Fifteen years ago today, on what would have been my dad’s 56th birthday (Happy Birthday, dad, I miss you), under a window-rattling thunder clap, the most beautiful woman in the city said “I do” when asked if she would marry me.

The thunder was a nice touch. Even the gods were celebrating the union of soul-mates. Or maybe they were just warning this amazing woman away from the guy with the Flock of Seagulls haircut. (Jeez, dude it was THE NINETIES already! What were you thinking? At least the tie was real . . .)

Our First Family

Ah Huntsville, know how to welcome a guy to town. Despite the storm that made getting to the Weeden House for the reception a little soggy, the day was the best of my life because she decided to spend the rest of her life with me.

I suppose the blessing we received from Jeebus and the EggBeaters musta worked.

__________

I am a lucky man.

Nearly every day of the past fifteen years I’ve been allowed to laugh, hold, cook, build, cry, and fall in love with all over again with my best friend.

I am a lucky man.

When I’m worried, she brings me comfort.

When I’m melancholy, she brings me laughter.

When I am totally batshit crazy, she grounds me and loves me back to reality.

When I’m off chasing an obsession (I’m looking at you HCS), she gives me boldness and reminds me to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all (Re-WHAT-alous?)

When I’m so focused on the inner monologue (that often has a thousand voices), she sings to me, piercing the cacophony, and draws me back out of myself.

I owe her everything.

I am a loved man, and for that, I am amazed.

I love you, sweetie. Thank you for being my partner in this crazy, wonderful life.

r

The post Maybe I’m Amazed appeared first on Geek Palaver.

1 in 69 in Huntsville City Schools. 1 in 69.

That’s the number of kids who are on the Autism Spectrum right now. Nationally that number is around 1 in every 110, which is significantly higher than the 1 in 150 number we heard when our boy was first diagnosed in 2007.

Today some one thousand people turned out at Milton Frank Stadium in Huntsville to walk for autism in themselves, their family members, their loved ones, their friends, their students, and sometimes even complete strangers. To everyone who came out, I say thank you.  Thank you for reaching out towards those who sometimes don’t reach back. Thank you for holding those who sometimes don’t want to be held. Thank you for saying, “We love you” to those who have a difficult time saying it back, but who absolutely show it–if you’re willing to look.

I’m having a difficult time putting my emotions into words tonight. I’m sad and happy, tired and electrified, depressed and elated.  The house is quiet from the busy day. The lights are blue in honor of my boy.

But that number is keeping me awake.

One difficult thing about autism is it’s diversity, but that’s also, as I saw today, a great strength. I saw the exhaustion of parents who didn’t sleep the night before because their child was having a meltdown. I also saw community and belonging that carries us through those long, dark nights. And most importantly I saw joy on the faces of the kids playing together on the astroturf.

You’ve never experienced pure happiness until you’ve watched a child who loves to bounce jumping on a moon bounce. You’ve never seen joy until you’ve watched one child blowing bubbles for another to chase, catch and shout, “MORE.” You’ve never felt exultation until you realize that that word is coming out of your son’s mouth as he overcomes those barriers in his brain that keep him from asking for what he wants or needs.

That’s why inclusion is so important.

Not just for the child on the spectrum, but for the child and the adult who aren’t. We need to be reminded of that joy.

We need to be reminded of the miracle of communication.

We need to be reminded that if my boy can cry out for “MORE,”  that–when we laugh, love and play together–we can accomplish anything. Anything at all.

Thanks little buddy for reminding me of that every day. You and your big sister–who loves you more than anything–are my best teachers. Your mommy and I love you both.

The post Walking with Angels appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Emma sharing toys with her new baby brother.

As I suspect every parent (and frankly anyone over the age of about 10) can tell you, parenting is hard. When things go wrong with your kids, you may not admit it to others, but you know it’s entirely your fault. When things go right, again, you might take some credit publicly, but you know that you had nearly nothing to do with it.

Scilla and Charybdis.

At least that’s how it seems to me.

On Christmas Eve, I loaded up the Santa Tracking App thinking Emma would love it. She did. One of it’s features lets you send a selection of texts to Santa, and he’ll send a response. Unfortunately, “Bah Humbug” just happened to be one of the several texts that you could send to Santa. And it just happened to be one that Em decided to click on. The response was, “Looks like somebody wants a nice piece of coal for Christmas.”

She didn’t come talk to us about it, but it bothered her the rest of the night. Following our other traditions, Em wrote the letter you see below to Santa as she left him his milk and cookies before bed. She didn’t want Laurel to read it, but I did.

Emma's letter to Santa

The letter reads:

Dear Santa

I sorta a mistake You see I acenndenty (accidentally–she didn’t want our help with spelling) pressed bahum bug (bah humbug) by mistake and if  you forgive me I left you some cookies and milk if I’m still on the nice list I will believe in you forever and write on the back please

Emma.

Before she went to sleep, I talked to her about how since Santa knew EVERYTHING, he certainly knew when things were accidents. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

See. The screw-up was entirely mine. I thought that a Santa tracker would be fun; it turned out to be frightening–at least to a girl who just turned seven and sometimes makes a mistake.

Then there’s the other side of the coin.

In a pre-Christmas visit, Nanny was hanging out with Emma. As adults often say, Nanny told Em that she loved her more than anything. Em, as kids often respond–and it strikes me that Christ reportedly asked Peter something similar, decided to test that love by asking if the love Nanny had for her was greater than the love she has for others.

“Do you love me more than Teresa?” she asks. “I think I love y’all in different ways.” Nanny responded.

“Do you love me more than Matthew?”

While Nanny was thinking of the best way to respond, Em freed her of the dilemma, by saying, “It’s okay if you love him more, Nanny. He needs it more than I do.”

At which point Nanny, I suspect, gave her a hug to hide the tears.

For myself, I’m glad that Em didn’t say it to me directly. I’m really not sure how I might have responded. I am, of course, amazingly proud of the fine young girl my daughter is becoming. I remember watching her play on a playground outside of a McD’s once with some older kids. She was easily half their age. At three, she was doing well to just keep up, but she had talked them into following her suggestions for what to play. (God, save her from politics. Please.)

But of course, once they realized that she was three, and it wasn’t cool to keep doing what a three-year old wanted, the older kids began to do their own thing. Em, deciding that she want to keep playing her own game, said that she would join them when she was done.

I remember thinking and saying to Laurel that if I had complete control over the design of our child, that I couldn’t imagine making her as amazing as she turned out.

But as proud as I am of her love for her little brother, her knowing that he needs more breaks my heart.

We’ve tried to be open with Em about Matthew’s autism, but who knows if we’re doing the right thing. It started when she was almost four years old, and she asked, “When is Matthew going to talk to me?”

After we could speak, we talked to her about autism, and how autistic children sometimes talk a little later than others. That doesn’t mean that he’s not smart, and we’re working with him to help him talk more.

After that, Em began keeping track of every word Matthew would say; telling us to put it on his list.

So knowing all of this, I guess it really shouldn’t surprise me that she would believe that it’s okay for him to be loved more. She certainly loves him more, and she, as all children do if we adults manage to not screw them up with our shortcomings and hatreds, shows us what love truly is. It’s realizing that others have needs that are at times greater than our own. But it’s more than just realizing it. It’s being willing to give up our wants, desires and even our needs to meet the needs of others. That’s what Christmas was and is all about.

I take and deserve no credit for this revelation. I’m learning from two great teachers. I just hope I somehow manage to not screw them up.

The post What Christmas is All About appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Because I’m cursed with introspection and curious (like my namesake) about how people change, I’ve often tried to nail down the start of my transformation from fundamentalist to whatever radical leftist label you want to assign to me today. (I choose Liberal, myself.) I think it began to happen my first semester in college at Georgia Southern.

______

My friends were surprised when I told them that I planned to live in the dorms at college. They thought I should just live at home.

I thought that going to school in my hometown was going to be bad enough. I couldn’t imagine living at home, too.

The change began with a prediction. “Russell, you know that your roommate will smoke, drink, cuss, and party all night long.” This was back in the 80s before we knew that second-hand smoke was bad for you.

After a brief pause, they added, “Yeah, or he’ll be gay.” We laughed because we knew these thing could never happen. I had, after all, requested a non-smoking roommate on my housing form. That, of course, would cover me. I moved into Lewis Hall on Friday, August 22, 1986.

I moved in early so I could attend Band Camp. As one of the two male members of the color guard, I needed the extra time to learn the routines. So for almost three weeks I had the most sought after possession on an over-crowded campus: a room of my own. Unfortunately, my solitude didn’t last long.

One evening after class, I returned home to find the other half of my little room occupied. The prediction proved prescient. My roommate arrived smoking, drinking, cussing, and partying all night long. He didn’t stay long; I’m sure he wanted to be rid of the wet blanket who prayed for him every night. My solitude returned, but it was even shorter this time.

______

I walked in one night while Seth was hanging a reproduction of Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.

“Oh, uh, hi, I’m Russell.”

“Seth. How’s it going?”

“Good, so you’re the roommate. To tell the truth, I had gotten used to being here by myself, but I’m sure you’ll be an improvement over the last guy.”

Seth smiled and said, “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

“Sorry,” extending my hand at last, I added, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” We shook hands.

“So what’s this?” I asked, pointing to the art.

“You don’t know Seurat? This is Sunday Afternoon on the Island. Didn’t you see Farris Bueller’s Day Off?”

“Nope, I haven’t seen too many movies. This is cool though” I added.

“Yeah, I’ve always liked that the little girl in white is the only one looking out of the picture. Even though her mom’s there, she’s not watching her, and she’s not holding her hand. She’s not even under the parasol. She’s in the light. She’s pure. She’s free. There’s even been a musical written about it. It’s called, Sunday in the Park with George. The characters all come to life in the play.”

I looked at him with a what-have-I-walked-into-here expression on my face and struggled to come up with, “uh, You know my first name is George—you’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” He didn’t notice the expression on my face. “So, what’s your major?”

“English, I think; officially I’m still undecided, but freshman comp is great so far. How about you?”

“Theater.”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t know there was a theater major.”

“There isn’t.”

My expression from earlier seemed to freeze on my face for a while. “So,” I finally manage, “do you want to act?”

“Na, I’m a playwright. I’ve had a play produced off-Broadway.”

“Oh-Kay.” I looked back at the Seurat hoping for clarity; but the closer I looked, the less clear things became.

______

We actually got along. This surprised us both as I was a fundamentalist Southern Baptist and Seth a Catholic atheist. He was a writer; I wanted to be a writer. He didn’t seem to mind me too much whenever that astonished look fell off my face, and I wasn’t trying to save his soul.

“You’re not so bad,” Seth told me one night while he was writing. He liked to write lying on his stomach in bed with the light pulled down close. He always had a peaceful look on his face when he wrote. It was a look of contentment. It was a look of fulfillment. It was a look of love. I think it was the only time I really saw that look on his face the whole year.

“Gee, thanks. What a relief.”

“You’re just inexperienced.” He was right; I was, but I had intended it that way.

______

Seth continued to expose me to new things like Calvin and Hobbes— a comic strip about a boy and his loyal tiger. I surprised us both by laughing out loud at the scene of Calvin racing toward his doom in their red wagon. Seth suggested replacing the Bible verse I had posted on the door, and I agreed. That astonished look appeared on his face for a moment. Humor makes strange bed-fellows.

Approaching the Thanksgiving break, Seth received something that he was truly thankful for. “ELLE published my interview! They published it!” he shouted to no one in particular. He ran back to the room to make some calls. His mom needed to hear.

As he hung up, he tossed me a copy of the magazine and said, “Take a look at page 26.”

“What is this?”

“It’s a magazine, dumbass. Look at page 26!”

“What kind of magazine?” I asked looking at the cover with leery eyes.

“Fashion, now will you turn to page 26?”

“Fashion? Who reads fashion magazines?”

“Fine, if you’re not going to read it . . .”

“. . . Page 26, page 26 . . .”

That look became permanently etched on the stone that I call a face.

There, smiling back at me was Seth, with his blond hair and stock black turtleneck. Evidently, the play that he had written in high school and submitted to a contest for young playwrights had been produced “off-Broadway,” and ELLE had written a six-inch column about him. The first sentence was all I read. The rest, for me, was obliterated. “Seth, a resident of Savannah, GA., and an openly gay atheist, has already had a play produced off-Broadway.”

My roommate was gay.

“Hey man, this is great. Uh listen, uh—I’ve got to run. Band practice tonight.” I grabbed my rifle and flag and left. As the door shut, I thought I heard Seth say, “get me out of here!”

Christmas break came and went, and I took my time getting back. Dad and I had several arguments over my returning. In the end, my desire to be out of the house won out over dad’s fear of Seth’s orientation. When I did finally return one night, I walked in on Seth cutting pictures out of magazines. The pictures had the common theme of bare-chested men. He was taping them up on his side of the room in a mural. Seurat was still hanging, but its vivid color and light had been eclipsed. Seeing that look on my face again, Seth asks, “Too much?”

“No Seth, its fine.”

Art, beauty, and humor weren’t working their magic as often anymore. There was a serious undercurrent to everything between us. It was tense, and it was easier to stay away from each other.

The mural stayed up.

______

Seth was being noticed on campus. He was actively involved in the theater department and had an important role in the fall production of Merlin, a play about the life of Christopher Marlowe; and his poetry was being published in the student art magazine. He was also being noticed on the hall. Although Seth was a night owl, usually coming and going late at night, occasionally he would get cornered by the resident jocks living three doors down. They had noticed the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon that Seth had posted on our door; and, more importantly, they noticed the mural.

I came back to the room one rainy afternoon hoping, as usual, that Seth wouldn’t be there. As I approached the door, I noticed that something had changed. No longer was the Calvin and Hobbes strip on the door; or rather, it wasn’t facing the right way anymore. Someone, and I was certain it was the jocks three doors down, had turned the strip over and on the back written in large black, angry letters, “BURN IN HELL, FAGGOT.”

I stared at it for a minute. I stared at it for another. I was torn: I was frightened by the hatred in the message, but I still believed that my roommate would indeed do just that. Another minute passed, and I was still standing there. A volley had been fired. It wasn’t the first shot, and it wouldn’t be the last. The violence forces me to pick a side. Will I threaten or be threatened? I stood there, paralyzed. This was one of those irrevocable moments, but I didn’t know it then.

I left the message on the door and went inside the darkening room.

Seconds later there was a stillness outside the door. I wasn’t sure how I knew it, but I was certain that Seth was reading the note. There was laughter down the hall: humor’s dark side. The stillness was swallowed by the whirlwind a moment later. The war had come to our door. The door burst open. A backpack flew into the room. The shreds of the strip soon followed. Seth stood on his bed ripping down the mural. The whirlwind continued until it absorbed Sunday in the Park. The print became a projectile aimed at nothing—aimed at no one. Seth stood alone, fighting a battle he thought he’d left behind. Afraid to fight alongside him, I left to wander in the darkness outside our window.

______

Weeks passed and the quarter ended. We avoided each other more than ever. He had been staying with a friend; but after the last exam, we were together again packing up.

“Going home for the summer?” I asked.

“Na, New York.”

My look was back again, but it’s different this time. A small smile followed. “I hope it’s a good trip.”

“I think I’m going to stay.”

“I thought you might.”

“So, what about you?”

I walked over and took down Sunday in the Park. One night while he was out, I got tired of seeing it on the floor. It didn’t belong there, so I hung it back up. Our room needed its peacefulness. I looked at it again. I was too close. The light was still there, but that was all I could see. Maybe that was all I needed to see.

“Oh, I’ll be here reading, maybe doing a little writing if I can ever figure things out.” I handed the print to him. “Who knows . . . god knows I don’t.”

Seth looked at it: somehow, he always seemed to see things in it that I couldn’t.

With the light shining off the scene onto his face, Seth looked up at me and smiled.

We stood there and finished packing.

The post Birth of a Liberal appeared first on Geek Palaver.

My hometown has been on my mind a lot lately. It’s hard to say exactly why, but really, does it matter? That’s what hometowns are for: to remind us who we are, where we are from, where we might go to. Hometowns connect us to our families, our histories, our selves. And they remind us that we’re often WAY too big for our britches.

Hometowns have a way of reminding us of our childish ways. Like when we would drive by the brick wall fence at the end of Brannen Street, barking out the window so that Cujo would burst through the holes in the fence to eat the uninitiated rider in the back seat. Yes, this is the language of entertainment in my small hometown. In short, there wasn’t much to do.

I grew up in Statesboro, Georgia: a farming town that developed into a small college town when Erk Russell revived the football program at Georgia Southern in the 80s. “I’m going to the country . . . baby do you want to go?” The weeks were a holding pattern between Friday night football, Saturday football, and church all day Sunday.

Church actually filled much more of my time than just on Sunday. As difficult as it is to believe for many of my friends today, I was easily describable as a fundamentalist when I lived in Statesboro. Of course, I didn’t describe myself that way there. There I was just a “good kid.” It just so happened that being a good kid in the Boro, and especially at Eastern Heights Baptist Church, meant being a fundamentalist. I was well known for all the things that I did not do.  I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I didn’t listen to rock (unless it was Christian Rock, and even that was . . . lets just say it was questionable.)

I was so well known as someone who didn’t do things, that on the rare occasion that I did do something, like say drop the F-bomb in choral rehearsal at school, others got in trouble instead of me. (Sorry about that Brian . . .)

Like Jenny Joseph, I saw my job as setting “a good example for the children” even though I was a child myself.

This was how I came to identify and understand myself. After years of being something of an outcast at school and especially on the sports fields of the Rec Center, I found a place where I belonged, and I threw myself into that identity with abandon. I had been the outsider, the alien, the stranger for so long that I didn’t notice when Eastern Heights’ pastor began a campaign of abuse against those who were different from us.

I am grateful to Eastern Heights Baptist Church for a great many things. They taught me that I was important and loved. As Bill Moyers says of his home Baptist church, they taught me everything that I knew about democracy and fairness. They taught me the importance of standing and speaking up for what I believe in. They encouraged me to sing, to preach, to read and study (the Bible anyway), and to love. This last was the most important, and it is why it took me so long to realize that that love they were preaching didn’t really apply to everyone.

In particular, it didn’t apply to the “homosexual perverts” that Rev. Don Roberts preached against so often that we never heard one noun without the other.

Because I was on the inside, I forgot what it was to be on the outside. Because they accepted me, I failed to notice the hatred and the venom being spewed in the name of Christ. I forgot that Jesus had spent his entire life reminding people that the outsiders, the least of these, were the ones that he had walked with, talked with, eaten with, and loved. And at no time did he call them names.

Look, my purpose here isn’t to say that Christians must view homosexuality as ordained by God. Rev. Roberts was free to believe that homosexuality is a sin. He was free to preach that homosexuality is a sin. Eastern Heights was free to teach that it is a sin. (For the record, since I didn’t choose to be straight—it’s just a part of who I am and who God made me to be; I don’t believe that people who are gay chose to be gay—it’s just a part of who they are and who God made them to be.) That’s not what this posting is about. What it is about is a reminder that the words and the language that we use matters.

It’s wrong to abuse people in the name of God, and we Christians should stop.

This is one reason why I am wearing purple tomorrow on 10/20/2010: to show that not all Christians hate those who are different. I ask that you join me in wearing purple as well. Even if it means that you’re going to wear something that you don’t normally wear. It’s good to remember to identify with the outsider. It’s good to put away childish ways. It’s good to remember who you are and to stand for justice and fairness. It’s good to stand with the least of these our brothers and sisters.

Tomorrow, when I am older, I shall wear purple.

The post “I Shall Wear Purple” appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Dr. Molly Marshall, formerly of The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary–now, happily, the President of Central Baptist Theological Seminary in Kansas, taught theology at Southern Seminary while I was there in the early 90s. She was the first female Associate Professor of Theology at Southern. I am still saddened to say that she is also, likely, the last. (If you’d like to read more about these events, take a look at Michael Westmoreland-White’s excellent posting. Michael was a grader for Molly at Southern. His tribute is well worth your time.)

Rather than rehash the evil that has commandeered the only Seminary that I ever thought I would attend, I would rather deal with a question that Dr. Marshall asked us once in her Intro to Christian Theology class. (Full disclosure: I still review my notes from those classes from time to time, and I’m still struggling to understand many of them. I’ve never worked harder in a class. For example, if someone on this Earth can explain for me what the phrase “the economy of God” means, I will be forever grateful.)

Near the end of a class one day, Dr. Marshall was talking about her experiences defending her Doctoral dissertation. As with any defense, she was nervous and frighten by what questions she might be asked. Those questions, I’m sure, covered in great detail the breath and depth of the study of God, but there was one, and frankly only one, that stuck with me. She said that she thought that she was handling the questions well until she came around to Dr. Dale Moody.

Dr. Moody was notorious for his ability to cut through bull shit, and he was old and wise enough that he was allowed to do so as he saw fit. When Dr. Moody’s opportunity came to speak, Dr. Marshall said that he looked at her and asked her one very simple question. “Ms. Marshall. Please tell me, what are people for?”

The power of a question shows up once again. Thanks Moishe. I can’t remember her answer. Somehow, I doubt that I even heard it as at the very moment that she repeated that question, I was off chasing after my own answer. (Which I’m certain was Dr. Marshall’s point.)

That’s the beauty of going to Seminary right after college. It takes a young 22 year old who just graduated from college many years to realize that he doesn’t know jack. Going to seminary hastens that realization along considerably.

So, what are people for? My first thought, as I was deep in existentialism at the time, was that people aren’t for anything at all. People exist. What we do with that existence is entirely, despairingly, our own choice. Our purpose, in short, is what we choose it to be. The crucial question then is how will I choose to live with those surrounding me?

I recall sharing with my best man and friend from seminary once that I needed to find a way of combining Existentialism and Liberation Theology. That’s my Holy Grail. It’s my Unifying theory. It’s the other question that keeps me awake at night. I think that maybe the question that Dr. Moody asked a nervous doctoral candidate is the beginning of understanding. (Questions are never endings.)

Funny that I didn’t begin to understand this until I became a parent.

I’ve never had anyone who needed me as much as Emma on the day that she came into this world. The only day that came close was when Matthew was born.

Today when I came home, they were on the trampoline together. Matthew bounces up to Emma and takes her hands. Round and round they go, until they fall down laughing in a heap. Together.

So, like the kids, we come round and round to the question, what are people for?

And like the kids, who despite all the barriers that autism throws up to separate them still find a way to laugh, to play, to dance, bounce and love, people are for each other.

When we choose to lay aside our isolation, when we choose to leap across the abyss that separates us from each other, when we choose to look out for more than our own self interests and grab the hand of our sister to go bounce, we simply know what people are for. People are for each other.

The post “What are people for?” appeared first on Geek Palaver.

Okay, so it’s time for a few definitions about what some of us have been discussing. Feel free to join in. Socrates once said, “Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel.” The more people involved, the easier it is to pass the fire.

SO: Let’s start with easy ones.

Deism: John Hick says that deism is “the idea of an ‘absentee’ god who long ago set the universe in motion and has thereafter left it alone.” Leaving aside the usual political discussions that occur on the question of a deistic view of God, this God is clearly not at all troubled by the event surrounding human life. Thus, evil is not an issue. A deistic God has long since forgotten about humanity (if this God were ever aware of something as insignificant as humans in the first place).

Think of it this way: Your little girl wants to plant some apple seeds to see what happens. So like the good parent you are, you go outside with her, find a place where the dirt doesn’t look baked to a crisp, dig a little hole and drop in some seeds. If you’re really thoughtful, you might water the seeds before going back in from the heat. You go inside to have a nice, cold one before you have to go to work in the morning.

When you wake up in the morning, not only have you forgotten about the seeds you planted the night before, but you’ve also forgotten the dream of having a little girl altogether. Thus, those seeds you planted might have actually been planted or they might have only been Bobby in the shower at the end of that stupid season of Dallas you watched as a kid.

A deistic God is at best unconcerned and probably completely unaware of his/her actions (supposing that “actions” even approaches being an accurate description of something such a god would do).

As strange as it may sound for a Christian (and yes, I do claim that title despite what some on FaceBook may think) to say, there is something appealing to me about this view of God. It certainly solves the issue of why bad things happen (God’s not around to fix stuff). It allows for there to have been a creator. It allows for there to be still be something greater than ourselves (which as a Christian, I believe to be important).

On the other hand, deism really leaves me hanging. After all, if there is no there there, why bother? It seems that the notion of chance would serve the same purpose. This is the quintessential deus ex machina or as Sting might say, Ghost in the Machine. If it’s laughable in fiction, “real” life (and yeah, we’re going to have to have a discussion about that someday) should be no different. (Except that it is. Truth is stranger than fiction, after all.)

And so we begin. Suggestions?

The post Definitions: Deism appeared first on Geek Palaver.

As I leave Savannah on Highway 80, I pass the paper mill on the left. Similar to Butchertown in Louisville, whose smell in the summer contributes to the marked rise of vegetarians, the International Paper Mill forces me to reconsider ever putting anything on paper. Even veganism seems wise:  If eggs can smell that bad when they rot, they can’t be good to begin with. While hydrogen sulfide may not be officially hazardous in low doses, it’s disturbing how quickly it overpowers the sense of smell. Stay in the area overnight and, in the morning you wouldn’t know that you stank.

The water takes on the same flavor. I never knew that plain water could taste sweet until I moved out of the Southeast. This is why all the tea is sweetened, and everyone drinks coke. Join the community for a short while and your taste buds forget what good water tastes like. The images of sulfur and eternal heat that street preachers invoke come alive to those living near a Southern paper mill. Only there, it’s a dry heat.

Thankfully, I’m driving into the wind on my way East. Once I’ve reached the bridge onto Tybee Island, nothing but dampness comes through the windows and sunroof. It’s strange having to run the wipers when it’s not raining: The humidity never drops below ninety percent, even in the driest summer. Tybee means salt in the Native American Euchee language. Salt can purify and preserve, but it can also burn. I once heard that even people who cannot swim can float in the Dead Sea because of the high concentration of salt and minerals. The air on the island feels that way except, instead of supporting you, it crushes you. The saltiness of the wet air surrounds, envelops, encloses the night around you. During the day, the sun burns off some of the moisture; at night, it folds in on you.

Blue sky reaches out to the horizon and touches blue-green water. Moonlight washes away the vivid color of the day. White sand becomes light gray. Sky and water meld into pitch.  I learn what it is to be color-blind like dad. At night the beach isn’t about seeing and being seen. No seeing; no touching; no talking; no hearing other than the rush of the wind past your ears. Only smell and taste remain; even they fade in repetition.

Turning into the public parking lot a little too sharply, I flash back to driving lessons with dad as I hear his dreaded command, “Easy. EASY!” echo in my head. Officially, the beach closes at midnight, but the police never enforce this rule. I watch for the watchers anyway; at three hours after mid-night, it’s better to go unnoticed. I need to be alone.

I park as far away from the streetlight as possible. “Night Swimming” by R.E.M. is fading into the background: “you I thought I knew you / you I cannot judge / you I thought you knew me / this one laughing quietly underneath my breath / night swimming / deserves a quiet night.”[i] Knowing, judging, being known, needing escape I close the door and step into the wind. It’s always strong, especially at night; but tonight, it seems as if it has somewhere to go, and it’s insistent on getting there early. Dad’s shouting, “Hurry up, you’re making us late!” is blown away. I hope the wind continues to do this work.

Alone.

I leave my shoes, wallet, shirt, and all but the door key in the trunk. No sense in tempting anyone to steal my last ten until the end of the month. If it weren’t for the gas card, I couldn’t be here and I’d likely starve. Dad shakes his head, “You need to learn to manage your money better, boy.”

The asphalt is still warm, but the sand is cool. It’s even cooler than the air—drier anyway. It’s like someone left the air conditioning on with the door open. Somewhere, dad is shouting, “Close the door!” I realize the wind is letting me down. Thoughts keep intruding.  I pick up the pace to get to the wet sand so the wind will stop sandblasting my ankles, but it’s difficult running on a surface that gives way under every step. I turn south so the wind’s at my back. My hair streams out in front of me, pointing the way, forming blinders to everything around me. “Get a hair cut!” I head into the darkest part of the beach on its southern edge. This must be what a sensory deprivation chamber feels like. I can hear only the gentle breaking of the waves on the rocks. I can see only a few stars through the clouds. I can feel only the warm water splashing against my shins. I can smell only the brine in the air. I can taste only the salt on my lips.

I climb over the break, take off my shorts, and wade into the Atlantic. Isolated. Separated. Alone. Silent. Safe.

An hour and a half up I-16, the cancer is spreading. Three years ago it invaded his colon. They tried to isolate it. To separate it. To convince it to leave him alone and safe. It didn’t work.

Within a year he was back at the hospital with a shortness of breath, silencing him. As if he were trapped under water, his lungs couldn’t hold enough oxygen. The x-rays showed some spots: Little dark spots that seemed to be joining together in places. Forming communities. Staking claim to their territory. Climbing on up. They try again to isolate it and separate it.

A few weeks ago the left side of his body felt numb, and he had trouble walking. Stumbling into the neurologist’s office, he sees an MRI of his brain. The communities have taken up residence there now. Overcrowding will soon be a problem. The population control techniques have failed, and there’s no place left to be alone. There’s no room left.

One month from now, during a night much like tonight, the growth would finally stop. Dad would simply stop breathing: merciful separation. Tonight though, breathing is still important to me; and as I float on my back underneath the clouds, I add a few extra ounces of saline to the sea.

I swim back to the breakers, pull on my shorts, and walk north toward the lot. I feel cold as the wind dries me. The wind and the surf drown out most sound, but then I notice a gull calling out the morning. The brine leaves my lips chapped and my tongue feeling swollen. My nose clears, and I smell the dry morning air blowing in from the west. My hair, no longer providing the blinders, flails about behind me. Color returns, and I can see the light of a red morning ahead. Mourning ahead.

Before I get into the car, I try and knock off as much of the white sand as possible, but my efforts are futile. I carry the beach back home with me: little communities, refusing to let go.

Today, twelve years later, I never go to the beach alone, and I haven’t been to Tybee since that night. The night swimming is past, “replaced by everyday.”[ii] Laurel and I often go out at night for a walk on the beach, together. She never knew dad, but she was there for the funeral: drove down from Louisville just to be with me. That was when I knew.

Leaving the babies with her mom, we walk east on Orange Beach before midnight. I stop and look at the horizon where water and sky meet and merge into one. Laurel reaches out, takes my hand, and we merge as well. Laughing quietly underneath my breath, I whisper, “Good night.” My community has found me, known me, and I am not alone. We walk back to the condo to check on the kids. The night air swirls around and between us. Safe.

[ii] Ibid.

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Wisdom comes often in small packages, and words are often small packages of meaning waiting to be opened. This is the beauty of poetry; it is a gift that I do not have. To capture meaning in the smallest of packages. To express that meaning in a single word. In this, I am lost as a writer. I am in awe of those who can write poetry. For me, it takes a plethora of words. But there are times when meaning is grasped in a small package. The problem is that this meaning is elusive.

I read Elie Wiesel’s Night for the first time quite late in life. I believe I picked it up for some light summer reading between college and seminary. Maybe I thought it would be a good Beach book . . .

Of course I knew it was a holocaust book, and I think I had avoided it for that very reason. The extermination of a entire race of humans while the world watched was not really something that my “recently freed from reading lists” mind was ready to grapple with. I was, after all, still going to live forever. Extermination wasn’t possible, and so dealing with it in literature just wasn’t necessary.

Much of that changed for me in 1991, but that’s a story for a later time.

So, I picked up this tiny book and began to work my way through the evil that humans are remarkable skilled at inflicting on others.

And in its opening sentence, I met a man who would forever change the course of a young life: Moishe the Beadle. If I may be forgiven for being a young geek, he was Obi Wan, Yoda, Gandalf, and perhaps most of all, Mr. Spock, rolled into one. His is the wisdom of the ages in a small package.

Elie writes of Moishe in Night:

He had watched me one day as I prayed at dusk.

“Why do you cry when you pray?” he asked, as though he knew me well.

“I don’t know,” I answered, troubled.

I had never asked myself that question. I cried because . . . because something inside me felt the need to cry. That was all I knew.

“Why do you pray?” he asked after a moment.

Why do I pray? Strange question. Why did I live? Why did I breathe?

“I don’t know,” I told him, even more troubled and ill at ease. “I don’t know.”

From that day on, I saw him often. He explained to me, with great emphasis, that every question possessed a power that was lost in the answer . . . (Wiesel, Elie. Night. 4-5.)

As Socrates taught us, questions open up dialog. They are the tiniest package of wisdom that I know of. They are troubling. They put us ill at ease. They wake us up at night. The frighten us in the brightest day. The chill us as we suffer through the hottest summer in history. They are the first realization that there is someone/something outside of ourselves. They are our attempts to bring order to the chaos that surrounds us. And so in the voice of a scary smart little girl, we look to the sky and ask in a quiet, child-like voice, “Why?”

That is the smallest package I’m capable of creating, and it’s wisdom is always elusive. Questions possess a power and a wisdom that are lost in the answer. Perhaps, in other words, some questions aren’t meant to be answered.

The problem of evil may be one such question. I think it’s important to acknowledge that I don’t know everything. I think it’s also important to keep asking questions. Question inspire dialog. Dialog leads to connection. With connection comes the possibility of wisdom. And so we ask together in child-like voices, “Why?”

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Okay, so I suck as a blogger. (Of course 60 hour work weeks in the spring semester and 5 classes in the 10 week summer semester had nothing to do with it, I’m sure.)

Anyway, if there’s still anyone listening, it’s my intention to do better. Of course, I hear that intentions are good paving material.

So much to talk about, so little time. My thoughts of late have been on the problem of evil, so I think we’ll talk about that for a while.

So, Evil and it’s problems. A quick overview might help.

This is a uniquely theistic problem, in other words, we Muslims, Jews, and Christians all face the issue (if we allow ourselves, anyway.) It’s that question that wakes me up at night. Along with other things, of course, but it’s the one issue that I keep coming back to. It’s like that missing tooth that your tongue keeps reaching for. What are we to do with the presence of bad things that happen in our lives?

The philosophical rendition of the issue goes something like this:

God is all loving, and

God is all powerful, but

Evil Exists.

This is the conundrum, for if God were all loving, God would want to eradicate evil. Furthermore, if God were all powerful, God would be able to eradicate evil from our world. And yet, evil continues to exist. Thus, either God isn’t all powerful and cannot eradicate evil, or God isn’t all loving and won’t eradicate evil.

This is the problem.

I’ve struggled with this problem since college, and it became real shortly thereafter. Over the past 20 years, it’s never left me, but I think it’s time to expose it to the light of day.

So, I’ll post it here. I’ll think about it out loud. I’ll write about it. I’ll read about it. I’ll hopefully discuss it with you (supposing of course that you’re still out there to discuss stuff with after a half a year break).

More to come soon.

The post Wow, it’s been a while . . . appeared first on Geek Palaver.

When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, “Why god? Why me?” and the thundering voice of God answered, “There’s just something about you that pisses me off.”

–Stephen King

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