Sector Nine

Cottage bound; 400 square feet and little else. Everything within an unsteady hop or two. No crutches inside.

No car to use, can't engage the clutch on Daisy without putting everyone on the roads around in danger so she's loaned out to others who can use it so long as they limit the "hard brakes" in order for Progressive to give me a safe driver discount in t minus 28 days.

El Camino, albeit loaned with good intent and being a kind gesture, crapped out and left me sweaty, stinky and stranded.

All I've got is Roger Miller spinning on vinyl reminding me that the last word in lonesome is me.

I've got Stein and Steinbeck, 3 Lives and The Winter of our Discontent.

I've got C.S. and Chesterton, Perelandra and The Everlasting Man (way over my head but I appreciate his dry humor nonetheless).

I've got an overdue DVD on Pete Seeger, blacklisted and somewhat happily banished to his cabin in the woods but still spreading the message on his banjo: "This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender", causing me to think out loud that "Gee, it sure would be swell if musicians would follow the example of Seeger and Guthrie and still come up with saying such as this"

I've got my trusty recliner in which I mentally count down the days to the next podiatrist appointment (less than 4 now) while fighting the impulse to free my left leg from the bondage that prohibits the relieving of annoying and persistent itches, interspersed with evening games of backgammon with Matt and pestering Penny the dog who runs in fear from crutches like a herd of gazelles runs from a pride of lions in the African veldt.

A Life Well Lived

My grandfather is someone who regularly makes outlandish and unbelievable comments so it has become more and more rare for him to utter words that surprise me and catch me off guard.
However, that is exactly what he did during the course of a dinner conversation a few years back. After reading some passages from Scripture, my grandfather made the comment that not one time during his 80 plus years of life did he doubt the veracity and truth of the Bible.
I was flabbergasted that someone who had grown up in the Depression with no more than a 6th grade education could make a statement like that. After seeing his beloved first wife die during childbirth and seeing his only son choose a life of addiction. After outliving his eldest daughter, he lays the claim that he has never had any doubt concerning his faith.
Yet I, with a pampered lifestyle and a college education frequently battle moments of unbelief and questioning about whether or not I should place my faith in someone that I have never seen.
I, like Thomas, wish for Him to show me the holes in His body to prove to me once and for all that He actually had the strength to take and conquer the weight of humanity's sins.

Dhaka

There are numerous previously foreign sights, sounds and smells that I have become accustomed to since I arrived in Bangladesh.
It is no longer strange for me to see various forms of raw meat being swarmed by flies and hanging from hooks at a dilapidated roadside stand or to encounter chickens and sheep roaming freely through the streets while a herd of goats on leashes are being walked by a native through the swirling conglomeration of trucks, cars, busses, motorcycles, rickshaws and bicycles that make up Dhaka's traffic.
The sight of a man squatting on the side of the road to urinate no longer merits a second glance.
My ears no longer perk up when airplanes going to and from the nearby international airport fly low overhead but I must admit it still does make my heart race.
I fall asleep easily after being woken by the early morning Muslim call to prayer emanating from as yet undetermined nearby speakers instead of remaining wide awake and alert for the following half an hour with chills running up and down my spine.
My nose no longer wrinkles as I pass through the market replete with all the animals that pass their existence there or as I pass lots and lakes filled with rotting trash where stray cats and dogs make their home.
The past couple of days, however, have introduced a new sight, sound, and smell that I have yet to get used to.
In preparation for a Muslim holiday celebration, bulls have appeared on the streets of Dhaka to eventually be offered as a sacrifice and eaten.
So in addition to attempting to steer clear of ankle sprain producing potholes and periodic open sewers as well as trying to avoid getting hit by the components that form the maelstrom on Dhaka's streets, I now also have to keep my eyes peeled in order to avoid sinking my foot into a heap of putrid, steaming, literal bull crap.

Dhonnobad

During the extensive amount of time that I have spent in airports and also in foreign cities over the past couple of weeks, I have had the opportunity to observe the interactions of a plethora of parents and children.
This activity provided me with a healthy amount of laughs and also caused me to reminisce about some of my own memorable and cherished childhood experiences.
There are an innumerable amount that I could expound upon here but I will simply pick out some of the most enjoyable.
The memory that I recount most often most likely has to do with the Fisher Price tape recorder that Mama would break out when we grilled brats on the deck as well as sing-a-longs with the cousins and prayer time before bed. I would either end up laughing uncontrollably for reasons that were comical only to me or sing the chorus of the same song over and over regularly pausing to catch my breath in the midst of a word while Ben would inevitably complain and begin to cry when he didn't get to finish his song or was interrupted by me, Leah, Travis, Nick or Season. He pretty much cried for the majority of the time on the tapes. He still does this, by the way. Some things never change, I guess. Once a cry baby, always a cry baby. I still love him, though.
Another one that comes to the forefront of my mind would be picking up the "beans" from the monstrous tree that once stood in the front yard, visible as a landmark to us of where our home was as we drove down I-95.
It was pretty much the same script every time we filled the trash bags up.
Mama would mention what was on the menu for dinner that night. I'll use hot dogs as a common example.
"Well, Ben and Josh, do you want a hot dog tonight?"
"Yeah, yeah, hot dogs are awesome," we would respond.
"Well, then you need to fill up one bag each."
"Okay," I would reply as Ben would begin to cry because he was tired or for some other inane reason.
"Do you want more than one hot dog, Josh?"
"Yeah, I want two," I would say as I held up two fingers on one hand and stuck two fingers of the other hand into my nose to get rid of my boogers.
"Okay, well, that's another bag then. And keep your fingers out of your nose," said Mama.
"But don't I get another hot dog?" Ben asked as he wiped the snot caused by his constant crying from his nose.
"Well, Ben, if you would stop crying and start working you could probably have all the hot dogs in the house. Do you want any toppings on your hot dog, Josh?"
"Yes, I want catssup, mustaahd and pickel wellisshh."
"Okay, one more bag and you can have all those things."
"Alright, you got it, Mama."
Ben, meanwhile still hasn't filled one bag.
Parts of this conversation may be exaggerated but it made for a better story. Sorry for casting you in a bad light, Ben. You only cried a third of the time we picked up the beans.
Another happy memory involves Ben and me riding our bikes through the puddles immediately following a summer thunderstorm.
"Watch out for cars! Listen for thunder! Where there's thunder, there's lightning!!!" Mom would yell as we rode down our 45 degree angle driveway, ready to do some nasty jumps on the corner of High Ridge.
Other memories that stick out include playing catch in the backyard, making Christmas cookies and hard boiled Easter eggs, riding bikes with Mama over the overpass, aka the "jungle", to McDonald's for ice cream cones (I would always get the swirl), and last but not least Sunday afternoon drives along A1A in the '40 Ford with the same Oldies tape playing over and over.
"Do you love me? Do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl."
All this to say that I am incredibly thankful for the memories I have from my childhood.
Mom and Dad, you did a fabulous job raising both me and Ben and I am grateful to have you as parents.
If I eventually have children of my own, I hope I can do half as good a job as you have done.
As you well know, I will be unable to celebrate Thanksgiving with you this year, so this will have to suffice for my answer when Mom asks her annual Thanksgiving question of "What are you thankful for this year?"
Thank you for all your sacrifices.
"Dhonnobad," as they say here in Bangladesh.

Late night reading and ruminations

This is what happens when people walk away from me.
From the shortly possessed, constantly exchanged trenches of World War I with myriads of dead and dying boys lying between to the atomic fallout of World War II Japan with shadows permanently scarred on the ground being the only evidence that a human being once stood there.
From the gulag work camps of 1930's Soviet Union to the concentration camps of 1940's Germany.
From the napalm scorched rainforests of Vietnam to the killing fields of Cambodia.
From the seemingly endless flatlands of Somalia to the dry, dusty deserts of the Sudan soaked in blood.
From the government induced persecution of Chairman Mao's regime to government guided missiles striking Afghan villages.
This is what happens when my compassion and love leave a place.

The surface of the brackish, brown water is smooth as turquoise sea glass
Convincingly covering up the ecosystem that lies beneath-betrayed only by an occasional shimmering, silver mullet jumping in an attempt to escape its pursuer and prolong its life another day.
Salt is filling my nostrils and covering my skin like leprosy.
The gnarled mangrove trees are effectively blocking out any vestige of civilization or society and hiding stories beneath their roots of a simpler, slower time.
A time when one lived wisely by gathering enough food for the day from the toil of his own hands and did not have the perpetual worry of credit card and car payments hanging overhead as a result of greed, indulgence and uncontrolled, unchecked desires.

Forgiven

Occasionally seeking to do what is right
Continually being waylaid by temptation
Constantly being covered by grace.