the day.  She was a beautiful young woman that we would find out was from South Korea and had been adopted with her brother by a judge in Spokane when she was six months old.  She was a recent college graduate and was spending her second summer as a caddy at the resort golf course.

Paul shared a story while were playing the round that became our mantra over the course of the week.  When his grandson, Ryan, started Kindergarten he went to their home after school one day.  Ryan was full of smile and excited when ran into the kitchen.  Mary leaned down and asked her grandson how his day at school went.  With a beaming face he said, “Nana, we got ice cream.  It was a GOOD day!”  So as we meandered our way across the golf course for the next five hours, Paul would look over at me and say “It’s a good day!”

For the next six days we travelled from golf course to golf course in the Idaho panhandle.  At night, we would drive the 25 miles into CDA to enjoy a Blizzard from the local Dairy Queen.  Paul took me to one of his favorite restaurants in a run-down dive on a siding road called The Wolf Lodge Inn.  From the outside it looks like a place you would quickly pass by and not think twice.  But the steak they served on the inside was one of the best I’ve ever eaten at a restaurant.  On Sunday, I was there with Paul when he hit his first ever “hole-in-one”.  It was a good day.

From the outset, Paul wanted this to be my week.  He said he was just along for the ride (and to pay the bills).  After playing on a course that I often played as a college student with my roommate, we took a short drive to Newport where I had a chance to see Mom and Dad’s grave marker.  I hadn’t been there since we buried them more than a year ago and no one in the family had had a chance to see the beautiful marker that my younger brother Geoff had ordered for their burial plot. 

The week in CDA gave me an opportunity to reflect on my life.  I had just completed what I would describe as the most traumatic eight years of my life.  It has been filled with far too many difficult days.  Days that I wasn’t always sure I would make it through.  It had been filled with much loss.  But as I peeled back all of the negatives of those eight years, I was reminded of many positives as well.  The re-establishment of genuine relationships with my sister and brothers.  The involvement in a church that has fully embraced and accepted me.  A wonderful friendship with my ex-wife.  The friendship and support of a wonderful who is a friend and co-worker.  The day I met Paul.  It was a good day!

Photos by Mark and Paul

  

The New Roommate

I really didn’t know what to expect. This had all been set up by my brother, Frank’s wife Clare. I had been over to their home for dinner about a month earlier and she asked me to consider it. I shared a few reservations with her through a couple of text messages and hadn’t heard any more about it. That is until about a week ago. And then on Friday, the day arrived.

I got home and left a message with Clare that I was there and I was ready to meet my new roommate whenever they wanted. They were in the middle of dinner and said they would be over in a little while. I enjoyed a light meal and sat in the recliner overlooking the bay reading until I heard the door bell ring.

When I opened the door, my brother was standing there with a little fur-ball in his arms. Clare introduced me to Suzie, a two-year old Terrier (mix) that belonged to her daughter, Mary and her husband, Adam. She took one look at me and started growling, followed by a few sharp barks. Frank put her down and she ran across the room and hid behind one of the large chairs, barking…and then running over behind another to continue her chorus of canine yelps.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, Suzie was coaxed to become more comfortable with me through the use of toys and treats. She was held so I could try to pet her…always to the response of growls and barks. It was obvious that there was no bonding occurring on the part of Suzie. As the time passed, it was finally time for everyone to leave. I was left with numerous words of encouragement and as Mary and Adam gave their little puppy one last set of loves and hugs before they left for a three month trip to Africa, the door closed behind them and I was left alone with my new roommate.

Suzie immediately ran back across the room and continued with her barking and growling. I one of the soft chewy treats they had left to try to coax her into coming closer. She wasn’t buying it. Suzie continued her little dance behind the chair, always keeping it between me and her. I finally decided to give her some space and went into the bedroom to read. I would occasionally hear her bark and growl, and when I’d go check on her, she’d be laying on the couch but immediately jump down and hide behind a chair and growl and bark.

This little “dance” continued for about an hour and a half. I went out to check on her at about 10:30 PM, and was again greeted with the growls and barks. I knew I had to get the leash on her so I could put her out to go to the bathroom so I “herded” her toward the bedroom. As I closed the door, she jumped up on the bed and sat perched on the top of my pillow…staring and barking at me. As I approached, she jumped off the bed and went into the master bath. With the door closed and the two of us in about 10 square feet, I grabbed her and clipped the leash to her collar. When I opened the door back into the bedroom she used all 15 feet of the lead on the leash and ran under the bed where she anchored herself with her feet planted firmly into the carpet.

After about five minutes, I finally got enough leverage to pull her out and took her outside for a short walk and a chance to go to the bathroom. No more barking or fighting against me. She didn’t take care of business but simply explored the back yard a little. We went back into the house and when I let her off the leash, she once again ran to the living room and hid behind the recliner.

I went back to the bedroom and resigned myself to the fact that I was going to spend a sleepless night with Suzie barking and growling all night. I got her crate ready with food, water and her blanket and set it up in the room. I went back to the living room and she stayed on the couch when I approached. As I reached down to pick her up, I was greeted with growls, but she allowed me to take her into my arms. I took her to the bedroom and put her on the bed. She stayed there for a moment and looked at me and then walked around the bed exploring it. When I reached to pet her, she let me. I laid back down and read some more and she stayed on the end of the bed, watching me. I finally decided to see if she would stay on the bed so I got her blanket out of her crate and set it on the bed beside me. After a few minutes, she walked up and laid down and curled up. I got back into bed and spent the new few minutes softly petting her and simply loving her. No more growls. No more running away.

When she woke me in the morning with licks on my face and ears to let me know it was time for me to take her out for a walk, it was apparent that I had somehow passed the test. Suzie had a new roommate…and it was me.

Photos by Mark

BRAVE

It was probably a good thing that I left my Superman x-ray vision at home.  I’d travelled to Battleground to spend the weekend with my sister Deb and her husband Walt and to attend their first public performance since beginning to take West African drum lessons back in March.  On the outside, Deb looked as calm as a country lake at sunrise.  Not a ripple visible.  Only the reflection of the rising sun and peaceful clouds drifting overhead.  But outward appearances are often deceiving.

I learned a little bit more about my older sister this past weekend.  Over the past five years the two of us have come closer than we had ever been before.  We’ve had countless hours of talking about our lives and our past.  What we want for our futures.  We’ve talked about fears and passions.  And through all of that, Deb has shared that the fearless, bold, perfectionist, hyper-confident person that I had always pictured her as was not entirely accurate.  (Well, the perfectionist part was spot-on.) 

In actuality, Deb had the same type of butterflies that I remember experiencing every time I stepped on the football field to compete in high school or graduation day when the entire community seemed to be packed into our gymnasium at the school where I was the principal.  I think for all of us, butterflies are a way of life…but sometimes we think only in “our” life.  For some reason we tend to think that other people are more confident than we are and don’t suffer from those same insecurities. 

When I think about the Deb of my childhood, I’m sure that if she would have had any reservations at all on her performance being anything but perfect, she would have skipped dinner, dominos, breakfast and lunch and spent that time out in the garage (or some other secluded place) and would have been practicing over and over.  But she didn’t.  (By the way, it sounded perfect to me as I sat and watched the performance so maybe she snuck out in the middle of the night when no one might have heard her). 

As I sat and watched the rehearsal and then again the actual performance, what I saw in my sister was joy, not nervousness.  There were moments of a furled brow as she concentrated on the rhythm of the “song” they were performing.  But mostly, there was a smile and a radiance that only comes when someone is doing something they love.  Even as she stepped forward to perform her two solos, the audience was greeted with a smile and serene composure. 

Deb has done a lot of things over the past several years that I am extremely proud of her for.  Taking a leave of absence to focus on her writing.  Facing some of the demons of her past to find healing where she probably felt healing could never come.  And last weekend, being brave enough to invite her brothers to watch her perform on her drum for the first time.  Maybe I should give her my superman cape.

Photo from Fanpop.com

Free At Last!

This day has been coming now for the past 1826 days. I haven’t been counting…not really, but I’ve certainly been aware. At 12:01 AM, my life will change. Most likely no one will actually notice. I won’t look any different. I won’t be driving a new car or living in a big mansion. I’m not getting engaged, married or becoming a dad or grandpa. But they day is extremely significant all the same.

Five years ago today, I was awaked at 4:30 AM from my upper bunk in a prison unit in California. I stuff the few belongings that I had into a double bagged garbage bag and grabbed the 4” thick mattress that I had been sleeping on for past three years. My legs were still wobbly from the vertigo that had kept me in bed most of the previous day. I took all of the extra bedding and laundry items that I’d accumulated back into the laundry room and tossed them into the hamper. I knew that by 8:00 they would have found themselves in a different inmate’s locker.

At 6:00 AM, the yard opened for a short movement and I carried my stuff over to “R & D” (receiving and discharge) and began the process of being released from prison. I was given a stack of papers from the guard and in exchange, I gave him a few drops of blood for the National DNA database and waited in a holding cell with three other men who were being taken to the bus depot for their ride home. Because my friend and Pastor Cal was coming to pick me up, I was held until 8:00 AM. Then an officer came and escorted me to the front and said I was free to go.

I simply stood outside the front door of the Taft Correction Institution for several minutes taking in the moment. My ride was there yet, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in 1086 day, I was outside of a locked facility. Unless you’ve been there, you really can’t appreciate what that feels like. Even having been there, I don’t have the words to describe what that moment was like when I stepped out through those doors, except to say that my life changed in that moment.

At 12:01 AM on August 15, 2012 I will have another one of those moments. From the minute I stepped out of TCI I was on supervised release. I had 72 hours to report to my probation officer and begin what I would call “phase II” of my sentence. For the past five years, my life has been monitored and restricted in ways that haven’t always made sense to me. I’ve endured the stress of multiple polygraphs, never knowing for sure if the stress of “fear of failure” might actually cause me to fail. I spent two years in “group” with a counselor that wasn’t all too helpful and seemed more concerned with the checks that he received than getting to the root issues of why we were all there. And found myself surrounded my other men who had committed crimes that involved illegal sexual contact with minors who had served a fraction of the time I had and each week worked in my mind to rationalize that it was “fair”.

My life was like a yo-yo being allowed to wish that I was going on a golfing trip with my best friend Paul, with tickets purchased and plans made, only to be pulled back at the last minute because my probation officer hadn’t bothered to actually check with the State of California to see if they would allow me to visit their fine state and find out that they didn’t want me there. Out of state trips that had been planned and had to be cancelled at the last minute because the probation officer didn’t get me the travelling papers in time. And learning with a month to go in my supervised release that many of the things that I had been doing in my church with choir and teaching Sunday school and volunteering for activities probably wouldn’t have been allowed now.

When I wake up on Wednesday morning, the sun will come up just like it did on Tuesday. The coffee will taste the same and the dogs that I’m house-sitting will wag their tails and love me in the same way that I have all week. But the day will be different. I won’t be taking unconscious looks over my shoulder. I won’t be wondering if I’ll get a call to go take a polygraph or drive out to the house for an unscheduled home-visit. And best of all…when I go to Battleground, Washington this weekend to visit my sister Deb and her husband Walt and go watch them play in a drumming performance, I don’t have to worry about whether it will be held in Vancouver or Portland. I’m free.

Photo from Flickr, by planetmarsphoto