The Prison

Some prisons have walls. 

I can remember visiting such a place one time.  I was serving a mission for my church in Argentina.  I neared the end of my two years of service, when a challenge presented itself.  There was the name of an individual, of a man, on the records of our church.  He had not attended for some time, so I visited his home.

The door scraped open, and the face of an elderly woman emerged.  I discovered this was his mom.  As tears bounced from her eyes, she told me her son was in prison.  Not a soul had visited him.  She urged, no, begged me to visit him.  Before his error of ways, he had been a missionary; a missionary like me.  His mistake was not a small one either.  He attempted to assassinate the president of Argentina.  If it wasn't for the jamming of a gun, the word "attempted" would have been removed from the equation.

I talked to other members of our church who insisted missionaries had attempted to visit him in the past, to no avail.  It was a worthless venture they advised.  This only spurred my 21-year-old mind along.  If they said it was difficult (maybe even impossible) to get permission to visit him, that was exactly what I was going to do.  It WAS difficult, even tedious, but I managed to gain the permission. 

The enormous steel door moaned on its hinges as I paced into the dark concrete box.  They explored my body for weapons with a quick spread-eagle pat down.  The massive machine guns they lugged made me a little nervous, but I proceeded through several guarded check points; marching through several more steel doors.

At last I found myself face-to-face with the man, the attempted assassin.  It wasn't long before my fear was swapped for the attitude of a student.  This man, although a criminal, taught me a lesson I will never forget.

"No one visits me," his eyes sagged.

"My friends have abandoned me.  You are the first one to visit me besides my mom.  I made a mistake, can't anyone see that?  Even the Savior forgave those who killed Him."

There it was.  A lesson.  I sat there stunned.  He was right.

That very day I was taught a life point.  We can learn something from anyone. 

Why do we as human beings hold grudges?  Why do we refuse to forgive and forget?  In reality, it isn't just those we offend who suffer.  We slowly become stifled and fenced in by our refusal to let things go.  The man's "friends" were also trapped.

Some prisons don't have walls.

Diary of a Wimpy Dad

I have noticed many transformations as I’ve aged.  It’s not like I’m a dinosaur, but things have changed.  For example, when I step into the chair to get my haircut I can count on whoever is doing the shearing honors to gently clip away the hair between my eyebrows.  A couple of years back, I got a nose hair clipper from my wife as a gift.  (In all fairness I had reluctantly asked for this item, which I now use on a regular basis.)  I’m only 37, and it is apparent that I will be up for a role on Planet of the Apes by the time I hit 53.  It isn’t just physical changes either.  I find myself making stupid jokes; stupid dad jokes.  I can’t help it.  It’s simply what us dads do.

One of these changes has been a long time in the making:  I’ve turned into a wimp.  I’m not talking about my muscles or my ability to keep up with my 12-year-old son.  I can still take him down when I want to . . . at least for now.  I’m talking about my emotions; in particular I’m talking about my emotions when it comes to children.

I remember the first time I noticed this less than macho trait.  It was in 2000.  My son was then only two years old.  I heard a story on the news about another two-year-old, Gage Wayment.  Gage’s father had left him in the truck, asleep, while he hunted in the mountains.    The father’s heart must have exploded with fear when he returned to the truck and Gage was nowhere to be found.  Five days later, they found Gage’s frozen little body. 

As this story churned in my mind, I pictured my tiny two-year-old wandering through the forest, “Dada? ‘Er go?  Dada?”  The story went from churning in my mind to stirring in my heart.  Tears burst from my swollen eyes as I put myself in this father’s place.  I was a wimp.  A big, fat, blubbering wimp.

This “wimpyness” has not gotten any better since then.  In fact, it may have developed even more.  Whenever I hear stories about kids who have suffered it slashes at my heart.  

Recently, on my birthday as a matter of fact, a fourteen-year-old boy in our area was on his way to a youth activity at his church.  He, like many kids that age, loves to spend time on his long board.  So, he was carving a path down the street when a girl, on her way to the same activity, slammed into him with her car.  Right there, not a block from his church, he died.  His young heart stopped beating, forever searing a hole in his mother’s heart.  

I weep.

What is this feeling?  Why does having kids or getting older bring it on?  I think I’ve determined what it is:  it is love.  It’s love for people I’ve never met.  It’s love for my own children.  It’s love for all of mankind.  Having children has made me somehow less selfish towards the feelings of others.  I’ve also determined something else: I am not a wimp.  I’m a man.  I love.  Is there anything more manly?

Sledgehammer

I am the luckiest man alive.  Anyone who knows my wife would agree.  There are many things I appreciate about her.  After fourteen years of marriage, things just keep getting better. 

So, you are wondering to yourself, why is this post named "Sledgehammer".  Marriage and sledgehammers don't seem to go together.  I'll be the first one to conceded that point.  On further examination, however, go together they do.

Several years ago we purchased our first home.  It was a multilevel with a walk-in master closet and the ugliest green kitchen tile I have still ever seen.  One of the "features" I first noticed about our new place of residence was a stunning several-hundred-pound paperweight on the side of the home; a solid mass of concrete deposited as a housewarming gift by the previous owner.  Being a man, and a smart one at that, I quickly got to work on the issue.

"Honey, I was thinking we should buy a sledgehammer."  Creases appeared between her nose and forehead.  Sensing the quizzical attitude I continued, "You know, so I can break up that block of concrete and haul it off."

"Hummm.  Do you think you need a sledgehammer to do that?" 

What else am I going to use, my bare hands?  "I think it could be exactly what I need.  I don't know, I've never broken up a large piece of concrete before.  But I need something."

"I don't know, we just spent a lot of money on our house.  Maybe it could wait?"

"I really don't think it's that big of a deal to buy a sledgehammer," I said.

"Do you think we could rent one."

Rent one?  I picture myself skipping up to the customer service at Home Depot and asking the lady behind the counter if she could please rent me a $20 piece of equipment.  Rent one?

To be honest, I can't remember everything that was said.  I do remember we had a fairly lengthy conversation.  We discussed items such as where would we keep such a fine object.  I assured her there was plenty of room in the garage.  We did own one now, after all.  Besides, I didn't want a mammoth sized one, only one big enough to perform a little surgery on a block of concrete.

"Where in the garage would we put it?"  She adjusted her shoulders in that way she has since the day we met, the way I love. 

"I think it would fit fine in the tool box."

"Wait a second, didn't you say you want a sledgehammer?"

"Uh, yeah, that what I said.  I want a sledgehammer."  I've had enough of her little attitude.  I tap out a hammering motion with my hand.

Both of her hands spring to life in front of her.  "Isn't a sledgehammer the thing I see them using to work on roads?"  A loud stuttering sound pounds from her mouth; as she mimics the motion of a jackhammer with her arms. 

We have laughed about this episode many times.  For the most part we communicate extremely well.  However, we have worked through several "sledgehammer moments" in our marriage since then.  

How many "sledgehammers" do you have in your life? 

I have one in my toolbox if you need to borrow it.

Red Crayons

You are way too hard on yourself.  How do I know this?  I know this because you are human.  Humans are too hard on themselves.

I have a friend who says her husband can remember having his diaper changed.  My first thought, as she told me this bit of useless information, was that he had an awful potty training issue.  She assured me that it was simply because he could stir up things from the corners of his one and a half year old brain like it was yesterday.  Yowzers!  I can’t remember too much before third grade!  Prior to that point it is a complete blur, with very few exceptions.

One of those exceptions occurred in Kindergarten.  I can’t remember everything, mind you.  I can only remember the basics, and the feeling.  Oh, the feeling.

It was a balmy spring day toward the end of the school year.  Like most kindergarten-aged kids, I enjoyed coloring.  In kindergarten you do that sort of thing . . . a lot.  The voice of my teacher sliced through the air.

“Who is missing their red crayon?” 

She detained a crimson-colored object in her hand.  I don’t know for sure, but she must have been at her wits end by this time in the year.  I DID know, sure as anything, someone was in trouble.  We had been berated about leaving our crayons around.  A poor soul was now plunging into the depths of horror.  I looked into my crayon box and understood. That poor soul happened to be me.

“Class, someone left their crayon on the floor!  You each need to check your box and make sure it wasn’t you.  We mustn’t leave our crayons lying about!”

My heart slid through my midsection to my right shoe.  What to do?  Trouble!  Oh awful trouble!  Nowhere to hide. 

“Okay class, each of you hold up your red crayon.”

After a brief pause, I raised my wobbly purple crayon into the air.  Can I fool her?

This is where my memory ends.  Maybe what followed was too hard to process in my petrified brain.  Have I done myself the great service of flinging that recollection out with other garbage better suited for the landfill?  Probably not.  I often envision a discussion between my teacher and me regarding color blindness and the possibility that I had developed such an issue.

Why have I retained this remembrance?  Because it worried the pants off me, that’s why!  I felt stupid.  If I’m completely honest, I still feel a little stupid about it.  However, I’m quite positive I’m the only one in the entire world who remembers this issue.  I clutch on to it, along with other “red crayons” in my life.  Why can’t I let it go? 

I’m human. I’m too hard on myself.

Writer In Hiding

I am a writer. 

There, I said it.  I'm glad to get that load off my conscience. 

Take this declaration how you will.  You may see it as a statement of fact.  Afterall, there is only one thing that qualifies you as a writer; you write. 

This bold admission, however, may represent a much larger issue.  For example, do you ever feel you are going through life not knowing quite who you are or what you should do?  That may be me.  I'm just saying.    So, my statement of fact may actuallly be a disclosure of a deeply engrained addiction that has not manifested itself until now.  Mabe, just maybe, I'm crying for help.  Crying for help before I jump off the cliff into the frigid waters of a writer's world.  Then again, perhaps I've finally found me.  I've finally stumbled into myself.

By making this statement I am NOT saying I am the next Stephen King, James Patterson, J.K. Rowling or (heaven forbid) Stephanie Meyer.  Then again, I may be just that.  I figure I owe it to myself to find out.  The truth is this: I desire to write in order to find more meaning in my life.  Whether anyone ever reads this blog isn't at all important to me.  In fact, I highly doubt anyone will read this blog except for myself and maybe (if I'm insanely lucky) a few family members and friends.  I simply feel there is something therapeutic, almost spiritual, to the process of letting your wounds bleed onto the paper or the computer screen.

My fears are twofold when it comes to this venture.  My first fear is that I will fail.  I don't know how failure looks in this regard, but my mind and heart tell me it is lurking there.  My second fear, and the greater of the two, is that I will succeed.  What in the world will happen if I succeed?  I must push through these fears.  I need to find out.

So, I will write.  I will write like my life and, indeed, the very world depend on it.  Possibly they do.  With all the writers out there pounding out their prose day by day I'm hoping and praying there may be room for just one more.  One more writer like me.