The Peacemaker

The following is an article written by a good friend of mine.  It is a very personal reflection on his life and the lives of his colleagues. Because I believe his words speak to an important truth that is so rarely heard anymore, I am going to share them.  One reason we are given the privilege of enjoying our own merry Christmases is because peacemakers like him are out doing their job.

“I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good.”

That is a quote from one of my favorite Pearl Jam songs called Wishlist. Every day I open up my news feed on various media outlets looking and wishing for some good news. Unfortunately, we live in a world that often only focuses on the bad news, from a bad economy, homelessness, unemployment, and poverty, to the daily murders and violence that seem to be corrupting our planet like some sort of deadly virus. It is easy to understand why so many have lost hope in humanity.  However, I want to shed some light on some good news you may not see on your local news channel, or Facebook, Twitter or even at your local watering hole.

          Every day in every nook and cranny of this great country, there are thousands of nameless, faceless men and women getting ready for work. It starts the normal way, with a shower and getting dressed. These men and women put on their pants the same way as everyone else; they strap on their boots, comb their hair and get dressed. For them, now, a “switch” has been activated in their minds as they begin strapping on their tools.  They will put on a hot and uncomfortable protective vest restricting movement which will be worn for the next 12-16 hours. Notice how I didn’t say bullet proof vest… which is because there is no such thing.

 Next is the uniform, either brown or blue, that they will make sure looks sharp and will pass any spot inspection. The badge attached is a symbol of their commitment to protect their community at any cost. Then it is time for the 15 -20 pound duty belt. This belt contains a gun that they pray every day they don’t have to use, a couple pairs of well used handcuffs, at least one flashlight, a radio, a Taser, and anything else one can fit on a size 34 waste. Now that they are physically prepared, they begin to mentally prepare themselves for their shift. 

          The next step is the most important and difficult. They walk downstairs to explain to their kids why Daddy or Mommy won’t be able to make it to their Christmas play at school, or birthday party or baseball game, or any other meaningful event they have missed over the years. If they are lucky enough to still have a spouse, they give them a kiss and tell them they love them and promise to see them in the morning. They tell them this, both of them knowing it is not something they can promise. Tragically, so far in this year 114 men and women have been unable to keep that promise, not to mention the countless others who have been badly injured or mentally scared at the very hands of those whom they swore to protect.

          They then drive to work and begin to settle into their shift. They start out dealing with the effects of politicians and leaders that don’t seem to have their back unless it is an election year. They are bogged down with red tape, paper work and legal issues handed down by the bureaucracy of government. They see humanity at is frailest moments and some of its most evil members. They see a fractured mental health system that has left so many broken and lost. They see horrific traffic crashes that take so many innocent lives. They see children with no loving, responsible parent to teach them, love them, or take care of them. They see the horrible effects of drugs and alcohol and how both are destroying our families and communities.

          They are cussed at, spit at and despised, not for their own actions or words but because of a hate filled lie that police officers are racist pigs and are only here to harass the public. They are forced to make split second life or death decisions and are expected to be perfect every time.

 If, for example, they use their Taser, someone will say they should have used their baton. If they use their fist, someone will say they should have used their Taser. If their lives are in jeopardy, and they fear they will break that promise to their wife and kids and are forced to used their gun, they will then be crucified by people who have never walked in their shoes but are quick to tell them how to do their job.

          God willing they will get off work somewhat on time at the end of their shift, drive home, kiss their kids and go to bed. Now, here is the good news.

About 10 hours later these brave men and women will do it all over again. They will do it not for money or fame, or because they are out to get anyone. They do it because they took an oath to protect their community, enforce the laws of this nation, state , and local communities. They do it because, without them, who else would?

Who else will handle those accidents? Who else will protect those abused children or elderly? Who will stop and help change those tires in the middle of the night, or catch those armed robbers or murderers?

 It is time for the good, honest members of our communities, politicians, and media members to stand up and support these brave men and women of Law Enforcement. We are in a symbiotic relationship with the public. The public need the police to do these jobs no one else wants to do, and we police officers surely cannot do our job without the public’s support.

          I am very proud to be called these names: Police Officer, Crime Fighter, Cop, and, most importantly, Peacemaker. “Blessed are the Peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

Listen

What’s your best move?

This was the question I posed to my crew of three-year-olds in Sunday school a few weeks ago.  We were introducing a lesson on the best news ever—Christmas—and to get their attention, the curriculum suggested we have the preschoolers act out their “best move” in front of their peers.  Best dance move, best ninja move, whatever.

 “Mooooo!”  An impish student quickly responded.

“What?”

“Mooooo!”  He answered, and I quickly understood.  He was a cow.  He thought I’d said “best mooo.”  Oh.

“No, not moo.”  I replied.  “Your best move.  Move.  Like your best dance move, or, like, in soccer, or basketball, you know, your best move.”

But by then it was too late.  They’d been spooked.

“My grandpa has cows at his house.”

“I rode a horse once.”

“Moooo!’

“Can I do my best ‘Mooo?’”

“We eat cows!”

“MOOOO!”

“Chocolate milk comes from cows.”

I’d been trained to teach adolescents, not three-year-olds, so we skipped that part of the curriculum.  We moved on.  No more moves.  Time to color angels.

Now, fast forward to this past week, when many area students took their final exams.  The following is a paraphrased example of a conversation between me and a room full of freshmen taking these high stakes tests for the first time.

“OK, so go ahead and put your name on the top of these tests, followed by the class period, followed by today’s date, which is Dec. 19^th.”

“Do you want us to put the date on it, too?”
“Yeah, if you would.  Go ahead and put today’s date on the top next to your name.”

“What’s today’s date?”

“Today’s date is December 19^th, 2014.”

“But I thought it was the 20^th.”

“Nope.  The 20^th is tomorrow.”

“Isn’t tomorrow the first day of winter?”

“That would be Monday.”

Pause.  “Do you want us to put our class period on it, too?”

“That would be cool.  Next to your name, maybe?”

“Where at?”

“Right there at the top of the paper, where it says ‘Class Period.’”

“What’s today date?”

And so forth.  Also, just so it doesn’t seem like I’m picking on people younger than me for not listening, keep in mind you are reading a column written by a guy who once accidently deleted an entire semester’s worth of college work because I honestly didn’t understand the concept of trashcan icons, mostly because I honestly did not pay attention in a class entitled “Introduction to University.”  Don’t judge.  It was 1997 and I was working in a crowded sweat-house of a room called a “computer lab.”

But I digress.  Continuing, I often refer to these breakdowns in communication as “disconnects.”   As a former student myself who spent years studying the nuances of the English language, I often use the word “disconnect” because it’s so neutral.  It’s so inoffensive and beige.  For example, if I make the following statement to a parent or a colleague, “Hey, there seems to be a real disconnect between my instructional goals and young Jojo’s performance in class,” what I often really mean is, “Jojo isn’t listening.”

            It seems our world is full of “disconnect.”  Despite the plethora of gadgets available to help us communicate, one wonders how much authentic communication is really taking place.  We often spend so much effort trying to be understood, we hardly have the energy left to understand.

Which is unfortunate, too, because listening is a pretty big part of communicating.  Based on my experience, I would argue it’s the most important part, because occasionally people will ask, “Where do you get your ideas?”

And the simplest answer is, “From life.”  From listening.  Those of you who know me know I am not a big talker.  I’m not noisy.  In fact, I once had a rather astute supervisor who planned on releasing me to purse alternative professional options because he assumed, because I was so quiet, that I must also be fairly stupid. 

A few months later he himself was released.  I stayed put.

Regardless, the few positive marks I’ve left in this world—as a parent, an educator, a writer, a husband—are primarily by the grace of God, and secondly due to my willingness to listen.  I can write an occasionally readable column because I’ve simply been willing to just shut up and take notes.

 In contrast, the numerous times I’ve stumbled can generally be traced back to not paying enough attention to the details in front of me.  Such as most of the 1990s.

In closing, many of us will actually celebrate listening this holiday season.  We will celebrate a God who listened to a dying world in desperate need.   We will celebrate a God who listened to a crying people, and who sent into this world a wonderful counselor to save us from ourselves. 

Good things often happen when we listen.

Perhaps we should make it our “best move” this New Year to pause awhile and hardly make a move at all.  Just be.  Just listen.

If nothing else, it might help minimize our funny cow noises.

Narrate

In the summer of 1871, half a decade before his violent death, George Armstrong Custer was commissioned to write a series of articles about life on the American Plains.  “My purpose is to make my narrative as truthful as possible,” Custer remarked in a letter concerning the assignment. 

The word “narrative,” then and now, is often used synonymously with the word “story.”  Although a narrative can be merely an account, or a telling of a series of events, the term also often implies a literary quality.  A narrative, in the literary sense, at least, has a beginning, middle, and an eventual end.  Narratives generally contain struggle. Struggle implies conflict, and conflict requires at least two opposing forces.

What happened in Ferguson, Missouri this past August was tragic.  What has happened since the death of Michael Brown has also been terrible.  However, neither the shooting nor its aftermath can be truly understood by themselves.  Just like anything else that has ever happened, these events transpired and must be considered within the framework of the much larger narrative of American history.

As we all know, one of the great crimes in our nation’s narrative was slavery.  Slavery, of course, is not an American institution but has been a vice for most of human history.  American slavery was relatively unique, however, in that it was so closely tied to race.  Racism did not lead to American slavery.  American slavery was caused by a demonic combination of geography, economic specifics, and human greed. 

Slave owners, just like anyone else, like to sleep at night, and therefore it became cognitively necessary for them to view their carnal property as less than human.   Over time, this cognitive dissonance caused collective brain damage.  Slavery poisoned America, and although the nation is no longer actively drinking the stuff, we are still suffering from the effects.

With this in mind, the fatal violence that occurred between Michael Brown and Officer Wilson on August 9 seems to fit within this broader American narrative.  An unarmed black teenager was gun downed by a white police officer in a state that has had more than its fair share of race issues.  It was an act of violence that has been perpetuated countless times throughout the history of our country.

The problem with the shooting, however—at least as it pertains to this discussion about the broader narrative of American race relations—is that the facts surrounding the event simply do not fit neatly into that narrative.  All of the evidence available, from the autopsy to the ballistic report, strongly collaborates with Officer Wilson.  Based on those rather annoying facts, the grand jury very reasonably decided that Officer Wilson basically did what he said he did.  He acted in self-defense.  He used deadly force, which was part of his training, to protect himself and his partner from an individual he considered to be a threat.

Thus, these facts do not fit into the narrative that perpetuates the belief that a militarized police force continues to use deadly violence against a minority population to ensure the status quo.

Which is not so say that just that very thing has never happened, or that it does not happen in some cases.

It just did not happen in Ferguson, Missouri this past August.

Unfortunately, the facts standing in the way of that unsubstantiated narrative clearly have very little effect on those who have exploited the event for their own destructive ends.  For some individuals, their own version of the story becomes more seductive than the actual story itself.

However, while we are on the topic of unsubstantiated narratives, let’s quickly consider another one before closing.  

There is another American narrative that says that Lincoln freed all the slaves in 1863, that Dr. King had his dream a hundred years later, and that everything has been pretty cool ever since.  The problem with this narrative, though, is that it doesn’t really fit the facts, either. 

Returning to the toxin analogy, if you poison yourself with alcohol on Saturday night, you’re going to feel pretty rough around the edges on Sunday morning, and maybe even on Monday afternoon.  The first African slaves came to this continent in 1526.  The Civil war ended in 1865.  That’s over 300 years of outright poison consumption chased by another century’s worth of Jim Crow.  That’s going to cause a hangover.   

These facts, of course, are not meant to excuse bad behavior by anyone, regardless of their race.  They are also not designed to minimize the crucial influence each person has on their own destiny, regardless of their background.  These facts merely serve as a reminder that American history is complicated.  American history is not and has never been a mere picture book story easily understood without serious insight.

Life might seem easier to understand if we stick to the old storylines, even when they no longer read true.  However, like Custer, our goal should always be to make our stories as truthful as possible.  We can ignore a reality that does not fit into our version of events for only so long before we find ourselves surrounded by an unfamiliar present.

Before we find ourselves, ironically enough, surrounded like our scribe General Custer himself, who once, quite confidently, believed in a narrative that claimed “There are not enough Indians in the world to defeat the Seventh Cavalry.”

It turns out his narrative was untrue, which is something to consider the next time we watch the news.

Thank

This year, after very little consideration, we have decided to relocate Thanksgiving.  Once its vitals are checked, we will move Thanksgiving to a more hospitable date on the calendar, one not mercilessly sandwiched between the holiday sprawl of Halloween and Christmas.  Because of the mid-November snow, coupled with the fact that my small children have literally lost their minds to holiday fervor, we just kind of gave up.  From out of the attic the decorations came down, from out of the basement the tree came up, and so here we are.  Sorry, Thanksgiving.  Maybe next year.

Actually, another reason we’re skipping Thanksgiving is because I’m having surgery.  Later this week I will undergo a parathyroidectomy, which sounds worse than it is.  I hope.  Regardless, I scheduled this procedure on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving to minimize my time out of the classroom, and also so I would have a pretty good excuse for missing Black Friday shopping.  The down side is that I really won’t be presentable the day after.  After all, no one wants to eat dressing with the guy who actually has medical dressing on his throat.

Now, some of you are probably thinking, “Gee, we’re related, we’re friends, we’re colleagues, and THIS is how I hear you’re having minimally invasive surgery to remove a parathyroid, a body part that sounds made up in the first place?  I read about it on the Internet?  Wow.  That’s cold man, that’s cold.”

And you’re right.  I should have called.  But it’s a minor surgery, and just where do you place it in the conversation anyway?  “Oh, yeah, by the way, I have an overactive parathyroid and it’s causing calcium to get leeched from my bones.  Over time it could cause osteoporosis and kidney stones.”

 Kidney stones?  Are you kidding me?  No one wants to hear about kidney stones.  I’m sick to my stomach just writing about them.  Kidney stone talk is how you end conversations, not have them, so I just didn’t tell very many people.  Besides, this method is much more efficient.  Instead of going through the whole boring story dozens and dozens of times, I just have to write about it once.   So, you know, you’re welcome.

I did mention the surgery to an old friend a few weeks ago, and his take on it was interesting.  I assumed, after going through the whole spiel, he would respond with a, “Well, good luck,” or a “Hope things go all right.”  Instead he made a rather acute observation. 

“Modern medicine.”  He began.  “A hundred years ago you would have just ended up with osteoporosis.”

And he’s right.  In fact, had I not gone into the doctor to get my cholesterol checked in the first place, it’s possible I would have gone most of the rest of my life with elevated calcium.  The symptoms I do have—fatigue and irritability—I had always just chalked up to being the father of two small children while also trying to teach high school English.  It never occurred to me that I might be exhausted because part of me just wasn’t working right.

Thus, the events leading up to next week have been enlightening on one hand and humbling on the other.  For example, I have learned that when it comes to navigating the labyrinthine world of medical insurance and hospital visits, do not make assumptions. People are just people, regardless of their profession, and sometimes people make mistakes.  At the end of the day, it’s your health.  This means advocating for yourself and paying attention to the details; two things I’ve never been good at.

On a pointier note, I’ve also learned that when a nurse inserts a needle into your arm to get you prepped for a CAT scan, you might just have a needle hanging out of your arm for a while.  I had assumed that once injected, they would be pretty close to putting other things into my body, too, such as the iodine uptake.  This was not the case.  I just went back to the waiting room for about fifteen minutes with a needle stuck in my arm.  That was gross.

The process has also been humbling, however, because each time I went to a new doctor I had to fill out some kind of medical history form, and each time I was struck by how little of a medical history I actually had.  In my thirty-eight years, I had suffered no broken bones, no hospitalizations, no prescriptions.  Although I was inching toward my fifth decade on the planet, I was, on paper, ridiculously healthy. 

This disclosure is not meant to be boastful, and it’s certainly not meant to sound trite.  In fact, the exact opposite is true.  Throughout my multiple appointments and tests, I’ve come into contact with many, many sick people.  I have shared waiting rooms with bodies worn out and spirits worn thin. 

Someday the body might be mine.  Most likely, someday it will be.    

 In the end, part of what makes it all so humbling is that I have not really earned this health.  It has just been a tremendous gift.  It has been a remarkable gift that I’ve spent way too much time taking for granted.

  That is the real reason Thanksgiving has been relocated. 

  Thanksgiving is today.

Swim

Now that the midterm elections are over and I can no longer be accused of using this “kingmaker” of a column as a bully pulpit to sway voters, let’s talk about boats.  Imagine Illinois is a boat, and it is sinking.  Not hard, was it?  Our old captain was bad, as were many of his predecessors.  This past Tuesday, we all received a chance to remove this old captain and replace him with a new one with new ideas. 

Educators in Illinois, as well as many other public servants throughout the state, were basically left with two very bad options.  We could vote for the captain that helped get the boat in such bad shape to begin with, or we could vote for the guy who had basically said to us, if elected, he would take a hammer and hit us in the crotch.  Granted, this is some pretty salty language, but keep in mind we are discussing boats.  Sailors are known to use such terminology, especially when discussing pension reform. 

Now, to be precise, our new governor will most likely not physically harm me or any other public employee in the state.  The hammer thing was just hyperbole used to demonstrate why voting in last Tuesday’s election was so frustrating.  It’s over now, though, and I think that when any election ends, regardless of who won, there is often a sigh of relief from everyone except for perhaps those most closely linked to the loser.  After all, now ends the commercials.  Now ends the fliers.  Now ends the anxiety some felt as they wondered, “Who will win?  Who will be our next leaders?”

At least, of course, until next week, when the 2016 presidential election begins.

For those who spoke out against Rauner, and, based on former columns, I supposed I have to put myself in that category, we must remember that a governor is not a king.  Regardless of his goals, he cannot achieve everything he wants.  More specifically, the political currents Rauner finds himself now navigating are unique to Illinois.  They are not the same currents faced by Governor Scott Walker of Wisconsin, nor former Governor Mitch Daniels of Indiana, two fellow Republicans to whom Rauner is often compared.

For those who have championed Rauner, the same holds true.  Being the governor of any state is a tough job, but being the governor of Illinois sometimes leads to prison.  He will need much more than a heavy wallet and a fed up electorate to steer this ship of state back into calmer waters.  Seriously, may God help him.

Although I did not, could not, vote for him, I have to admit that I am curiously unperturbed by the results.  Rauner might very well be a bad idea but at least he is a different idea.  I cannot imagine him shaking up Springfield enough to fix what is so badly broken, but I also cannot imagine him making things worse than they already are.  Although it’s been said before, it’s certainly worth repeating right now:  in politics, in life, things rarely turn out as good or as bad as what we’ve been promised. 

Perhaps his supporters will be vindicated.  Perhaps he will put an end to the abject cronyism and graft for which our state is so vilified.  Perhaps, through his efforts, the economy will be so fundamentally improved that it becomes the envy of other states as opposed to source material for gallows humor.  Who knows?

On the other hand, perhaps his detractors are right.  Perhaps he will lower the minimum wage to disastrous results.  Perhaps Rauner will cut funding to education, gut pensions, and even make babies cry in their sleep.  Who knows?

Regardless, Bruce Rauner is the new captain.  Let’s hope he’s brought a map.  

Kitty No

Many years ago, before most of us were even born, the nation of Japan attacked the United States.  This did not end well.  Since that conflict, however, relations between the two countries have actually been pretty solid, and much of this cooperation has been due to the relatively fluid cross pollination of our cultures.  Unfortunately, this may soon change.

In case you have not heard by now, Hello Kitty, the adorable little anthropomorphic cartoon character created by the Japanese toy company Sanrio, is not a cat.  If you know what Hello Kitty looks like, this revelation is a bit shocking.  After all, Hello Kitty has whiskers.  She has pointy ears.  Her name has the word “Kitty” in it.  However, according to a recent Los Angeles Times article written by Carolina M. Miranda, Sanrio insists that, “Hello Kitty is… a cartoon character. She is a little girl. She is a friend. But she is not a cat. She's never depicted on all fours. She walks and sits like a two-legged creature. She does have a pet cat of her own, however, and it's called Charmmy Kitty."

On the surface this declaration might seem merely bizarre and repetitive. Unfortunately, this is not an isolated event.  Taken into context, Sanrio’s revelation is merely the latest in a decades-long plot designed to confuse the western world in general and the United States in particular.  The empire of Japan may very well have surrendered on September 2, 1945, but clearly they did not give up.  Their counter cultural attack was almost immediate, and it found its form in that of a giant fire-breathing lizard.

When Godzilla first lurched out of the sea sixty years ago, anyone could immediately tell that he was a villain.  After all, Godzilla is basically a huge radioactive dinosaur.  He smashed buildings and burned stuff with fire.  No one could mistake this monstrosity for anything besides what it was:  a giant insane monster.

Except what happens when one monster that looks like a giant lizard fights another monster that looks, perhaps, like a giant cockroach?  Now who is the villain?  Giant lizards, after all, have four limbs.  Humans have four limbs.  Cockroaches, however, have six.  Confusing, isn’t it?  Who is the bad guy?  Who are we to trust?  The subliminal, mind-scrambling, fire-breathing message?  Beware, world, for nothing is what it seems!  Your worst enemy, in fact, may be you!

The second cultural salvo came in much smaller packaging:  video games.  Granted, the earliest video games were technically created in the U.S., but we all know which country gave them menace.   They started out subtle and rather dull, but within a generation video games were being blamed for everything from teenage violence to childhood obesity.  Once again, though, perhaps the most damning aspect is the message that video games have now embedded into our increasingly mushy minds:  socializing with real humans is a waste of time.  Granted, some video games do allow the so-called “multi-player” option, but let’s face facts.  What are these “multi-players” usually doing? That’s right.  Shooting each other in the multi-face.

For the most part, their message has been clear.  The only thing that matters is how far you can get, all by yourself, in the video game. While Godzilla confused us, video games isolated us.

Voltron and other similarly clad giant robots came next, combining the angry girth of the initial attack with the high-tech sneakiness of the second.  Now, before continuing, I must admit that I loved Voltron when I was a kid.  Voltron was awesome.  Some of you may think you are unfamiliar with Voltron, but surely you are familiar with the basic concept.  Five animal robots would combine to form a giant humanoid robot capable of being controlled by both the guy sitting in the brain and the folks still hanging out in the robot’s extremities.  Weird, yes, but also cool.

I played with these crazy robots for hour and hours, and one might assume that the obvious message behind this toy—that by working together we can cut giant aliens in two with a huge laser sword—is a fairly positive one.  Juxtaposed, however, alongside the video game phenomena, we are left with a curious dilemma.

On one hand we have been led to believe that healthy social interaction is a bad idea.  Real relationships are complicated and often end up literally smelling bad.  On the other hand, however, we have also been taught that the only possible way to save the world is by putting aside our differences and cliché dialogue long enough to form a cohesive team of karate experts.  Once we combine all this confusion with a cultural landscape littered with fast food restaurants and angry talk radio, one might wonder how it is that America is even still functioning at all.

            In the end it seems we are left with more questions than answers.  Has our former enemy-turned- ally transformed itself, pun intended, back into our enemy? In the increasingly homogenized neighborhood we call Earth, has Japan become the little kid across the street we once thought was OK to have our kids hang out with?  Most importantly, should someone point out to this neighbor that their expressionless “little girl” has whiskers and pointed ears?

            None of these questions can be answered, of course, in an unnecessarily wordy column.  Only time will tell.  In the meantime, as we approach the holiday season and our thoughts turn to happy little children opening presents on Christmas morning, let us not spoil their joy by informing them of their friend’s pedigree.  Let them live, if only for a short while longer, in a world where Hello Kitty is a real cat, in the same world where a talking mouse can have a pet dog.

Walk Strong

God is not a football coach, although one might get that impression from the way many of us interact with him.  When things are going well, when life is good, people generally don’t have much trouble thanking him for the good stuff.  We don’t have trouble showing up to the game on the weekends, or at least tuning in.  We wear the colors, the jerseys, sing the fight songs, and life is cool.

After all, everyone loves a winner, right?

But, then again, life isn’t always a winner.

Sometimes life is bad.  For some people, life is bad most of the time.  Like our favorite team struggling through a losing streak, we begin to ask the all too familiar questions:  “How could this happen?  Why did he throw that pass?  What’s up with the defense?  Who in the world is even calling these plays?”

When many of us turn on the news or open up the paper, the questions continue.  “If God is supposed to be so powerful and so good at his job, then why did this happen over there?  Why did that happen last week?  Why did that person have to die like that, and why are we even here in the first place?”

Some of us, though, depending on our temperament, have a much more detached perspective.  God becomes not just a football coach.  He becomes the football coach, an NFL hall-of-fame inductee with a Super Bowl ring on each digit and a few left over for his feet.  He’s the big guy upstairs, the clock maker and what not, and, as such, why would he want anything to do with little old us?  Why would he be at all concerned with what we have to say, or think, or do?

He’s big and famous, after all.  Everyone knows his name.  We’re just fans, and, to be honest, we’re not even very good fans at that.  Surely an all knowing, all powerful God is not concerned with the minutia of our daily lives.  Surely he has much, much bigger things to worry about.

Right?

Occasionally, thankfully, we meet people who remind us that God is not a football coach.  Steve Wescott, for example, knows good and well that God is not a football coach, and he has the miles to prove it.

By now, many of you know who Steve Wescott is.  Perhaps you were fortunate enough to meet this young man, as I did this past week, or perhaps you read about him in the paper, listened to him on the radio, or caught some of his insight through social media.  For those unaware, Steve, along with his sidekick goat, Leroy Brown, is walking across the United States of America, and they both spent a good chunk of the past week in Effingham County.  He has been walking across this country for over two years now, all in an effort to help people he may never meet.

Officially he is walking to raise money.  Steve and Leroy walk from town to town, often quite slowly, to seek support for the construction of an orphanage in Nairobi, Kenya.  That, though, is only part of it.  Another part of it, and perhaps, in the long run, the more important part, is that Steve is helping to call out the lie that runs so rampant in our society, that God is no longer interested.

Because, let’s be honest.  Many of us seem to believe in a God that is distant, aloof, and a bit suspicious.  We treat God like a celebrity, but not one that would dare be interested in how we spend our day.  As mentioned, we often treat God like he’s on the sidelines, barking orders to a world in which we are merely spectators.

This is nonsense, though, because God, the creator of plants and animals, the power that can fling galaxies through existence while simultaneously creating life within a million human wombs, has a lot more resources at his disposal than headphones, a clipboard, and a three ring binder full of plays.

            Steve Wescott knows that, and he is certainly not a spectator.  According to his website, needle2square.com, God called to Steve in a very specific way about two years ago through his own spiritual inclination and the transpiring of events half a world away.  Steve has now been following that call for thousands of miles. 

Granted, some might smirk and dismiss this “calling” as merely a gut feeling combined with coincidence, but try telling that to the Kenyans who will someday be able to grow their own food.  Try telling that to his nearly ten thousand Facebook fans who believe in what he is doing, and who are rooting for him along the way.

A few of us waited for Steve Thursday morning outside Effingham High School, anxious to meet the man who had trekked halfway across a continent with little more than a goat and a mission.  Around 7:35 we spotted him, walking slowly through the rain like some kind of Old Testament prophet.  He greeted us with a tremendous smile and a handshake, and before long he and Leroy were in front of the camera, talking the talk.

Soon the bell rang.  We all went to class.  Steve and his sidekick stepped back out into the weather, toward the radio station and onto the next leg of their mission.  He stepped off of the sidelines and back into the mix.

Discover

The family trip is a curious practice, and perhaps what makes them most curious is their name.  We often refer to them as vacations.  They are not.  Vacations are calm, relaxing and peaceful.  I have been on very few vacations. Family trips are more like expeditions.  They are often adventures, excursions, or, as I now refer to them with my own family, Discovery Events.

            A couple months ago, we went on our own Discovery Event to Colorado.  Along with another couple and their two young boys, we travelled west to visit an old friend.  He and his family own a set of cabins about thirty minutes south of Golden, alongside a mountain stream gurgling through a winding stretch of wilderness known as Deer Creek Canyon. 

            One discovery that we made early on was that, contrary to popular imagination, the western pioneers’ greatest accomplishment was not surviving the weather, wild animals, or hostile natives.  Their true claim to greatness was remembering to put their smaller children back in the wagon after their first pit stop.  How did our ancestors survive without portable DVRs and prepackaged snacks?  We made it, though, eventually.  We found the cabins inviting and serene, with both of our kids still very much in the backseat. 

On our first full day after our arrival, we also discovered that if you’re going to have your kids stand in line for an hour, there had better be a rainbow flavored Ferris wheel at the end of it. 

Coors brewery tour?  Not so much.  By the time we had made it to the actual tasting room, our son was so delirious from a hunger-exasperated boredom that he was throwing bags of Cheetos across the floor instead of eating them.  Needless to say, the look on most people’s faces was the same look that many of you most likely have on your face right now, the look that asks the question, “What kind of space age idiot voluntarily brings a three-year-old into a beer factory?”

Point taken.

The next day proved better, or, at least, less messy.  Throughout our planning, we had insisted to our children, “Hey, in Colorado, you’ll get to climb a mountain.”

And we did.  Our Colorado friend and impromptu tour guide suggested we summit Mt. Evans, which is actually taller than Pike’s Peak but generally less crowded  Perhaps more importantly for our sake, Mt. Evans can also boast the highest paved road in the United States, which meant that we did not, technically, climb most of it with our feet.  We drove to the summit, where we could then trek the final 200 or so switchback yards to the very top.  Today’s discovery?  Non-Incan children do not perform well at 14,265 feet above sea level, which, considering personal experience, I should have already known.

Our three-year-old son, in fact, when we told him we were going to climb to the top, collapsed to the ground and began throwing a HATT, a High Altitude Temper Tantrum, which is just like a normal temper tantrum except a little slower due to oxygen deprivation.

“Listen,” I told him, “You’ve been saying you want to climb a mountain for months.  So this is the mountain.  Let’s go.”

 I put him on my shoulders and began our ascent with my wife and daughter already ahead.  We climbed at a pretty good clip, for about ten yards. 

“OK,” I wheezed.  “You’re gonna’ have to walk awhile now.  I’ll carry you a bit, but you’re gonna’ have to do some climbing, too.”

So we climbed and climbed, and close to a half hour later we reached the top.  Mt. Evans is not the tallest mountain in Colorado, but it is the tallest mountain within sight.  Despite the whimpering by all party members, the view was worth the struggle. 

We made other discoveries during our trip, of course.  Back at the cabins, we panned for gold and found none.  We hiked and met many dogs, but, despite warning signs, no bears, mountain lions, or even rattlesnakes. 

Down by Colorado Springs, we climbed amongst the giant red pebbles in the Garden of the Gods.  Up in Idaho Springs, we dined on mountain pizza and found it fully suitable to our Midwestern tastes.  At night we told stories around the campfire about ornery little children snatched up by giant condors because they forced their weary parents to carry them on their shoulders.  In the morning we listened to hummingbirds argue while Deer Creek trickled in the background.

We saw dinosaur footprints and a human leg bone.  Within the statues lining the streets of Golden, we saw the energy and creativity of humanity.  Within the boulders punching from the earth, we saw the strength and patience of God.

Anticipating a muggy midsummer homecoming, we were pleasantly surprised to find cool weather upon our return.  Curiously enough, the first evenings back in Illinois felt a lot like Colorado.

A couple days after unpacking, the kids and I hunted lightning bugs in our backyard.  The giant corn field that hugs up to our property had enveloped the entire neighborhood with the scent of its own survival.  I smirked when I considered that we saw no lightning bugs in Colorado.  We smelled no corn.  A silly thought, perhaps, but it was a reminder that we were home, and that was nice.

To return to an undisturbed home is one of the best parts of traveling, because it is only in that moment we can truly appreciate the luxury of a washing machine, a refrigerator with our own food, a closet full of our own clothes. After traveling, it is at home where we often discover what we went looking for in the first place:  peace, rest, relaxation. 

A vacation.

Weigh In

Pigs do not like to be weighed.  This is not an assumption, but an eye-witness account.  In our younger years my brother and I, along with our 4-H friends, spent many county fair days surrounded by unimpressed swine living out their retirement in the spacious Fayette County hog barn.  We showed these pigs and eventually sold them, but before this transaction occurred they had to be weighed.  Although some hogs did march calmly up into the scale, most of them did not.

The procedure was fairly straightforward.  We would block off the pens leading to the scale, which was basically a narrow cage with a wobbly floor.  We would then open up our pen and let the pigs out, moving them down the aisle, blocking their retreat with gates as we inched closer to the goal. 

Finally, when it came their turn, we would carouse the hogs toward the scale.  As mentioned, some pigs would walk right in, but most of them threw a fit.  Most of them tried to back away from the machine and squealed like, well, you know.  

 Regardless, none of our pigs ever avoided being weighed.  No pig was left behind unmeasured, and all the pigs my brother and I ever raised—and “raised” is a term I use quite loosely, being as the pigs were purchased after they were at least eight weeks old and then sold a few months later—succeeded in eventually being eaten.

Now, this column is not actually going to be about pigs, but it is going to be about a measurement of sorts.  Pigs and the weighing of them is often used as an analogy to describe excessive student testing.  To paraphrase the simile, “Testing a student to help them learn is like weighing a pig to help them gain weight.  It doesn’t work and it annoys the pig.” 

This is a reasonable analogy, I guess, but I’m not particularly fond of it.  For one thing, students should not be compared to pigs.  Pigs are nice and all, and some make decent pets, but ultimately pigs are livestock.  Students, on the other hand, are our future.  How we treat our students now will be reflected later.

Secondly, I don’t like the analogy because, as most teachers will tell you, it is not really accurate.  Good testing actually can help a student learn.  A well-written test can be a lesson in and of itself.  It can teach the student and also guide the instructor in making future curriculum choices.  Granted, tests often do annoy the student and they can be a pain to grade, but that’s not a good enough reason not to use them.

The problem with testing, however, is that teachers are not the only ones giving the tests anymore.  As many people already know, standardized testing plays an increasingly heavy part in the drama we call the school year. 

Originally, standardized tests were used to influence student placement.  In my humble opinion, this practice, in and of itself, is morally flawed, because it suggests that a young person’s value as a learner can be measured on the basis of how they perform on one battery of tests over the course of a few days.  That is wrong.  It is a small wonder so many people have such negative memories of school when many of them were told at a tragically young age, “You’re below average.”

To further aggravate the problem, though, standardized tests are increasingly being used by the federal and state governments to influence fiscal policy.  They are being used to influence professional retention.  While even the hardest among us would have a difficult time taking “away” resources from a below average student, this is almost precisely what often takes place to “below average” schools. 

Fortunately, this pendulum could be about to swing the other way.  Increasingly throughout the United States, concerned citizen groups made up of both parents and educators have banded together in an attempt to convince state and federal legislators to decrease mandated, high-stakes, standardized testing.   According to a recent NEA Today article, protests against standardized testing have taken place in a number of states, including Colorado, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Kansas. 

Another bright spot is happening in Congress, of all places.  Representative Christopher Gibson, a Republican from New York, introduced a bill earlier this spring that would significantly decrease the amount of federally mandated tests students are required to take throughout their academic career.  To emphasize the point that this is not a regional or partisan issue, as of right now this bill has over a dozen co-sponsors—eight Democrats, six Republicans— from eleven different states, including Texas, California, New Jersey, Arizona, and Ohio.

Unfortunately, Illinois is not on that list, but it could be.  We have legislators that would most likely be eager to come on board if they knew their constituents were interested.  After all, what’s nice about public education is also what can be the most frustrating:  it’s public.  We own it.  It’s ours.  At the end of the day, we either get the schools we want or we get the schools we can tolerate, wobbly scales and all.

Turn

Dora is growing up.  After eleven years of adventures with her monkey pal Boots, after more than a decade of successfully outwitting that silly Swiper the Fox, Dora is moving to the city.   Although she had been about seven years old throughout the original show’s duration, Dora is now an adventurous tween eager to explore with a new assortment of friends.  For those interested, Dora & Friends:  Into the City, will premiere on Nick Jr. on Monday, August 18^th.  You have been warned.

How do I know all this?  Because, Dora has been a staple in our home for nearly a half decade.  Like many new, well-meaning parents, we shielded our daughter from TV for, well, perhaps a month.  Then one day we both needed to get dressed very quickly, probably because we were running late for some social function, and so we plopped her in her swing, turned on the television, and the rest is history.

She has loved Dora for most of her life.  We have Dora building blocks, microphones, guitars, DVDs, pajamas, talking dolls, non-talking dolls, talking books, and, to balance out all the electronics, books that make you do the talking yourself.  One of my most vivid memories, in fact—and by vivid I mean psychologically unnerving—was listening to the same Dora the Explorer episode over and over again a few years ago while driving to South Carolina.  From the backseat portable DVR, I heard these words, for miles and miles, states and states:  “Isa turn the wheel, turn the wheel Isa, Isa turn the wheel, turn the wheel Isa…I’m turning the wheel, I’m turning the wheel, I’m turning the WHEEEEELLL!”

And every time, thankfully, Isa, Dora’s bashful Iguana friend, did indeed turn that wheel and avoided smashing her boat into those rocks, which, for some odd reason, had eyeballs.  I too, nearly turned the wheel numerous times during that trip, into oncoming traffic.

However, I have already written a set of columns about Dora the Explorer.  This column is not about Dora.  This column, if you will forgive me the indulgence, is about the little girl who has watched the show so keenly these past five years and who will now begin her own new adventure on August 18^th, for that is the day kindergarten begins.

Our daughter is growing up. 

Like a once misty island in the distance, this week has been on our horizon for years, growing slowly, drawing closer, its details coming into sharper focus with each passing day.  Like everyone else, though, we have been so busy actually manning the boat that landfall still seems sudden.  Unexpected.  Abrupt. 

We will cry next week, most likely, and I suppose some might believe a man is not supposed to cry, but whatever.  I’ve already gotten choked up about this week.  I’ve already gotten a little verklempt about her first broken heart and her wedding day, too. 

What has surprised me, though, is that I am not as sad about the transition as I thought I would be.  We have a treasure trove of memories utterly bursting out of the lid, but I don’t find myself rummaging through them the way I thought I would.  The diamonds of her infancy, the golden hoops of toddler days when she could push Thomas around the track in intense concentration for what seemed like hours.  I just don’t dwell on them much.  I don’t take them out and shine them up the way I thought I would.

Partially this hesitance to open the box comes from the understanding that such a practice can be both detrimental and even dangerous.  Over sentimentality can be detrimental because we owe it to our present to keep our pasts in check.  It can also become dangerous because nostalgia left unhinged just gets weird.

Perhaps the bigger reason, though, that we haven’t been playing the “remember when” game much this summer, is that she seems so eager to explore the island in the first place. 

She’ll deny it, of course.

“Are you excited about kindergarten?” Folks will ask.

“No.”  She will answer.

But her behavior tells a much different story.  Her strut, her arguing, her sass; all evidence that she wants—needs—to distance herself, a least a little bit, from mommy and daddy.  She’s got her thermos and her lunchbox and a backpack full of tools.  She’s ready to go.  At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter if we’re ready for her to go or not.

And besides, her wedding day is still a long, long way off.  Right?

March

America is a parade.  This idea marched into my mind a few weeks ago while sitting along a street in Herrick, Illinois. My family and I, along with a few hundred other people enjoying the pleasant July morning, were lined up to watch the town’s annual Independence Day parade.

 We watched fire departments roll slowly by in their giant red machines.  We watched the war veterans march stoically while the young boy scouts stepped lightly to a cadence inaudible to grown-up ears.  We watched the politicians shake hands and the pageant queens wave.  Historic tractors chortled; classic muscle cars flexed.

America, it occurred to me, is very much a parade; a colorful, gleaming, tremendous parade, full of all kinds of people sitting atop all kinds of floats, riding all kinds of horses, driving all kinds of vehicles, all moving down the same road.

The thing about parades, though, is that no matter how long they seem to march, eventually they all end.  Before the hour is done, the sirens usually go quiet and the flashing lights are gone.

People on TV and the radio talk in great detail and often with weird enthusiasm about the decline and inevitable end of this republic.  They talk about the chaos in Iraq and the weakening of the American dollar, about the inadequacy of our institutions and the crumbling of our cities.

One thing, however, that is rarely mentioned, is the overall peculiarity of America in the first place.  Throughout much of human history, people grouped themselves almost exclusively along ethnic identity.  That is one reason we see so much turmoil in places like Iraq.  It is not that the vast majority of Shiite’s or Sunnis or Kurds are inherently bad or crazy.  The intense violence is due partly to the fact that for much of their history, the concept of voluntarily sharing a prize of land defined by often arbitrary and even foreign-designed boundaries was not an option.

They are a tribal people, and I can say that without fear of being called a bigot because I’ll say it about us, too.  I’ll say it about myself.  We are all a tribal people.   We like to hang out with people with whom we have something in common.  After all, even in a small town parade, the dueling candidates do not ride on the same float. 

To be fair, though, we must acknowledge that tribes have lived in semi-peaceful coexistence before 1776.  Rome, for example, kept its factions relatively inert for centuries, and our dearly departed super villain Saddam Hussein even succeeded in keeping Iraq from strangling itself, albeit by using heavy-handed techniques.

But in America, we have multiple tribes of people—and you can define the term however you would like—living together voluntarily.

Taking the long view of history, that is something of a new idea.  We aren’t living together because we’ve been conquered by an emperor we’ll never see, or because a beret-wearing dictator will torture us to death if we mess up. We are living together mostly by choice. 

Now, some might argue with that.  They might suggest, and accurately so, that the vast majority of Americans were simply born within these borders.  They might skewer the analogy and suggest that riding atop a float one has not built is not much to shout about in the first place, anyway.  These are both reasonable arguments. 

However, think about the most pompous, most vitriolic radio or TV personality you can imagine.  By listening to them blather, you would imagine they have their passports out and their luggage packed.  You might imagine, or perhaps even hope, that they are leaving the country as soon as the cameras stop rolling.

But they don’t move away to another country.

They stay.  They continue to march.

They march, because even though they might not like the people they are walking with, although they might despise the floats around them, they still think that the parade, in and of itself, is a pretty good parade.  They think the basic ideas that make up the parade route are actually pretty good, too.  They aren’t walking down the road at the end of a gun or a legion of speared soldiers. They are walking by choice. 

I think one reason we often get so upset with our elected leaders is that we carry around this misconception that equates America with its government.  The thing is, though, the President is not our parade marshal.  Congress and the Supreme Court don’t even have a float.  They are the folks walking behind the horses with the brooms.  They all can be and someday will be replaced, but the parade will remain.  The parade marches on.

            One of the first entries in Herrick’s parade was the Pana Fire Department.  Following  behind their line of dress-uniformed firefighters rolled a pickup truck, and in the back of that truck stood a frayed steel girder.  This steel came from one of the buildings destroyed during the 9/11 terrorist attack in New York City.  As most of us remember, thousands of firefighters, police officers and emergency personnel chose to risk their lives that day to help save their fellow citizens.  Many of them died.

            Those men from Pana chose to be firefighters.  They volunteer to risk their lives.  Less dramatically, they even chose to march in the parade.  Everyone in the parade gets that choice, because a parade, by its very nature, is voluntary.

            That is something to consider the next time we don’t like what we see around us.  All of America is that parade.  We don’t have to just sit and watch, or, like children, fight over tossed candy. 

            We can also volunteer.  We can make a float or beat a drum.  We can ride a horse, or, if we think we’re up for the challenge, try to walk behind the horses with a broom.

            America is a parade, so march.