I have come to realize that there are moments in life, sometimes seasons, that defy one's sense of endurance and long-suffering. Sometimes it is an aggravation that sticks around too long, others a disease that attacks at random, crippling and debilitating someone you love so dearly. But more times than not it is simply the slow burning agony of dead time, that dimension in which you feel as though you have so much to do and yet never enough time to make it happen; sitting in a chair helpless as though paralyzed, you feel the fire creeping up your leg, burning your flesh and using your fat as fuel to continue the slow trek toward you face, knowing full well that the glowing flame will not stop until it has consumed you thoroughly and left nothing but a charred corpse to be gawked at by morbid on-lookers who are too self-involved to realize that their grotesque fascination is at the expense of actual human life. Sometimes it happens over a span of months, others in a fraction of a second, not that duration leaves one any less scarred.
Parents especially know this sensation as they watch their children grow and suddenly realize that the time they thought they had when the baby was born is now gone, maybe even wasted on trivial and worthless matters that can never be rectified or amended. That day when your work project took precedence over playing catch with your son, or the afternoon you spent trying to recover from a long week and in the process neglected a sunny day that would have been better spent in the backyard with your family. Those moments are lost in a moment, unrecoverable and held hostage in the back of your brain until one day those lost shards of time come together, attack you, and leave you weeping on the floor, certain that your are damned as the worst parent ever to trod the earth. This can be a debilitating experience, spiraling one into the slavery of depression, the bondage of a self-created hell, or an insurmountable stage of purgatory for which you know no penance can ever atone even as you perpetually try. It doesn't take much, and this one slip is like a trap door at the entrance of an eerie house on Elm Street, or by Crystal Lake, the destination of which is a chain-laden cell where the Promethean eagle eternally devours your liver without the savory aroma of death to rescue you. It is the cell of one's mind where ten thousand tortures are concocted for our every failing, and the sneering face of your accuser is hidden, but always known. Scattered about the room are countless eyes watching from the shadows, faceless and heartless, cackling at the misery they behold, malevolence filling their souls manifested as joyful apathy, entertainment for their dreary existence, never satisfied. To cross the floor and escape is pain, but to remain is agony. Standing in this place, one never feels so alone, even when surrounded by the best of friends and loved ones.
Without question, there are many responses to this inevitable state. Some give up and ride the bullet out of this life, others medicate with their own special, individualized version of Soma, and even more rationalize the whole thing away and never truly deal with the dark, terrible place before them. The oft-heard cry of the fool, "I have no regrets" is a maxim held by these delusionals who fail to recognize that the untreated wounds will rot the limb, and eventually the body, no matter how dutifully it is denied and claimed contrary. Just as ignoring a gangrenous appendage is final condemnation for the body, so also the failure to traverse the course of lost or wasted time is fatal to the soul. Worse yet, it is a contagious fatality that spreads with untreated sorrow, no matter how well it has been glossed over with a painted smiley face.
For certain, many responses are available, but only two options truly exist: stand still and hope to avoid further pain, a process described in the preceding paragraph, or move across the mined floor for the exit, knowing that scars and wounds will be inflicted before the voyage is through. While the former is easy, warm and comfortable, it is also stagnant and void of growth or maturation. Those choosing it live perpetually in the torture room, even while closing their eyes and speaking over the peering malefactors, accepting fantasy as reality so that they might avoid the hard truths before them. To leave, the room must be crossed no matter the cost. One must accept the pain about to be lashed upon them and carry forth nevertheless, undaunted and unyielding.
As with every necessary task, the hardest step is the first: forgiveness. Forgiveness is not forgetfulness, despite popular theory. Forgiveness is a choice to pass over the reckoning, it is a releasing from bonds that can never be reforged once unleashed. Forgiveness has no "but," nor condition. Forgiveness does not say, "I forgive, but if it happens again...." such a statement is contradictory at its core. One forgives or one does not, there is no middle ground and if one fails to give forgiveness one ought to never expect forgiveness to be levied in their favor. As an angry Shylock found in the court of Venice, the demand of vengeance, even disguised as justice, often brings forth more self-destruction than satisfaction. This alone testifies to the other-worldliness of its ontology, for the heart of most humanity is to that end! Indeed there is rarely a person who, without having been taught the concept, would seek forgiveness over retribution. Consider your child abused, your spouse violated, or your brother murdered and query whether forgiveness would be your heart's desire! I confess my weakness, for my wrath would be great, my rage boiling, and the most excruciating vengeance devised in moments and executed swiftly if left unchecked by the divine gift of forgiveness. For even if extracting my pound of flesh, or perhaps so much more, as much as desire would allow, when the matter was settled, nothing would be changed. The abuse, violation, or murder would still stand, my life would still be unchangeably altered, and the broken pieces would still need mending, a task my finite mind is unable to accomplish alone.
Forgiveness only truly exists as a gift from God, for it can only have value if given by One outside of creation, otherwise its value is subjective to each person, meaning no value actually exists. Having been given by God, it would need to be explained to humanity in a manner comprehensible to such limited minds, and what better explanation is there than example? And what better example is there than paying the debt of others who never could have met the bond of their own accord? Was not this ultimate example provided in Christ Jesus? Who else has offered to pay for your sins and take your leashing? Not Muhammad. Not Buddha. No krishnas, Wiccans, or new age priests have allowed themselves abused by those they created to save the souls of mankind. There is only one who does not demand you to pay, but to receive forgiveness from the Creator of all things.
For all, but especially those of the Faith, it is a great irony that forgiveness is the only way to silence the sadists who mock the time that has been lost by our own stupidity and foolishness. Left alone and untreated, one's mind and conscience will drive them into a straight-jacket as the never-ending replay of past failures circles about in a loop of devastation. We humans are eager to punish ourselves, as long as no one else seeks to bring us to justice, for in that moment we find every reason to defend, only to anguish in private at what we know to be true. We can hide all we want, convince ourselves with therapies, drugs, and abuses, but the truth is inescapable and always before us in those lonely dark moments not known about by even the closest of friends. Those seconds of hell that seem like an eternity when we look in the mirror and cannot escape the depraved and withering state of our souls.
There is only One who can heal a mortally infected soul. There is only One who can resurrect the feelings of creative worth the world so desperately seeks to steal from us. The door is open before us, we simply must walk through it on our knees, recognizing our own complete inability to rectify the sins we have done and endured in this life. There is no other path, no other escape. He is the only stairway out of the Sadist's basement. You simply need to exit the world of pain to which you have grown accustomed and find that, what you thought was a world of color, was little more than a drab, gray city filled with assailants and discouragers who would rather see your misery continued than accept the enlightenment of truth that can bring you peace. Misery loves company. The only question left is for which side of the field will you play? Misery or forgiveness?
23 May 2011
10 February 2011
Macabre Ramblings on the Bulk of Society
Some lives are utterly wasted, spent on the frivolity and living by one’s wants and desires. With almost no exception, these people are unredeemable, either by society’s standards or God’s, for their heart is so consumed with self that they can rationalize any action, as long as they are the benefactors. The most extreme cases we call sociopaths. Others we call actors, politicians, neighbor, or even friend. The fact is that you have no idea who you can rely on until the world has turned to excrement and the fires of hell are breathing down your neck with a mortal threat that seems insurmountable. Forget about the chips being down, this is when you’re missing chips are a debt owed to a loan shark who is anxious to square the books, and does not care that the marker was placed in your name by someone else. When there’s blood in the water and only sharks are circling, the only help you can hope for is a passing dolphin feeling a bit philanthropic.
But in this life, the dolphins typically are not around, and the friends you thought you had run like hell for their own lives at the first sign of a dorsal fine breaking through the surf, forgetting the bond they claimed, for their blood is more important to them than yours. When you’re at the bottom, most people pick up a shovel to finish the burial, not dig you out.
From time to time these realities strike me as more real and heavy than others. Sometimes it’s a particular incident that incites this retrospection, others it just comes upon me, but no matter the reason, depression envelopes my mind and heart because I know the truth: most people are the swimmers, the majority of the rest are the sharks, and very few are dolphins or true friends. Human beings are not good people in and of themselves. Never have been.
I know where I stand. I have faced down overwhelming odds and thrown caution to the wind when it comes to standing up for what is right, including defending a friend. I have hedged my bets, telling others to accept me with a person I thought was a kindred spirit, or reject us both. I have thrown down the gauntlet when others have spoken ill of those I care for, prepared to throw fists at a moment’s notice to defend their honor. I have no hesitation. Even when they screw up, even when they make it hard to love them, my heart simply will not quit. I would rather die at the defense of a friend than live at his funeral, if it’s in my power. This is a conviction from which I will not retreat, even when they themselves have picked up a shovel and began tossing dirt on my broken and beaten body, mind, or spirit.
That’s not to say I don’t get angry, or wish for justice to play its cold, brutal hand. On the contrary, I know revenge, and she is one sexy, scantily clad broad who is always anxious to take you back to her place, and she never says no. A siren whose song pierces the bravest and noblest of hearts. Give her but a moment to fester in your mind and find yourself infected with her honey-poison lips, a potion you can’t quit drinking once you’ve sipped. So sweet, but with a bitter aftertaste that cannot be shaken. And, if given the chance along with a free moral pass, I might be tempted to drink from that goblet the blood of those who have scarred my heart, and do so with a beaming grin worthy of damnation. But I often find myself daring to hope where others have surrendered. Give me but the slightest inclination of repentance and I’m hungry to see it come to fruition, and will put my heart on the knife’s edge once more just for the chance of reconciliation.
This might seem like a great disposition to have, but it too becomes a tart flavor when you come to realize that those shimmering moments are the closest many come to truly regretting and relenting their foul actions. Humans have a vast capacity for rationalization. We can justify just about any immoral act, and, if given the opportunity to see a “moral” reason for conducting “immoral” actions, we will take hold of it with both hands, even with all the signs warning us of immanent death.
I am not as special as all that might sound. There are more of us out there, but we are a minority, and the truth is that we typically are not seen for who we are until the dogs have been unleashed and are desperately searching for the blood of one we love. In that moment, we lay waste to anything that might keep us from doing what is right, including the coward running away as fast as he can.
I don’t know what good saying any of this might do, which is why I’m not announcing this blog to anyone or anything. But I had to say it. Some will scoff. Some will see this as self-aggrandizement….with their shovels in their hands, of course. But I don’t really care. I have grown tired of concerning myself with the emotions and dispositions of the vultures of life; those passing scavengers who have little to say to or about you until there is some sign of weakness for them to peck and devour. They are the ones who decry judgment when it is directed at them, but bathe in it when given the chance to take down another. To hell with them. Literally.
Call me cold and uncaring, or even unforgiving, if it makes you feel better to tear that bit of meat from my bones, but never call me disloyal, nor cowardly, for those concepts are not in my being. I might be consumed, in the end, but only at the cost of another’s soul.
This is nothing. Not a warning, not a declaration, just simply some rambling thoughts as I sit here late at night reflecting on the society around me, and the experiences of my life. This is the dark side of our reality, the back-alley slum we seek to avoid at all costs, even when it’s rotting our souls from within, devouring our children at random, and desecrating those things which we call holy. I would rather be torn asunder by the mob of raging societal sycophants than fail to speak the truth that has been placed on my heart and in my mind. Do not do with this what you will, but only what is right. Leave the rest to be hashed out in my own mind, and, ultimately, at the judgment seat of the Savior Christ.
But in this life, the dolphins typically are not around, and the friends you thought you had run like hell for their own lives at the first sign of a dorsal fine breaking through the surf, forgetting the bond they claimed, for their blood is more important to them than yours. When you’re at the bottom, most people pick up a shovel to finish the burial, not dig you out.
From time to time these realities strike me as more real and heavy than others. Sometimes it’s a particular incident that incites this retrospection, others it just comes upon me, but no matter the reason, depression envelopes my mind and heart because I know the truth: most people are the swimmers, the majority of the rest are the sharks, and very few are dolphins or true friends. Human beings are not good people in and of themselves. Never have been.
I know where I stand. I have faced down overwhelming odds and thrown caution to the wind when it comes to standing up for what is right, including defending a friend. I have hedged my bets, telling others to accept me with a person I thought was a kindred spirit, or reject us both. I have thrown down the gauntlet when others have spoken ill of those I care for, prepared to throw fists at a moment’s notice to defend their honor. I have no hesitation. Even when they screw up, even when they make it hard to love them, my heart simply will not quit. I would rather die at the defense of a friend than live at his funeral, if it’s in my power. This is a conviction from which I will not retreat, even when they themselves have picked up a shovel and began tossing dirt on my broken and beaten body, mind, or spirit.
That’s not to say I don’t get angry, or wish for justice to play its cold, brutal hand. On the contrary, I know revenge, and she is one sexy, scantily clad broad who is always anxious to take you back to her place, and she never says no. A siren whose song pierces the bravest and noblest of hearts. Give her but a moment to fester in your mind and find yourself infected with her honey-poison lips, a potion you can’t quit drinking once you’ve sipped. So sweet, but with a bitter aftertaste that cannot be shaken. And, if given the chance along with a free moral pass, I might be tempted to drink from that goblet the blood of those who have scarred my heart, and do so with a beaming grin worthy of damnation. But I often find myself daring to hope where others have surrendered. Give me but the slightest inclination of repentance and I’m hungry to see it come to fruition, and will put my heart on the knife’s edge once more just for the chance of reconciliation.
This might seem like a great disposition to have, but it too becomes a tart flavor when you come to realize that those shimmering moments are the closest many come to truly regretting and relenting their foul actions. Humans have a vast capacity for rationalization. We can justify just about any immoral act, and, if given the opportunity to see a “moral” reason for conducting “immoral” actions, we will take hold of it with both hands, even with all the signs warning us of immanent death.
I am not as special as all that might sound. There are more of us out there, but we are a minority, and the truth is that we typically are not seen for who we are until the dogs have been unleashed and are desperately searching for the blood of one we love. In that moment, we lay waste to anything that might keep us from doing what is right, including the coward running away as fast as he can.
I don’t know what good saying any of this might do, which is why I’m not announcing this blog to anyone or anything. But I had to say it. Some will scoff. Some will see this as self-aggrandizement….with their shovels in their hands, of course. But I don’t really care. I have grown tired of concerning myself with the emotions and dispositions of the vultures of life; those passing scavengers who have little to say to or about you until there is some sign of weakness for them to peck and devour. They are the ones who decry judgment when it is directed at them, but bathe in it when given the chance to take down another. To hell with them. Literally.
Call me cold and uncaring, or even unforgiving, if it makes you feel better to tear that bit of meat from my bones, but never call me disloyal, nor cowardly, for those concepts are not in my being. I might be consumed, in the end, but only at the cost of another’s soul.
This is nothing. Not a warning, not a declaration, just simply some rambling thoughts as I sit here late at night reflecting on the society around me, and the experiences of my life. This is the dark side of our reality, the back-alley slum we seek to avoid at all costs, even when it’s rotting our souls from within, devouring our children at random, and desecrating those things which we call holy. I would rather be torn asunder by the mob of raging societal sycophants than fail to speak the truth that has been placed on my heart and in my mind. Do not do with this what you will, but only what is right. Leave the rest to be hashed out in my own mind, and, ultimately, at the judgment seat of the Savior Christ.
07 December 2010
On the Anniversary of Pearl Harbor: In Defense of Honor
Just under seven years ago, I stood on the deck of the USS Arizona Memorial in Hawaii, looking into the sea, watching the droplets of oil still rising from a wound that one day will stop bleeding, but never truly heal. A moment later I looked out another side of the memorial, across Ford Island to where the USS Detroit was docked, the ship my grandfather was aboard at the time of the attack. All day we had toured the city, and I wondered what it must have been like for him, a young man not yet married, to roam the streets of Hawaii, seeing it for the first time after growing up in Texas. Similar questions emerged as I gazed across the island. Had he been asleep? Maybe tired and a bit hungover? How quickly did all of that haze evaporate as he hurried to his gun. Did he see any of his friends floating in the water, or burned beyond recognition? Above all, how did he push through the situation to do his duty?
All of these questions continue to dog me, and the worst part is that the better ones occurred to me far too late in life to ask, as he had passed many years before. Fortunately, during my sophomore year I had the privilege of interviewing him about his experience during the war and still recall the strong sense of duty and honor he carried throughout his time in the war. Some of the things he said will never leave me, continuing to resonate in my soul until it finally departs this corporeal form.
Yet he never spoke of pain. Whether from injury, grief, or trauma, not a word was mentioned. It was as if he knew I could never fully understand, nor could anyone else, so why expose me to that kind of confusion? Although a part of that might be the case, I sincerely believe that he didn't mention the pain because it never occurred to him. That's not to say he never felt it, or that he was not impacted by what happened. What fool could go unscathed through an experience like that? Rather, I believe that he simply accepted that, in this life, we will experience pain, and you can either choose to wallow in it and let it be an excuse for dishonorable conduct, or you can work through it, maintaining one's duty to something greater than themselves. As a lasting legacy, he chose the latter.
As I sit here, considering these things once again, as I always do on December 7th, I am saddened by the world around me, in which his sacrifice, and that made by those of his generation, has been pissed away by a generation composed largely of weak, cowardly, dishonorable spoiled rotten brats who find nothing greater than themselves to motivate their lives. Men of honor have become a marked minority, often made fun of and ridiculed by those who haven't the faintest understanding of what it means to have honor, or to live a life worthy of such a description. Unwilling to strive for anything but the bland mediocrity or gross immorality that tends to mark their existence, they scoff at those who ascend beyond the murk and mir of this temporal realm, their disdain forcing them to mock what they choose not to be, in order to disguise the shame and guilt buried within their frail hearts. Unfortunately, far too many in the mindless masses of morons are quick to obediently follow their lead like lemmings to the death. They know nothing about sacrifice, duty, devotion, or honor, because they are too weak and lazy to do what is right and necessary.
And do not mistake my meaning. Those who stayed behind and worked to support the troops bear the badge of honor just as those who put their lives directly in harms way. For certain, there were cowards among them, but back then, the weak were the minority, not the strong, and were shamed into silence. Today they are celebrated as though spinelessness is not a disease, but a condition to be valued. And yet we foolishly wring our thumbs in wonder at the escalation in crime, as well as the depth of depravity that seems increasingly prevalent in our society. They survived disasters and tribulations that we cannot even begin to fathom, and did so without selling out the soul of who they were in the process. How could we let such a beautifully horrific sacrifice fall so far in our system of value?
The blood that was shed during World War II, and the symbolic oil that still drizzles from the corpse of the Arizona, ought to remind us not only to be thankful, but to live a life that is grateful to those willing to make such sacrifices. Believe it or not, this post is less about being a patriot and far more about being a person of honor, and more directly, a man of honor. If we cannot somehow step back for the ledge of oblivion at which our society so closely dances, we are doomed to relegate what happened so many years ago, and the lives that were lost in the pursuit of freedom and justice, hollow, meaningless and void of purpose. As long as I live, I will not let it happen, at least not in my family. So too I encourage you: stand up. Be counted as one of the few willing to stand for integrity, and pass this disposition along to your children. Remember Pearl Harbor, not as a grudge, but as a lesson in what it means to be a man of honor.
All of these questions continue to dog me, and the worst part is that the better ones occurred to me far too late in life to ask, as he had passed many years before. Fortunately, during my sophomore year I had the privilege of interviewing him about his experience during the war and still recall the strong sense of duty and honor he carried throughout his time in the war. Some of the things he said will never leave me, continuing to resonate in my soul until it finally departs this corporeal form.
Yet he never spoke of pain. Whether from injury, grief, or trauma, not a word was mentioned. It was as if he knew I could never fully understand, nor could anyone else, so why expose me to that kind of confusion? Although a part of that might be the case, I sincerely believe that he didn't mention the pain because it never occurred to him. That's not to say he never felt it, or that he was not impacted by what happened. What fool could go unscathed through an experience like that? Rather, I believe that he simply accepted that, in this life, we will experience pain, and you can either choose to wallow in it and let it be an excuse for dishonorable conduct, or you can work through it, maintaining one's duty to something greater than themselves. As a lasting legacy, he chose the latter.
As I sit here, considering these things once again, as I always do on December 7th, I am saddened by the world around me, in which his sacrifice, and that made by those of his generation, has been pissed away by a generation composed largely of weak, cowardly, dishonorable spoiled rotten brats who find nothing greater than themselves to motivate their lives. Men of honor have become a marked minority, often made fun of and ridiculed by those who haven't the faintest understanding of what it means to have honor, or to live a life worthy of such a description. Unwilling to strive for anything but the bland mediocrity or gross immorality that tends to mark their existence, they scoff at those who ascend beyond the murk and mir of this temporal realm, their disdain forcing them to mock what they choose not to be, in order to disguise the shame and guilt buried within their frail hearts. Unfortunately, far too many in the mindless masses of morons are quick to obediently follow their lead like lemmings to the death. They know nothing about sacrifice, duty, devotion, or honor, because they are too weak and lazy to do what is right and necessary.
And do not mistake my meaning. Those who stayed behind and worked to support the troops bear the badge of honor just as those who put their lives directly in harms way. For certain, there were cowards among them, but back then, the weak were the minority, not the strong, and were shamed into silence. Today they are celebrated as though spinelessness is not a disease, but a condition to be valued. And yet we foolishly wring our thumbs in wonder at the escalation in crime, as well as the depth of depravity that seems increasingly prevalent in our society. They survived disasters and tribulations that we cannot even begin to fathom, and did so without selling out the soul of who they were in the process. How could we let such a beautifully horrific sacrifice fall so far in our system of value?
The blood that was shed during World War II, and the symbolic oil that still drizzles from the corpse of the Arizona, ought to remind us not only to be thankful, but to live a life that is grateful to those willing to make such sacrifices. Believe it or not, this post is less about being a patriot and far more about being a person of honor, and more directly, a man of honor. If we cannot somehow step back for the ledge of oblivion at which our society so closely dances, we are doomed to relegate what happened so many years ago, and the lives that were lost in the pursuit of freedom and justice, hollow, meaningless and void of purpose. As long as I live, I will not let it happen, at least not in my family. So too I encourage you: stand up. Be counted as one of the few willing to stand for integrity, and pass this disposition along to your children. Remember Pearl Harbor, not as a grudge, but as a lesson in what it means to be a man of honor.
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