The Servant's Quarters

I Wish I Could Touch The Boy's Hand

I just finished listening to my latest Christmas audiobook while doing my morning exercise. (November is the time that I always start listening to my holiday programs as I can beat the rush and check out the ones I want.) This latest one was Christmas in the Adirondacks by W. H. H. Murray. It contains two short stories of how fictional wilderness trapper John Norton spends two consecutive Christmas Days at his rustic, isolated cabin in the Adirondacks.

I don't know much about John Norton other than what is presented in these stories. I get the feeling that Murray wrote other pieces with this character. He has an apparent backstory that has been previously established, and that history includes a deceased son.

At the end of the book, John Norton has said good-bye to his friends and neighbors on Christmas Day evening, sat down by the fire with his Bible, and called his two faithful dogs to his side. The dogs came to their master and each laid a muzzle on his knee, watching him with loving devotion. (Note: Dogs are awesome. I've just finished up my first year of owning a wonderful dog named Walker. He is such a loving and faithful companion. I never want to be without a dog again.)

Norton's last thoughts are of his dead son, and the book closes with him thinking, "I wish I could touch the boy's hand one last time."

That one sentence resonates with me deeply. It moves me in a powerful way. Many are the times that I've wished that I could touch the hand of my dead son, Jonathan. That I could be with him one more time. That I could be allowed to hold him in my arms for just a few seconds more. I've even prayed to God that by some miracle, He would let me do just that.

I understand the longing expressed by John Norton as he sat by that firelight in his lonely cabin. Our sons are both gone from this mortal realm. I have every confidence that Jonathan is with his Lord right now. And one day, I will join him. Then I will get to hold him for as long as I want. But until then, all that I have left are my memories of that day almost 6 years ago and a small grave in a cemetery with a headstone that shows a sleeping baby. All that's left of my son in this world is buried in that hole. In his little coffin, wrapped in the blanket I picked out for him. He's holding the teddy bear and the little book that his oldest brother and I bought for him.

If only I could touch his hand one more time......

Liberal Lunacy

I love Glenn Hauman. He's a wonderful liberal. He's brutally honest about what he believes. And not only is he almost always wrong about everything upon which he opines, he's so mean-spirited about his views that he reassures me that conservatives truly are the good guys. (He recently posted about a fantasy debate on Evolution and Intelligent Design in which the atheistic evolutionist attacks and pummels the ID proponent with a baseball bat. This is good thing, according to Glenn.)

Glenn recently had a late flight to Las Vegas in which he some time to blog. Among other things, he talked about why Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday because it has no "religious component" whatsoever.

Glenn is not only open about his liberality, he's also quite honest about his ignorance of history. I would advise him to read the various Thanksgiving proclamations that have been made since the earliest observances of this holiday, right up to the one issues by President Bush.

Despite what Glenn asserts, Thanksgiving is one of our most profound religious events when we as a nation give praise and gratitude to Almighty God for the blessings He has bestowed on us.

Cheer up, Glenn. There's always Labor Day.

Glenn's blog posting that I reference above can be found [here]. It's in there. You have to sort through a few of his other wrongheaded opinions, thoughts, and assertions as well.

More Power, Scotty

Ashes of Star Trek Actor Grounded by Dud Rocket

Pride in the Midst of Bitter Disappointment

I'm so proud of my boys.

I can't believe that I did anything to bring up these young men to be the strong, resiliant people they are. Their character humbles me.

Let me explain.

Earlier this year, Isaac and Philip joined an organization called the Young Marines. To put it succinctly, it's a Marine version of the Boy Scouts. The boys loved it and took to it readily. Philip especially was very crisp and smart in his Marine uniform. They both adopted regulation haircuts, drilled with the rest of the group, and marched in several parades during the summer months.

When the opportunity to earn a meritorious promotion came up this Fall, both boys expressed an interest in going from Private to Private First Class. My understanding was that only one young marine in the unit would be granted this promotion, so I immediately began to worry about the worst case scenario - one of them would get it and the other one wouldn't. I think that if Isaac was the one selected, it would be difficult but bearable. As the eldest, Isaac was naturally assumed to proceed Philip in most achievements. However, I was concerned that Philip would be passed over Isaac. I would be so proud of Phil, but Isaac would be destroyed.

The boys completed all the required testing, and we soon heard the good news - both boys received their promotions. They would both achieve the rank of Private First Class. We were ecstatic.

This past Monday was the date set aside for the promotion ceremony during the groups regular weekly meeting. The boys knew their Mom was going to be there to see them receive their certificates and their new rank ensignia. I told them I wouldn't be able to, but I decided to pack up the other four children and drop in on the ceremony unannounced. My parents also planned on being there. My Dad, a former Marine, had picked out momentos of this event for both the boys.

I was home from work on vacation last Monday. I remember it very distinctly. It was a sunny warm day. The kids and Rita were in the yard doing work. I was on the porch trying to repair the railing. It was mere hours before the awards ceremony.

The phone rang.

I went into the house and answered it. The caller was Charlie Volker, the boys commanding officer. He told me that he had some bad news. Apparently, promotions in the Young Marines are governed at the national level. There is a national process in place that must be followed. However, Charlie had mistakenly administered his own test to the boys during their evaluation. There was nothing he could do about it. It was his mistake, but the results were the same no matter whose fault it was.

My boys were not going to receive their promotions. Worse, they would have to start over, retaking tests, standing for an oral examinations, and proving their qualifications all over again.

I was stunned. And angry. I immediately thought to situations in my life where I had been denied something earned or treated unjustly. Of employment situations where I was asked to do the work and not given the rewards promised. The bitterness of those situations was something that I only ignored through intense strength and self-control, and I can honestly say that I probably never completely succeeded in overcoming in this area.

Now I would have to deliver this kind of blow to my boys.

I called them into the Family Room after their yard work was complete. I shut the doors and told them that I had to talk to them about something very important. Isaac guessed that it had something to do with their promotions.

I started by telling them that sometimes in life, we can do everything absolutely right and still have the rug pulled out from under us. That it's not fair, but it is life. With that introduction, I told them point blank what had happened. I told them that their plans for this evening had been dashed. That no one was going to show up to see them get their promotions because it wasn't going to happen. I told them that it was an honest mistake, but it wasn't there mistake. They were paying the price for a mistake on the part of their leader.

Isaac stared straight ahead as he listened to me. He was expressionless. Philip's eyes darted around the room. He'd look at me, then look away. He kept shaking his head from side to side. I could see that he was fighting to keep the tears out of his eyes that were forcing their way to the surface. I reminded them of one of their comrades who had been inspirational to both of them. That young man, Ian Brotnov, had had to retake his entire Young Marines basic training because of an administrative error.

When I was done, I waited for them to react. They had understood me. They knew that they were back to square one in earning their new ranks. Isaac stood up, shruggled his shoulders and said, "Oh well...." Philip stood up with his brother, won his stuggle over the tears and said, "Well, I get to ace the tests all over again." They weren't kidding. They weren't putting on a brave front. These young men faced bitter disappointment and conquered it. I told them that I wouldn't blame them if they wanted to take a week off of Young Marines. Both looked at me like I was nuts. Of course, they would go. They weren't going to let this set back interfere with their duty.

I was and am so proud of these young men. They may not have gotten their promotions, but they definitely rank me.

(Post-Script: That evening in Young Marines, Commander Volker used this authority to give the boys a field promotion to the rank of Acting Private First Class. They still have to earn the full promotion, but until that time, they will enjoy all the rights and privileges of any other PFC in the Young Marines.)

Things I Don't Understand

How can the little boy from next door come into our house in order to call his mother on our phone to see if it's okay for him to come into our house? Isn't the question moot?

Blog Jam

I am really enjoying my return to blogging. Who cares if no one in the world is paying attention to me? I'm enjoying myself, and learning to blog from my Pocket PC has really made things so flexible and convenient. I can write entries and store them until a wireless network connection is handy. Then, I can upload everything I've written very easily.

Well, my creative juices are really starting to flow, and I'm starting to feel frustrated because I'm coming up with ideas for things I'd like to blog on, but I don't have the time to write about them all. So, the result is that the ideas are just knocking around in my head and not making it onto my web site.

Hence - Blog Jam!

For example, right now I'd love to write about today's visit to University Hospital for an ultrasound of my shoulder (No surgery required, thank you.), the possibility that Gefforey Fieger may have to spend some serious time behind bars for committing acts of extortion against Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox (please, please, please....), two new running features - Things I Don't Understand and You Make The Call, what I'm listening to, what I'm reading, a statement of my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe and my Savior, my Christmas project plan, etc., etc., etc.

I want to get all these things down and many more. And it's exciting. I've always been able to write fairly well, but now, I feel like I am starting to fall in love with writing. And I'm thrilled at the possible places this adventure in words may take me.

Village of Idiots

I've come to an unpleasant but undeniable conclusion. Well, that's not right. I came to it a long time ago. Today is the first time I've felt comfortable enough about it to state it in public. Here goes.

The city of Detroit is populated by and large by complete and utter morons.

Now, it's really difficult to talk that way because such a statement could easily be twisted into something racial, considering the fact that the population of Detroit is made up largely of African Americans. Let me just state that in no way, shape, or form do I mean to say or imply anything racist in that statement. For the record, I don't believe that the intellectual capacity of the people in Detroit has anything to do with the racial background of those in that population. I utterly reject any notion that intelligence is tied at all to race. I have known some brilliant people of African descent. I have also know some people of European descent who are too stupid for words. Literally. They just grunt their way through life. Right now, both my boss and my boss' boss are African Americans. Both are smart, capable leaders who are excellent to work for and with.

But there's something about Detroit. It seems to attract more than its share of complete dolts. I don't know how to explain it. If you had any doubt after the majority of the city voted a few years back to put Geoffrey Fieger into the Governor's Mansion, all the proof you'd need is right there this morning on the front page of the city's newspapers.

Yesterday, a strong majority of voters in Detroit re-elected Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, a 600 pound gorilla who has spent the better part of the last four years partying with his pals, hiring strippers, purchasing elaborate dinners, and staying at posh resorts while the city declined into near bankruptcy. Oh yeah. He charged all this fun to his Detroit credit card. So the residents of the poorest city in the nation got stuck with the bill for Kwame's excesses.

This morning, I'd like to say a big thank you to the residents of Detroit. Thank you for taking the time to vote. Thank you for passing by Freman Hendrix, a true statesman and leader who may have helped the city recover from what this economy and Mayor Kilpatrick has done to it over the last several years. Thank you for re-electing a man who has figuratively been giving you the middle finger for the last 4 years. Thank you practically guaranteeing that Detroit will continue its slide into bankruptcy, poverty, and corruption over the next mayoral term.

Why do I care? I don't live in Detroit. But I buy my water there. (And the Water Department is run by people who are so upfront and above board that the suburbs have had to go to court to try to find out the formulae that the city of Detroit has for determining suburban water rates.) I live in a city outside of Detroit, and what affects the urban area will inevitably affect the suburbs. So, while I wasn't able to vote against Kwame, his vile habits and lack of leadership skills will inevitably affect me and my family.

So, I'm going to make this one time offer to my neighbors in Ohio. Let's redraw the boundaries between our two states. Just extend the line so that the city borders of Detroit are included in Ohio. You can have the city. I'm giving it to you. Free and clear. You can have a new urban area with its almost 1 million citizens. Michigan will no longer be dragged down by the radical left wing nonsense of a lower right corner that holds our otherwise pure red state at bay. And its free. Just help yourself. We'll even chip in on the expense of having the maps redrawn.

How's that? You don't want it either?

Well, maybe we can figure out a way to airlift the entire city to France. They probably don't want it either, but we'll tell them that Detroit by and large hates Bush and voted for Kerry in 2004. That'll do it. Come on, work with me on this.

(To those Detroiters who were have IQs greater than a tree stump and voted to oust Kilpatrick before he could do more damage to this once great city, I thank you, and I want you to know that my disparaging comments about your fellow citizens are not aimed at you. You did your best. If my words cause any offense, please forgive me. I would also encourage you to move out to the suburbs and join a more enlightened world. The idiots who apparently make up the voting majority in Detroit don't deserve you.)

Christmas Letter for 2005

AHA!

This is more like it. The first draft of the 2005 Christmas letter has been turned into my editor. (My dear wife) Right now, she's sitting across the table from me with her red pen slicing it to ribbons. It clocks in at 3 pages, so an entire page needs to be cut of it from somewhere.

Still, I'm happy. I've never gotten the first draft done this early. My new Christmas project plan seems to be helping me keep everything under control.

My current concern - I have a hard deadline to have shopping finished by Thanksgiving. I had wanted to get a lot of it done this weekend. Unfortunately, I got zero done. Too many other family commitments. I've got to get that ball rolling.

Stupid Jedi Must Die

The Butler household has been overrun with Star Wars lately. About a week ago, I finally caved in and used my Father's Day gift card from Best Buy to purchase the original trilogy on widescreen DVD. Right on the heels of that, I managed to snag Episode III: Revenge of the Sith at Target. (On sale for about $15. Not bad.) As a result, the kids (and the Dad) have been clammering for a little extra TV time to check out the goodies.

We flirted a bit with the original trilogy, hoping to find some awesome extras, gag reels, and deleted scenes on the bonus disk. (Of course, we've all seen the movies about 23,876 times combined.) We were disappointed. Although we haven't checked out everything yet, it doesn't look like much. The main attraction is a 2 hour documentary on the life of George Lucas that we already watched on the A&E network. No behind the scenes stuff. At least none that we can see.

Then came Episode III. I've looked forward to this for a long time. This film - the last in prequel series - is by far the best movie in the series since The Empire Strikes Back. Loaded with top notch effects, intense action, and amazing lightsaber duels, this film does not disappoint. The only complaint that I really have about it is that, since it necessarily deals with the triumph of evil, some really nasty things do happen. But with some judicious remote control editting, the whole family can watch the transformation of headstrong, powerful, flawed but decent Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker become the evil, sinister Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith and cinema icon. And in the course of this transition, we watch as Anakin kills all his friends and fellow Jedi, causes the death of his beloved Padme, and gets dismembered and cooked in lava.

Decent, wholesome family fun.

Which brings me to the point of this post. In retrospect, it seems obvious to me that the entire Star Wars saga has some holes that you could drive a Type A-14793 Fussion Powered Rebel Blockade Runner through. (Trust me. Those are huge.) After some serious pondering of this issue, I've come to the conclusion that the Jedi were simply too stupid to live. Those guys got exactly what they deserved.

From time to time, I will discuss this issue. So without further ado, here's the first in my series about why the Jedi Knights were too stupid to live:

Why The Jedi Were Too Stupid to Live - Reason #1

Overheard in the Jedi Temple -

"Young Skywalker, I sense your feelings for Senator Amidala. Your love for her is strong. Remember that a Jedi Knight has committed to purge such feelings and live only for serving others. If you cling to these thoughts and emotions, you may turn to the dark side, become a Dark Lord of the Sith, and murder everyone in the cast of this movie.

"Now, for your next assignment, we're sending you and Senator Amidala to her home planet of Naboo. There, the two of you will dwell alone and completely without chaperones for an extended period of time among the romantic vistas, scenic lakes, and beautiful sunsets. It's the perfect place for a man and woman to fall in love and commit themselves to a secret relationship that even we, the all knowing Jedi, would be too dense to pick up on.

"But don't get any ideas."

I'm Real

One of the nicest things that I hear from time to time is, "I like Tim because he's real." The last time I heard this was indirectly from the new pastor at our church. He originally stated this to his wife and repeated it to my wife some time later. I've also heard it from other men from time to time.

I really, really like that. What does it mean? To me, it means that I'm honest about myself. I don't portray myself in some kind of hyper-pious light, pretending to be something I'm not. I let it all hang out. My conversation isn't limited to what I gleaned from my daily devotional yesterday or how perfect my children are or how my awesomely blessed and annointed my life is. When I'm down, I act down. When I'm up, I act up. My conversation is not limited to what's CC (Christianly Correct) at the moment. This is almost always a good thing. Sometimes, it's not. Sometimes I let it all hang out too much. Let's face it - there is a such thing as being TOO real.

I think that what it also means is that a lot people feel comfortable being real around me. They can be themselves. They don't have to have their Christian mask on when they're around me because I'm not looking for reasons to judge them. At least, on my best days, I'm not.

As I get back into this blogging experiment, this is how I want to run my web site. I want to be real. I'll talk about my faith and the role God plays in my life. I'll also talk about things that may not be strictly Christian in nature, like the book I'm reading now or the movie I saw last week. All of it will be through the eyes of a man who is saved, bought by the precious blood of Jesus.

But I'm going to be real. One thing about me is that I'm too honest to try to be anything else. (And on those occasions when I've tried, I haven't had a lot of success keeping the pretense going.)