I didn’t know Bob very well personally, but had the honor to serve with him on a local board, and had the chance to see his passion for making this community a better place at work. My understanding is that Bob gave openly of his time, money and spirit to the causes he believed in, impressively modeling an engagement with Richmond’s core needs.

I hope that our community can honor his legacy well, and support his wife Jane in her grieving and healing.

But really, he didn’t want smudges on the cover and he didn’t want to break the spine, and that was great with me because I would have demanded the same. I might not have even brought the book to school – who knows what could happen to it!? We whispered about holodecks and warp drives, and let our minds wonder. Though we didn’t use the word at the time, we were totally geeked out, in awe of this seeming bridge between science fiction and real life. Craig and I only saw each other for this brief period a few times per week, and we’d only seen each other outside of school once or twice, but we had a connection that only comes with being a bit (or, okay, a lot) uncool together.

On the first day of the next school year, I looked for Craig in the morning before classes started, and didn’t see him. As we sat in the cafeteria pretending to listen to announcements, I heard his name over the loudspeaker.

The principal said that Craig had died over the summer while at camp. His cabin had caught on fire in the night and he was unable to get free from his sleeping bag, apparently because the zipper stuck.

I was in some sort of shock. After some silence, the principal moved on to other announcements. I somehow went through the day, not really sure what to do. I didn’t know Craig’s family or even how to get in touch with them. None of my other friends knew Craig, and after the announcement, the school didn’t really seem to notice. Without any ceremony or closure, without anyone to share in this loss, I buried Craig in my mind, and I went on.

Today:

I don’t ever zip up my sleeping bag all the way when I’m camping.

Sometimes I have dreams about being trapped in a burning cabin.

I keep a copy of the Technical Manual on my bookshelf, and I handle it quite gingerly when I do take it out.

I try, and fail, to not take people for granted. I try not to assume that they will always be there when the summer ends. I try not to worry about whether or not we’re being watched by someone disapproving of our giddiness. I fail at these things, but I try.

I feel no shame in claiming my Star Trek fandom.

Craig was the kindest of souls, always the best he could be. Our friendship was fleeting, but it stays with me.

Rest in peace Craig Brill, 1/2/1977 – 8/7/1992.

It was 20 years ago this month that my father passed away from cancer. I celebrate his life, the family he left behind, the impact he had on me, and the cycles of life that give the world meaning and possibility.

It was 30 years ago this month that I was born into the world. I celebrate the landbase that sustains me, my health, my successes and failures, my friends and loved ones, my past and future, the hope that drives me, and so much more.

And so here I am, in August of 2007. As E.B. White said, “I get up every morning determined both to change the world and to have one hell of a good time. Sometimes this makes planning the day difficult.“

Misty had a long life – upwards of 16 years – and was a wonderful companion throughout. I never thought of myself as a “cat person,” but I inherited her from other family members and she grew on me. She didn’t always have the warmest disposition when you encountered her at first – in recent years I think she had forgotten what her “nice meow” sounded like, so every entreaty or remark, even the happy ones, were done in the tone of a kitty with better places to be. But she made friends with strangers quickly, wasn’t afraid to look a little silly in the name of effective and comprehensive play-time, and always knew when it was time to cuddle up. And bless her heart for tolerating my experimentation with various gadgets that were meant to make her more comfortable – the automatic litterbox cleaner, the battery-powered timer-based feeding contraption, the elaborate windowsill lounging surface structures. I think she sensed my good intentions all along, even if she didn’t share my enthusiasm.

If you want, you can make a donation to 1-800-Save-A-Pet.com in honor of Misty – they help homeless pets all over North America to get adopted into loving homes like the one she had.

Goodbye, Misty.

I know that the people who say these things usually intend them to mean “I was so embarrassed/disturbed/upset/whatever by that experience that it numbed my senses and temporarily made me unable to function.” And I suppose that in an age where finding just the right expression to boldly and cleverly convey our complex emotions (perhaps without really revealing what they are) is all-important to being cool, using the very raw and attention-getting experiences of suicide, death and dismemberment as material is an appealing way to go. When someone says that something was merely “horrible” or “shocking,” it’s easy to tune them out since there are so many horrible and shocking things shown to us every day. But when they effectively say “it made me want to end my life,” we’re not yet so desensitized that we don’t sit up and pay attention, at least for a little bit.

When someone tells me that they want to kill themselves, I can’t help but take them seriously for longer than a little bit, and when what follows their statement is a laugh or a twinkle of the eye, I feel a bit used and drained. Maybe it’s because of the various people I’ve known through my life who have ended their own lives or who have tried to commit suicide, and who were very serious about it. Friends, colleagues, family members, acquaintances. I think about a friend from college who told me so many times how depressed he was, who gave off so many signs to so many people, and despite the help he got and the incredible releasing and healing progress he made later, still chose to use a gun to end his life. He wanted to blow his brains out, and he did.

I don’t claim to understand the compulsion to end life as a solution to one’s problems, but I do know that it is at work in the world, a painful and all-consuming feeling/experience that affects more people than we might know. I know that there are probably people I encounter every day who have seriously contemplated suicide, some who have actually tried. And then there are the majority of us who have probably experienced the end of a life (by other means – there are so many ways to die in this modern culture) of someone we love, still just as significant and full of emotion.

So I guess statements about ending one’s life in this particular way as a vehicle for conveying emphasis on a matter don’t work very well for me. I know that I’m probably desensitized to plenty of other kinds of similar statements about violence or harm to others, and so I’m not sure why I would choose to remark on this one. Maybe it just reminds me of a wish that the people I have known who have genuinely felt compelled to end their lives would have been that obvious about their intentions. Perhaps then I, someone, anyone could have taken their statement to heart and done something more about it.

Or perhaps it’s because when I hear it from someone I’m talking with, I feel I should be able to respond in some useful way, to reflect back to them these raw and potent words coming out of their mouth. Words have meaning, words have power – don’t we deserve better from each other than to abuse them this way?

Not the most positive exchange, but at least the cyclist wasn’t actually hit and hurt or killed. Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of the death of Earlham graduate Jessica Bullen after being struck by a driver in Madison, Wisconsin – her story and memorial fund are described here. Even more sadly, Jessica was a strong advocate (in a town that I consider quite biker-friendly already) for cyclists and worked to raise awareness for motorists that inattentive driving could result in a preventable injury or death. My life has been impacted in other ways by similar deaths – a good friend of my family started Fernside, a now internationally known center for grieving children, after her son was killed on his bike as a result of being struck by a car.

I’m not as much of a bike commuter as I want to be, but I ride around town enough to know that many Richmond drivers aren’t really tuned in to the right of way that cyclists have – pretty much the same that motorists have. Indiana Code 9-21-11-2 Section 2. says that “A person riding a bicycle upon a roadway has all the rights and duties under this article that are applicable to a person who drives a vehicle,” with a few small exceptions. Many folks think that because cars are so dominant in size and speed, they enjoy some special protection under law for use of the public streets. It even makes its way into the mindsets of would-be bikers – I can’t count how many people I’ve talked to who have said they would ride their bike to commute around town more if they weren’t so scared of being on the roads that would make that possible because of careless drivers.

Those fears and misconception carry into the unfortunate opinions that develop when a crash does happen. The attorney for Jessica’s killer is quoted as saying that “I don’t think these cases should be crimes,” but as Jessica’s friends and family have said, when a human being loses their life due to the carelessness of others, the issue of whether it was car versus bike doesn’t exempt either party from being held accountable for their actions.

Whether you drive or bike or both or neither, please be careful.

1. There must be a really good reason: “force may be used only to correct a grave public evil…a massive violation of the basic rights of whole populations”
2. The injustice suffered by one party must significantly outweigh that suffered by the other
3. Only the proper authorities may wage war
4. Force must only be used in a truly just cause and solely for that purpose – correcting a suffered wrong is okay, but doing it for money or material possessions is not.
5. You have to have a good chance of succeeding – you can’t go to war if it’s futile
6. The force used must be proportional to the good trying to be achieved. (I remember my pastors metaphor here made it into my own speech: you shouldn’t kill a fly with a sledgehammer!)
7. War must only be waged as a last resort

Who wouldn’t be convinced by these? If all of those criteria are met, how can war not be justified, inevitable if abhorrent?

Perhaps as we leave the eighth grade and move on to more nuanced views of the world, we know that it may not be that simple. I have certainly come to learn that just war theory is presented within a particular moral framework that isn’t really my moral framework. But I certainly appreciated at the time that it was consistent within the framework it lived in, true to itself, and it was something you could hold onto when the horrors of what it means to be at war did have such a fogging effect on any thinking about the matter. I appreciated that if you’re going to go kill someone, or ask someone else to kill someone, you damn better well have thought it through at that level and gotten yourself crystal clear on what your reasoning and values say about why you would be a part of that act.

This is partly why it is so scary to me that U.S. troops in the Middle East are now receiving values training three years into this particular war. When requests like “don’t desecrate the dead” and “don’t cause unnecessary suffering” need to be put up in a Powerpoint presentation and read aloud to make sure everyone’s “got it,” I feel ill.

Of course, on one hand, it makes perfect sense, given that the war in Iraq, and perhaps any war waged, requires contemplation of what are probably unresolvable conflicts in moral and emotional principles. Of course there will be stories of troops killing innocent civilians. Of course there will be torture in prisons. Of course there will be horrible acts brought on by asking men and women to figure those questions out in the heat of the moment. How can we ask someone to reconcile the inherent mission of our troops – apply the use of deadly force to coerce people into behaving a certain way – with the conflicting values that are ostensibly behind that mission – respect for life, pursuit of freedom and democracy, instilling peace and justice, creating a better world for all?

I don’t think the U.S. military wants its soldiers pondering those questions in the field. I don’t think it can afford to have each person contemplating those moral judgments along the way. I don’t think it can afford to have real values training, because this is where war – from my perspective, anyway – ceases to have any integrity or consistency within its own moral framework. The justifications for war at a high level may work just fine, but when you drill down to what’s happening out in the field – human beings hurting and killing each other because they’re told to – there is no integrity, there is no moral code that one can follow to justify it. As Albert Einstein said, “A country cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war.”

For what it’s worth, I don’t make a judgment on those who are compelled to exhibit that lack of integrity in a war setting. I believe they are responsible to themselves for their own actions, and maybe they can be acting with integrity and morality within their understanding of their own worldview, even if they aren’t in mine. But if they’ve gotten that far down the path of war, they’re already working within a moral and cultural framework that doesn’t offer them any good options, at least in the context of creating peace, justice and a sustainable human existence.

Or, as I wish I could go back and say to my eighth grade class, there are plenty of ways to justify modern warfare, and a lot of them sound pretty good, but I don’t think any of them work for humanity.

“Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.” –Ernest Hemingway

Note: This is a topic that I’m fairly certain the few folks who do read this blog may have some opinions about, and I’d really like to hear them. Please post your thoughts, even if anonymously; I’m done with the eighth grade, but I’m sure I still have more to learn and other points of view to consider.

Last night, I saw one of the recent movies to come out about wars and the nature of the experience for those fighting in them. This one was about Vietnam, and it did an amazing job of contrasting the emotion and intensity of individual participants (American and Vietnamese) against vast scenes of death and destruction, hundreds of lives being ended violently and quickly and without prejudice. But the overall feeling I walk away with is awe at the magnitude of the loss of life. The movie tells us that loss of life on this scale can be worthwhile – that sacrificing spouses and parents, hundreds at a time, is sometimes necessary. And, perhaps unfortunately, this is the message that is absorbed from these films, more so than the sense that the loss of any particular man or woman is in itself a horrible tragedy. For who can bear the burden of reflecting on the pain and sadness of any and every widow and widower, son and daughter, mother and father that would hold their loved one no more?

When I wake up this morning, I go into the kitchen and see on the front page of the paper that a local high school student has died in a car accident. The picture on the front is of my housemate Charlie, a volunteer firefighter, wading around a half-sunk, overturned car in an icy creek. Charlie says that the shot was taken right before he went under to try to find the kid. We talk about the rescue effort, how cold it was, and how sad it is. “Poor kid.” Thinking about the shock and the sadness and the sense of loss that his friends and family will experience breaks my heart as I sit and stare at the words on the page.

But how can I put it into context, how can I think about the loss in terms of all the loss that was experienced that day, even in that hour, around the world? How can that tragedy be weighed against images of boys the same age as the accident victim being shot, stabbed, blown up, and burned as they run through the forest fighting for a country that will notify their next of kin via telegram delivered by taxicab?

At either extreme, the value of life is sharply more understandable than in the relatively mundane existence that is common in the middle. There is the sense that I am doing an injustice to that boy and those soldiers by worrying about my plans for the summer, stressing over too many meetings, pondering my weight and my exercise regimen. I know that I may never have an opportunity to truly experience the appreciation of simply being alive because I may never understand how good life is, and how easily it slips away.

The resolution, it would seem, might come in the form of relativism – the sense that the value of our lives can only be completely known when taken in the context of those around us who we love, fight for, and miss when they are gone. It is too cold to say that because life HAS been lost on massive scales in the past, the value of an individual life is decreased. But neither does it feel right to say that we must all mourn deeply and at length over the loss of every stranger…again, who can bear that burden?

Even in relativism, I can find no peace. But it is perhaps the unanswered question – what is life worth – that can inspire us to seek ways of living our own lives that pay tribute to those who no longer have life, and to those who miss them.

It always seemed odd to me that Ten minutes of life would mean more than the life lost, but the wistful stare in Eppie’s eyes when we talked about it brought me closer to understanding. You see, in those last Ten minutes of her father’s life, she realized that her father was dying. According to her (and sometimes her mother), their eyes met as this sunk in at about minute number Three and that was when he realized it too. One of the nurses reflected later that in that moment, even though all the damn machines were going off and people were waving goodbye in their hearts, he felt like the cancer “just up and left” Eppie’s father and that “if we hadn’t all been so intent on him dying he might have up and walked away from the whole mess.” But with Seven minutes to go, what are you gonna do, especially if you don’t know you have even that much?

Cry is what Eppie wanted to do, but her father wouldn’t have it. He was mostly gone and mostly ready, but he wasn’t just about to slip out. The damnedest thing is that every power involved seemed raring for him to do just that, but right as minute Four started to head into its second half, he sat up in bed and held out his hands.

The real excitement wasn’t that he was sitting up, though this was apparently something he hadn’t done since he woke from the last round of miserable skin slashing and marrow moving, but the real excitement came when he held out his right hand as if it were a flat slate and with his left made a scribbling motion. Now it seems his hands were pretty weak so I guess the motion wasn’t that clear to Eppie at the time, so it took until about minute Five and forty-five seconds until she realized that her father, who had lived 43 years of life and who had devoted 12 of them to her happiness, was trying to get a message across. And this time, it wasn’t the “need more water” or the “change the channel” signing he would have to make because there were so many awful tubes in his beautiful mouth; no, this time it was something that gave him enough strength to hoist his tired and dying body closer to his daughter. This time it was a message that made nothing else matter.

Eppie never got that message. No one in that room did. The very thought of the situation makes me want to cry, and I can’t really even begin to imagine what it does to my friend. When minute Six reared its head, Eppie shouted for a paper and pen and her mom followed Seconds later with a cry for the same. The one time when Eppie went into a lot of detail about it, she said “the damn hospital kept the place so clean and reality-free that there wasn’t a writing utensil or paper to be found in the room.” But it got worse. The nurse who felt the cancer leave walked out looking for something to write on as minute Seven walked in. Eppie’s father looked around questioningly and his hand stopped scribbling. He just sat there, she said. “Just sat there and waited for something to write on. My dad had been waiting to die for six months and now all he had to wait for was a pen and some paper.”

The nurse had to go far to get it. He had to watch the head nurse fumble around the admit desk for something suitable for a patient to use. He had to watch the head nurse scribble ink on a piece of scratch paper to make sure the pen worked. He could not say anything because it was almost minute Eight and that ink “might as well have been life flowing out of that poor man’s body.”

Eight and a half and his head started to droop. Eight and forty and his head hit the pillow. Just a few before Nine and his hands fell all the way down by his side. Nine-oh-five and Eppie grabbed both of them. Nine ten and his squinting eyes were for ced closed by the rising smile that defied a tube that gave him breath. Nine thirty and there was so little movement and so many tears. Minute Ten rolled around and the message left forever like a secret that is so secret you forget about it. After that, Eppie’s life was only ever measured in hours and days and tears, but never in such minutes and seconds as those.

We won’t always be able to figure out that dad wants to write us a message. The damn hospital isn’t always going to have some paper and a pen lying around. There isn’t always going to be a nurse, and if there is, he isn’t always going to care about your dad. Sometimes, what we do in minute number Two matters so much more than what happens in minute number Nine. This is a happy story. These are the greatest Ten minutes of your life.