The Trip

"I think it's getting lighter... Maybe it's too early, but it looks like the sky is getting lighter."

Steve cocked a heavy eye to the sky above the mountains. “Yeah’ it’s getting lighter.”

More cars were streaming from the left. I kept guessing that the next line of them would be Hwy. 99. Each time I was wrong, so I stopped. The increased traffic told us two things: 1. People were headed to work & 2. We were no longer in the exact center of nowhere.

We were at the “back side” of the San Bernardino mountains, almost 900 miles from home.

We’d worked all day the day before, driven all afternoon, all evening. Night fell near Roseburg. Grants Pass provided a Burger King. I think it was near midnight when a representative of the State of California questioned us about any produce we might have. We snuck across the border without revealing the two bananas in the back seat.

We changed places now and then, rolling down I-5, but as it was dark most of our time was spent talking or listening to the stereo.

As we slid over the top of Grapevine Pass, traffic got thick, especially as we transitioned to Hwy. 210.

We pulled off the freeway, in the general direction of our destination, looking for coffee. McDonald’s or Subway? Subway. The breakfast sandwich wasn’t too bad; I recharged my phone. We chatted quietly about our drive, the kids we saw walking to school, our mission.

We were a couple hours from the insurance agency where Dad had stashed the better items. We got there a couple of hours before our appointment. We found a burger place where Steve changed into his California duds: shorts and sandals.

I cleaned up travel debris from the back seat, cleared the Jeep’s rear compartment for our cargo. A half dozen garbage trucks crowded into the parking lot, a Hunter S. Thompsonesque convention. Perhaps Castenada, I dunno. A dozen cheerful garbage truck drivers milled around.

We reconnoitered the industrial park where the insurance agency was, noting entries (which I later forgot) and the alley where there was a sort of garage. We laughed at the idea of scoping it out first, noting there weren’t any snipers in sight.

We needed beer.

Unfortunately, California seems to have a dismal appreciation for beer.

We discovered California’s appalling lack of micro brews during the night when we tried to get a beer at a Denny’s somewhere in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t serve beer (apparently there are only two Denny’s in California which do), but we were welcome to buy some at the truck stop store and bring it in. There we discovered the best they had to offer was Miller Light. We settled for coffee.

The same was true for Rancho Cucamonga. No decent beer. No IPA’s. No amber ales. No dark, no light, no hand crafted pilsners. We found a Mexican restaurant that had Coronas, which would do.

The time came. We went to the agency. Steve waited bleery eyed in the car while I went in.

The guy wasn’t there.

I waited.

Steve waited.

The agent called. Someone would show me where our items were. We pulled around the building and I backed through the open garage door.

Under a comforter, atop an old desk, was the pile of stuff we had come for.

Several rifles, shot guns, a converted WWII 50 caliber tripod mounted machine gun. Stuff like that.

“Where’s the Luger?”

The guy didn’t know.

“There was supposed to be a Luger. There was supposed to be a bunch of hand guns.”

He didn’t know.

I loaded everything carefully, very carefully, into the back of the Jeep. Ammo went into the back seat, away from the guns.

We were supposed to meet a relative of mine and exchange these items for money to send to my dad who is very ill, nine time zones away. I’d been clearly told not to contact a gun dealer. This relative was to be trusted.

Should I call him? Where were all the other guns? An aunt was supposed to have some. Perhaps my dad’s ex wife had the other guns? I called her, left a message. Called my aunt, explained the situation.

“Will, we have a bunch of guns here, but there aren’t any hand guns. There’s a rocket, and a bazooka, and I think some sort of bomb.”

I looked at Steve. He had his head cocked, listening to my aunt over the speaker.

I decided I’d head to my aunt’s.

“I’m only going to say this once, then I’ll let it go.”

Steve didn’t look happy.

“Tell me you called this guy first. Tell me you did everything you could to know where everything was, and what was supposed to be where.”

“I did. I phoned this guy, I emailed him. I was told there were 30 or 40 guns here. I don’t know what happened to the rest.”

Steve didn’t look satisfied.

“And I didn’t know about a bazooka, or rockets, or,” I couldn’t help smiling a little at the weirdness of what I was saying, “a bomb.”

“OK. I can accept that. Let’s get to your aunt’s and figure this out.”

He was as good as his word.

My aunt is sweet. She welcomed us in. As we pulled up she waved and moved her Cadillac out of the drive so I could back the Jeep up against the garage. She gave me a big hug, welcomed Steve, and swept us into her condo.

My aunt introduced her partner to Steve, got us something to drink.

My sister wanted three of the best guns. She was in Cincinnati or Chicago or somewhere. Long haul trucker. Three of the best out of what was looking like only 20 or so guns. I set that aside for now.

“So where are the guns?”

She showed me. More rifles. More shot guns. The bazooka had a hole in the side of its barrel. The rocket launcher was in two or three pieces. I think. I don’t know that much about them. There was a rocket sort of thing. It didn’t look like it worked. I’d seen one on the TV show Sons of Guns and it should have had a grenade type pin in it, and the bottom didn’t look like it would accept the lifting charge.

“Where’s the bomb?”

“Right there by the door.”

I picked it up.

“Aunt Mary, this isn’t a bomb.”

“Really?! What a relief!”

“It’s a smudge pot. There should be a wick under there, and you fill it with diesel and light it to keep the frost away from the trees in an orange grove.”

“Oh! I remember those!!!”

“Yeah. It’s actually kind of cool, but it’s really nothing more than an antique door stop.”

We got ahold of my dad’s ex and tried to figure out what happened to all the hand guns and other rifles.

Apparently the guns had wandered out of my dad’s former office. They never locked the door and people, friends, former employees, and acquaintances had been streaming in and out of there for months, ever since my dad had moved to Thailand.

The hand guns and who knew what else were gone. What was in that living room, and what was in the back of the Jeep, was all of it.

I texted my relative, wrote I was ready to sell. He texted back. He didn’t want to meet that afternoon. If we could wait until morning he would bring four more guys who were also interested in buying stuff.

Do you know these guys well? Can I trust them?

Yes. I know them well. It’s OK.

I can’t take checks on something like this.

We have cash. See you at 10:00 tomorrow.

My aunt’s partner, a former homicide detective, offered advice. “Make your deal, but be careful. Do not go to a gun dealer. They will go in the back and you won’t like what happens. There’s nothing wrong with this in Oregon, they sell guns there as easy as selling shoes. But here in California, things are a little stricter.”

Our weariness was clear and my aunt showed us where we could nap. A couple hours later I felt normal. Sort of.

My aunt and her partner (who was very upbeat considering she’s had 18 operations for cancer in the last five years) took us out for dinner.

They wanted to take us to “the coolest restaurant ever.” A chinese buffet. Steve and I exchanged glances, but what the heck.

“Sure! Sounds good!”

They were astonished to find the restaurant closed. Permanently.

Across the parking lot was a Mexican food restaurant. Bright colors, surfboards, shark & turtle skeletons, all sorts of funk, was crammed into the small building. Plants sprung from every remaining nook and the outdoor propane space heaters were inviting.

What a great meal!

Did we want some guacamole? It’s free...

We did.

A young woman brought out a tray with a couple of avocados, onions, cilantro, and spices. Soon we were dipping chips into the best guac ever.

They mixed the margaritas at our table too.

The food was fantastic.

We went back to the condo.

Steve dozed while we talked.

I haven’t had such a good talk with my aunt and her partner in all my adult life. We talked faith and family and I poured myself a few shots of bourbon. We talked until 1:30 in the morning.

Then I went to bed. I hadn’t slept more than two hours in two days.

I got up at 5:30, showered, packed.

My aunt sent us off. She helped me wrap the guns (etcetera) in garbage bags and slip them into the back of the Jeep.

She gave us a sack of chicken salad sandwiches.

“Have a safe trip! Don’t go to a gun dealer or anyone like that. Be careful!”

Off we went to Huntington Beach.

I found a parking spot near the pier and Steve and I strolled past the surfers, skaters, joggers, and those also seeking breakfast to a sports bar where we found all we wanted.

I think one of the best parts of the trip was getting to know Steve. We talked a lot, along all those miles. When Steve had heard about what I planned to do, and why, he offered to help. It seemed like too much to ask of someone, but he volunteered and I accepted.

Steve is who I thought he was.

He may not be exactly love beads and paisley, but he’s as close as anyone comes any more and I am glad to call him a friend.

“I want to tell you a story.”

I looked up from my beer and Mexican breakfast thingie.

He told a little story. The upshot was that he was glad to have helped me in this little adventure, but he’d rather not be at the climatic moment.

So, when it was time I dropped Steve off at a 50’s style diner and went to the industrial park where I was to meet my relative and his four friends.

My iPhone guided me to the address but it didn’t look right. The parking lot was torn up, no blinds on the windows, no furniture in the office. The gate was damaged and there was graffiti on the wall. I got out.

10:00 on the nose. No one there.

I got back in the Jeep. If Steve had been there, he would have given me that look he gave me the day before when he said he was only going to ask once.

A car pulled up, drove by slowly. The two men in it weren’t familiar. Not my relative.

I got in the Jeep, pulled onto the street. The other car pulled into the parking lot. I paused, backed up, parked, got out.

“Are you Will? Yeah, you must be. You look like your dad.”

We shook hands, made introductions. My relative showed; he’d brought his three year old. They’d been to the firing range getting the little tyke his gun safety practice.

A water leak had flooded the office, parking lot, and that is why it was all under construction. I pulled the Jeep behind the building and backed up to the back door.

We began unloading the guns. It was quite a lot of them when all spread out. We set the WWII machine gun up on its tripod with the ammo belts around it. There were quite a lot of ammo boxes, the metal military type, and one large wooden crate.

I laid out the rifles and shot guns, and though it was a loss of money for my dad, I was glad there weren’t hand guns. Well, the German Luger might have been cool.

The other guys weren’t going to show.

That was OK. They started picking up guns, talking about what they were.

There was a very crude, probably British, machine gun. There were lots of shotguns, deer rifles, military weapons.

A gun with a folding bayonet was a 1955 Russian M44. It had probably been kicked around the Soviet Union for a while and eventually sold to the North Vietnamese. It probably found it’s way to the states in the duffle bag of a returning U.S. soldier.

There was a musket, a 250 Savage, a couple of 19th century Winchesters, a 30-06, many more.

The relative said “Look what I found.”

We turned to see him holding a hand grenade.

“Put it down!” we all said.

“I don’t think it’s loaded, look.” He held up the bottom to us, showing a hole in it.

He fingered the ring.

“Don’t touch that!” we all said. He smiled and put it down.

One guy was particularly knowledgeable, and especially tight with his money offers.

“What kind of work do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a gun dealer.”

!

It turned out pretty good. I walked away with eight guns and a large amount of cash.

I was ready to head home.

Steve wasn’t.

“We did it!” I said. “We sold what I could and now I can drop some money into the bank where Dad will be able to get at it.”

A waitress asked if I wanted a menu. “No thank you.”

“I’m glad,” he said. He looked at me closely, smiled a little.

“I know you want to get home to your family, but I have to ask. We aren’t that far from my son’s house, and I’d like to see him.”

I hesitated. Almost a thousand miles north was my wife and child. His son was 75 miles in the other direction. We had to.

So we did.

I’m glad we did.

Steve has a very good son. He was the perfect host. His wife made a fantastic tortilla soup. The little boy was very cute.

I took a four hour nap, and was ready for the road.

The drive back was long. Very. We ran out of steam somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Slept for an hour at a rest stop.

We listened to a funny audio book, laughing until we had tears rolling down our cheeks. We talked about everything. Family, faith, friends. We debated if the mileage signs indicated the nearer edge of a city or its center and tested our theories (Steve was right, it’s the center). We rolled through sunshine and rain and snow. Twice the freeway came to a stop. Accidents.

And finally, I pulled into Steve’s driveway.

I’ve given my brother a couple of guns to remember Dad by. I’ve sold the rest. The money was deposited and he has drawn it out to get the medical equipment he needed. I kept a souvenir C ration.

A few pages aren’t enough to fully share what those four days, those 2200 miles were like. Eleven hours sleep isn’t enough to do such a trip, but we did it. I shan’t do it again, but, it’s good to know I can still muster that sort youthful endurance.

A few pages isn’t enough to fully share the sights and experiences, the huge snowflakes, the mountains, the stories, the laughs, the nervous moments.

A few pages isn’t enough to fully share what it’s like to find a friend like Steve.

A Day in a Life

Being a dad is pretty cool. How cool? Very. Especially if you have the great fortune to be the parent of the most wonderful baby in the world. Here are some snapshots of this little miracle so the rest of the world can share in this blessing.

#1: Food is good. Food is a very, very good thing.

#2: Sleep is good. Sleep is very very good. OK, maybe this isn't #2, but I figured I'd skip #2 even though #2 is a BIG part of his day.

#3: Daddy time is a good thing. Especially for Daddy.

#4: Daddy has other wonderful things in his life.

#5: Bed time. I love singing to him, dancing with him, loving on him. Last night, during this pic, I sang...

Close your eyes,

Have no fear,

The monsters gone,

He's on the run and your daddy's here,

Beautiful,

Beautiful, beautiful,

Beautiful Boy,

Before you go to sleep,

Say a little prayer,

Every day in every way,

It's getting better and better,

Beautiful,

Beautiful, beautiful,

Beautiful Boy...

It rained a little last night. Distant thunder. I woke a few times, fed my son. Even did a little house work at 1:30. And when he began to fuss at 5:30, I had the privilege of sharing with him the morning air, fresh from the night showers. He ate breakfast on the back deck, feeling the breeze on his face, hearing the rustle of leaves...

Momma thinks I'm crazy, and threatens to take pictures of me tearing around the house with the dog in my shorts. Little does she know that such a threat doesn't bother me! HA!

"Honey Bunny.... Don't you dare! You're in big trouble mister!"
But she can't resist my silliness...
So.... after getting some coffee into her I talk her into going to the park... 6:00 a.m. is a wonderful part of the day!

See?! Very enjoyable!

Now for some breakfast!

Doctor Visit Today

There was a measure heading for the Fall ballots in San Francisco, but it was struck down by the courts.

Proponents of the measure decry male circumcision as barbaric, unnecessary, and a mutilation (circum meaning "around" and cædere meaning "to cut").

We are taking our son in for the procedure in an hour.

It makes me uneasy, the idea of inflicting any pain, or even discomfort, on my son.

So why do it?

I could point to a recent study which indicates that circumcision makes it more difficult to contract AIDS. That really isn’t a motive for me, but there are other health arguments and they do carry a little weight.

The measure was tossed because it virtually attacks those of the Jewish faith who are required to do this.

Though my faith does not require it, there is something about the way this practice was given to Abraham, father of three world religions, and he was instructed to do this not only to all male members (unfortunate pun there) of his family, but also those in his employ (and my son is ticked because a potential employer wanted him to cut his hair!).

It may not be a big deal but it does prompt a little introspection in me (doesn’t everything?).

So, partly from tradition, partly from spiritual/theological reasons, partly from health, and partly because I feel it to just feel right, we are getting my son ready for a trip to the doctor to get his pencil sharpened.

============

Just got home from the doc's Everything OK. He didn't even cry, though he doesn't seem very happy.

Just before they worked on him I told him I wouldn't love him any less, even though he was. (Pediatrics humor)

Blessed

There has been at least four posts I have begun, but life has been going so fast, I have been so busy, things have changed so quickly, that by the time I had written but half of it, it was out dated.

I haven’t time to fully share, to fully explain the joy, wonder, growth, and change, but I’ll do what I can.

My son is nine days old.

He’s little. Born seven pounds three ounces, he lost a little over 10% of his weight in the first few days, which concerned me. From watching nature films I’ve seen baby deer born and they stand right up and suckle and all is good. Humans are different. The babies need to learn how to suckle, mothers need to learn how to feed. He’s gained a couple of ounces and I feel more relaxed and sure he is going to be fine.

He’s a very good baby. The most he’s cried was during the first ten minutes of his life. He makes little noises when he is hungry or needs changing. He might fuss a little indicating he wants to be held, but he can be put back down again and he does not insist he be held until he is asleep.

I whip out my phone and snap pictures of him all the time. It may be typical to believe my son is atypical, but I don’t care. I know he is the most beautiful child to have ever been born.

I got a series of pictures during his first set of hiccups. The look on his face is hilarious. He is so obviously baffled, and a little freaked, at what is happening. At a certain age every new experience is a strange one.

First Hiccups

Today was the first time we took him to church. My sweet wife says I was an obviously proud papa, showing him off to everybody who would hold still.

My wife had to have a C section. I’m glad it spared her the pain of child birth, but I wish she wasn’t so uncomfortable with the healing. I’ve given her strict instructions to do nothing around the house, but she still sneaks in a few small chores now and then.

That reminds me... My wife is pretty special. My first wife was a bit of a control freak. It was difficult for both of us many times. Now, my new spouse, my new best friend, my new partner for the rest of this life, is so different from any other woman I have known.

Part of what makes her different might be unseemly to those who fly the feminist flag. She insists I be the head of our home.

It’s a startling experience.

It means I must “man up” in lots of ways. It means I must lead, and I must put her first. I must make all my decisions knowing they must be for her good, and the good of my child.

It means I must have vision.

It means I must be gentle, kind, loving, be willing to sacrifice.

Somehow, in insisting on this traditional role, she helps me to be the man God created me to be.

I’ve been a little manic in working around the house. The orange paint I put in the living room to help my sons deal with the divorce has been replaced with taste... (Oh! The little stub on his navel just fell off!!! Life is full of these little milestones right now.) ...ful green and brown, the funky light fixtures replaced with something tasteful, grownup. The old wood stove was dragged out, and I hammered out the brick, removed the carpet, and put down a nice laminate. Did the same for the spare room. It’s now a tasteful yellow, or rather, “Banana Cream” with white molding and a laminate I got from a friend’s damaged kitchen. I went a little crazy trimming trees and bushes and have a huge pile of branches that I need to deal with. The list goes on and on and on. Feels good to sweat for my family.

So... my house has been transformed into a home. My marriage has been changed into a family.

My mind has been working over time. I’ve been reading scripture more than ever, praying more than ever, and looking up obscure facts more than ever. (For example, knowing that the visible universe is 13.75 billion light years in every direction, which means that it has been expanding for nearly 14 billion years, so... how big is it today? the breadth of it that cannot be seen because the distances are too great? Answer: at least 40 billion light years across. I like that. Another question answered! Example: what is that little divot under the nose? Answer: the philtrum. Who was the Ethiopian Emperor who shamed the League of Nations and is considered by the Rastafarians as the second incarnation of Christ? Answer: Halle Selasse.)

I feel like I’ve been supercharged.

I guess I have been.

I’ve been charged with being the best husband, the best father, the best man I can be.

It feels wonderful.

My ex has been in contact with me a little over issues dealing with our sons. (One son has had some more medical issues arise.) She has tried just a little to play the old mind games with me, but I am quite comfortable in drawing the lines wherever I please and I don’t mind if she finds them uncomfortable.

I guess I got used to being a little sad all the time. It has taken a while to relax, smile more.

There are a lot of challenges ahead.

The school I have taught at for 13 years has been closed so I am now assigned to something very different, it is going to be a challenge. I’m sure it will be invigorating, and a source of much professional growth, but it is still going to be a challenge.

My son is going to be a challenge. I have all the tasks ahead of me that a good parent faces.

My marriage is going to be a challenge. I intend to be the best husband I can be. Strong. Protective. Encouraging. Loving. Sacrificing. A good steward. Have vision.

My wife brings me such joy. My son brings me such joy.

I find myself filling more fulfilled than I have in longer than I can recall.

I am blessed.

Undeservedly, excessively, joyfully and totally, blessed.

Ants!

I discovered ants all over the pantry. I put some sweetened ant poison out and they swarmed to each drop, making little circles of feeding frenzy.

My wife came home and I pointed out the ants. She shreaked.

With great earnest she said... "Thank God they didn't get the peanut butter!!!"

HA!

Latest News

My Wife
My wife is beautiful.

She is sweet, generous, industrious, and she loves me. She is a gift and I am grateful. I fell in love with her swiftly, and received three affirmations to my skeptical prayers.

It’s strange to be expecting a child this summer. I’m 55 and this is the age of being a grandpa, or a great grandpa. Heck, my dad’s new wife is 33 and she could be my child.

There’s an interesting journey ahead of me.

The Ex
B likes M. She’s been feeling shame and guilt ever since the divorce, and I’ve kept her at arm’s length. But, I see now she is truly happy for me, truly likes M. She has changed some. But the anger she feels toward herself and the world is still there and we pray for her healing.

Staying Informed in a Digital World
I get most of my news on the internet. It’s fast, though often superficial. The internet is a useful tool. I can read a story, check facts, compare one source to another. For example, last week there was a NASA announcement on the data collected from the Gravity B Probe experiment which has been going on for seven years. (Astounding device!) I was able to refamiliarize myself with the probe and the physics behind the experiment.

I’m disturbed at the vitriol I see there. People rant over every topic. Somehow it is easier for folks to grab a digital pitchfork and torch and attack each other. Very uncivil. I worry the anonymity which allows such attacks promotes this anger and that it spills into our lives through politics, bigotry, and perhaps road rage.

Self Compassion
When I learned my wife was pregnant I was excited and extremely nervous. She drew me in slowly, touching her abdomen, feeling the changes of her body. I was quiet regarding my disquiet.

My self reflective nature ferreted out my unease. It is something irrational. Something I need to take care of. Soon.

My sons are grown, adopted when they were very little. They are doing well. There’s a third adoption in my past. He’s buried on the edge of town.

My head tells me I did nothing wrong, that I did not fail him, but my heart holds three sins against me. When I laid him down to sleep that day, laid him down to die, it was the first time on his tummy. I’d been told that position was an increase risk factor for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. The second sin my heart holds against me is I let him cry himself to sleep. Lastly, I haven’t forgiven myself for not breathing life back into those blue lips, that my thumps on his chest failed to restart that tiny heart.

These packages of guilt are irrational. I’ve read enough about crib death to understand that what I did and what I didn’t do were not things I can blame myself for. But, when I think of another new born, when I thinking of the joys of having a baby in my home, my heart beats fast and in it’s hammering I hear accusations.

I need to somehow wrestle with that irrational part of who I am until it no longer struggles, and offer compassion and forgiveness to myself. I don’t know how to do that.

Professional Life
Like most school districts throughout the country the one I work for is in trouble. So much so they have laid off many teachers and other staff, even closing the school I work at.

I am sad to see that exemplary school die.

But, I have a job and I am grateful for that. I was on the RIF list (Reduction In Force) and was given the position of teaching Language Arts (English) to Alternative Ed kids (a broad term which includes all sorts of students who don’t fit into the usual class room).

Spiritual Life
I’ve taken to reading scripture and prayer at scheduled, and unscheduled, times.

The connection and disconnection I see between science and faith is clearer all the time. The ideas I’ve been chewing on are finding their way into that novel that I am tinkering with.

Loving the Hard to Love
I’ve made progress in loving everyone more. It seems easier to care about folks, even those I’ve had trouble with. I pray for them more, and I’m sincere. It feels good.

Humility
This is a subject I’ve given a lot of thought of late. It isn’t something people talk much about, read much about, write much about. Which makes sense. How can one find a book in which the author speaks authoritatively about humility? It isn’t the sort of thing one brags about being good at.

Which is odd, because it is a virtue worth understanding and seeking.

My Lord was good at it. Good enough to set aside ultimate glory and permit cruel abuse.

In dealing with the close call of losing my job, and in understanding how I must set my wife ahead of myself (we are to love our wives as Christ loved the church), I find a gentleness coming over me I enjoy.

Spring
It has been a long, cold, wet winter. The flowers are busting out, despite the chilled soil, figs and cherries are growing on my trees, frogs croak over sized love calls to each other and the promise of warm weather is most welcome.

So... That's how things are with me of late.

:)

Raised Eyebrows

Oscar was a long legged hound who’s blond eyebrows must have come from a touch of doberman somewhere. Mostly black he’d run around Huntington Beach with that loping gait looking in bars for my dad.

Dad would go from bar to bar, working on his daily drunk, and they’d tell him that Oscar had been in looking for him. He’d laugh and eventually that dog would catch up with him and spend the latter part of the day visiting bars with his tongue flappin’ in the breeze provided by Dad’s GMC pick up.

He was a character.

One of the funniest things that dog did was his reaction to puppies. Someone’d pull out a puppy and present it to Oscar.

His eyebrows would arch in surprise, his eyes widen, and he’d stand straight and stiff, his lip curled in horror at the mewling’ little one, and he’d back up as far as space would allow in the darkened rooms where drunks got a laugh out of startling the poor ol’ hound.

_______________

There are times in our lives when we naturally look at where we are, who we are, what we are doing and what we might be doing next. Puberty is one. I see that in my students. Their bodies are changing and suddenly their minds change as well. They can abruptly reinvent themselves.

Graduation from high school, moving out on one’s own, is another time.

And marriage, of course, is another. Even second marriages. Perhaps especially second marriages.

In my first marriage there were many difficult times which colored the way I saw the world. Readers of this blog might think I see that marriage as a wholly negative experience, but I don’t.

She was intense, controlling. Though that shaped how I lived my role as man and husband, and later, father, there were many good things about that relationship. She was my best friend. Which is one reason why her repeated betrayals hurt so deeply.

Still, there were good things, even in, and sometimes because, of the challenges.

Children, and the desire for children, fueled the engines which pushed us into and through those challenges. Failed pregnancies. The death of our first child. The realization of the mental handicaps of our next two adopted children.

At the death of the child I started reading the book of Job. I read commentaries and wrote notes and began a blog with the intention of discussing the book. That blog promptly turned into a journal about my life, my take on things spiritual, physical, scientific, marital, paternal... the works.

I felt a little awkward at times with the disconnect between the intention of the blog and its reality because it seemed pretentious, as if I was comparing my life, my challenges, to those of that biblical patriarch. But I pressed on, disregarding the obvious hyperbole.

There were times, three of them, in which I am certain the Creator came to let me know I was not alone in my small struggles, miniscule in the history of an earth which had rolled through scores of thousand of years of human experience, rattling around in a corner of a universe greater that 30 billion light years across. A heady experience in which I found the nature of a supreme being was so large He could be aware of the tiniest of souls in the smallest of places.

Those experiences meshed with my understanding of physics and astronomy in a way that puzzles me as well as those who believe there must be a conflict there.

When the papers had been filed, when my divorce was final and the house was transferred to my name alone... When my sons were under my care (though my first wife did her best to help as she could under the new circumstances), I began to become a me who was independent.

That independence brought with it the coarse lifestyle of the unattached male. I fed my sons from easy to fix meals which came from boxes and cans that required only a pound of ground beef or some grated cheese to make them palatable, possibly even nourishing.

I painted the living room orange, a color my sons thought cheerful and my friends (especially those of the gentler gender) thought typically male, and while crude and a touch bizarre, an obviously male attempt at creating a new life.


When my spirit had healed enough I began to date.

I looked around a bit, dated a few, and then got serious about searching for someone who was just right. Unlike Goldilocks, I prayed about the choices, I simply didn’t just taste and judge if they were too hot or too cold, too hard or too soft. I prayed I would find someone perfect for me and I for her.

I met Marilyn.

It is not hyperbole to say it is a miracle.

There is physical attraction. I find her beautiful, wonderful.

There is much, much more.

With her I feel I have found not only a friend and a helpmate but someone who makes it easier for me to be who I am meant to be.

She hasn’t the need to take more control of life than is good for her. She lets me lead in a way that is good for me, good for us.

I feel good to step up to the plate, learn to hold the bat properly, and swing hard at what life throws at me.

For so long, long enough for it to seem normal, life hurt. Disappointment, physical injuries, disillusionment over my life partner, unfulfillment for kids, I found solace in God, found God in dark places, found deep realities within my knowledge of science and my deep sense of my own soul.

Then I met her. Three times I felt, heard, saw, encouragement from the divine that I had found the woman I was meant to share my life with.

I met her in September. I dated her for a few months and fell swiftly (is there any other way to fall?) in love. I fell swiftly into a life that was different than any other I have had (and I’ve had many strange adventures). By November I proposed. By mid December I was married. Now we are expecting a child in mid August.

The idea of being a father at this age (I turn 55 in a few weeks) makes my eyebrows go up, my eyes widen a bit. I had long ago given up on that dream and thought myself too old.

It’s amazing.

It seems the old Will is gone. Though I see many challenges ahead, the future seems to be on a fresh road, a path I’ve never tread.

I worked this past month on the living room (I have already stripped and redone the bedroom this past summer). The orange is gone. The wood stove is gone and the carpet is soon to follow. In their place is an elegant fireplace, tasteful wall colors, and soon a new floor.

Just as the transitional work I’d done to make my sons feel OK about a life (without their mother) has been replaced with decor reflecting a feminine influence, my emotional and spiritual life has been remade to reflect a life filled with prayer, times of devotion, and a fresh breath of life.


The last chapter of Job showed the protagonist with a new life, a rebirth. So too this life seems to me.

It feels as if my pre-Marilyn life was Will Vol. I. Now I am in the first chapter of another new book. Welcome to Will Vol. II.

A new work... Father, man, servant of the Lord God.

A miracle I could not have imagined.

I am a blessed and happy man.