Talk to Yourself So that the Voice in Your Head Doesn't Have a Chance

Summer school ended a few weeks ago to my joy and only a couple of weeks remain of forty-hour work days at Lafarge. This whole summer has been one moment of cringing after another. Getting up to my alarm at 6:00 in the morning, I cringe. Pulling on my stiff boots-a result of being dried out from cement dust-and attempting to tie my fraying shoe laces, I cringe. Plopping down into my dirty car seat and breathing in the aroma of sweat and dirt, I cringe. Pulling into the Lafarge parking lot and stepping out into the already eighty-degree, stale air, I cringe. Walking into the control room to discover my meaning and worth for the day, I cringe. Going about the daily business of working at a cement plant, I cringe and wish for the days to go by quicker. In the midst of this seemingly hopeless chain of events a little voice in the back of my head controls the levers and knobs in the motherboard that is my brain. The moment I wake up, it tells me I am doing something that defies the laws of comfort and happiness. It then pushes the cringe button which promptly tenses my muscles and sends chills of discomfort up my spine. This little voice in my head tells me all sorts of things about my life of school and work. It tells me how little fun I am having and how hard things are.

One day I realized two important things as I shoved my broom across the floor kicking up a plume of dust. These two realizations would change the way I looked at the hard things I had to do in life.

1. The voice in my head is wrong.
Point one’s simple reality threw me in a one hundred eighty degree direction. All of the sudden I realized that I could no longer listen to the voice that I had, no doubt, created. The voice was an instrument being used to destroy joy, hope, and meaning in my life, and putting in their place irritation, despair, and darkness.

2. I can talk to myself, using scripture, the Holy Spirit, and my own motherboard.
There is a part of a person that knows how to talk and reason. Yes, sometimes after listening to that bad, mouthy little voice one can begin to wonder what happened to reasoning. I know I have. But there definitely is a part of a person that can use reason and other sources to defy the little voice inside. This reasoning part of me really began to kick in as I was sweeping that fateful day. I remember thinking about how miserable I felt pushing a broom at seven in the morning when I could be in bed. All of the sudden the little voice was drowned out by reason. I began thinking of Job. He had everything going for him. He had a full family, a house, prosperity flowing from every corner of his property. Then, in one day it was all taken from him. And yet, for a while, he was joyful and did not let the despair of his situation overtake him. There I was complaining about my situation listening to an immature voice when I had a family, a home, and prosperity (in the form of friends and Christ). But one thing stood out more than those things. The very thing I was complaining about (work) was the very thing with which God had blessed me. The job I dreaded and hated so much was the financial means I had prayed about years before. Very soon the little evil voice in my head had disappeared as, through scripture and the holey spirit, I was talked out of the darkness and despair I was experiencing.

Have you ever seen those cartoons with the angel and devil on either shoulder of a character who is about to make a choice? His face contorted into fear or confusion as he tries to make a decision, he looks from one shoulder and then to another as he listens to the voice of reason and the voice of desire. The devil, or one of his minions, sits on one shoulder trying to make the character feel good about doing something wrong. He usually makes enticing points and can sometimes make the person feel bad about his current state. An angel, usually on the right shoulder, tries to prove the opposite point. He doesn’t necessarily try to entice the character but instead insists he does the right thing, whether it benefits himself or not. However ridiculous this may sound, those two forces were what I faced that day while I swept and cleaned. On one shoulder was the voice telling me how bad my situation was and enticing me to hate my job and seek some form of comfort. On the other shoulder sat God, reason, scripture, and my own intellect. These told me to forbear with my job. They told me how good I had it compared to others. They told me how the very thing I hated was a very big blessing from the Lord.

The next time you are in a situation and that little voice begins to makes its little enticing speeches, blow it off your left shoulder, look to your right, resort to reason, and begin talking to yourself so the voice in your head doesn’t have a chance.

For Real? Reality and Perception in Contrasted

The definition of reality in the Merriam Webster dictionary states that it is neither derivative nor dependent but exists necessarily. According to its definition, then, reality exists outside of distortion, manipulation and belief. Such a source cannot be affected by anything except its natural flow of cause and effect events. In a sense, reality is just there. What I think about it will not affect it. Because reality is so objective and because what I see and believe is so subjective, such a fickle beast as perception should never be equated with reality. The two don’t mix in the slightest, and the belief that they have ever had any true correlation, has greatly affected society as a whole in many different ways.

Perception, in contrast to sensation, is a very relative part of the human body. Unlike the senses, it occurs inside the brain and does not interact directly with outside stimuli. In the process of perception, the brain uses the senses’ reaction to stimuli as a sort of book which it reads and interprets. Once the information is interpreted, the source of the brain will come to an understanding of the phenomenon it sensed.

How people hear things is a great example of sensation and perception. When someone makes a speech, his words are only sound waves buffeting the ear. This is the sense stage of hearing and is only the start of the perception process. If the procedure ended here, the listener would never successfully comprehend the speaker’s words. He would only sense the vibration of the sound waves and an intangible noise in his ears. Perception takes the process of hearing to the next level. The sound waves travel into the ear through a network of specially crafted devices: hair cells, three very small vibrating bones, and other such structures. These interactions create electrical signals which flow to the brain. The brain interprets these signals through tiny cells called neurons and formulates an understandable message out of the jumbled sound waves.

Though perception does give us an idea of surrounding reality, it can never be equated to this certain force. What we perceive as a sound, as a vision, or as a feeling on our skin, can be easily manipulated by the electronic signals in our brain. Whether the distortion is a lesser version of reality, like nearsightedness, or a similar version of reality, like a blue ray version of the discovery channel; what we interpret from surrounding stimuli, will always be distorted by how our brain decodes the information it is given.

What one sees, hears, touches, and smells can be affected by more than just distortions in the way our brain interprets signals, though. What our senses detect can also be distorted by what we believe.

I once walked through the ghetto part of a town in Ponca City, Oklahoma. For some reason an atrocious smell would always waft over and burn my nose. I had assumed that the smell was associated with the gas plant near my house. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered the smell was coming from a fast food restaurant not to far away from where I walked. Because I could see the gas plant and new that a bad smell usually came from it, I perceived that the odder stinging my nose was a polluted stench. But I came to find out that the stench was not bad at all. Instead, it was a great fragrance of the greasy food I had enjoyed inhaling many times before in other areas of town. I believed one thing and my brain perceived the outside reality accordingly.

This tendency for our minds to perceive things that are not perfect forms of reality can cause conflict in different relationships. An argument between two people might result from misperceiving the reality of a situation. One person may have perceived one thing a person was doing or saying and judged that person, while that other person may have been trying to do something else entirely. An argument may result when it could have easily been avoided through a mutual understanding of the actual reality of the situation.

Though there are many bad things that can result from this difference of perception and reality there are also some benefits. Because our brain’s perception can be distorted, the mind is able to make adjustments for the human senses. Within the eye, at its center, there is a gap where cones and other light receptors are missing. This gap acts as a blind spot. When one looks at an object, he should not be able to see it as a whole. Instead, there should be a gap in it where his eye is not sensing the reflected light. The brain, however, takes what it knows about the reality of the object and fills in this gap allowing the human to see it exactly in its actual form.

So reality is definitely not the same as what we perceive. It is a stable, unaffected entity that exists independent of our realm of belief and perception. Realizing the true implications of this fact could be a great step towards understanding how to deal with differences in perception and how to appreciate the alterations our brain makes, through perception, to give our senses a fuller view of reality. The mind is truly amazing, reality is truly amazing, and the interaction that occurs between the two, however distorted or beneficial, is also truly amazing.

B.F. Skinner and Conditioning

Think of the world in which you live. Consider the interactions of everyone you have ever seen. Imagine the government and the motivations which drive it to continue existing. Look at the American economy at how it thrives and fails. Think of how any given business flourishes. Now, consider the motivations that drive you, specifically, to do what you do. What is the common denominator in all of these circumstances? Simply answered, it is free will. Because they chose to do so, people interact with each other. Because they had great goals for themselves and America, people utilize their free choice to do what they did whether they had dinner with a friend, started a business, or ran as a presidential candidate. If free will is taken out of the equation, these seemingly easy-to-operate, social functions and interactions would cease to be what they are. B.F. Skinner believed that man could live in a society without free will. In fact, He believed that man would thrive, as he had never thrived before, in such a world. His basic idea was to eliminate free will and put, in it is place, conditioning. This conditioning would mold the actions of humans until they did what they needed to do and nothing else. As I said before, this world could never be. To take free will out of the equation was to take humanity and even the essence of life out of everything that is done in this world.

B.F. Skinner discovered a lot about the behaviors of living things. He used something he called conditioning to create a desired chain of behaviors or reactions from the animals he tested.

Now called operant conditioning, this method was tested on rats. Skinner created a “Skinner box” which contained a rat, a lever, and food. At one point in the experiment the rat accidently knocked the lever and food pored out a container into the animal’s tray. It didn’t take too long for the rat to become aware that if he pulled the lever, he would be rewarded with food.

This method of conditioning, unlike classical conditioning, required a behavior from the animal before any sort of worth-wild stimulus would appear. Once the behavior occurred—in this case the behavior was the rat hitting the lever—the stimulus would occur—in this case the stimulus was the food.

Skinner’s method of conditioning did not just include rats. Monkeys and many other different animals were conditioned to behave in different ways.

Not all of Skinner’s methods were as simple as a rat pulling a lever. The behaviors could be long and complex turning into a chain or series of actions which would finally lead to a desired stimulus.

After much research and experimenting, Skinner believed that it was possible to use this method of conditioning to make anyone behave desirably. He believed that the whole human race could be conditioned to become a utopian society. Humans would do the right things and then they would be rewarded with some sort of stimulus.

At first glance, maybe Skinner’s idea of conditioning to create a Utopia does not seem all that unrealistic. But, after much examination, the idea does become very absurd. His plan would eliminate free will, thinking, and even individual purpose to create a “supposedly” better world. In the end, however, he would only produce brain washed individuals who did things so that they could receive a desired stimulus such as food or money. Even if it was possible to control people’s behavior through this conditioning it would not make the world, the economy, the government, or individual lives any better. In fact, it would make all of those things worse if not completely useless.

Everything we do is out of a desire of the body and the mind. We all have preconceived ideas which make us act as we do. To try to reduce those ideas and thoughts into a series of controlled, manipulated actions would make our functioning world a non-functioning dictatorship. The economy would no longer be stimulated but, instead, would decline as people no longer purchased what they wanted. The government would no longer function on the ideals and values of free thinking individuals but on a standard that might not meet the needs of the people. Individual interaction would be reduced to nothing more than meaningless actions made to produce a desired stimulus. Humanity would cease to be humanity and all social institutions would cease to function.

Though conditioning would not be effective in creating a utopian society, conditioning could be used effectively in every day life. Imagine if one had a child that did not want to clean his room. If that person were to treat this situation as Skinner might, he would first imagine that cleaning the room was a behavior. In order to produce this behavior in his child he would either promise to reward that child for cleaning his room or promise to take away an undesirable stimulus for cleaning his room. In this way, through operant conditioning, the child would clean his room—this would be the desired behavior—and in return, the child’s parent would reward his child—this would be the desired stimulus. Anyone could do this in any facet of his life. This could make life easier and better whether a person did it to his child, the people under him at work, or even to himself.

So in conclusion, was Skinner’s idea of creating a utopia through conditioning plausible? Not really. His idea would eliminate everything great about our society. His idea would reduce thinking and ideals to mindless actions. His idea would destroy what government, economy, and society we possess sucking it of its life and making it a monotonous useless beast. The only way the world as we know it can truly survive is through the free-thinking human individuals. We should do what we do because of our values not because of a mindless desire for food or money. In the end, though conditioning cannot create a utopia, it can still be used in every day life to make life better whether it is used on children, those subordinate to a person, or even on oneself. Yes, conditioning is an interesting and affective tool, but it should never be used as anything more than that. To make it into a weapon that would mold the world into a utopia is not only absurd but useless.

History Reaction Paper: Segregation

The world has seen its fair share of conflict. As the decades have passed by, a clash of ideas and values between different groups of people has always existed. Single acts of hostility based on misguided principles have caused immense world wars; conflict from opposing religious ideals has created much bloodshed and cruel, inhumane acts; and values with their own underhanded agendas or justice driven goals, have brought out the worst and best of humanity. In the late 1800’s, when African Americans were working up hill to find their rightful place in American society, another such conflict was causing commotion within the states. This fight of values between the Southern defiance of the south and the radical republicans of the north would continue for many decades. It was a sort of tug-a-war that would finally end, resolving the oppression of African Americans.

In 1892 Homer Plessey, an African American, boarded a train on the white section of one of the cars. During this time, Jim Crow laws made it impossible for black people to enjoy the luxury of white-run institutions. African Americans were, instead, separated from the white southerners. The environment they were consequently placed in proved less extravagant and, most of the time, below human standards.

Instead of hiding his identity, Plessey proudly proclaimed his ethnicity, drawing attention to the authorities in the train. After much arguing, the white powers threw him out because he would not comply with their segregation rules. This greatly angered Plessey and, by a monumental move, he attempted to fight the injustice he had experienced that day.

Plessey plead before the Federal Court that he had been treated unconstitutionally. This case became known as Plessey v. Fergusson. After a long hard fight Plessey’s plea was regretfully turned down.

Though Plessey did not win the case, he did gain the “equal but separate” clause. Black people would still be segregated from white people, but America had to ensure that black institutions were just as good as white institutions. Though the “equal but separate” clause promised equal treatment to black people, it became just another form of racial discrimination. The black were ultimately treated just as unfairly as they had before.

This discrimination lasted for fifty years until another landmark case, Brown v. Board of Education. In this 1956 court ruling, the “Equal but Separate” clause was deemed unconstitutional and racist. As a result, segregation within schools was demolished and black children were allowed to attend white institutions for the first time.

As great as this breakthrough seemed, it stirred up a hornets nest in the south resulting in the “Southern Manifesto” document written to the president. In this letter, the southerners accused the supreme court of abusing its judicial powers. The American government had its checks and balances. Not one of the three powers within the United States had supreme rule. The president answered to congress and the courts, congress answered to the president and to laws passed by the courts, and the courts answered to legislature and to the executive power.

According to southerners; by overruling segregation in American schools, the judicial branch had directly contradicted previous segregation laws passed by congress. The south also believed that the courts ruling undermined the constitution and encroached on the rights of the states and the people. The constitution had never mentioned anything about education and the 14th amendment did not seem to limit a states preferred educational method whether it segregated black people or not.

In general, the south was not happy with “Brown v. Board of Education” and it was willing to fight the court ruling. In one such case, the actions of a certain school called for the intervention of the President.

The Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, fought adamantly against desegregation in America forming mobs to stop black people from going to their school. They held the core beliefs of the south and would not willingly allow black children to mingle with white children.

President Dwight D. Eisenhower was very angry with the schools retaliation to desegregation. He believed that laws, not men, were supreme within the United States. By ignoring the court order, this High school was directly contradicting that belief. In response, the president addressed the nation, countering the south’s actions by appealing to order and unity within America.

At the heart of their actions, the south was promoting chaos within the American nation. Through their mobs, they were trashing the ideals of government and were essentially saying that their pride as white Americans was more important than values and principles created by government.

Eisenhower saw these actions as not only a detriment to inner-national peace and unity, but also as a detriment to the United State’s international goals. Other nations would look at these racist acts against government rule and see a nation that was violating moral and ethical values. The president wanted to rule a nation that upheld human rights and that exemplified, to other nations, the core beliefs every government should have. He did not want to be apart of a hypocritical country that spoke for peace and equality among nations when it could not uphold peace or equality within its own boundaries.

Following his address to America, Eisenhower intervened in Arkansas by sending troops. These men would stop the mobs that had gathered against the courts ruling and would make sure that the school upheld the desegregation of black and white alike.

Dwight D. Eisenhower, by his very actions, demonstrated what it meant to be a great leader for the American nation. In a time of conflict, he took immediate action to uphold the values and beliefs of the nation he ruled. He promoted peace and equality within the United States and exemplified this same philosophy to the surrounding peoples. As I read Eisenhower’s address to the American people I was struck by how important our government is. If it were not for the ideals that our nation rests upon and for the great leaders like Dwight Eisenhower who upheld these ideals, we would cease to be a great nation. Instead we would sink into the depths of corruption and chaos.

History Reaction Paper: The Cold War

Throughout the centuries, the world has thrived by the symbiotic relationships of nations. One nation helped another in its time of greatest need sacrificing some of its own resources for the protection and survival of that other nation. One nation preferred global dominance over mutual, unhindered peace, conquering and being conquered. One nation needed recourses and, in an attempt to maintain global peace, formed a relationship of trade and mutual trust with the other nations. Ultimately, the history of the world has been determined by these actions and reactions of peoples. Even some of the smallest decisions of individuals have been influenced by the international circumstances of that particular time.

During the late twentieth century, there was a great tension between two nations, Russia (USSR) and America (US). Both were considered great world powers. They had amassed a large amount of weapons and had even created the devastating atomic bomb.

The tension, however, was not great enough to cause a war. Though there were times when war seemed inevitable, always a period of calm would rebuild a temporary equilibrium between the two knocking heads. After only a short time, however, something else would surface causing the fear and tension to rise once more.

This sort of international fluctuation continued tearing at the nations and eventually provoked an interesting assortment of responses from different politicians.

Henry A. Wallace sympathized with the USSR and felt that Russia’s so called “hostility” was only retaliation to former abuse. In a letter he wrote to President Truman, Wallace related several different historical confrontations between Russia and other nations. He believed that Russia was a mistreated nation being tossed here and there amongst the many different world powers. It only seemed fair to Wallace that Russia should feel the need to build weapons like the atomic bomb and begin to form a large defensive force.

Though Henry A Wallace sympathized with the USSR, he did not condone the use of Atomic warfare. He believed such weaponry could only result in a bruised and battered land. According to him, atomic war would not address the problem of international conflict but would only make it worse.

Hitting at the heart of the issue, Wallace believed that world peace could only be achieved through America’s acceptance of the USSR, a mutual laying-down of certain weapons, and other forms of peaceful compromise. Once people understood that the world could thrive with coexisting, different political thought processes without the use of weapons of mass destruction; then international interaction could become a tranquil, functioning environment.

Wallace was making an important point that, at first, seems reasonable and effective. It would be wonderful if the world consisted of rational thinking, peaceful-minded people. International trade would be such a smoother process and so many devastating wars could be avoided.

But such a mindset would never pass the realm of theory. Humans are imperfect. They are not robots who, when commanded to do certain things, will always obey or listen. In an attempt to show a desire for peace, one nation could very easily lay down its weapons and take away the defenses it built. But another nation, full of humans that desire power and money, may just as easily utilize that opportunity to obliterate its enemy.

I tend to agree with an opposing view of this Cold War standoff between the US and USSR. Clark Clifford believed that Russia and its communist philosophy was a great danger to the United States and needed to be warily watched. The USSR was a large world power. It had men and weapons at its disposal and, as it made seeming compromises with other nations, was growing more powerful and more dangerous.

The Russians rationalized this massive armament and gaining of power by passing the blame to America. According to circulating “Kremlin propaganda” in Russia, Monopoly Capitalism threatened the world with war. In essence, this propaganda labeled America’s Ideology as an intimidation to the western hemisphere. In Clifford’s view, however, the USSR’s retaliation was a far greater threat than the so called dangerous Monopoly Capitalism of America. Russia’s foreign policy essentially prepared it for war against such main capitalist nations as America. This policy allowed for a great increase in its previous military strength which incorporated developing atomic weapons and guided missiles, gaining materials for biological warfare, training a strategic air force, and building submarines of great cruising range.

Clifford saw this threat and knew that it was only a matter of time before Russia used its recourses against America. He was adamantly against America laying down its defenses. The US could not just sit on its thumbs and let dogma like communism continue existing in the world. Ultimately, he knew, the USSR doctrine would either destroy or be destroyed. No amount of peace on America’s part would stop the damage.

I agree that America should have been well prepared for such a force as the USSR. Laying down weapons and living at peace with Russia would have been nice. But such an action was neither pliable nor logical. In a world of real hostility and little mercy where power, money, and paranoia overruled all rational action, being prepared for war and being wary of the enemy was the only way to survive. In theory, Wallace had a great idea, but, in practicality, Clifford had the best course of action.

History Paper

The Southern defiance was determined to repel any civil rights the African Americans might attain after the Civil War. During this reconstruction period, Southerners increasingly persecuted former slaves. They used many forms of maltreatment including something known as lynching which was a brutal form of rogue governing in the Southern states. If a former slave attempted to do anything outside his rights as a second-class citizen, he would be convicted immediately of a heinous crime, usually rape, and would be burned, hung, or mutilated. It is frustrating to contemplate the African American’s predicament, and I definitely agree with the sentiments of certain journalists who wrote on such circumstances. No matter the justification, what Southerners did toward their fellow man was nothing less than criminal and illogical.

The excuses Southerners used to rationalize their behavior were astounding and
discouraging. According to Mary Church Terrell in her article on lynching, Southerners supposedly lynched African Americans to punish them for such ghastly crimes as rape. The statistics on rape in the United States during that time, however, did not come close to supporting the amount of lynching against former slaves.

Southerners also believed that those black people striving for equality were the very same rapists and murderers afflicting the American land. Mary went on to dispel that theory as well. According to her research, the educated, Northern, former slaves who strove for equality were not criminals. They were good members of society upholding the morals and laws of American society. It was the uneducated, oppressed black people in the south who primarily committed the crimes.

Southerners thirdly mistakenly stereotyped the whole African American race. They attributed the few horrific crimes committed by a very small fraction of the black population to all former slaves in the United States. According to Southerners, even the most moral, intelligent African American was not capable of hating rape or rejecting it as something acceptable.

Mary Church Terrell was right when she accused the Southerners of lying and murder. They were committing crimes in the name of justice. Instead of sharing power with African Americans, they attempted to put the former slaves in a second class position. By their acts of passionate hate, the Southerners destroyed moral and ethical boundaries and became, in essence, the kind of people they hated.

As I read an account of Samuel Petty’s lynching I grimaced at the general acceptance of the crowd. Even the young twelve-year-old children chased after the African American and participated in the gruesome lynching process. The whole town was involved. No one cared whether they were seen. According to a reporter from the Crisis, “no one attempted to hide their identity”. Everyone shamelessly beat, mutated, and burned Samuel Petty. Even the jury on the case was involved in the lynching.

This awful reality was a normal occurrence and acceptable practice during that time. It was a result of years of rationalization and indoctrination. One white male approved of it and passed that approval to his son who then passed it to his son. Because of this process, whole towns, like the one that lynched Samuel Petty, participated in what was essentially murder. No one was blamed or accused, and white families continued their lives.

These atrocious acts were immoral and rightfully frowned upon by such activists as Mary Church Terrell. In so many words, Mary made a great point. It would have been so much better if such indoctrination could have been stopped before it infected another generation. So many lives could have been saved and former slaves could have gained the freedom they rightfully deserved.

Chapter 2

Ryland moaned and focused on the room around him. Darkness surrounded every corner. No help there. Where was he? Something didn’t feel right. His ankles were in a great amount of pain and his head was about to explode. For some reason, all the blood had rushed to his head.

Both hands brushing across the wood floor, he realized that he was upside down. As he tried to kick his way out of ropes binding his ankles, he began to sway back and forth. His brown hair hung suspended downward.

What had happened? He was trying to remember the last thing he had seen. He remembered leaving school. He had walked through the ally past the rundown duplexes, through Baker’s Graveyard, and then into the new neighborhood towards the historic homes. He remembered some of the seniors coming up behind him. They had pushed him around a little and thrown his backpack into the bushes. There had been a serious discussion. He had been challenged to do something. What was it: old house; whispers in the dark? He had been terrified.

Then everything came back in a rush. He had been dared to go into the old Victorian home. Sweaty handed and shaking, he had walked into the house. He had heard a voice and had seen a figure. The figure had stepped into the hallway. He remembered feeling a sting on his arm. Then everything had gone black. Now he was hanging upside down helplessly, a perfect target.

All of the sudden uncertainty gave way to fear. The figure was somewhere in the house lurking, maybe even watching Ryland hanging disoriented in the dark. He tried more frantically to get out of the ropes. Swaying even more violently then before, he pushed against the floor to stabilize himself. Unfortunately, his left hand slipped and slid across the wood. He yelped in pain feeling a splinter dig into his flesh.

A floor board creaked in the corner and Ryland suddenly forgot the pain. “Who’s their,” he said. Silence ensued. “Please, say something!” He waited hoping that this was just some stupid, elaborate prank. The dark roomed remained silent and still. If this was a prank, he would never leave his house again. If it was real, well, he might not make it back to his house alive. Hanging in the dark, growing more tired by the minute, he wondered whether other young, helpless losers had been dared to go into this same house. Maybe he was only a high-school statistic, one of the young stupid percent whose gullibility had made him a great target for high-school jocks.

Another floorboard creaked. It groaned loud and long as if someone was leaning hard on the wood. In one last attempt to slip out of the bonds around his ankles, Ryland tried to pull himself up to grab the rope and loosen it. No luck. He fell back into his original hanging position cringing at the sudden sharp pain in his stomach. He remember the first day of high school, he had been given the choice of table tennis or PE. Out of pure practicality, he had picked table tennis. There was no way he could keep up in PE, at least, not with his body type, he remembered thinking. Now sore and unable to pull himself up, he wished he had picked PE.

Another sound from that same corner drew Ryland’s eyes away from where he thought his feet might be. He had a perfect view of that area in the room. Whoever, whatever it was crouching in the dark would not leave with out Ryland’s getting a glimpse. He waited, feeling the pressure growing in his scull. His eyes began to water and his hands began to tingle. Everything ached, he realized. Somehow, he had to do something to get away. Before long he would black out again. Probably for the last time.

Ryland pulled himself up an inch and let himself drop. The rope became tense and gave a little. His heart skipped a beat. He did this again and again. In a matter of minutes, he could feel his hair touching the ground. No doubt, the knot was almost completely undone. As he contemplated whether or not he should drop again, fearing that he might break his neck, the rope gave way altogether. He fell to the ground in a heap.

The sudden impact threw Ryland’s senses out the door. He tried to push himself off the ground but could not find the strength. His fingers slipped on the smooth wood surface and he went crashing down with another resounding THUD! Stars floated above his head. He gasped for breath. Rolling over onto his back he looked up at what was probably the ceiling. The blackness seemed to float around and he could hear his strained breathing.

“You can’t hide,”

The whisper sent shockwaves up Ryland’s spine, and Goosebumps across his arm. As strange as it seemed, the voice did not come from with in the room or, even, within the house. The sound originated inside his head.

“That’s right. I know what you are thinking.”

The voice cackled as it read Ryland’s deepest thoughts. When would the dizziness go away he wondered as he felt the whole house bend in towards him. If he were younger and believed in all of the fairytales, he might have thought the house was alive.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland was able to stand up and staggered towards the door way. But as he leaned in towards the wall to steady himself, he missed it altogether and almost fell flat on his face. Was it his imagination or had the wall moved? He moaned. It seemed as if the whole house was against him. Slipping through the opening of the door way he looked to his left. The corridor tapered off into complete darkness. Not an ounce of light revealed what lay beyond. Looking to his right, Ryland could just make out a dim light. The yellow glow illuminated a stair case and a large door. Freedom, he thought.

Was this really as easy as it seemed? Someone had taken the time to kidnap him and tie him up. Now he was going to walk out the door as if he had just come for a visit and was leaving? Ryland had been in high school long enough to realize that life wasn’t that easy. As he had learned to do some many times, he began to ask himself, What is the catch?

The answer was quickly manifest in the form of a scraping noise to Ryland’s left and a voice in his head. “The catch is simple,” the voice said. It seemed to understand his train of thought. He felt a sweat drop slide down his cheek. “Sadly,” the voice taunted, “You can escape, but only from your earthly body.” The scraping noise became louder.

Ryland took that as a hint and sprinted towards the front door. As he ran down the hall he passed a room glowing with light from a lamp. For just that second the whole world seemed to slow down. He looked into the room and could see an older man sitting in a recliner, eyes glued to a television screen. A bottle of beer, waded napkins, old newspapers and half eaten food lay on a table next to him. The floor appeared as dirty as the table. Old cloths covered the carpet. Piles of books lay in one corner of the room. Cardboard boxes lined the walls.

Ryland couldn’t remember seeing the light or the man earlier. But he did remembered the room. It had been covered with objects he had not been able to make out in the dark.

All of the sudden the world seemed to speed up again as he passed the room. Approaching the door, He grasped the door knob, twisting and pulling back as hard as he could. But it would not budge. He became more frantic by the moment and Looked over his shoulder. A figure step out of the shadows of the hallway and into the light. Ryland closed his eyes and tugged again.

“Nice try” the voice said sarcastically. “Now we are back to square one.” Ryland felt a strong arm grip his shoulder. "look into my eyes, so that you can know true fear." The voice was suddenly so much more menacing. Unable to avoide the temptation to look Ryland tilted his head upward but was suddenly stoped by another voice.

“Is anyone there?”

Ryland opened his eyes and noticed a man standing in the light. The same man had been in the lighted room just a second ago. His hair was scraggly and matted in some places. His glasses hung on the tip of his nose and were slightly crooked. His small, tight shirt hardly covered the belly that hung over his pants.

Ryland stood up noticing that his pursuer had vanished. “Sorry to bother you sir,” He said, walking towards the man, hoping for sanctuary from his tormenter. “My name is Ryland; I did not mean to trespass. I had no idea that anyone lived here.” He looked up into the man’s eyes.

The man did not even acknowledge Ryland’s existence. He shrugged his shoulders. “Must have been a cat,” he said turning and walking back into the lighted room.’

Ryland was left alone wondering what was happening to him.

Chapter 1

“Not much for introductions are you?”

“Nah, I do what needs be done and leave the formalities to you white collar folks.”

“Well, if it suits you fine, I’ll…”

Joe pressed white knuckled fingers against his temple. His head was pounding as fast as his racing heart. The smoky room did not help ease the pain, and the unnoticed television show with its almost inaudible voices was only a blaring obnoxious light in the dark room.

Unable to focus on the T.V. screen or the wall or anything around him, he slapped at the end table. Head bent down, he felt along the scratched wood finally grasping a hold of a bottle. Brown liquid sloshed around within the glass as he flipped it up and gulped almost all of it down. He sighed. It burned. But it dulled the pain.

He rubbed his temple again pushing into the skin. A centralized pain formed just above his eye. It grew in intensity until the dull throbbing of the head ache subsided. The relief was short lived. As he stopped rubbing his forehead, the aching began again. He groaned loudly wishing for a quick painless death, which did not come.

Shadows stretched across the wall behind him, their eeriness a reminder of his past unease. Floor boards seemed to creak overhead where the attic, filled with old artifacts from before the First World War, lay desolate and uninhabited; except for the rats, of course. Joe had heard them scampering around plenty of restless nights.

In the midst of the pain, Joe stood up and stumbled to the first wall he could find. He leaned against the smooth structure finding comfort in its stability.

“I’m a mess,” he said through clenched teeth. He inched his way along the wall and limped into the kitchen wincing as he put weight on his sleeping leg. As he grabbed hold of the refrigerator and opened the door, he squinted at the bright light. It took a moment for his pupils to contract before he could inspect the contents within the fridge. As if to speed him on, his stomach began to growl and his hands began to shake. “Come on, where are you.” He looked around for a moment. “There,” he grabbed a bag of bread, some lunch meat, and a bottle of mayonnaise.

Five minutes later, he plopped back down into the chair and began chewing on his rubbery concoction. Mayonnaise oozed onto his fingers as he tried to tear the bread with his teeth. Grabbing the remote, he turned up the volume.

On the screen, a doctor was inspecting a young man’s arm. The young man’s fingers were swollen and very blue veins showed through his skin. Neither person looked overjoyed. “It looks like we might have to cut off your arm,” the doctor was saying, “You are not getting sufficient oxygen to the muscles,” He began pressing around the swollen hand.

Joe could hardly swallow his food and quickly changed the channel. Dora the Explorer popped up on Qubo. The animated girl was running with Boots across an old rickety bridge. Much better Joe thought, flipping the channel again. He did this again and again until the obvious truth came as an epiphany to him. The Television had nothing vaguely interesting to offer at the moment.

Flipping the T.V. off, he sat in silence and gulped down the last bit of sandwich. He rubbed his still-throbbing head. Food hadn’t help. The migraine was still there. The medicine cabinet had been exhausted of its recourses. Cold wet rags had lost their magical powers, and no amount of distraction could stop the pain. Alone in the dark room, listening to the sounds of inconspicuous forces, he wondered how long his head would pound. And of Course, wondering didn’t help either.

How long had it been since he had breathed. How long had it been since he had felt the warmth of a fire, or smelled wet spring grass? How long had it been since his mind had been free to think normal human thoughts, not plagued by paranoid feelings and dark concepts. A very long time, he guessed. It had to be the house. In his rationalizing, he always came back to the house. Old, creepy, filled with dark secrets he was happy not knowing, the house had an evil history to it. People had died there. Some had been young and innocent. Others had not.

The large Victorian-like home had been around since the early eighteen-hundreds. Wheat, cotton, and tobacco fields had once grown around the house where phone lines and stop signs now stood. Slaves by the hundreds had worked hard within those fields. They had been beaten for the smallest offences, and had huddled in their hovels at night only staying alive by the comfort of family and other loved ones.

During the civil war, deserters had hidden away in the house. Afraid for their safety, they had cringed and waited, hoping their captains would not find them. Some had been fatally wounded and had bled to death. Joe looked down at the hard wood floor. Probably died on this very floor, he thought with a shudder.

Not much later, certain noble, revolutionaries had hidden runaway slaves within the tunnels that lay underneath the house. The structure, abandoned and overlooked by the state during that time, had been a perfect hiding place for the poor slaves. Now its old deteriorating walls, warped floor boards, and rain weathered exterior housed a lonely delusional man and his poor excuse for possessions.

Joe chuckled to himself and cringed again as pain shot through his head and into his neck. He was definitely not the most intriguing thing that had happened to the house. But, He thought, that was a good thing. He was very happy with a safe, uneventful life. All he really wanted was his T.V. and enough lunch meat to last him until the turn of the century.

Thoughts of the past running through his head, he leaned back against the chair and imagined himself in thirty years. He would be well ahead of his mid-life crisis by then. The old house would probably still be standing and he would be their, like a loyal dog, clutching onto the old structure waiting for it to toppled over or completely decayed from the elements.

As his imagination ran through different scenarios, his eyes became heavier and heavier. All of the sudden he was aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. The sound was somewhat mesmerizing adding lead weights to his eyelids and dulling his already muggy brain. Minutes ticked by and space and time seemed to fade out of his awareness until his head dropped onto his should. His hand went limp and slid off of the arm rest.

On the edge of awareness and leaning dangerously toward total obliviousness, He heard someone or something whisper into his ear. “Hmmm,” Joe mumbled barely processing the almost inaudible sound.

“Come out. Show yourself and face me like a man,” The voice was so soft that Joe passed it off as part of a dream.

“Who…” he mumbled, but couldn’t finish the sentence. As he dropped off the edge of consciousness, a figure walked out of the shadows and leaned against a doorway. He chuckled softly to himself and watched Joe snoring away in the rocking chair. “Sleep tight,” the voice said, hoarse and menacing. “I have a lot in store for you.” He laughed and slipped back into the darkness, his cackle echoing eerily throughout the house.

Prologue

He knelt down and brushed his finger across the wood noticing wetness on the floor. Looking up he saw the source. A wet spot had formed on the ceiling where rain water had gathered and deteriorated the dry wall. The water dripped slowly but persistently, a rhythmic tap echoing through the abandoned hallway.

Ryland was fascinated as he stretched out and popped his back. The smooth green windbreaker rustled loudly in the void. Throwing a hand into his pocket he continued to explore the ancient structure, running his right hand along the carved walls craning his neck to get a glimpse at the writing on the ceiling.

The further he walked past old useless furniture and menacing dark shadows the more uneasy he became. There was stillness about him. Deeper and quieter then ever before, the atmosphere seemed foreboding and Ryland could sense it. Somewhere off in the distance evil lurked waiting for its prey.

A sound echoed around the interior. It had come from one of the dark rooms adjacent to the hallway. A note of skepticism pulsed through Ryland’s mind for a second or two. Just a sound, he laughed nervously to himself, nothing to worry about. He continued more slowly this time forgetting about the fascinating old furniture. His resolve was beginning to wane.

All he had to do was walk through the hallway and out the back door. Easy enough, if it weren’t for the creaking floor boards, random noises, and oddly shaped shadows. Another echo emitted out of the darkness. “Shoot!” Ryland jumped. His heart was racing and he fought to keep control over his imagination.

What had he been thinking? He stepped over a warped floorboard. The senior jocks had dared him to walk into the old structure. “Lot’s of the guys from school do it,” they had said. But their shifting eyes and non-convincing tone spoke otherwise. He was sure they themselves had never stepped foot on the property. He remembered trying to stop his hands from shaking as he had brushed some nervous sweat from his brow. After gaining control of the involuntary movement in his hands and legs, he had nodded at the older boys with fake confidence. Very fake. Ryland smiled grimly to himself. He had been a wreck. And now, ten minutes later, here he was jumping nervously at every little abnormality.

He stood up a little taller as he thought of the scornful smiles on the Jocks’ faces. They probably thought he’d pee his pants. He winced. That wasn’t far from the truth. There had been no accidents yet, but the night wasn’t over. Reserves of anger from years of ridicule and being looked down upon suddenly unleashed. What did those boys know about him? That he was easy to throw into a trash can. That he couldn’t fight back when they stole his money or held him against his locker. They couldn’t possibly make judgments about him and say he was stupid, weird, and terrified of everything. They didn’t know Ryland H Edward II. He’d show them. He would make his dead mother and distant father proud.

“Come out,” He said a little above a whisper. “Show yourself and face me like a man.” His voice was becoming louder and more confident. As he passed one of the dark rooms there was a subtle blur of motion. The movement was so subtle, Ryland hardly noticed it through the security he had found in his anger. “I’ll give you to the count of three,” he dared, taunting the darkness. “One, two, thr…” before he could finish the count, a voice laughed hysterically from another of the rooms followed by the “tip” “tap” of shoes on hard wood. Ryland nearly jumped out of skin, but dared not turn around. Instead, he sucked up against one of the walls and slid to a crouching position hugging his knees to his chest. “Oh, please no, Oh, please no” his said over and over again. A cold chill ran through his body and he thought he heard someone whisper something close by.

Maybe if he closed his eyes, the laughing creature wouldn’t notice him he thought. The five-year-old mentality, though useless, was somewhat comforting.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ryland opened his eyes. As he stared down at the old weathered floorboards afraid to look up, the foot steps came closer. Louder and louder, they approached him until…silence. The same unbearable, deep silence hung over the abandoned house like stillness before the storm. Something waited, Ryland knew. It was poised ready to pounce any second on the young boy.

Not quite paralyzed by fear, he lifted his head focusing on one of the empty door ways. The footsteps had been coming from that general direction. His eyes began to refocus in the dark. For a few breathless seconds he could only make out dark blotches and a few shapes. Then as the shapes became distinguishable objects, he noticed it. Something protruded slightly from the door way. He was sure it hadn’t been there before. At first it looked like a box lying on the floor. But as his eyes gathered in more light particles he recognized, in horror, what he was looking at.

There was whisper, a chuckle, and then another foot step as a large black boot penetrated the empty space of the door way landing only six feet from Ryland’s cowering body. “Welcome, Ryland” the voice was hoarse and menacing. “I’ve been expecting you.”

A Quick, Cheap Metaphor

My life is like a church sanctuary. And I don’t mean this as a spiritual illustration. The picture of a church sanctuary just happens to pop up in my head as I box life up into this quick, cheap metaphor.

My life is like a church sanctuary. It is 3:00 P.M. Sunday afternoon and the pews are filled to a bursting point with people. Up on stage dressed in Sunday’s best, a red-haired chipper, high-energy lady leads the afternoon events. Nervous students sit in their pews clutching the arm rests or tapping their shaking toes against the ground. In their hands, music books shake as much as their toes.

Outside, a beautiful Sunday afternoon follows the movements of the sun waiting for its queue to fall asleep when the large, orange orb drops below the horizon. Meanwhile, a music recital is under way. Each student can’t enjoy the cool spring afternoon past the old sanctuary walls. They can’t even see through the barriers they built around themselves. They are in a dark dreadful tunnel. At the end of the tunnel lays, not a light, but a black grand piano. It taunts them to no end.

When the timer clicks zero after a beautiful Sonatina; when life consist of a few more seconds; when unnatural, unsettling quietness hangs in the air only disrupted by tiny footsteps down hardwood stairs, the long awaited moment arrives. No one could ever hope for that moment, especially the poor student standing up for his turn at the dreaded piano. But the moment is inevitable, mandatory and steadfast.

The student will stand up. He had prepared too many days in advance for this. The days had been long, prolonging the dreaded moment. He lays the music on the bench and looks at it longingly as he leaves it behind. Though he had memorized the song several weeks before the recital, the sheet music is soothing, available if things went terribly wrong.

The student will walk out off the comfortable pew into the isle. Now he is exposed for every one to see. They look around with glaring eyes. “You will fail,” they say, “We are waiting for you to fail”. The poor student looks back at his pew; his home, the sanctuary within a sanctuary, and walks further away into the jaws of hopelessness, failure and condemnation. Up the stairs through the tunnel to the piano, his footsteps echo around the room. Everyone is so, so quiet. Are they breathing? Are they alive? Can they see through his church cloths to the racing heart underneath? He sits upon that bench and waits. The seconds tick by. Like hours, they drag on until the moment can’t wait any longer. His little child fingers rest on the piano for one last jolt of the clock hand and then he plays.

Time becomes a thing of the past. For those few moments nothing exists but the piano and his dancing fingers. A rhythm and a beautiful harmony of chords and notes take the place of minutes and seconds. The melody rings around the suddenly enchanted chamber. And then as quickly as it began the moment is over. The last chord is played and the audience claps. The young boy smiles, bows sloppily and quickly runs to his sanctuary.

My life is like a church sanctuary. I am that boy waiting in the pew. Like a prisoner about to be executed, I wait with shaking hands. The pew is my home, my family, friends, and comfortable hang outs. It represents the familiar things in life where I feel safe. The dreaded tunnel is only an illusion I create for myself. It is a barricade between me and the “other” unfamiliar parts of my life. At the end of that tunnel are the things I need to do, the mandatory, inevitable, steadfast priorities. Outside of the pew is my journey towards those things I dread most.

Many times I have taken that journey away from the pew. All the while I could hear the taunts of failure. As real as the tunnel I had created for myself, the taunts impeded my voyage to do those hard things outside of my comfort zone.

But always, when the moment came, the one I had imagined in horror for so many days and had dreaded to the point of exhaustion, everything worked out. I played my piece on the piano, the seemingly ravenous crowed clapped as reality slapped me in the face for my prideful fear, and I ran safely back to the haven content from accomplishment. Over and over again I have done this. Even as I write these words at midnight on October the 17th, I sit in my pew, awaiting the next hard inevitable thing. My hands shake as I see it coming. I clutch the pew arm rests until my knuckles turn white and my toes tap nervously against the hard word floor.

Then I hear the footsteps…

"Even His Enemies Were at Peace with Him"

From the moment the people of Judah were exiled to Babylon in 605 B.C., Daniel’s life was a constant tug in one direction and then another. Whether he was forced to serve under a foreign king, threatened by Nebuchadnezzar’s ridiculous demands, or thrown into the lion’s den, his existence was constantly defined by unforeseen, life-altering events. But, even though he had no real control over his path, he was never a man agonizing over the things happening to him. Instead, He showed immense faith and obedience in the midst of sin and temptation

Daniel lived in the last of two kingdoms. Only a century before, the northern kingdom, Israel, had been annihilated before an Assyrian assault. As was their custom, the imperial army had not only conquered their enemy, the Israelites, but they had destroyed any remnants of their belief or culture. This left Judah with its Godly kings to rule until the next imperial assault. Daniel was a citizen living in Judah during that time. Among his fellow country men he enjoyed the freedom of religion and culture. In 605, however, the long awaited assault manifested itself through the Babylonians.

At the army’s head, Nebuchadnezzar besieged and conquered Jerusalem taking king Jehoiakim captive along with all of Israel. Fortunately, Babylon, unlike Assyria, did not destroy the identity of their enemy. In a more subtle approach to conquering the world, they would win their enemies over by giving them the same freedom they would possess before being conquered. This approach was nice enough for normal Israelites. Unfortunately for Daniel, any of the wiser Israelites were assigned to the king’s top eunuch. Being one of these men, Daniel would be forced to learn the language and literature of the Chaldeans and to eat the defiling food of the king. In a very frustrating chain of events, he was essential placed under the watchful eye of the king himself. Every move he made would be scrutinized as he was forced to bend to the ways of the Babylonians.

A series of tests ensued for Daniel that lasted most of his existence in captivity. When he first arrived in the “land of Shinar” he was required to feast on the King’s food. The feast contained defiling unclean animals. To eat the meal would have been sin against the God of Israel. Daniel knew that his situation was a serious one, and he made a distinct choice at that moment. Whether he lived or died he “resolved that he would not defile himself with the king’s food or with the wine that he drank”. But he had not yet resolved to die. Instead, he made a test for the King. The captured Israelites would continue to eat clean, holy food and the Babylonian youth would continue to eat their meat and drink their wine. If Daniel and his country men remained healthy and grew stronger, they could keep their diet. If they did not remain healthy, the Eunuch would deal with the Israelites as he felt necessary.

The test ended well for Daniel and his companions. They remained healthy, and grew much stronger physically then the rest of the youth. Impressed by this unusual turn of events, the eunuch took away the wine and king’s food from everyone and replaced it with vegetables.
As time went, Daniel and his companions became wiser then all of the wise men in the nation. Soon, when the king had a dream that none could interpret, a servant sent Daniel before Nebuchadnezzar. He was able to explain the dream to the king and interpret its meaning. Pleased beyond belief, even bowing before Daniel, the king acknowledged the God of Israel and made Daniel ruler over the whole province of Babylon.

Several years later when the Medes took over the Chaldean throne Daniel again was tugged in an unforeseen direction. However, because of his trust in God and the wisdom that God gave him, he earned prestige once again with the king, Darius. Eventually some of the other councilors to the king became jealous of Daniels relationship with Darius. They plotted to kill Daniel legally. After much scheming they discovered a perfect way to rid themselves of their competition and gain favor with the king. They devised a document requiring that for thirty days no one could bow down or worship any other being but the king. Signed by the king himself, this document was authentic and could not be defied. But Daniel, being the Godly man that he was, would not cease to worship his God. Seeing this defiance, the councilors brought news to Darius that Daniel was worshiping God. With much sorrow the king was forced to abide by the document casting Daniel into the lions den. After a day, the king found Daniel alive. Through God’s miraculous hand, the lion’s mouths had been shut.

Daniel’s life was a reflection of proverbs 16. “The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord…” (16:1) “…Commit your work to the Lord and your plans will be established…” (16:3) “…When a man’s ways please the Lord, he makes even his enemies to be at peace with him…” (16:7) “…the heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.” (16:9) Daniel was taken along so many different roads he had never planed on taking. The Lord constantly placed difficult circumstances in front of him. This was a fact of life for him. And it is a fact of life for us all. Everyone’s life is dependent on God’s rules and His plans. None makes a way outside of God’s way. Daniel understood this fact and did what was commanded of him by his God (16:1, 7) and just as it is said it will happen in proverbs it happened for Daniel. He committed his work to the Lord, he pleased his God and even his enemies were at peace with him.

Are We There Yet?

A Normal Road Trip seen through the Eyes of a Teenager

You’ve been in the same van with your family for a long time. Three bottles of water sloshing around in your body, one hundred and twenty five miles still to go, and nothing but a few centimeters of metal separating you from seventy eight mile-per-hour wind and bone crushing road, you begin asking some serious questions. But a single overpowering question plays over and over again in your head. Unable to escape your thoughts, it pulses past the mental realm into a painful physical reality. “Where is the stinkin’ bathroom?”

This same situation occurred to me, as it always does, unexpectedly. It all began the day we went to Ponca City, Oklahoma for Christmas. Last minute packing underway and people rushing around in anticipation of the coming Christmas events, we all were excited for the few days we would spend talking with old friends, eating good food, and opening presents. I especially was excited to get away from the daily routine. Happily, I went about my business willing the time to go by more quickly so that we could finally be on our way. Little did I know that my joyful, naïve state would eventually be ripped out from under me by a terrifying reality: four-and-a-half hours on the road in a Dodge Caravan. Not until later, when my head was pounding and I had an intense need to us the bathroomm, did I remember how the seemingly innocent two-hundred-and-eighty mile drive could suck me of my energy and my resolve to live. We finished packing everything by Eleven O’clock and eventually loaded ourselves into the cramped compartment we called a van. After the last minute “did we forget anything?” question was finally asked and we were ready to leave, I settled down in my comfortable chair prepared to enjoy the ride.

The first few miles of any trip are always the best. Everything is still familiar, the joy of a new and interesting destination is in the immediate future, and your head doesn’t feel like it’s been smashed by a bowling ball. But this euphoria lasts only so long. Soon, two miles turns into twenty miles which slowly turns into fifty miles, which slowly turns into boredom central, and you don’t feel any closer to where you are going then when you started. Eventually the immediate destination doesn’t feel so immediate anymore. Your head is pounding and you begin to feel a subtle pain forming in the lower region of your body. These thoughts and feelings were what consumed my mind sixty miles into the trip. I couldn’t move around, I had forgotten that reading in a vehicle is not a very good idea, and I was polishing off a large bottle of water. If I had been thinking strait I’m sure I wouldn’t have been so hasty to put liquid in my body. Then it hit me full force. A whole world of excitement could not make up for the misery I was in at that moment. And it only got worse. As my need for the restroom became more intense, very little things caused me the greatest amount of irritation. A once normal friendly conversation became a bombing of loud noises to my ears. Each word slamming against my eardrum reminded me of the miles between me and the next rest stop. Then I realized that I was sitting in a very uncomfortable position. But I could not, for the life of me, get comfortable anywhere on the seat, and moving around to find the perfect spot only articulated my painful state. On top of everything, no amount of distraction could pull me away from what I was feeling.

As can be imagined when we stopped midway through the road trip, I was elated to stumble out of the van on to the heavenly, unmoving ground. Old friends, good food, and presents didn’t matter anymore. I was now facing a life or death situation and was desperately striving for life. Somehow, despite the stiffness of joints and general paralysis that comes from sitting far too long, I managed to make it into the gas station. Blurred figures moved around me, but they were only distant, unimportant images in my mind as I walked towards the one destination that would bring relief. Needless to say, after that day, I christened the gas station my “home away from home” for very obvious and practical reasons. As we piled back into the car I realized what our little puppy, Riley, must have felt as he was also shoved into a small cramped box. The only difference between his situation and mine was that I didn’t fight back and bark. The rest of the trip was much of the same with similar thoughts, questions, and regrets. Only the familiar view of the stop light and Lows sign, which marked the visible beginning of Ponca City, kept me from going crazy. All of the sudden the great fog of misery cleared and I could breathe once again. Familiar sights began popping up all over the place. As they became more numerous and closer together I felt an internal scream of joy boil up into my throat. We had survived the great obstacle between us and a relaxing, Christmas weekend. We had managed the long trip to Ponca City.

The van pulled slowly into my grandparent’s driveway met by a quiet and inviting scene. Compared to the rush of traffic and claustrophobic atmosphere, this was heaven. I heard myself sigh in relief as I pulled open the door and let the cool fresh air wash over my face. My life was looking good once again. I could only hope that the trip back to Missouri would be a little more forgiving.

Safety before Cement: My Summer at a Cement Plant

When I first heard that I would be working at a cement plant for the summer, I began psyching myself for the experience. It would supposedly be a lot of nasty work. I would be waking up at 5:45 in the morning every week day, I would be working hard with my hands, and I would do whatever messed up job they could produce. In a very simple way of explaining it, my idea of normal daily life was about to get drastically altered.

The first morning was probably the worst. After comfortable dreams, I was awakened by my alarm clock. The most annoying devise in the world, it beeped persistently for several minutes before I forced myself out of bed. What made the alarm clock so terrifying was its agonizing chant. I could hear it in every loud “BEEP”. “Three more months,” “Three more months,” “Three more months,” It seemed to say over and over again. “Yeah, yeah,” I thought. Before my ears exploded, I walked over and flipped the off switch. Peaceful silence ensued. Then, I remembered why I was up. Sighing to myself I dressed, strapped on my boots, and walked up stairs to fry some eggs. For most of the summer, this was my routine. More monotonous then anything I had ever encountered, this ritual became dreaded Déjàvu.

The drive was always nice. Being in the car, feeling it shake gently, and listening to talk radio, always woke me up in a friendly way. During that time I was able to see the beautiful orange sun rising slowly into the sky and feel the cool morning breeze through the open window. It’s safe to say that those quite minutes to myself before work was an important part of preparing me to face each day.

Rolling into the parking lot, I was always met by a sign which read “Safety before cement.” This was more then just a phrase. It was something every employee had to consider during the day. When out working in the plant each person needed to first understand the dangers involved in his task. Then he needed to act accordingly to avoid injury or death. One way everyone avoided certain dangers was through something we called PPE. “Personal Protective Equipment”, a helmet, a reflective vest, safety glasses, and steel-toed boots, was required at all times. These would save me from injury several times during the summer

Once parked, I would make my way through the double glass doors that marked the entrance to the Lafarge office area. Down a hall past several offices, followed by a left, and then a right would lead me into the break room. There to greet me with tired downcast faces were the three companions I was destined to be with throughout the summer. Corey, Brandon, and Erik were all hired along with me as summer interns. Like me, they had dreams of becoming something more then cement workers. Starting college, attending College, or finishing an associate degree, the three were only working that summer for higher academic purposes. Essentially, like me, they need money for college.

At this point as the clock struck 6:55, everyone in the break room would grab their PPE and head towards the control room for a safety meeting. There, we discussed different hazards to avoid and the assignments we needed to accomplish for that day. The meeting usually lasted five to ten minutes in which time we leaned against our respective wall willing the day to be over. After the meeting finished, we would either receive instructions from our supervisor, Terri Van Winkle, or a Control-Room Supervisor. As a general rule, we always looked forward to assignments from Terri Van Winkle who usually gave us less strenuous work like sweeping or light shoveling. As another general rule, we never enjoyed assignments directly from control. These consisted of heavy shoveling and Jack hammering.

Though life out in the cement plant was a doozy, working with three other guys made the work load somewhat easier. First thing we would do upon leaving the office building was grab our equipment; shovel, broom, and sometimes Jack hammer, and trot off toward our assigned work area where we would spend the rest of the day working.

Each work area had its own name. Behind the office building was the pan conveyor. A large belt on rollers, the pan conveyor carried different materials from one section of the plant to the other. We found that a lot of our work centered there. Shop thirty-five also had a conveyor in it that carried raw materials throughout the plant. This too was another of our central work places. Shop Forty-seven resting against one of the cement silos was the pan conveyors pit stop. There, materials were carried through a bucket conveyor, a vertical conveyor, up into one of the silos. These silos, four in number, held different types of cement used to fill large cement trucks. To the left of the office building sat a large green tower where material was burned at over 3000 degrees Celsius. Our work there, several hundred feet in the air, was always very warm from the burners.

Down a dirt road that wound throughout the plant, under the ground through a mine and out on the other side of a large hill, lay what was known as the old plant. The fifty year old plant, still operational but only half functional, was a maze of dark corridors rusted equipment and dirty rooms. It was a desolate as it was intriguing. We four guys enjoyed anytime we could spend over in that area away from other people. There we were mostly assigned to what was known as the finish mill. A seven story rusted structure, dimly lit and very loud, the finish mill provided us with light easy work. We would bring brooms to sweep up piles of excess cement, shovels to pick up the piles, and buckets to dump the piles down different shoots. These shoots would carry the cement into silos.

Our jobs were many and very diverse. Sometimes we would sweep and broom out different buildings. Other times we would jack hammer hardened piles of cement until our hands rung from the vibrations. Other days we were assigned tasks only requiring one of us. During one of these assignments when the plant was shut down for maintenance, I was sent up into the tower as a “Whole Watch”. There, I was assigned to watch one of the maintenance workers weld on the inside of one of the burners. As I watched, I held a small device that tested the different chemical levels inside the burner. If oxygen levels fell lower then 19 percent or rose higher then 23 percent I was required to get the welder out into open air.

For three months my life and dreams were cement related. I learned what my life might be like without a college degree. I learned how to wake up early, how to endure through a hard work day, and how to get along with three other guys. Life at Lafarge was not all fun and games, but I believe it strengthened me mentally and physically as I earned couple of calluses along the way.

The Dream

Have you ever had one of those dreams? It starts out innocently normal. You are outside your house. As you enjoy the cool day, you are doing something you might on a regular basis. But somewhere in the pit of your stomach you begin to feel anxiety. At first you pass it off as the food you ate. Maybe your stomach is cramping up from a combination of lunch and over exertion. As the feeling grows up through your stomach and into your mind, though, you begin to think other wise. The sensation will not stop and only gets stronger until you finally realize that something is very wrong. This is the turning point of the dream.

All of the sudden the sky grows dark. A once nice spring day has become a cold wintery night. Contemplating going into the house, you feel a chill run up your body. A look to the left and to the right does not produce any results or resolve the issue. It is time to go inside. But, before you have a chance to do the rational thing, your impulses introduce you to an illogical solution. “Go across the street,” your impulses tell you. You look towards the street. It is what you might expect from a street. You shrug, the immediate anxiety rolling to the back of your mind. “Why not,” you say. You step through the damp grass—probably from a recent rain. The feeling of a wet smooth surface against your flesh sends chills up your spine. You ease your toe onto the pavement as that uneasy feeling begins to take over again. Each step on the pavement raises the volume of anxiety, until you are no longer sure about what you’re doing. Leaving the road you hesitantly look at the landscape in front of you.

At this point during the dream you see, for the first time, something to be afraid of. An open field and dark forest lay in front of you personifying your feeling of dread. You immediately stop and look back towards your home. But all you see is more field. The road has disappeared; the forest surrounds you. Goose bumps crawl up your spine and you begin to feel lethargic. Behind you the darkness creeps up from the forest. As it gets closer you run the other direction as fast as you can. The forest doesn’t seem to get any closer but the darkness continues to gain speed towards you. Then your feet fall out from under you and you hit the ground with your face. The darkness washes over you like a flood of water and you wake up.

Community

Community is a very strong word which emphasizes a commonality of members in a society. In ‘Webster’s American Family Dictionary’ this word is described as ‘a social, religious, occupational, or other group sharing common characteristics or interests’. Though the dictionary describes the word in different ways, this statement seems to fit it best. Contrary to popular belief, community is more then just a group of people that happen to be in the same place. In fact, Community, as it is described in the definition above, is not even characterized by a common locality but by a common thought process or goal.

Sociologists might use words like primary group—or even Gemeinschaft in some cases—to describe one important aspect of community. This is the idea that one has a strong, more intimate social tie with a certain group of people. Joe somebody, for instance, may go every Sunday evening to a friends home where three other guys meet. In this meeting Joe and his friends sit together at a table in the basement playing poker and talking about their childhood antics. This example shows a group of people, Joe and his friends, who have a common interest, poker and their childhood. They interact in an intimate personal way. Also their Goal is not the ultimate end to the relationship; they do not have a relationship so that they can play poker. Instead, the Goal is only a result of the relationship; they play poker because they are good friends.

A stark contrast to Gemeinschaft, Gesellschaft is a less-thought-of aspect of community. It describes community at its most primitive state. In this case the relationships are less intimate and more business related. Joe somebody, for instance, may go every Monday afternoon to a meeting with ten co-workers. In this meeting Joe and his co-workers talk about the previous week’s accomplishments and about ways to improve worker efficiency in the next week. This example shows a group of people, Joe and his co-workers, who have a common interest, work-efficiency. In this example, however, the group of people interacts in a less intimate way. Also, Their Goal is the ultimate end of the relationship; they meet so that they can improve worker efficiency.

Not only can community be very diverse but people can engage in multiple groups. For instance, Joe somebody can have friends he meets with every Sunday night and he can also have those ten co-workers he brainstorms with on Monday afternoons. As long as the communities do not contradict each other anyone can engage in both Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft relationships through out his life.

So a social group may interact because they like each other or because they have to and individuals will probably interact in both. But no matter how you look at it, these interacting individuals are exhibiting an important point about our world. We need people and, more often then not, we are apart of communities.

Yesterday I was apart of a community of people. We met in the evening to learn different kinds of dances together. For two hours we laughed, sweated, and talked with each other. This was an example of a Gemeinschaft group. Our interactions and Goals were a result of our close relationship with each other—not vise versa. After yesterday it struck me how much I enjoy and need the first example of community. I love to interact with people I know and appreciate being around. Our interaction did not just produce a goal but it satisfied our deep human need for belonging.

In a strict human way of speaking, we need more Gemeinschaft type communities. So many of us have friends we know. These are people we could easily have a close enjoyable relationship together. But, more times then not, we choose to stick to ourselves and we only interact with people we have to, like in a Gesellschaft type relationship. We sacrifice relationships and enjoyable times for a life of necessity.

Through Their Eyes

Go to a crowded place. Look around at the people. What do you see? Someone like me would perceive individuals going about their business. In my mind they seem consumed in there purpose (whatever that may be) living a perfectly contempt life. Of course this observation is made out of ignorance and can only remain true so long as the person in question is within the context of my vantage. What if, however, I were to look closer, past the material concealments? What if I were to look past the casual cloths, brushed back hair, plucked eyebrows, narrowed glance, tight genes...what is left when all else is stripped away. It is a man (or woman) who is consumed, not with what business he is about, but with a life only witnessed by himself and those closest to him. This life is filled with secrets, problems, and more then a slight lack of solutions. I will find that the casual cloths are actually wrinkled, the hair is brushed back as if in haste and fear, the eyebrows are slanted ever so slightly to indicate peril, anger, agitation, resentment and a need for help, the narrowed glance is cast by hollowed eyes formed by many sleepless nights, and the genes appear worn at the knees and torn ever so slightly near the calf. Suddenly, before my eyes is, not a casual shopper (or whatever their business may be), but a human being in need of serious help.

So, the next time you go to a crowed place, don't look around at mere people who are causally going about their business. Look, with a scrutinizing glance, at a crowd of people filled, to the point of exploding, with secrets and problems. They are in need of serious help. With this in mind, go up to any particular person and ask in what way they need prayer. "Sir, I probably can't empathize with your situation but I can sure sympathize with you...what exactly do you need prayer for?"

Don't look at this world through the eyes of a passive citizen, but through the eyes of an active Alien. You aren't here to live among fellow citizen’s of a corrupt world but to live among poor dejected sinners who need God so direly. Your Job is to give them what they really need: Jesus Christ.

What is this post about?

I want to do this post a little differently then the others. I've written out an article on a certain topic. I eliminated any words that would automatically reveal what I'm talking about. Essentially, this is an ambiguous post. Your job is to figure out what the topic is. Comment and tell me what you think. Here it goes...

When I consider that great beast, I wonder who could have composed it! What wrong ideals, brought forth from laziness and inexperience, could be forced upon a creature who needs no prodding in such a matter.

Sadly, these ideals are not ones of merit whether good or bad. For they are the ideals of no-ideals. Yes! It is a lack of teaching; a lack of care which is our problem. This does not take away the reality of sin. Sin is at the heart of the matter (namely pride). But it does reveal a great responsibility for the latter party. Not just the responsibility of preventing trouble but also the responsibility of creating a higher standard.

Where one starts, or, whether or not one can even begin to imagine taming a sin-infected being are very good questions. Both have, I’m sure, been considered by many a struggling person. The answer is quite simple. The true beginning, after everything is torn away, is with the heart of the struggling one in question. Have they committed to something higher then themselves and their earthly achievements? For earthly achievement can only take the passion for teaching and reproof away. Instead of focusing on those poor impressionable creatures, the latter become consumed in what needs to be done for earthly comfort. They must, instead, determine to abstain from earthly obsessions for the sake of a mannerly and moral, future generation. This determination can only come from their very depths: the heart.

Though abstaining is a worthy and noble cause, the process can not be left merely to that great defensive tactic. One must then bring himself to act offensively. Fill that great void with a very noble thing: Simply, the armor of God. With truth and its example, one can only prepare to end victorious. With righteousness and its example, one’s pure motives before God along with that wonderful gift, prayer, will leave the person joyful and ahead in the race. But don’t let me forget that most powerful article of war, faith, which God has given to us for the ultimate victory. Without it one can’t even hope to get through the gates of heaven. Through it one can endure those difficult times where teaching and reproof are dire but least used.

Though many more things could be said on this topic—hundreds of books have been written on it—I believe I should end this writing now. It is enough to contemplate for years to come. So spend some time turning over how you will act when your time comes.

Midnight Babbling

It is approximately 10:36 in the evening. The windows are open allowing cool air and the sound of crickets into my room. A fan blows in the distance: a long ten foot walk made even longer by the darkness that surrounds me. A combination of such circumstances brought me to this point of desperation. I need to write.

Step one in the writing process worked itself out evidenced by my presence at the computer. Man, it feels good. I haven’t written in a long time and my fingers have only itched more for this key pad the longer I’ve been away from it. But step two still awaits my attention. I don’t know what to write.

Though it may be an act of sin on my part, I could continue to produce nonsense. This fun use of literary talent requires no form of forethought. As a result, I might say something I would regret later. The alternative, though more tactful and skillful, is quickly becoming less attractive. I don’t have the patience or brain power for it, an excuse not exclusive to this particular hour.

I believe I have convinced myself to continue with meaningless words. It is easier, will satisfy my itchy fingers, and will get me into my warm soft bed much faster. Whether or not it will successfully draw you in and capture your attention is up to you and the length of your patience. As I see it, you won’t last this next paragraph.

While you have been reading this short post according to your reader’s clock, my writer’s clock has been ticking away. It is now 12:08 and I seem no closer to sleep then I was two hours ago. My unshaven beard hangs on my itching skin, sleep pulls at my eyelids willing them to shut completely, and yet my restless leg jumps around under this sad cluttered desk. To put it bluntly, I’m a mess. But you role your eyes looking at your watch which indicates one minute has been wasted. A minute you will never get back. I can’t do anything about that, however.

My decision to write this sad post and your decision to read what I have written are two entirely different matters. Mine is a result of dedication to writing and an inability to go to sleep, while yours is nothing more then simple boredom. Both are unintentional and yet totally inevitable. As some would say it, we both are a victim of God’s providence. But that is how it should be. We do what we do according to God’s ultimate plans.

Normally I would conclude my post with some over arching point. You might even think I have somehow attained one in the midst of this slosh of words. It would probably have something to do with God’s providence able to reveal itself in the kind of chaos that you and I create in our reader/writer relationship. Though that is an interesting and true idea, it does not apply right now. Yes, God providence does govern over chaotic times, but no, that is not my point. This post has strictly been nonsense. There are no hidden messages; no secret codes. This is just a tired, restless writer humoring his unintentional impulses gladly excepting that God intended it to be.

Good night.

Help Needed.

This will probably be the shortest post I ever compose. Go ahead. Cheer and be happy. Relish this moment of simplisity. Enjoy this short minute where I don't go on and on about what I think.

On to the point. Could you, my readers, tell me what I should post that would make this blog into something good and beneficial. I am at the verge of just throwing this mess away. I feel that everything I write is long, drawn out, and highly opinionated. I'm not really getting anywhere. I'm just boring you to death by telling you what I think. I need life and dynamics. Yes! that is it. I need a dynamic blog. But how? What should I post about. Please, readers, give me some ideas. I can just hear my blog screaming out for relief. I know you are too.

My Sister

I sit in my bedroom. Army men lay out in front of me. Strategies and scenarios running through my head, I prepare each plastic soldier for his impending doom. Shots are fired from both sides. Men fall, tanks are blown up from Aerial assault, and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I hear uncontrollable laughter. I look up at my opened front bedroom door and then back at the battle before me. I am trying to figure out which is more important: a world altering battle, or a very peeked curiosity. With out much further thought I choose the latter. As I make my way out the door and around the corner I wonder what could have triggered the sudden outburst. I’m not left curious for much longer. As I enter the dining room I behold a very humorous scene. A smile begins to form on my face and then I begin to laugh. Less then five years old and standing on a chair, my little sister looks at an hysterical mother. She has a smile of embarrassment on her face even though it is apparent she is enjoying the attention. Cute as could be, strapped down tight to ensure total safety; a little girl’s bike helmet rests on her head.

That is one of my favorite stories about Beth. Apparently, being younger and not used to the kitchen and its hidden mysteries, she had gained a very painful habit of knocking her head against one of the cabinet corners. Where most people would have considered taking out the whole cabinet with a bat or a sledge hammer each time they hit there head, Beth did not. Instead of getting angry, she thought up a very affective way to continue working in the kitchen without altering her position or the cabinet’s position. Strapping a helmet on her head, she eliminated a whole lot of bad kitchen memories and put in its place a very fond one.

Whether wearing a bike helmet to cook chicken noodle soup or trying to dance like a star in the middle of the living room Bethany was constantly the center of entertainment. She could make us laugh in a good productive kind of way. As time passed, however, maturity followed, leaving the funny cute stories in the past while drawing different future recollections to the present.

In another scene I sit in a car pondering what to do. Should I get out and follow my mom and sister into the building? They are already on the grass median in front of our van and aren’t stopping for anyone. A school book lies on my lap. My brother sits in the back. As I look inside at one of the science modules I decide to put it down. School could wait until later. Opening the door I step out and let the book drop into the front seat. After a few minutes we enter the building through one of the doors. Two other people have joined us by now. They engage in a little bit of small talk. We arrive at a door in one of the hallways. Shifting my weight to my left leg I watch Beth go into a room with a lot of other girls. It is her first day of babysitting class.

The stage of cute humorous thoughts and actions far behind her, Beth had entered the era of responsibility. She took the initial babysitting course and was all set for the big leagues. Fortunately a neighbor down the street had home-group meeting on Wednesday night. Beth, being responsible and easy access was picked for the job. Ever since then she has been working hard keeping the children in line and earning the money she can.

One last story that comes to my mind reflects another characteristic of Beth that followed her into her more mature years.

I sit on a couch throwing a tennis ball against the bricks in our fireplace. I haven’t finished school yet, but I don’t intend to. My brain is fried from the endless math and science questions. I hear footsteps in the hallway walking towards my position. The footsteps are not heavy enough to be my brothers. There is no question in my mind about who is coming. Bethany walks into the room a deck of cards in her hand. She gets the questioning look in her face and asks the anticipated question. “Could you play with me?” My initial reaction is to say no. I usually do. But this time I feel bad for her. Besides, I think to myself, I’m bored out of my wits. I go into her room and we play speed for a while.

As the story indicates, Bethany really liked spending time with me and my brother. She would constantly ask us if we had time to play with her or do things with her. Though I haven’t appreciated my sister’s devotion like I should, my mind set is slowly changing. I realize now how great it is to have a sister that cares. One who is willing to ask us a million times to play with her just so she can spend time with us.

So I hope that I have written a post that helps you see Bethany a little clearer now. She is a sister who can be funny and witty. But she can also be determined, responsible, caring, loyal, and much more. Yes, she is human and does have her bad moments. But overall she is a great sister and I couldn’t ask for a better one.

Thanks Beth for being such a great sis 