Author: Mack Ames

October 7, 2020

The rain drums steadily on the roof. Beyond the next wall, a virtual classroom instructor’s voice drones through the speakers like Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wah, wah wah wah. Wah. Wah.” A door in the hallway rattles as it is opened, and then it bangs shut. Florescent lights above my head whine, pulsating with the pain behind my eyes.  The two-way radio crackles to life, a predictable disruption in this house of correction. I gaze around the room; beige plastic-molded chairs sit at tan wooden tables on a speckled tile floor, surrounded by off-white concrete block walls. Dreary hardly begins to describe it. Posters of nature scenes, the Bill of Rights, Branches of the U.S. Government, and other images make efforts to break through the drab discoloration, but the pasty clutter threatens to win the day. After having faded into the background, the rains pick up again, their crescendo and decrescendo toying with the listener, harkening to memories of cuddles with books, blankets, and hot chocolate.

September 21

I used to get along
with all my coworkers
It was my signature
but lately I’ve been angry
and 
I’ve become
illegible

Sep 15

Sometimes I feel old
over the hill
worn out
ready to throw in the towel

Sometimes I feel young
just beginning life
not yet in my prime
raring to get going

Sometimes I don’t feel at all
conscious of each breath
hearing the most silent sounds of silence
unsure what to do next

Where I am today 
I may not be tomorrow
Where I am tomorrow
I may not be next week

The ebbs and flows of life
and emotion 
leave
me
paralyzed

Sometimes

I had a friend. He was handsome and smart. He had a great smile, an infectious laugh, and the ability to make others comfortable around him, even if they didn’t understand the situation as well as he seemed to. He didn’t put others down. He never belittled, and in spite of his superior processing abilities, I never felt inferior to him. He helped me pass some difficult classes in high school, in particular, and I’ve never forgotten his patience with me when I struggled to understand concepts and procedures. 

I had a friend. We attended the same church, went to Bible conference together, talked the weighty matters of God and faith. He seemed to be firmly held by his walk with the Lord, and I admired him for it. We ended up at different high schools after freshman year and began to drift apart, but I still had that friend. Church, Bible camp, and youth group kept us together. 

I had a friend. His family moved down South. It was hard to see them go; I was friends with his brothers, too, but he was my age. A few years passed, and my friend came to Maine and introduced me to his fiancée. She seemed very pleasant. He was as handsome and dashing as ever, still the great smile. However, something had changed in him, and we no longer saw eye-to-eye. Hints of conversation displayed seams of disagreement that I hadn’t observed before. Biblical orthodoxy was no longer preeminent for him. Right and wrong had become a matter of choice rather than measured by the standard of God’s Word. 

I had a friend. We lost touch for many years. He married and had children, I knew, but I had followed little else. Just a few years ago, I received the sad news that his older brother had died of a heart attack while on the job as a police officer. My friend and I reconnected; he sent me livestream video of the funeral and the tribute parade. A few months later, he called me to reveal deeply personal news of his own. By the end of the conversation, I inquired what name and pronoun my friend preferred. She told me. In the course of the conversation, I had learned that she had left her professed Christian faith many years before and had a humanistic worldview. She knew I would not agree nor affirm her new beliefs and lifestyle, but she hoped I would not judge her. I told her God is the judge, not me. I would do my best to honor our friendship. 

I had a friend. For three years I have tried to honor our lifelong friendship in spite of the radical changes that have occurred in it. However, the man that had never belittled, never put down, always had kind words for others to build them up has been replaced by a woman that often berates, often belittles, rarely has encouraging words for my other friends and me, and that is not friendship. It is poisonous toxicity. The winning smile is gone, replaced by frowns of displeasure. The friendship has died.

I had a friend. 

Not all of life’s changes that bring on stress are big changes. When I finished substitute teaching at the youth development center in 2013 and became a full time teacher there, I was assigned to a particular classroom that has been my home ever since. By the beginning of 2015, the facility was no longer a youth development center; it was a medium security prison for men. I’ve stayed in my job, helping men progress in their education and/or obtaining a high school equivalency diploma for the last 7 years while working from the same classroom.

Early in 2020, I was told that I would be giving up my classroom and swapping with another teacher. I think I was more upset with the manner in which the decision was relayed to me than with the actual decision, but I duly pouted for several weeks while I pondered how to grow up and put my big boy pants on to make the situation work better for me. As June began, I realized that the other teacher and I had similar class schedule changes happening late in the month, so it would be the ideal time to make the switch happen. He agreed, so we began the process on June 19th and finished in today, the 24th.

Some of our inmate students helped with the heavy lifting, but my colleague and I did our share, too. And as much as I dreaded the change, I’ve already discovered that I like my new setup very much. It really wasn’t a big change, but it brought on a lot of distress. I’ve tried not to complain, because the men I teach face greater changes than this every day and have less control over how they handle those changes than I did over this. I’ve tried to stress the positives about this room swap and the good reasons for my friend to have my old classroom (direct access to the Library, where he and the other teacher co-teach a number of classes, for example).

The biggest drawback of the switch-off is that when we traded room keys, I lost access to the hallway bathroooms! Now I have limited bathroom access and have to plan my breaks more carefully (staff bathrooms are kept locked). I may have to see if I can get a bathroom key from the officer in charge of keys. The second biggest drawback is that my old classroom had a sink, because waaaaaaaay back in the day, that room was the culinary classroom. I used to wash out my lunch utensils and refill my water bottle, as well as wash my hands or give my students a cup of water when needed. Still, I have a bigger classroom now, with more accessible closets and a better setup for my desk and teacher corner.

All of us have little changes we have to deal with all the time, and some of them cause us stress. We anticipate that the change will bring difficulty for us, and we decide with prejudice–pre-judging–that the change, therefore, is bad. That makes us resist, or want to resist, whatever the change will be. When we pause and think about what may be good about the change, we often find that we’ve been stuck in a rut and need to move out of our comfort zones, or that we need to be challenged to think of others instead of just ourselves.

This classroom change will help my coworkers meet the needs of their students better than before, and I’ll still be able to meet my students’ needs. In fact, during the course of the move, I discovered materials I’ve needed for my classes, so I can be more effective in helping my students. We need to be open minded about change, and that is not our natural tendency. Personally, I have to trust God that being open to change means that He will change me to make me more like Him: More loving, more gracious, more holy, more righteous, more tender, more thoughtful, more patient, and in all other ways more like Jesus. By doing so, with my eyes fixed on the Author and Finisher of faith, my heart, mind, and life will be filled with peace, and there will be no room for stress about a classroom swap or anything else.

There were days not too long ago when my thoughts tumbled down like water gushing from broken pipes. I couldn’t write fast enough. Almost mindlessly, my fingers danced across the keyboard, capturing the moments and ideas as they fled across my brain. Prolific posts vomited onto my blog, poems to the group I belong to, and nostalgia splattered here and there into Word documents when the ‘Net wasn’t available.

Suddenly, the thoughts tangled, the digits paused for just a moment too long, and the words stopped altogether. Now, the ideas just aren’t there.

The State of Maine is known for many things. The natural beauty is legendary, but some of the goods it produces are famous far and wide, too. Here are nine choices that Mainers generally recognize as symbols of “home.”

1. Red Snappers. These are bright, red, hot dogs served in buns that are split so that when the dog is in place, the finished sandwich can sit on a plate face up, not face sideways. 
2. Moxie. This so-called soda is described by some as a cross between root beer and urine. It’s definitely an acquired taste, though I don’t believe it’s necessary to drink urine for the comparison. Not all Mainers drink Moxie, but it is uniquely a Maine beverage. 
3. Steamer Clams. Fried clams are for wimps. The best way to eat clams is steamed and slid straight from the shell to the gullet. 
4. Whoopie Pies. Other states have tried to claim that they’ve originated this sweet treat, but no one beats a Maine whoopie pie, a rounded, hand-held, chocolate cake sandwich with vanilla icing. That’s the traditional flavor. True connoisseurs have discovered variations that included pumpkin chocolate chip cookie with vanilla icing, chocolate cake sandwich with peanut butter-flavored icing, and whatever else they may fancy. 
5. Humpty Dumpty Potato Chips. I can’t say as these have a special place in my heart, necessarily, but I know a number of fellow Mainers that won’t buy any other brand. Commitment to Maine-made brands is commendable, I guess, but Dill Pickle-flavored chips at twice the price of every other company? 
6. Lobster Rolls. Now here is a Maine food I can get behind. Or into. I can consume it, is what I mean. Not every “lobster shack” makes a quality roll, but there are great ones to be found all over Maine. 
7. Ployes. Now to be honest, I never knew what ploye was until just now, when I used Google and a colleague to help educate me on the topic. The former gave me textbook and the latter gave me human interest. Ploye is basically buckwheat pancake, but rather than being eaten with syrup, jam is added, or brown sugar, butter, or whatever else strikes you. He recommended I try it. I probably will. 
8. Fiddleheads. These are a rite of spring in Maine, when citizens desperate for signs of life after winter’s doldrums, go to the swamps and seek the weeds that resemble the heads of fiddles, literally. Fiddleheads. They boil them, butter ‘em, salt ‘em, and eat ‘em. I’ve been told they’re tasty. I’ve been told I haven’t been treated to properly prepared ones. To me, they just taste like weeds. I’ve tasted weeds before.
9. Potatoes. I realize that Idaho produces lots of these, but Maine does, too, especially up in The County (Aroostook for folks from Away). I certainly hope that Humpty Dumpty makes their chips from Maine potatoes, but either way, Maine’s potato growers (or is it “potatoe” growers? Perhaps I should ask Dan Quayle) do a fine job, and I enjoy Maine’s produce. We also grow blueberries, which ought to be on this list, but aren’t. 

At any rate, there’s the List of Nine. If you could pick just THREE of these, which ones would you choose?

Bill MacDonald

Just now ·

On my drive home from work yesterday, I took a little detour to the Horseback Road. Got to have a little roadside chat, with a mask on my face, with dear neighbors I’ve known all my life. They were making good use of the warming weather to do some yardwork, with the help of two teens from up the road (KevinandAmy Booker–good to see your boys helping out!).

Then I proceeded to the homestead, where I enjoyed a brief visit with the folks. It was good to see them, get caught up, and pray with them before heading home.

I won’t hide it; I’m feeling the stress of the present situation, not because I’m out of work, but because so many of my friends and loved ones are. I know so many of you that are self-employed and not considered by our state government as “essential” to the pandemic economy, yet you know how vital it is to be back at work to remain solvent professionally and personally. I pray for you. I wonder how you’re doing.

And like countless other families, I marvel at Laurel‘s ability to maneuver through each day with the boys always with her. As other parents know, even at ages 12 and 14, they are just as demanding of her attention in many ways as they were at 2 and 4! It’s draining. We are all drained in so many ways. You, me, us.

I have days when I am full of trust in God’s lovingkindness. You know those Jeremiah 29:11 days, when I remember that He knows the plans he has for us, to prosper us and not to harm us? Yeah. I have those days. And then I have my Job days, when I want to cover my head in ashes and clothe myself in sackcloth and sit in the dust.

Well, yesterday was a sackcloth and ashes day. When Governor Mills announced that it would take all summer to reopen our state for business, I lost my temper. I also lost my perspective. As I sit here writing this, I still heartily disagree with her plan, and I believe she’s wrong. However, I’ve been reminded that “the king makes his plans, but the Lord orders his steps.” So, it’s not the plans of man/woman in which I should trust, but in the wisdom of God. And if I need to know what that wisdom is, I have a Book full of it that I can read anytime. His arm is not weak, his reach is not short, nor is he caught off guard by my present circumstances.

By the grace, love, and mercy of God, this too, shall pass. He will see his people through this trial. We can fight the authorities that abrogate our civil liberties, but we must take care not to make it personal, for our eternal home is of greater value than our present one, and it is for the eternal home that we strive. To God be the glory.

For a few minutes this morning I scoured my FB page for pictures of my kids that I’ve taken during this coronavirus quarantine period. I found myriad photos of my older boy and brief videos of both sons, but only one snapshot of my younger boy, and it wasn’t a closeup.

When they were little, the kids loved having their pictures taken. I have hundreds of photos of each of them. It’s very different from my own childhood. There are almost no pictures of me as a boy. As the youngest of five, my parents revealed to me as I entered my teenage years that they had grown so tired of taking pictures of their kids that they took a few obligatory snapshots of me as an infant, and then essentially put the camera away. The only other pics of me from childhood were school photos or whole-family pictures, and those were pretty rare. That made me quite determined that my kids would have a photo history of childhood.

As they’ve aged, however, they’ve grown to dislike the ever-present presence of the camera lens. Younger boy, in particular, lacks interest in his image being captured and displayed. I try to honor his wishes, but more often than not, I take the picture. Then I don’t share it. Hence my problem this morning finding a photo of him on FB.

One of the parents from the school is putting together a video of as many of the children from school as possible to encourage the teachers and staff during this enforced separation called, “COVID 19.” The teachers and staff already made one for us–it was very moving. In preparation for Teacher Appreciation Week, this effort involves parents sending her photos of their kids holding messages for their teachers. I didn’t have that; I barely had photos of both boys from the last six weeks. Eh. Better than nothing, I hope.

A thick column of smoke rose from the ground.
I could see it just ahead.
Why were all other commuters passing unconcerned?
Ah, not a fire. A birch tree, branches raised to the heavens,
looming dark in the fog, beguiling and hoodwinking an
overactive imagination.