Every Act of Creation - Part I

"Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us to the end dare to do our duty as we understand it." - Abraham Lincoln

There were on the outside walls of the school where I attended the beginning of seventh grade two marble slabs, one on the east side, one on the west. They stood well above the ground, permanently stained by the rain that rolled regularly off of the red brick walls of the school.

On each of the slabs, chiseled deeply into the marble, was a quotation. The one on the east by the Father of our Country, the other by the Great Emancipator.

No one ever really too time out of their day to read them, and on this day they were about the furthest thing from my mind. Little did I know that they would both soon probe to have a great impact on my life.

I was in seventh period on Friday afternoon. The last few minutes before the weekend officially started. I thought those last few minutes were the longest of the whole week.

Bob, Chris, Rick, Wooly and I had Mr. Katkavitch's English class during seventh period. He was a huge man of about 35 with enormous hands and a voice that sounded like it was coming straight from heaven. He prided himself on the fact that his brother Paul played for the New York Giants football team. We always wondered why Mr. K never played, too, for to us, his intimidating gaze was like a she-bear out for the kill. We thought he could scare the pants off of any pro football player.

When the bell finally sounded on this particular Friday afternoon, we went for the door so quickly we almost left skid marks.

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Mr. K. "Just hold on!"

Snapping out of our weekend dreams and turning around, we looked despondently at Mr. K with a collective groan.

"For Monday..."

We groaned even louder.

"...for Monday," he said even more loudly, shaking his head and raising his finger, "you will read pages 277 through 282 and have a two page report to hand in."

"What?" questioned Wooly.

The middle-aged English teacher looked at him coldly. "What didn't you understand, Mr. Woolwine?"

We all looked at each other, inquisitively and with scrunched up eyes like we'd just heard Wooly's last name for the first time. And even though his real name was Mark, nobody ever called him anything but Wooly...ever. The sound of his real name almost sent shivers up our spines.

"Nothing, sir," he said.

"Ok, then," said Mr. K. "You can go."

"Can you believe that guy?" said Rick as we walked down the street toward home. "Homework on the weekend! Doggone it! There go two whole hours of doing nothing but studying, which is actually nothing because I won't learn anything anyway!"

"Six crummy pages!" exclaimed Chris. He was always the most vocal of our merry little band. "And for what? Absolutely nothing!"

"Did you hear what he called me?" grumbled Wooly. "I can't believe he did that!"

"I didn't know your name was Woolwine, Wooly," said Bob, grinning widely, a wink in his eye.

"Me neither," said Chris, with a giggle. "I thought we called you Wooly because of your curly hair." We all burst out in uproarious laughter.

"Very funny, very funny," Wooly said as the snickers started to take control of him. "You guys are a bunch of real comedians, you are. You know that?" We all pushed and poked the chuckling Wooly all the way down Hillside Avenue.

That night, after we had all exhausted ourselves playing football and freeze tag, I opened my English book to page 277. My eyes widened slightly as I read the title, "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. I'd heard of this Poe fellow, but I had never read anything he'd written.

I'd never read anything by any author except the guys at Street and Smiths Baseball Yearbook and Sports Illustrated. The were like icons to me. I read every single word they wrote, and sometimes twice.

And that's pretty much the way I liked it. So, I sat the book down, figuring I had plenty of time to read. I could explore an entire edition of SI in about ten minutes. I could certainly read these six pages with relative rapidity.

The next day, Saturday, started very early, as they usually did. We liked to get out of bed before the sun did so we could make the most of our parole time. Bob started throwing pebbles at my bedroom window at six-thirty. I didn't hear him until my brother reached down from atop the bunkbed at ten to seven and slapped me on the cheek.

"Hey! Wake up! Bob's outside!"

"What? Oh, ok," I said drowsily.

I reluctantly pulled myself out of my nice toasty bed and walked to the window across the room. Pulling back the curtains and looking out I saw Bob standing on the lawn wearing jeans and his favorite jacket. It was an old blue and gold letterman's jacket he'd bought at someone's yard sale for three bucks. It was all beat up and letter was gone, but that's the way he liked it. That way he could get it all dirty and grungy and nobody would ever notice.

I pushed the window up and looked at Bob with extreme agitation. "Hey, Bob," I said, with a small sprinkling of rancor. "What time is it?"

Bob took a deep breath. "It's almost seven o'clock. Why are you still in bed?"

I could see my breath in the chill air as I sighed deeply. "I stayed up late to watch that werewolf movie on 'Creature Features.' It was good."

"Well, can I come in and warm up a little while you get ready?"

"What'cha got going today?" I asked. Bob had been elected by the guys to be the Activity Chairman for the month. Despite his impassioned protests about the job, he was always coming up with cool stuff to do.

"I'll tell you inside, all right? It's cold out here."

Nodding, I closed the window and ripped open the bag that contained three pairs of new underwear. Pulled them on, I reached for my jeans. I loved the feel of new underwear under freshly laundered jeans.

Downstairs Bob was waiting at the kitchen door. The screen door slammed behind him as he entered the room.

"Quiet, will ya?" I said sharply. "Mom's still asleep!"

"Just your mom?" Bob asked. "Where's your dad?"

"Out playing ball. He goes over to the school and plays hoops with the guys from church every Saturday morning." I put a piece of bread in the toaster. "So, what have you got for us today?"

Bob looked longingly at the toaster until I put a piece of bread in for him, too. "Well," he began, "I figured we could get the other guys and go back to the lot and play around awhile. On my way over here I saw that the workers left a lot of junk lying around, like nails, hammers and stuff like that."

The lot was an old vacant lot behind my house. About two weeks before construction guys had come along and started to build a house on it. Mom had made it clear that it was taboo to even think about going over there. "If you go back there, you will be grounded for so long that your children will wonder why you can't go out of the house," she would say. Of course, she was worried about us hurting ourselves, but we didn't understand that. We only understood that we now HAD to go back there.

"Ok," I said, buttering my toast.

Coming soon - Part II

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio? - Part III

That afternoon Roger walked up to me at the bus stop, holding the card that I had slipped into his locker. "Is this yours?" he asked. Smiling, I replied, "Nope, it's yours, if you want it." Roger looked at the card longingly. "I don't know. I mean, I..." "Listen, you don't have to take it. I just thought, well, you know, after yesterday and all." Roger looked up. "He's always been my favorite, you know." I did. "Yea, I figured." I walked over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Look," I said, turning the card over, "it's even got all of his statistics and stuff on the back." And with that, Roger and I were no long arch enemies. In fact, we became rather good friends. During the next few weeks, Roger, Bob and I spent all kinds of time together. Bob had been a reluctant convert, but I finally convinced him that Roger wasn't as bad as he thought. It was a strange experience to pal around with someone whose demise I'd plotted just days before, but I finally realized that Roger was crying out for help. All he really wanted was a friend to lean on. For three solid weeks, I tried my best to be the friend that he never had. "Excuse me?" I couldn't believe my ears. "We're not inviting him to the party." Lisa was the sweetest girl I had ever known, but right then I would have traded her in a heartbeat for a stack of jelly beans. "Why not?" I bellowed. She scrunched up her nose. "Listen, the rest of the kids don't want him there. They don't like him." "So what? He's a nice guy," I insisted. "That may be so," she continued, "but they say that anyone who fools around with drugs is not welcome." "I can't believe you all would do this," I said. "I'm sorry," she said. "But this is pretty final." I looked at the floor, mouth hanging open wide. I shook my head. "Well, then, this is final, too. Unless Roger is invited, I'm not coming, either." Lisa's eyes shot open wide. "You're not serious, right?" "You just let me know what your decision is, ok? I'll see you sometime," I said as I shut the door behind me. When I told Roger what I'd done, he only laughed. "Man, you shouldn't have done that!" he said. "I understand. Don't sweat it. I'll find something else to do. It's no big deal." "Roger, I can't," I protested. It's just not right." "Hey, man, there are a lot of things in this world that aren't right," he replied. "Was it right for you to hit me with that fast ball?" I hung my head. That shot hit me right in the heart. "And for that matter, was it right for me to taunt you after I hit that home run off of you?" I didn't say anything. "I'm used to it, man. It's no big deal. Hey, I appreciate what you tried to do, but I don't want you to lose all of your other friends over it. It's not that important. Besides, Carl Tacey wants me to go to a concert with him that night. I'll be fine." "But it's still not right," I said. Roger chuckled. "Maybe not," he said, "but it's not that big of a deal. We'll still be friends long after this party's over, right? That's what's important." Dancing was never my favorite thing to do as a kid. I always thought it should be left for the girls. But that's all Lisa ever wanted to do at these neighborhood parties. Needless to say, I was not in the dancing mood. "What are you doing over here in the corner?" Lisa's knees would buckle and eventually give way when she saw the tiniest spider, but when it came to anything else, she went after it with both hands. "I don't really feel much like being sociable tonight," I replied. "I'm sorry." "Would you dance with me just once?" she asked. "Please?" Now, if it had been anybody else, I wouldn't have thought twice. But since it was Lisa, I could not find the word "no" in my vocabulary. Before I knew it, I found myself on the dance floor swaying to Bill Haley and the Comets. The record player was loud, people were laughing and screaming all around us. The dance floor was packed, but as far as I was concerned, we were the only ones in the room. I felt much better in her arms. When the phone rang at about ten o'clock, I'd almost completely forgotten about Roger. Lisa and I were sharing a beanbag chair, Bob and Roxy were sitting on the couch, and a bunch of other kids were just standing around. Lisa answered. "Hello? Yes, m'am." She turned to me. "It's for you. It's your mom." I don't remember many of the details of the conversation. I do remember that she said that Roger had been in a car accident. He'd died on the way to the hospital. He was on his way home from a Simon and Garfunkel concert he'd gone to because he couldn't come to the party. About a quarter of a mile from home, the driver of the car fell asleep and crashed into a telephone pole. Everyone in the car but Roger survived. The party kind of died out after I broke the news to everyone. Bob and I sat dumbfounded for awhile before the anger hit me with a vengeance. "You see!" I yelled between the tears. "You see what happened? Are you all happy now that he's dead? Now you won't have to invite him to any of your stupid parties!" Everyone looked at the floor. I sobbed, but still found the strength to speak. "All Roger ever wanted was a friend," I said, a little more quietly. "He never asked for anything else. Just a friend. And instead of that we all treated him terribly. Did it ever occur to any of you that he used drugs because no one would be his friend? He was just lonely." It turned out that everyone in the car but Roger had been smoking marijuana that night. His mom, who had been aware of his problems, told me that he'd given all of that stuff up about the time we'd started doing stuff together. He'd been turning his life around. Life's way too short to waste it over petty disagreements and misunderstandings. Maybe Roger was different than me and the rest of the kids in school, but looking back, I can see that many times he was just crying out for someone to help him. Maybe instead of holding out a fist to him all the time, we might have been able to save him if we'd just held out a helping hand instead. When I got home from the party, I turned on the radio. The first lyrics I heard were from a Simon and Garfunkel song called "Mrs. Robinson." "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you. What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson? Joltin' Joe has left and gone away." The significance of those words slammed into me like a runaway semi. Joltin' Joe was gone and I'd never see him again. I cried myself to sleep that night and for many nights thereafter. Roger's face still pops into my head whenever I hear that song. At the funeral, his mom handed me the card I'd given him our first day as friends. I still keep it in a frame above my desk. The colors are somewhat faded, but the message to me still rings loudly every time I look at it. People need my help. That's why I'm here in the first place, to help people, to love them, to do what the Savior would do if he were here. I'm no better than anyone else, no matter what their circumstances may be. Roger's been gone for nearly thirty-five years now and I still wish I could talk to him just a little bit more. But that isn't to be. So, now I turn my focus to all of the other Roger Lewises I have in my life today, and I try to help them and I try to understand. And somehow, I do.

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio? - Part II

There were more fans at afternoon's game than had ever been there before. Doc Schumacher was watching from his kitchen window, Mrs. Laney was bringing lemonade between innings, and several of the cute girls from the cheerleading corps were there, too. Come to see the execution, I figured.

Things were going well for me when Roger finally stepped to the plate. We were up 5-1 and I'd only allowed two hits and struck out four in the first two innings. But when he dug his cleats into the batter's box and gave me that look of contempt, it was easy to crank up the chin music in his honor. I wasn't about to waste any time in getting to the point.

Sweat started to form on my upper lip and my hand started to shake when I looked in for the sign. When the ball started whistling toward its final destination, there was no fooling around. It was a fastball, down and dirty.

Usually the sound of a good heater plunking the hitter is enough to make a person sick, especially if it's a good head shot. But today, that noise was enough to kill me. You see, the ball hit Roger Lewis in the shoulder, not the head.

As I look back now, I see the next ten seconds or so in super-slow-motion. Roger rushed the mound, teeth gritted, and eyes blazing. After that, I don't remmeber much but pain and darkness. It was like someone had just turned out the lights.

"Look, he's coming around, honey."

My mom was a saint. Florence Nightengale, Donna Reed and June Cleaver all wrapped up into one five foot two inch package. "You just relax, sweetheart. Doctor Shumacher said that you'd be find once the swelling went down."

"Uhhhhhh!!"" was the most intelligent response I could give at the time. My head felt like I'd been run over by a train, dragged behind a horse, and then kicked by a mule. I only had vision in one eye. The other was a mass of black and blue puffiness.

"I'll get you some aspirin," she said. "You just lie still and get a little rest."

I laid there in the bed for most of that afternoon groaning, aching and generally plotting an extermination. Loads of people came by to see me and my eye that day. I guess word had spread around the school pretty quickly. Lisa came over to comfort me the best she could. Kevin came and tried to swipe my Mickey Mantle rookie card. Of course, Bob stopped by and tried to poke my swollen socket.

"Bob, just leave me alone, will ya?" I was growling more than pleading.

"Listen, I don't know if you remember this or not, but after Roger clubbed you, he looked down at you and promised that this wasn't the end. He said he'd get you again and again and again. I guess he didn't appreciate getting tagged with that fast ball very much."

"He said that?" I asked. I lay musing for just a few seconds when I realized Roger was right. This was not the end of it. But the next time, I would not make any mistakes.

Several days later in gym glass, Coach Waterson asked me if I wanted to sit out awhile. We were playing dodgeball and I guess he figured I looked banged up enough already. But dodgeball was one of my favorite games, especially when Bob was on the other side. And today, a bonus. So was Roger.

"I guess I can rest easy today, can't I?" Bob said. "I mean, I know who you're going to be gunning for, right?"

An evil sneer crossed my face.

"Yea," I said. "I guess you do."

When the balls started flying wildly around the gym, I kept my good eye on them and my swollen one on Roger. I think he was purposely staying away from me, throwing at all of the other guys on my team.

"Ha!" I thought. "He's so afraid of me he can hardly stand it."

Now, I wasn't the greatest dodgeball player in the world, but at the end of the game, there were two players left: Roger and me. And each of us had a ball.

We stood about ten feet apart for what seemed like ten minutes, glaring into each others angry eyes. My heart raced wildly and my hands started to quake noticeably. I squeezed the ball as hard as I could and mustered up the courage to heave it at Roger's head. But just as I was about to let loose, Roger rolled his ball toward me and smiled.

"What is this?" I wondered. "A challenge? Is he calling me out? Calling my bluff?"

Holding my ball in front of me, I scrunched up my face and looked at him. The other guys were yelling at me to hit him, but I held back. There was something different this time. Something I didn't understand. What I did understand was that I couldn't hit him. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, I had the feeling that Roger wanted to bury the hatchet somewhere other than in my forehead.

So, I rolled my ball toward him and smiled. The next thing I knew, I was walking off the floor amid a shower of boos.

That night, I didn't get much sleep. I tossed and turned for a long time before the sandman even knocked on my door. What were these things I was feeling? Yesterday, I hated Roger more than anything. Today, I wasn't sure. What was the difference?

Mom opened the door to my room and poked her head inside. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yea, mom, I'm fine. Thanks. I'm just not very tired yet."

Mom opened the door a little wider and stepped in. "Did I tell you I ran into Mrs. Lewis at the store this evening?" she asked. "She told me that Roger talks about you all the time. She said she's glad her son has a friend that's as nice as you."

I looked at her there in the half-lighted doorway. The hallway light was on and illuminated the back of her head. I always thought mom was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

"She said that?" I asked inquisitively.

"Yea, she thinks you're a pretty terrific kid. And evidently, so does Roger. I told her she was right."

I smiled. Mom always knew just what to say to make me feel better.

"It's getting pretty late," she said. You'd better try to get some sleep. It's a school day tomorrow."

"Ok, mom," I replied.

"Goodnight, son. I love you."

"I love you, too, mom. And mom? Thanks."

Mom smiled and closed the door.

-------

"You're going to what?" Bob cried incredulously.

"I'm going to give Roger my Joe DiMaggio card."

Bob looked at me as if I had just grown a wart on my nose the size of a bowling ball. "Do you know how much that card is worth?" he asked.

Of course I knew how much it was worth. Fourteen dollars and seventy-two cents and counting. It was my prize card. I'd had it ever since I was three years old And it was old then.

"I thought you hate him!"

"Well," I said as I slipped the card through the grates in the door of Roger's locker, "I just figured he needs a friend, and nobody else seems to care a whole lot for him. So I thought I'd give it a try."

Bob shook his head and closed his locker, which was two down from Roger's. "Hey, if you want to give your cards away so badly, you could give them to me! You know how I've been trying to get my hands on your Lou Brock."

I chuckled. "Bob, you're already my friend. What else could you want?"

He looked at me and grinned. "How about a million bucks? I think that would compensate me for all the crap you give me, don't you?" he said as we both walked down the hall to class.

Coming soon - Part III (Conclusion)

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio? - Part I

Long before anyone ever dreamed of today's Rotisserie Baseball leagues, there was the World Famous, All American, All Star Professional Baseball Players League, the WFAAASPBPL for short. We just called it the Waffle League. Hundreds of the sweetest summer days ever dreamed of were spent at the official Waffle League stadium, the vacant lot between our house and Old Doc Schumacher's place. Mickey Mantle played there. So did my favorite, Lou Gehrig. And Yaz, The Big Train, The Bambino. All of the greats. And we loved it. "Come on, are you going to pitch the ball or what?" cried Bob, my best friend. He was the world's greatest living expert, a veritable knowledge bank on just about any subject. He knew the names of all the kings and queens of England since the days of King Arthur. He could recite the Declaration of Independence from memory. And he could show you every constellation in the sky and tell you the legends behind them. Nothing escaped him. Unless, that is, you're talking about my slider. "Strike three! You're out!" "What do you mean, strike three?" he protested. "It wasn't even close!" Bob hated getting struck out more than just about anything. He hated taking a bath on Saturday evening, he hated broccoli, and he hated Karen Staggle. But hated striking out more than all of them combined. And he hated it even more when he was pretending to be Roberto Clemente. "You must be blind or something!" My kid brother was serving as the umpire that day, and even though he wore glasses, he wasn't blind. He could still see the difference between a ball and a ball thrown right down the pipe. "It was a strike, Roberto," he said with utter calmness. "Now take your seat before I give you the boot." Bob was three years older than my brother, and if he had wanted to he could have knocked him into the next zip code. But there was something sacred about being an umpire. They were ok to yell at and give all sorts of grief to, but you never touched them, even if they were what you considered "a little puke". So, with epithets under his breath, Clemente took his seat at the end of the bench. "Next up, Joe DiMaggio!" I've always been a die-hard Yankee fan, but I loved striking out Joe DiMaggio more than anyone. I liked it partly because he was one of the greatest baseball players of all time. But I also liked it because his real name was Roger Lewis. No one in school really liked Roger. He was so different from the rest of us. He had everything: a huge house, a new bicycle, tons of money, and something else that none of the rest of us would ever think of having - drugs. Roger was the biggest doper in school. As a matter of fact, he was the only one I ever really knew growing up. "I'm taking this one downtown, Whitey," he said with a strange look in his eye. I'd seen that look before, but only after I'd been punched in the nose by Jimmy Dills. It was kind of like seeing stars. "No, you're not, Joe!" I replied. "You're not even going to see it going by." I was cocky if not good. The first pitch was a curve, just outside. "Ain't you got nothing better than that?" he cried. I gritted my teeth. Slider, in on the hands. "Ball two," cried the ump. "You'll never get me out with that garbage." Screwball, a little low, but my brother called it a strike. Lucky. Now, set him up with the fastball and then drop him with a change up a little inside. It worked every time. Except this one. He crushed my fastball into the upper deck of the Waffle League stadium where an adoring DiMaggio fan caught it. Actually, it landed in Mrs. Lucha's garden, but even in defeat we liked to pretend. "I told you I'd kill it," Roger taunted as he rounded the bases, laughing. "I've got your number, chump!" There are several things I hated more in this world than being laughed at by someone who had just hit a homerun off of me. But I can't think of any. When the dust cleared, I had a chipped tooth, a black eye, and a torn shirt. Roger had a bruised fist. "There are more than 15,000 species of ants in the world today. Some can live as long as 15 years." Mr. Zaleski's science class was never a boy's favorite class. He spoke with a voice that was a cross between Jack Benny and a monotone Tiny Tim. "You playing today?" whispered Bob. "Yea, sure," I replied. Even with a black eye, Bob knew good and well that I never missed an opportunity to play baseball, but he had to ask every day anyway. "Even after yesterday?" "Yup," I said. "I'll be there." "Roger's going to be there, too." "Good!" I said, a little too loud. Mr. Zaleski looked my way, but kept right on boring the class with his mindless ant facts. "Let him come," I said a little softer. "It's a free country." For the rest of the school day I dreamed of the awful things I was going to do to Roger Lewis. And I came up with a plan that I thought would take care of the issue once and for all. I'd hit him in the wig with the baseball.

The Secret Life of Harry Houdini - Part II

For the next couple of days I lived in virtual anonymity. No one really took the time to talk to me, but no one threatened me, either. But several days after my encounter with the Cowboys front line, I was still trembling and still wondering when it would come.

It would not be long before I would discover what their nefarious plan was.

The recess bell rang just as we were finishing our English exercises for the day. I didn't like to have exercises hanging over my head, so I finished the last few sentences before packing my books in the cubby hole directly under my seat. Standing, I saw that most of the kids had followed Mrs. Pollet out the door and into the grass next to the trailer. I tried to follow, but was unceremoniously restrained by one of the more untoward boys in the class.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Chris, who stood right behind the larger, more ponderous Gary.

Pushing my way past them, I turned and looked back at the boys. "I'm going out to recess." I was quaking like an aspen, but tried not to let it show.

"No, you're not," said a voice behind me, and I instantly recognized Bobby's squeaky rasp. He'd been out sick for some time and his voice still had not recovered. "You're not going anywhere."

Realizing too late that he was blocking the door, I tried forcing my way past him. The rest of the boys grabbed me by the back of the shirt and pulled me back inside.

Shoving me down into the "sit-in-the-corner" chair, Chris started tying me up tightly with some cotton rope. One of the boys had brought a long strand from home and another had kiped some out of the janitor's closet in the main school building.

"Leave me alone!" I protested. I was not going to beg for mercy. Propitiation was never my strongest suit. But I did fight like a tiger, though eventually I was bound hand and foot like last year's Thanksgiving turkey. They'd also shoved a cloth in my mouth and then wrapped a handkerchief around my head, tying it tightly in the back, some of my hair caught in the knot.

Having finished their dastardly deed, they picked me up, chair and all, and threw me into a broom closet in the back of the trailer and shut the door. I was so thoroughly gagged that I could not utter a sound for fear the cloth would wedge itself deeper into my throat.

I started by trying to free my hands. It was not going to be easy, but they'd looped the rope in such a way as to make it easy to loosen, and soon I'd loosed it just a tad. It was only a bit, but it was progress.

The knot they'd tied behind me was directly over my hands, so I could reach it with the tips of my fingers. Pulling it down into my palms, I fiddled with it until the two ends fell in opposite directions. A few minutes later, when everyone returned from recess, I almost had my hands completely untied.

When the class was all seated and calmed down to a dull roar, I could hear Mrs. Pollet ask where I was. I was only just getting the rope they'd used to wrap around my body pulled over my head to free my arms. After that I untied the handkerchief and spit out the cloth from inside of my mouth. From there it was just a matter of untying my legs and stepping out into the open, fingering the culprits and watching them get marched to the principal's office for their just desserts.

Only, it didn't happen that way.

Bright light burst into my eyes when Mrs. Pollet opened the closet door. I was just getting the knot untied from my legs. "Stefan!" she gushed. "Are you all right?" She knelt to help free my legs from their serpentine prison, but I'd already completed the task.

"Yes, m'am," I replied with a smile, as I stood and walked unencumbered from the closet. "I'm fine."

"Who did this to you?" she asked, putting her hand on my shoulder and looking me over for cuts and bruises.

"We were just playing, m'am," I said, gritting my teeth so the truth would not escape. The way I figured it, it was much better to lie to the teacher than to face more courtyard bullying because I was a narc.

Mrs. Pollet looked at me incredulously, looking down at the pile of rope that had fallen at my feet. "Are you sure, Stefan?" she asked. "You're sure you were just playing. This is very serious, you know. Whoever did this could get in a lot of trouble."

I looked around the classroom at each boy who had taken part. Most of them were looking at their own desks, no doubt pondering the significance of their own "Becky loves Johnny".

"Yes, m'am. I'm sure. It was all just playing around."

Mrs. Pollet put her hand on my back and gently pushed me toward the front of the class. "All right, then, Houdini. Please have a seat."

She called me Houdini for the rest of the year, but honestly, my "miraculous" escape hadn't changed any other attitudes very much. Those boys still didn't seem to like me, but they didn't pick on me anymore, either. It wasn't until David French himself became my friend that the other icebergs began to thaw. Eventually, all of them became good friends with whom I'd get in trouble a hundred times.

I was flipping through my Senior high school yearbook not long ago and was reading all of the innocuous things high schoolers tend to write to each other. Among the dopey Have-a-great-summer's and It's-been-great-knowing-you's there was an entry tucked neatly toward the bottom of the last page. The writing was somewhat crisp and easy to read, and though it wasn't very long, what it said brought pleasant memories flooding back of a day 40 years earlier.

"To Houdini," it started. "I hope we'll always be friends. And I hope the rope wasn't too tight. Thanks for not giving us up."

It was signed by Chris.

The Secret Life of Harry Houdini - Part I

"Doug."

"Here!"

"Rick."

"Here!"

"Lisa."

"Here, m'am."

"Chris."

"Here!"

"Bobby."

Silence.

"Bobby?"

Still no answer. There would be no Bobby today.

"Carol."

"Yes, m'am."

After reading about ten or twelve other names, Mrs. Pollet put her attendance book in the top drawer of her desk. Looking up at the class, she walked over to my desk and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Class, we have a new student in our room today."

I could feel the eyes of every single 7th grader in that room boring a hole in the back of my head, since I had been assigned a seat on the front row. No one gave me the time of day before class started, though plenty had taken the time to give me the stink eye.

"His name is Stefan Schetselaar."

Stifled giggling could be heard quietly emanating from the around the class of tittering students. By the 7th grade I was used to hearing it when my last name was mentioned to people who'd never heard it before. And nobody here had heard it before.

"Did I pronounce that correctly, Stefan?"

She had, but I knew she'd had help from the principal and had taken time to practice it several times before telling her students.

I quickly looked up from examining the New Jersey dirt stains on the tip of my black Chucks, and replied "Yes, m'am." As quickly as I'd looked up, I looked back down again, focusing intently on the fact that "Becky loves Johnny". It was etched deeply into the surface of the wooden desktop I now called my own. I was happy for them, but I had no idea who they were, nor would I ever.

"Stefan and his family have moved in from New Jersey and he'll be in our class for the rest of the year," Mrs. Pollet said. "I expect everyone to be nice and get to know him."

A gentle susurration arose from the class, everyone giving her the "Yes M'am" or "OK" she expected.

"Would you like to tell us anything about yourself, Stefan?" she asked, turning her steely focus toward me. Her name was French, but there was nothing French about her. She was as Virginia as the rest of them.

"Um," I began. "Not really, m'am. Like you said, we just moved here from New Jersey."

We'd only left our comfortable suburbian home a few days earlier and I still said Jersey so it rhymed with Boise. A cacophony of laughter arose from the group, each student's smile now a vacuous cavern of chuckles. I felt the blood quickly rise to my head and I knew my face was as red as a cardinal's cassock.

Rick Hall, who was sitting just to my left, was laughing so hard under his breath that he had a snot bubble coming out of one nostril. His hair, cut straight across his forehead and just behind his ears, was also bright red, matching the freckles that stippled his face.

"OK, guys, let's behave, please," warned Mrs. Pollet, waving her hands above her head. "Quiet down." She had dark, short hair, eyes to match, and a tough, yet delicate way about her. Turning to me she smiled and said, "That's fine, Stefan. Thank you very much and welcome."

I dug a hole in the floor with my eyes, desperately wanting to climb in and cover myself forever. We'd only lived in New Jersey for five years, but they were important growth years, and I'd left several very good friends behind. None of us had really wanted to leave the comfort of our former home for the relative wilds of Southwestern Virginia, but dad didn't want to commute 16 hours a day.

At recess later that morning, David French came up and introduced himself. He was only 12, but he wore sideburns better than most adults could grow and a scraggly mustache he hadn't cut since he was 8. The bangs of his dirty blond hair hung down over his right eye, but he was also one of the nicest kids in the class.

"My name's David," he said with an even deeper Southern drawl than I had expected. "Wanna race?"

"Sure," I replied, reaching down to tighten up my Chucks. I fancied myself a pretty quick runner, but I didn't know at the time that David was the fastest kid in school.

The race started innocently enough. Bobby Poff said, "Ready, Set, Go" and David and I started running down the open field next to our trailer. From the outset it was obvious that he was a lot faster than me, but I pushed hard to at least make it a good show.

Rounding the first turn by the tennis courts, David, who was already a good 15 feet ahead of me, turned completely around and ran backwards, I guess to give me a fighting chance. Not watching where he was going, he hit the corner of the concrete slab with the back of his foot and tumbled to the ground in a writhing heap.

The ambulance only took about five minutes to get there. They wrapped up David's ankle and told him to stay off of it for a couple of weeks. During the fall, he'd tried to right himself, but his foot landed awkwardly under his body. It wasn't broken, but he could barely walk.

"He's the quarterback of our football team!" shouted Chris. "What are we going to do now? He's the only one who can throw the ball!"

The Cowboys were Belview Elementary School's football team, playing teams from other elementary schools in the area. Mostly because of David's speed and cannon-like arm, they were in first place, with a game coming up at the end of the week against another of the tougher teams around. Most of the boys in Mrs. Pollet's class were on the team.

The other boys gathered around David's ailing ankle slowly turned their heads and looked at me.

"What?" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air. "I didn't do anything!"

Chris got up immediately and got right in my face. "It's because of you he's hurt!" he said through gritted teeth. "If you hadn't raced him he would be ok now."

I backed up one step and pointed my finger at no one in particular. "Hey, you can't blame this on me! I wasn't anywhere near him when he fell. It's his own fault for running backwards."

All five boys stood in unison and surrounded me like they were fencing in a defenseless calf. "We'll get you for this, new guy. You just wait."

They left me trembling in the schoolyard, wondering when their vengeance would find its next victim. They were all bigger than me, football players, Cowboys nonetheless, and all itching for a bloodletting. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Unfortunately for me, it would not be the last time.

Hannah's Parade

Last Saturday (12/4) we went to Manassas early in the morning and watched the Christmas parade. In September, Hannah made the local dance company and they were asked to come and dance in the parade. Actually, we hit three parades in two days. Lots of traveling and lots of running to get her places on time. But in the end, it was all worth it. Below is a video of her dancing in the Manassas parade on Saturday morning. It was very, very cold (in the 30's), but she was a real trooper. And honestly, so was Jacob. He didn't complain one time.

May I just say, I have the best family around. They are so good to me and patient. And talented? Come on! I love my family and cherish every single minute I spend with them. I am so proud of all of them.

Just Another Day

Swish!

"Good game," Eddie said.

I held out my hand and waited for the slap. "You, too," I replied, trading the sweat on my hand for the sweat on his as I pulled the grey Sports Illustrated sweatshirt over my head. "See you next week?" he asked.

I looked at dad, who was pulling on his own sweatshirt. He nodded. "Yea, I guess so," I said.

"You're turning into a pretty good ballplayer," dad said as we drove away from the high school in his new Olds '98. He'd started up Saturday morning basketball the first Saturday after we moved into the area back in 1971. It was now September of 1992 and it was still going strong.

"Thanks," I said. "I'm really enjoying playing with you guys."

They'd started playing at what was then called Radford College. They'd been kicked out of all kinds of places, from the community center in Blacksburg to the Blacksburg Armory to the community center in Radford. Now, since he was the varsity wrestling coach, Dean Underwood was able to get us into the high school.

"Well, your game is really getting better. You shoot well and you pass real well," he said. "That one you made to Norm today was a beauty." Dad always knew how to make me feel good about just about anything.

Smiling from ear to ear, I settled comfortably into the leather seat and closed my eyes. It was a short ride home, but it was always one of my favorite parts of the week. Dad would usually turn on the radio and we'd listen to Click and Clack, the Tappett Brothers, laughing their heads off about some person's car problems. After getting home dad would invariably cook scrambled eggs with cheese. Sometimes he'd throw in a side of bacon to go along with it.

"Uh, oh," dad said suddenly over Ray's prolonged guffaws. I opened my eyes to see him peering nervously in the rear view mirror.

"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up abruptly and looking behind us.

"This guy's going to hurt somebody," he replied, as a maroon-colored Jeep Wrangler whizzed dangerously by us on the right-hand shoulder, mere inches from dad's outside mirror. "Better to have that guy in front of us, though, so we can keep an eye on him."

I sat transfixed by the speeding Jeep as it passed car after car, weaving in and out of traffic as if trying to make up laps in a NASCAR race. The driver must have been doing at least 75 in the 45-mile-an-hour zone, but it didn't appear that he cared about much of anything besides getting to the front of the slow-moving pack.

He must have passed at least five or six cars, when, as he passed yet one more car on the gravel shoulder, one of the driver's right-side tires caught the edge of the road. Jerking the wheel too hard toward the left, the Jeep raced violently across the two lanes and into the grassy median. Skidding from one side to the other, the driver desperately tried to regain control, but turning too far sideways, he flipped the Jeep and it careened seven or eight times before coming to rest in a drainage ditch between the four lanes of asphalt.

Dad and I were about a quarter of a mile behind the Jeep when it rolled, and as we neared, dad pulled the Oldsmobile to the side of the road, and throwing it into Park, jumped out. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, everyone rubber-necking at the Jeep that was now sitting on it's rag-top roof, tires still spinning toward the sky.

"Come on!" dad yelled, racing across the road, deftly dodging the tortoise-paced traffic. "We've got to help him!"

I followed as quickly as I could, shaking nervously, still not believing the accident I'd just seen. I didn't know what we were going to do for the driver, but I had complete trust in my dad. He'd know what to do, even if I didn't.

Racing to the ditch, we saw the driver lying unconsciously, face down on the concrete. He'd been thrown from the Jeep after its second or third flip in such a way that, on it's next flip, the Jeep actually rolled over him, coming to rest about ten feet behind him. Luckily for him, he'd landed face down in the ditch, which was six to eight inches lower than the grass surrounding it. Had he landed in the grass itself, he may have looked like a bug after it hits the windshield of a speeding car.

Dad raced to the man's side, held his finger on his neck and felt his thready pulse. Jerking around he yelled, "Call an ambulance!" to a man who had stopped to look at the carnage.

Turning his attention to the Jeep, dad's keen eye noticed a golden-brown liquid seeping from beneath the hood. It was rolling slowly but surely down the drainage ditch toward the bleeding and unconscious man.

"Battery acid!" dad bellowed. "It'll burn him! We've got to stop it!"

Almost instinctively dad ran toward the acid and grabbed a large handful of dirt. Throwing it into the ditch directly in the acid's path, he looked up at me and said, "Come on! Throw some dirt on it!"

Kneeling next to the ditch, legs quivering from the adrenaline, I threw handful after handful of earth on the ever-expanding pile. After the acid started to pool behind the makeshift dam, dad and I looked at each other, took large, deep breathes, and immediately heard sirens in the distance.

We waited there until the EMT's had things under control. Since we saw the whole thing and were the first ones on the scene, dad figured we'd know better than anyone what had happened. Better than anyone, that is, except maybe the driver, and he wasn't talking.

We drove home that morning and I told the story to mom, who was amazed beyond belief. Dad cooked his eggs and bacon, too, throwing in a little extra cheese along the way. After breakfast he went out and did his usual Saturday morning things, like watering the garden and raking some leaves. I don't think he gave our adventure another thought. And I'm pretty sure he never checked on the man's condition. He almost acted like it was no big deal, like it was just another day in the life of a super hero.

Curse You, Roy Clark - Part III

Sunday was the longest day of my life. I went to the phone on five separate occasions and listened for a dial tone. We hadn't been there very long, so figured maybe the operator didn't have our number yet. I called and asked.

"You don't know the number you're calling from?" she asked. I didn't have a very good answer. She gave me the number anyway, and I slumped in the kitchen chair and pondered.

"Something's not right," I said to myself. "She should have called by now."

But she didn't. She hadn't called on Saturday night and she didn't call all day Sunday.

"Maybe her parents won't let her call a boy," Donnie said that afternoon after church.

"What? Why not?"

"You do live in the Bible Belt now, you know. People are just that way here. Girls don't call boys. It's not right."

I narrowed my eyes and looked at him with a large amount of skepticism, but when you're in a varitable storm, you take any harbor you can find.

"Yea, maybe that' it," I said, getting back to the football game we were watching.

I didn't sleep too much that night. My mind would not let it go. Why hadn't she called? What would she be like on the bus in the morning? What would school be like?

Monday morning dawned cold and rainy. Standing at the bus stop in front of Carol Robinson's house in the rain was never a fun proposition, but today I got up early and headed down a full 15 minutes before the usual time. Of course, I was alone for a while, but I did not want to miss the bus today. After all, I had to give her the opportunity to sit with me.

The rest of the kids finally joined me at the stop, and when the bus finally came I got on first, taking a seat toward the middle. "This way she'll be bound to see me quickly and will sit with me before she sits with someone else," I thought.

But when the bus got around to her stop, she was not there. I furrowed my brow and scanned the road. She was nowhere to be found. "No! This can't be!" I thought. "She's got to be here!!"

I wondered what it would take to get the bus driver to stop and let me off so I could knock on her door, but by the time I'd come up with a quick plan, the bus was rumbling down the road toward the front of the neighborhood. It was just vicky Carroll's stop and then off to school.

Perplexed and very upset, I slumped down in the seat and waited for the bus to get to the last stop. I put my knees up on the top of the seat in front of me and crossed my arms. The bus ground to a halt and the rest of the kids got on. The door closed with a soft metal clang and the we started rolling again.

I looked up and saw Vicky Carroll, our class's answer to Lucille Ball, standing in front of me in the aisle.

"Lisa said to give you this," she said with a certain amount of melancholy, extending her hand toward me.

"What is it?" I asked hurriedly.

"It's your ring."

I opened the small, lined-paper package I recognized very well and dropped the shiny Yankee ring into my quivering hand. I don't remember the rest of the ride to school, but I do remember sitting there utterly dumbfounded, long after everyone else was in class. I never saw it coming.

Mrs. Pollet finally came out and asked if everything was all right. I looked around me, totally unaware that all of the other students were gone. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but there will be lots of others," she said.

Her face was contorted from the tears that filled my eyes. I made no response but put my shaking head down in my hands and sobbed.

We sat there for several minutes until I could control myself, then I followed her down the steps and into the trailer that doubled as our classroom.

It wasn't the last time I tried to convince her. For years I'd ride my bike back and forth in front of her house until one day the left pedal on my bike broke off. I raced her dad around the big block and actually won by a foot or two. No dice. She still wanted nothing to do with me. Or so I thought.

Several years later I found out from Vickie that Lisa had started writing my name on her notebooks the day I moved in. She'd thought I was relatively cute, too, but I'd blown it with my ring plan. And I was so sure that it would work.

After the 8th grade, Lisa went away to school at some religious boarding school. She only came home for holidays and during the summer. After we graduated from high school, she went off to college and I went on my mission. She got married and lived in Hawaii for a while and then got a divorce. I came home from Argentina and went out to BYU for a while.

Shortly after I graduate I was at mom and dad's old house playing ball with my nephew in the front yard. Lisa walked by with her dad. We stood and chatted for a little while and I muscled up the gumption to try one more time.

"Would you like to go out tomorrow night?" I asked.

She said yes.

The dream date I'd been trying to get since I was 12-years old unfortunately didn't go very well. We had a good enough time at dinner, but afterward I drove over to the duck pond to see if the ice was thick enough for skating the next day. After jumping on the ice a couple of times, I raced back to the idling car, into the shining headlights, and hit my face on a large, low-hanging limb. It cut my face, chipped a tooith and knocked me out for several seconds, and I never saw it coming.

I honestly don't know where Lisa is today. Her parents still live in the same small house, but I haven't seen her in years. It doesn't really matter, though. She had her chance. Lots of them. Now, after years of dreaming, scheming, asking and trying, I have finally let her go.

I am married to the most gorgeous woman I've ever known and the best wife a man could have. I have three terrific children, of whom I'm very proud. I'm happy beyond compare. And it hit me like a ton of bricks when it did happen. And you know what the best part is?

I never saw that coming either.

Curse You, Roy Clark - Part II

That very night I began the search.

It had to be here somewhere. I'd actually seen it just a few days before, but like always, when I needed something I couldn't find it. Otherwise I was stumbling over it every couple of minutes.

"Doggone it," I whispered to myself. "I know it's here somewhere."

I unlocked the padlock on my footlocker and started digging around through the years. Signed baseball from my old Little League team, the soap-on-a-rope I'd gotten the Christmas before, and my blue plastic bottle of marbles.

Then I brushed aside last November's copy of MAD magazine and there it was. I'd bought it at Yankee Stadium the day my dad took me to my very first major league baseball game. It was the same day a firecracker exploded next to Ray Fosse of the Indians in the afternoon game of a doubleheader. It was one of my favorite possessions; an engraved New York Yankee ring, complete with Yankee logo.

Of course, it was a perfect plan. I'd take the ring down to Lisa's house and give it to her and we'd be together forever. She'd fall madly in love with me and would be my girl forever thereafter. I mean, what self-respecting 12-year old girl could resist such a gift? After all, it was the Yankees.

Oddly enough, though, it didn't turn out that way.

I took the ring out of the trunk and looked at it closely. There were a few dings and scratches, but all in all, it was still in pretty good shape, especially when you consider that it had made the trip to Virginia in my trunk sandwiched between a bottle of ink and an empty plastic piggy bank.

Rubbing it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, I shut the trunk and went looking for a piece of paper. I fancied myself a relatively good writer, so taking pen in hand I laid down the greatest love letter anyone had ever written, folded the paper with the ring inside and stuffed the luv-soaked package in my back pocket.

"Mom!" I shouted, bounding down the stairs. "I'll be back in a few minutes!"

Mom stopped what she was doing and leaned up the stairwell. "Where are you going?" she asked. "It's almost dark."

"I know. I'm just going out for a ride around the block. I won't be very long." I turned before she could protest and ran out the front door, closing it with a slam.

After Donnie and I had finished our riding that afternoon, I'd left my bike sitting in front of the garage. Grabbing the handlebars and jumping on, I pedaled as fast as I could down the hill, this time bending down like a skier on a Giant Slalom. I was very anxious to get there, so I wanted to go as fast as I could.

The wind whistled through my hair as I sped down the hill. Even climbing the next to get to her street was easy. I'd gained such momentum that I went halfway up before I actually had to pedal.

Finally coming to rest in front of Lisa's house, I quickly scanned it for lights. There were none. No one was home.

"Dang it," I said out loud.

But this couldn't wait. I was on a mission.

Dropping my bike beside the road, I walked across her front yard and onto the porch. It was the first time I'd been this close to the front door. It made me wobbly. The aromatic smell of dinner still emanated from the house. She'd been there, I thought, and had left again. And it hadn't been long.

I rang the bell, just in case her parents had decided to leave her home, but there was no answer. I stood on the doorstep for several minutes, wondering what I should do. Finally, I took the package out of my pocket and looked at it. I suddenly found myself wishing I'd written it on plain paper instead of lined, but I shook my head, brushing that thought to the side, and looked down the street. No one. No cars, no people.

"Rats."

Bending over, I took a closer look at the welcome mat. It had rained some lately and there was still dried mud towards the center of the mat. I brushed it off and gently laid the package down, quickly saying a 12-year old's prayer. I took one more look down the street and ran across the yard, jumped on my bike and sped off.

It was just a matter of time now, I thought. I smiled and imagined the years we would spend together, what our children might look like and how we'd look together when we were eighty. "Beautiful," I said as I pumped hard to get back up the hill to my house, a huge smile crossing my lips.

That matter of time would take less than two days.

Coming soon - Conclusion

Curse You, Roy Clark - Part I

She was the stuff of dreams, and I would know, because I'm the one who dreamed them. When she smiled, I lost my breath. When her emerald eyes looked my way, my quaking knees collapsed. When she laughed her gossamer giggle, angels bent to listen. We met when we were 12-years old, and I'd spend every day of the next six years trying to convince her that she liked me, too.

Lisa overcame me on the first day of seventh grade at Belview Elementary School. My family and I had just moved to Virginia from New Jersey, after having lived a little less than 40 miles outside the Apple for five years.

Arriving in the small Southwestern Virginia town during the 1971 World Series, we lived in the Holiday Inn for our first few weeks there, all the while looking for a more permanent home. Mom and dad finally found a suitable one, and we moved into the salmon-colored split level house that had been built in the mid-60's. It was a comfortable home with a quarter acre lawn, a couple of red maple trees scattered about the property, and a dog barking in the backyard. The best thing about it, though, was that it was in her neighborhood.

The first Saturday we spent in our new house dawned clear and crisp. The leaves on our maples had just about finished turning from their chlorophyll-laced green of summer to their chromatic scarlet hue of Autumn. You could see your breath that morning, but by noon it had warmed to a very comfortable 65 degrees.

"What do you want to do after this?"

I hadn't even heard Donnie's question, so I continued to sit cross-legged on the chilly, hardwood floor of my bedroom, rifling through my baseball cards. I wanted to find a good one to put in the spokes of the back tire of my bike.

"Hello?" Donnie knocked on my head with his fist. "You in there?"

"Oh, sorry. I didn't hear you, I guess," I said through a slight North Jersey accent that I'd unconsciously lose in just a few months. "What did you ask me?"

Donnie pursed his lips with agitation and repeated himself. "What do you want to do after this?" He was the best friend I had since we'd moved in and he was over most every day. He only lived a few doors down.

"I don't know," I said. It's a nice day out. What do you wanna do?"

He took a deep breath and exhaled impatiently. "How 'bout riding bikes?"

This was my favorite thing to do and Donnie knew it. I had an old, yellow and silver Huffy one-speed with a black banana seat and sissy bar in the back. It was so 70's that it should have been wearing bellbottoms.

"Yea, that'd be good," I replied. "Wanna go down around the big block?"

Donnie looked at me knowingly. Our neighborhood was in the shape of a figure-eight. The small block, which I lived on, was about a half mile around and the top of the eight. We lived up on top of the hill, our loop going progressively downhill until it reached the intersection with the big block. That loop was a full mile from start to finish. It also went downhill on both sides until you got to the bottom near Doug Cranford's house. Lisa lived on the left side of the lower half of the eight.

"I wonder where YOU want to go," Donnie said with a slight twinkle in his eye. He'd been the only one I'd confided in about my feelings for Lisa.

"Will you stop?" I demanded. "It's not like that. I just like to ride bikes."

Donnie laughed and grabbed a Richie Hebner card from the pile. "Yea, whatever. Come on, this one will do fine," he said, and launched himself out the door. I took the Merv Rettenmund from the top of the pile and chased after him.

Running out back to the clothesline, we took a couple of mom's wooden clothes pins and secured the cards to the back fork of our bikes and put them through the spokes. Donnie's bike was an old, beat up Schwinn that his cousin had given him. It was actually too big for him, but it got him where he wanted to go.

Racing down the hill toward Carol Robinson's house, we imagined ourselves riding motorcycles, the engines revving louder with every slap of the cards against the spokes. We were the epitome of cool.

I felt my heart beat more wildly with every stroke of the pedals. I stood up in the saddle and let the hill blow cool wind through my short, blond hair. At the bottom of the hill I took a quick right turn and headed up the hill toward Lisa's street. Taking that left, I again stood on the pedals and raced down the hill, momentarily taking my hands off the handlebars and gripping the middle bar with my knees until I felt the fear of disaster.

My mind raced. In a few short seconds I would pass in front of her house. Oh, how I hoped she would be in the front yard, playing with her sister or sitting in the porch swing that was hung from the eaves just outside her front door.

But today, there would be no such luck. Her dad's car wasn't even in the driveway. No one was home.

"Rats," I thought, hitting the brakes and coming to a screaming halt. I put both feet on the ground and turned back. Donnie was just coming around the corner to ride down the hill.

We rode around the block together for about another hour, passing by Lisa's house as often as I could without awakening Donnie's keen sense of suspicion. Just before going by I'd speed up so as to leave him behind, then, while keeping my gaze firmly on her front door, I'd slow almost to a crawl, excusing it as waiting for him to catch up. I just wanted to get a glimpse of her, or maybe even a wave. But it was not to be. I'd have to wait for school on Monday.

That night, as I sat watching Hee Haw on the color television mom and dad had bought when we moved in, I tried to devise a plan to get her to like me. What could I do? It almost seemed that she didn't know I existed.

"That's why I love her and that's why I do right," Roy Clark sang. "And if there's a reason God gave me a feeling, baby, it's you."

I hated country music, especially the twangy kind, so I got up off the couch to change the channel. Not even the sometimes funny, always corny comedy was worth this.

"She hates tangerines," he sang. "She loves the ring, volunteers me for everything. And the bank has never been right in her life."

My jaw dropped and a knowing smile pursed my lips. At that very instant, I knew what I had to do. Roy Clark had inspired me in a way he'd never know.



Coming soon - Part II

Tender Mercies

Several years ago I was driving down a two-lane country road near my house. I was on the way to work and by this time I'd driven down this same road literally hundreds of times. I've now worked in the same office for 12 years and change, taking the same route nearly every one of those nearly 3000 days, both to and from work. So, you can imagine that I was very familiar with the intimate nuances of this particular road.

Pageland Lane cuts off of one of the main roads in our town, and stretches for about four miles before connecting with another main road on the other side. For me, it's a shortcut, allowing me to bypass a lot of traffic that goes through the battlefield. Around here, any shortcut, even if it only shaves seconds off your time, is priceless.

After turning off the main road, you first encounter a small rise before going downhill on a straight stretch that lasts almost a mile. The road bends after that, going through some dense woods, over a creek and past one of my favorite ponds and several cow pastures. It concludes after a sharp dip and another short, straight section.

I've seen countless people pulled off to the side by police officers on this road over those 12 years. As is true anywhere, the police have their favorite places to hide. Just past that initial rise there is a small road that turns off and goes over to an old Civil-War era house. That turnoff lies behind a little bluff, behind which the police like to lurk.

There's another hiding spot a couple of miles down, a little closer to the end of the road, where a cop actually pulled me over many years ago. I was passing a school bus and he got me going 54 in a 45. He let me go with a warning, but I've slowed down since that day and, knock on wood, haven't been pulled over since.

This particular day dawned beautifully, just as all days seem to around here in Autumn. The air was crisp, the leaves were a crescendo of color and a light zephyr caused them to quiver as if they were shivering in the cold.

Canada geese swam around on the pond, patiently searching for food and running off anyone else that dared inhabit their space. It had rained several times in the two or three weeks prior, so there was plenty of water to hide the small frogs and fish that made the pond their home. I always liked driving past the pond, for there was always something new to see.

The speed limit on this road is 45 throughout, but today I was going about 53. As I neared the first of several tight turns, a nearly audible voice spoke my name. "Stefan," it said, "you need to slow down."

It only spoke once, for I understood what it meant. There were police ahead and I was going to get a ticket. I slowed to 44 mph and rounded the second turn where I expected to see a police cruiser waiting to nab the next unsuspecting lawbreaker.

Instead, a deer scampered out in front of my car and into the woods on the other side. A large dump truck bore down from the opposite direction, and that's when it hit me. There's no police cruiser. It was the deer.

If I'd continued at my too-high rate of speed, I would have hit that deer and pushed him into the other lane where he would have been hit by the dump truck. The truck would most likely have sent him back into my lane and maybe through my windshield.

Yesterday, I came to work an hour early. I lay in bed at 5:30am, awake and wishing I weren't. The alarm wouldn't go off until 6:30, but instead of lying there awake for another hour, I decided to get out and get ready for the day. After showering, dressing, praying and packing my lunch, I left the house at 6:10am.

It's dark here at 6am, so I flipped on the headlights and off I sped. I was nearly to the turnoff for Pageland Lane when a voice in my head spoke my name. "Stefan," it said, "you need to slow down."

Having been in nearly the exact situation several years before, I slowed down immediately, and from my left I saw a deer run out in front of me and into the woods on the other side.

I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, nor am I the most righteous. I try my best to be a good man, but sometimes I still come up short. I don't now all of the ways of the Lord, but one thing I do know without the least shadow or hint of doubt. The Lord is there and He sees me. He knows my name, as I am His son. He loves me and He watches over me and my precious family. I've felt His tender mercies on more than these two instances and I am very, very thankful.


"The Lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works." Psalms 145.9

The Wonderous Gift is Given

The moon shone brilliantly through the large stone window, throwing shadows over the young, powerful body that stood behind the stone counter. Owning the inn was a large job for even the healthiest man, and keeping it clean kept Aha in very good shape. It had only been three years since he had purchased it from Elizar of Damascus, but for Aha every day had been filled with strenuous labor.

Today had been an exceptionally hard day, filled with cleaning, dusting and the like. There were so many people in town now, all come to pay their taxes and be counted. Now he stood behind the counter anxiously waiting the time when he could finally go to bed.

Aha's bright blue eyes glistened in the silvery light as the clouds crept silently across the moon's path. "There is more light than usual tonight," he thought as he walked toward the window. "There is always much light in Jerusalem, but not here in Bethlehem. It is such a small town. I wonder where it comes from."

As Aha leaned on the stone window, he saw a brilliant star far away in the eastern sky. It was a star he had not seen before, and Aha stood for several minutes transfixed by the beauty of the celestial body.

A sudden rap on the door snapped Aha out of his dream and back into reality. "Who could be calling at this hour?" he whispered to himself.

As he pulled the heavy oak door open, he saw outside a poorly-dressed man and a woman sitting on a small donkey. "They are Nazarenes," he thought, looking at their tattered clothing. Dust covered the man's face and both looked very tired and in great need of a night's rest.

"Sir," the man said, "we have traveled many days and my wife is great with child. Do you have a room where we could rest for the night?"

Aha looked at the woman. Her weathered clothing did her no justice, for she was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. He could tell that she was extremely tired, but her eyes still danced with joy, and the smile on her face made Aha's heart leap within him.

But they were Nazarenes. He could not let Nazarenes stay in his inn. What would his brethren say if they found out?

"I am sorry," he said. "I do not have a room for you." The words sounded deafeningly in his ears, for he knew he had a bed in which the woman could lie down.

The woman looked into Aha's face and smiled. "Are you sure?" her husband asked. "We have already been to all of the other inns. You are our last hope here in Bethlehem."

Aha gazed into her eyes again. There were so beautiful and seemed to entrance his heart with charity. Love swelled his heart and he smiled. "I have a bed where your wife can rest, but it is in a room that is already occupied."

The man's frame dropped slightly, but he smiled and said, "Thank you," as he turned to leave.

Aha looked at the woman. She was still smiling, but now slightly sadder. Aha's heart nearly burst.

Quickly he cried, "Wait!" The man turned abruptly and Aha said, "I do have a small stable that I think would be very comfortable. Sometimes travelers stay there if the town is very crowded. You would have privacy there and the hay is very soft. Come, I will show you."

Aha quickened his pace as he led the couple to the back of his inn, his heart overflowing with inexplicable joy.

Aha busied himself with making the two comfortable. Running back and forth between the inn and the stable, he noticed that his body ached no more, but rather he felt stronger than he had in weeks. Blankets, pillows and hot stew filled his arms while love for the woman filled his soul.

That night, the woman delivered her first born baby, a son. Aha brought out more blankets for the baby, for the night was becoming chill. As he wrapped the blanket around the child and put him back in the manger, Aha looked into his eyes and dropped to his knees. Never before had he beheld such a precious baby. Only minutes old, his bright blue eyes twinkled as eh looked into Aha's face and smiled.

Far into the wee hours of the morning, Aha tended to the needs of the small family, ignoring the aches and pains that presented themselves with no small force to his mind. Gone were the misgivings about his unforgiving brethren. Gone was the hesitation. Gone was all hatred he had ever felt. They were all replaced by an inexorable amount of charity. No gift, no matter how precious, was too for this child.

Thirty-three years pass in what seemed like one beat of Aha's heart. He reflected many times on the occurrences of that night so long ago. He remembered how he had cried into his pillow for many hours and how his heart had nearly exploded with love when the child smiled at him. Never would he forget that smile and the look of love that emanated from those electrifying eyes.

Walking toward Jerusalem, Aha noticed that his leg hurt more today than it usually did. It had been nearly twenty years since he had fallen off the ladder as he put the finishing touches on his inn. It had needed a good whitewashing for quite some time, but after the fall he had to leave the inn business to someone else. The doctor told him that he would never be able to walk without a limp and that small, wooden cane would, from thenceforth, be his constant companion.

Aha laid the hated cane on the ground and sat down on a large rock. Many times had he wished that his body would do the things he loved to do in his youth; running, jumping and playing with his children. But it was not to be. He was now nearly 60-years old, and his leg would not move with the grace that it once did.

He looked down at the crippled limb and gave it a brisk run. "I do not have time for such thoughts today," he whispered as he shook the dreams from his head. "It is Passover time and I must get to Jerusalem before they close the gates."

Gingerly, Aha grabbed the can and stood erect, continuing on his journey to the Holy City.

A huge crowd had gathered in Jerusalem that day, more than the usual Passover throng. A buzz rang steadily through the air, something about a blasphemer and a false prophet. Full of curiosity, Aha hobbled to the front of the crowd. He had seen public trials before in Jerusalem, but this one today filled him with an indescribable horror. People, Jews like himself, were crying for a man's crucifixion.

What had this man done that was so terrible that God's chosen people were asking the heathen Romans to put him to death?

Several minutes later, Aha felt the rush of the crowd lining the streets of the city. The man had been convicted, sentenced to death by the Roman emperor, Pontius Pilate. The convicted man would pass by soon, carrying his cross.

As the man approached, Aha felt pity for him. Never had he seen a man treated with such disdain and degradation. Several times the man fell beneath the weight of the huge cross, only to be whipped by the unfeeling Roman soldiers. Men, women an children, even members of the illustrious Sanhedrin, derided him and spit upon him. His head dripped with blood, his back scarred and bleeding. The rough stones of the rugged road had opened large gashes in his knees. Despite all of the persecution which rained about him, Aha thought he could sense an air of kingly dignity about the man.

Stumbling along the road toward his death, the man fell directly in front of the old inn-keeper. Aha quickly hobbled to a nearby fountain and filled a gourd with pure, cold water. Returning, he pressed the gourd to the man's lips, but the centurion pushed Aha aside, spilling the water over the cold stone.

Looking up into the man's face, Aha was transfixed by the deepness of his eyes. "I'm sorry," said Aha, smiling. The man nodded.

A burning began in Aha's breast and spread until it had filled his whole being. That smile. That beautiful smile! It was the same smile he had seen more than thirty years earlier from that beautiful child in the manger. It was the same love he had felt that night for the child and his mother. This was that wonderful baby!

Aha watched from the ground as the centurion forced the man to his feet and made him continue his agonizing journey. People stepped over him and kicked his battered leg, leaving him at the back of the morbid procession. Tears welled up in his eyes as his love for the man grew to immeasurable bounds.

Aha had watched the pathetic criminals make their way slowly through the cobblestone streets to Golgotha many times. But he had never grown accustomed to the gruesome sight and sound of steel ripping massive holes through the person's flesh. It made him sick to think of it. But today, he watched carefully as the man he loved was nailed to a cross.

"He is the Messiah," something whispered in his heart. "He is the promised one, the Savior, the King." Aha looked up at the Man, falling to his knees in front of the cruel cross.

"Why is this happening?" he asked. "If He is the Messiah, He must be a just man. Why do they do this to Him?"

"Do not worry, Aha," said the stirring voice. "He IS a just man and He will ride again from the dead in three days. He dies now for you. Lay your burdens at His feet. He alone has power to save you from your sins."

The words cut quickly and deeply into the soul of the inn-keeper. Tears coursed his face and his trembling hands were lifted in a mighty prayer of repentance. "Please forgive me, Lord, of the wrongs that I have committed."

He brushed the tears from his face and looked into the eyes of the One on the cross. A bitter smile swept across His face, and even then, in the gall of His agony, that same love that Aha had seen thirty-three years before from the eyes of that baby, exuded from His soul. It was then, when Aha felt that same charity radiating like the sun from the Man's eyes, he vowed to make the rest of his life more like the short life of the Man on the cross. He would let the world know of Him and what He had done. Like no one else, Aha had a wondrous story to tell.

Aha picked himself up off of the ground, wiped the dusty trails of tears from his face and turned toward Bethlehem. For only the second time in his life his heart smiled as much as did his face. Slowly, Aha made his way back to his hometown, walking now without a limp, and the small, wooden cane, so long his constant companion, lie at the foot of the cross.

This World's Good

He was just an old man, an average, ordinary man dressed modestly, even for Argentine standards. He hadn't shaved in a few days and he wore an old Fedora-style hat from the 40s that matched his old, torn overcoat. I didn't even know his name, and still don't, but he was a man who changed my life forever.

Zapala is a small, dusty town nestled comfortably at the base of the Cordillera, Argentina's portion of the Andes Mountains. Back in the early 1980s it was an even smaller town than it is today, and I loved it. There were probably no more than 10,000 people living within its confines, but they were good people, some of the best, most humble people I've ever known. And in my five months there, I think I may have met every one.

I'd been in Argentina for a little more than three months when my bus pulled into the station there. My first two months had been spent in a plains town called Carmen de Patagones at the southern end of the Buenos Aires province. After that I'd spent one very long month in Dolores with my first Argentine companion. From there it was off to Zapala for the best months of my mission.

Located at the terminus of the Bahía Blanca and Neuquén railroads, it lies no more than 50 miles from the Chilean border. Many of the residents of the town have Chilean ancestry, and you can tell from looking at them that they have Lamanite blood coursing through their veins. They didn't have very much money, but they supplemented that lack with an abundance of charity and joy.

I can't count the times I spent sitting in a house made of tin cans on an old, aluminum kitchen chair on a dirt floor with chickens running between my feet. On one such occasion, bouncing a toddler on my knee as my companion taught the discussion, I noticed my knee begin to get very warm. Needless to say, I had to change my pants when the discussion concluded.

My companion and I lived in a 60-year old, 7-room house on the corner of Martin Etcheluz and Candelaria Streets. That house also served as our chapel. An elaborate bathroom sat just off of our bedroom, complete with toilet, sink, shower and an unusual contraption I'd never seen before, called a bidet. We called it an Argentine foot bath.

The shower didn't work so we had to bathe in the outroom, a ten-foot square room attached to the back of the house, complete with shower nozzle and toilet. There was a drain in the middle of the floor and a squeegie in the corner. We had to walk outside to get to it, even in the Winter. I realize now that we had much more than most people in that town.

In the front of the house were several tall oak trees, one on each side of the yard. A narrow brick walkway stretched from the front door to the wrought iron gate that stood majestically on the corner. A stone wall, made of bowling ball-sized rocks collected from a local valley, stretched from one corner of the property to the other. Stretching the length of the wall was an iron trellis, corroded by years of Argentine weather.

My companion, Elder Soloa, was from Rosario, a large city to the north. He'd been in the mission field for about a year and a half when he first came to Zapala. I had to go to Neuquén to pick him up because his bus didn't go all the way to Zapala. On the way home he rested his head on my shoulder and fell asleep, immediately softening my heart toward him. It's not that I held anything against him initially. I'd actually just met him. But he was replacing my favorite companion.

Elder Wilson was the second in a string of four Argentina companions I'd have. He was from the capital, Buenos Aires, and exuded that big town confidence and swagger. He had a great sense of humor and seemed to love me despite my obvious flaws. He looked like an American, but he spoke absolutely no English.

We'd worked hard together, baptizing several people in the month or so before he got transferred. Without bicycles or public transportation, we'd left considerable shoe leather on the dusty streets of Zapala, but it was just the way we liked it.

In the two months I spent with Elder Soloa, we baptized more people than ever again on my mission. He was bold without being overbearing. He was good looking, so the people naturally gravitated toward him. And he was a hard worker, a trait I'd develop under his tutelage. Lamentably, I recently learned that Elder Soloa died at a relatively young age in a traffic accident in Rosario many years after we concluded our missions.

On this particular day, we were home for lunch. We'd eaten at the home of one of the members and then had come home for the siesta. In Latin American countries, the siesta is a given. Lunch is eaten, then you go to sleep for an hour or so. As missionaries it was almost counterproductive to work during that hour, since you'd have to wake people to teach them. Instead, we always went home and studied or read the scriptures. Irregularly we would also sneak in a couple minutes of sack ourselves, since after all we were still teenagers fighting the 6AM rise and shine time.

I was not very good at memorizing while on my mission. We had what were called The Rainbow Discussions, gospel lessons we were supposed to memorize word for word. I'd been wrestling with them now for five months or so and still hadn't memorized them all. The C, G and H discussions were easy. They were the Joseph Smith Story, the baptismal challenge and Keeping the Commandments of the Lord. We taught several of those every day, so with familiarity came memory. It was the rest of them that caused me trouble.

Pacing the walkway from the front door to the gate while memorizing was my siesta tradition. Every day after lunch I'd kick off my shoes and "walk the bricks." I was working on the F discussion, Truth vs Error. I'd been working on it for weeks and still felt no closer to being able to quote it word for word. I could teach it, but in my own words. Back in the late 70s, that was not the way we were supposed to do it.

I could feel the glowing warmth of the bricks beneath my feet. The beauty of the day escaped my teenage mind then, but looking back I realize how God had taken particular care in creating that day. The sun was out, an azure sky blazing behind it, and as dry a day as the Simpson Desert. It was almost perfect.

I'd been beating this path for nearly a half hour when, as I neared the gate, the old man stopped in front of me just beyond the wrought iron. His face was lined with wrinkles, like an ancient road map of the passing years. His hands were sunk deep into his overcoat pockets, a finger sticking out a hole made by years of hard work. His blue eyes were sad, telling the story of myriad years of being beaten down by poverty.

Though I'd only been in the country for 90 days or so, I'd met my share of bums. Each town seemed to have its own "town drunk", and Zapala was no different. We called him "El Lobo Ibanez", and from time to time he would come to our home asking for bread, alcohol or money. In his earlier years he'd been a rich, star soccer player on a national team. Influenced by greed and fame, his wife had left him for their attorney and he'd throw himself into a bottle of booze and had never come out. My first impression of the man who stood in front of me at this time was that he was more of the same.

"Do you have any bread?" he asked me in Spanish, his accent belying the fact that he'd lived in Zapala his whole life.

I looked him over and judged him, harshly, on the spot.

"No", I said. "But I have something much better. I have the gospel of Jesus Christ."

He looked at the ground, as if it would crumbled beneath his gaze. "I need bread for my family," he said. "I am going to pay my electric bill and I have no money to pay for bread. My children are hungry. Do you have any bread you can spare?"

Despite what they may tell you, missionaries always have food they can spare, and our situation was no different. We'd just been to the store a few days before and our larders were stuffed.

"No", I lied again. "But we would like to come to your house to teach you and your family about Jesus Christ. Would that be all right?" I felt a twinge of guilt, but I swallowed it back down, like a bad piece of blood sausage.

"No", he replied. "I just need bread. Thank you."

He turned away, his head hanging low, and walked toward the plaza at the end of the street.

I, too, turned and walked back toward the house. Almost immediately I felt the Spirit touch me. "This man needs your help", I seemed to hear it say. The same guilt returned, impacting my soul with a searing energy that wracked me with anguish.

Wheeling quickly around, I raced back to the gate. No more than five seconds had lapsed since I turned the man away, but racing through the gate I looked down the street. He was not to be seen.

I quickly turned the opposite way. He was not there.

I ran out into the middle of the intersection and quickly turned from side to side, desperately searching for him in every direction. But he wasn't there. He was gone.

Puzzled, I walked back through the gate and onto the brick walkway. It was then I heard the Spirit with my physical ears for the first time. "People don't want to hear what you have to say unless their bellies are full." It was gentle, but it felt so condemning.

I stopped, frozen in that agonizing moment for what seemed like hours. Tears welled up in my 19-year old eyes and I wept uncontrollably as I realized how selfish and judgmental I had been. I sat in a heap on the rust-colored bricks, hiding my head in my hands. Elder Soloa had to come to out of the house and help me in, not even knowing why my strength had been taken. It would be many days before I was able to even look at bread without the man's haunting face being emblazoned on my conscience.

That night, I sat in bed and read the scriptures before retiring for the evening. Most nights I would read The Book of Mormon. After all, it was that book that I was there to teach. But this night I was in the books of John the Beloved. They were short books and I figured I could read them all in one sitting. Scanning through his words, my eyes fell upon words that caused me to cry myself to sleep for the first time since my first night in country. They've been indelibly seared on my mind ever since.

"But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth." (1 John 3:17,18)

Maybe he was a man sent from God to test me in my ignorance. Maybe he was just an old man looking for some help. Maybe he was someone I could have gotten to know very well and learned to love like a father. I don't know, and I may never know. But one thing is sure. For someone who passed through my life so quickly, like steam from your mouth on a cold winter's day, he was there and then gone.

And he changed my life forever.

Stuck - Part III

Getting through The Birth Canal was a difficult chore, and it almost made me feel like a snake shedding its skin. Wriggling and pushing, pulling and squirming, I finally got through to the other side. Having thrown my flashlight through the hole before entering, I grabbed it and turned back, watching Larry come through the tiny hole. Though Larry was somewhat smaller than the average adult, I marveled how any-sized adult could pass through such a small opening. I picked up his flashlight and handed it to him. "Pretty tight fit," he said. "Mmm hmm," I mumbled in reply.

Toward our back and to the right there was a rather tall yet narrow passageway that again only allowed one person at a time, and that person had to shuffle sideways. It was the beginning of Ballbreaker.

I stuck my head through the opening and looked for light. Seeing a glow on the other end, I began shuffling toward it. Some of the leaders had already started climbing up the slanted rock, positioning themselves every five feet or so to help the rest of us up the incline. The rock was nearly twenty feet long and created a climb of about 40 degrees through a passageway that was no larger than a foot and a half.

"We're supposed to go through that?" I said, turning and looking at Larry. He was at least 30 pounds lighter than me and about five inches shorter.

"I don't think it will be that tough," he replied.

"Not for you," I said, snorting derisively as I turned back to watch Scott's feet disappear over the top of the rock.

"Your turn," said Larry, planting his right hand directly in the middle of my back.

Stumbling slightly, I started the ascent.

Slipping on the damp rock, I searched for hand and foot holds. They were all over, next to me, above me and sometimes underneath me. I slithered through the extremely narrow passageway, not worrying about how my clothes would look on the other side.

Starting near the end has its advantages. You can see where everyone else goes and if they succeed you go where they went. It also has its disadvantages. Sometimes the rock over which you have to climb is left muddy and wet. So was the case on this day.

Nearing the top, my helmet got stuck between the slanted floor and the roof. Adjusting my head slightly, I pulled the helmet back and looked up toward the guys who'd already made it. The passage seemed to narrow just a little ahead of me, so I adjusted my position as to be lying directly on my stomach, back scraping the limestone roof. Figuring I'd be the smallest that way, I pushed myself into the even smaller space and then felt myself move no further.

I'd been stuck like this in caves before, so I didn't panic. I tried bringing my feet around to the side, which usually helped free my torso. No luck.

Stopping to think for just a second, I then looked ahead of me, up the incline to the top. I couldn't lift my head vertically because of the cramped space, so lying on my stomach I slid it sideways so I could see the top. It was no more than 7 or 8 feet away. Blindly searching for a hand hold, I found one near my right hand. Latching onto it, I pulled. Nothing. No movement whatsoever. I was stuck.

Starting to breathe just a little bit harder, and feeling my body expand so that it filled the tiny space, I looked at Amy, who was the closest guide to me. "I think I'm stuck," I said, trying not to let me voice betray the nerves that were welling up inside me.

Being all of four feet tall and about 100 pounds, she'd already reached the top and so had to slither down my remaining few feet. She sat erect in a small hole directly next to my imprisoning space and leaned over. Her headlamp shined directly into my eyes. "Ok, just don't panic," she said calmly.

But it was too late. While she had been coming to my aid I'd tried freeing myself again a couple of times with no luck. Every push and every pull seemed to wedge me in tighter. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing and heart rate, knowing that if either was elevated too much it would only serve to make my body larger and more apt to remain where it was.

"Have you tried pulling yourself to this side?" she asked.

"Yes, that's what I tried first. But I can try again," I said, as I pulled my legs up the sheer rock face toward my shoulders. My body did not move.

"No go," I said.

She put her finger on her chin. "Ok, there is a small chute here just above your head. If you can get your back into that, you'll be home free."

I pulled my helmet off so I could see what she was talking about. Just above my head was a small place where the space actually got a little bigger. Reaching up toward it I grabbed a piece of the wall and pulled. Nothing.

"Alright," she said, a small amount of nervousness in her voice. "Let me go talk to Bobby," and she shinnied up the rock face away from me.

Left in the relative darkness, I closed my eyes. Feeling an irreversible panic arise in my chest, I breathed deeply. "Calm yourself, man. Calm yourself. It's going to be ok." But I knew it wasn't true. I was going to be left there in total blackness with no hope of ever being freed. This was my ultimate prison, my purgatory for having lived such a terrible life, ironically being left in the sheer darkness because of my dark deeds.

I thought of rescue squads coming to the hillside to try and dig me out. It would take weeks to dig through that much rock. I thought of how long it would take to lose 20 pounds, enough to be able to unjam myself from the vice in which I now found myself. It had come to this. I was going to die in a cold, dark, bat-infested cave. I would try to hold on long enough to see my dear, sweet wife again, but she'd have to come down into the cave to see me herself. I'd never hold my precious children again. I was going to die right where I was.

Physically trying to restrain myself from thinking such atrocities, I opened my eyes and looked toward the light. Amy was coming back down. She tried several new approaches to getting me out, none of which worked. She tried to get me to go back down the rock. She tried to get me to roll over more on my side. She tried to help me go to the right and then to the left. None of them worked. Now breathing itself was getting more difficult.

Amy climbed back up the rock and left me in the darkness again. I closed my eyes. "Father, if you can hear me, please help me get out of this. I am stuck and there's nothing I can do to get out. I've tried everything I can think of and I do not want to spend the rest of my life stuck in here. Please, please help me get out."

No sooner had I said Amen than I felt my feet raise up off the floor of the passageway and plant themselves firmly in the roof. Pushing with all of my might I felt my chest slide across the wet stone. I pushed again and felt it slide just a little bit more. Gathering steam and hope I pushed once more, this time grabbing the closest rock I could find. I pulled myself through the small opening and up into the larger room 7 feet above. I was free!

I laid on the floor in the darkness next to Scott. Looking up where heaven would be, if not for several hundred feet of rock, I thanked my Heavenly Father profusely for helping me out. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I realized that I'd just been the recipient of one of His tender mercies.

Slithering back through The Birth Canal several minutes later, I felt reborn, a new child who'd escaped the dark confines of his terrestrial cell. Reaching the sunlight at the front of the cave, I reached for the sunlight I thought I'd never see again. The warm glow on my cheeks was like touching the face of God.