Go Limp

“Go limp!”

  It was one of those orders that brooked no quarter, left no room for debate. That, and the fact that the voice sounded suspiciously and irrationally like my grandfather, compelled me to obey. So I went limp. To this day, I’m not sure if that saved me, or caused more pain, but for the sake of argument, we will go with saved.

   A 1976 Chevrolet Suburban is two and a half tons of steel, aluminum and plastic and when traveling at 35 miles per hour is almost guaranteed to make short work of a scrawny, 130 pound fourteen year old, and it did so to me.To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember the impact. I have no recollection of the fender meeting my shin, or my face kissing the hood. I don’t recall flopping across the front of the giant, rusted-tan beast or skidding under it to be introduced to the black asphalt and tar beneath it. In fact, my memory skips straight from a command that my grandfather couldn’t possibly give to laying on my back and trying to make sense of the nearly white gravel pebbles stuck in the deep treads of the rear wheel of a very large tire mere inches from my nose. 

  It was several more seconds before the pain hit.

  It came in waves, and was made all the more confusing by the fact that my other senses were scrambled. I had a first person perspective of what cartoon characters must see when the stars are floating around their heads. The tire I was looking at was intermittently obscured by rapidly flashing white light. The pungent odor of asphalt, old oil and burned rubber was overpowering, but seemed more like someone else describing the smell than me actually smelling it. I heard sounds, but in the same distant, echoing sense I had experienced when I swam too deep at the pool and my eardrums popped. The only thing I could taste was the salted copper that some distant part of my mind associated with blood. 

  It was another, equally distant part of my brain that was trying desperately to inform the rest of me that I was hurt. Bad. Unfortunately, that distant part was being argued with by the much nearer knowledge that going limp couldn’t possibly cause this much pain and therefor I was fine. So I attempted to sit up. When nothing happened, I realized the right side of my body wasn’t working. So I told the left side to sit up and was able to move my arm enough to leverage my torso into a near vertical position. I regretted that immediately. 

  Needles of pain rocketed up from my wrist to my shoulder. The flashing lights were replaced by a piercing lance of pure white agony that started, somehow, at the back of my skull. I felt bile rise to the back of my throat and something in the base of my nasal cavity erupted into my mouth and out over swollen lips. I tried to breath, and began choking as my lungs rebelled against their only purpose. Each cough was accompanied by the white lance of pained vision, and between those bursts I was able to see what had become of my right leg. 

  From the knee up, everything looked fine. About three inches below the knee, though, the leg took a sudden and unnatural turn left. Through the torn flesh, I could see the splintered white of bone that was my shin. I looked at it with a sort of dazed detachment, as if it was some other unfortunate boy’s leg. Somewhere in my chest, I could feel my heart thudding against my ribs. The blood spurting from the slivers of bone was flowing in the same rhythm, making it clear even to my disoriented consciousness that it was indeed my own leg. That sight faded, and so did the white light. As inky blackness came in from both sides, someone, somewhere, screamed.

  “Do you know your name?”

  If it hadn’t been for the seriousness of the man’s tone, I would have thought he was joking. Of course I knew my name. It was Ben. So I told him that. But somewhere between thinking and speaking, everything got weird and even my ears heard the answer as “Vmphn.” I tried again, and felt something in my teeth keeping me from forming the essential sounds of my own name. Whatever it was felt like a cross between over-chewed bubblegum and the stringy tendons you sometimes get in a steak. I felt almost triumphant when I figured out that something was my lower lip, but then the awful implications of that discovery sank in and I gave up on answering the man’s questions. 

  Time went all wonky from that point on. There were more questions, more incoherent answers, and more pain as the paramedics maneuvered me into the ambulance. I remember that same voice speaking to someone else and hearing the phrases like “concussed, internal hemorrhaging, and possible compound fracture.” That last one made me want to slap him. Even I knew that my leg was well beyond “possible compound fracture.” 

  Our arrival at the hospital was accompanied by more voices, more questions, and yes, more pain, as they rushed me from the ambulance and into the sterile halls of Bate’s Memorial. At this point, I became distinctly aware that I was not in me anymore. The pain was fading, and I was looking down at someone that vaguely reminded me of me. I watched, fascinated, as they pried my lower lip away from my teeth and began setting the bones in my right hand and wrist. Then they moved to my leg, and I was me again; just in time to feel bone scraping against bone as they snapped my shin back into a more natural position. I heard that scream again, and it took a couple of seconds to realize it was coming from my own throat. 

  Darkness again. 

  I woke to more questions. But this time, the questions were being asked by familiar voices and the answers came from someone who sounded calm, but in charge. I opened my eyes and saw a stranger with dark hair and small, professor-looking glasses. He was looking over me and speaking to someone behind me. Most of what he said didn’t make sense. Something about craniums, and bruising and vegetables. There were some percentages thrown in there, and something about wheelchairs, tibias, and rest of life. I heard crying, and the realization that this squinty eyed stranger had just informed my mother that I was probably going to be a vegetable, and if not, I would never walk again without aid. I heard the desperation in her cries, and that gave me the strength to recognize the lie being told. So I reached out and grabbed her hand. Her eyes locked onto mine, and I concentrated to make sure the words came out correctly.

  “Mom, I’m gonna be okay.”

And I was right.

Why We Spit In Your Food

  One of the great tragedies of our modern culture is the decline of cooking and eating at home. While this decline has had wonderful results for the companies and individuals who operate the multi-billion dollar restaurant industry, the poor grunts who man the front lines are often abused, neglected, or treated like a sub-class of human. This, in turn, has led to a vast and varied amount of rumors and horror stories about the things that take place in the dark reaches of the restaurant that the customer is not allowed to see. Chief among these rumors is that, on occasion, a vengeful cook or server may take it upon themselves to add an ingredient to one’s food that appears nowhere on any menu. Sadly, spitting in food is a true and frequent reality of nearly every restaurant. Luckily, this reality can be avoided entirely simply by not exhibiting a specific set of character flaws. Read on, and take note, because if you have ever exhibited these traits in public, this is why we spit in your food.

 On any given day, you will have about a 50/50 chance at having a bad day. Sometimes, the bad day happens due to circumstances you can control but chose not to. Perhaps you hit snooze one too many times and were late to work. Maybe your water was shut off because you forgot to pay the bill. Often, circumstances beyond your control can cause your day to hit rock bottom. Was it bad traffic? Did a freak storm catch you without an umbrella? Whatever the case may be, if your day has gone so bad that you feel you have the right to take it out on another human being who, by the course of their job has no choice but to take it without retort, you should probably not go out to eat. You see, bad days are contagious. The fact that by the time you make it to your table and order drinks your host and server have probably already been infected does not bode well for you. Unless, of course, you enjoy saliva mixed in with your Caesar dressing.

  Of all the inventions thrust upon the mainstream of mankind, none have had such a drastic and detrimental effect on basic decency as the cellular phone. For some reason, having one of these devices next to one’s ear seems to inhibit a large percentage of the population from being able to recall the basic rules of etiquette and social interaction. I’m sure the conversation you are having is one that will result in curing cancer or solving the economic issues of several countries, but you could still have the common decency to pause for just a moment and use something other than your fingers to indicate how many people are in your party. Also, it wouldn’t kill you to, instead of gesturing vaguely at a menu with 40+ items, place your hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and speak to the actual human trying to take your order. Most of the people I have discussed this with would gladly support mandatory scrambling devices that cause a freakishly loud noise to emit from the headset of all active phones upon entering a restaurant thus rendering the rude bastard attached to it deaf for the better part of a week. Since this is still a long way off, victims of this behavior will instead resort to a well placed glob of phlegm beneath the Swiss cheese of your French Onion soup.
 
  While we’re on the subject of rudeness, if ever in your entire life you have answered the question “How are you doing today?” with “Diet Coke,” you can rest assured that you have ingested copious amounts of premeditated drool. Honestly, where else but a restaurant can this happen? If you see an acquaintance on the street and they ask how you are, answering in the form of a beverage will, at best, award you with a strange look. In some cities, this behavior can result in bodily harm and a trip to the dentist. Frankly speaking, whether you were hospitalized for doing this or merely the unassuming victim of saliva poisoning, you had it coming.

 When I was a child, my parents hammered into my still developing mind a simple and basic rule of dining: If it’s on your plate, be thankful and eat it. Maybe I was the only child in the history of the world who was taught this. Maybe you were also taught this, and in some depraved quest for rebellion or anarchy you decided to not only break this rule, but to order the one thing on the menu that is made mostly of things you don’t like to eat. You then proceed to modify the order so much that it no longer comes close to resembling anything on the menu and the cook has to spend fifteen minutes deciphering instructions so exact that he has flashbacks to his last job doing bomb disposal. On the other hand, you could wait until the item is brought to you and then decide to inform your server that you forgot to mention your severe allergies to swine when ordering the bacon and ham stuffed pork chop. Make no mistake, in both cases you will be served up a side of tonsil lube.

 By this point, you might be thinking that this whole thing is pretty one sided. Your mind is probably thinking back to those times when you didn’t break any of these rules and yet, as so often happens, your dining experience was hampered by the ineptitude of an employee. Your food was prepared wrong, your steak was overcooked, you didn’t get your appetizer and the soup was cold. Should you fear the retaliation of the people involved with this mishap by voicing your complaint? Absolutely not. As long as you remain civil and rational, the servers and cooks will do their best to remedy the situation. However, should you lash out at the young lady who brought you your overcooked steak and make comments about her upbringing, social standing, education level or possible alternative occupations with words that would make a sailor blush; you should be aware that she didn’t cook your steak. Her boyfriend did, though, and as soon as he sees her tear streaked face while she tries to write the re-cook ticket for the steak he’s about to throw on the grill… Well, I think you see where this is going.

  I hope this has helped to shed some light on how your behavior as a human being can determine how well you eat when dining out. If some of this is a little convicting, you should consider going to every restaurant you frequent and humbly apologizing to the staff. You might even apologize to your friends who dine with you as they may have been victims themselves simply for being with you. One last thing: If you are in the habit of using one of those automatic tip calculators, you should know that someone, somewhere, will be spitting in your food.

Calming the Storm

Wow...it has been a long time since I posted anything here. Life has been pretty hectic for a while now, but that is hardly an excuse. I think my absence from this blog has been largely due to the fact that I have been in a maelstrom the past year and have hardly been able to gather my thoughts, much less write them out. On the other hand, the winds and waves that life has sent my way have given me a new and profound perspective on how God has been at work in my life.
From an outsider's view, I have pretty much hit the bottom. I have been unemployed for the better part of 16 months, my job searches have proven fruitless, and every venture I set myself to seems to yield nothing but wasted time and effort. From a worldly perspective, I am a failure.
While my friends and family are supportive and loving, there seems to be an undercurrent of pity, and in some cases, down right scorn. I understand these sentiments, because in the past I have felt the same way about others. Self-righteousness and pride have often blinded me to the truth of this world, the fight we are in, and my own role in that battle. I have come to the conclusion that these are the very things that God has been exposing in me, and through that exposure, cleansing me of.
As I said, I have been in a storm of epic proportions. Simple things, like paying bills and providing food and shelter for my family, have taken on a level of difficulty that I would never have believed possible a few years ago. There have been many times over the past year and a half that I have wondered how I would make it, and if I even really cared if I did. The storm has been dark, and it has stripped me of everything that I used to depend on or stake my identity on.
That, I think, is exactly what God had in mind.
In Matthew chapter 8, there is a short snippet of a story in which Jesus and the disciples have taken to the open sea only to encounter a tremendous storm. While the passage doesn't include a whole lot of details, by looking at the characters involved you can flesh out quite a bit of the story. Many of the disciples were fishermen. They had grown up on the sea and in boats, and surely had faced a few storms. I imagine that they reacted as fishermen would, to this storm, bailing water, fastening lines and sails,basically doing everything in their power to survive. When all hope is lost, they turn in panic to Jesus.
I can relate to this story. I have been working since I was 13 years old, always depending on my own abilities and intelligence to make it. Jobs seemed to come easy, and through hard work and determination, I excelled at whatever I did. God rarely, if ever, entered the picture. Until I got fired. Then, the next job I took ended suddenly when the owners closed the doors to their restaurant.
I felt my world crumbling around me. My confidence was shattered. The abilities and experience that I had relied on for so long were now empty and useless. Opportunity after opportunity slipped through my fingers and I began to feel isolated. Alone. Hopeless.
Like the disciples, it wasn't until all hope seemed lost that I turned to Jesus for help. As in their story, Jesus proved that no storm is beyond His control. As in their story, He also made it clear to me that he was with me in the boat the entire time. As He rebuked my storm, He showed me all the ways that he had sheltered me from it. The provision that He had given. The grace that He had shown. Like the disciples, I felt foolish for my doubts.
He also reminded me of another story. In this story, the disciples are once again on the open sea and facing the wind and waves. This time, Jesus had sent them ahead, and in obedience, they were facing danger. In my story, my desire to walk in obedience has me, once again, facing a storm. In their story, Jesus comes to them; walking on water, rebuking their fear. My story is much the same. I see Christ is present in the storm. Like Peter, I am attempting to defy all logic and reason and walk on water toward my Savior. Thanks to the telling of this story, I understand That as long as I keep my eyes on Him and ignore the storm raging around me, I will be fine. I have assurance that he can, and will, calm this storm as well...
...and something great is going to happen.

Father's Day

This morning I woke refreshed and well rested to the sounds of my children getting the presents and cards they picked out for me ready. The cards were sweet, the presents wonderful, but they can't yet understand that the best Father's Day present of all is simply their presence here. The sounds of their laughter, the smiles on their faces, and the simple yet profound completeness I feel when I hug each of them and tell them I love them.
I'm relatively new at this Father thing, having only been doing it for five years, and every day holds a new lesson and new blessings. I marvel at how fast they are growing, how quickly they learn and adapt. How much of their mother and me they are and how completely unique each of them are at the same time. It blows my mind.
Shelley is sixteen and blossoming into a beautiful young woman. Although I've only been a part of her life for a short time, it brings me great joy to watch her growth. She has such a warm, generous spirit and a heart overflowing with compassion and caring. She is quick to laugh and has a smile that can light up a room. I call her daughter and mean it from my heart, and still consider the birthday she started calling me "Dad" one of the greatest of my life.
Alaia, our little miracle, is now four. Her name means "joy" and she has certainly lived up to that title. I will never forget the joy I felt when Melissa told me she was pregnant, the devastation I felt when the ER doctor told us she had miscarried, and the elation when two weeks later we found out he had been wrong. Nor will I forget the moment when our doctor placed her in my arms for the first time and I understood humility. I suddenly and fully understood what it meant to be a father, and how undeniably unqualified I was to fill that roll. My heart cried out to God, and He answered. He agreed with me, but promised to help and has been faithful to that promise ever since. Alaia has grown so much since that day, and we have learned together how to make it work. She looks up to me, requires tickles and cuddles, and delights in making me laugh.
Natica followed shortly after Alaia, and has been trying to get ahead of her ever since. She has the most amazing intelligence and wit for a three year old I've ever seen. Her sense of humor is deep and thoughtful, she is already a gifted artist and showing an aptitude for acrobatics and dance. She can sing with the volume and control of someone much older and has the most contagious laughter of all my children.
Jonah is all boy. When he was only a few weeks out of the womb our pediatrician diagnosed him with "failure to thrive." I think he heard that, understood it, and with typical Shannon family stubbornness has fought to prove her wrong ever since. Despite having three sisters, or perhaps because of it, he has naturally gravitated to toys of a masculine nature. The first toy he ever picked out for himself was a foam katana. Later that night, I found him in his room slaying his stuffed dragon. So proud:) He loves music, loves to be the center of attention, and loves the Lord. He holds all of us accountable for saying prayers before meals and bedtime, and gives an exuberant shout and claps when the prayer is complete.
I cannot truly express how blessed I feel, or how thankful I am to have the rare opportunity to know these wonderful souls as intimately as I do. I cannot fully express the daunting challenge and pressure I feel to protect and nurture this gift that God has given me. I don't know if I'll ever live up to the lessons and legacy that my own father left in me, or ever come to grips with how much I miss him. What I do know is how thankful I am that I did have a good example of what a father is supposed to be like, and that I will, with God's help, pass that example on to my children as well.
Happy Father's Day to all you other dad's out there, and God bless you.
Regards,
Chimneyphish

Faith

Earlier this month, I began a journey that has forced me to consider just how much faith I actually have and where it is placed. This journey was jump-started with the abrupt and unexpected loss of my job. Since then, I've been on a roller-coaster of stress, anger, fear and other emotions I'm not familiar enough with to give a name to. I've also been witness to some of the most amazing outpouring of care and love that I've ever seen outside of my own family. Friends and family alike have rallied around us to give advice, support, encouragement and even some unexpected Christmas gifts for our kids. We had a wonderful, quiet, white Christmas with the kids, and have not yet felt the true sting of the major loss of income we're facing. But as the New Year approaches, the bank account dwindles, and no real prospects have panned out, the old creeping fear starts dancing through my thoughts and keeping me awake at night.
Its during these sleepless hours that I struggle with my faith and I've prayed with all my might to be able to overcome my weakness. In my heart, I know that God is in complete control of our situation, that He loves us and will not let us down. But my mind races down avenues of possibilities and worst case scenarios that are all too close to simply ignore.
Then, a couple of nights ago, my son taught me an important lesson about faith. Shortly after learning to walk, he learned to climb. It has been a constant battle since then to keep him off the higher furniture and counters in the house and prevent a major accident occurring. As my wife and I were preparing dinner, I heard the tell-tell sound of his grunts as he scaled some piece of our kitchen landscape. I turned to see him just cresting the top of the dinner table. I scolded him, and told him to get down. He smiled at me (ladies, beware this smile) and took two steps forward--
right off the edge of the table. His smile never wavered for an instant, and he even laughed out loud as I caught him a few inches from impact. Heart hammering in my chest, I was on the verge of reprimanding him until it hit me...
My son had just demonstrated the true and perfect faith that we should have in our Heavenly Father.
Later that night, I wept as I prayed. Not the tears of frustration or fear that had been pressing on the backs of my eyes for weeks, but tears of joy, faith even. I felt truly at peace with the knowledge that even though I feel like I'm hurtling over the edge of a cliff, God is waiting with open arms to catch me and put me back on solid ground.
Regards, Chimneyphish

Thanksgiving

With Thanksgiving only a couple of days away, I started asking myself "what am I thankful for?" A lot of things came into my mind as answers to that question.
I'm thankful for:
My wife.
My children.
My family.
My friends.
My house.
My car.
My job.
My life.
There are a lot of other things that flit through my mind, but each one carries with it the same sense of emptiness, the same feeling of eventual loss. I know in my heart that eventually all of these things will be gone, reduced to ashes and dust. In the grand scheme of things, most of what I'm thankful for will pass away from this world unnoticed. Fortunately, though, this world is not the end, and what we should all be truly thankful for will endure far longer than our short-lived sojourn on this planet.
So, lets try a revised list.

Today, I'm thankful for:
God, who has blessed me with life and has taken a personal interest in it.

My wife, whom God has brought into my life to partner with me until death.

My children, whom God has entrusted me with, to lead and raise in His ways.

My family, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins, whom God has also blessed and have been a blessing to me.

My friends, both the fellow believers and the unbelievers, that God has put in my life for support, camaraderie, laughter and love.

My house, which would not have been possible without many of the things listed above and below, all God sent and supported, that fits our needs so well.

My car, which was a gift from a good friend and has been a blessing to our family.

My job, which allows me to provide for my family, spend time with my kids, enjoy weekly bible studies, all while providing an essential service to our community.

My life. Which God began shaping in my mothers womb. Which he has sustained through numerous trials and tribulations. Which has been blessed, repeatedly and freely. And most importantly, has been made eternal by the sacrifice of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Yes, I am eternally thankful for this blessing, this forgiveness, this amazing Grace of God. Who so loved the world that He sent His only begotten son to die for our sins and set us free from the debt we incurred by falling far short of His standards. So that we will not die, but live forever in His presence and through his Grace.

Thank You, Lord! For having such mercy on us. For loving us and seeking us first!

Regards, Chimneyphish

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hmph

Ya know, when I was younger and still in school, we used to hear all these stories about corrupt and tyrannical governments like the Soviet Union and Red China and all of the horrible things they did to the people they ruled over. I remember thinking to myself "How could the people of these countries let these things happen? How does one allow the government to get so big and so powerful that they can just walk all over the very population that supports and pays for everything?" I also remember being very proud and thankful that I lived in a great, free country where nothing like that could ever happen.
Well, I no longer wonder how these things come about, and I'm no longer proud to live in a "free" country where these things could never happen. Instead, I'm seeing our once great nation spiral down into depths far worse than what I once considered atrocious. As we trade away more and more of our rights, liberties and freedoms, our so-called leaders lie directly to our faces as they rob us and our future generations blind. I watch and read the news everyday, hoping that there will be an article in the back of the paper or some disclaimer after a newscast denouncing the whole big mess as one giant hoax!
How could we let this happen? How can the officials who have sworn to uphold and defend our constitution get away with so many crimes against our nation? Why did we, the people, let them?
How can we regain control of our own country again and take our destiny back into our own hands?
To be honest, the outlook does not seem good.
Until we, the people, stop accepting the bold faced lies we're fed, stop mindlessly voting by party instead of by character, stop allowing our "representatives" to simply dismiss our complaints as being "manufactured" instead of taking them seriously, stop giving into the fear-mongering that has run so rampant since 9-11, we will never be a free country again.
Just in the past 2 days, I've heard that our public outrage over the upcoming health care laws is "manufactured;" that the people speaking out at the town hall meetings are (get this) "disrupting the democratic process," and are comparable to Nazi's, murderers, brown shirts, lynch mobs and Timothy McVeigh; protesters at these meetings are "too well dressed" or too organized to be taken seriously (excuse me?); that despite the (well deserved) ribbing congress gave the bankrupt car company's CEO's for flying private jets to their bail-out meeting, these hypocrites want $500 million to buy some planes for themselves; and of course the idea of reporting anyone who publicly or privately speaks out against the Obama administration's agendas so they can be tracked.
Has the whole country gone insane or what? Do we really think we can just keep on rolling along with these policies? Can we afford to just keep printing money until the dollar can be compared to the mighty peso? Can we trust a government that can't balance it's own budgets to run a national health care? Can we trust a president who is ushering in a new age of McCarthyism? Can we take seriously a national leader who says that people exorcising their freedom of speech are disruptive to democracy?
What ever happened to a government of the people, by the people, for the people? Wasn't that country supposed to never perish from the earth? When did it? Our elected officials ignore us. They disregard and disrespect our voices. They lie to our faces to gain power and then take our liberty in exchange for a false sense of security (Ben Franklin said some nasty things about that sorta thinking!). Who do they think they are? Where do they think they govern? This is America, dammit! We're not supposed to have Czars! Our representatives aren't supposed to ignore us and lie to us! They are supposed to represent us!