Responding to the Mass Shooting in Vegas

At least 50 dead with over 500 injured? What possesses someone to check into a hotel, arsenal in tow, and fire into a crowd from an upper story window? Hearing about this atrocity feels like a gut punch, rocking us back on our heels to leave us on hands and knees, desperate to breathe normally again.

It hurts, but we’re going to be okay… We can do this… Just breathe… Take it slow. Together we’re going to get through this.

Yes, there’s a lot to deal with right now, and we’ve been through enough loss already without somebody deliberately firing assault rifles at a crowd. It’s one thing when a hurricane devastates several communities before another decimates entire islands, but when someone in the shadow of all the rest sprays bullets at innocents, you can’t help but struggle for purchase: What happened? Why would anybody do that? How bad is it? Oh, my God! Why is this happening? What are we going to do about it?

Some answers we’ll find, while others will elude us. Meanwhile, social media erupts with outrage and backbiting. People scream about gun control and the NRA, while others argue about why this man is not being called a terrorist. We want fixes for a problem we know exists but feel has no solution: How do you stop evil?

You overcome evil with good.

How does one counteract greed? With generosity. How do you stop injustice? By acting justly. Stealing is undone by restoration, and hate cannot stand in the presence of love. Fear loses its power in the face of courage, and there is no room for contention in the hearts of peacemakers. Yes, we humans have a huge capacity for doing wrong; we’ve seen it for centuries, but we have just as much capacity for doing good.

Open your hands to the poor and needy. Look for the helpers and join them in their work. Stand with those who mourn. Comfort the lonely and afflicted. Donate your time and money to efforts that drive the darkness away.

Turning strangers into friends may not absolutely solve the problem of evil, but it will stunt its growth, enriching the lives of others in the process. We see how misshapen this broken world has become, so let’s participate in the work of healing we all so desperately need.

The Rift: A Short Horror Story

With a satisfied sigh, Helen glanced up from her book. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the large bay window, dust motes dancing in the glow. “Hello, Patsy!”

Purring, the cat sprang up onto the chair, kneading Helen’s lap and arching her back as Helen’s hand slid along the length of her silver fur. Once they settled in, Helen resumed reading her novel — something about unrequited love — allowing time to spin away.

Maybe the dust motes misstepped, or Patsy cut her purring short. Perhaps the late afternoon light took ill. Whatever indicated the change mattered little. The world seemed off; Helen could feel it in her sinuses. Glancing up from her book, she noticed the living room had somehow shifted to the left. Her stomach felt queasy, though nothing was out of place. No, that’s not right, Helen thought. Everything is out of place, but in the same way.

The living room appeared perfectly normal — the afghan trailing off her lap onto the hardwood floor, the big tabby sleeping in her lap, and the portrait of her late husband beaming at her from above the fireplace. “Jim, what has happened?”

There. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it. An absence where her tea cart should’ve sat. With a cry, Helen fixed both her eyes…on her tea cart. What was she thinking? There was no gap there. How silly! She resumed reading.

Unease twisted her stomach tighter. Helen looked again, saw nothing. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Some warm milk will do us good. Come along, Patsy. There’s a good girl.” The cat sprang down, shook herself, and minced her way into the kitchen with an expectant meow. Neither one noticed the ball of yarn bouncing away from the tea cart like a ground ball headed to left field.

That Thursday, the Lady’s Society for the Betterment of Newtown just moved on to the allocation of funds for a Medieval Dinner at the Moose Lodge when Mrs. Schwartz let out a low moan. “Ooohhhh, Glenna, did you see that? Tell me you saw.”

“Heavens above, Ruth, you’ve gone pale! See what?”

Helen sat up straighter on the chaise.

“There in the corner. A gap where the room should be.”

The other ladies gathered around Mrs. Schwartz, clucking their tongues and exclaiming, “Ruth, you’ve overtaxed yourself again, haven’t you?” Then in aside to each other, “Such a shame she overindulges on the sherry. Can’t help herself, can she?”

When Ms. Althea mentioned a slight indigestion and a few other ladies agreed to feeling the same, Mrs. Schwartz ventured, “I wonder if it’s the pie. It’s a lovely meringue, but one can’t be too careful when it comes to egg whites, can one?”

“Ladies, I think we’ll adjourn for today, but we’ll be sure to pick up this order of business next week at Mrs. Lockwood’s.”

All agreed, and Helen saw each of them out, complimenting this one on her new hat and that one on how brightly her eyes shone. With many a good luck and goodbye, she was left to tidy up.

Disquiet coiled in her abdomen. And all I ate was one small slice of cake. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the tea cart, seeing nothing. To help her sleep that night, Helen took something much stronger than sherry.

“Patsy, dear, come get your breakfast! Patsy?” A line of worry formed between Helen’s sculpted eyebrows. I don’t usually have to call her at all.

Even before she knew what she was doing, Helen searched half the house, even opening the doors to the bedrooms now used for storage. Coming up from the basement, Helen, now frantic, called out Patsy’s name one last time before a wave of nausea nearly knocked her back down the stairs. “Ooooooooohhhh!” Gripping the banister with her right hand, Helen panted as she tried to regain her feet, pushing off the top step with her left. She wobbled but kept her balance and plodded into the living room. Something moved in the corner, the tea cart flickered back into existence, and Helen’s nausea lifted. “Patsy!”

The devoted wife, faithful mother, resolute widow, and pillar of the community knelt before the last thing in this world she still loved with all the rigidity her calcium-depleted bones could muster.

The once-beautiful cat lay wheezing, filthy with rust and blood. Her side torn open released viscera and feces; the tail broken neatly in half. One rear leg, now only a stump, looked like it had been gnawed off. The jaw hung by a few tendons, while the tongue sat useless, moving only as air gurgled in and out.

Her eyes! Her beautiful green eyes! Both were gone, ripped out with such force, one could see fragments of skull gleaming within the empty sockets.

Helen’s stomach lurched. Her equilibrium slid to one side — ears popping as the rift yawned open just beyond where Patsy lay, and this time, a stench of death and mangoes filled the room.

The cat’s body responded, it’s back arching backwards, muscles contracting all at once until the woman heard Patsy’s spine break with a moist snap.

Helen flinched then grew still as some nameless goblin reached out to her, feasting on her terror. Her face contorted with the realization she had fallen for the bait and was now being reeled in.

Tears leaked down her cheeks as the creature’s hot breath blew back her hair. Something pierced Helen’s mind. When she felt it sucking at her thoughts, her bowels released.

The radio crackled to life. “Bill, we’ve got a report of a strange odor on Park Street.”

The sheriff heaved a sigh and spoke into his shoulder mic. “Acknowledged.” Looking down, he gave a few shakes, zipped up his fly, and sauntered back to the patrol car. He could always nail some speeders later as most of Tuesday’s traffic had thinned out already. Bill gave a cursory glance down the road before nosing his cruiser back towards town.

Turning onto Park Street, Bill put both hands back on the wheel. The knot of people gathered outside the brick colonial told him all he needed to know. Several covered their noses. When the sheriff forced open the front door, everyone’s hands went to their faces.

“Damn!” Bill’s red bandana came out of his rear pocket to cover his own before he pulled his gun and entered the house. He didn’t see her at first; the stench made his eyes water, and gloom pervaded the living room. After a few steps, a shadow separated itself from the rest of the dark. Bill dropped the bandana and aimed his pistol with both hands. “Don’t move!”

She didn’t.

Bill unstrapped his flashlight and directed its beam at the shadow. “Mrs. Hawthorne!”

The smell only worsened as he approached.

“Mrs. Hawthorne?” She knelt by her tea cart, facing the corner, back straight and both arms stiff at her sides.

Touching her shoulder, the sheriff and Helen’s former student went to step in front of her before pulling up short. He stifled a yell.

She stared with empty eyes down at the bloated corpse of her cat now writhing with maggots. Helen’s mouth hung open, a line of drool trailing to the hardwood.

Neither Bill nor the paramedics who responded to the scene that day spoke of what Helen had done to her cat, though rumors circulated. The house never sold, and eventually the town tore it down.

Only the members of the Lady’s Society paid visits at the nursing home. They did well enough when Helen stared off into space and drooled, but even they stopped coming when her hollow voice started describing what it felt to have your memories swallowed whole.

Trials and Errors

I just finished reading Run the World by Becky Wade, a former collegiate runner who in her first marathon, beat out the rest of the women in a touch over 2 hrs and 38 mins, launching her professional career.

What’s her secret? How’d she do it?

Concocting a plan to travel the world, Becky visited star-producing countries that shatter speed and endurance records to run with their elite, averaging 75-mile weeks and learning their dietary and cultural practices.

That’s the elevator pitch.

How’d she really do it? She worked for it. Earned it. Struggled. Fought for it. Deprived herself. Sacrificed. She tried herself. Found out of what she was capable.

I teach middle schoolers, and there’s a divide yawning between my kids who succeed and those who fail: their willingness to jump. This week, I assigned a certain number of lessons students had to pass in order to net the full credit, and the ones who did were the ones who failed and tried again and failed and learned from their mistakes and passed. The ones who earned none of the credit were students who failed the first lesson or two and stopped.

Thing is, I am those students who failed, and I’m not just talking academics here. I’m talking about any moment where one can risk or not, whether it’s sports, social situations, or even dealing with spirituality. Spending much of my life afraid of change, I took few risks, which stunted my growth and limited my options. At 25, I weighed about 165 soaking wet and worked a full-time job to which I commuted from my parent’s house. I couldn’t afford to move out, because I had yet to save up for a car.

At any instant where growth can occur, there has to be momentum, forward progress. To learn to swim, one has to let go of the ladder. To be a parent, one has to bear responsibility; producing a child is not enough. To succeed, one has to fail, and one can’t fail if they don’t jump, letting go of whatever makes them feel safe, propelling themselves into a space where guts move independent of the rest of the body, and landing well or falling. We don’t leap forward because we’re afraid to fall.

Within a year, I bought a car and moved out on my own, taking a flying leap.

I read Becky Wade’s book because I’m a runner; I’ve fallen too many times to count. I’ve sustained injuries and frozen extremities. The reason I keep running is because it propels me forward; I get to explore my physical and mental limits. I learn what works in various situations because I risk running with ever-changing variables, whether that’s weather, distance, surface, time of day, location, or even physical condition. Because every run changes, I have to change with it, causing growth. Change causes growth.

It’s January 6th, and I have yet to make any resolutions. Well, time to change that. Because I want to continue developing mentally, physically, spiritually, and socially; I resolve to embrace change. Expect to see more frequent blog entries; look for announcements about my memoir and the novel I’m writing; anticipate my teaching a new class; and prepare yourself for such minor adventures as new friendships, improvements to the house, and a trip or two.

If there’s something you know you need to do, but you’ve been afraid to do it, do it. Risk failing/falling, and if you do, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, assess your injuries, and try again.

Fatherhood Factory

Lying across the room on his play mat, eight-month-old Asher groaned then coughed in threat of a full-on cry before I looked over to discover him on his stomach staring at me. Catching my attention, blue eyes fixed firmly on mine, he went silent, leaned his weight onto his right arm, lifted his left, and opened and closed his free hand, waving at me. I responded in kind, and a huge grin split his face before he returned to drooling on his toys. I don’t know what I did to earn that moment and cannot imagine a trial great enough to win the prize of my son waving and smiling at me. Children are mysteries, startling in their creativity and surprising in their development. The responsibility of caring for them is an everyday encounter with pure grace, the glowing material from which fatherhood is forged.

Finding my identity changed by this role as daddy, I began to wonder about the lessons I intentionally and unintentionally end up teaching my kids. I question whether or not I help build a character in them of which I can be proud or if I’ll one day find myself wincing at the things they say, the way they dress, the goals they pursue, or the company they keep. I’ve known friends whose fathers left abruptly, and I’ve encountered those whose daddies abused them in word and deed, devastating emotions and marring what could have been their greatest work. Whether I intend to or not, I base the way I treat my children upon the way Dad treated me, which he based on how his father treated him, continuing back, perhaps, through many generations.

 

What if fatherhood was a physical place one could visit, a factory one could tour to see how dads influence their children? There we could witness each successive generation of men instilling their knowledge and experience to the next while tracing our own forging, seeing how much of our father’s programming found its way into us.

I imagine entering the factory doors to reveal the tour guide standing in the foyer with hand extended, greeting me with: “Glad you could come out today. You’re a recent hire, aren’t you?”

“I am. I’ve been with the company a little over four years now.”

The two of us make small talk as he outfits me with a hard hat, safety glasses, and a sky blue overcoat identifying me as a visitor. The receptionist smiles sweetly behind her desk as I follow my guide down the hall and through the heavy metal doors opening onto a caution yellow catwalk overlooking the factory floor. The sheer enormity of the place strikes me dumb; huge machines monitored by thousands of workers produce so much clamor I clamp my hands over my ears to shut it out. Sheepishly, my companion points to the foam buds peeking out of his ears and taps the left pocket of my overcoat. Soon the overwhelming noise is reduced to a low hum as we begin the tour.

Fifty feet below me, the assembly lines begin. Fed by several conveyors extending through the walls along with a multitude of vents descending from the ceiling, a row of massive, two story metal monoliths stretches so far in either direction, there is no visible end to them. Glowing rivulets of molten grace stream slowly from within them down twisting channels, the raw ingredients shining in purity, ready to be shaped for use.

My guide stops at Viewing Station 1, and my gaze travels down to the factory floor to capture the seminal moment — the production process that sets this factory apart. The raw material, molded and cooled, has been shaped to form a baby boy. His father, Glenn, is there to hold him for the first time, his blue eyes locked onto his son, a wisp of beard clinging to his firm chin, his face young and smiling. This is the moment where a tender bond is formed only to be hardened further down the line. Heart in my throat, I continue the tour.

At the next station, Glenn’s farm-roughened hands pin on a cloth diaper as he coos quietly with his new-forged link. Down the line, he gets up in the night to quiet a cry he can’t explain, holding, rocking, singing to his child. The factory stills itself, straining to hear the song, but Glenn sings low, his bass notes flowing over his son and onto the floor to be swept up later.

My guide removes his earplugs to explain each assembly line is different. “Not every product is sung to by their father in the night. Each employee decides what work he will perform, what he will add to his son’s life.”

The cries still as Glenn continues to sing. The baby boy I imagine myself to have been yawns with his whole body, arms and legs cocked at disparate angles before he nestles his head into the crook of his father’s arm, twitching in dream before we move on.

 

At 34 years of age, I don’t remember my father caring for me in the night, but my brain is packed with memories of family gatherings, birthday parties, picnics at the park, and Dad making dinner for us on the grill. My father stood up for me if threatened, and I feared his anger, hiding upstairs whenever he and Mom raised their voices. I knew the comfort of his lap as he read to me before bed and the strength of his arms as he wrestled and tickled with me on the living room floor. He held me accountable for the decisions I made, encouraging me to read as much as I could, to never stop learning, and disciplined me when I shirked my duty of mowing the front lawn by making me rake up the entire yard’s clippings one hot July afternoon.

My mother characterizes Dad as “steadfast, kind, faithful, a man of great integrity. Concerned more for his family than for himself, a great Christian – he tries to do the best that he can. I love him very much. He loves us very much. He was very concerned about how you were raised and making sure that you and Chris were good, Christian people and had integrity in your own life, but loved Jesus more than anything else. He’s always saying how blessed we are because you two turned out so well not because of your accomplishments but because of who you are and your characters. He’s always telling me, ‘Honey, we’re so blessed.’”

I want to be able to say that about my own kids. When they’re grown and out of the house, I want to look back at the job I did with a full heart, thankful for the way Maggie and Asher turned out, but how do I emulate my father without being him? How do I access his work log from my imaginary factory to see exactly how many hours he invested in forging my character so I can be sure to do the same for my kids? And how do I know the investment he made in me and my sister beyond time spent? How do I recognize the type of parent he was? What percentage was encouragement, and how much of it was discipline? How many jokes did he tell, and how much praying for us did he do? How many times did he wipe my butt and dry my tears? How many bandages did he apply to my scraped knees and my hurt pride?

As I pose these questions, a pool of anxiety spreads like oil in my gut. There’s so much I don’t know about being a father. No physical record exists of the hours and type of work Glenn Lees did for me. All I have is who he is, the tenets of his beliefs, and the memories of how he cared for us, but I fear that won’t be enough.

 

Upon meeting Dad for the first time, strangers have to work hard to get him to talk to them, because like a boulder in a streambed, he allows conversations to flow about him while he remains steadfast and still. Dad’s afraid of being negatively noticed and hates change because he doesn’t want to make a mistake. Growing up, Dad retreated to protect himself as Uncle David was loud and domineering, but when they sit down together now, they talk for hours about the price of corn and other farming matters. If you bring up something that interests Dad, like the woodworking he does in the basement, the teardrop camping trailer he’s building in the garage, and the stories of God’s interventions in his life, he opens right up. To kick-start a conversation, inquire about the machinery he installs and repairs at the wastewater treatment plant or ask him what’s been going on in politics.

While Dad sits quiet, keeping his own company and pondering things internally, I talk through things to reason them out and strike up conversations with complete strangers despite Laura’s groans of protest. Because of this, Dad’s silence seems to hang in space between me and the answers I seek. If I want to know what he’s thinking or feeling, I ask Mom, the mediator between my father and I, a role she’s played for as long as I can remember, but I don’t want to have to go to Mom or guess what my father’s thinking anymore, nor do I want my inquiries rebuffed by him as trivial or too personal. I want him to speak to me about important matters. I want to know how he feels about being a grandfather and his mother’s declining health. I want to know how Grandpa’s accident affected him, but I’m afraid if I ask, all the pain of it will bubble up to the surface, hurting Dad all over again. There’s no bad blood between him and me, just a lifetime of little communication.

When approaching my wedding night with the level of excitement only a 26-year-old virgin can muster, I asked Dad if he had any advice to share. I wasn’t looking for him to provide step-by-step instructions; I just wanted to have my father speak to me heart-to-heart, to impart wisdom. His response? “You’ll figure it out.”

Thankfully, Laura and I did just that, but I feel as though I’ve had to figure out multiple life lessons minus Dad’s input, adding to my sense of isolation and increasing my nerdiness. Instead of his being a formula to help determine the unknowns of life, he himself is an unknown, a constant with fixed values, which I have to solve.

 

When faced with a situation that’s new, like transitioning to a different job or Grandpa falling off the roof of his grain bin, Dad retreats. He does what needs to be done, but does it as quickly as possible like the first time a kid has to remove a hook from a freshly caught fish. Witnessing my father’s reactions programmed me to allow tough situations to intimidate me. If he, my symbol of strength, balked at visiting his hospitalized father, who was I to handle it any differently? When under duress, Dad tends to sleep as an escape, while I find a new narrative in which to lose myself. Seeing Dad lacking confidence to handle life germinated in me the thought that I wasn’t up to the challenge either, exacerbating my procrastination.

I don’t know what it was like for Dad to lose his father to slipped footing, a gravel driveway 16 feet below, and a serious brain injury. Grandpa was never the same after he fell off the roof of the grain bin: blinded, bedridden, and capable only of short conversations where each reply ended in drawn out laughter. Dad claims his father died in 1988, the year of his accident, not when Grandpa actually passed away in 2002. Dad losing Grandpa is the elephant of which I avoid speaking even now 25 years after the fact. For so many years, Dad couldn’t speak of it without pain in his voice; maybe that’s what started my nightmares.

I know Dad’s silence and distance are part of who he is. I may not like those portions of his personality, but who doesn’t have flaws? God graced me with a father that loved me unconditionally, and Dad’s core, tempered by physical, emotional, and financial hardship, is resilient and worthy of trust. When he leaves his employment at the Fatherhood Factory, passing from this earth, I hope his work in me will be proven worthy and that I continue that work in my own children with only one caveat, that my kids will find me a ready conversation partner.

An Adult’s Letter to Saint Nick

Dear Santa,

As you’re aware, I am a 36-year-old man with a receding hairline, expanding waistline, two kids, as many mortgages, and no business whatsoever writing you this letter. First off, I don’t believe in you.

I eat the cookies and carrots my daughter leaves out. I ferry that infernal elf on the shelf from place to place each night. I even impersonated you the time the wife and I forgot to move that creepy little doll, texting everything was fine so our first-grader wouldn’t worry her little brother ruined Christmas by touching the naughtiness deterrent.

Look, I know you don’t deliver presents; that’s the realm of FedEx and UPS and the postal service. You’ve never made it magically snow on Christmas Eve; that only happens in the movies. You don’t hold eight tiny reindeer along with an entire race of elves captive to do your bidding; PETA and the UN would have been all over you like needles on a spruce tree decades ago.

You are nothing more than a once-historical Catholic saint mashed up with European pagan traditions Americanized, commercialized, and broadcast all over the world to such extent, you’re almost as well-known as Mickey Mouse. You, sir, are a myth; occupying the same plane of pretend-land as King Arthur, the Loch Ness monster, and economic stability.

That’s why I’m writing you this letter; I need something to believe in.

Taking my daughter to her school for Pancakes with Santa, I witnessed Magnolia’s giddiness when ushered into a strange man’s lap. Despite his fake beard and padding, our little girl was so overcome with awe, she couldn’t find the words when he inquired about her good behavior and desire for gifts. After their one-way conversation and obligatory picture, Maggie found her tongue and started wagging it nonstop, “I know he’s the real Santa because he asked what I wanted for Christmas, and when I couldn’t tell him, he said, ‘I’ll bet I know what you want: a tablet.’ And, Mom, that’s exactly what I want! It’s him; he knows!”

Maggie doesn’t question a reality where science meets magic, where those things we can’t see are just as important as those we do. Wonder is her worldview. Happenstance serves as teleological proof. Others may dismiss her as naive or simple, but I won’t begrudge my child’s instinctive faith. Disappointments haven’t worn her down, nor have people caused her callousness. She is an open book, coloring her pages with brilliant iridescence.

Santa, I want to see the world like my daughter does. I want to wonder at everyday occurrences and trust my future is an unwritten adventure. I’m tired of worrying what others think of me, of avoiding tough situations, and missing opportunities. I want to stop rehashing the past, overanalyzing the future, and ignoring the present.

Stress persists. As Maggie started first grade, my mother began a series of hospitalizations. She pulled a muscle in her back, for which they gave her medicine, but then she started throwing up, and they couldn’t figure out what was going on. The throwing up threw off her salt levels, which affected her reasoning, so she ended up back in the hospital over something minor. They found a problem with her gallbladder, so they scheduled surgery. Then Mom’s fear of the surgery upset her stomach, which led to more throwing up and further problems with her salt levels. Afraid of throwing up, Mom avoided eating, which put her back in the hospital. They removed her gallbladder, chock-full of gallstones. Mom didn’t recover from the surgery as expected, experiencing sharp pain in her abdomen, so she went back to the hospital. They discovered a single gallstone blocking a valve and asked her not to eat in preparation of eliminating the interloper. Not eating threw her system out of whack, and her body temperature plummeted.

Thank God, Mom’s been fine for months, that is, until this week. Crazy what a stomach bug can do. She returned home from the hospital today, and we will celebrate Christmas at my parents’ house, but you can understand how whenever my sister contacts me, something inside catches in anticipation of more bad news. Experience changed me from a fresh-faced kid with a song on my lips and a spring in my step to a weathered coot mumbling to myself as I limp along.

All the skin cream in the world can’t transform who I am on the inside. It may erase fine lines and wrinkles, but it won’t wipe away the resentment I hold against those I envy. Beautiful, successful, confident, deft — perceiving these qualities in others elicits judgement in me. Because of my lack, I believe they’ll see me as inferior, so I sit in judgement first, hoping to waylay my exposure as less than worthy. Firing this first mental salvo feels harmless, but it negates my interactions with others, isolating.

Santa, I need a new heart. Mine’s two sizes too small. You may not exist, but someone out there does, and though cracked, I can be repaired.

Heed the cry of a man bent and broken. Stand me tall and set me straight. Restore my spirit of wonder. Exchange the stinginess for generosity, the judgement for love. I want to be Charlie Brown and Ralphie and George Bailey and Ebenezer Scrooge and Phil Davis and Clark W. Griswold all rolled into one.

All I want for Christmas is restoration. Is that too much to ask?

Enjoy the cookies,

Jake Lees

Star Wars: The Force Awakens and Hope

Looks like Vader left his mask on the floor again…

If I’ve told that Sith once, I’ve told him a thousand times to not leave his mask lying around. I get that he feels claustrophobic behind that thing, anybody would, but his asthma gets to be a real problem without that mask.

That’s it, I’m sending him to his pod!

My son knows who Darth Vader is. Asher is three years old, and he knows who Darth Vader is. Well, not really. Whenever he pushes the button on the side of the mask and James Earl Jones announces, “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Asher laughs, repeating what he hears, “I find your face is dirty.”

My son isn’t the only one who has a thin grasp on Vader mythology. My cousin shared how his boys got into a debate at school over whether or not Darth Vader died, and Mark educated them by pulling up the climactic scene from Return of the Jedi where Vader laid down his life to save Luke. Mark and I joked about how he now has to further spoil the original trilogy for his sons by showing them the scene when Vader tells Luke, “I am your Father,” or when Luke realizes he’s Leia’s brother.

Having grown up sleeping on Star Wars bedsheets and playing with pretty much all the original action figures and playsets, Mark had to do something. He tried years ago to sit with his sons and watch Star Wars, but the boys were too young and had too much energy to make it through even the first film. As a teenager, Mark collected the toys that came out in connection to the prequels, and his entire family has pre-purchased around 20 tickets to see the Force Awakens together.

Tickets in hand, Mark’s inviting his three sons to experience a cultural milestone, and he doesn’t want them missing out on the full experience, so he plans on watching at least the original trilogy as a family in the next few weeks.

According to Deadline Hollywood, analysts project the Force Awakens will earn $185 – $210 million opening weekend alone, and scuttlebutt says Episode VII will break Avatar‘s $2.7 billion box office record.

What is it about Star Wars that has people clamoring to see the new movie?

It’s about hope.

Upon its release in 1977, Star Wars: A New Hope revitalized the sci-fi genre. Audiences were used to seeing dystopian futures on film such as prior years’ Logan’s Run, Soylent Green, The Omega Man, Westworld, Rollerball, and the Planet of the Apes series.

Watergate disenchanted the American public, breaking our faith in an infallible President. If we couldn’t believe our elected officials held our best interests, what future could we expect? So we wallowed in stories confirming our worst fears until Star Wars showed us something different: even the poorest orphan has the power to face down the unknown. Light will overcome darkness. We are not alone; the Force is with us.

There is hope.

We wanted to hear that story of hope again with Episodes I, II, and III of the Star Wars franchise, especially after the events of September 11, 2001, but were sadly disappointed to see computer-generated, digitally-shot stories about how the future was set in stone and things will go wrong despite the best efforts of the most powerful Jedi.

Especially after the Paris attacks and shootings in schools and ISIS and violence and murder and rape, we want to hear that it’s going to be okay. We want to have hope for the future. We want to place our faith in the fact that we are not alone in this world, that even the poorest orphan has the power to overcome the unknown. I want to know that I’m going to make it, that my uncle facing radiation and chemotherapy will be cured of his cancer. I want to know that my seven-year-old daughter will never be sexually assaulted. I want my marriage to last a lifetime and that friends will not leave me.

That’s too much pressure to put on one movie. Sure, the Force Awakens will utilize practical effects and be shot on film and J. J. Abrams proved with Star Trek that he can revitalize a space-faring series, showing us through lens flares that anything is possible, but one movie cannot guarantee anyone’s future. Only a self-sacrificing god can do that.

Look at Jesus, a poor man of questionable parentage, who shook the political and religious leaders of his day with selfless answers and self-sacrifice. He exercised power to heal the sick and raise the dead. He spent time with children and touched lepers. His greatest teachings were about humility and self-denial. He showed us how to love the disenfranchised, the marginalized, and betrayers. He laid down his life for his friends and took it back up again. He died so that we may live.

I put my hope in Jesus, knowing he has a plan for my life, and if my uncle dies of cancer or my daughter is assaulted, if my marriage falls apart or my friends abandon me, even if my worst fears come true, Jesus will not leave me desolate. He is ever-present; his Spirit lives in me, which means he can work through me in power. I prayed for the sick, and they were healed. I was laid off with no prospects and got a better job. I was so overwhelmed with fear, I couldn’t make it through a day at school, and now I teach school. I messed up my leg so badly, I couldn’t walk without crutches, and now I run faster and farther than I ever could before.

Do I plan on taking my family to see the Force Awakens? We wouldn’t miss it, especially since we’ve sat down and watched the original trilogy together. I hope it affirms the story that light overcomes darkness, that we are not alone. Darth Vader may have died, but he laid down his life so his son would live, and he continues to live on.

I have hope for the future.

Procrastination

I thought I was sick last night. The wife had just overcome a week-long bout with flu, and I experienced trouble eating.

If you know me, this is quite the red flag. When I sit down to eat, I don’t mess around. As others converse between bites, I take breaths. I can eat with chopsticks now because when we dated, the wife forced me to use them in hopes of slowing me down.

It didn’t work.

Aside from lessened appetite, I felt weak.

Tired.

Turns out, it wasn’t the flu, it was anxiety eating me up.

I do this thing when I don’t think I can complete a task successfully, I procrastinate in getting it done. If I fear failure, I’ll put off working on it. Trouble is, the more I put it off, the less time I give myself to complete it, and the more I feel I’ll fail, so I procrastinate further.

It’s this crazy cycle where I put off something to avoid failure, but in the doing, I invite failure all the more. “This seems difficult. Let’s give myself as little time as possible in which to complete it. That makes perfect sense.”

What’s worse is that in the meantime, I mentally berate myself for putting off the task. “You had this to do a month ago, idiot. Finish it.” I freeze myself with fear, avoiding doing a poor job and inviting failure all the more.

It’s been a long time since I manifested physical symptoms over a task I avoided, but here I was, suspecting the flu when I knew it was anxiety tying me up in knots, and denying it in further procrastination.

The worst (best?) part was, I finally faced my fear today, taking on the task I long avoided, and (as usual) it went much faster than I expected it would. Part of me celebrates this victory, finding out the task I long avoided was much easier than I expected it to be, while another part of me wants to beat myself up further for avoiding something so simple.

I’ve done this much of my life. How do I break the cycle?

Face. My. Fears.

That’s it. That’s all I have to do: face my fears. I believe in a God who defeated sin and death, who welcomes me into his presence where fear holds no power, so why do I keep on giving my old enemy authority over me when he no longer holds any power?

I know I’m not the only procrastinator out there, not the only perfectionist. There is hope. Things aren’t as difficult as you think they are. Face your fears. They’re mostly just vapors and mist. You are far more capable than you realize, and you don’t wage these battles alone. Confess your fears. Shine the light of day on them, and see how insignificant they really are.

I’m rooting for you.