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My son, God bless him, is your typical five-year-old boy. In every way. He’s bright, talkative, and charming to a fault.

He also has a wonderful sense of humor.

Those things are fine on their own. Mix them together, though, and you can have some problems. For instance, put the boyish ways and the sense of humor side by side and you can have the makings of an old fashioned father/son talk.

Which is what happened a little bit ago.

To hear about the Act (and the Talk), head on over to Katdish’s blog. You’ll cringe, you’ll laugh, and (hopefully) you’ll think. Because no matter who we are and how perfect we try to be, sooner or later we’re all going to screw things up…

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I saw it from atop a small hill where the woods thinned and the river hooked into a lazy L. Just standing there, staring out over the water as if pondering where it had all come from and where it was all going.
 
It’s presence was not shocking but still unexpected. They’re hard to spot this time of year. The colder months drive them into their dens to sleep and grow fat, turning the forests a bit safer in their absence. There’s less need to cast a backward glance for fear of what may be lurking. And glance you should. The woods are no place to be lost in thought when they’re about. Those creatures are sneaky for their size. Quick. Not there one moment but on you the next, tearing into your flesh without even the courtesy of a “May I?”
 
I’d seen wild animals in the woods before. Both the tiny ones that cause no harm and the big ones who will gladly do so. This one was big. Bigger than most. It’s coat was heavy and brown and it’s paws left deep marks in the soggy dirt. Even from that distance, it was intimidating. A pang of fear shuddered through me. If it decided to look away from the river and toward me, that small moment of decision would be crucial. Staying put would be a risk. Running would be worse. Everyone knew that running often led to chasing and chasing often led to being caught.
 
But in the end I decided to stay. Partly because I was afraid of that chase, but mostly because I thought I was hidden well enough. Watching a beast—and make no mistake, this was a beast—is an enthralling experience. We’re all curious creatures, eager to glimpse into the unknown as long as the chances of it glancing back are slim.
 
It turned and ambled down the riverbank, pausing to kick over a rock and study the underside. The brush on the opposite side of the bank snapped. The sound jerked it’s head with equal parts readiness and apprehension. It remained still for a few moments, eyes narrowed, and then resumed its walk down the riverbank toward the trail.
 
I followed at a distance, reminding myself of the damage they’ve been known to cause. It’s been said by some they were misunderstood creatures, that far from brutes they had a capacity for higher thinking and deeper emotion. But I’d never seen it. My experience taught me otherwise. 
 
I’d seen the way they mark their territory, thrashing and growling and destroying. They will tolerate one another, but not for long; I’d seen them fight, seen them argue and threaten, and it’s not for the squeamish. They bellow and growl and bristle. They kill.
 
I didn’t know if a wild animal was inherent good or naturally evil, but I knew you could judge them the same way you could judge anything else, and that was by what you see them do rather than what you thought they were capable of doing.
 
I’d seen others at ease with being close in proximity to them, thinking that being “at peace” or “one with” would somehow bring a crude sense of enlightenment. Not me. I knew better. You could break an animal. You could train it and teach it and love it. But you could not tame it. They were wild, all of them. And I could never be persuaded to believe anything other than the fact that beneath their beauty and grace lay a heart that thumped to only the basest of instincts.
 
I kept its back to me as we travelled, by the meandering river and onto the meandering trail to the gravel road beyond. I stopped there, and it was in the stillness of the shadows that I became aware of why I had been watching it all that time. Not to observe or study or fulfill any lingering curiosity, but just to make sure it was leaving. Just to see it go.
 
Because the humans have made a mess of their own world, and we bears don’t want them making a mess of ours.

I found one waiting for me in the mailbox the other day. Turns out there was no need to perform that small part of my coming-home ritual. My Girl Scout had gathered the bills and junk mail for me. Yesterday when I went into the office to sort the mess of papers on my desk, I instead found four neatly stacked piles with one sign in the middle—A Girl Scout was here! And this evening I found another beside my washed and dried coffee cup that had been placed (handle facing toward me, no less) by the espresso machine.

I like having a Girl Scout in the house.

And I like these notes….

To read the rest of this post (and to find out what those notes really taught me), I’ll invite you over to High Calling Blogs, where I’ve hung my shingle for the day. And thanks to everyone for all the get-well wishes!

But not so with the turning of summer to fall. There is a clear line between those two, a boundary of Stop and Go marked by stars so close the shine kisses your face and leaves so colorful they should come in boxes marked “Crayola.” Autumn stands alone. It neither lurks nor knocks, it bursts forth and announces its presence. “Here I am,” it says. “Time for something different.”

Though I’m always reluctant to let go of summer, the wiser part of me knows I must. That even perennial green and sun would in time become uncomfortable and drab. It’s a seldom-mentioned fact that we all need reminding of from time to time—there is such a thing as being cursed with too much good. That, I think, is why God made the seasons. To teach us that whatever we have in this world can be lost and then found right back if we just keep moving forward.

That sort of thinking about the world outside my window has come in handy with the world inside myself.

For the last seventeen years my life has been marred by short periods of mottled serenity followed by long periods of outright despair. Depression is like that, I think. It forces you to view happiness as an illusion rather than a possibility. It makes you fearful of reaching out to grab hold of joy for fear it will turn to vapor and seep through your fingers.

Those inner winters were borne by me alone. My depression was a weight hung from my soul and forced me to look down in shame rather than up in petition. Christians weren’t supposed to be sad. Their hearts were supposed to be filled with the light of God, not the darkness of living.

I’m sure a lot of people think the same—that a life with God should be that perennial green and sun. Which is why so many of us walk through our winters naked and cold trying to convince ourselves that the season hasn’t changed. That the breeze is still warm.

I think the biggest lie we tell ourselves is that we should always smile.

I will not worship a God who demands I shy away from half of living simply because it’s difficult. I would rather Him offer to walk with me through it. The world will wear on all of us from time to time. There is no avoiding it. That’s why I cast a wary eye upon any religion that says such things can be avoided. They can’t.

They can’t because there is a reason for our pain. Because it is an inevitable consequence of loving God that we feel. Because there is a beauty in our tears and a grace in our sadness.

The point isn’t to figure out a way to avoid our seasons, then. It’s to figure out a way to embrace them. To endure and continue. Because we must know sadness if we are to know joy, we must be lost in doubt in order to find faith, and it is only in our misery that true hope can be born.

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We all love to be rewarded, don’t we? Whether it’s a long, hot shower after a full day’s work in the yard or something as simple as a bowl of our favorite ice cream after eating the less desirable vegetables on our dinner plate. Does it matter the means in which we receive our reward? Apparently, it does.

To read the story of what a bowl of ice cream taught me, hop on over to katdish’s blog. And if you get there before I do, please save me some Starbuck’s coffee ice cream. It’s my favorite.

photo courtesty of photobucket.com

I’m nerdy enough to admit that the History Channel occupies much of the time I spend in front of the television. And despite the fact that lately it’s begun to focus more on the apocalypse than the past, it’s still quality viewing. You can learn a lot about the present by looking over your shoulder. You can learn a lot about yourself, too.

I spent an hour the other day getting a quick education on daily life in 1700s America. Fascinating stuff. It was a time when our country was wild and new, a land of opportunity fraught with struggle and danger. Much like now, I suppose. And of the countless facts the producers recreated and shared, one stood out.

Medicine in the eighteenth century was anything but modern. What doctors would call a manageable disorder today could have been a death sentence then. The diagnosis of many conditions and ailments was at best unreliable and at worst impossible.

Add to that the fact that the world was a violent place and doctors were relatively scarce and poorly trained beyond the few major cities, and you begin to understand why the life expectancy for your average American male was thirty years.

That’s right. Thirty.

That trivial tidbit was supposed to be filed away in the large portion of my brain reserved for useless information, but it wouldn’t fit. It seemed too important to be useless and too profound to be information. I couldn’t help but think there was something in that fact that should be held onto and pondered.

That God has His reasons for everything is something I’ve always held to be true. There are no coincidences, and nothing in life is an accident. If the history of our times are a story, then our chapter could only be written in this one part. We are all here, now, for a reason.

If God had seen fit to put me in this world three hundred years ago instead of thirty-seven, I would likely be dead by now. That’s a sobering thought. In a way, I’m living on borrowed time. It’s almost as if I’ve been given seven years that another me in another time would have been denied.

I’m wondering if knowing that piece of information seven years ago would have had any lasting impact. Would it have given me a needed sense of urgency in my life? Maybe. Maybe I would have seen those extra 2,555 days between then and now as the gift they’ve been. Maybe I wouldn’t have wasted so many of them.

I wouldn’t have spent so many of those days worrying. Wouldn’t have spoiled so many of them with anger. Maybe I wouldn’t have thrown so many of those days away by chasing the inconsequential pursuits of life.

We live in amazing times. Health care is no longer an art or a practice of guess-and-pray, it’s a science. Diseases are routinely cured, and even when they aren’t many who suffer from them continue to live normal and vibrant lives. Life expectancy is now over seventy years, and I recently read where babies born now can expect to live close to a century. In the 1700s I would be considered an old man, but in this century I’m still considered young and in the prime of my life.

But that’s no reason to gloat. I realize that now.

The quality of our days doesn’t depend upon their number, but the number of defining moments in them. Those moments when our sights are raised from the ground beneath us to the treasures around us, when our eyes are turned outward to the hurts of others rather than inward to our own, and when we realize for even the briefest of moments that the burdens of this world are as fleeting as the world itself.

We are made for more than we are, giants in small bodies. “A little lower than the angels,” the Bible says. The days that are bestowed to us should be treated as worthy of our standing. Our moments shouldn’t be regarded as more of the mundane, but as opportunities to grasp a little more of heaven and a little less of earth.

by katdish

Don’t panic! Billy’s regularly scheduled post will be back tomorrow. This will be my first and most likely only guest post for What I Learned Today.

Truth be told, Billy is taking a much needed rest. A doctor ordered rest. Prayers are much appreciated.

Talent is a wonderful thing, but it won’t carry a quitter. And there always comes a time–if the work is sincere, if it comes from that magic place where thought, memory, and emotion all merge–when you will want to quit, when you will think that if you put your pencil down your eye will dull, your memory will lapse, and the pain will end. – Stephen King, Duma Key

Question: Are you a writer who blogs or a blogger who writes?

(Hint – If you had to ponder that question for more than a nano-second, I strongly suspect you are the latter.)

I will unabashedly say that I am a blogger who writes. I’ll even go so far to say that I can on occassion write well. But to put myself in the same category as some of you reading this post would be an insult to your talent, tenacity and the sacrifices and suffering you have endured for your craft.  And I would never do that.

I like to think of myself as a romantic realist — a champion for the promotion of good writing. My heart cries “Injustice!” when I walk into the local bookstore. Because one only needs view the most prominently displayed books to understand that great writing doesn’t necessarily sell books. The size of an author’s platform sells books.

Which is why writers blog:

And twitter,

and have facebook accounts,

and engage with their readers as much as possible.

Which is not to say writers don’t enjoy blogs and social media.  I assume that most do.  They are a wonderful way to meet kindred spirits, be encouraged and encourage others.

So what’s the difference between a writer who blogs and a blogger who writes?  Speaking from personal experience, I would say that as a blogger who writes, the social interaction is what keeps me involved.  I want to write well, but (if I’m being honest) the writing doesn’t always come first.

But if you’re a writer who blogs, the writing MUST come first.  The ability to write well is first and foremost a gift.  But it also a disclipline.  One must make a conscious decision to write consistently; to push through all the distractions that can easily become excuses for not doing what must be done.  (Or you can continue to try and do everything until your doctor threatens to put you in the hospital.  AHEM!)

While reading blogs and building personal and professional relationships on social media sites such as Facebook and Twitter are effective and even enjoyable ways to help build an author platform, they must never come before your craft.  Never forget why you got into this in the first place — to tell your story.

I will take both partial credit and blame for helping Billy Coffey build his platform, and I will continue to do so until he tells me otherwise.  Why do I do this?  Because like I said before, I am a champion for the cause of good writing, or in the case of Billy Coffey, great writing.

Billy would tell you in his typical humble way that he’s not a writer; that he is a person who happens to write.  But I think anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis knows better.   And come this time next year when Snow Day is released, so will everyone else.

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My family and I are gathered on an outcropping of rocks high in the mountains, wondering at the stars. An unusually warm winter’s night has given us the luxury of this little excursion, and we’ve been rewarded with the sort of natural scene that sucks in your breath and makes you exhale in a long, slow whistle.
 
Planets dance above our heads, stars glimmer, and each of us take turns wishing upon the occasional meteorite. Orion stands guard at his post near the horizon, his belt cinched and shining. The Big Dipper looks as if it’s pouring the Milky Way upon our heads. The heavens are arrayed in a perfect sort of chaos, as if God has sneezed a miracle.
 
My son gazes up and wonders of rocket ships and aliens. My daughter? Angels and celestial playgrounds. My wife is wondering why we don’t come up here more often, because we should.
 
And me? I’m thinking about a dog I met last summer…

To read the rest of my encounter, follow me over to my friend Annie’s blog. And while you’re there, say hi to Boz for me. Now that’s one cool dog!

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Today has been designated a blog carnival day by Peter Pollock, the topic of which is Remember. Which is fitting. I’m doing a lot of remembering today.

November 3 is voting day for the good people of the Commonwealth of Virginia. Our state Constitution says it’s time for a new governor and representatives to the state legislature, and there are always the handful of new laws to consider.

Voting to me has always been much more privilege than duty, and that’s a belief I want to pass on to my children. I want them to know the importance of what they will do every time they stand inside that curtained booth. They will become participants in a bloodless revolution, shouting their voice of continuation or change without uttering a word. The democratic process may well be the single greatest invention of man for this one thing—it allows ordinary people to alter the course of history.

I’m by myself this year, voting on my way home from work. But during the Presidential election last year, I took my son with me. That’s what I’m remembering today.

The crowd was large. That’s what I remember the most. Large but civil, as if they, too, understood the seriousness of their business. The only sounds were the murmurs of polite conversation and the shuffling of feet as voters were identified and assigned to their proper places.

My son hung in my arms, swiveling his head at the slightest sound. I’d gone over the gist of the voting process on the way to the voting station as well as could be explained to a four-year-old, which by necessity involved metaphors of both Star Wars and, strangely, Phineas and Ferb. But he still had questions. A lot of them. Questions that were reserved for the moment the curtain closed around us in the booth.

“So we get to say who’s the boss?” he asked.

“Yep,” I answered.

“Which one are you voting for, Daddy?”

I pointed and said, “That one.”

“Is he good?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. The pessimist in me wanted to say that I doubted it, that I doubted it very much, but that when people vote it’s usually more like they’re picking the least bad person rather than the best.

But instead I just said “I think he is,” and hoped it sufficed. It did, but then he asked me a tougher question.

“Does he love God?”

“He says he does,” I told him.

“Lots of people say they love God, but they don’t act like it much. Does he act like it much?”

“I don’t know him, buddy,” I said. “I just know what he says. Sometimes what people say and what they do are different.”

He didn’t like that and neither did I, but such was life and there you go.

“Grandma says her mommy and daddy never voted because they were squirmish,” he said.

“I think that’s ‘Amish,’” I corrected. “And you’re right, they didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because to them God was the boss and no one else could be.”

“God’s the boss of me,” he said, then added, “even more than you.”

“Even more than me,” I said. I flipped the switch next to the name and said, “Okay, pull the lever and we’ll be done.”

His hand hovered over the bright red handle, then paused. “Maybe we should be like the squirmish people,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I think God wants us to speak for Him, too. And that’s what we’re doing.”

“By voting, right?”

“Right.”

“Can I pull the lever now, Daddy?”

“Sure.”

He did, and the curtain opened.

Hand in hand walking back to the truck, we passed twenty or so people on their way in. Fellow soldiers in the revolution of continuation or change. A news truck was in the parking lot. A reporter glanced over notes while shielding her eyes from the sun. It was a bright sun that day, bright and bold and hung high in the sky. I remember wondering if it was still rising or beginning to set, and I remember thinking the same about our nation.

“I hope he wins, Daddy,” my son said.

“Me, too. But if he doesn’t, it’ll still be okay.”

“Because God’s still the boss?”

“Because God’s still the boss.”

(picture by photobucket)

Halloween is a pretty big deal in these parts, which may or may not have something to do with the Hershey factory that is smack dab in the middle of town. And since I live fairly close to a pretty concentrated amount of people, you could say that the streets near my home are Candy Central.

I don’t complain, though. I like Halloween. Like seeing kids dressed up, like the scary movies, and like the candy (not necessarily in that order, mind you).

If there’s one thing that grates against me, though, it’s the stragglers. The hangers-on who refuse to bow to the time of night and the porchlight being off and knock on the door anyway. Usually the cut-off time is around 8:30, but there have been years when we’ve had kids who were still walking up the driveway an hour later.

I had a few stragglers this year, too. But none came as late as Logan, who sauntered to my door not Saturday night but Sunday afternoon.

To read the story, hop on over to katdish’s blog. I have to say he’s one trick-or-treater I’ll never forget, and one of the few who have given me a treat.