“She’s obsessed with puzzles, O.K. She always wants to put them together. Her whole life, she’s enjoyed putting them together.”

There’s a scream from the bathroom. “Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

Just then, Bob arrives with the Nembutal. “You called?” Bob smirks.

I give him “the look” to shut up.

Bob looks away. “Where’s Dan?”

“I’m in here.” Dan is straining. “Nurse, I think we’re gonna need your help.”

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Mr. Stevens’ voice trails off.

I rush into the bathroom again. Ruth looks tired and is still bleeding from her feet. She turns to us. “Please, help me.”

“That’s what we’re here for, Ruth, but you’ve got to listen to us, dear.”

Bob prepares the shot behind me. “Yeah, Ruth we just need you to cooperate.” He approaches with the needle.

At the sight of the needle, Ruth screams. “Nooo! I don’t want it. Take it away. Help me!” She draws her arms and hands to her body, stiffens, and closes her eyes. “Robert, Robert, Robert, Robert.”

Bob steps closer. “Is she calling me by my Christian name?” Bob asks.

“No,” I say. “That was her first husband’s name.”

Bob shrugs. “Geez. I feel like I’m about to stick my own mother.”

Dan and I try to turn her over. “Robert!” she interrupts her chanting with one loud call for help. She pulls away and begins to bloody my arms with her hands. Finally, we turn her over, and I feel something pull in my back. Bob approaches and sticks her in the buttocks with the needle and releases the Nembutal.

She screams again; we release her, and back away. “O.K., it won’t be long now. I give her 2 minutes, and she’ll be out cold,” Bob says.

As we watch, Ruth wobbles unsteadily, and her eyes begin to close. As she fades, I kneel beside her and support her head to keep it from banging against the tub.

Dan turns over her hands, still gripping the pieces of glass tightly as if treasuring diamonds. He wraps them in gauze. “Bob, push the stretcher over here, will ya?” Dan finishes weaving the blue gauze around her feet and hands, now resembling blue stumps. Both men lift her, place her on the stretcher, and strap her down, securing her in case she awakens. The stretcher’s wheels screech as the three of us begin to leave.

I stop at the door.

Dan turns his head, “something wrong?”

“Go ahead without me. I’ve got to get some answers.”

Hombre, Hombre, man of sorrows.

Lead my yolk with heavy twine.
Crush my heart, bleeding wholly Thine.
You smoldered my sin to a fragrant aroma
And died that I might live beyond Golgotha.

But, oh, lest I forget:
It’s spring,
And the Son’s rebirth.
Tulips push through their beds.
Sparrows chirp
From their nests
And hop to the ground,
For they balance peace and fear,
Knowing the serpent’s always near,
Who can swallow whole,
Their eggs, filled with hope
And perching in our souls.
For even they, the unborn,
Their feathers unformed,
Have God-granted souls.
So we must deliver them
From serpentine folds
Untold
And perhaps from ourselves,
The Fallen from old.

Now, I am no longer a hero:
My image breaking and rippling
With the surface of the water, turning
Into ever-expanding zeroes,
Reminding me of the nothing that I am
Without Him. Then, the Holy Spirit
Moves over me,
And I calm with the surface of the water.

Slowly, in the stillness of His creation,
The image of my Father appears.
In wonder: for the life of me, I can’t remember
An image of kindness and love: so tender.
I am struck dumb, drinking my fill
Of the living water and feel the chill
Inside me
Of eternity.

And my older daughter?
She often reminds
Me when I’m wrong
And that I shouldn’t sing along
To her favorite songs.
Already, I see glimpses
Of a woman as she paints her lips.

But I comfort myself with the thought
That both my girls are with me now,
And we can still embrace,
Their warm faces
Buried in mine.
But as I lay the baby down for a nap,
The cold air on my face
Spells their absence.

So, I draw close to the warm memories
Of our snuggling.
The thoughts draw out something within,
Making me want to linger
Near the baby’s door
Savoring our moments together,
So I can remember
When they are gone.

Beaten blue by them,
She got lost at the bend in the road
And set up abode
On the hardened lanes and city streets.
Pride gone, aimless, and lost,
She wandered with her burdens in the bitter cold.

She collapsed on the steps of a church,
Looking for refuge, a chance to catch
Her breath
And to stay the urges to do meth.
A kind lady found her there, lifted her up,
And gave her a cup
Filled with hope.
Relieved, the aching girl detoxed from the dope.

Her ache began to leave
As her mind conceived
Of the Man
Who paid the final cost
For all like her, the hurting and lost.

Her pain removed, the enemy sin,
Still rages within
Like a roaring lion,
But she says she’s done with the tricks and all her lying.
So she passes on what was freely given
And says that is truly living.

I won’t listen to ya and who needs Gawd!
None can save ya from the circlin’ vultures.
Choke on yer words ‘cause this noose strangles cries
the way a new-born bathed in its birth blood.
gags on the umbilical cord called fate
I’m gonna cinch the breath from yer body.

Achillus, since I left, evrabody
tells me that whites think they’s as strong as God
and that’s why I been runnin’. Lots of fate’s
in your words and you’d leave me for vultures
sounds like, but I just can’t run no more. Blood-
hounds o’ yours been trackin’, I hear ‘em cry:

Jew, all you will hear now is our war cry.
We are sick of all your talk. Nobody
will listen when you talk peace yet seek blood.
Gaza is ours according to Allah,
and we will not rest until you vultures
are off our land. Be prepared to meet your fate!

Hamas, your false cease-fires fool fate,
but Zion will not be tricked. May sirens cry
at your death as they did when my son died. Vultures
surrounded his armless, dead body
yesterday, and now I pray to my God
that I get the chance to avenge my own blood.

The Trojan horizon was setting blood
while two enemies prepared for fate.
Hector threw his spear but missed the half god.
When he found he had no second, he cried
and quickly died from a spear piercing his body.
Achilles picked at him like a vulture.

My blood cries when I see stone dead bodies
that have been slaughtered by people fighting
in the name of God(s). Are we vultures?

What should you get?

A salad and soup? A sandwich and baked potato? Or a salad and some mac & cheese?

(The dizzying choices leads to some high factorial beyond the scope of this post.)

But what about choosing both right and wrong, good and bad?

Psychological distinctions aside, we are often presented with a set of actions, both good and bad, to act upon as outgrowths of our thoughts. The Good Book has much to say about our dilemma.

“As a man thinks, so he is . . .” and we can practice “deeds of the flesh . . .” or live by the “fruit of the spirit.”

When Jesus Christ said we are our thoughts, I presume he meant at least two things: namely, our thoughts predetermine our actions, and just as much, He implies, to check our pride, that by thinking sinful thoughts, one is just as guilty as the one who acts out.

Point in instance, He refers in a parable to two men offering sacrifices at the altar, one man a tax collector, the other, a Pharisee. The tax collector beats his breast with guilt, shame, and remorse, as he asks for forgiveness for wrongful acts.

Meanwhile, the Pharisee turns to the tax collector and judges him. He thinks, “at least my sins aren’t as grievous as the tax collector.”

In this instance, the Pharisee has only sinned in thought. But which is the graver sin? At least the tax collector asks for forgiveness.

This returns us to our dilemma. How do we check our darker nature, be it in thought or deed? Praying and meditating on Christ’s teachings and Paul’s instruction in Galatians 5:13-26 have served as a model for millennia.

Asking for intercession and striving for good, in particular the “Fruit of the Spirit” of which Galatians 5 speaks, can mean the difference between meaningful and fractured relations, either drawing us closer or farther from others and God.

That said, the time honored practice of renewing our minds with God’s Word and praying for intercession may run counter culture, but if practiced, comes with God’s promise: “for the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life.”

Isn’t that motive enough to pick just one, Jesus Christ?

She weaves through traffic, passing other cars.
The speedometer pushes
higher and higher than ever before.
The landscape blurs past,
her eyes intent,
hell-bent
on getting that toy.
“Please be there for my little boy,”
she says under her breath,
but the lot is full, a fate worse than death.
“There’s no place to park,” she screams.
But she is wrong it seems.
A family strolls casually by
with a toddler waving hi
to all passersby.
“Come on. Come on.
Get in your car,” she urges them on.
They climb in their car
and strap their child in his seat.
Their running lights come on.
The frantic shopper grits her teeth.
Time feels frozen, her heart just as cold.
She curses and beats the old
steering wheel.
With impatience, she tamps her heel.
The family’s car cautiously eases out.
The frantic shopper swerves in and gets out
of her car, swiftly finding a cart.
The cool handle of the cart
hastens her nerves.
She spits out.
“If that jerk
sales clerk
told me wrong:
It’s on
like Donkey Kong!”
She rushes inside,
pushed by her pride.

She overwhelms the cashier.
“Do you have it? Do we have a deal?”
“Sorry ma’am but this customer has the last,”
the cashier whispers as she accepts a frail, old woman’s cash.
The frail lady with the toy just smiles,
an ironic smile, the frantic shopper thinks.
I’ll wipe it off and take what’s mine.
She grits her teeth, baring them all.
The frail lady just smiles again and extends her hand.
“Here. You have it. Merry Christmas.
We already bought one for my grandson last week.
This was for a homeless boy I used to teach.”
The frantic shopper extends her hand
and grasps the gift.
“It’s mine,” she screams.
“The toy of my son’s dreams!”
Then the frantic shopper’s eyes drift
down to the frail ladies sweatshirt.
Penned in cursive in homemade stitching, it says:
“Merry Christmas, our Lord is the only gift we need.”
The frantic shopper fights her greed,
beats her breast,
crosses her chest,
and finally gathers herself.
Suddenly, her lips crack a warm smile
“Please. Take it. Give it to the boy in need.”