In a dressing gown, she was lying on the hospital bed with her eyelids sagging like a very old roof. An IV tube was taped to her arm; an oxygen tube rested beneath her nose. Her hair was messed up. In a voice hoarse from screaming, she croaked out a cute little song we sing at church.

"soon and very soon, we are going to see the king,
hallelujah, hallelujah,
we are going to see the king."

Minutes earlier, my daughter was having a procedure done on an abcess on her leg in the emergency room. It took three of us to hold her upper body down, one to hold her legs still and one to methodically cut all the gore out of her body. She was screaming the whole time. No matter what her mom and dad said, she could not be soothed.

What had me befuddled was the complete impotence of the sedatives they gave her. The doctor assured me that if I was given the dose she got I would be sleeping through the whole thing. Through sheer willpower, Anna defeated that measure, lashing out at her oppressors.

When it was all over and the ER was quiet again, Lindsay, Anna, and I sat behind our curtain, with the lights off, physically and emotionally spent. A migraine was slowly gathering steam in my head. Anna, face beet red, had no memory of the whole thing, thanks to some amnesia medicine they gave her. She sang a little song.

"no more cryin' there, we are going to see the king,
hallelujah, hallelujah,
we are going to see the king."

In hospitals people are the closest to reality. No one is exempt from pain and suffering, which are only symptoms of a larger problem: mortality. We are all, in varying degrees, in the throes of death (waiting to see the king). Sometimes I am deceived into thinking that I am somehow on top of my life, that is, that I am ascending towards a less painful existence. A trip to the hospital always rips that veil down so I can stare into the empty sockets once again.

As that migraine headache unfurled itself in my brain, I saw how pain has no personality. There are no facets to pain, no poetry. Pain is a monolith that blocks out the sun. It swallows everything. Loved ones become enemies and soothing words become mockery.

Pain makes Anna mad as hell. Even today, she's giving her pain a large stage to express itself through groans and cries and clenched fists. In the middle of the night I thought I heard her moaning rhythmically, "Maaaaah-Mah, Maaaaah-Mah." Strangely, her cries for mama were accompanied by tinkling piano keys. "Maaaah-Mah, Maaaah-Mah" It was when I raised my head from the pillow to listen harder that I discovered it was a mournful train horn sounding off in the night. "Whaaaant-Whaaaant"

You can probably think of all the ways people try to avoid pain. It's kind of the driving force behind civilisation. I think we are always a little surprised that it doesn't take much to reduce us to tears. It doesn't take much to make us want to die.

Contrary to a lot of teaching today, the goal of Christianity is not to escape pain. The goal is to endure pain long enough to reach the eternal comfort and safety of our Father's house. Endure. That's a pretty loaded word. I picture running up a hill with a broken leg, sweat pouring out of you, while vultures circle above. And people are yelling obcenities at you. Still, your eyes are fixed on the top of that hill.

In my analogy, the top of the hill is Jesus Christ and his kingdom.

A lightbulb went off one time during Sunday school. Romans 5: "Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand.

"And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we rejoice also in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perserverence; perserverence, character; and character, hope.

"And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."

Out of this very dense passage of scripture I realized something. The pain that we are all trying to escape produces something good for anyone who has faith in Christ: hope. Rather than make us hard or bitter, suffering somehow brings into sharper focus what we're after, which is the glory of God, himself. That's why I sometimes can rejoice in a crappy situation. I can't explain it.

It would be stupid if every time I stubbed my toe I said, "Praise God! Hallelujah!" Eventually those words would become cuss words. The real, hopeful rejoicing is the product of an equation that starts with faith. Faith + Holy Spirit + Suffering = Perserverence + Character + Hope = Rejoicing. The equation just works itself out naturally. I don't have to fake it 'till I make it.

I'm finding that I mean it more and more when I sing,

"soon and very soon we are going to see the king
hallelujah, hallelujah,
we are going to see the king."

Truthfully, I think it was partly the morphine that inspired Anna to sing in the hospital. Although I would love if my kids had the spiritual maturity of Mother Theresa, I think she'll have to learn like the rest of us: through a series of painful experiences.

There's another song I love with a line that says, "In the place of suffering, there's a God worth worshipping."

Oh, Detroit, the old hag that spits and curses at her children.

You promised abundant life through work. Factories. Steel mills. High rise casinos. You promised prosperity in the sweatshops. You promised a party.

So they came. They came from Poland and Lebanon and Kentucky. They came from Mobile, Alabama. They traded their dignity for work. They traded their wives and children for work. They were hungry for Cadillacs and cocktails and loud music and you obliged them, Detroit.

Your immigrant children gave their souls away to Henry Ford, the Dodge Brothers, and the fighting brigade of General Motors. They gladly gave their evenings and weekends and their daughters' dance recitals away for those boats and motorcycles and cabins up North. After their souls were drained during twelve hours hunched over a damned steel part, they found solace in the bars. They found comfort at the party store. They found Jesus in a hyperdermic needle.

And Detroit, the crazy old woman, laughed in a drunken stupor as her children burned the place to the ground. Her witches brew of greed and anger and arrogance was slowly stirred for years. Eventually, in explosions of anger, her shame was revealed to the world. In a brief number of years, she changed from a beautiful dark mistress to the old hag you see before you. No more jobs are left, but the party goes on.

Oh, but she's not dead yet. Detroit still tries to doll herself up and play the harlot. And the poor saps just keep eating it up. Escalades! With spinning rims! Let the good times roll at the Motor City Casino! Can you hear the old woman? "What you need, man? A hooker? A rock? I got it all right here, baby."

Summertime never lives up to its reputation. What do we think about when we think about summer? I have mental landscapes of children running up a grassy hill towards a large oak tree, a limp tire swing waiting patiently. I think about lakes and parties and fireflies. I think about old people in front-porch rocking chairs sipping lemonade. In fact, I think I just described images from a Country Time Lemonade commercial. I think about driving through the city at night with the windows all the way down and the downtempo jams all the way up.

Those images rarely align with reality for me. Usually there are a handful of happy days through the summer. The rest of the time I'm consumed with work and worry and fatigue. I realized that this summer, apart from a so-so weekend canoeing up North, I haven't spent much fun time with the kids. It's always too expensive or too hot or too something to have those magic summertime moments.

So, last night Anna (pictured at right) and I took a bike ride up to Warren Ave. and back. Warren Avenue is a loud, dirty, and dangerous street to ride a bike on. That element of danger, I think, made it a thrilling ride for Anna because, unlike her mom, I rode fast ahead of her and she had to work to keep up while avoiding upheaves in the pavement. Then, there was a crazy lady yelling obcenities from her porch at us. I don't think Anna even heard her. On the return trip, I made her navigate home using the street signs. She had to sound out words like "Ti-re-man" and "P-en-rod" while she decided which direction we should go in.

When we got back, we were tired but invigorated by the challenge. It was a triumphant ride, though it's majesty will fade into the past soon. It will slip into the memory pool where our summertime model forms, the model we are always unable to recreate.

Then it was Lily's turn. We went to Target to pick out a birthday present for her friend, Esther. Lily just walked next to the cart while we cruised up and down the aisles looking for just the right thing. At the checkout line I scooped her up and kissed her little apple cheek. It was peace.

On the way home the windows were down and Lily and I talked about all kinds of things. She asked me, "Daddy, where do tears come from?" I explained about tear ducts in the corner of our eyes. We're trained to think of our bodies in evolutionary terms. Everything has a purpose that causes us to survive and thrive better than others. Okay, so tears help keep dirt our of our eyes so we can hunt better. But, what about when we cry? What's the point of tears?

If your mind is open enough to consider a creator, think about God making our eyes shed tears because of the lyrical beauty of weeping. There is little that moves a heart more that seeing a trickle of tears descending down a cheek. What about the beauty of legs? The perfect symmetry of two strong legs, gently tapering down and down into firmly planted feet is an image better rendered in photographs than essays. Ears are works of art, sculpted and shaped by a creator of beauty. Don't you love the way hair can be tucked behind ears?

This revelation of the beauty of our bodies and the eye of the one who created them came to me on a warm summer night with the windows down and my little fairy rattling on in the backseat. The moment is gone now and I've tried to bottle it with my words. I've failed. God willing, there will be more.

Ann, when I walk down your streets all your smart, beautiful children make me feel dumb and raggedy. They all walk the same way. They take long, healthy strides with their arms swinging in carefree motion. Their faces are upturned and they have the slight smile and bright eyes of optimists.

 

And why shouldn't they, Ann? You surround them with the best of everything. You have beautiful, old buildings and traditions that bring a sense of precedence and stability. You have fresh, exhilirating ideas about art and culture. You have the space and freedom to explore pleasures of the body. You have the most talented atheletes from around the world. You have the finest schools in the nation for science and medicine. Okay, you have the finest schools in the midwest. Well, definitely you have the finest schools in Michigan.

 

Ann, your children are bopping around your pedestrian friendly streets with their shopping bags full of urban coolness utterly in love with the world.

 

Oh, the places they could go! All the ideas in the world are at their fingertips. Nothing is hidden from them. They can go to lectures about the cosmos, about the future of technology, or about the path to spiritual enlightnenment. And if something is unknown, they may find themselves the very visionaries to discover it. The future is inches away from their faces, like a ripe fruit ready to fall off the branch.

 

Ann, you're beautiful. John Lennon thought so. Allen Ginsberg did too. Many of my friends do too. And, reluctantly, I say you are beautiful, too (though I'm not one of your children).

 

So, Ann, I'm waiting. We're all waiting. When is your Unified Field Theory of Life going to be published? You've had the wealth and prestige for well over a hundred years. When will you perfect the balance of mind, body, and spirit? Isn't that what you're after?

 

I'm afraid for those hopeful children. When they leave your breast, Ann, they'll find out that this world is designed to hammer all that peace, love and understanding bullcrap right out of them. I hope they don't look back on their days laying under your shade trees and think they lost something. Because I know, and someday you'll know, that you never had it and you never will. There's another city coming that is illuminated by the light of the Messiah, where true peace and wisdom will reign.

The other night I was sitting on the couch at my mom and dad's watching this guy on TV called the "Dog Whisperer." He has dog training skills. A wild, disobedient dog will utterly submit to his will in a matter of hours. So, the dog whisperer was counseling a married couple about their dysfunctional poodle. He looked them in the eyes intently and said, "There's two kinds of people in life: leaders and followers. Which one are you?"

 

That statement stung me like the end of a whip. Immediately I disliked the guy. "I mean, who says stuff like that?" I thought to myself. "Ego-tripping, alfa-wolf dictators, that's who." The dog whisperer hit a nerve.

 

I was fashioned to be a follower. There's no denying it. I'm the guy who only gives his opinion after the general consensus has been determined. ("Oh, yeah, that's a great idea.") When expressing my desires I always give options. ("I could use a raise really badly, or maybe in a couple months when business gets better, or I could just learn to budget my money better...It's up to you.") When someone dares to stand against mob mentality and declare the truth (think Henry Fonda in 12 Angry Men), I'm the silent one in the back nodding slightly. It's the leaders who get the glory, though. The shy are condemned as cowards. The brave and the bold earn their place in history, while the meek die nameless and faceless.

 

I've lived with the shame of being a follower my whole life. I used to cope with the shame by mentally assassinating all the leaders in my life. I got pretty good at spotting all the pretenses, the insecurities, the weaknesses. As long as the ones in charge were no better than me in any way, I could halfway submit to their gameplan. It's easy to pick anyone's program apart. It must be damn hard to run one, though.

 

The Lord is trying to cure me of all that nonsense. It's easy, as I said, to be critical, but, like being a good leader, it's hard to be a good follower. It takes some Holy Spirit action. It takes courage, strength, and conviction to be a strong follower. I'm talking, by the way, about life in the church. I'm talking about the endless stream of church fights and splits and schisms.

 

I tried in a couple different ways last year to get my own ministry things going. Neither turned out the way I hoped. Bottom line: I wasn't meant to be a leader. I was meant to be under a leader. That still shames me, but it's the truth. The wise, strong, gentle leader we're all searching for is Jesus. Men will never take his place. Still, he has called some to be apostles, some to be prophets....

Do you ever wonder where the garbage goes after they pick it up from the curb? Unless you live in Detroit, where they burn the garbage in a giant incinerator on Ferry st., your waste goes into a friendly neighborhood landfill.

Because of my recent career move (see entry below), I've been making regular trips to the landfill in Sumpter Twp. It's a world far removed from America's clean street's and beautiful lawns. It's the giant rug that all our trash gets swept under.

There's a long line of semis, some from Ontario, waiting to get in. After they weigh your vehicle, you start the long ascent up the mountain. Higher and higher you climb as the stench gets stronger and stronger. It's like the smell of a restaurant dumptser times 10,000.

They line the road with shredded rubber and foam so your tires don't sink into the mire. Finally, the raw, open pit of waste comes into view. Every seagull in the county is there enjoying the feast. Semis are everywhere, unloading their bowels into the pile. Huge bulldozers with spiky steel tires and black smoke spewing from the exhaust pipe are nudging the piles around in some systematic way.

When you get the truck into position (actually, my partner does the driving), it's time to step out into the hostile environment. The stench combined with the roar of all the diesel trucks and bulldozers disorients you. So does the fact that you're tromping around on nothing but compacted garbage.

We open the trailer and the monster bulldozer drags it out into the pile. We close the door and get the heck out of there. Hours later, though, the smell is still in my nose and the spectre of filth clings to my clothes.

The staggering scope of that experience gives me anxiety. Some day that mountain of trash will run out of room and another will have to be made. How long can we generate this amount of waste without a disasterous backlash? It feels to me like a levy system destined for failure.

When I was in ninth grade, our biology teacher posed a question. "If meal worms live in a petri dish with an endless supply of food and no predators, what could possibly cause them to go extinct?" The answer was that eventually their own waste would overwhelm the petri dish and kill off all the meal worms. That little analogy has bugged me to this very day.

I would like to tell you a dirty joke. Two carpenters walk into a house full of garbage. It's their job to clean it up.

 

I'm a carpenter, but times are lean in Detroit, so my workin' buddy and I are now in the business of cleaning up houses after evictions or repossesions. Whatever wordly goods the hapless families leave behind must be disposed of. All the dirt and grime and bodily fluids left behind must be sanitized.

 

We did one yesterday out in Milan. It was a big, beautiful house on a beautiful piece of land surrounded by farms. We thought we could be in and out of there in about three hours. The first floor had stuff thrown around. There was junk hanging out of all the cabinets in the kitchen. The second floor, with four bedrooms and two bathrooms, had a higher density of crap piled up in every room. The basement was just ridiculous. You couldn't walk from one end of the other because of the boxes piled everywhere. The attatched garage rivaled the basement in its garbage density. 

 

Our first instict was to scavenge for treasure. Nevermind that these were the private, sacred remnants of that family's home. Surely valuables were hidden away beneath the veneer of junk. Maybe someone forgot their diamond tennis bracelet or their Gibson guitar or their Bose stereo. So we wasted an hour or two sifting through endless amounts of clothing, outdated computer gear, old books, family photos, broken toys, used cosmetics, boxes of paperwork, and other miscellany to find the goodies.

 

Here's what I came up with:

a nice music stand

an illustrated book of seashells

for Lily, who loves insects, a scorpion encased in clear plastic in the shape of Arizona

The Essential Simon and Garfunkel CDs

some wrenches

an old fax machine

The Matrix Reloaded DVD

and a guitar chord book

 

The other impulse I had was to scour the dark, dusty corners to find the intimate objects. Maybe there was some lacy lingerie, erotic literature, an unopened pint of whiskey, or a bag of weed. It's the same nasty impulse for cheap thrills that makes people watch Jerry Springer. I just knew that stashed somewhere in all the Sunday School books and Susan Powter videos was evidence of unmet, dark desires. Wait, the scavenger garbage man is also a leering pervert? Was I in the beginning stages of becoming the neighborhood peeping tom?

 

These two preoccupations caused us to stay there nine full hours, dragging bag after bag of well sifted waste out the door into the dump trailer. It was miserable. By the end of it, I felt the emotional and spiritual toll of wallowing around in this family's personal effects to meet my own dark desires.

 

O! Blogoshpere, hear this confession

That I might clean my conscience.

O! Son of David, have mercy

This saint is shrouded in weak, trashy flesh.

May the Simmons family find rest

In the knowledge of Your goodness and grace.