When rock is criminal, criminals rock.

There is no single album that has been more in constant rotation for me than Clutch's "Self-Titled."

Yesterday, it turned twenty years old!

Neal Fallon "wails and moans" through all twelve vocal tracks with a grumble that reeks of whiskey and hard times, never missing a moment to turn a clever phrase or expound on a religious diatribe. Tim Sult is the soul of the this endeavor, writing blues riffs for metal heads that weave and tumble and play with each other, each riff defining its song and becoming instantly memorable. Dan Maines though for me is the true master of the album. Me having stumbled into alternative music from bass-head Hip Hop leanings, his bass lines are the album, the first thing people notice, for good reason...his bass lines. Jean-Paul Gaster drums, it's a great performance, but is out-shined for me by everyone else. Perhaps that's a drummer's job, to hold it all together in the background. Maybe.

Clutch was my first concert, in 1995, at the Phoenix Amphitheatre in Pontiac, Michigan. To this day my buddy hates me for seeing Tad open the show, having no clue who Tad was and not being very impressed. I went with the infamous Scobie boys, both having their terrible long hair, shaved underneath, riding around in a two-door Plymouth that smelled like morning breath at all times of the day, the multiple gas station air fresheners having no effect. They introduced me to things I'd never heard of, and would never have heard of. I bought, rather, my mom bought me steel-toed boots for me to go to the show in, in case of a mosh pit rough up. I had no clue about anything at this point, especially not mosh pits. I remember pointing out some giant skinhead looking dudes to Eric and Steve, which they quickly squashed and tried to help me play it cool. Evidently Clutch, for whatever reason, had an actual Nazi-skinhead following in Michigan, which was notorious for its intimidating presence at their shows. Apparently that sect of people were pretty prevalent in the nineties throughout all sorts of music scenes. During Clutch's set I was forced into the mosh pit during their infamous rager "Binge and Purge." I fell, but seven hands immediately helped me up. It was invigorating! I was hooked.

About a month later the record came out and I bought it at the original Record Time at Ten Mile and Gratiot on cassette. I still have the cassette. It's battered and bruised from getting stuck in "uncle" Kevin's conversion-van tape deck after I forced our youth-group to listen to it on the way to a weekend getaway for church.

I've always had a morbid curiosity about just how many times Neal Fallon says "Yeah!" throughout the album. And now, in honor of its birthday and to pay homage to the record that has repeatedly, for 20 years, astounded, baffled, and inspired me, I will give you that "Yeah!" count. But there were terms for declaring a "Yeah!" a countable "Yeah!" I picked only "Yeah!"s that were not lyrically relevant. For instance, the line: "When I talk-talk on a C.B. yeah I scare men," from The House that Peterbilt wouldn't have a countable "Yeah!" Only celebratory or filler "Yeah!"s would count. Also, there are many moments throughout the record where Fallon double tracked his vocals, making, I imagine, intentional echoes of himself. So, I figured, if it meets the above criteria AND my ears hear it and my singing along would vocalize it, it counts. Boy I've built this up.

The grand total of "Yeah!"s is 42.

Seven Jam alone has fifteen, with Space Grass pulling in twelve. Three tracks have zero "Yeah!"s Forty-two is a lot! But not really as many as I expected. But it could be the most "Yeah!"s ever found in one album, that's something.

All these years and I still don't know what Fallon is talking about much of the time. It's funny how my lips say things at certain points in songs but I know I'm not actually saying what he's saying. In fact, at some of those moments I'm not saying actual words. It'd be funny to catch that on tape. Don't do it though, I'd be embarrassed.

If you haven't dabbled in this record, maybe try it? Maybe you'll love it too.

True and Appropriate.

A few weeks ago I got wrangled into looking at a link entitled something like 'The most popular tattoos of 2014.' Lots of line drawings, geometrical shapes, angel wings (really? still popular eh?) and text phrases, the most popular of which was "this too shall pass." The origin of the adage goes back to Medieval Sufi poets. Its tenure thereafter has plenty of folklore about kings and rings and the eternal torment of sad and happy men alike. The modern reclamation I think leans heavily on the relief from woe more-so than balanced perspective amidst grandeur. A friend recently posted about a hardship she was dealing with on Facebook, and almost like it couldn't not be there, amidst the comments, someone wrote "this too shall pass." In this instance, it seemed snide, patronizing, and devoid of wisdom. Almost the same as saying: "you'll get over it."

We're raising a three year old. A strong willed three year old. That's a term people use now. She's had a hard week. Well, maybe we've had a hard week, she's probably pretty okay. Many of our tried and true tricks are wearing off and need to be re-tooled, which is a dismal realization when we're in the throes of meltdown city. Until this week I feel like I've been able to keep a pretty good perspective on how affected she is by her age. She's trying to find her way, understand how the world works, and assert a sense of control. This makes sense to me. But she's found some buttons I didn't quite know existed. In my most deflated moments I start wondering about grim possibilities: What if she's ADHD? Did I do something that makes her fear me? What if these are signs of her being a future troubled teen? Worry! Worry! Worry! But she's three, I can't forget that. Plenty of time for all sorts of revelations, good and bad, that I probably shouldn't start worrying about now.

The other day on the NPR show, Fresh Air, Terry Gross was interviewing two of the three girls who escaped from kidnapper Ariel Castro's home in Cleveland, in 2012, after nearly ten years of captivity. Presumed dead, the world was shocked to hear all three of these girls, now women, were alive and still in Cleveland. The interview was nothing short of devastating to listen to. Chains, rape, pregnancy, garbage-can toilets...ugly, ugly stuff. To hear these women speak of their attempts at returning to 'normal' life, their courage, their perspective, was just incredible! With the help of a journalist turned close friend, they have a memoir scheduled for release. I wonder if this too shall pass ever entered their minds as they endured their crises.

As one of the stories goes, an Eastern Monarch assembled a band of wise-men and tasked them with the job of creating a phrase to reflect upon which should be "true and appropriate" in every situation for all of time. Though I think we can agree it's overused, you know, twenty-somethings all over the country are tattooing it in Hebrew or vintage type-writer fonts, it still holds weight. Flippantly posted as a clever quip or solve-all without any compassion behind it, this time-tested combination of words can seem coarse. But when I strip away my petty grievances of it being so 'emo,' or 'pop,' it still cuts through to the truth none of us can escape. Truly, unequivocally, all of this, our fears of failure, our traumas, our petty judgements, will come to pass. Depending on the moment I suppose that may inspire joy or sorrow, hopefully more of the former.

Our children will play together!

I just walked into the house after shoveling the sheety, rained on, snow that came last night and this morning, and upon entering our house I was hit with the waft of what I can only describe as a distinct "old people" smell. I hope that's not ageist, probably is. Regardless, that smell is virtually what sold me on putting my eggs in this house's basket. Candy hated it, but something about the smell just made me feel like I could make a home here. That and it had most of the other things we were hoping for in a start-a-family sort of house. I didn't get an immediate time and space transport to Grandpa's house per se', but it felt and smelled cozy. Perhaps it's the sort of smell that gives a place the feel that one can grow old in it? Just a thought.

I know four people who've lost their fathers in the last two weeks. They were Fathers, Grandpas, Sons, and Brothers. I'll be attending three of their memorials, funerals, or shivas this week. You may have heard me mention my friend, Oren, who lost his battle to cancer last Saturday. That night I foolishly opened Facebook on my phone between bands at a show, and, a bit saucy from my third drink, wept almost uncontrollably in the corner when I saw Oren's wife post the news. I don't cry much anymore, at least not from heartache. I tend to cry pretty easily at joyful situations in movies, tv, what have you, but less so at the harder times. Hell, every time Jenny tells Forrest to run and he sheds his leg-braces and discovers his freedom for the first time I smile-weep! (And how could anyone not??? It's maybe the greatest scene in the greatest story ever written!!!) To be fair, I didn't know Oren very well, as per usual, I moved away just as we were getting friendlier. But he was the first of our group in B-more to become a father, and the first person I met who was blogging.  He was just a regular guy sharing his thoughts, it seemed profound to me.

This morning I got to hear a sermon about another father's life with our 3-year-old sitting quietly on my lap. She desperately wanted to relocate closer to the people she knew in the crowd, but was understanding when I explained we needed to wait until after the service to greet them. As I'm listening to how charming, and entertaining, and devoted this man was, my sweets whispered in my ear, "I love you very much Dadda." I couldn't have dreamed a scene more perfect. Of course, a moment later she comically whispered, "I don't love you Dadda," as she likes to say to both Candy and I to get a reaction of tickles or whatever we then do to make sure she's joking.

Several years ago I heard through the ancient MySpace grape-vine that a former Dojo member friend of mine died in an on-site construction accident. Gilbert was a best buddy of mine for about two years until he up and left the Dojo out of the blue. Just prior to that he'd started wearing suits to high school on the advice to "dress to impress" or one other of Sensei's dorky business-savvy models. At that point Gilbert seemed to be lost to me, he was gung-ho for something I didn't understand, and by my view, seemed to have lost himself. Then he disappeared. A guy I saw almost every day for years, trained with, sparred with, swung bo-staffs with, was off the radar. Why he left I never knew. At his funeral I learned he returned to the Dojo years later and casually trained with others I'd lost track of. It was strange also learning that he had a wife, and 2 young kids, and the string-bean-teen I knew grew into a portly adult. His entire adult life was a mystery to me. To this day, every time I hear Dark Side of the Moon I see his face. He's encapsulated in a very different time and space for me. Gilbert's funeral was before I had a daughter of my own. As I think back now, I can almost see the black cloud in the air created by those who know how devastating it is to lose a father, husband, or son, well before anyone could expect their end. The children who will grow up, perhaps without retaining a real memory of who he was, we mourn most for.

There's a weightiness in these situations that I imagine every father, deep down, vehemently fears, as well as day-dreams he could handle as well as Oren did. (Read this for examples of his grace and other things worthy of admiring and pondering.) He's an example of the father I hope to be: intimately connected.  He embraced his fatherhood in a way that I admire and sometimes feel like I'm incapable of. Luckily, through some rearranging and help from fantastic friends, we're able to drive out this week to pay our respects and spend time with the legacy he's left behind. Our children will play together! And if there is any reality in which he can be aware of what we're doing without him, I'm sure there is nothing that would make him happier.

#Dads4Oren

Editor's Note: I received a phone call the day before we were supposed to leave for Baltimore from the friend we were planning on staying with. He explained that Oren's kids were diagnosed with strep that morning and ten inches of snow was predicted from Ohio to Maryland. He asked us to wait until spring to come out, citing it will be a better visit for everyone, so we agreed. So, our children will play together...in the spring.

"Hope is real."

As a metro-Detroiter, it's hard not to be aware of homelessness. We live just North of the oh-so-infamous 8-Mile Road that narrowly divides "The D" from Metro-D. The 8-Mile and Woodward underpass is littered with the remains of those who've sought refuge from the streets...on the street. This year and last have been particularly cold winters with temperatures regularly hitting the negatives at night. At times it's hard to stay warm in our house, I can't imagine trying to sleep without a furnace and roof, even if it's under a mountain of generously donated gore-tex sleeping bags.

The past few years it seems there's been a boom in the amount of folks standing at busy street corners hoping for help from those willing to open their windows and give something in the moments before the light turns green. It's hard not to read signs that say things like, Homeless, family hungry, anything helps, without looking into one's soul to figure out what would actually help in this tiny opening between red and green.

If you asked me to imagine what homelessness looks like, without hesitance, I'd see Eugene. I don't remember the specifics around Eugene's situation, but my dad does. Eugene was his project, his faith through works, his attempt at turning the other cheek, at giving the shirt off his back, at walking the extra mile. Eugene stayed with us many nights over many years. I'd be pouring my cereal in the morning readying for school, and catch a whiff of his dense, musty alcohol and sweat, tip-toeing its way up from the basement. My parents would ask to wash his clothes while he showered, which he often declined, then after buying him a meal, my dad would drive him off to wherever he deemed his next destination. Every time he came through, for a moment, we'd wonder if this would be the final so-long. My dad likes to recall how he'd take Eugene to Burger King and every time without fail he'd comically order a "Whopper, heavy-all." Eventually we moved to Pennsylvania and prayed he'd be okay, wherever he was.

Growing up the son of a Pastor gave me many opportunities to witness the attempts of others to live the word, or practice what they preach. Specifically in regards to the homeless and hungry, many times we took people into our home or into the church to try and provide relief, if only for a night or two, hoping that our actions represented our faith and good intentions.

Last fall while eating in downtown Ferndale, we met Julia. After a double-take, as if we were long-lost friends, she greeted us through the window with an excited wave and jolly grin. She popped her head in and said to our table with a bit of a slur and a playful tone, "I'm hungry!" Not quite knowing what to do or say, fighting silence, I foolishly said "I bet you are!" She mumbled something that only a few of us could hear pieces of and walked off. As she left there was a heaviness in the air. We're a table of well-intentioned folks who have no reason, except the inconvenience of it, not to help someone who's hungry, but none of us seemed to know what was best to say or do in that moment. We were having a family dinner, toddler and guest in tow. We were in a restaurant that likely does not want to have their customers solicited from. It was complicated. None of us felt good about the interaction. Once we parceled together what she said, I felt an elephant snuggling up on my chest: "How can you be so nonchalant about my hunger?" We finished our meal and talked about the nuances of these situations. Dad and I agreed we were at fault, my off-color comment and his silence being the culprits. We walked across the street to where she was, introduced ourselves and apologized for our insensitivity, offering her the opportunity to order from the Chinese menu as we had. She said "It's no big deal," then asked if we'd be willing to get her some chicken wings and coffee from a different restaurant. Who said beggars can't be choosers, right? We felt like such A-holes we'd probably have driven downtown to get her Slows at this point. But we walked down to the wing-joint and ordered her boneless wings and a coffee to go. She was grateful. On the coat-tails of her thankfulness, she inched close to Dad, and asked in a much quieter tone, if he could also help her make bus fare while weaving a story of woe about her daughter and the police and a stolen bike. He obliged.

On our walk back Dad asked if I heard what she said when we apologized? "She forgave us," he said.

Sometimes I like to daydream about being a more honorable man; one who lives to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and give shelter to the homeless. To be more willing to sacrifice my own needs for someone who isn't able to help themselves. I hope to instill this value in our beloved, as small as she is, to feel for others. I fantasize about having the abilities of Powder, to literally feel others' pain, to know what brought them to where they are, and similarly to be able to transmit their story to those as naive as me. But such abilities are works of fiction.

One 'intersectioner' has held a sign that says, "Hope is real." Reality asks that I simply take time to learn about another. That I consider another. It doesn't feel like enough, but perhaps this consciousness alone will give me the fraction of courage I need to act when action is needed. Perhaps hope IS real and can lead to healing in some capacity. I can live in hope.

Photo: stolen from https://detroitlens.wordpress.com/tag/8-mile/

Pieces of puzzles, threads of webs.

Scrolling through Netflix a few weeks ago, my wife stumbled on Pee-wee's Playhouse and decided to see if our three year old would have any interest. After an insistence that we watch the episode "Monster in the playhouse" on repeat for a few days we're now well into the third season and she loves it! When I told a buddy of mine we were watching it he told me about The Nerdist podcast and their interview late last year with Pee-wee himself, Paul Reubens. Among slews of other interesting things Reubens had to say about the development of his career and the Pee-wee persona, he mentioned one thing that anchors it all: he knew from the age of seven he wanted to be an actor. He tells a funny story about how, as a youngster, he hated Ron Howard because he thought he could do a better job than him as Opie. But from that moment on, he took every risk and opportunity to make it happen. For him, that was it.

Somewhere among the fifteen million headlines for Huffington Post articles that show up in my Facebook feed every day I remember briefly scanning one with the headline: The question we should all stop asking each other when we first meet, or something like that. It piqued my interest enough to read the first paragraph to find out that "what do you do for work?" was the author's culprit. He or She argued that it automatically forces us to place class judgments on each other, or something along those lines, leading to potential disconnects right out the gates. Instead, we should ask broader questions like "what do you like to do?" and let that conversation develop. I thought, "Yeah, I'm more than what I do for work, dammit!" And then stopped reading, because I got the gist of it.

Several months ago I started seeing a therapist with the intention of talking about Mommy/Daddy issues. While we've certainly talked through those, the conversation often comes back to my understandings around purpose and fulfillment, and my struggles in feeling those. I speak most about the confusion of never having had a moment where I felt sure I should to be doing any particular thing. Some people find this easy. Some people, like Reubens, know from early childhood what they want to do in life. Some people just enjoy something so much they can't not do it. Some people have life-altering experiences or epiphanies that show them the way. And some people believe the Heavens have decreed their purpose. However this certainty comes about, these people pick something and do it. They're doing their it.

I've talked with several friends recently who have said they feel like they're not doing anything productive, moving toward any particular goal, or they're not where they thought they'd be in life by now. They have a dissatisfaction with themselves. Like they're not doing something more significant. When I asked a friend about her dissatisfaction, she called it her "artistic voice" that's trying to get out. And, as she's an artist, not doing art in a full-time way, it makes sense that she'd call it that. I wonder if there are people who aren't artists in any structured fashion that feel this same nag? As I think of all the people I know experiencing this frustration, they're all artists. So maybe there's something to that.

The grand-picture part of my mind wants to deconstruct our ideas about purpose by relating it to class issues. The fact that survival is not something we have to consider, at least as middle-classers with, I'm guessing most of you reading qualify, white-privilege, changes the dynamic so much. The mere fact that I can sit here and try to wax eloquently about my ideas proves that I have the privilege to do so. I like to think about history and the development of civilizations and how people, as pieces in a puzzle, may have had a much clearer idea about what they're to do in life. Trades were often handed down through generations and only rarely was the glass shattered because people have to put food on the table. It's sort of a cog in the machine viewpoint. The machine must have all its working parts. There's a whole-lotta ugly in that sort of view too. Why should one person die of coal inhalation for another person's Industrial Imperialism? Not saying it's better one way or the other, but perhaps the option-paralysis much of my generation struggles with was not as present.

A friend recently joked about being terrible at job interviews, because he finds it hard to fake wanting to work. "Why do I want to work here? Well, I have time and I'd like to trade it to you for money." When I think of people who are super career-oriented, they are usually willing to give much of their time to their career. It's what they place value on. That or they want more money, which then requires more of their time in order to acquire it. In an attempt to fight against my self-hatred for my lack of ambition, I place value judgments on things outside of the career world. What do I like to do? Or, better yet, what makes me me? Well, let me refer you to the brief bio in the bottom right corner of this page. I am a father, a husband, a writer, a band-dude (quick plug), and so much more, right? Oh, and I'm a cog in Retail and a part-time Massage Therapist. Pieces of my puzzle. Threads of my web. But the image to my puzzle still seems hazy. I've somehow created a world in which there are no other options and have spent all my time trying fit something rather than find what fits me. There is no shoe that fits. So I guess I have fill my time with all sorts of shoes. And because of this, I have knots in my stomach, and scurry about hoping to find the elusive right single shoe. Perhaps the ambitious have the same knots, but on the opposite side of things, being defined by one particular aspect of their lives. We're all struggling with something.

As Greg Bennick, of the brilliant Between Earth & Sky, and of being-the-kind-of-guy-I-wish-I-was put it: purpose is anything we give purpose to. And my mind knows this. But my mind is at war with my history and with our culture.

My dad went to school for Engineering, until one fateful day when God called him to be a minister. There are people like Kayla Mueller who die trying to relieve the suffering of Syrian refugees. And then there's Pee-wee and a billion other examples of people who just knew what they wanted to do, I'm just not one of them, and so I'm doing things, and thinking about more things.

Here's to searching for the elusive it, and to balance and patience.

Image: stolen from google at http://media.cleveland.com/tv_blog/photo/peewee01jpg-537d8351f2470384.jpg

The most wonderful time of the year.

Since August I've been growing my beard. Not because it contrasts beautifully with my high and tight 50s swooper of a haircut (that I've also decided to let grow for a while), or because I had an afternoon of vintage-y, hands-on-wood-splitting-labor at Grandmother's house last summer, or because I've started investigating various bourbons, or any other reasons that make me seem like I'm in a Hipster 101 class, but because I hope to dress as Santa Claus in a couple weeks. Yes, Santa Claus. I'm not trying to be Santa, so much as pay homage to the coolest dude with the sweetest profession during the most wonderful time of year. So I'll spray my beard white and wear a lot of red, maybe wear a red floppy hat. I've already played out in my mind what I'll say to our beloved or any other child that's showing signs of confusion or wonder when they see me: "I'm not Santa, but Santa is SO COOL that I wanted to try and look like him this year!" We'll see how that goes over.

If you've known me for any amount of time, you'll know I LOVE Christmas! I have a tattoo to prove it. By mid-November this year I had December pretty booked up with Holiday-sy events that just tickle my fancy! This year we have A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, and White Christmas all showing at the Redford Theatre, Wild Lights at the Zoo, Noel Night, Holiday Nights at Greenfield Village, a trip to Frankenmuth and Bronners, along with 3 family Christmas gatherings. Not to mention a Secret Santa exchange at work, White Elephant exchange with family, and maybe a friend-party if I can find the right victim to host! If you weren't sure...it's the most wonderful time of the year!

I had a friend say to me the other day, "Whitfield, I know you love Christmas, but I've never asked you why you love Christmas so much?" My quick and simple answer was, "it makes me feel like a kid again."

In the liner notes for a song called Separation Anxiety on my band's demo five years ago I wrote:

This is an ode to the hearty sense of freedom and individuality most of us experience as children. Usually somewhere in adolescence we relinquish our imagination and naivete as we're told to take life more seriously. I'm convinced that most of us will spend much of our adult life trying to repossess the sense of wonder and joy we once had as children.

The other day a friend told me he's thinking of rejoining the church. He grew up Catholic. I asked him why and he said something along the lines of: I don't know, I just grew up in the church, I miss being a part of something, feeling like I belong to something bigger than me...and even though I hated going as a kid I feel like going now. I replied with a "fair enough." I fully understand and honor wanting something simply because it reminds me of childhood. (I have a tattoo and blog posts to prove it.) As we talked I asked him all the pertinent questions about his feelings around faith and beliefs around god. He confessed he's not sure he believes in a god, but feels its possible there is something out there. I tend to be less wondrous than he these days...about this something anyways.

As you may know, I grew up in the church, the son of a pastor. Christmas, while fun, and beautiful, and exciting, always had a focus, an origin, a reason more important than the human mind can fully comprehend. The birth of redemption. The bridge, born of a virgin, for man to now access God. But none of that feels reasonable to me anymore. And so I'm left with all the other things we indulged in...the bells, whistles, and everything more tangible.

Why do I love Christmas so much if my adult understanding of it is so far removed from the weight and emotionalism that was applied to it in my upbringing? Was "the reason for the season" clearly applied to it or was it smothered by the blasted secularization of the season? Can children even remotely comprehend we're 'celebrating the birth of the savior of humanity?' Should that idea even be presented to them? How can that message even hope to contend with presents, lights, Santa and all the other things that naturally capture the imagination of children?

We are the sum of our experiences.

Of course we are more than that too. Nature and Nurture weaving a fucked-up web of confusion. Luckily, I was fortunate enough to have positive associations with the Christmas season that outweigh the negative associations. And my positive associations are powerful enough to outweigh my appeals to reason, inclinations against capitalism, and doubt of traditionalism. I know full well there are plenty of reasons to hate Christmas. Most of my friends are quite quick to tell me them. Just watching commercials the week before Thanksgiving should be enough to make a misanthrope out of most of us.

But still, it remains. The excitement stays with me. And now I get to rejoice within our beloved's 3 year old version of it! And I get to hope that the sum of her experiences with us will stick with her in the best, most exciting of ways. Hopefully you'll feel some of it too.

Forgiveness.

Last summer I had a conversation with friends about a documentary, which I haven't seen, that evidently makes a case that pedophilia is a sexual orientation, or a deviation which may be out of the control of those affected. My buddy who watched it said the documentarians made it known they believe acting on these impulses is unequivocally wrong, but the goal was to understand the inclination, or orientation if it is one, better. Being that two of us were fathers in the conversation, I couldn't help but ask my friend, whom I consider a roll-model of a father, what he'd do if he were to discover one of his beloveds had been sexually abused? His response was visceral, raw: "I'd fucking kill the person." It was a glimpse into a primitive version of him we only see once in a blue moon. As he realized what he said, he immediately disclaimed that he knows violence is the opposite of what he's been actively trying to teach his family and the opposite of his faith's hope.

Not even a day later, this showed up everywhere. My heart feels heavy for everyone involved.

While my upbringing created a moral compass that taught me forgiveness is the higher of roads and nobler of choices, the display of humanity's inclination toward destruction and selfishness we see throughout history, and every day, evokes feelings of futility and Nihilism ("vee believe in nussing Lebowski, nussing") which asks me to challenge whether forgiveness is truly the voice of reason that humans should aspire to, or that echos beyond our graves. But even as my mind doubts the power of forgiveness, seeing the images of the offender in the link above turns my stomach. I'm pretty sure most fathers would have the same reaction this father did. But looking at the aftermath, vengeance also feels wrong.

I often get stuck in the Facebook-thread-web where one post leads to reading comments, which leads to reading profiles, which takes me far, far away from everything that is more important in life. One of the rabbit-holes I often plummet down is the "people you may know" stream. Having lost track of basically everyone I grew up with I can't help but scroll through the names and faces of potential "friends" once or twice removed from my present life. The ghosts of lives past create an inescapable curiosity about who is out there that once mattered. But last week a former boyfriend of my wife was proposed as a person I may know. Facebook was hoping we'd be friends. Now I don't know this person, but I know about this person. The things I know make me grit my teeth and clench my fists. The pain he caused is a permanent fixture in our relationship, an old wound still superficial enough it's capable of being snagged every once in a while. But like she approaches everything in life, with dignity and grace, Candy has allowed his actions to reflect poorly of him, not her. I know the way my imagination can run wild wondering what might've been had I seen things as clearly as I can see them now; wishing wisdom had prevented this or that from happening. But she's ascended beyond his decisions to make her own. She's forgiven herself for being duped, for trusting the wrong person. She's forgiven herself, which allows her to move forward.

As we continued to discuss whether forgiveness is the decision that echos longest, my buddy, after back-pedaling on his rage response, mentioned the 2006 attack on an Amish school in Pennsylvania. I hadn't heard of this, for whatever reason, but you can read about it here. Charles Carl Roberts IV, 32 years old, took hostages from a one-room schoolhouse, shot 10 girls, ages 6-13, killing five of them execution style, then committed suicide. The heinous violence sounds like an old-hat story now as since then, from 2006-2013, there have been 115 school shootings, the deadliest taking place in 2007 at Virginia Tech with 33 victims. What set Roberts' attack apart was the outpouring of forgiveness and mercy by the Amish community toward Roberts' family, from the Wikipedia page:

On the day of the shooting, a grandfather of one of the murdered Amish girls was heard warning some young relatives not to hate the killer, saying, "We must not think evil of this man."^[15] Another Amish father noted, "He had a mother and a wife and a soul and now he's standing before a just God."^[16] Jack Meyer, a member of the Brethren community living near the Amish in Lancaster County, explained: "I don't think there's anybody here that wants to do anything but forgive and not only reach out to those who have suffered a loss in that way but to reach out to the family of the man who committed these acts."^[15]A Roberts family spokesman said an Amish neighbor comforted the Roberts family hours after the shooting and extended forgiveness to them.^[17] Amish community members visited and comforted Roberts' widow, parents, and parents-in-law. One Amish man held Roberts' sobbing father in his arms, reportedly for as long as an hour, to comfort him.^[18]The Amish have also set up a charitable fund for the family of the shooter.^[19] About 30 members of the Amish community attended Roberts' funeral,^[18] and Marie Roberts, the widow of the killer, was one of the few outsiders invited to the funeral of one of the victims.^[20]

Maya Angelou once said "Bitterness is like a cancer, it eats upon the host..." Is forgiveness the key to self-liberation from pain? What does forgiveness look like in situations like the above without a belief system which declares divine judgement is balancing the scales for actions taken in life? Is the Amish response the kind that all us should aspire to? Certainly the family Roberts left behind, who were just as mortified by his actions, benefited from forgiveness. What about when the perpetrator is still alive and well and has yet to meet any sort of judgment, let alone a divine judgement?

No answers, only questions. And that's okay.