September 10: I Write Novels, Mr. MAGA, Selfless Love

Ford and company are still dealing with the cops who are having existential crises . . .

Ford shouted out, "Hey, listen!  I think we've got enough problems of our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we'd all find it easier to cope!"

Another pause, and then the bullhorn again.

"Now see here, guy," said the voice, "you're not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we're a couple of intelligent caring guys that you'd probably quite like if you met us socially!  I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterward in seedy space-ranger bars, like some cops I could mention!  I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterward for hours to my girlfriend!"

"And I write novels!" chimed in the other cop.  "Though I haven't had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I'm in a meeeean mood!"

In a very funny way, this section illustrates a pretty important lesson.  These cops, who are trying to kill our heroes with Kill-O-Zap guns, have lives and problems and hopes and ambitions.  One has a girlfriend.  The other is a would-be novelist/writer.  Their two-dimensional character types (stupid, bloodthirsty bad guys) are battling their three-dimensional character developments.

Of course, we all go through our days judging people, putting them into categories that make sense to us.  If I see someone wearing a "Trump 2020" tee-shirt, I will make certain assumptions about that person--that he is a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot.  That is before I've spoken with that person, found out that he has a mother in a nursing home and has just been diagnosed with lymphoma.  Based on my shallow first impression, I immediately dismiss Mr. MAGA, make him less than human, which is exactly the tactic Donald Trump has been using during his whole time in office.

It's a question of control.  Using labels, we are able to approach a person/group of people not as fellow human beings.  By doing this, we cast ourselves as somehow superior.  It's a tactic that's been used throughout history.  It's how slavery was justified in the United States.  It's how Jews were sent to concentration camps in Nazi Germany.

If you call yourself a Christian, then you know that isn't really the way Jesus Christ operated.  For me, that is one of the great lessons of the Gospels.  Christ always hangs out with people from the lowest classes.  Fishermen.  Tax collectors.  Lepers.  Samaritans.  Gentiles.  Christ--because of his God-self--didn't judge these individuals.  He met them, ate with them, visited their homes, touched their wounds, loved them, and made them whole.

And that was one of Christ's greatest gifts--the ability to see all people as children of God, worthy of love and hope.  That Christ gift is something we should all try and emulate in our day-to-day interactions.  It's the way I try to be every day of my life, some days more successfully than others.  Anger and frustration have been my companions all too frequently in the last few months.  They have become comfortable emotions for me, especially when dealing with the irrationalities of mental illness and addiction.

Tonight, I have to remind myself to be more Christ-like.  To accept and love people in my life, despite their brokenness.  Or maybe because of their brokenness.  That's a tall order, especially if that brokenness causes you pain and heartache.  And that is another of the great lessons of the Jesus narrative.  Christ gave up His life for the human race, even though those humans didn't really deserve it.  In fact, those humans were kinda assholes to Him.  But that's what selfless love is all about.  And I ain't there tonight. 

It's time for bed.  Maybe Saint Marty will do better tomorrow.  There's always hope.

A reminder from a friend:

January 8: Being a Parent, "Rogue One," Classic Saint Marty

Without going into too much detail, I have to say that, sometimes, being a parent sucks.  It makes you say and do things that are difficult and stressful.  And, afterwards, you feel horrible about yourself, even though you've done the right thing.  Plus, your kid(s) won't speak to you, treat you like a gay Muslim Syrian immigrant at a Donald Trump campaign rally.

I am trying to be circumspect.  Don't want to go into much detail.  Let's just say that it's very quiet and chilly in my house at the moment, and that cold front is emanating from my daughter's bedroom.  She has spoken about ten words to me today, and I even took her to see Rogue One, which was fantastic.

I am a Star Wars freak, and, sitting in the theater, I could sort of forget that I am about five times older than the first time I saw Luke Skywalker and Han Solo and Princess Leia on the silver screen.  Could forget that I am married, a father of two, and a semi-responsible adult.  I felt like a ten-year-old again, if just for a little while.

I love my kids, would do anything to keep them safe and happy.  I think my daughter knows that.  Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knows that everything that I do for her comes from a place of deep, selfless love.

A couple of years ago on this day, I was thinking about love, as well . . .

January 8, 2015:  Put It Behind You, Strength of Love, Marriage

[Ives and his wife] moved downtown from Claremont Avenue some ten years before, in '84, after their apartment had been burglarized and because Annie though the change would do her husband good.  His stubborn inability to stop mourning their son, to keep his sorrow hidden from others but to let it flourish around her, had tempted Annie to leave him several times over the years.  But she loved him too much.  Again and again, she told him, "You have to put it behind you, my love," but as the years passed, nearly thirty of them, with their thousands of days and hundreds of thousands of hours, he still could not get a certain image out of his head:  his righteous and good son, stretched out on the sidewalk, eyes glazed and looking upward, suddenly aware and saddened that his physical life was ending, that image coming to Ives again and again.

Edward and Annie's marriage is tested in Mr. Ives' Christmas.  Ives simply cannot stop mourning.  For three decades, he keeps reliving the loss of his son.  Every day.  Every hour.  Ives is angry and sad and confused.  He does a good job of hiding these feelings from everybody but his wife, who bears the heavy burden of her husband's profound sorrow.  She contemplates leaving him, but she can't.  She loves him too much.

Many aspects of this novel move me.  However, the depth of love between Ives and Annie moves me the most deeply.  It's a love that has to endure great loss (the death of a child).  Yet it endures.  Because that's the power of love, full of sacrifice and struggle and hope.

Yes, I'm going to get a little sentimental in this post.  My marriage has endured a lot of hardships.  At one point, it even seemed as though it simply wasn't going to survive.  My wife was living in another town, a hundred miles distant.  I was raising our daughter by myself, with a lot of help from my family and my wife's family.  It was one of the darkest times of my life.  Some days, I would drag myself out of bed in the morning, drag myself through my work day, and then drag myself home.  It was like moving in slow motion every second.  And every second was a little painful.


But I didn't give up.  I took care of my daughter, and I tried to act with love and understanding toward my spouse (I didn't always succeed).  It wasn't easy.  But marriage isn't always easy.  It takes work and compassion and compromise.  This coming October, my wife and I will celebrate our twentieth anniversary.  Twenty years.  We have two beautiful children who know that they are loved and cherished.  We have a home.  And we have each other.  That's love.  Through the darkness and the light.  Annie Ives knows this.

Saint Marty knows it, too.

Someone who knew a great deal about love

July 17: Forfeits, Friends, Happiness

Scrooge's niece was not one of the blind-man's buff party, but was made comfortable with a large chair and a footstool, in a snug corner, where the Ghost and Scrooge were close behind her.  But she joined in the forfeits, and loved her love to admiration with all the letters of the alphabet.  Likewise at the game How, When, and Where, she was very great, and to the secret joy of Scrooge's nephew, beat her sisters hollow:  though they were sharp girls too, as Topper could have told you.  There might have been twenty people there, young and old, but they all played, and so did Scrooge; for, wholly forgetting in the interest he had in what was going on, that his voice made no sound in their ears, he sometimes came out with his guess quite loud, and very often guessed quite right, too; for the sharpest needle, best Whitechapel, warranted not to cut in the eye, was not sharper than Scrooge:  blunt as he took it in his head to be.

This is one of the best scenes in the novel:  Scrooge losing himself in the festivities of his nephew's Christmas party, playing the games, yelling out answers, dancing and singing.  It's the comic relief, showing the gaiety and frivolity of the holiday, and demonstrating Scrooge's fun-loving side, which has been trapped inside him for decades.  It's also one of the first scenes where Scrooge becomes fully human and empathetic.

I love the scenes with Scrooge's nephew, Fred, and his wife.  I love reading about Fred's friends laughing and enjoying themselves.  I like the goodwill exhibited by everyone.  It's obvious that everyone has true love and affection for Fred and each other.

This evening, I'm meeting up with one of my best friends ("K") who's visiting from Washington state with her two daughters.  We're going to go to a playground and then swimming in Lake Superior, weather permitting.  K is, literally, one of the best people I know.  She's patient, kind, and giving.  She has a special needs child, and watching K deal with her daughter's meltdowns and outbursts is pretty amazing.  K can connect with a little girl who seems disconnected from the world.  That is the miracle of K.

So, I'm really looking forward to being with her and her family.  It's going to be a good night, the kind of night Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present would have enjoyed.  It's all about selfless and unconditional love.  K makes me a better person, teaches me what real friendship is all about, accepts all of my small (and large) imperfections.

I can almost hear K right now:  "You don't have imperfections.  Not you.  You are the most perfect person I know."

That's why Saint Marty loves K so much.

Love's all about selflessness, until it effects you in some way