WARNING.....CONTENT

Without preamble, here is what is on my mind.

I had a dream last night.  I don’t know where it came from or why or what (really) to make of it.  But it has weighed on my heart and soul all day, and I am (a little) afraid of seeing her again tonight.

In this dream, my wife and I were staying at a resort or vacation home with other family and friends.  My wife and I were upstairs in the master bedroom getting ready for the day when a woman came upstairs and asked for help.  She said she was pregnant and the baby was coming.  My wife delivered the baby there on the bed with no problems.  The mysterious woman said “thank you” and walked out, saying she did not want the baby.  My wife wrapped the baby in a bedsheet and helped the woman downstairs.  

As I came out of the bathroom where I had been hiding (sounds realistic, doesn’t it?) I looked at this newborn baby girl.  She looked back at me and smiled, not just with her mouth, but here eyes as well.  They shone with such love and beauty that I was smitten.  We kept the baby.  We raised her as our own.  And she loved me more than anyone.  She would sit on my lap or cuddle or play, but always with eyes for me.  I loved her so much, which is odd, because I don’t really recall feeling much in any dream I’ve had.

When she was three years old, a dark-haired, dark-eyed precious girl, her birth mother called and said she wanted the child.  We had no legal way to keep her and (in the dream) had to agree to give up our daughter to someone we did not feel was worthy of her.

As I tucked my sweet daughter (for she was mine, truly) into her bed that night and tried to explain that tomorrow she would go with her family she looked at me with those eyes, full of love and trust, and stated, “I don’t want to dad.  I want to stay with my real family.”  I couldn’t stop the tears in my own eyes from spilling out because I couldn’t stand the thought of giving her up.  I explained again, gently, that it was what we had to do.  She just turned her head and said, “Okay dad.”   And in her look, I could read what she felt.  Love, perfect trust, and sorrow at the circumstances that were taking us apart, but above all, obedience to the one she loved. 

I woke up with tears flowing from my eyes this morning.  I can’t exactly recall her face, but I can recall perfectly her expressions, which is odd to me.  And I’ve been trying all day to read into the meaning, if there is one, of the dream in which I had another daughter, and then lost her.

But if I may, I would like to draw a parallel.  2000 years ago, a father gave up his precious son to a world that would not claim him or accept him.  They weren’t worthy of him and gave him away.  But the son was obedient, with perfect trust and love, and completed a marvelous work, even a wonder, the wonder of the entire world.  The first gift given, the only gift we will receive that makes any difference in the long run, has come to us.  

As I write this, with much tenderness of heart, and tears still in my eyes, please express your love to those who are with you and believe me when I wish you, a very Merry Christmas.

It's a kind of magic...addiction

I've been playing Role Playing Games for a long time now.  Not really often, but regularly.  I freely admit that I am kind of a nerd and a little bit of a geek (pushes glasses back on face, snort!) and even though that is somewhat more socially acceptable these days, I still hide it beneath a cool, suave, macho exterior. 
Yet my secret identity has been compromised by my two oldest sons finding out about RPG's and even having been able to sit in while I played with some other geeky nerds.  Now my boys are into it and want to play.  So I did what a good dad should and I started creating and leading adventures for them. 
The sad truth is that I suck at it. 
I'm much better at the playing part, getting into a character and bringing it to life.  That's probably why I enjoyed drama in high school.  But being the game master and coming up with fun, funny, exciting, not-too-challenging adventured with the right amount of scariness and challenge is not a strong point.  Despite my feelings about it, the kids love it.  The younger kids will even sit and listen as we play.  Some of our family quotes have even come from those sessions.  But I just don't always have the time or the mental ability (or the inclination) to spend an hour or two coming up with the adventure and then running a 2-3 hour session. 
Enter Magic:  The Gathering.  Me, the wife, and the kids and I went to a nearby "big city" and stopped at a bookstore.  We found a huge selection of this game, and it's components, there.  I had heard of it but never had any experience with it.  My wife expressed an interest in it so we started chatting with the sales clerk.  He was obviously very knowledgeable about it and even hooked us up with some free stuff.  I bought a core set and we all went home that night and broke it out.  Turns out this stuff is like heroin!  I was back to the shop a couple days later and bought four more core sets.  Don't ask me how much it cost.
But it's pretty awesome.  It is similar enough to be like an RPG, the kids picked up the rules way faster than I did, they play all the time now and no two games turn out the same.  
Admittedly, my wife and I (and the kids by default) love to play games.  Yet this game is a great in-between game for the boys when Dad is too tired or busy to set up an RPG adventure.  We'll still play, but they can bust out their decks of cards and play without having to wait for me in the interim. 
And I have a new addiction.  The only brake on it is the fact that there are several other purchases that take precedence right now.  Older addictions get priority.

Whirlwind

It's a heavy day today.  Tough times at work with things up in the air.  One best friend is going through a hard time and is going to court tomorrow for a divorce and custody hearing.  My friend Brody (the ranger shot in Moab) was downgraded from Serious to Critical condition today.  He's fighting infections and struggling.  But I can't do anything.  I feel like I am in the eye of the storm and watching my friends getting beaten down by the wind and I'm helpless.  What do you do?  Pray?   Get mad?  Cut them loose?  Curse?  Pray harder?  I don't know.  But you can't give up on them.  You still hope and grieve and struggle for them.  There's no magic wand or button or word that will fix everything.  You just continue on and hope they do too. 
And it's the holiday season.  People need a little help.  I've seen a bunch of suggestions out there.  Send a card to a wounded soldier.  Buy a gift and donate it to someone who needs it.  Send a plate of goodies somewhere.  Smile.  Help.  Lift.  Stand.  That's the only remedy I've found that will always work, will always make me feel better.  Because now someone else feels better too. 
In a whirlwind, what goes around, definitely comes around.

On Thanks

There has been this theme going through my head lately, revolving around Thanksgiving and what it means to me this year.  Each year, the holidays mean something a little different due to the context of my life when they occur.  This year, it is centered on a friend being shot in the line of duty and having attended other funerals for officers in the last several months.
When I got home from helping on the man hunt in Moab, I was in a bit of an emotional turmoil.  I felt like I didn't belong at home, that it was not right that I should be with my wife and children when others were in the field, in terrible weather, or in a hospital bed unconscious.  It was hard, really hard, to sit down and shed the "on-duty" mentality and go back to my normal, at-home life.  And the next day it was Thanksgiving and time for reflection.  My parents and my wife's parents were there with us and we went around the table, each expressing one thing we were grateful for.  I watched my children, and thought of my friend who was laying in a hospital bed somewhere, unaware of his wife and children and parents holding a silent vigil for him.  Wondering how his wife could possibly answer the questions those children might have.  "When will daddy be better?"  "Why did he get shot?"  "Will the man try again to hurt him or hurt us?"  "When will we go home?"  Can you imagine trying to explain to a sweet little girl the answers to those questions?  It makes my heart ache and my eyes tear up just thinking about it.  So I come to this conclusion:  Sometimes we are grateful for what we have.  And sometimes we are grateful for what we don't have.  This year, I am grateful my friend is still alive.  I am grateful his problems are not my problems.  I am grateful to help, in even a small way, the efforts to bring about a measure of justice. 
Looking ahead, I can see challenges approaching in my own life I will have to face.  No-one's life is perfect.  But this dose of perspective makes them seem doable, something I can overcome.  Maybe that perspective is the real source of giving thanks.  A little humility.  A little compassion for others.  A little hope for the future.  All that equals gratitude for what is, and sometimes for what is not. 
Knowing that we are not alone, that others are out there struggling and winning, helps me keep the faith.  When we all have perspective we can take care of each other. Peace and perspective to all of you out there. 

The Rising Tide, or, thoughts from inside the man hunt

I am a police officer.  I have been in law enforcement for over 4 years now.  I work as a Ranger with State Parks and Recreation.  This might not be normal where you live, but within the state I live in, Rangers are full police officers, just like a state trooper.  We have state-wide jurisdiction with the power and authority to enforce all laws within the state. 

As I’ve worked in the field and attended funerals for other officers within the state, two things have impressed me deeply.  As for the funerals, those assemblies have impressed one thing upon me.  There is a tremendous fraternity within the ranks of police officers.  It doesn’t matter if you know one another or not, it doesn’t matter where they work or for what agency.  Nothing matters except that he or she wore a badge and took the same oath the rest of us did:  To protect the public from harm and injustice by placing ourselves in the way. 

And sometimes we die.

The second thing that has been indelibly burned into my conscious is that when a brother or sister calls for help, you go.  You go now and you go fast.  Again, it doesn’t matter who they are or where they are, you just go.  This is especially true when you work out in the middle of nowhere, trying to uphold the law, with backup anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes away, like many of us do. 

For those of you who do not have access to the internet, seen the local or national news, or a newspaper, or otherwise have had your head in the sand, a friend and fellow ranger of mine was ambushed and critically wounded this past week by some guy.  (For the sake of decency, I will not express too many of my thoughts about the suspect.)  My friend, whom I have known for 15 years or so, was shot in the back.  Regardless, by some inner strength, he was able to engage in this fight and return fire.  His dominant hand was rendered useless by another bullet from the bad guy so he entered a gunfight one-handed and fought back.  He took several more rounds during the fight and incredibly was able to mark the bad guy as well.  He fought the suspect to a standstill, bleeding, struggling to remain conscious, trying to stay in the fight.  The suspect ran out of bullets and couldn’t finish his cowardly attempt to kill a valiant man.  So he fled.  My friend did not give up.  Mustering his final strength, he was able to call for help via his radio, the one lifeline we in the field can always count on.  (Those voices on the other end of radio, the dispatchers, become guardian angels, concerned about us and bound together out of loyalty and compassion.)  Friends and rescue workers rushed to his aid.  He was not alone, which must have been one of the last sources of strength left available to him. 

I had had a long day.  It was several hours after I normally went to bed but I was still awake.  I had seen a brief internet news article saying that an un-named ranger had been shot.  I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t rest.  One of my brothers, my friend, had been hurt.  At 1:30 a.m. I received a call.  “Grab your gear and your rifle and high-tail it to Moab” the order came over the phone.  And I was gone. 

I arrived way before dawn, and got to work.  A command center had been established and officers were pouring in from all over the state.  That first day I was at the checkpoint, dealing with the public, the media, and directing arriving officers to where they should go.  I had no time or inclination to deal with the emotional aspect of the situation, how this incident affected me.  It was time to work, a duty to discharge, a chance to help. 

After my shift, I went back to the command center to find out what progress had happened and to check out.  And still more officers were arriving.  And it didn’t stop.  There was a flood, a rising tide pouring from all over to support my friend, to fill the area and flush out the suspect. 

My friend will probably live.  I won’t have to attend a memorial service for him.  He won this fight because he outlasted the other guy.  I am more proud of him for that than anything else.  And the sacrifices, the efforts and labors of those who came to help bring tears to my eyes.  It didn’t matter how many miles they walked tracking the bad guy, how long they manned a post, how many times they searched an area, there was no complaining or wavering.  In the midst of a terrible incident, I found myself buoyed up with the knowledge I was in the middle of an ocean of compassion, of loyalty, of friendship.  The waters of justice, indeed.

Is this going to cause problems?

If there is a government "Black List" for people to watch our for, I sure hope this post doesn't place me on it.  But I got some new parts for my M4 rifle and I am pretty stoked.  They include a new pistol grip with a storage compartment, new trigger guard, new B.A.D. assembly (which is brilliant--Magpul Tech came up with this device to make the trigger finger able to manipulate the slide lock/release without leaving the grip) and an oversized charging handle.  I think it is all pretty awesome.  Now I just have to figure out how to make these modifications without destroying the gun, myself, or anyone else.

On sickness...

Being sick sucks.
I can handle the fact that other people are sick with amazing fortitude.  It is when I am sick that I find I have the most sympathy and, indeed, empathy for the person who is ill.  I won't go into the details of my recent indisposition, but suffice it to say that the term "Aire Liquide" has a new meaning for me. 
I have known some people who consider illness a mental weakness.  They have said that they simply do not allow themselves to be ill.  That begs the question, why do the rest of us get sick?  Probably for attention.  Or to forgo an obligation.  Or because we are weak-minded with no capacity to govern our own puny, and insignificant, lives.  Or maybe it is because we like the medicine "Have you ever tried seltzer water with your Nyquil?  Oh yeah, it's great!  (tching  as glasses are touched) Pass the beer nuts this way!"
Maybe it's to remind us that our health, our lives, our very existence is fragile and a divine (or cosmic) gift and we don't know when it may end.  Maybe it's to help us appreciate how good it feels to be healthy.  Maybe it's a wake-up call to enjoy our time with loved ones NOW and not later. 

Boy, this Lortab is awesome.  I think I'll have another...

Bill Cosby was right

I think Bill Cosby is brilliant. 
He once stated that parents don't care about "fair" when their children quarrel.  All a parent cares about is "quiet". 
This is true.  I don't care who called who a 'stupid-head' I want you both to shut up.  If two children are yelling and fighting at each other, I will put them both on a time-out since I don't care who started it, I just want it stopped.   (Much like police work, I might add.  Except at home you can't get out of timeout by posting bail.)
I was home this evening and could overhear my two youngest children interacting in a bedroom.  Seth is 7 years old.  Grace is 4 years old.   I wish I could sum up the personalities of these two in a few short sentences, but the truth is, I can't.  They are adorably frustrating, perfectly misbehaved, have great bad manners, and sweet potty mouths.  One likes weapons and the other likes dangerous animals. 
Anyway, I could hear them in one of the bedrooms down the hall and they were playing with each other and laughing.  But, inevitably, one of them started crying.  I mentioned previously that I have an injured foot and though it is getting better, it still bothers me.  So I was not quick off the couch to go see what the matter was and settle it with perfect equality.  (Namely, sending them both to a time-out.)  So before I intervened, I noticed that after a minute or two of name-calling and crying, they both started playing again and laughing. 
Another remark Bill Cosby made was that kids change moods so quickly.  As I sat and listened I realized that a pattern was repeating itself.  They would play for a while and then call each other names and cry and then go back to playing.  So the question in my mind is, "Am I too quick to intervene when the kids start bickering?" 
I think current pop-psychology and our media-dominated culture suggests that we try to ensure that our children are kept from discomfort and confrontation as much as possible.  Confrontation is a huge part of our lives.  We can't reach our goals if we are not willing to confront the obstacles in our way.  Perhaps it is better to allow them to deal with those circumstances in a safe place, like home.  They will never go through life without people calling them names or events not going the way they want them to.  They will most certainly come into contact with a bully at least once.  Are we ruining our children by trying to protect them too much from the ups-and-downs of life? 
I think so.  If you don't like it and start making a fuss, I'll put you on time-out.  I said I want QUIET.

AAARRRGGHHHH and freakin' AAARRRGGGHHH

So I did go to the doctor today.  The office, the staff, and the doctor were all great.  There was even a very cool huge fish tank in the lobby.  But two things stand out from the visit today, one of which I am betting you have rarely (if ever) heard from a man.  To build the suspense, I will commence (sorry, lame) with the less rare, but very painful experience.  I point your attention to the title of this blog to emphasize this.  It turns out that I do indeed have a bone spur on my right heel, and it is aggravating my achilles tendon, but the cause of the actual pain is a strained planar fasciitis tendon which runs from the bottom of the heel to the ball of the foot.  It was inflamed to almost triple the normal size.  So the doctors recommendation was to administer a cortisone shot. 
I do not like shots, but I have received enough that I am okay with them.  I did advise the doctor to close the door to the exam room since I had no desire to deafen everyone with my screaming, and he wisely took my advice.  He then told me that usually men scream like little girls, which is odd, because the women never scream. 
(Here I will digress, since his statement provoked a mental process that went something like this:  The phrase "to scream like a little girl" has been around for a long time.  And it is true.  There is no one who can scream like a little girl.  It is not just that they have volume, because little boys have that too, but they have passion.  They have a piercing quality that is unrivaled.  They have a register that is so high that dogs will respond.  Yet I have personal experience that suggests my little girls never scream that way from pain.  Their screams are based again on passion, on grievances, and on feelings, which little boys seem to not have.  (Not that little boys have no feelings, but they have different feelings.  They are based on aggression, you know this.)  No, my daughters and the other little girls that I have seen scream, yes, like little girls, scream because they are MAD.  It could be used as the ultimate disaster siren.)
So the doctor pulled out a hypodermic needle that was too long for me to be comfortable with.  He advised me that it would hurt.  Normally, doctors say the opposite, "Oh, it won't hurt a bit" but not this guy.  I was not keen on getting a shot in the bottom of the heel, especially with a needle that looked a definite 10-inches long (since I could imagine that nasty, grating feeling of metal on bone as it found my ankle) but the doctor starts to swab the inner side of my heel.  I asked him what he was doing.  He said it would hurt less by going in the side.  The initial insertion of the now foot-long needle was not too bad with the topical numbing agent he was using, but when he started moving the needle in the foot,  from side to side it began in me a slow, but rapidly rising feeling of PAIN.  When he took the needle out, I was bleeding pretty heavily, enough to worry the doctor who now had a mess to clean up.  When I woke up, I mean, the doc put a bandaid on it and sent me on my way.  The great thing was I could no longer feel the pain from the strained ligament since it was overshadowed by the greater pain from the shot.
And now for the very rare thing that I said I would say.  Before the trauma, I had an ultrasound.  How many guys can say that?  It was just of my foot, but I even have a picture to prove it.  Neener neener.

Later that same night...

I am in Utah Valley right now.  I had to come up here for work and for a doctors appointment tomorrow.  I have something wrong with my right foot, diagnosed last Saturday night as a bone spur on my right heel.  I was playing tag with the kids Friday night on our way back from vacation and all of the sudden, it hurt so bad I could not put anyway weight on that heel.  My big fear is that I have damaged something that was rather benign and it could cause repercussions with work and life.  (Note that the two things are separate.)  So I get to go to the doctor, excuse me, podiatrist, tomorrow and find out what is--what the diagnosis is and what the options is.  (sic)  (hic) (hic) (hic) (hic)
Sorry..got some sic hiccups there.

The foot has been hurting quite a bit but I have largely neglected my prescription pain pills due to the fact that I need to drive, I drive a law enforcement vehicle, and I carry a gun, all in the name of work.  A guy on hydrocodone could really screw some stuff up while in those circumstances, starting with a career and ending with a life.  So I have hobbled around, ignoring the discomfort, like a real man.  ("I Ain't Got Time To Bleed" is the title of a book by Jesse "The Body" Ventura.  I think it's an awesome title.  I didn't read the book since it couldn't top that.) 
This enforced abstinence from exercise, especially the daily morning walks with my wife and our dog, is starting to irk me.  I am feeling the lack of it and I don't like it.  Perhaps it's time to dust off the stationary bicycle and peddle away from all this. 
I'm not sure what the point of all this is, except to emphasize the conversation I had with Tyler last night about how you never notice a part of the body until it is injured.  You say, "I could live without such-and-such part of the body and never notice it."  Yet, the instant you hurt something, like cut your pinky finger on your left hand, you realize just how many times you bump it, scrape it, use it during the day.  Even the lowly gallbladder is missed, usually during a meal of something greasy, and we consider that the ultimate throw-away body part.  Hmmm.  Is there anything that we can lose that makes us not a-less-than perfect machine?  
All this brings me to my real point tonight.  It is Veterans Day on Thursday, November 11th.  I have tried lately to thank everyone I meet who is a veteran for their service.  Most of them have lost something along the way.  The effects might be minor or they could be life-altering.  And yet most of them served because they could not stand the idea that without our freedom, we would all be less-than-perfect machines.  God Bless all you Vets out there.  Thanks for taking one for the rest of us.

Why a blog

I was in the shower this morning and had some topics floating through my head and thinking, "Man, I should write this stuff down."  But I already keep a daily journal so why do more work?  I realized that when I do write in my journal, it's usually late at night, right before bed.  I don't tend to get very philosophical at that time, having depleted the daily allotment of brain cells during the course of the day.  I also realized that I seem to write better when I have an audience.  There is no guarantee that this blog will have any kind of audience, but it is public and not private like the journal entries are.  ("Does she like me?  Does she like me or like me?  What if she doesn't?  What if she does?  Oh diary, what am I going to do?")  No, I can be manly here.  Or at least, pretend to be manlier.  Which is cool.  (I'm cool.  I don't even have to try.  I just am.  What's that?  I can hear you over the sound of how awesome I am.)
So that's my introduction to this blog.  I do feel like I want to explain the name though.  I have some pretty intelligent friends who know what contrails are, but then I have friends that probably don't.  So in the spirit of fairness, a contrail is that stream of white cloud that comes out of a jet engine as it passes through the air.  I won't go into why they are created, but they mark the passage of a jet airplane.  I once wrote a poem called Contrails and I thought it was very good.  (I think I let something slip--it's manly to write poetry, right?)  It was about...well, I'll just include it at the bottom of this entry.  You don't have to inflict it on yourself if you don't want to.  Anyway, the name Dehavik means "the hawk" in Dutch and I thought there was a cool connection there between flight, and something showing it has been through the area, like the tracks of an animal.  And what kind of tracks might a hawk make?  Well, contrails.  If he was moving fast enough.


here's the poem:

contrails

cris-

crossing

the path

a scent of jasmine

hangs

floating

after she

walks by

My Facebook page, if you are interested.