September 23: No Resistance, Grace, Lutheran Prayer Beads

The crew of the Heart of Gold has just been rescued.  By what or whom, they have no idea . . .

Twenty yards away he could dimly see through the smoke the space-suited figure of one of the cops.  He was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.  Twenty yards in the other direction lay the second man.  No one else was anywhere to be seen.

This struck Ford as being extremely odd.

Slowly, nervously, he walked toward the first one.  The body lay reassuringly still as he approached it, and continued to lie reassuringly still as he reached it and put his foot down on the Kill-O-Zap gun that still dangled from its limp fingers.

He reached down and picked it up, meeting no resistance.

The cop was quite clearly dead.

A quick examination revealed him to be from Blagulon Kappa--he was a methane-breathing life form, dependent on his space suit for survival in the thin oxygen atmosphere of Magrathea.

The tiny life-support system computer on his backpack appeared unexpectedly to have blown up.

Ford poked around in it in considerable astonishment.  These miniature suit computers usually had the full back-up of the main computer back on the ship, with which they were directly linked through the sub-etha.  Such a system was fail-safe in all circumstances other than total feedback malfunction, which was unheard of.

He hurried over to the other prone figure, and discovered that exactly the same impossible thing had happened to him, presumably simultaneously.  

He called the others over to look.  They came, shared his astonishment, but not his curiosity.  

"Let's get shot of this hole," said Zaphod.  "If whatever I'm supposed to be looking for is here, I don't want it."  He grabbed the second Kill-O-Zap gun, blasted a perfectly harmless accounting computer and rushed out into the corridor, followed by the others.  He very nearly blasted hell out of an aircar that stood waiting for them a few yards away.  The aircar was empty, but Arthur recognized it as belonging to Slartibartfast.

It had a note from him pinned to part of its sparse instrument panel.  The note had an arrow drawn on it, pointing at one of the controls.

It said, This is probably the best button to press.

It often happens like this in life--help coming from unexpected or unknown sources.  If you're Christian, like me, you would call it grace.  I suppose, if you aren't Christian, you might call it luck.  Whatever term you choose to apply, when you are the recipient of it, it fills you with a kind of deep gratitude and relief.

This evening, someone very close to me is dealing with some bad news, with the possibility of even more bad news tomorrow.  (Don't try to psychoanalyze what I'm going to be saying.  This is not about me.  It is a person I care about deeply.  Let's leave it at that.)  It has to do with his health.  Let's call this person "Drake."

Now, Drake has sort of created his situation because of the choices he's been making in his life.  He knows this.  He understands this.  The thing that confounds me is that he seems hell bent on continuing down the destructive path he's been on, even though God seems to be sending him a pretty clear warning.  Drake is doing what a lot of people do--ignoring God's signs, simply saying, "I'm going to live my life that way I want.  It's my life.  You--or God-- can't tell me what to do."

I'm really sad for Drake.  He's a good, loving person.  If I were to get Biblical, I'd call him a lost sheep.  He's stuck in a pattern of destructive behaviors that, eventually, are going to end his life prematurely.  No "if" in that statement.  It's just plain "when."  And I can't to anything to stop him.  I've tried and pretty much been shut down every time.

So, this evening, I started using something I was given at my spiritual writing workshop this weekend.  One of the ladies in one of my sessions offered my Lutheran prayer beads.  Now, I grew up Catholic, so I'm very comfortable saying the rosary.  I find that kind of deep meditation very helpful and healing.  The Lutheran prayer beads are a little different from reciting the rosary.

On each set of "week beads," you focus on different things.  There are four sets of week beads.  Each set has, you guessed it, seven beads.  On Week One, you focus on things for which you want to praise God.  Week Two, you confess your failings and weaknesses (sins).  Week Three, you lift up your needs--the joys and concerns you have.  Week Four, you offer thanks to God for the blessings in your life.

This isn't the first time I've encountered Lutheran prayer beads, but this is the first time that I've used them fully.  The feel of the beads rolling between my fingers was very familiar and comforting.  And I spent a good portion of my meditation focusing on Drake and his situation.  When I was done, I felt calmer.  Peaceful.  Like God had really heard what was in my heart.

If you have a moment tonight or tomorrow, please say some prayers for Drake.  He needs them.  Pray for his health.  Pray that he sees his way out of the hole that he's digging for himself.  Pray for grace.  And pray for Drake's family, as well.  They're really hurting and in need of a little of that grace, as well.

Saint Marty is grateful this evening for the unexpected gift of prayer beads.  They have brought some balance into his life tonight.

September 22: Book Club, Colson Whitehead, Foodies and Freaks

This post will be quick.  In about 45 minutes, the members of my book club will descend on my house, and the rest of my evening will be spent eating potluck and talking about Colson Whitehead's new book, The Nickel Boys.  (If you haven't read this book, you need to.  It's should be read by everyone living in Trump America.)

My book club is kind of an anomaly as book clubs go.  We have been holding our monthly get-togethers for over 13 or 14 years now.  Yes, members have come and gone--moved away, drifted off, lost interest.  However, our core group has remained.  I've been with the group since the beginning.  I was one of its founding members.  In my experience, most book clubs have a shelf life of about five years.  My book club has the shelf life of Twinkies. 

It started as a church activity.  I christened the group "The Good Book Club" and recruited members from my wife's Methodist church.  Of course, it helped that one of the other founding members was one of my best friends and, at the time, the pastor of the church.  Over the years, this tenuous tie to church has evaporated, and now we are just a group of book lovers, mostly liberal-minded and thoroughly bound to each other.

So, tonight, we bond over Colson Whitehead.  Two years ago, we read The Underground Railroad.  That book immediately became one of my favorite books of all time, and I found myself forcing it on other people like some kind of literary drug pusher.  "Here," I'd tell almost complete strangers, "you NEED to read this book."  While The Nickel Boys doesn't hold that same power over me, I still love it.  Whitehead is simply an amazing writer. 

It is almost 4:25 p.m.  Usually, a few people will show up early, so I have to close this post now.  My wife, who worked until 4 p.m., is stopping on her way home to pick up a meat-cheese-tray and a bag of ice.  (Did I neglect to tell you, my faithful disciples, that we eat really well at our gatherings?  We have been blessed with members who are wonderful readers AND cooks.)

I hope everyone reading this post has a group of friends like I do.  People who share my taste in books and my penchant for anti-Republican digressions.  We all go together like pea soup and ham.  Or weenies and crescents.  Or fettuccine and Alfredo.  Can you tell that I'm a little hungry?

I frequently have people ask if they can join this book club.  We used to have a pretty open door membership policy.  However, after many one-timers and two-timers (people who show up and never return), we are pretty cautious about whom we invite to join.  It has to be talked over by all the members of the book club.  While we're a fairly democratic and welcoming crew, we like people who won't annoy the crap out of us or not engage in the books fully.  In short, we like foodies, geeks, and freaks.

Saint Marty will be blessed this evening by great friends, great food, and a great book.

September 19-21: Nothing Happened, Out Loud, Bigfoot and Spiritual Writing

Something has happened, but the crew of the Heart of Gold isn't sure what . . .

"Hello?" called out Ford.

No answer.

"That's odd."

"Perhaps it's a trap."

"They haven't the wit."

"What were those thuds?"

"Dunno."

They waited for a few more seconds..

"Right," said Ford, "I'm going to have a look."

He glanced round at the others.

"Is no one going to say, No, you can't possibly, let me go instead?"

That all shook their heads.

"Oh well," he said, and stood up.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.  Ford peered through the thick smoke that was billowing out of the burning computer.

Cautiously he stepped out into the open.

Still nothing happened.

September 19

This passage is all about . . . nothing.  Nothing happens during this exchange.  But everyone is waiting for something to happen.  Anything.  

In my life, I always try to think one or two steps ahead.  That way, I'm prepared for anything that comes my way.  Sometimes it's a very tiring way to live.  This evening, I took a pause from this hectic existence.  I attended an event called Out Loud at the Joy Center is Ishpeming.  Out Loud is basically an open mic.  You can read poetry.  Or essays.  Tell stories.  Pretty much, anything goes.

I always find this event very satisfying.  Whether I'm reading a new poem or essay, or listening to another person's sharing, it fills my empty cup up.  It doesn't matter how many people show up.  Sometimes there's seven or eight attendees.  Other times, there's only two.  Rain or snow or tornado, Out Loud goes on.

This evening's Out Loud was attended by myself and my good friend, Gala.  She and I have bonded over the children we lost this fall to college life.  Her son is at the University of Michigan, while my daughter attends the university where I teach.  It's a painful thing letting go of these creatures that have been a part of our lives for nearly 20 years.  For Gala, it's a physical and emotional separation.  For me, it's simply emotional.  It's the inability to make choices for her now, to protect her from a world that can break your heart.  And, even though my daughter still lives at home, I rarely see her.  Our ships pass in the night sometimes, but I can go for several days without laying eyes on her.

It was raining when Out Loud was over.  Gala drove me home, and we took a selfie,  My friend, Helen, who owns the Joy Center, always says about Out Loud, "The people who are supposed to be there will be there."  Tonight, Gala and I were meant to be in each other's presence.  God put us together for a reason.  She was a blessing to me.  I hope I was to her, as well . . .

September 21

It has been a long couple of days.  Yesterday, after working in the medical office and then cleaning my church, I was exhausted.  I didn't have the energy to string together any syllables.  I tried, but what I wrote seemed . . . mundane.  I bored myself.  So, I gave myself another day's hiatus.  This evening, after leading three writing workshops and spending most of this Saturday behind the wheel of a car, I am again exhausted, but in a different way.

I worked with children at 11 a.m.  I was asked to be a part of the homecoming festivities at the university where I teach.  The theme of the workshop was Bigfoot.  That's right.  I got to talk about Bigfoot to a bunch of little boys, who were totally geeked about the subject.

Then, after Bigfoot, I hopped in my car with one of my best friends, and I drove 80-some miles to teach spiritual writing at a Lutheran women's retreat.  Another good friend, Rose, helped organize the event, and she thought of me immediately.  There was no talk of Bigfoot, but, through some contemplative meditation exercises, we wrote and talked about God and listening for His voice.  We wrote about what was troubling us.  Some participants wrote about their mothers.  Some wrote about being unsure of their calling.  Everyone, I think, encountered Jesus and God.

So, here I sit at my kitchen table now, after spending a couple hours cleaning my house this evening, in a state of exhaustion again.  It's good exhaustion.  I feel as if I made a difference in the world today.  Now, I am ready for bed.  For a good night's sleep, which hasn't been easy to accomplish recently.

This blog post is the last thing to scratch off from my "To Do" list.

Saint Marty give thanks for finished lists..

September 17-18: What Happened, Fresh Starts, Words

Our heroes are about to be Kill-O-Zapped to death . . .

But the end never came, at least not then.

Quite suddenly the barrage stopped, and the sudden silence afterward was punctuated by a couple of strangled gurgles and thuds.

The four stared at each other.

"What happened?" said Arthur.

"They stopped," said Zaphod with a shrug.

"Why?"

"Dunno, do you want to go and ask them?"

"No."

They waited.

After reading Tuesday night's post, many of you might be thinking, "What happened?"  Usually, I avoid engaging in political discussions.  My only answer is that it was late, and I was tired and cranky.  For those of my disciples who were turned off, I am tempted to apologize.  But I stand by what I said.  The United States has become a society that has legitimized bullying.

That being said, I promise not to talk in this post about Donald Trump and the criminal acts he's committed since taking over the Oval Office.  If there's one thing that I've learned about bullies in my life, it's this:  bullies love being the center of attention.  Therefore, I will not waste any more energy on Donald Trump.

In fact, I am so tired at this moment that I'm going to have to turn this into a two-part post.  Everyone has gone to bed in my house, my ten-year-old son a little reluctantly.  I am surrounded by night sounds--a clock ticking, the wind rattling my windows a little, and deep sleeping breaths.  Every day is a new beginning, a chance for fresh starts . . .

And this is a new day.  Thanks for hanging in there with me.  This week is turning into one of those weeks where many little and bigger things are encroaching on my time.  Projects and bills and work.  By the time I sit down in the evening, I'm one of two things--exhausted or busy.  Neither is conducive to writing blog posts.

It's strange, but, when I don't write at least one blog post a day, I feel a little off center.  The balance of my day is thrown awry.  Writing is the thing that keeps me in touch with my inner artist, which doesn't always get a chance to come out and play during the work week.  These blog posts are sometimes my only creative outlet.  They force me to pay attention to what's going on inside my head and heart.  Thus, if I don't blog, I neglect an important part of myself.

Tonight, I'm feeling anxious for various reasons.  Being away from my wife and kids does that to me.  When I'm present at home, I can sort of maintain the illusion of control.  I know it's an illusion, but it keeps my mind at ease.  I sort of thrive on that illusion.  It allows me to sleep on sleepless night.

So, I give thanks for these few minutes of writing on my laptop, sending my thoughts out into the world.  Even with these small paragraphs, I am more grounded, until I can get behind the wheel of my car, drive home, and walk through my front door.  See my wife.  Son.  Daughter.  They remind me why words were invented.  To say, "I love you."

Words have saved Saint Marty, over and over and over.