The Shortest Verse

I usually just thought of it as a piece of trivia: 

What’s the shortest verse in the Bible?

 Jesus wept.

But I never really gave the story behind it much thought.  Why was He weeping?  He had just been told that his good friend Lazarus was dead.  Yes, that Lazarus, the one to be raised from the dead.  If Jesus was about to raise up his body and redeem him from death’s grasp, why weep?  He could reverse the situation, why so much heartache?

Perhaps He merely acted on faith when He raised poor Lazarus from the tomb.  We read that He “increased in wisdom… and in favor with God and man”; did even Christ work on faith and not necessarily knowledge?  It was at the tomb that He thanked the Father for hearing Him.  Perhaps He did not know for certain, He merely trusted until that moment at the tomb that everything would work out.  That’s just speculation.

But I think another possible answer is simply that He was the perfect Man.

And man is meant to mourn.

I am surprised at how deeply Max’s passing is affecting me.  I have no appetite, I'm exhausted all the time, I can't focus, I have no will to do homework, I have no motivation to do even the simplest things I usually enjoy.  I only briefly knew him, why should it hurt so much to have him gone? 

Is it reminding me of my own grandfather’s passing?  Is it reopening old wounds?  Are old losses resurfacing?  

Is it merely empathetic suffering for poor B., who has been distraught for days even before Max left us?  Is her heartbreak breaking my own heart in turn?   

Is it merely causing me grief to see so many of my many in-laws so deeply saddened?  Now that I know my father-in-law better, does it sting to lose his father, the man who told us embarrassing stories and gave me endless dirt on my dad-in-law?  

Is it just a universal human experience to grieve for those who have left us?

Is man meant to mourn?

I didn’t know him well.  I know he’s in a better place.  Why is this so hard for me?

Jesus wept.  I can, too.

Thanks to all who send their prayers and well-wishes to the Rogers family. 

S

Max

Last summer B. and I took a trip to the exotic land of Battle Mountain, Nevada. 

We went for the annual Rogers Reunion, back to B.’s old stomping grounds.  It was fun for me to visit as the new husband, the new in-law, to be initiated and inundated as one of the family.  We made the mistake of bringing our then-1-year-old niece.  Needless to say, it was a long drive.

The trip reminded me of one of my many homes as a military brat: Clovis, New Mexico.  It wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis of employment opportunities (of which I was in desperate need at the time) but my time there made an indelible mark on my soul.  I got to really see and experience firsthand a sense of tightknit community among neighbors, friends and congregations.  It was a small ranching community attached to a newly revamped Air Force base.  There was one high school.  They should have built a second high school to help stem the tide of students, but they just built a separate freshman campus, an annex to the main high school.  Why?  Because the town closed down on Friday night; high school football was THE event every weekend.  Everyone seemed to know everyone.  Everyone supported one another.  

New Mexico is called the Land of Enchantment.  And anyone who has lived in one of those small towns, rubbed shoulders with those salt of the earth, wholesome folks, or stood side by side with them and bathed in the natural fireworks display that is a New Mexico sunset knows where the enchantment comes from.

But Nevada has its own enchantment to offer. Battle Mountain is a small mining town out in the middle of the desert.  It has one McDonalds.  It has two grocery stores.  It has one pharmacy.  It has a pizza place.  It has a Mexican restaurant.  It has two hotels.  One of these hotels is attached to a casino called the Owl Club.

A few weeks ago you could have walked into the Owl Club to see a kindly old soul bossing people around, telling wild stories to make the workers laugh, and just make you feel right at home.  This man, Max Rogers, is the reason B. and I made a last-minute trip to good old BM, NV over the holiday weekend.  Grandpa Max’s health had been deteriorating for years.  He and his beloved wife Lorna have battled cancers, illnesses, griefs and sorrows innumerable.  And at last, Max is getting a well-deserved break.

We got the call this morning, and somehow I know there will be a little less color in the sunset tonight.

The world is a little colder, grayer, and more barren for losing Max.  He leaves behind a distraught wife of nearly sixty years and a whopping thirteen children.  Max and Lorna were blessed with a total of 15 children over the years; they didn’t have a family, they had a village.  The Rogers clan is a tribe in the truest sense, and there will be a lot of people to mourn him.

But I try to take comfort in who’s been waiting to greet him.  Two of his children have passed before him and I know, now that his pain is finally over, he’s had quite a welcome.

The Rogers family is a sizable tribe to say the least.  Everyone knows them, especially in a town like Battle Mountain, where they dedicated so many years to growing and helping the community.  I was shocked at how many lives they have touched, at how many people knew and loved Grandpa Max.  The scope of his influence is worthy of a Capra film.  Family members were given free drinks at the bar, baggers at the grocery store offered condolences to us.  Everyone knew.  Everyone worried.  And now, everyone grieves.

I’m just glad we got to say goodbye.

We got to join other family members in preparing for the hard separation.  When we got there he was still coherent enough to talk with us.  B. cried a lot.  I told him we had such a good time visiting him at the hospital on Memorial Day this year, we figured we should drop by again on the 4^th of July.   

“You’re the only way we know how to spend a federal holiday,” I joked.  

 He smiled weakly.  B. sniffed. 

I was glad I could get that smile out of him.   

It felt good to do something, anything to help or contribute.  We left Saturday morning to go back to work and school, pleased but also nervous that he was still holding on for something.  We knew it was getting close.

All of his living children had been able to visit with him and say goodbye except for one son living in Washington state.  He and his wife were finally able to make the long drive down and give their regards on Saturday.

He passed a day and a half later.

I’d like to think that his life wasn’t really in God’s hands until Max put it there, that he was holding out to see his last child, regardless of what God had in the cards.  That’s the kind of man he was.  He wasn’t Godless, he didn’t pick fights with God, but I think if they ever came to a disagreement, he had enough tenacity and will to put up a hell of a fight until the very end. 

I tease B. about her humble stomping grounds sometimes.  Battle Mountain has been jokingly referred to as the armpit of Nevada.  But this second visit gave us time to really tour around.  Every block had a memory for her.  B. told me countless stories about her childhood there.  We know it’s a small Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, but it’s her home.  It’s where she grew up.  It’s where Max decided to set roots and build a family, a home, and a legacy.

A whole town is mourning the loss of a great man today.  I’m just happy to join the ranks of those who knew and loved, however briefly, Max Rogers.

We love you Grandpa.  We miss you.

S

Sweetly Duped

When we were dating, B. and I brought up marriage with the prefacing phrase: "So, hypothetical situation..."  This would then be followed with scenarios (of varying levels of detail) in which we would grow and learn and live together in wedded bliss.

As we got more serious and our "hypothetical situation" became "So, probable situation..." - seriously, we actually said those exact words - it became pretty certain we were both in it for the longest of all hauls.  I had decided with absolute certainty a while back

I had a plan to propose in a very special way in a very special place.  I'd had this plan since I was 16 or 17.  I was pumped, everything was falling into place and the planets were aligning. But as the time approached, she started to get (understandably) suspicious that I'd be taking a knee soon.

I had to throw her off the scent, so I intimated that it would probably happen a few months later than her guess.

You know, like a liar.

Well, it was a lie as pure as the driven snow, and I got to see her eyes widen in shock as I asked her the most important question of our lives.  Everybody wins.

I like throwing off her expectations and springing sweetness on her.  It's one of my favorite things to do.  I've got to keep her on her toes lest I become a bore.


Now a few nights ago we both got into a discussion which led to a heated discussion, which led to a fight, which led to an obstinate battle of wills.  As the night grew later, we got crankier and less coherent and less rational.  We finally resolved the issue, called a truce, and went to sleep too exhausted for resentment.

The next day I had to get up at an ungodly hour and head to work.  I kissed her head before I left and she didn't stir.  Sheesh, it had been a late night.  That whole day I was running on not much sleep, and as the radio silence continued between us my tired brain grew more and more anxious.  Were we still fighting after all?  Is this not over?  What am I coming home to?

I texted her about an unrelated, neutral topic during class to test the waters.  No response.

I was decidedly in no rush to get home.  And all of my fretting had built up a lot of stress, so I hit the gym after class.  On my way home I tentatively called her at work to try and establish how we felt now that we had slept on it.  She picked up, but within seconds had to put me on hold.

Busy day at the office.

She picked up again, sounding very frazzled and distracted.  She asked about dinner plans and if I was home yet.  Nope, just left the gym.

"Oh."

(shuffling of papers and telephone ringing)

"Just call me later, ok?"

"Oh... ok." was my timid response.  Was I helping or hurting her mood?  What was doing more damage, me or her job?

Busy day at the office?


So I biked home, soooooo tired after a strenuous workout, a full day of work and school and a trip home in the hot hot heat, all on under 5 hours of shuteye.  I was miserable.  My wife either couldn't or didn't want to talk to me.  Really?  Or is this just the sleep deprivation talking?  How rational am I being right now?


I head downstairs to our hobbit hole apartment and see a little green note on the door:

"I love you!"

I crack a weak grin.  We used to leave notes all the time the first few months after we got married and ran off to our respective jobs.  Looks like the treaty held up today after all.

I open the door and see another identical note above the light switch.  And another on the bedroom door.  And another on the TV.  On the fridge, the counter, the bookshelf, my pillow, my half of the bed, the desk, the computer, the bathroom mirror.  Almost twenty little green i love you squares are checkered all over the apartment.

All waiting for me.

I almost cried.

(*cough* That I blame on the sleep deprivation)


It had been a bad fight.  It had been a bad day.  It had been a bad phone call.  And to come home to this...

I called her back and told her I loved what she did thank you so so much.  She told me that was why she told me to call her back when I got home.  

She threw me off the scent.

I love that I married a woman who likes to trick me sweetly.  We keep each other on our toes that way.

How do you like to surprise someone?  Do you get sweetly duped?




S

The Happy Few

I'm proud to say I come from a military family.

My father joined the United States Air Force when I was ten.  He left for three months to undergo the hell that is Officer Training School (OTS) in Montgomery, Alabama.  In the summer.

In Alabama.

Many of his fellow squad members confided to him that it was much worse than basic training (through which they had previously gone).  Late that August he was sworn in as a Second Lieutenant.  Thirteen years later he has moved up in rank, in responsibility, and in area of professional expertise.  He has been saluted and called Lieutenant, Captain, and now Major Bugg.

He has had to leave his family from time to time.  He has missed the birth of one of his sons while assigned to legal training in another state.  He has missed Christmas.  He has been deployed to the Middle East and was fortunate enough to avoid any harm.

His service to his country has been both taxing and rewarding.  The military has uprooted our family, shuffled us from place to place, house to house, school to school; we've had to adapt to making new friends quickly and expecting every relationship to come with a shelf life.

But this has also forced us to rely on each other and our abilities to make the bumpy voyage as smooth as possible.  We've banded together to pack up quickly, load moving trucks, organize our household, tag team dinner and painting the living room.  The years have gone by as a whirlwind of boxes, carports, bunk beds (military housing isn't always made for a family of eight people), lawnmowers, airshows, and wonderful, supportive neighbors who understand and empathize with the friction of the lifestyle taken on by our troops and their families.



In 2006 I was a pallbearer at my grandfather's funeral.  It was the most involved I had ever been at a funeral and the only one I had ever been to where I personally knew the deceased. I think of that as my first brush with mortality, my first time joining the ranks of my fathers and brothers and taking my place in the generational chain.

My father wore his uniform to the funeral.  During the memorial service he explained his choice of dress blues over traditional mourning black.

My grandfather served in the military as well.   He joined the Navy once he reached the proper age and took an oath to serve his country.


The war ended before he finished basic.


He finished out his tour of duty behind a typewriter in Guam and went home.  But at his funeral there was still a color guard who draped a flag over the casket.  The Navy - the armed forces - still honored his service.

My father explained:  The oath you take when you join the military is that you will lay down your life for your country if called upon.  Neither my father nor his father have had to die for their country.  But they laid down their lives for it.  They were prepared to give their all.

That is the sacrifice they honored at the grave site.  His willingness to serve was enough.



Joining the military is a life-changing event.  My wife and I consider it as a viable career option at times (just as my father did), but I'm hesitant to make such a drastic step.  I've lived that life - and it is a crucible and a forge for both soldiers and the wives and children.  I honor their sacrifice, but I don't envy it.  Regardless of whether or not you are deployed or if you serve on the home front, you place you family's location, your children's schools, the map of your life, into the hands of strangers.

I love my country.  If called upon - if our enemies threatened our borders and a draft was instituted -  I would, like my grandfather, volunteer to protect my home.  But for now I believe I can better serve my country putting my talents to use as a civilian. I have seen the caliber of men enlisted in our defense, and I am awed.



To those of you who have joined the ranks of my fathers before me, thank you for your service.

To your families, thank you for your sacrifice.  I know only in some small degree the lonely path you tread.


To my dad.  To my grandpa. To all the men and women who protect us with their lives and deaths.

To you few, you happy few, you band of brothers,


From the bottom of my heart,

Thank you.

Benefits of Snobbery

B. has made me a snob.

She's very proud of that fact; my conversion to pickiness was much needed.


When I was single (and even dating her)  I wasn't just pinching pennies - I was steamrolling them.  I was the kid who would walk a mile out of his way on the other side of campus to save 60 cents on a gallon of milk.  Ramen was a regular part of my diet.  I rarely drove when walking would suffice (trips to B. not included).  I rented movies from the library.  I kept track of deals at varying grocery stores, planned drives to Wal-mart like Costco pilgramages, clipped coupons, and became a connoisseur of generic brands.  I even bought 2% milk and then watered it down a couple of times to "skim" it. (a technique I picked up from a movie about the Depression)

I know I sound overzealous in hindsight.  I kind of got into it, it became a way to challenge myself.  It wasn't the money was all that tight.  I just really wanted to make an impression on B.  So after my two weeks of ramen and generic bagels and bagged cereals, I had enough cash set aside to pay for gas for my four hours there and four hours back AND take her out two, sometimes three times to really nice restaurants through the weekend.

It's not like I starved myself for two weeks only to binge one weekend either.  I ate quite well at home, too.  Ramen wasn't a foundational part of my diet; I had tacos, I grilled chicken, I had pasta salad.  There were vegetables, there were fruits, I was healthy!  I was actually probably in better shape then than I am now (B. has converted me to sharing a pan of brownies and I usually consume the majority of the pan)  because with all those night being in a committed long-distance relationship, runs often replaced date nights.  My longest run yet happened when I was training for a half marathon during our courtship.

I wasn't racked with hunger pains so don't anyone start guilt tripping my sweet B.  She was not a financial burden.  She didn't do this to me, I just really wanted to impress this girl.  And by impress I mean give her the impression that I could make it rain every weekend.


And I'm the first to admit I got carried away with it.

...But she's a close second.


When our relationship was at last no longer a long distance and we not only shared a zip code but a roof and a bed, my penny-pinching ways began to shift.

In short, I drove B. crazy.

I would go into convulsions whenever we bought a name brand anything or even just a generic brand that wasn't the cheapest (and lowest quality) available.  Shopping was a series of seizures.

It took a long time for me to adjust to not only my own increases in pay but also now living in a dual income house.  No more four hour drives to see my love; that gas money can be put elsewhere.  And while we're not exactly rolling in it, it's not a ramen-noodles-over-a-candle era either.  We're still broke college students, but if we spend an extra 60 cents on milk rather than an extra half hour walking to the other end of campus to get a cheaper gallon, it's not the end of the world.

We won't go to hell for going on fancy dates every once in a while.

It's okay to splurge every once in a while, especially if we've done really well in something (or poorly - See "Shopping and Dropping")

She'll forgive me for getting Ovaltine instead of the cheap knock-off brand that tastes like evaporated milk gone bad.

But it's not just about adjusting my mindset, it's about learning to appreciate some of the finer things.

                        Two words:  Filet mignon.

                        Rather than rush through a log of Wal-Mart bagels before they all go
                        completely stale, we can stop by Einstein Bros. on our way to work.
                        And yes, I can get shmear!

                        Two more words: Hibachi steak. (*drool*)

I've been to the mountain top, I can't go back to my brown pastures.  I've tasted the sweet nectar of being picky, of surpassing generic brands and favoring quality instead.  Now I can't go back.  I'm a snob now.  It's irrevocable.


What are you snobby about?

What do you spoil yourself with?


S