A Visit with Gabe

Dear Readers,
I wrote the following story sometime in the early 2000's, and it is one of my earliest works.  I'd like to think that my technique has improved, and I'd probably have written it differently now, but I don't like to go back an change things.  It feels a little like re-writing history.  I hope you enjoy it.  Even though I'd probably do it differently now, I still like the story.  It was fun to have it unfold in my mind. 
Regards, Mike.

A Visit with Gabe

by Mike DeCamp

 

The old man wandered down Hackley Avenue oblivious to the stares of passing motorists.  His over-sized trousers were held up by suspenders and bunched up at his shoes.  His plaid flannel shirt was frayed at the collar, torn in several places, and rolled up to his bony elbows.  Salt and pepper whiskers sprouted on his chin, giving him that old-time grizzled look, and to top off the whole package, gray hair poked out from under his sweat-stained and misshapen Cincinnati Reds baseball cap.  He was obviously homeless, maybe even a drunk.  He was definitely out of place in this neighborhood.

Congerville Woods wasn’t an upscale development by any standard, but it was at least considered upper middle class.  The homes had a minimum of four bedrooms and two full baths.  The lawns were landscaped and manicured.  The oldest house was no more than two years old.  On Muncie’s south side, it was the place to live.

As the old man walked along, mumbling to the air, two teenagers passed by on a joy ride.  When they reached the end of the block, they swung around and pulled along side the old geezer.

“Who ya talkin’ to, old man?  Your ole buddy, Mister Whiskey?”

The homeless man ignored the taunting and kept moving down the sidewalk.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!  I know....  You need a drink.  Don’tcha?”

The old guy kept quiet.

“Scott, pass me one of those beers.”

The boy took a longneck bottle of Budweiser and dangled it out the passenger window.

The man just kept on walking.

“Come on old dude.  You know you want it.”

No response.

“Okay, be that way,” the young man said, and he threw the bottle at the old man.

It whizzed past his left hand and smashed on the sidewalk in front of him.  The two boys raced off, tickled with themselves because of their amazing cleverness.  They’d had enough fun with this guy.  There were other fish to fry. Too much fun, too little time.

The old man watched them drive away.  There was no anger in his eyes.  There, also, was no hurt to be found.  He simply watched them go, and then plucked a plastic grocery bag from his back pocket and carefully picked up the broken pieces of glass.  When the last shard was retrieved, he continued his course as if on a mission.

Bryce was a sensitive, but athletic ten-year-old with a problem.  The chain had come loose on his bike, and he was focused on fixing it near where his driveway met the sidewalk.  When a shadow fell over him and stopped, he assumed it was his best buddy, Ronny.

Without looking up, he said: “Hey, Ronny, do you know how to get this chain back on this sprocket?”

“Well, son,” the old man said, “my name ain’t Ronny, but I think I can prob’ly help ya.”

Bryce was startled and jumped back.  He looked up into the face of an old guy with scruffy whiskers, wearing dirty clothes, and quickly backed away.  He wasn’t scared exactly, but mom and dad made it clear that he should be wary around strangers.

“Well, uh, okay,” Bryce replied.

As the old man bent down to work on the bike, the boy made a wide circle into his front lawn, keeping a good ten feet between him and his helper.  The man didn’t seem dangerous, but he looked dirty, and Bryce could smell the faint odor of beer.

“What’s your name young fella?” the old man asked as he tugged on the chain.

“I’m not supposed to tell strangers my name.”

“Well now, I s’pose that’s a good policy in these times.  My name is Gabe.”

“Nice to meetcha, Gabe,” the boy replied, being polite.

The chain popped into place, and Gabe stood up.

“Do you live around here, my young friend?”

“Wow, thanks.  How’d you do that?  Uh, yeah, I live right here.”  Bryce was so excited to have his bike repaired, that he almost missed the question.  He pointed at his family’s house.

“Is your mom or dad home, so’s I could meet ‘em?”

Bryce wasn’t suppose to let a conversation with a stranger get this far, and he knew it.  He couldn’t come out and answer that question, so he said he’d go check.  As he backed up to his front door, he looked at Gabe’s eyes and all of his fear melted away.  The old man’s eyes were deep, soothing, and there was just something in there that made him feel good.

The boy disappeared into the house, and after a few minutes, he returned with mom in tow.  Jen was thirty-five, a red head, and very nearly in perfect shape.  She’d worked very hard at it after Bryce had been born.  She wore a very modest, but attractive yellow sundress, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

“That’s him, mom.  He’s the guy who fixed my bike.  His name is Gabe.”

Gabe was exactly where Bryce had left him.  He was standing there wiping the oil off his hands onto his flannel shirt, and looking at their house.

Jen stepped through the doorway and said: “Uh, hello mister…”

“Just call me Gabe, ma’am.”

“Hello, Gabe.  Thanks for fixin’ Bryce’s bike.”

“Oh, it was nothin’.   I’ve fixed bike chains hun’erds o’ times.”

“Bryce told me you wanted to see me.  Did you want me to pay ya somethin’?”

“Oh, heavens no.  I just wanted to meetcha to make sure the nice young fella didn’t get in no trouble fer lettin’ me help him.”

“Well, he’s in no trouble.  Is there anything I can do for ya?”

“If’n it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I could use a nice glass of ice water.”

Jen stared at the old man for a few seconds, and her heart went out to him.  She was the source of Bryce’s sensitivity.  She was highly emotional and empathetic.  Sometimes it seemed that she could feel the pain of others better than she could feel her own.  She was feeling Gabe’s pain, and she determined to help him out.

“Okay, Gabe.  Come on in out of the hot sun, and I’ll get you a nice big glass of water.”

“You sure, Ma’am?”

“Yeah, come on in and I’ll fix ya right up.”

Gabe followed Jen through the door, and she led him past their comfortable living room and into the kitchen.  She motioned for him to sit at the table, so he pulled out a chair and sat, as she opened the cupboard to retrieve a glass.

“Ma’am…”

“Call me Jen.”

“Uh, Jen, do you have a place where I could throw away this broken glass?  Some boys broke it on the sidewalk down the block, and I picked it up.”

“Sure,” Jen replied and she took the plastic bag full of broken beer bottle, walked to the garage door, and plopped it in the waste can.

As she filled the glass with cold water from a jug in the refrigerator, she decided to make some small talk.  She wanted to find out more about this strange old man in her kitchen.  She knew she should be a little uneasy about having a stranger in the house while her husband, Tom, was out, but somehow, she felt completely safe.  She didn’t sense any danger. More than that, she sensed a security. 

“So, Gabe, where ya from?”

“Oh, I’m from the City of Angels,” was Gabe’s reply.

“Los Angeles, huh?  How’d ya get from LA to my neighborhood here in Muncie, Indiana?”

“I just travel all over the place, fixin’ things.”

“Must be an interesting life.”

“It does have its moments, Ma’am.”

“So, were you lookin’ for somethin’ to fix when you wandered down our street?”

“I’m always lookin’ for somethin’ useful to do, but it looked nice down here, so I walked on in.”

Jen decided to go a bit further than just a glass of water.  He obviously needed some help, and she was determined to give it.  Tom would be uncomfortable with it, but he’d just have to get over it.  She felt for this old man who was poor, hungry, and all alone in the world.  She pulled up a chair and sat across from him.

“Gabe,” she started, “I don’t have anything to fix around the house, but I would like to help ya.”

“Ma’am…”

“Jen.”

“Sorry. Jen, I don’t really need anything.”

“Well, I don’t mean you no offense, but I’ve got to disagree.  Your clothes are a mess, and I bet you wouldn’t mind a hot shower.”

A huge smile filled Gabe’s face and he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin with excitement.  “Oh, a shower would be so nice.  Are you sure it’d be okay?”

“Oh, sure and I bet my husband, Tom, has some old clothes that would fit ya.”

“Jen, please don’t put yourself out so much for my old bones.”

“It’s no big deal.  Come on.  I’ll get ya set up in the bathroom, pull some clean clothes out for ya, and when you’re all done, you can have dinner with us, too.”

“I don’t know how to thank ya, or what to say.”

“Just be good company, and tell us some interesting stories at dinner.  That’d be thanks enough.”

Jen went to work and pulled together all the things he would need:  clean clothes, soap, shampoo, spray deodorant, shaving cream, and a disposable razor.  She showed him how the fixtures worked, gave him a clean towel, and left him alone to transform himself.

With Gabe in the shower, she busied herself with dinner preparations.  The menu was the classic fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, and yeast rolls.  They would follow that up with some strawberry cheesecake.  She’d have to run an extra mile tomorrow, but it would be worth it.

She nearly had the chicken cut and cleaned when Tom walked in from the garage.

“Hey Honey, how’d ya hit ‘em today?” Jen asked.

Tom had spent most of the day on the golf course chasing a little white ball through sand traps, trees, and into small bodies of water.  He wasn’t very proficient, but he had fun and he was getting better.

He kissed his wife on the cheek and said: “Oh, pretty doggone good today.  I broke a hundred!”  He was smiling from ear to ear.  “It’s days like today that make ya wanna go back.”

“Was that the first time?”

“Naw, I’ve done it a couple of other times, but this is now two times in a row.”

“That’s great, Tom.”

“I saw Bryce outside,” Tom said, “Who’s in the shower?”

“Well, Tom, don’t be upset.  Okay?  It’s an older gentleman that helped Bryce fix his bike.  I think he’s homeless and I…”

“Aw, Jen.  How many times have I told you not to do this kinda thing?”

“He’s okay, Tom.  I’m sure of it.”

“How, Jen?  Just how can you be sure of it?  How do you know he’s not some psychopath?  How do you know he’s not in there right now planning something crazy to do to us? Ya know, most of those homeless guys were in mental wards until the budget cuts in the eighties.”

“He’s not crazy.  Just wait til ya meet him.  You’ll see.”

“Don’t do this anymore, Jen.  It’s dangerous.  You just never know about these guys.  You’re gonna get yourself or Bryce killed.  Please don’t do it again.  Okay?”

“Okay, okay.  I’m sorry.  I won’t do it again unless you’re home.  But, I just know you’re gonna like him. He’s just stayin’ through dinner and then he’ll be gone.  Please try to be nice.”

“Fine, but I’m gonna be watchin’ him close.  If he even acts a little off, I sendin’ him outta here.  You understand?”

Jen nodded.

Tom pulled off his white golf cap and pushed his dark hair back off his forehead.  Then he headed off to their bedroom to change his shoes and clothes.  He really wanted a shower, but that would have to wait.  He had to be keep an eye on this semi-welcome guest.

It wasn’t that Tom lacked compassion.  He had plenty of compassion, so long as the person needing it looked like they didn’t.  In his mind, poor people needed to get a job, and homeless people had made their own bed and now, they needed to lay in it.

The truth was that people that were different made him nervous.  Diversity scared him.  He liked to work with and live around other white, middle-class, clean-cut and shaven, English-speaking, moderately religious, Midwestern people.  If they met his visual expectations, then they must be okay.  If they had on dirty clothes, spoke broken English or another language, lacked a home, or had a different skin color, they set off alarms in his brain.  All he could see was the evening news with him or his family as the victim.

This man in his bathroom had problems.  He didn’t know what they were and he didn’t want to, but the man was in his house.  That meant that whatever the problems were, his family was going to be subjected to them.  They could be anything.  He could be a drunk or a drug-abuser.  He could be a criminal, running from the law.  He could even be a murderous, sexual psycho with designs on Tom’s family.  Whether the problems were big or small, Tom didn’t want them in his house, not now, not ever.

After nearly an hour cleaning himself up, Gabe emerged from the bathroom a changed man.  He wore one of Tom’s older, blue golf shirts and a slightly faded pair of bluejeans.  They seemed to fit perfectly.  His hair was clean and neatly parted and combed to the side.  His whiskers were gone, and a couple of small pieces of toilet paper stuck to his face where he had nicked himself with the razor.  He still looked bony, but at least he smelled better.

Dinner was ready and Bryce had set the table.  Jen called Tom in and quickly introduced him to Gabe, but not much was said until they had taken their seats at the table.  Of course, Tom took the head of the table, with Jen on his right and Bryce on his left.  Gabe sat at the other end.

Not being a religious family, they simply dipped up and began to eat, but Gabe quietly bowed his head.  Then Bryce spoke up:  “We should pray before we eat, too.”

“What?” Tom asked.

“I saw Gabe prayin’, and I think we should say Grace, too.  I been learnin’ at church ‘bout prayin’ an stuff, and I think we should do it, too.”

Bryce had been going to church with some neighbors, but Tom and Jen just couldn’t get themselves up that early on Sundays.  (Of course, Tom could if he had a tee time.)

“Well, go ahead and pray if you want, Bryce,” Tom said.

After Bryce had asked a blessing on their meal, Tom struck up a conversation with his houseguest.

“So, Mister…uh…”

“Just call me Gabe.”

“Okay.  Gabe, where you from?” Tom asked.

“I’m from the City of Angels,” Gabe replied.

“Los Angeles is a big place.  What kinda work did ya do there?”

“Same thing I’m doin’ now.  I go around and fix things.”

“Is that what your father did?”

“Oh, no.  Not really.  He’s in the manufacturing end of things.”

“What’s he make?”

“All kinds of things.”

The conversation continued like this for some time.  Tom would ask a question, and Gabe would reply with a vague answer.  Every exchange left Tom less satisfied than the one before.  He was becoming more and more certain that this homeless, old guy called Gabe was up to something.

Before Tom could think of another question, Gabe turned the tables and asked his own question:  “Where do you folks go to church?”

“Well,” Jen replied with some embarrassment, “we don’t.  Bryce goes with a neighbor.  We’ve been meanin’ to, but we always seem to have a reason not to.  We encourage Bryce to go, though.”

“Yeah,” Bryce broke into the conversation, “and I been learnin’ all kinds a stuff.  I’ve learned ‘bout God, an Jesus, and angels, an…”

“We think it’s good for his social growth,” Tom interrupted.

“Oh, it’s good for more than that,” Gabe said.  “It will change his life.  It will instill morals and ethics.  It will give him faith, and most importantly, he can know the Almighty One.”

Tom was offended, and a little embarrassed by Gabe’s opinion.  He believed in God, but only on his own terms.  Organized religion was hypocritical and demanding.  It seemed to him that the best way to know God was to get away from people and enjoy nature (like on the golf course).

“Mr. Gabe,” Bryce jumped back in, “did you know that the bible says that angels sometime visit people and they don’t even know it?”

“Oh, sure, Bryce.  I’ve read that myself.”

“You don’t believe all that Bible stuff, do ya?” Tom asked.

“Sure, I do.”

“Yeah, right, and the next thing you’ll tell me is that you’re Jesus Christ himself.  All you people think that kinda crazy stuff.”

“Tom!” Jen objected.

“Well, they do.  They drink too much or take one too many drugs and the next thing you know, they’re saying they’re God or Jesus, or they talk directly to Him, or somethin’ like that.”

“Tom!  He’s our guest!”

“Okay, okay.  I’m sorry, Gabe.”

Tom wasn’t really sorry, but Gabe wasn’t really offended.  He had expected the outburst from Tom.  He’d seen it plenty of times before, in plenty of different places.  Folks just make assumptions about other people based on their own skewed vision of the world, their own warped perception.

“No offense taken, Tom”

Before they could lapse back into their question and answer session, there was a knock at the door, and Tom rose to answer it.  It had gotten dark outside and as he peeked through the window, he couldn’t quite see who was there.  He flipped the switch for the porch light.  Nothing.  It must be burned out, he thought.

He could see their outline.  They were two young men, maybe teenagers.  Their hair wasn’t long, and they were white.  He could make that much out, so he opened the door.   The light from inside illuminated the first boy from the shoulders down, and the clothes were neat, clean, and from designer labels.

“I’m sorry to bother you, mister,” the first one said, “but our car broke down.  Could we use your phone?”

They looked like good-natured boys from the area, so he let them in.  As they entered, the boy in back dropped a light bulb, which smashed on the concrete stoop.  Simultaneously, the first boy drew a gun and pushed Tom backward into his living room.

The moments that followed were terrifying to Tom and the others.  The intruders forced everyone into the living room.  They both had pistols and were waving them around, threatening to shoot anyone who moved.  They were jumpy and unsure of what to do next.  That made them even more dangerous.

The boy who had entered first was the leader, so he took charge, instructing them all to sit down.  He wore a baseball cap, Nike T-shirt, and designer jeans.  He reeked of beer, now that he was enclosed in the house, and was obviously drunk.

The other boy was dressed similarly, but was much more passive.  He looked continually to his partner for direction.  He was drunk too, and wouldn’t stop giggling.

“Which one o’ you’s the big, bad papa?” the leader asked.  “Who’s the man of the house?”

“I am,” Tom replied in a quiet voice.

“What?  Wha’d ya say?  Speak up, dude!”

“I said, ‘I am’” This time Tom raised his voice.

“Well, ya don’t have ta yell at me.”  The invaders broke out into loud chuckles.

“Okay, big daddy.  You’re gonna show me around, while my buddy here keeps an eye on the others.  I want all your good stuff.  Ya hear?  Don’t hold back on me, or somebody’s gonna get hurt.  Okay?”

Then he spoke to his partner: “Anybody moves, blow ‘em away.”

Tom and the leader moved off into the house, and you could hear the drawers being pulled from the dressers, and the clothes being ripped from the closets.  Boxes were being dumped onto floors, and covers pulled loose from beds in the frantic search for valuables.

Meanwhile, the other bandit stood over them with his gun in his shaky right hand.  He was nervous and scared, but he was also drunk, and that made it all possible.

“Scott,” he heard this softly, like someone had whispered into his ear.

“Who said that?” Scott demanded, but no one moved or confessed.

“Scott,” the voice in his head continued, “What are you doing?”

“Shut up!  Which one of you said that?”

They looked at him in ignorance.

“Scott, this is wrong.  Don’t do this, Scott.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Why did you let him talk you into this, Scott?  You know you don’t want to do this.”

It was true.  Scott didn’t want to do it, but the beer had run out and so had the money.  Ricky had talked him into it.  Ricky could talk him into anything.  Ricky was his idol.

“Scott, just walk out and get help.  It’s not too late,” the voice persisted.

“I can’t,” Scott replied, shaking his head as if to clear his mind.  “Ricky would be mad.”

“Do what’s right, Scott.”

“I can’t.  I can’t.  I CAN’T!”  He screamed.

Tom reentered the room with Ricky behind him carrying a pillowcase full of the family’s treasures.

“What’re you yellin’ about?” Ricky asked.

“Someone’s talkin’ to me, Ricky.”

“Shut up, stupid!  You just told ‘em my name, dipwad.”

“Oh, man.” Scott moaned.

“Look,” Ricky said to Scott, “Me and the little lady here are gonna go back and do another search of the bedroom, if ya know what I mean, and when I get back, you can go search with her.  Okay?”

“No!” Tom objected.  “Please don’t.  You’ve got our stuff.  Please just leave, okay?”

“Oh, but there’s some more stuff I want.  You watch ‘em, partner, and we’ll be back in a few.”

Gabe stood up and stepped between Ricky and Jen.

“This has gone far enough,” Gabe announced.

“Shut up, ya old idiot, and sit down.”

“I will not shut up, and I will not sit down!  Furthermore, you will stop what you are doing or you will feel my wrath!”  Gabe’s voice had risen to a near deafening volume.

Tom and Jen were dumbfounded.  They couldn’t believe their eyes or ears.  This old man would get shot if he didn’t shut up, but he just stood there like a dog guarding his master.  Bryce, on the other hand, had that smile on his face that tells people that he knows something that they don’t.

Tom tugged on Gabe’s shirt.  “Sit down, Gabe, before they hurt you.”

“Yeah, old man, sit down before I blow you away!” Ricky warned, as he pointed his weapon at Gabe’s chest.”

“Oh, Ricky,” Gabe said, “You don’t have the power you think you have.”

Scott had retreated to the other side of the room in a daze.

“You are a foolish old dude.  You say another word and you’re dead.”

Gabe raised his arms out to his sides.  “You are the foolish one.”

Three shots rang out as Ricky fired point blank into Gabe’s chest.  THUD!  THUD!  THUD!  Each round hit its target.

As the third bullet struck his chest, Gabe swung his right hand around and connected with Ricky’s head.  The blow knocked the young man across the room and high against the far wall.  His head bounced off the ceiling and he slid quickly down to the floor, unconscious.  Scott fainted into an armchair.

Tom and Jen leapt to their feet!  Bryce cheered.

“Oh, my God!  Are you alright?” Jen yelled.  She didn’t know what else to say.  Tom couldn’t say anything.

“I’m fine,” Gabe replied.  He turned to them and held out his closed hand.  “You should call the police now.”

“But, he just shot you in the chest.” Jen insisted.

“I’m fine.  Call the police now.  I’ll be leaving, but they won’t give you anymore trouble.”

Jen noticed his outstretched hand.  “What?”

“Take these,” Gabe said, “and remember.  There is one for each of you.”

Jen reached forward, and Gabe dropped three slugs into her palm.  He then pointed at a pillow on their sofa.  It had three smoking holes.

“But, I saw…” Jen started.

“Yes, you did.  But, how would you explain it?”

Gabe ruffled Bryce’s hair, gave Jen a gentle hug, and then turned to Tom.  “Tom, I would suggest that you take your family to church on Sunday.  Maybe that ‘Bible stuff’ will mean more to you now.”

Without another word, Gabriel stepped into the cool, night air and returned to the City of Angels.  Mission accomplished.

Love is Found-A Poem

I wrote the following poem a few years ago for my wife.  Today, I tweaked it a bit to use in my great nephew's wedding.  The following is the tweaked version, posted here at the request of my neices from California.  For you, Bobbie and Bonnie...

Love is Found

Mike DeCamp

Love is found in the bonds of the heart.

It cannot be broken or torn apart.

 

Love is found in the tears of the eye.

Its grip can be felt when saying goodbye.

 

Love is found, when love is sought.

It cannot be stolen.  It cannot be bought.

 

Love is found in the palm of your hand.

As you lift someone up, and help him to stand.

 

Love is found in the embrace of a wife.

It’ll hold you safe from all toil and strife.

 

Love is found in your loveliest smile.

To see it makes her work worthwhile.

 

Love is found in the depth of your bond.

Together you’ll travel to the great beyond.

 

Love is found.  You have one heart.

You cannot be broken, or torn apart.

A Muncie Boyhood-The Wisdom of Wisdom Teeth

Just yesterday, I visited my dentist in Muncie.  I don’t live there anymore, but I’ve maintained my dentist there more out of laziness than anything else.  After all, who wants to go searching for a new one when you don’t really need to do so?  And, since I still travel there for work occasionally, I can just plan my semi-annual cleanings around business trips.  Well, yesterday was sort of a test because the dentist I’ve had since I was a kid (Slavin Dental Clinic) retired this fall and his practice has been transferred to a new doctor (Delaware Dental)….and I must say that she is much cuter than my previous dentist…not that I notice those sorts of things.

I happened to mention to the new hygienist that I had been coming there since I was a boy, and that the father of the dentist who just retired was the dentist who had removed my wisdom teeth when I was a freshman in high school.  That dredged up my memories of those fateful weeks of pain, swelling, and anxiety when I joined the club of the wisdom toothless.

Sometime between 8^th and 9^th grade, my mom took me to Dr. Slavin to have my teeth checked, and he announced that my wisdom teeth were growing in horizontally and pushing all my teeth forward, crowding them together.  They needed to come out!  The problem was that they actually had not broken through the surface of my gums yet, so this was going to be more than simple extraction.  This was going to be oral surgery.

My oldest daughter had this done just a few years ago, and they did all four at once.  Boom.  In and out in one day.  Me?  The fun went on for two months!

For me, it wasn’t so quick and easy.  For me, they scheduled an eight-week ordeal!  They took one tooth at a time.  It went in two-week cycles.  Take one, wait a week to remove the stitches; then wait another week to take another tooth to repeat the cycle.  Eight weeks of rotating swelling and pain!  They would take a tooth and one part of my face would swell up and turn various colors.  Then, just about the time I would return to normal, they would take another tooth so that another part of my face would swell up and change colors.  With things like this, is there any wonder that people are afraid to go to the dentist?

For the most part, I don’t really recall too much of the actual pain from the swelling and stitches.  However, I do remember one particular removal event.  I remember reclining in the chair.  I remember the long needle that injected the numbing agent.  I remember the pressure of the cut through my gum.  I remember the smell of hot tooth enamel as they cut it into pieces to get it out.  But most of all, I remember the PAIN!!!!!  Just a few minutes into the procedure, it became quite evident to me that they had not provided enough numbing agent to fully block the pain of the surgery.

 I could FEEL it!  All of it!

However, I couldn’t tell anyone because they were all up in my mouth!  I couldn’t move because they were leaning over me.  All I could do was wiggle my feet.  And oh boy was I wiggling my feet!  Every single stabbing pain was expressed through my leather Converse gym shoes!

Eventually, an assistant noticed the intensity of my feet as they pivoted back and forth with increasing speed, stopped the dentist, and asked me:

“Can you feel that?”

“Uh huh!!”  I responded with as much clarity as possible through all the stuff in my mouth.

With a panic-stricken face, the elder Dr. Slavin stopped the procedure and pulled out that long needle again.

I was never so glad to see a needle in my life.

Anyway, my visit to my new, old dentist office yesterday went pretty well despite the five pages of paperwork I had to complete.  The new hygienist didn’t hurt me.  The new female dentist was nice and cute too.  And, they both said my teeth, gums, and mouth all looked wonderful.  So, I guess I’ll keep making that occasional trek to Muncie to see my new dentist, and…

I’ll keep brushing and flossing 'cause I'm not too fond of Oral Surgeons.

"Do I Have Your Heart?"

If you’ve been following my writings, you know that I have a few different “favorite” Bible passages.  For examples, see Psalm 51:10-13 and Matthew 22:34-40.  Another of those favorites can be found at the end of the Gospel of John.  I think we often gloss over this one and miss the deeper implications of friendship with Christ.

John 21:15-19

When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”

“Yes, Lord,” he said, “You know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.”

Again Jesus said, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”

He answered, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Take care of my sheep.”

The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”

Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?”  He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.  Very truly I tell you, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.”  Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God.  Then he said to him, “Follow me!”

Very often, we get caught up in the meaning of “Feed my sheep.”  It is reasonably our nature to do so because we think it gives us insight on the kinds of things we need to be doing, and we would rather deal with actions and directions more than hearts and relationships.  Let me just throw you a bone and say that the “Feed my sheep” instruction is simply for Peter to take the reins…take on the role of shepherding the faithful.  There is something for us to glean there and much time could be spent in elaboration, but I want to focus my time today more on the relationship between Jesus and Peter as depicted in this interaction.

First, a little background.  Jesus had many people who followed him around.  There were the crowds that would come and go.  There was a smaller group of 72 disciples that Jesus sent out in Luke 10.  There were the twelve disciples (or apostles if you prefer).  There was the three; Peter, James, and John.  And, finally there was Peter.  It seems that the smaller the circle, the closer the relationship.  It could be argued that Peter, James, and John were equally close, and that may be true, but there are more examples of interactions between Peter and Jesus and that fact drives that relationship to the preeminent position.  Jesus had begun to call all of the disciples his friends (see John 15:15), but of those Peter seemed to take the spot of “Best Friend.”  That fact is crucial to understanding the interaction in John 21.

As further background, the situation in John 21 is that Jesus has already been crucified, and has been resurrected.  Distraught and discouraged, the disciples have gone fishing.  Of them all, Peter was particularly troubled because he had failed so miserably on the night of Jesus’ capture.  Peter was a broken man due to his disowning of his best friend on the night of his arrest.

John 13:37-38

Peter asked, “Lord, why can’t I follow you now?  I will lay down my life for you.”

Then Jesus answered, “Will you really lay down your life for me?  Very truly I tell you, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times!”

That was the prediction.  Here was the fulfillment:

John 18:17

“You aren’t one of this man’s disciples too, are you?” she asked Peter.  He replied, “I am not.”

John 18:25-27

Meanwhile, Simon Peter was still standing there warming himself.  So they asked him, “You aren’t one of his disciples too, are you?”

He denied it, saying, “I am not.”

One of the high priest’s servants, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, challenged him, “Didn’t I see you with him in the garden?”  Again Peter denied it, and at that moment a rooster began to crow.

Parallel passages add two more details.  First, upon the last denial, Jesus turned and looked him in the eyes.  Can you imagine the pain that would have shot through his heart?  Second, he then went out and wept bitterly.  He was heart-broken at his own failures; he had failed his friend at the point of his greatest need.

With that background in mind, we come back to the morning breakfast described in John 21.  Let me condense the conversation just a bit:

Jesus:  “Simon, do you love (agape) me more than these?”

Peter:  “Yes, Lord.  You know I love (phileo) you.”

Again,…

Jesus:  “Simon, son of John, do you love (agape) me?”

Peter:  “Yes, Lord, you know that I love (phileo) you.”

Finally,…

Jesus:  “Simon son of John, do you love (phileo) me?”

It says that Peter was particularly hurt by this third question.

Peter:  “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love (phileo) you.”

To really understand the dynamic of this interaction, you have to understand the differences between the words that are both translated to “love” in the English version of this passage.

Agape is a Greek word that is translated into love, but it’s meaning is more focused on an intellectual decision to seek the best for another; a decision to put yourself second in order to lift up, protect, or provide for someone else followed up by the actions of doing those things.  It is more of a decisional and action word than an emotional one.  It can be applied whether there is any emotional connection or not. 

Phileo is another Greek word that is translated into love in English, but as opposed agape, it is much more emotional.  It denotes a deep bond; a closeness of friendship, an emotional engagement of the heart.  It is at the heart of being best friends.

I used to really wonder why the third question bothered Peter so much.  After all, it is the same question, right?  Well, as it turns out, it is not.  It is a completely different question, but that meaning is lost in the English translation.  Let me paraphrase the passage as it strikes me in light of the Greek meanings:

 When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, am I more of a priority to you than I am to these other disciples?”

“Yes, Lord,” he said, “You know that I am your best friend.”

Jesus said, “Take care of the others.”

Again Jesus said, “Simon son of John, am I your first priority?”

He answered, “Yes, Lord, you know that I am your best friend.”

Jesus said, “Take care of my followers.”

The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, are you really my best friend?”

Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Are you really my best friend?”  He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I am your best friend.”

Jesus said, “Care for the others.”

The reason that third question hurt Peter so much was that it struck at the heart of what he was already feeling.  He knew that he had failed in his friendship, and now Jesus was directly asking him if he really was his friend or not.

Have you ever felt that way?

Peter had spent years developing this friendship with Jesus only to fail him miserably.  As a result, he had begun to wallow in the pain brought about by that failure.  He had lost his spirit to lead, to work, to serve in the name of his Lord and friend.

Are we so different?

Do we not work to build up our ledger of faith only to have it crash down to zero when we fail during a point of personal weakness?  Do we not begin to think of ourselves as a great friend to Jesus only to later feel worthless in light of one sin or another?  On Sunday morning, we might sing “I’ve got a friend in Jesus” only to later that night feel so separated and alone.

A couple of points to notice about how Jesus dealt with Peter here:

1.        He did not beat him up about his failure.  Neither did he ignore it.  It was a fact.  It was reality.  However, Jesus did not hammer him about how terrible a friend he really was.

2.       Jesus redirected him.  He basically picked him up by his britches and told him to get busy.  “If you are my friend, then get back in the game and feed my sheep!  Here are the reins, Big Boy, now get after it!”

Jesus pushed Peter to the point of pain in acknowledging their emotional bond, and then he told him to think of the others and take care of them.

Doesn’t this also apply to us?

We all fall short.  We all sin.  In essence, we all deny our friendship with Christ at different points in our lives.  When that happens to me, one of my first instincts is to allow that grief and guilt to make me feel worthless.  It makes me want to wallow in the guilt and pain.  It makes me withdraw from those around me and retreat into my own self-pity.  It puts me into the position of being spiritually useless.

Jesus knows.  He is aware.  He has already seen it in Peter, so why would he be surprised when he sees it in us?...in me?

“Mike, am I really your first priority?” asks Jesus.

“Lord, you know my heart is yours,” I respond.

“Then, get back to work,” he tells me.

Then,…

“Mike, do I really have your heart…are you really my friend?” he probes as if using a needle to extract a thorn.

Oh, man!  Ouch!  I have to ask myself….does he really have my heart?...am I really his friend?

“Lord, yes!  You know what is inside me.  You know you have it all!  You know I am your friend”

“Then,” he says, “Get up out of your wallowing hole and get to work!”

We’ve been told in advance that we would fall short.  He knew we would have those failures.  And, we all do…we all have those sins…those little denials of our faith…those thorns in our flesh…those disgusting, distressing, discouraging weaknesses of character that cause us to fail our Lord.  It is fact.  It is undeniable.  He isn't going to beat us up about it.  He just wants to us to get back on track.

So, when he asks, “Are you really my friend?” we will answer both by what we say AND by what we do.

John 15:14

“You are my friends if you do what I command.”

Sounds a lot like “Feed my sheep.” 

Get busy doing the work of your ministry!

As I boil this all down, I think the basic summary message is that when we fail in our friendship with our Lord, he is not surprised and we shouldn’t allow that failure to make us withdraw from him or from our responsibilities to him.  Instead, we need to renew that commitment in our heart and get back to the work at hand.

Connect your heart, and then connect your life.

Six-Shooters and the Sinner's Wildcard

When my family plays UNO, we have our own “house rules” regarding the dreaded Draw 4 card.  It doesn’t matter what the official rules of use are; we just make up our own rules.  And actually, our rule applies to either the Draw 2 or the Draw 4.  If you get nailed with a draw card, you can pull out the handy Wild Card and nullify the attack.  In essence, it is your protection against nearly any negative effect of someone else’s play.

It seems to me that in today’s society, some folks have developed their own personal WILD CARD drawn from the deck of scripture.  It doesn’t matter to them if they are playing it correctly or not.  They make up their own rules.  They just whip it out and fling it down as if it is the one thing that will save them from all criticism. 

Matthew 7:1-2

“Do not judge, or you too will be judged.  For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”  Jesus.  The Sermon on the Mount.

It doesn’t matter to them that they are personally disregarding any number of other scriptures.  In many cases, they don’t really care what else the Bible may have to say.  Someone hints that they might be in the wrong, and out comes the wild card: 

“DON’T JUDGE ME!”

I used to think that the most memorized verse in scripture was John 3:16, but I’ve changed my mind.  Even folks who have no regard for the Bible know this verse.

The problem is that they often don’t really know what the context is.  Most of them probably don’t even know that it was Jesus who said it.  Do they know who he said it to?  Do they know why he said it?  Have they studied the background?  Call me judgmental, but I doubt it.

How about we cross reference it with this verse…

Matthew 18:15-17

“If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you.  If they listen to you, you have won them over.  But if they will not listen, take one or two others along, so that ‘every matter may be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses.’  If they still refuse to listen, tell it to the church; and if they refuse to listen even to the church, treat them as you would a pagan or a tax collector.”

Now, who do you think might have said this one?  Would it surprise you to learn that it was the same Jesus that spoke the earlier words?  Which one takes precedence?  Are they in conflict?  Was Jesus here telling us to be judgmental?

The fact is that we make evaluations of situations and actions all the time.  We have to.  Have you ever looked for a babysitter or a rental house tenant or a taxi?  You consider any number of factors when you decide whether to hire the sitter, rent out the house, or jump into the car.  God gave us the capacity to think and evaluate.  How about when someone is being abusive to you?  Are you allowed to decide that it is wrong to be treated that way?  Of course!  If your spouse were to have an affair, you would be perfectly within your rights to announce to the world that he or she is wrong in doing so.

You would be evaluating the situation based on the facts, laws, and vows.  You would not be passing judgment…that would happen in the courtroom a few months later.

So, if I say to you that based on the Bible, you are sinning, am I judging you?  Does the mere fact that I say you are wrong mean that I am passing judgment on you?

No!

Hopefully, it means that I care about you.  I want the best for you.  I want you to live a good life and maximize your walk with God.  I love you enough to speak up!

If you are driving down the highway at 90 mph and I point out that you are speeding, am I judging you because I am pointing out your traffic infraction?  How about that trooper that writes you the summons to appear in court?  Is he judging you?  No, on both accounts.  It is only when you appear before the traffic court judge that you are actually judged.

Getting back to pointing out sin…

Jesus also said this: 

“If anyone hears my words but does not keep them, I do not judge that person.  For I did not come to judge the world, but to save the world.  There is a judge for the one who rejects me and does not accept my words; the very words I have spoken will condemn them at the last day.”  John 12: 47-48

Even Jesus wasn’t judging folks while he was here on the earth.  He pointed out sin.  He called people hypocrites.  He said some lacked faith.  He even accused some of being a brood of snakes.  But, he didn’t judge them.  That would come later.

And, in all of that, he was doing it to SAVE the world!  Not to judge it, but to save it!

He did however, point out that there is a judge.  And a day.  And a standard by which we will be measured.

“For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each of us may receive what is due us for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad.”  2 Corinthians 5:10  Apostle Paul

So, considering Matthew 7,…there is a judgment seat…and it isn’t mine.  I’m not the one to sit in it.  It isn’t my job to pass judgment on someone else’s life.  I don’t condemn.  I don’t give out sentences.  I’m not going to send anyone to Hell.  Not my seat.  Not my job.  I should not presume to sit there!

But, that doesn’t mean that I can’t evaluate the scriptures and point out sin.  It just means that I should be careful to pull the plank out of my own eye before I start fumbling with your speck of dust.  And, I better keep a good perspective on the purpose.  I need to do it out of love…out of concern…out of a sincere desire for your best.

The problem is that some Christians want to use the Bible like a weapon.  They see that sinful act and whip out that six-shooter verse faster than the Outlaw Josey Wales can say “reckon so.”  Boom, boom, boom.  Nailed that sinful sucker!

Ooops!  You must have missed because here comes the returned fire of Bible bullets:  “Don’t judge me!”  Boom, boom, boom!

Folks, the problem is that the Bible is NOT A WEAPON!  It is the love story of God.  It is God telling the story of how he made us, lost us, and won us back!  A romance novel across the eons of history!  All true…and written in crimson ink.

So, let’s put away the verse-ridden bullets.  And the next time you are tempted to whip out the biblical six-gun, stop…, think…, and read the love story first.

“This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us.  And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.”  1 John 3: 16  The Apostle John

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”  John 3: 16  Jesus

Peace to you...all of you.  And have a great Thanksgiving holiday!

A Muncie Boyhood-The Summer of 1978

1978 was a pivotal year for me.  So many things changed in that one year, and it was only as I contemplated this post that I realized the significance of that short few months of transition.  When the year started, I was a nerdy, walking-everywhere, picked-on, crush-whipped, insecure, sophomore at Muncie Southside High School.  When it ended, I was still a bit nerdy but I had a driver’s license, I was big enough that most bullies left me alone, I was a leader among my youth group, and….oh yeah…I had a real-life girlfriend.

The driver’s license and the girlfriend were the most significant, of course.

I finished the Driver’s Ed class with an “A” and a waiver from my teacher, Mr. Jay.  I think out of the thirty or forty kids in our double class only two got a waiver, and I was one of them!  (A “waiver” meant that I could bypass the official driver’s test at the local branch of the BMV.)  I had to practically swear an oath to secure it, but it was mine in the end.  It was a good thing too because trying to parallel park my dad’s stick shift ’68 Chevy Nova for the tester at the license branch would have been a nightmare!

I still vividly remember proudly driving my dad’s car up 22^nd street all by myself on the first day I had the legal right to drive.  I was something to see!  I was the epitome of coolness as I sort of hung out the window, waiving at my friends.  Spectacular!  Awesome!  Everything was wonderful…until I inadvertently swerved into the lane of oncoming traffic while showing off.

Scared the crap out of me!

Time to drive home.

The other big thing that year was the culmination of my Crush.

I’ve shared the story of my “Crush” in a previous Muncie Boyhood posting.  This juvenile infatuation lasted for five years; from fifth grade in Mrs. Dennis’ class until it came to a screeching halt in March of 1978.  During this long period of naïve and innocent puppy love, I had always held out hope that one day my aspirations of attaining this girl's affections would be fulfilled.  So, when I was invited to attend her 16^th birthday party, I was quite excited…and more than a little nervous.  However, when I got there reality overcame my adolescent dreams.

There were eight of us at the party.  Tena, and her two friends, Bobbie and Betsy were there, and they each had a boyfriend.  Yes, my crush had a boyfriend….and he was there!  That accounts for six.  I was number seven.  Number eight was Tena’s younger sister, Teresa.

Now, consider me Mr. Oblivious….because it only recently occurred to me that this could have been by design; someone's match-making plan.  I really don’t know.  But, there were three couples….and two other people without a partner at the dance.  And it was a dance…a dance party.  It just never hit me like that at the time because I was so infatuated with the birthday girl.  It is possible that perhaps I was so mesmerized by the lily that was out of reach that I couldn’t see the rose that was under my nose.  I guess I’ll never know if that was the intent, but it does make me go “hmmmmm.”

Well anyway, there are two things that I do recall clearly from the party.  The first was the one time I got up to dance.  I sort of wanted to, but then again, I didn’t.  I was still paralyzed by insecurity and I really had no dance skills.  (Still don’t.)  But, because the girls dragged me up to do “The Bump”, I danced with them.  (I have got to admit though…my teenage-self did enjoy that couple of minutes quite a bit.) 

But, the other thing I remember was the sense of loneliness and loss.  I was alone in the crowd.  The girl I had been longing for over the last five years was not to be mine, and the affection she was showing her boyfriend made that painfully obvious.

I just sat there…alone…alone in the darkened room with the pain of my new futile reality.

I would have no choice but to move on.

As painful as that was, it was a short-lived pain.  Three months later my Crush was replaced by my first girlfriend when Toni jumped into my world and eradicated the lingering pain from my smashed obsession.

I don’t really recall how we met.  She was in my youth group at Fairlawn Church of Christ, so it was probably at what was called “Monday Night Fellowship” or in our Sunday morning class.  Somehow, though a friendship developed, and the first time it seemed to me to be even more was a Sunday afternoon at a park in New Castle.  The group had an outing, and we spent a good deal of the time together.  Afterward, she sent word to me that I should give her a call.  (I played it cool, but my heart nearly jumped out of my chest!)

Later that day, I called her…and I messed it up right off the bat.

I didn’t realize that her dad had some pretty strict rules about boys and phone calls.  For example, she could only stay on the phone for ten minutes.  (That still seems insanely short to me.)  But, the time limit wasn’t my initial screw up.  No, you see, she also was not allowed to call boys and she was not allowed to ask them to call her…which is exactly what she had done with me.

So, the call started out something like this:

Her sister:  “Hello?”

Me:  “Uh, hi.  Is Toni there?”

Sister: “Yeah, hold on.  Toni!  There’s a boy on the phone for you!”

Toni:  “Hello?”

Me (while the sister is still on the extension):  “Hi Toni.  This is Mike.  I heard you wanted me to call you.”

Let’s just say that there was some sibling conflict that ensued, and Toni got in a wee bit of trouble.  Thankfully, it wasn’t too much because we set up our first date…, my very first date ever. 

July 4, 1978.  Prairie Creek Reservoir.  Fireworks.

A week later, we had our second date…,and I had my first kiss.

Delaware County Fair.  Parking Lot.  My dad’s Chevy Nova.

That kiss was only remarkable in that it was my first.  Otherwise, it was pretty pathetic.  I was so incredibly nervous and I had no clue how to handle myself.  Ultimately, it was just a short little peck on the lips and that was about it.  But, it was a kiss.  A wonderful thing to a nerdy 16-year old who had begun to wonder if it was ever going to happen.  And, they got much better at our next outing, which was a youth group trip to a Cincinnati Reds baseball game.

Soon, we were “visiting” at stop signs on county roads, the back of the Wendy’s parking lot on McGalliard Road, and anyplace else where we thought we could sneak in a few minutes of lip-locked visitation.  Call it "Youthful Enthusiasm."

Now, we did have our boundaries driven by our faith and our commitment to God in our lives, and we kept to them pretty well considering we were products of the ‘70s.  And even though there were temptations to overstep our personal limits, we never did so, and I am proud of that fact.  She was a good girl, and I was doing my best to be a good guy.

To bring this installment to a close, by the end of the summer of 1978, I was driving like I’d been born behind the wheel, and I had a sweet and pretty girlfriend named Toni.  All that anxiety caused by my crush was behind me, and Tena was again simply my friend Tim’s sister.

Crush?  What crush?  I had moved on.

Cerebral Play Doh

Somewhere back in time, I started reading fiction.  Oh, now before you think me a complete escapist, I also make a conscious effort to read other stuff.  I like history.  In fact, I once bought what can only be described as a history textbook on US history and read it cover to cover.  I've read a number of books on the US Civil War.  I also read spiritual enrichment books to build my knowledge of scripture and spiritual issues (favorite authors being Max Lucado and Philip Yancey).  But, I have to say that my first love is truly fiction.  Some people like to play golf.  Others like to hunt.  I like to read a great adventure story.

Okay, so I’m a bit of an escapist.  Confession is good for the soul.  (I think I read that in a spiritual enrichment book somewhere.)

Anyway…

Here’s the thing, a great story will take you away.  It will take you to crazy, wild, and mind-blowing places both in this world and beyond.  It will scare you.  It will romance you.  It will give you courage.  I particularly love to GO on vacation, and then read a book that carries me even further away for a while.  An escape upon an escape.  Does it get better than that?

My favorite stories have a fantastical edge.  Something beyond our natural world.  I don’t prefer the language to get too graphic and I don’t want it to be overly sexualized, but I do like it to stretch the boundaries of the rational and the reasonable.  I think that’s why I like Dean Koontz so much.  He uses rough language very sparingly and doesn’t overdo the sexuality, but he will take you over the edge in a fantastic way.

A good piece of fiction is like a roller coaster.  There’s the slow climb up the first hill (not so long that you lose the anticipation), then the plunges, the curves, the dips, the peaks, and then finally the last big hook before you coast in and catch your breath.  Ahhhhhhh!

It’s just plain fun….and, I think we all need some fun once in a while.  Wouldn’t you agree?

My love affair with adventure started in earnest with a Dean Koontz novel called Twilight Eyes.  Oh boy, did that story grab me!  After that, I’ve not gone very long without a good read.  I’ve just about always got one going or one in the wings.  Sometimes two or three.

Eventually, I started playing around with my own stories.  At first, it was just a mental game.  I’d create a scenario and kind of build it up…play with the angles…see what I could do with characters.  I was doing a little mental manipulation of some cerebral Play Doh. 

Sooner or later, it had to come out.

That’s when I started writing short stories.  My first was “Hate to Wait.”  You can find a link to it under the Short Stories tab at the top of this page.  Anyway, this story was based on a freaky dream I had at a hotel.  I had fallen asleep on the hotel room bed and in my dream, I imagined that someone was coming into the room and I was unable to move or make a sound in response.  After I actually awoke…and calmed down…I began the mental manipulation process that resulted in that short story.

Over time, I’ve written several shorts, some of which I’ve posted on this blog page.  Again, you can find the links on the tab above.  Others, I’ve kept in reserve.  Maybe I’ll post them eventually.  Probably my favorites are the last two I’ve done:  Under the Crimson Shade and Out of the Depths of Abandon.  I just love those stories!  Whether you think they are well written or not, I had a blast creating them.  They may never be officially published (although I would love that, so if you have any contacts, let me know), but I love creating them and then sharing them with people who appreciate the stories.

Creating a story is DOUBLE the fun of simply reading a story.  When you read someone else’s story, you are just a passenger on their roller coaster.  When YOU are creating the story, then you are building a new roller coaster that NO ONE has ever ridden on before, and you get to be the very first rider!

Some authors will plan out a story well in advance with detailed outlines and character profiles.  For me, it is much more fun to just let the story unfold itself in my imagination as I type the letters on the screen.  I might form some cerebral Play Doh, but mostly I just enjoy the ride that is inherent in the creative process.

So, there.  You know something new about me.  I hope you like short stories and try out my personal mental manipulations.  I plan to keep creating them as they are revealed to my imagination.

Good reading my friends.

Mike 

Caaamper's Political Foray-Tax Rates, Binders & More

I’ve just been doing some research on this whole “lowering taxes to raise federal revenue” issue.  There’s been much bantering…rather harsh bantering…on whether this is a legitimate strategy or just smoke and mirrors.  The left side of the political spectrum in our society has adamantly painted Mitt Romney as a liar for even suggesting that it could be done.  So, I’ve done some digging around.

Who’s right?

Is Romney a liar?  Or, is Obama just oblivious to good tax policy?

Well, frankly, it depends on which economist you listen to.  I read several papers from seemingly reputable sources and the basic answers conflict.  Some papers support the concept and others dispute it.  Both make very plausible arguments.

So, to me, the bottom line is that good people can sincerely disagree on this issue and there is NO REASON to call one another liars over it!  What I’ve gleaned is that sometimes reduced rates can increase federal revenue because of changed practices of the taxed individuals plus spurred economic growth.  And, sometimes the opposite is true.  Each situation has to be taken as a unique set of factors that will result in a unique set of results of implemented tax policy.  Romney very well could increase federal revenue by lowering tax rates.  Maybe he won’t be able to do so, but it is quite possible and I think he is smart enough to get to the bottom of the idea.  To say that he is lying about the plan is not fair.

One thing I know is true is that you can’t spend yourself out of debt….which is what our current President is trying to do.

Now consider this example…simple as it is:  I once had a small lilac bush that I purchased and planted in my yard.  I kept it year after year, but it never took off and began to flourish.  Finally, I gave up and cut it down to the ground.  Funny thing though, all of the sudden it sprang to life.  It took a severe pruning to spur the growth.  That is a counter-intuitive fact of horticulture.  If you trim a plant back, it will spur increased growth and produce more of the actual plant than you would have otherwise had.  Each year, my dad would cut his grape arbor all the way back to the bare stems, and each year they would burst forth with new growth and a wealth of juicy fruit.

Sometimes, it pays to trim.  At least give the concept a fair listen and consideration.

Now, what about all those binders?  Binders of women?  Seems that’s all I’ve heard about since the last debate.  Come on!  What a bunch of blathering about nothing!  Let’s examine his point:  He came into office and wanted to enhance the number of women in state government.  An organization presented him with a binder or binders loaded with resumes’ of qualified women.  He utilized the resumes’ in his selection of candidates.  Where in the world is the terrible, horrible, nasty action, policy, or viewpoint hidden in there?  Seems to me that he was just trying to increase the impact and influence of women in the state government of Massachusetts.  Seems like a good thing to me.  Seems like he went out of his way to promote women in government.

So, I consider the binders controversy to be a grasping at straws in a blathering attempt at distraction.  There’s your smoke and mirrors.  A waste of time on an argument of nothingness.

Now, let’s talk gasoline prices.  Oh well, no need.  We know they are twice as high as they were four years ago…and that surely isn’t because the economy was so bad in 2008 or so good in 2012.

Another thing…

I fully believe that Candy Crowley tried to be fair and impartial.  I will give her the benefit of the doubt.  However, it was very obvious that she interrupted, shut down, and cut off Mitt Romney many more times than she did President Obama.  One report I heard said that she cut off Romney 28 times compared to Obama only 9 times.  I didn’t go back and “fact check” that, but based on my observation, I think it fairly accurate.  It may have been an unconscious slight based on her personal bias, but it was true none-the-less.

What I would really like to see is the two men locked alone in a room with no audience and no moderator for a couple of hours.  Turn on the cameras and the microphones.  Simply let them debate among themselves for two hours while the rest of us just listen in.  We’d see if they can be reasonable with one another.  We’d see if they would actually listen to one another.  Perhaps, we would get a chance to actually hear each man out…side by side.  That would be nice.

Short of that, we have only rhetoric and records.  I’ve seen the Obama record…I don’t like it.  Romney has been quite economically successful…I think we need some of that.

No….I think we need a lot of that.