A Christmas Chronicle

A Christmas Chronicle represents a storyline that's been germinating for a few years.  It began late one night, in Traverse City Michigan, while hanging out with a group of college kids form our church.
   While they were playing Nintendo, cranking up music and consuming an enormous amount of junk food, I was sitting on a sofa drinking  Diet Pepsi and trying to come up with a new storyline. I had recently published a short story with Amazon and that received enough response to encourage me to write another.
   I looked out the window that evening and noticed giant snow flakes following when the inspiration came. I had been captivated with the genius of C.S. Lewis and Charles Schultz. They both had a knack for writing children's stories adults like to read. And with that, I opened my laptop and began writing:

 

A Christmas Chronicle

It happens every year, four nights before the grandest of all celebrations. On this occasion, while snow is falling softly in the deepest wood, creatures of the forest gathered—representing a fellowship no human eye had ever looked upon.
     Chipmunks and squirrels listened with quiet anticipation to muffled conversations of those present. Rabbits had come, fox were there, and from his perch, an owl observed the moment.  It was by every appearance, a most unusual and unlikely assembly. But each year, on the 21^st Eve of the Twelfth month, these Woodlanders blended into a union of kindred spirits, as they waited for the reading to begin.
     A fire crackled and smoke ascend high above the trees as a mouse named Samuel navigated his way through the assembly. Dressed like a character from your favorite Dickens story, he walked across the crust of the snow commanding everyone's attention. For he was very old and wise, and his kind had observed the mystery for many generations.
     Under his arm he carried an ancient book. It was leather bound and worn, but from its pages both kings and paupers have found hope and encouragement. Silence fell upon the group as he climbed up on a stump.
     Brushing the snow from his garments, he held the book in one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other, then cleared his throat, and opened to a familiar text:
    “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them. For unto us a Child is born and unto us a Son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulders. And His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…of the increase of His government and peace there will be no end.”
     Like a melody, phrases danced off the pages, as the fellowship nodded their heads in rhythm with the cadence of Samuel’s voice. Though they had gathered and listened to these words on several occasions, there was a renewed sense of expectancy in the air.
     Closing the book and tucking it back under his arm, the mouse adjusted his glasses once more, then addressed the fellowship.
     “The King has made a promise which cannot be broken. One day peace will come and the curse shall be broken.”
     Scanning the perimeter Owl noticed a collective look on every face. The snow stopped falling and the clouds dissipated revealing a brilliance of the moon’s shadows falling across winter’s fresh blanket. While Samuel was warmed by the fire, it was reading from the ancient text that warmed the hearts of the fellowship. Reminiscent of a time when angelic host declared, “Peace on earth good will to men.”
     Only the pop and crack of the fire could be heard as they stood in reverence, and together reflected on a promise made long ago. Since that time, kingdoms had come and gone and the world had changed in ways too numerous to count, but the longing and groaning of the human condition remained.
     “But Samuel, it has been so long and once again these are such trying times. It is just four days before Christmas and people are discouraged. We know the promise is for mankind, but all creation is included. How long must the world wait? How long must we wait.”
     And with her words the silence was broken and the mouse recognized the voice of Rachel the Raccoon. She was raised in the forest and had been faithful to the fellowship. In all her years, she had never missed the meeting, and during her youth was often found near the village, by a brook where children played.
     She was intrigued by games they played. For theirs was a world, where imagination and belief made all things possible. Like knights of story, boys were noble and brave. And the girls also believed in fairytale and chivalry, as they looked for a prince from some distant kingdom, to come and carry them away.
     She also noticed when the children grew older and no longer played by the brook, their innocence was lost, as imagination and belief surrendered to the mundane and ordinary. It was almost as if the fairytale ended, or worse yet—never existed. It left the raccoon very said.
     Samuel was not offended by her interruption. In fact he expected such questions.  And though he was not surprised with what he heard, he was moved by what he saw. For the mask on her face could no longer conceal the weariness of her heart. She was tired in the worst way. Like when you’ve held on to a promise, or expectation, for a long time, only to discover—hope is fading.
     Her words brought an uncomfortable spirit to the fellowship and riding on the emotion of such an awkward moment, was a question everyone held, but no one was willing to ask. Suddenly that which was evident to a few, became obvious to all.
     Having chaired the meeting for several years Samuel believed it was okay to ask difficult questions. He had also learned shallow answers never satisfy the deepest longings, so he waited, for he knew in such times a personality will emerge. It will come from one who has the influence to speak and the resolve to remain objective.
     So, after a few minutes had passed, he looked up toward Owl. The old bird was still sitting on his perch. He had taken in Samuel’s address, and heard Rachel’s concerns. He had also listened to the chatter of the Woodlanders; noticing how their mood morphed into something different as Rachel shared her heart.  Many identified with her emotion and came into agreement with her disappointment.
     Having received his cue, Owl nodded his head and spoke: “Samuel, we have gathered here and on this date for many generations. Each year we reflect on the promise and renew our pledge to the king. Just as our fathers and grandfathers have done before us. We’ve come to realize in the world of men, there seems to be a growing oppression. So, with that understanding, how are things with the family you’re observing?
     Every eye turned toward Samuel and listened for his response.
    “Well, it is Christmas, so people are smiling though few are happy. Once again, something is obviously lacking, but no one seems to realize it.  There is music in the market, but no dancing in the street. The clock is ticking and that ridicules count down of remaining shopping days has begun. It truly seems the world has forgotten.”
     Rachel interrupted, “But Samuel, how are things in the village church! How are the new pastor and his wife? How are the children?” The mouse lowered his head, took a deep breath and responded, “Things could be better.”
     You could feel the tension and though everyone was coming to the same conclusion, it was Badger who gave voice to their opinion.  “It’s the McVectons!”
     “Yes.” Samuel responded, ‘It’s the McVectons.”

The Royal Order

     Everyone has a story, and Samuel is no exception.  He lives in the village near the wood and makes his home in the library of an old church. Though I’m not sure of his age, he has been around for a very long time and hidden beneath a simple appearance is a very complex and mysterious individual.
     Across the ages rodents have occupied a strange place in the world of men. Some live in laboratories, while others are treated as pets.  A cartoonist once partnered with a mouse to build an empire, and the world is a better place for it.
    But, Samuel has a higher purpose. His ancestors first came to this land as stowaways on board a ship called The Mayflower. They had lived among the Puritans in the early 1600’s and traveled with them incognito, while crossing the Atlantic.
     By virtue of his family and their heritage he belongs to an unusual network called: The Royal Order of Church Mice.  This Order was established long ago in the ancient city of Bethlehem when a census had been ordered by the Roman Emperor Octavian; who also went by the name, Caesar Augustus.
     Because a census was ordered, the streets of Bethlehem were filled with people and busy with hustle. Local merchants capitalized on opportunity to peddle products to sojourners who were finding accommodations limited.   
    It was during this time and late one evening when a couple of mice named Levi and Hannah dodged the chaos of crowded streets and found refuge in a tiny corner of an obscure stable. They had just settled in for the evening when a man named Joseph suddenly rushed in and interrupted their lives forever.
     He was escorting a young mother in labor, and because there was no room in the Inn, a stable became the birth place of a King. His name was Jesus. He’s also called, Christ.
     And though his birth went unnoticed in Rome, and Jerusalem, and even to the multitudes passing through Bethlehem, there was a celebration that evening, unlike anything the world had ever witnessed.
     For on that night the hillsides of Judea became animated as messengers form another world delivered His birth announcement.  Unbound by earthly limitations, these magnificent beings appeared suspended in flight with a concentrated brightness. And though they delivered a message of peace, there was something very warrior about them.
     Songs of celebration erupted across the hills and echoed through the valley. Shepherds responded to their invitation as they walked down and into the city with hopes of seeing the newborn. And when they arrived, they were not disappointed. For a very bright star illuminated the evening sky, and as promised, they found an infant—wrapped in swaddling clothes—lying in a manger.  

The Magi

     While Levi and Hannah did not understand the significance of such an evening, they knew something about it, was very special. The experience was difficult to describe. There was a sense of peace and yet they trembled.
     In the language of humans only one word could describe that which their eyes looked upon. They had heard that word shouted by priest serving in the temple, and spoken by rabbis teaching in synagogues.  Hannah noticed it was often whispered in the dwelling places of many who closed their eyes and lifted their voices to an unseen guest.
     Though the mice had never understood it's meaning, while standing in the shadows, they turned to each other and whispered, “HOLY.”
     Call it intuition, or revelation, but for some unexplained reason it seemed right, and they knew the Child was holy, and the world would never be the same.
     Though Joseph and Mary came from a poor village, there was something uncommon about the mother and her child. They brought an awareness of a presence not of this world. While the shepherds stood in reverence of an event they could not comprehend, three Wise Men approached. Bowing before the baby, they presented expensive gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.
     From the shadows, Hannah leaned toward Levi and whispered, “I don’t understand what this is all about. What could it possibly mean?” Levi responded, “Very strange. It’s all very strange.”
     A new moon looked down from above and the stars had never been more obvious. For a moment it seemed as if peace had actually come to this troubled world.
     Soon the shepherds returned to their flocks and the Wise Men began making preparations for a long journey home. It was at that time when one of the noblemen asked Joseph if he could come out and talk for a few minutes. Joseph responded by leaning forward and placing a kiss on the top of Mary’s head and whispering, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 
     The men had only walked a few paces from the stable when the carpenter began asking questions and confessing his confusion about the nature of their visit and the gifts they bore.
     The Wise Men said they were scholars of ancient scriptures and had an understanding of the prophetic word. They had also noticed what appeared to be a new star, and had been tracking it for some time. As far as the gifts, the Nobles said they were suitable for such an occasion.
     They also informed Joseph that Herod was threatened by any prophecies concerning a new born King and had questioned them while passing through Jerusalem—saying he too wanted to pay homage to the child. But, they discerned evil intentions; one even had a dream which confirmed their worst suspicion. 
     With a spirit of darkness hovering over the land the Magi felt it imperative for Joseph to take the young mother and child. and flee at the earliest possible moment.  Then they each bade the carpenter farewell and departed, being careful to take another route home.
     Joseph watched as the Nobles mounted their camels and rode into the night, then looked toward the heavens and considered his situation. Though life had become complicated, he had never been more aware of divine presence. And, while there was much the carpenter did not understand, he was sure that— in some mysterious way—God was near and had a purpose for his life.
     So he returned to the stable and informed Mary of the Magi’s somber warning. They were both confused and looking down upon Jesus could not reason why anyone would want to bring harm to a baby.  Together, they made a decision and within a few hours fled from Bethlehem, under the cover of night.
     Their first stop was Jerusalem, where they were careful to keep a low profile, because Herod and his henchmen were in the area. While in the city, they visited the temple and dedicated the child to God, and named him Jesus.  It was during this time when an elderly man named Simeon looked upon the child and pronounced a blessing, and a prophetess named Anna gave thanks to God for what had occurred. Mary would ponder these events and sayings in her heart for years to come.
     The Magi’s warning had been taken to heart, and as soon as Mother and Child were strong enough for the journey, the trio departed for Egypt, seeking sanctuary in the land where Moses had challenged Pharaoh. But, that’s another story.


A Tyrants Revenge
He was called Herod the Great, but that was a misnomer. For though he held office and was politically connected, he was also insane and insecure. Over the process of time, he became obsessed with power and committed to an oligarchy. So when the Magi failed to return, he knew he had been deceived and grew furious.  
     Having been versed in Hebrew Scripture, Herod was fully aware of a prophetic promise—that one day—a virgin would conceive and give birth to a king.  Though a nation longed for their Messiah, the fulfillment of that ancient promise left the tyrant vulnerable. Therefore, as an act of self-preservation, he put a face on evil and ordered the genocide of every male child under the age of two.
     It was a diabolical and wicked atrocity­. And though it makes for a dark chapter in the Christmas Story, it must be told, because the world needs to know. 
      On that night mothers cried out, as babies were torn form their pleading arms; and fathers trying to defend their families were beaten and thrown into prison. Levi and Hannah were horrified and sought hiding in the stable where they had witnessed the birth of The Child King. When the screams subsided, and the solders left, the two mice crawled out from under the same straw where Jesus had laid, and walked out of the stable to look upon the carnage.
     Though they were clueless as to why a king, or anyone else would murder children, they knew it had something to do with the new born king. And on that day, they made an agreement to look into the strange occurrences, and enlist others who would do the same and eventually establish a fellowship that is now called The Royal Order of Church Mice.

 

(This serves as an introduction. I am looking for feed back and critique. Your responses are welcomed. This little intro makes for about 25%  of the first installment of a trilogy.)

  

Sixty-Five years after Howl. Revisiting Ginsberg.

Those who know me have heard me say, "Everyone has a story." For me, that saying has become,  axiomatic. I believe it is impossible to understand individuals, until we know something of their story. There is a reason we are the way we are and much of it has to do with the previous chapters of our lives.

Here comes another axiom. Every poem has a story and there is a story behind the poem of my previous poem. It has to do with something that's been germinating in my heart for quite some time. 
That being said, I walked into a book store this week and as usual migrated over to the poetry and literature section and picked up a copy of Allen Ginsberg's collected poems.

I went to the index and looked for his poem Howl and sat down in the floor to read it. The poem opens with these lines:

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,
    Starving hysterical naked,
Dragging themselves through the Negro streets at dawn looking
     For an angry fix,..."

Powerful words written by a beat poet in 1955. In 1956 he was invited to a coffee shop in San Francisco, along with a few other beat poets to do a reading. When Ginsberg shared Howl he pretty much blew the lid off American poetry and helped set a direction for decades to come.

Sitting in the floor of the bookstore this week, I read those opening lines and thought, wow! My  next thought was, "He was homosexual.” Then I wondered, "Where did that come from?" I was filtering the value of his work through a lens of sexual orientation.

Something about it, didn’t feel right.  So, I asked myself—does his orientation diminish the power of his opening lines. The obvious answer being, no.

 He was also into drugs, Buddhism and a radical liberal. I rolled all those labels over in my mind and remembered one more thing that he was—a human being. It left me feeling self-righteous, guilty and ashamed. 

Then I remembered how Jesus looked beyond labels and embraced people in their deepest need and darkest hour. I mean after all, He did not call the Samaritan lady, The Woman at the Well, we do that. He was not repulsed by Mary Magdalene’s demonic procession.  He embraced her, loved her and set her free. I thought of a New Testament story about a blind man named Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus.

I remembered how it was not Jesus who gave him the label, Blind Bartimaeus. We have done that over the last two thousand years as we have told his story. I was thankful for the fact that the Gospel put the handicap in the proper context when and reminded us that Bartimaeus was not only blind, but he was also someone’s son.

I have often thought about misplaced identity and how often it gets wrapped and packaged in sickness, handicaps, bad choices and poverty. It also gets placed in other unhealthy areas like, profession, one’s financial net worth, and social standing. It happens to people on both ends of the social cast system.

Some of my friends are going to read the previous post, I Want to Write a Poem, and this post and wonder if I have lost my salvation, or perhaps morphed into something of an unhealthy and unacceptable social liberal.

And to that, I would respond, no. I have not jumped ship, and I have never been more convinced of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. But, something in my heart has changed as I am trying to look beyond people’s personal issues, and special needs. Beyond their label and into their heart.

At the end of the day, we are all broken and in need of a serious fix. The church has the answer, but we have so often, missed it up. I wrote I want toWrite a Poem, as a personal confession and heartfelt convection.

Sixty-Five years ago, during the midst of the counter culture movement, Ginsberg wrote a poem so controversial and extreme, for it's time, it was argued in the court system. This week I picked it up while browsing a book store and was moved to write a few lines of my own.

Poetry will do that. It will look through the chaos and speak metaphorically to the deeper things. The world is better for it. 

This My Confession

     I want to write a poem

For derelicts dying in our streets.
For homosexuals dying of AIDS, and
for homophobes dying in ignorance.

For captives—­­both young and old—
still trapped in the oldest profession
and voiceless illegals seeking a better life.

Something in me has changed, as
those I once hated, have broken my heart.
Now, I’m the coward in the closet, hiding in the dark.

- Cameron Dockery

Who Killed Johny Westcott?

Friends, Family & Fans

This is an attempt at writing in a genre totally different and out of my realm of experience. I have a few projects in motion, but wanted to post the intro to the story with hopes of getting your thoughts. Those of you who know me will be surprised, but don't judge me too quickly, or harshly. There is a method to the madness.





August, 21^st 2014
(6:30 PM)

    I was disoriented when first awakened by rain drops falling softly on my face and thought it strange that I was not wet. Pulling myself off the ground, I saw a myriad of red and blue lights. Flashing beacons from one fire truck, two police cars, and an ambulance that littered the highway. 
     I could not hear anything, so I stood looking over the chaos in absolute silence.  I did not know who I was, or where I was at. It felt like walking into the Second Act of someone else’s story.
     People were talking, but I heard no voices. And though I was walking through a crowd, no one knew I was there. Then I saw the tape. The kind used at crime scenes, or at the sight of an ugly accident. It had been pulled to serve as a barrier for the crowd that had gathered.
     I was curious, so I lifted the tape and walked over to where a group of firemen and EMT’s stood huddled around a deer lying on the asphalt. It was a large buck.  His neck was broken and shoulders were crushed. A thin red line ran from one nostril.
     “Nice buck.”
     My head snapped up to toward the voice that had broken the silence!  Suddenly I was fully aware and in command of my senses.
     I asked, “This much Calvary for one deer?”
     No one answered.
An EMT questioned, “What were the chances of his crossing the road, on this day, at the exact time that poor guy passed by?”  I traced his gaze Seventy-Five feet up the highway to where a motor cycle was lying on the pavement.  It looked like my bike.
     I ran up to get a better look and learned, it was mine!  A red Yamaha 750 Special! I bought it the summer I graduated from high school. A low down payment with forty-eight easy installments made it an affordable ride.  My memory was coming back.
     The front wheel was gone, the handle bars were wrapped around the fuel tank, and my body was lying another 25 feet up the road where two men sporting coats and ties were standing. One was taking notes.
     More confusion.
     How could I be in two places at one time? But, when one of the coat and ties yelled to the firemen, “You can bag him when we’re done!” I knew I was dead.  
     I gasped, and walked over to where the coat and ties were standing. Looking down on myself, I was overwhelmed and could not believe what my eyes were seeing. It was not so much my death that set me back, but the way in which I had departed.
     There I laid.
     On the asphalt.
     Belly down.
     Head turned to one side.
     Both eyes open,
     and a machete
     sunk in my skull.
        I instinctively reached up and rubbed my head, but felt nothing. Suddenly, I was dealing with the reality of two disturbing revelations. First one being, my death and secondly, there was a machete wedged in my skull and I could not recall how it had gotten there.  
     The detective’s conversation did not help matters.
“Hey Pete, what do you think took him out, the deer, or the blade?”
     “Not sure Mike, but some one sure split his melon?”
Then Pete asked, “I wonder if it happened before he climbed on the bike, or somewhere between here and there?  And, if it was during the ride, what happen to whoever wacked him?”
     Mike squatted as he reached for my back pocket to recover my wallet. “Do you recognize the kid?
Pete responded, “He looks fimaliure. Something about him is ringing a bell.”
     Mike withdrew the license from my wallet, looked up and said, “Johnny Westcott.”
“Johnny Westcott? I remember him. Running back for Mystery High. Had a big year, a few years back. He played at Wake Forest for a season, or two.” 
    “Yeah, took a couple of nasty hits early on. First one broke his femur, the next year a linebacker from Clemson tore his ACL. After that, it was all over. He lost his scholarship money and dropped out. Hung around Winston; waited tables in Old Salem and attended community college for a while. Then found his way home.”
     Their conversation brought on a flash back and suddenly I was in Winston Salem, on the fifty yard line at BB&T field. The ball was snapped and I took an option around the strong side. When I turned up field a linebacker appeared out of nowhere and hit me low. I went down, grabbed my knee and started groaning. I missed the rest of the season and with two major injuries in my first two years, my career was over.
     When I graduated high school I was just a young kid with visions of sugar plums. I was recruited by Wake Forest and actually believed I was on a fast track to the NFL. Then life happened.
     My first reality check came when I got the phone call from a friend and learned Laura was going out with Kyle Turner. Then she sent me a letter:

Johnny,
     I’m sure you’ve heard I went to the homecoming dance with Kyle. We’ve been seeing each other for a while and it’s time you and I go our separate ways.  I read stories about the Frat House parties, and heard a few rumors about you and a couple of other girls. It broke my heart, but with you away in college, I suppose you forgot about the rest of us here at home.

- Laura

P.S. By the way, if you can’t find time to visit your parents, at least try and call them.

And just like that, our relationship was over.  It ended faster than it started, and now I was alone, dead, and standing over my corps, trying to figure out who had parted my hair with a machete.
     When the detectives said something about informing my parents I snapped out the flashback and was in real time. Together, the three of us watched the firemen bag my body and place me into an ambulance.
     As it headed to the morgue, Mike said, “Let’s go break the news.” I followed behind thinking about how hard this was going to be on my parents.
     They got in the car and Mike started the engine. I blinked my eyes once and found myself in the back seat.  I did not intend on riding along, in fact I did now know what to do, or where to go. But, there I was, in the back of a squad car with two detectives, going to inform my parents of my death. I expected to hear Rod Sterling’s voice say something about this being the Twilight Zone, after which I would wake from a horrible dream.  But, I was not sleeping and this was no dream.


(8:00 pm)

 

As the car pulled into the drive way of my parent’s house I felt a heaviness in the pit of my dead stomach. I knew it was going to hit them hard; I also knew their world would fall apart when they learned someone had laid into me with a machete.  
     Mike and Pete got out of the car and walked up the side walk to the front porch. I was not prepared to watch Mom and Dad deal with my death, so I stayed in the car and sarcastically said something to the detectives about being on their own for this one. Of course, they could not hear anything I was saying.
     From the back seat of the car I looked out and saw the big oak tree and tire swing I played on when I was a kid. I also noticed, three bicycles leaning against the side of the barn. I had ridden them all while growing up; graduating from one to the next. Until I turned sixteen and got my first dirt bike. A Street legal Kawasaki 175. 
     I heard three knocks on the front door, closed my eyes and dropped my head. When I opened them, I was on the sidewalk standing behind Mike and Pete, thinking this whole teleporting thing was getting to be a real problem. Dad opened the door.
     “Hi Mr. Westcott. I’m detective Pete Busey and this is my partner, Mike Buchannan. My we come in and talk with you for a few minutes?”
     I had seen my father on his best and worst days. We had walked through those topsy-turvy adolescent years and came out on the other side. When I was on the football field, he was my biggest fan. But, when I was younger he was also a stern disciplinarian when I crossed the line of what he considered to be acceptable behavior.
     Coming from the old school, he believed in the belt and had lit up my hind side on more than a few occasion.  I had seen every conceivable emotion the man had, but when he looked at the declivities and asked, “Is Johnny alright,” He showed me something I had never seen in him before. Brokenness.
     Pete replied, “Mr. Westcott, may we please come in and talk with you?” That was all the confirmation my father needed. The look on his face reflected the feeling in his gut. It was like he knew I was gone. Reaching forward, he pushed the screen door open and said,” Sure. Please come in.”
     Walking into the house I heard my mother call out, “Marty, I think someone’s at the door?” Dad asked Mike and Pete to have a seat, then excused himself and walked into my mother’s sewing room.
      She was busy working on another quilt which would be entered into the county fair. Most years she and Wilma Turner won the Red and Blue Ribbons. It was usually a tossup between the two of them for first and second place. In spite of the competition, they had remained close friends. Even when Kyle and I had our falling out.
     I’m not sure what dad told my mother about the declivities sitting in the Living Room, but I heard her response. “Is Johnny Okay? Has something happened?”
     The detectives looked at each other and took a deep breath. Mike whispered, “You take the lead and I’ll back you up.” Pete nodded in agreement.
  I took a quick survey of the room.
     ESPEN was on the television, with the volume turned down.
     Mom and Dad’s Bibles were lying on the lampstand between their two recliners.
     A new quilt hung on the wall behind the sofa.    
     The Trophy Case was filled with every milestone I had reached
     from fourth grade through senior year.
More than a house, this was my home and the place where I was raised.  The place of Christmas celebrations and birthday parties. A place of refuge when things were crazy and security in times of doubt.
     I was temporarily caught up in the nostalgia of home until my parents walked into the room holding each other and wearing a look on their faces that told the story. They knew something was wrong, but were holding on to hope.  Dad escorted mom to her recliner, then sit in his own and looked to the detectives as he asked, “Is there something we could do for you?”
     Pete hesitated for a second and responded, “Mr. Westcott, I’m sorry, but your son has been in a terrible accident.”
     Pulling her hand to her mouth, my mother sighed and raised her voice in a panic as she asked, “Is he okay? Please tell us Johnny is alright!” Dad sat there stoic, like he knew what was coming.
     “Mr. and Mrs. Westcott.  Your son was involved in an accident out on HWY 135 and we’re sorry to have to tell you this, but he did not survive.”
     Mom doubled over and lost it. “No! No! It can’t be! Not Johnny. Not our son. It can’t be true!”
Tears welled up in my Father’s eyes and ran down both cheeks as the emotion broke through his exterior. I had only seen him cry on three other occasions. First time was when my grandfather died, then two years later when grandma passed. He also wiped a tear on the day I signed with Wake.   
     I stood there and watched as they began to grieve. Though I no longer had a heart, there was a heaviness in the center of my chest, an ache for the ones I loved me. I recalled a line from the old Clint Eastwood movie, Unforgiven: “It’s a hell of a thing killing a man. You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever going to have.”
     Someone had taken my life and robbed my parents in the process. It’s like the mother of a still born.   She’s still a mom, but due to unforeseen complications there’s no baby to hold; just an empty filling and unfulfilled longing for what cannot be. Like Eastwood said, “It’s a hell of thing.”
     No parent should have to endure such loss and pain, but my parents were sitting at a table playing the hand they had been dealt. I started getting angry over the injustice and wanted to know who had done me in and wondering if it were possible for a dead man to have amnesia.
     Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, Déjà vu! In my mind’s eye, I was back at the scene of the accident taking a closer look. This this time I noticed the machete in my skull looked a lot like the one I had received on my sixteenth birthday. The same one I had used countless times while hiking through North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains
     I left my parents with Mike and Pete and ran up the stairs and down the hallway to my room. I stopped at my door and hesitated for a moment, thinking the last time I walked out of this room, I still had a pulse. Then I reached for the knob and watched my hand pass through the door. I hesitated for a moment at the weird phenomenon then walked into my room. 
     Looking to the bed post where my machete should have been hanging confirmed my suspicion. It was gone. Someone had taken me out with my own blade. More alarming was the thought that it had probably been someone I knew.
     I stood there blown away by the mystery when a heard something blood curdling. It was my mother’s wail. I looked in the direction of her cries and instantly teleported back to the living room where I learned Mike and Pete had told my parents about the machete in my skull. 
      Dad had crawled out of his recliner and over to my mother. His head was laying in her lap and she was doubled over him as they embraced each other. Learning someone had taken my life was more than they could bear.
     “We’re sorry Mr. and Mrs. Westcott.  No parent should have to go through anything like this. The coat and ties were doing their best to comfort and console, but in such moments, words are inadequate.
     My father pulled himself away from my mother’s embrace, looked at the detectives and said, “I don’t understand. If it had been an accident on the road, if it had been the deer, but someone took our son’s life!”      
     Mr. Westcott, the Medical Examiner has ordered an autopsy.  The forensic team has been called in and the department is committing every available resource to the investigation. We will find the responsible party and justice will be served.
     In his grieving process, dad had already moved passed the denial phase and had become angry.  My mom, however, could not bring herself to believe I was gone and covered her face as she sobbed, “It’s not true, he can’t be gone, he just can’t be gone.”  Dad held her close as he looked up to Mike and Pete and said, “He didn’t come home last night. When he called and told us he would be staying at the cabin, I didn’t realize it would be our last conversation. I’m glad I told him I loved him.”
     My father’s words triggered another memory and I recalled having taken my machete to the cabin a few weeks earlier and leaving it there. It left me with a bitter sweet feeling that perhaps my machete was still in the cabin and maybe the person that done me in was a total stranger who used his own blade.
     The detectives looked at each other, then to my father, and Mike asked, “What cabin?”
    “We have a cabin on Blews Lake.” We spent a lot of time out there when Johnny was young. It’s where he learned to swim and water ski. It had become something of a refuge after his second injury.“
      Mike said, “You’re talking about the Clemson Game, right?”
       Dad reached up, wiped a tear and asked, “How did you know?”
      “I was at the game the day he took the hit. It was ugly.
      “You saw Johnny Play?”
       “Watched him play in high school and college. He was good. When he was recruited by Wake, everyone in the county was happy for the local kid that made it. We all knew he had potential, too bad he got hurt.”
     “Yeah. He lived for the game. When he could no longer play he lost interest in the campus scene and dropped out. We begged him to stay. I was willing to mortgage the farm to cover the last two years, but he wasn’t interested in being there if he couldn’t play football. So, he packed it up and came home.”
     The expression on my father’s face began to morph as the detective’s words became a light piercing his darkest hour.  For a brief moment he was finding comfort knowing Mike had seen me play, and was there for him.  I realized and regretted how I had taken my parents for granted.
     I lost my identity when things started clicking and coming together during on the football field. The driving impetus became recognition and expectation I was receiving from others.  When scouts started showing up at games and practices I began forsaking values that had been instilled in me since childhood. One of those values being--church. I had pretty much stopped attending services. I still believed in God, but did not have much time for Him, or his people.
     And with that assessment came a staggering blow that challenged the foundation of a world view. Standing in the living room of my parent’s house I wondered what was coming next. All my life I had been taught, “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.”
    I assumed I was not I heaven because I had not seen pearly gates, nor heard the angelic choruses. Though I was alarmed, I found comfort in a couple of other things I had not seen, or heard like—The lake of fire and the cries of the damned being tormented day and night. It left me wondering if heaven was real, or a product of tradition. Then I questioned, “Dose hell exist, or is it a concept borrowed from the Bible and embellished by Dante?”

The Judge : A Personal Synopsis.

         

          I watched The Judge earlier this evening, and before the closing credits began rolling I had already given the picture two thumbs up. As you would expect, Robert Duvall and Robert Downey Jr. each step up to deliver  performances worthy of an Oscar.
          Its a good story that portrays interpersonal relationships not only taxed and strained within a family dynamic, but also compounded by a terrible accident and symptoms resulting from chemo therapy.
     As the story unfolds a father/son relationship develops and by the end of the movie healing is needed. I am not here to share spoilers, but suffice it to say, I was moved. Then I thought of my own dad and wiped a tear.
     My father passed away two and a half years ago. During the mourning process I wrote a few lines.

                                                        THE LUMP

 

 

I stood at your grave with a lump in my throat
hurting too much to cry. And couldn't believe
you were gone, but seven men fired twenty-
one salutes and someone played taps.

I returned a few weeks later to find new grass
breaking through the crust of an old earth.
From the blackened soil of a still fresh grave
life sprang forth as you reached up to me.

I longed for the warmth of your embrace,
but the lump remained. I’ve learned, it’s a living
thing growing like a tumor with a pulse,
beating rhythm with my own broken heart.

I miss you Dad

Grace and more Grace

Friends and fans, sorry for the long hiatus. I have missed you guys and am thrilled to be back in the blogosphere. Writing has consumed my spare time. You will be seeing the results here on the blog and on Amazon, as well.
     I have recruited a talented young lady, (Victoria Orlopp  / AKA Torrey) who has graciously  agreed to come on board and lend me her talents as she puts together the cover art for my writing projects.
     Those of you who have read The Note will recognize the new cover. She used the motif of hands with a water color background of red tones fading into yellow to represent sin falling into grace. I think she has done an excellent job and am looking forward to the creativity she will bring to the table.
     I have been giving tons of thought to the concept of grace over the last few days. Phillip Yancey calls it our last great word. In his classic work, What's So Amazing about Grace? He shares how words, over time morph and the way they are used changes, as well as their meaning.
     In 1611 translators working on The King James Version of the Bible  used the term grace to share the redemption and restoration offered in Christ. That was over 400 years ago, and the word means the same thing today, and is used in the same way now as it was then. It truly is a great word.
     We live in a world that is starving for grace. When relationships are strained, grace brings restoration. When lines have been crossed and boundaries are broken grace has a way of putting it all back together. When our children disappoint us, grace brings them back home and when a marriage struggles, grace offers a healing balm. Because I'm flawed I continue to be a recipient of grace and have found it in both Heavenly and earthly places.
     That being the case, here's the rub. Why is it that we who have received grace, have a hard time bestowing it? If the premise be true, does that not suggest hypocrisy of the highest order?  Please, don't be offended, and before you right me off let me confess that I am guilty.  
    I think it's a product of the fall. The Curse of Adam raising it's ugly head. Something innate longing for a pound of flesh.  Revenge, if you will. And sadly enough, it's easily justified. Like Pharisee of a new day we've become keepers of the gate.  It leaves me wondering: What if, as followers of Christ, we reciprocated grace?
     When I was eleven years old my father showed grace on an occasion that demanded justice. It proved to be an experience from which I have yet to recover. An experience used ten years later, as I responded to the Gospel.
     The Note draws a portrait showing what grace looks like to someone who was not raised in church, yet recognized the blessing when it came.