The whole idea of “think before you speak” was hammered into my head growing up. It didn’t always work, but it saved me from many embarrassing moments. In twenty-first century America, “think before you speak” doesn’t seem to do any good. People neither pay attention to the idea nor follow the advice. The results can be comical, or they can leave you wondering how long the light has been on with no one at home.
It may seem like too much of a jump in reasoning for you to link this to political issues, but the lack of awareness demonstrated daily by public figures in America never fails to astound me. In a very recent event, one political party put a twenty-five-million-dollar bounty on the head of a dictator of a foreign country. That dictator had lost the most recent election, but he had used the military to stay in power. In his corruption, he bankrupted his once-prosperous nation, and this particular American political party placed a bounty on his head to seek his arrest.
Just a few days ago, the leader of the opposite political party in America sent American military forces into that dictator’s country and arrested the man and his wife, leaving the foreign nation free of the dictatorial rule for the first time in decades. The citizens of that nation are rejoicing and praising the Americans who freed them. But the political party that put a bounty on the dicator’s head? They are not cheering for his capture. They are furious that their political opponents captured him, so they are denouncing his capture and insisting that he be returned to power as a dictator. What a head-scratching, face-palming moment! They got the result they wanted, but since it was achieved by an opponent, they are enraged that he’s the one who accomplished it. Instead of rejoicing with the citizens of the foreign nation, they are lecturing those citizens and saying that the country should reinstall the crook.
In this case, I am calling them stupid. They are acting like spoiled children who ask for a treat, receive a generic brand version of it, and refuse to accept it because it’s not the name-brand one. The petulance is obvious to all observers, and there will be consequences for this foolishness, but the immediate result is that adults display childishness as acceptable behavior, and that sets a troubling example for a nation already struggling to find its moral compass. Childish, churlish behavior by adults leads to violence in the public square. It is the same boorishness that led to the murder of Charlie Kirk on September 10, 2025, preceded by the assassination attempt on candidate Donald Trump in July 2024. Accepting violence while preaching temperance in speech and behavior for others, yet advocating for unruliness in their own followers, these adults are like the meme above: Coyly pretending they said the “Mississippi,” and when called on it, they defend themselves with “river” or “state,” depending on which one their opponent accuses them of saying. In such a manner, they try to wriggle off the hook of accountability, while knowing very well which one they meant.
It’s a frigid day. A hat and coat rest on the rack by the library door, and the few sounds disrupting my peace are the ticks of the clock behind me and the shuffling of papers on a desk fifteen feet away. The door opens, and a grumpy inmate scuttles in, stomping snow off his boots and grousing at everyone who’ll listen that he should be allowed to watch YouTube videos and waste his time while others are trying to study. I threw him out ten minutes ago for doing that.
He’s not a bad sort, as inmates go, but he’s short-sighted, narrow-minded, and fixated on the idea that the world owes him, even though he committed a crime that landed him here. Any attempt to hold the line with him becomes an existential threat to his humanity. He’ll acknowledge with his mouth that I treat all with equity and justice, but since others in authority here don’t, then we’re all lumped into the same crap pot. I’d like to feel some charity toward him for seeing we’re not all alike, but he’s still a cranky grouch. It’s a common theme around here.
A colleague retired a few days ago, and he got all choked up about this being the “best job I’ve ever had, hands down.” He’d been here more than two decades. Maybe if I’d been in his shoes, I would say the same thing, in the same way. He was never tied to a classroom, and he never had to run a dorm or a cell block. He was a middle-management kind of guy, tying up loose ends, making everyone’s day. The buck never stopped with him. Even when he was a less-than-stellar supervisor, which he certainly was, the buck went further up the food chain. On a personal level, we got on pretty well, but professionally, I was happy to bid him farewell. The supervisor before him fought for us. He rarely did, and I spent years feeling unsupported or stabbed in the back. He’s been gone two days, and work life’s no better. Seriously. Makes me wanna puke.
On this frigid day, the only people making me want to be here are the officers I had hoped to work with full-time when another friend retired a few months ago. Instead, the other teachers and I have to work on a rotation, creating more work for us and greater confusion for the inmates. Management does such a great job screwing up good things. Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.
Before I left home, I donned a shirt, my new alumni sweatshirt, my work vest (to cover up the alumni design that someone at work would have a problem with), and my hand-warmer half-gloves. I’m still shivering. I’ve even kept my cap on. The realization that my regular classroom isn’t any warmer than the chillbox I’m in now isn’t filling me with great desire to complete my workday. I’m tempted to call out the remainder and go home early. I’m truly disinterested in working this afternoon. I’d rather start with a fresh week. I want to be anywhere but this place.
Who am I trying to convince? I’ve already made my plans. Tomorrow’s a big day for me. It’ll be my first time volunteering with a political campaign, as I work with another man doing voter registration in support of Robert “Bobby” Charles for Governor. It’ll be frigid tomorrow, too, and no guarantee of friendlier people. But the climate here has become so toxic that I need an escape. There’s frigid air, and there’s frigid there. Which would you prefer?
This topic may be off-putting to the naive or pure-minded reader. For that reason, I’m providing you the opportunity to look away now, before you read something that “scars you for life” or burns into your brain in such a way that you can’t unsee it. I’m warning you, look away now. I’m not even close to kidding.
Sex and the Christian. More pointedly, Christians whose sexual attractions are not hetero. That’s the topic today. More than likely, if you are a Christian, you know another Christian whose natural sexual attraction is not for the opposite sex. He or she may not actively pursue romantic interest in the same sex or at all, but the daily battle of attraction to the same sex is likely there, and it is probably unwanted. What is a Christian that experiences unwanted same-sex attraction supposed to do with it?
In recent years, four general schools of theological thought have emerged regarding this very point. They are referred to as “Sides.” Specifically, they are Sides A, B, Y, and X.
The Side A school of “theological” thought embraces the notion that same-sex attraction is perfectly acceptable and compatible with Christian belief and that it should be celebrated as openly as possible. Any idea that a Christian need “repent” of sexual sin due to homosexual attraction is considered judgmental nonsense. The entire community of LGBTQIA+ is embraced by Side A apologists as acceptable and normal in the eyes of God.
Side B takes a different view of almost every element than Side A, except for conversion therapy. Both stand firmly against that idea as being harmful or even dangerous. Side B acknowledges with Side A that people are born with opposite- or same-sex attraction, but disagrees with the notion that same-sex attraction should be pursued. For those in the Side B camp, romance should not be sought out. However, those with such attraction or orientation should feel comfortable retaining their designation of LGBT or Q as a means of reaching the lost and showing that even Christians can love Jesus while dealing with disordered sexual identities.
Side Y believers take the Side B views a step further by denouncing the acceptance of LGBT or Q identification, arguing that one’s identity is found only in Jesus Christ. In the Side Y community, the emphasis on Unwanted SSA is stressed more than in the other three “Sides” in an attempt to characterize the attraction as undesired yet inherent to their birth nature.
Finally, Side X adherents adamantly demand that anyone that claims Christ as Savior and Lord must denounce same-sex attraction and actively seek to change their orientation to heterosexual. For Side X, the homosexual can and should be cured by marrying a member of the opposite sex.
So, what is the best response to Christians dealing with unwanted same-sex attraction?
None of these “Sides” holds a completely good answer. Side X is harsh and ungracious. Side A is heretical. Side B is troubling in that it suggests that being a “new creation” in Christ doesn’t take effect this side of heaven if we aren’t living that reality here on earth. That is, if we are living in the identification of our old creation and sinfulness how does that demonstrated the new creatures we are in Jesus? The answers I’ve heard have been less than convincing.
On the other hand, while Side Y seems the best of the approaches, pastors and elders remain unwilling to open their churches to acknowledging the presence of Christian members with SSA in their congregations, and this means that those members–that if in Side B churches would be able to openly admit their sexual orientation and receive congregational support, love, help, and accountability–are forced to remain closeted, secreted, and without the aid of the church as they navigate the destructive paths of their unwanted SSA. It’s a dichotomy that absolutely plagues the church today. And if the church does not find a better way to help her members through these fiery trials, she will lose these men and women to terrible tribulation.
It’s the end of May 2023 and my son’s junior varsity baseball team is nearing the end of its season. I’ve enjoyed watching him play in his freshman season. He’s developing into a decent first baseman, though pitching remains his strongpoint. He’s a lefty, which makes him even more valuable to the team. He also happens to be a good kid, which should make a bigger difference.
But politics of sports teams in high school are similar to the politics of nations and workplaces. You have to know the right people if you want the best treatment. And if you happen to value civility and kindness over winning-at-all-costs, you must be prepared for uncivility of the nastiest types.
So it was a few nights ago and a high school baseball game when the temperature was in the 40s and everyone shivered under blankets and in winter coats. The boys on the diamond played with the intensity of the Chicago Cubs trying to win their first World Series in over 100 years, and when one young man missed a pop-up because an opposing fan yelled at the crucial moment to distract him, and said young man yelled out “Fuck!” in frustration, he knew that the umpire had every right to eject him from the game. He immediately apologized to the man, who allowed him his mistake. Said OPPOSING FAN then started yelling at the umpire to throw the kid off the field.
The harassment of that player continued for several innings. When he uttered a much quieter epithet later in the game that the fan heard but not the ump, the fan ran to the fence and harangued the umpire again. Then he turned to the people next to him and said, “You better believe I’m calling his school tomorrow to tell them what I think.”
I did him one better. I took his photo and emailed it to the principal of his kid’s school with an explanation of the situation. Now. I’m a political conservative and voted for Trump twice. At the moment, I’m pulling for DeSantis or Tim Scott, but I’ll vote for the Republican nominee in 2024, but one of the two men harassing that poor kid all game was a proud Trump 2024 fan. Lest any pro-Dem or anti-Trump fans get all proud of yourselves, I can assure you that plenty of fans like you were on that kid’s case, too.
Politics have led this country down a path of tremendous incivility. Enough so that grown men in the stands at a kids’ baseball game get bent out of shape for a kid using a word that they use, too. How about letting baseball be baseball? Let the kids play, and get your self-righteous, high-and-mighty attitudes out of the way?
The junk draw? Don’t you mean drawer?? Well, yes, I do, but where I live (look at my blog name if you need a clue), many folk (yes, I said folk) took to sayin’ the word ‘draw’ for ‘drawer’ many years ago. I think it’s because of the influence of the dropped ‘ah’– that’s the letter ‘r’ for you folks from away. So, when Mainahs say ‘drawer’ it sounds more like ‘drahw’ and as generations have lived and died sayin’ ‘drahw,’ it has evolved into the word ‘draw,’ making folk believe that the proper spelling of ‘drawer’ is actually ‘draw.’
‘Tis logical, truly.
‘Tany rate, diggin’ through the junk draw, looking for somethin’ to talk ’bout t’day, and I came up with just ’bout nuthin’.
M’alter ego, Mack Ames, has written a piece o’ fiction. Have ya heard of it? It’s called Lost My Way in the Darkness, published by KDP Press, and available on Amazon.com in three formats: Kindle, paperback, and hardcover. Well, go on, now, what’re ya waitin’ for? Go git it! Read it! Leave a 5-star review!
“Can I just fucking finish?” Tommy’s frustration boiled over for the whole classroom to witness. I bit my tongue, almost to the point of drawing blood. He was tired of being interrupted??? The king of interruptions didn’t like it when others spoke over him? It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut.
Tommy, 20 years old, a heroin dealer and user, in for 8 years, impatient and arrogant most of the time, charming and funny the rest. Tommy, inconsiderate, disrespectful bully when he thinks he can get away with it. Tommy, carefree, chatterbox airhead when he thinks he has gotten away with his bad attitude.
A few minutes after his outburst, he asked me a question. As I tried to answer him, he interrupted me twice. I finally said, “Tommy, can I say something real?”
“Sure, Mr. Mack. Go right ahead.”
“Just a few moments ago you got very upset when we interrupted you while you were trying to speak. Now, you’re interrupting me as I try to speak. How rude are you being just now??” He shut up instantly. “This whole issue of not interrupting goes both ways.” I pressed on. “If you want us to let you speak, you have to stop disrupting class.”
“Sometimes you have to block access to people, Mack. They’re takers. It’s all they’ve ever been. It’s all they’ve ever known. It’s all they’ll ever be. They play the victim card expertly, and if you have a big heart for helping others, you’ll get sucked in. Before you know it, you’ve been taken advantage of. That’s why they’re called ‘takers’.” My friend stopped talking and looked at me compassionately. “It’s happened to me, too.”
What do Takers take?
Time. Takers unashamedly, unabashedly take your time as their own. Whatever you give won’t be enough, and most won’t remember to say ‘thank you’ unless prompted. Even as you leave boundary lines in the dust and they become distant memories, you will feel compelled to postpone or cancel other engagements or appointments to satisfy the needs or desires of the Takers. You will discover your backbone at some point, but not until you’ve done considerable damage to your work schedule, social calendar, and loved ones.
Attention. It won’t be enough that you are pouring your time into their schedules. You will also have to be paying attention to them. It is vital that you bear in mind that this is not friendship, where attention is a two-way street. No! Takers expect you to listen to their litanies of woe repeatedly on end, but as soon as you try to open up in the expectation that you’ve made a friend who will reciprocate the process for you and offer you affirmation in similar circumstances, the Taker will repeat his or her litany or remind you how difficult life is and the importance of not telling everyone about your struggles.
Resources. Takers will latch onto any resources you have available and make them theirs. This includes your money. If they can convince you that they have legitimate financial crises facing them to the point that you will send them money via an app, especially without obtaining some expectation of repayment, congratulations! You’ve just been scammed by someone you know. You don’t need telephone calls from the auto warranty people or Nigerian princes calling you, because a Taker has accomplished more than those losers ever could. If you have a car, the Taker will get rides whenever possible, even if he/she has a vehicle. If you have any kind of resource at all that will save the Takers money or time, count on being asked for it, guilted into it, and kicking yourself afterward.
Who are these ‘Takers’? These Takers are people that you want to help or have helped in the past. You know them from work, school, social events or programs, or what-have-you. Most Takers are charming people, or they have a heart-breaking story to tell of dysfunctional upbringing, broken marriage, or disastrous life experiences.
If you have a heart to help others, falling into the clutches of Takers may happen more than once. Some Takers masquerade as friends, which makes their betrayal more insidious. When you discover that they were really just using you for what they could get from you, the pain runs much deeper.
As you probably guessed, I’ve encountered some Takers in my life. Some longer ago, and others recently. One common trait I’ve observed in two Takers has been the utter inability to show sympathy or empathy without immediately launching into their oft-repeated litany of woes when I’ve tried to bare my heart to them due to emotional pain I’ve experienced. I was thinking I was chatting with a friend, but like ice water to a sleeping face, I was shocked to discover I was just supposed to sit there and affirm this Taker reciting his litany of worn-out woes that I’d heard no less than a dozen times in less than a month. No, this wasn’t friendship at all. It was bloodsucking vampirism.
Is it any wonder that men–or women– have a difficult time breaking the lock off their emotions and sharing them, when this is so often the result??
When I was a boy, I devoured books and stories. Reader’s Digest was standard bathroom fare in our home, although it could be found elsewhere sometimes, as long as it made its way back to the throne room without too much delay. At least, that’s how I recall it. My books of choice were the Hardy Boys, Sugar Creek Gang, and Encyclopedia Brown series, primarily, although I was persuaded to consume Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books, some of Louisa May Alcott, and Lucy Maud Montgomery, before growing into Tom Clancy, John Grisham, and the Shaaras.
I lived in a farmhouse that was built in 1820. It was situated on its second foundation, the first one having been across the road from the second, though I don’t know when the structure was moved. We had a huge barn opposite the house when I was very little, but an arsonist put an end to it one chilly October day in the middle 1970s. He or she was never caught.
Our house was shaped like an L, and at the top of the L was a shed that turned to the left and became, at one time, a garage, followed by an outhouse and more shed. I’ve seen the photographs of the structure in its heyday, but I only recall the rundown nature of it when I was a boy. That outhouse came in handy when we had but one bathroom for 8 of us living in that huge house.
Eventually, as time and happenstance passed, we expanded the house, gaining three bedrooms and one and a half bathrooms upstairs. All told, by the middle 1980s, we had seven bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, dining room, coat room, and mudroom. As I said, the farmhouse was huge. I always thought of us as middle-lower class financially, and I suppose we probably were, but that house provided comfort and security to many beyond our family.
As a child, I recall the strength of that structure–even when we dealt with a leaky roof for a time. Howling winds in rain and snow did not concern me because the house was strong. Storms that became legendary in years to follow did not take down our home. Accidental fires caused damage but did not destroy our house.
The thrills of my childhood storybooks often came to life in our house. Sometimes, they gave me nightmares, such as my terrors of the Redcoats charging up the cellar stairs to kill us because we were rebelling against England in the Revolutionary War. (That was a recurring dream that happened when I was feverish.) Other times, they filled me with excitement, like when I played with my Matchbox and Hot Wheels and created storylines of Hardy Boys or Sugar Creek Gang adventures. I’d tell Mum about them, and she’d be sure to ask me later how the adventures turned out.
I disliked going to the woods with Dad and my brother to cut firewood in the dead of winter, but it was a common occurrence on Saturday mornings in January and February. Once I was there, I often thought of Little House in the Big Woods or other stories I’d read that involved cold weather, cutting wood, or being outside, in the woods, in scary situations (I became afraid of the woods at some point in my life and going near them alone filled me with indescribable terror, as I was constantly convinced I was being watched and stalked). However, any sign of a stone wall would pique my interest, and I’d be carried away as I imagined Civil War or Revolutionary War battle scenes taking place in my own back yard.
Winter holds it own memories. Sledding was plentiful, but so was shoveling the driveway. How thankful I was when Dad finally put a plow on the Farmall 200! There were many years of shoveling before that happened, though, and the Blizzard of ’78 was particularly memorable. Plow trucks got stuck on the roads and needed to be pulled free by farmers on their tractors. Snowbanks rose higher than dump truck bodies. I can still picture the mounds of snow to this day, more than 40 years later.
Two days ago, we had a storm that is being called the “Blizzard of ’22.” It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? It sounds like something from one of my storybooks from childhood that maybe Laura Ingalls Wilder or Louisa May Alcott may have written.
Perhaps it’s because I didn’t have to drive in it, or because of the sensationalization of every storm these days, but this one didn’t seem like such a big deal. We received about 15 inches (38cm) of snow where I live, and the wind howled, but that was it. The snowbanks I saw as I drove to work today weren’t intimidating like the ones in 1978. In fact, along one stretch of road, there weren’t any snowbanks at all!
I’ll leave it to others to determine if the “Storm of ’22” deserves accolades like the “Blizzard of ’78” or not, but as for me, this one just doesn’t live up to the thrills or chills of my childhood stories nor books.
In Book 1 of the new series by writer Mack Ames, follow along as primary character Jack Bannister wrestles with issues of life, loss, trust, and faith.
From losing his trust in God when his mom dies in an accident, to witnessing the effects of abuse in the lives of friends, Jack is challenged over and over with life’s greatest mystery: Trust in God or reject faith forever.
Will Jack Bannister stay lost, or will he find the Way?
1: Jack Bannister
I missed my old house. I liked living in the city. Everything a kid could want to do was close by. I could ride my bike to school, to the park, to the store, or to a stream for fishing. We were in the state’s biggest city; people knew it when I said where we lived. My dad had a good job, and I could get anything I wanted, pretty much. Life was good there, until it wasn’t.
My dad Joe had to change jobs for some reason. I don’t know why. He remarried after…well, he remarried, and things weren’t the same anymore. He and I didn’t get along as well as we had before. We didn’t go camping like we used to. I was really on my own a lot. Not latchkey alone, just no one to entertain me or play with or hang out with. Dad didn’t like the kids I started hanging out with at that point, and the decision was made to move.
And boy, oh, boy, did we ever move! We went from the state’s biggest city to some podunk country town on the other side of the state. Nothing close by. Anyplace worth going to can only be reached by car. Dad says it’s ‘good for me’ to live in the country, like he did growing up. Plus, his wife got a job at a Christian school, and part of her contract requires me to attend there. They think that’ll be good for me, too. I can’t stand the idea, but there’s no getting out of it.
This is a lame, lonely place to be. We had been here for less than a week, and I was struggling to find any good reason for staying in this godawful house, and I finally gave up. I wandered outside to go exploring and headed into the trees out back to get away from people; I had no desire to see anybody.
In a few minutes I found myself on winding paths under the trees. It was curious that so many of them had no branches within three feet of the ground, but I didn’t think about it for long. It was too much fun to pretend they were tunnels created somehow just for me. Dad wouldn’t be able to find me out here, and neither would that wretched woman he’d married so soon after Mom–
The distraction of tree tunnels wasn’t enough to keep me from tumbling into a heap under a giant pine and breaking down in tears. Why? O, God, why? Thoughts failed as I sobbed and tried to catch my breath. After several minutes, my heaving chest slowed, and I was calm once again. I tried to do as Mom had taught me when I was little. Dear God, she loved you, and she said you loved her, and you love me, so why, God? Why did you let her die? I don’t get it. She told me you’re always there, and that you never leave me, and that you always listen, b-b-but, God? W-where w-were you when that drunk driver k-k-killed my Mom? Huh?
As I tried to pray, I just got angry. God wasn’t there! If he was, then he sure didn’t care, and I was done with him. You know what, God? I’m not so sure Mom was right about you. In fact, I think you fooled her into thinking you were good, which is really sad, ‘cuz she’s gone now, and she was the only person that ever cared about me, and it’s all YOUR FAULT! I HATE YOU!
I didn’t feel any better after shouting at God in my “prayer,” but I’d finally acknowledged my true feelings. I wasn’t sure how to tell Dad, though. He’s not the kind of man to take disrespect toward God lightly. I shrugged my shoulders. I’ll let him deal with it. I don’t care anymore. I got up and continued exploring the woods. It wasn’t really a forest, but it was cool for what it was.
The deeper I went, though, the more the roots became tangled above ground, messing up my footing. I looked for paths to follow, spotting one that ran to the left. I took that one for a few minutes, and it led me to a small clearing. I was surprised to see that some trees had been cleared there, and a makeshift fort had been assembled. It was clearly the work of other kids, because it was such poor workmanship, but hey, if it means there are other kids my age around here that did this, maybe I can join them and improve it. Just then, I heard voices behind me.
“Hey, kid! Who are you? What’re you doing in our fort?” Two boys, about my height and age approached me threateningly.
“I-I’m Jack.” Startled, I stammered at first, but then asserted myself. “This is your fort? You sure your sisters didn’t build this?” Then I laughed. “Who are you, anyway?”
The two boys looked at each other and back at me. The first one spoke again. “I’m Blake Harris, and that’s Vince Jackson, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll clear off.”
“Make me.” I wanted to make friends, but I didn’t like their attitude.
With that, Blake nodded at Vince, who charged at me. I sidestepped Vince, tripping and shoving him as he went by. When Blake saw that, he took a swing at me, but I blocked it and threw a counterpunch, nailing Blake in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for air. Vince got up and ran at me again. This time, I met him with my fists up, and in moments, Blake’s friend was also on the ground, gasping from a blow to his face.
I was ready for more but didn’t need trouble when it was 2 against 1. However, it was put up or shut up time for these jerks. “Well? You gonna make me leave, or can I stay?”
“All right. All right,” panted Blake. “You can stay.” He and Vince sat down on one of the logs. “Where did you learn to fight like that, Jack?”
I shrugged. I didn’t feel like being buddy-buddy with these guys just yet, so I changed the subject. “So, you guys obviously live around here. Whereabouts?”
The boys told me which houses were theirs and then one of them said, “So you just moved into that house that was for sale? Where did you live before?”
“Yeah. Portland.”
“Oh, why’d you move here? What grade are you in?”
“Uh, family reasons. Going into sixth. What about you guys?”
“Same. We’re going to be classmates, huh? That’s cool. We’ve already gotten our fighting out of the way, so we might as well hang out, right?” Blake and Vince laughed. “That’s how we became friends.” They gestured toward each other. “First time we met, we had a knockdown, drag-out, and next thing you know, we’re best buds.”
“Yeah, I could use some friends,” I muttered, “but I don’t think we’ll be in school together.”
“Why not?”
“My stepmom is a teacher at a religious school, and I have to go there. Her contract says so.”
“Oh, brother, that’s rich.”
“You’re telling me. I don’t even want to go there.” I kicked at the dirt. “It’s gonna be so lame!”
We talked a little longer and then I went back to the house, where I got to thinking about Blake and Vince. I was glad enough to have made friends out of the neighborhood kids my age. It made life a little easier to cope, but I was dreading the start of school in a few weeks, even though the Dragon kept saying I’d like it there. “You’ll make friends there, too,” she said. “Good ones. They’ll be positive influences on you,” as if to say Blake and Vince weren’t good enough for her. Dad was gone to work by the time I woke up each morning, so I only saw him at supper most of the time, when he was too tired to say much. Besides, he took the Dragon’s side most of the time, so I didn’t listen to him, either.
A couple of days after I met Blake and Vince, I was out in my yard trying to fix a flat tire on my bicycle when they rode in on theirs. “Hey, Jack, what’s up?” Vince asked.
“Flat tire. Not sure how. Stuck here till I can fix it.”
“Lemme see that,” Blake said. “Your dad been putting new shingles on the garage or something?”
“Yeah, why?” I replied.
“You’ve got a nail in your tire, dumbo,” Blake laughed. He pointed to it. “That’s easy enough to fix if you have a patch kit. Do you?” When I shook my head no, Blake continued, ” Well, I’ve got one. I’ll be right back. While I’m gone, why don’t you and Vince pick up all the other nails you can find so we don’t all get nails in our tires? I don’t have that many patch kits, dumbo.” He laughed again as he rode off.
I don’t know why he called me ‘dumbo,’ and I hope he doesn’t keep doing that, ’cause I’m not dumb, but I shrugged it off and started looking for other nails with Vince. I found one. “Got one,” I said to Vince.
“Got three!” said Vince. “Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah.” He laughed. “I’m winning!”
“Oh, no you don’t. I’ve got two more; we’re tied! No, here’s another one. Got four!” I squealed.
“All right, girls, enough!” Blake interrupted our game. “Geez, your dad sure got careless with the nails, Jacko. He’s lucky he doesn’t have one in his car tire. Let’s get your bike fixed, and then make sure there aren’t any more nails around. What a pain in the a–I mean, neck.”
I clenched my fists and stared at Blake. “Whaddyamean, girls?”
“Oh, quit your bellyaching, Jack. I ride away for five minutes and come back to you two squealing like a couple of girls, that’s all. It was just a joke. Jeezum, what are you, three years old? Don’t be such a baby!”
My face reddened. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Aw, forget it,” Blake said. “Come on, Vinnie, help me fix this tire.”
When the tire was fixed, Vince turned to Blake and said, “We’ve still got time today, should we show him?” Blake nodded, so Vince said, “Say, Jack, have you been to Whitman’s yet?”
“Whitman’s? What’s that? I’ve been stuck here since we moved, except for going to church with dad and the dragon–I mean–my stepmom.”
“It’s a general store a little bit of ride from here, Jacko,” Blake said. “They’ve got all kinds of stuff there–candy, soda, baseball cards, potato chips, beef jerky, that sorta thing. Think you’re up for it?”
“I can do it!” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too whiny. “I just gotta tell my stepmom where I’m going to be. I’ll be right out.”
“Try to get some money from her while you’re at it, Jacko,” called Blake as the other boy ran into the house.
When Jack was gone, Blake turned to Vince. “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
Vince looked at his friend. “You mean, if he doesn’t bring any money we’ll see if he’ll still get something from the store? Yeah, of course! But if he brings coin, we’d better be careful with him; he goes to church, you know. He might be a goody two-shoes.”
A couple of minutes later, I was back and ready to go. “She gave me a couple of quarters. It ain’t much, but she said she’s been to that store already and they’ve got some stuff that’s cheap. Let’s get going.”
We got on our bikes and began riding toward the store, which was two miles away. We immediately hopped off to push our bikes up the one hill that we’d face going to the store; it wasn’t a long hill, but it ran down to just before my driveway, and there was no way to get a running start. When we got to the top, we resumed riding and enjoyed coasting for the next half-mile. It was nothing but farmland on either side of the road, with little traffic to disrupt our ride.
Halfway to the store, we crossed the town line. Blake explained that kids from this other town attended our town’s high school, but that the two towns had their own elementary and junior high schools. We rode for about 20 minutes, and then I saw a four-way stop just ahead. On the right was an old, clapboard-sided building with a sign above the door that read, “Whitman’s Corner Store.” The other boys gestured to a grassy bank on the left where we tossed our bikes before crossing the road to enter the store. A bell jingled as we walked in, and a man in his mid-forties called out, “Welcome to Whitman’s. How can I help you?”
“We’re just here to buy some candy and stuff and show a new kid the place,” Blake said.
“All right. Holler if you need anything.” The man went back to whatever it was he was doing. I couldn’t tell. I was fascinated by everything in the store. There were tools hanging on the first wall I saw, and small engine parts in boxes and displays there, too. On another wall there was a display case of refrigerated meats, cheeses, butter, and ice cream, and on a third wall were bread, crackers, peanut butter, jams and jellies, dog and cat food, and all kinds of other dry goods. In the middle of the store there were short racks of candy, baked goods, peanuts, popcorn, baseball cards, gum, nails, screws, pens, pencils, notebooks, and so many other odds and ends I couldn’t keep track of it all. I wondered if Mr. Whitman could, either, or if that was even the guy’s name.
“So, whaddya think, Jack?” Vince asked. “You like the corner store?”
“Yeah, this is cool! I’m going to check out what I can get. Are you guys getting anything?”
Vince nodded. “We never come here without getting at least one or two things. Why ride all this way for nothing?”
I looked around the store. The array of candy was impressive, and it was so cheap, too. Penny candy, five-cent candy; if I counted right, I could really take a lot home. But I also wanted some baseball cards, and some bubble gum, and those were more expensive. Fifty cents wouldn’t get me baseball cards; I needed a dollar for that. I sighed. Well, I could get a pack of gum for 35 cents and then spend the rest on penny or 5-cent candy. The baseball cards would have to wait. I made my selections and went to the cash register.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the man asked.
I nodded. “Kind of. I mean, I found everything all right; I just didn’t have enough for the baseball cards. I’ll have to bring more money next time.” I paid for the gum and candy and left the store. Moments later, the other boys joined me.
As we got on their bikes to leave, another boy about our age arrived at the intersection from a different direction. Blake shouted at him, “Hey! You, fat boy! This is our store! Get outta here!”
The other boy looked startled and scared. He turned his bicycle around and rode back in the direction he came from. “That’s right, little four-eyed boy,” hollered Blake, “and don’t let me catch you here again or there’ll be hell to pay!” As the stranger rode away, Blake and Vince cracked up laughing. “D-did you see his face?” Blake sputtered. “Oh, my God, I-I thought he was going to pee his pants! What a riot!”
“I think he might’ve done just that, Blake!” Vince replied, roaring with laughter. “Isn’t that a puddle on the road over there?”
I just looked at them, puzzled. The other boy hadn’t said anything or done anything wrong, as far as I could tell, but my new friends had made it clear that Whitman’s was their territory. I shrugged. It had nothing to do with me, so I got onto my bike and began riding for home.
The easy ride to Whitman’s meant a harder ride home. The long coasting ride there became a forever incline on the return. Blake and Vince had been riding this route a lot longer than I had, so their legs were used to it, but I found it exhausting. Still, I didn’t want them to think I was a wimp, so I stood up to pedal and kept going, even after my legs screamed “no more.” It took almost 40 minutes to get home, and I realized I was going to have make that ride a lot to shorten it. I had to be as tough as the other two, or I’d end up like the kid they’d bullied at Whitman’s.
When we finally got home, we went to the fort to hang out. Blake turned to me and said, “What did you get at Whitman’s?”
I showed him. “I wanted to get baseball cards, too, but I didn’t have enough, so I just got gum and some penny candy. I’ll get baseball cards another time. What did you get?”
Blake said, “Well, I just got a pack of gum. I think Vinnie got more than I did this time. Vinnie?”
The third boy smiled. “Funny about those baseball cards, Jack. I heard you talking about them, so I checked ’em out for you. How’s this?” With that, Vince pulled two packs of cards out of his pocket and tossed them to me. “They’re all yours, bud.”
“I can’t take these, Vince! I can’t pay you back!” I protested.
Everyone has dreams of how they want their lives to play out. Everyone hopes for the best possible outcome. Not everyone has the same definition for the ‘best possible outcome’ but we all want it, whatever it is. We all want life ‘to go our way.’ We all want hope. When life falls apart, as it always does, we become one kind of person or a second. We Regret or We Repent. When we think we can control anything in our lives, we scheme, we plan, we devise we work, we strive, we strategize. When our plans come to naught and our thoughts become distraught If we resort only to regret Then despair is all we’ll get. But when we know that we aren’t sovereign that our lives are in the Lord’s hands, we can do our best to live right, and when we fail, mistake, or sin, we can turn and repent again, knowing God’s promises are True: Forgiveness is ours through Christ the Jew that obeyed the Father through and through. Died, buried, rose, ascended, Holy Spirit then extended to help believers know the Lord and to repent and be reborn. A Regret Example is Judas Iscariot. He betrayed Jesus and then he was sorry, but he never repented. And so, when he died, he died in his sin. He was buried, disgraced, forever condemned. A Repent Example is Simon, called Peter, who denied the Lord when Christ was arrested. Three times he said “No” when asked if he knew Him, and wept with great sorrow to see Jesus beaten. But when Christ arose from the dead the third day, Peter repented and turned back to his Savior. He prayed and asked God’s forgiveness, which we know God grants freely ’cause of Christ’s love shown here below. Which life will you lead, person reading this ode? Regret that springs from despair and frustration? Or Repent, live in God, which gives you salvation?
Mack Ames Books and Maine Moose Patrol 