“Hey Steve. I wanted to use our fish

Tags

believe me, blog commenting professional, I is an indirect author

“Hey Steve. I wanted to use our fish conversation we had the other day in my book.  My protagonist is a huge fan of sardines and anchovies…it plays out in a few parts of the book.  Would that be okay with you?  To steal some of your puns…rather use poetic licence with them?  🙂   Let me know. Thanks Stevil.  I think you may be on vacation now, so have a great one.”

I’m published.  Not directly, but I am published.  My friend who also writes, decided to taint her book with comments from our Facebook conversations.  The book is published.  I am sure that you can find it in a Cracker Barrel gift shop nationwide.

Seriously.

http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/14654741-what-the-heck-dec

My friend Betsy’s use of the word ‘droolicious’ is not something she stole from me.  I am likely the inspiration for that Declan character though.  It’s often that I am spotted with eye candy on my arm.  I usually swat it off.

Any book described as a ‘wallbanger’ (any book that becomes annoying you want to throw it against a wall) is a book that I likely was involved with, even though I didn’t write it.  I didn’t read this one either.  But I wrote part of it as you all witnessed in the quote.

I’m usually funnier when I am commenting on someone’s blog, especially if I am commenting on someone who is already so funny that they don’t really need me to make them that way.  Here in WP land, I comment regularly on a humor columnist’s blog named Ted, and our comment threads get pretty schtinkin’ hilarious if you ask me.  Go ahead.  Ask me.  Ted has not asked me to leave yet, even when his very own significant other wife expressed her appreciation of my talents.  My comment wielding talents.

My blog life has been that way, days spent commenting on my blogs and others as a means of combatting boredom or just plain having fun.  A good friend of mine, Sandy, has teamed up with me to drive many an OCD blogger insane with our friendly banter.  We’re wicked together in a very nice brother and sister sort of way, so much that some people have mistaken us as a brother and sister couple.  Or worse.  Married.  That would not make us funny together, however, unless you look at us.  We met in a bathroom and have pretty much stayed there since.

It’s true.  Wish I still had those pictures.

Shake my hand and congratulate me for being indirectly published.  I washed.

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Saw Wee Kee

Tags

Cycling, Fox River, I will kick your butt, Illinois, mountain biking, peace

This place is quickly becoming of one of my favorite escapes.  Saw Wee Kee park is a mountain bike and hiking trail refuge next to the Fox River in Illinois where the rock, sand and dirt from a strip mine was dumped, making the berms and bumps there a perfect place for mountain biking.  The woods there are lush, nurtured by close proximity to the river.  The Chicago Area Mountain Bike Riders (CAMBR) have designed a trail system there, maintaining them so well that it truly is a worthwhile destination.

The trailhead entrance from the Saw Wee Kee park middle parking lot. No, there is no Saw Wee Kee ghost in the picnic shelter.

I love it.  I’m hooked.  I should be too “old” to ride the technical, physically demanding trails — maybe another reason I like riding there so much.  During my rides and after my rides I feel the boy in me emerging.  It truly is refreshing and renewing.

A few hundred yards in. It’s tame at the beginning but gets challenging pretty early. I tried taking a shot through the handlebars for perspective.

This morning’s ride was very good.  I took my camera along, snapped a few pictures before I started riding.  It was overcast, like it has been here the majority of the week in the Chicago area, but the sandy and rocky trails at this park dry quickly, so I knew that the trails would be reasonably rideable.  There were a lot of greasy spots on the trails, but they were rideable.

First small drop and log obstacle. This picture, especially since it is overexposed, doesn’t do the trail’s steep drop justice.

 

I posted these pictures on my FB page earlier and I already have some of my younger friends challenging this old man to a ride.  They really don’t know what they are getting into.  If you have never been offroad on a bicycle, the trails at Saw Wee Kee will be scary.

A small portion of the trail right above the parking lot. There are lots of quick little dips and jumps on this trail.

And I will kick your hiney.

I like to say ‘hiney’.  It’s sounds nicer that the A word, more nasty than saying ‘butt’.

I digress.

So I got a good two hour ride in this morning.  I met two young guys out in the middle of the trails, right after one of them had a good crash while attempting a large log obstacle.  I showed them the section of the park where there are sharp, long, steep drops followed by banked turns.  If you find the right flow, a rider can keep riding them until they have had enough.  The guys loved it, although a few of the lower drops had mud bogs at the bottom, real dangerous when flying down a fifty foot drop.

I came off the trails to the parking lot as a light rain began to fall, the sound on the leaves of the trees so soothing it was incredible.  Not ready to stop, I skirted down the road a few hundred yards and went back in to ride the rolling trail that goes back to the parking lot.  As I came back into the parking lot, my body heat resisting the cold rain, I stood there to soak in the quiet.  After a few moments of revelry, I reached into my back pack to retrieve my car keys, then raised the hatch on my PT Cruiser, the raised door creating a nice shelter from the rain.  I smiled as I watched the mud and filth wash off of my bicycle in the soaking rain, a reminder of the effort expended the past few hours, amused by the simplicity.  This was pure.  My view of the rising river through the trees was spectacular.

There needs to be more moments like the ones experienced this morning.  Knowing that there will be is a comfort.  I sat there and thanked God for the gift, unhurried.

Did any of you who read this blog realize that something so wonderful exists in the Chicago area?  It’s not all city and cornfields.  We have rivers, woods, all kinds of great places to enjoy.

And I am happy for it.

Why Husbands Employ Bodily Functions

Tags

farts, marriage, obsessed mother

My dear wife and I are holed up in our bedroom upstairs at the moment, displaced by our daughter and her friends while they watch a movie on Netflix downstairs in our living room.  There is a new boy interest in our daughter’s life, a boy we just met for the first time a few minutes ago.

And my already over involved wife mother is obsessing.  And obsessing.  And, yes, obsessing.  Enough that I just want her to go away.  Please.  Please.  Please.

When I am annoyed, I talk in threes.

But she is not going away.  In our small house, there are not many places to go.  If you are upstairs, you are either in one of three bedrooms, the bathroom, or my walk in closet. 

Oooooo, now there is an idea.  I could hide in my closet, behind all of my spandex.

Yes, I have spandex.  Lots of spandex.  I have been bicycling for twenty years.  Like underwear, spandex is something a guy keeps for a long time.  I have spandex that is older than my children.  My wife forced me to burn all of my Fruit of the Looms when we got married and replaced them with spanking new tightey whities, then boxers during the “let’s make sure you have plenty of strong swimmers” stage of our marriage.

As a heterosexual male, wearing “FRUIT of the Looms” underwear kind of gives me the heebie jeebies.  Just sayin’.

My swimmers have been dog paddling for some time now.  We’re at that stage of our marriage and have been for far too long.  The cat gets more lovin’ spoonful than I do.

Which explains why I am sitting in my big desk chair, feet up on the bed, and blowing large amounts a male gaseous emissions with the hope that she’ll leave the room. My efforts are a waste, however, and not just literally.  She has not even acknowledged my best effort, a real Foghorn Leghorn, one every husband would be proud of.  A good wife would applaud.  Mine shuns my obvious talent.

I think I will place a personal ad at an adult dating site —

“Fifty-ish bored husband seeks sex starved housewife for an affair.  Must appreciate a good bottom burp.  Nice sized hooters are also required.  If you talk about your kids at all, I will wrap your entire head in duct tape.  Serious inquiries only.”

I will be overwhelmed with responses, I am sure. 

In the meantime, I will just hide in my closet.  Behind the spandex.  In my Fruits of the Loom.

I have a back yard full of teenaged

Tags

band nerds, dad brag

I have a back yard full of teenaged band nerds.  Gathered around a little bonfire I built for them in the family fire pit.  It’s past my bedtime and I should be asleep.. because I am an old fart and old farts need their sleep, dang it.  But you never know what mischief band nerds, MARCHING BAND nerds, are going to pull.

Probably none.  I should go to bed.

You know what?  (I heard that.. someone said “No, what?”)

I did something right.  There are times, few and far between mind you, but there are times.  I bought that fire pit last September with the hope that my lovely daughter would want to have her friends over.  AND SHE ASKED ME TO BUILD A FIRE AND LET HER HAVE A PARTY TONIGHT.  Yeah.  This dad rocks.  He rocks a fire too.  It’s smokin’ hot.

I probably should not tell them why there is white smoke coming from the fire.  I just might be making use of the wood, white painted wood, from the picket fence I took down last year.  Mir has been be(u)gging me to get rid of that wood.

Oh, and the kid that Alyssa went to a movie with last night is out there.  Mayyyyyyybe I should make an appearance out there and introduce myself.

Naaaaaaaaa.

Good night.  I will sleep well.  The Cardinals beat the Cubs.  The Blackhawks won.  The Tour de France starts Saturday. 

(Brag time — Nate, my newly 14 year old son, won the Golf competition at the high school golf camp today, as an incoming freshman.  He is psyched.  He also scored a 38 in his golf league match on Monday.  The kid is hooked on golf.  I’m accepting donations to help support his habit.)

The Dawn of the Dad

Tags

breakfast, dog doody, Father's Day, fatherhood, Sunday

Sunday morning.  Typically early Sunday mornings are my time.  This time of the year I usually am out for a bike ride with my friends for a BCD (Butt Crack of Dawn) cruise, but not only are those guys on their way back from a bike tour in Colorado, I am not up to speed yet due to my foot surgery.

I also like to kick back at the kitchen table with my coffee.  This morning’s coffee is a Starbuck’s Italian roast, brewed by yours truly, which means it is grow-hair-on-your-back strong.  The hair is curling through my shirt now.  One more sip and I will be howling at the moon with the coyotes tonight.  I do not recommend Truvia sweetener, by the way.  I like my coffee strong and sweet, like my women, and it takes a whole box of Truvia to get my coffee as sweet as I prefer.

So here I sit, waxing poetically at my blog, waiting for the girls to finish spiffing up for church.  Nate sleeps until the last possible moment.  We leave in five minutes.  Nate is still dreaming.

The animals in our house love Sunday mornings when I get up.  Nick usually visits me for a few minutes, gets his pats in, goes back up to guard the girls.  He usually doesn’t leave Mir for a second in the morning, waiting to come downstairs until she descends, laying in front of the bathroom door while she showers.  Chester da cat, however, covets not only my attention but also the bowl of cereal I fix for myself.  Prior to taking that picture, Chester occupied the space in front of my PC.  The orange and white hair plastered across the front of my shirt a testament to his attention.

Nick did come downstairs long enough for me to let him out to do his doody.  He is a little annoyed at me for taking this picture.

And it’s Father’s Day.  Accidentally, I discovered that I am getting my traditional box of Junior Mints.  I did not peek at the package.  I am sure today will be filled with food, golf, a nap, maybe even a bike ride.  We’re having lunch with Mir’s dad, a spry 92 (almost 93) year old youngster.  I will call my Dad.

OK, time for my newly proclaimed 14 year old son to get up to go to church.  I just heard Mir rouse him.  He got 4th place in a golf tournament last Friday, his birthday.  Not bad.  Caddied for the Cantigny course manager yesterday.  My daughter won the Drum Major appointment she wanted, the sole band leader this Fall.  All is well.  Kind of makes me feel legit.

The Poisoned Apple Didn’t Fall Far

Tags

gifts, naps, parenting

I am a believer that every single person in God’s creation possesses a gift.  Albeit some possess a smaller portion than others, but yet all are gifted in some way.  The Chicago Cubs are an example of the “smaller portion” rule, for instance.  Five year old prodigies wow the world with amazing piano performances, a frumpy Susan Boyle walked out on stage to blow us away with an angel’s voice, Michael Jordan showed the world an almost otherworldly combination of physical gift and competitive fire, Albert Einstein demonstrated the power of a mind wired to think outside of the box.  As a parent, I have always been excited to observe each of my children, the great and small gifts they demonstrate.  It truly is a pleasure to see.

I have been told I have the gift to annoy, a compliment I always enjoy hearing.

One of the reasons I enjoy watching my children is seeing a bit of myself in each of them.  Their gift often comes from a passion they picked up from me or from Miriam.  Nate plays the guitar, loves to play the guitar, a joy developed from watching Miriam.  Alyssa loves to read, to create through the written word, at least in some part from watching me over the years.  She likes the stage, is comfortable there, watched me ham it up in sketches when she was a young child.  Our children have learned from watching their parents, have discovered what may become a gift from our influence.

What ability did I pick up from my own father?  The inate ability to snooze. 

If there were a nap Olympics, my dad would have a vault full of gold medals.  The guy can fall asleep at the drop of a hat.  Gifts come from passion and my father savors a good nap like Michael Jordan gets a rush from a monster dunk shot.  I dare say that Dad could nap in the middle of a freeway at rush hour if he found a recliner in the median.  I have always been in awe of his gift for Z.  The man is a true marvel.

I discovered that I possess my father’s gift while in college, perfecting the power nap in between classes, recharging in five or ten minute visits to the sandman.  Whether the padded chair in the back corner of the college library or the lounge couch, I would be in deep REM sleep before my head hit the cushion.  No alarm clock was needed, my internal clock the only timepiece I needed.  A ten minute nap was just enough to recharge, anything longer too much and left me groggy.  Dad is and was the same way.

To this day I relish a good power nap.  Different than my younger days, I actually require a daily siesta, usually that same ten minute nap, sometimes fifteen minutes.  During the work day, I reach a point around 2:30 in the afternoon where I can no longer function until I get that recharge, my brain craving the rush of pure sleep.

Yes, snoozing is a rush.

When I am in bike commute mode, the afternoon power nap can be difficult to obtain.  Unlike my dad, I can not sleep in the middle of a busy freeway.  I need my privacy.  When I drive to work, I simply take a walk out to my car, pull a blanket out of my backseat, and pass out for 15 minutes.  When I don’t have that option, I have to find an empty conference room, curl up on the floor under a table.  Some day I am going to wake up with a meeting going on around me.

I return to my desk and usually find that I am ready to finish the work day on a productive note.  The nap always does the trick.

Thanks, Dad, for passing on the gift.

 

It’s Not All Bad

Tags

bicycles, fathers, sons

Over the weekend, a beat up white mountain bike showed up in our garage.  Judging from the condition of the bicycle – near flat tires, non-functioning brakes, gears that would not shift, wheels that wobbled enough that they had rubbed against the bicycle’s frame – the bicycle had been pushed into our garage.

“Hey Dad, can you take a look at Joe’s bicycle and see if you can fix it?”

Lately Nate has been bringing his friends by our house, asking me if I can take a quick look at their bicycles.  It started a few weeks ago when he and his friend Joe stopped out front with two girls in tow, asked if I could help them with the bicycles the girls were riding.  I took a look at each bicycle, made a few adjustments, raised the seat on one bike, pumped up the tires, and sent them on their way.  Since then there has been a steady stream of bicycle maladies requiring my attention, whether it be a rubbing chain, a mysterious squeak, a gear that won’t work, a brake that sticks. 

While talking with Joe’s guardian last Sunday afternoon, he told me that Nate has been telling his friends that his dad can fix any bicycle.  We do have a reputation as a bicycle family.  Nate has always had nice bicycles, all Trek brands and not your typical department store fare.  My reputation as a cyclist in the community is well known from all the years I have spent commuting to work by bicycle.

But the knowledge that Joe’s guardian shared with me was a bit of a revelation.  Amidst all of the teenage attitude my son has been giving me, the boy is actually proud of something his father does.  He would not tell me directly that he thinks I can fix any bicycle.  I guess he has been showing that to me, though.  And it makes me wonder what else my son is proud of.  Some day I will probably hear about it.

Thing is that I am not that much of a whiz at fixing bikes.  What I have learned is how to keep my stable of hand me down bikes rolling, my experience growing my skills as a means of survival, my expertise limited by the numerous mistakes I have made.  I guess a lot.  I do not really know that much.  My workbench does have a lot of tools specific to fixing bicycles, tools gathered over the years.  There is a box filled with old parts under my workbench.  I can replace a spoke, coax a wheel back to true (i.e. get it close to rolling straight), replace cables/bearings/shifters/brakes.  As a testimony to my real ability, I have to confess that I have a good relationship with the mechanic at several local bike shops.  There have been many incidents where a mechanic has saved me from a botched repair.

I really like knowing that what I do influences my boy.  He admires me.  That makes the rough stuff a whole lot easier to deal with.

Last night I took that old beat up white mountain bike a good going over.  I smiled as Nate came out to watch me, eager to help as I asked him to hold a shifter cable with needle nose pliers while I tightened the cable down.  He couldn’t wait to deliver the bicycle to his friend Joe, brakes fixed, wheels rolling straight, gears shifting again.

“Hey dad, you want to go play some tennis?” 

Casual Taxi Dad Monday

Ah, yes, such a beautiful Monday morning here in the scenic western suburbs of Chicago.  The birds are singing sweetly, the sun is shining, the grass wet from an early morning shower.  For some reason, the coffee has a touch more of a bite on mornings like this, my senses heightened by the rush of the beauty around me.

Gag.

While all of the above is true, the real truth is that I am sitting in a restaurant while I wait for my son to finish his round of golf in his league.  I’m a bit torched from yesterday’s activity, but what I would really like to be doing right now is spinning out the cobwebs on my road bike right now, soaking in farmland west of Batavia, my favorite roads the open country out there, the rolling hills an exhilarating mix of exertion and downhill rush.  What I anticipated doing this morning was playing dad taxi to Nate with my bike ready to go, leave for a ride out to Johnson’s Mound while he knocks the ball around the course.  The Mound is one of the highest points in the area, a forest preserve with a smooth asphalt lane that loops through the woods of the mound.  There is a quarter mile climb on the back side that is steep enough to addle one’s brain for a few moments, the breaths coming heavy as I near the top, gears mashing as I push to keep the bike moving.

Maybe this afternoon.  It was enough just to get Nate and I both out of the house in time to make his 7:28 tee time.  We loaded his clubs into the back of my little PT Cruiser, not enough room left for my bicycle.  It’s OK.  If I really want to ride, and I do want to ride, I will likely have time this afternoon.  In the meantime, I can sit back with my coffee and relax.

There have been casual dad Mondays where I have failed to advise my wife that I was taking the day off.  That backfired one time when she noticed my car was in the driveway, but my road bicycle was gone.  I ignored my cell phone until around the third or fourth time she called.

“Where are you at?”

“At the spandex bar.”

Click.

 

Until I have to get Nate to his next destination — tennis camp.  Yes, the apple did not fall far from the tree.  My son never stops either.

So much for my day off.  I kind of enjoy this.  but the Mound is calling my name……

Ice Bagged

Tags

golf, mountain biking, old guy stuff, weekends

Here I sit

Broken (old) farted

Tried too do too much

And now I am sitting on the couch trying to think of a word that rhymes with “farted”

The ideal weekend for me is to do so much, pack enough action into two days, that I find myself sitting on the couch with an ice pack on one or more sore body parts and telling myself over and over again “Oh man does this hurt so good”.  Tonight, dear friends, I have achieved old man-tra.  I am on the couch, ice bag on my left foot, wondering which muscle is going to spasm uncontrollably into a ball.  My money is on my right calf, although the left hamstring is a good bet also.

A golf ball. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today I made the social rounds of my neighborhood, jumping on my bicycle with the intention of finding Nate, instead finding four neighbors instead.  I am a talker, a characteristic both loves and hates.  The kids used to drag me out of church, hoping I wouldn’t find someone to talk to.  They understand me a bit more now, but there are times they still dread taking me out into public.  ANY HOOOOOO, I made the rounds of the neighborhood, one stop being to say hello to Sean, my neighbor across the street, a young man with two little tykes who I get a chance to talk to rarely.  He waved me over as I pedaled by.

And we yacked for a good half hour.  As we yacked, I noticed he had a nice set of golf clubs sitting in his garage.

“You play?”

“Oh yeah, but with the kids and my job I rarely get to play any more.”  He paused for a moment.  “I see you and Nate loading up the clubs in your car quite a bit.”

“Yeah, I have been playing quite a bit since Nate got interested in the game.”  And I told him about some of the good deals on golf Nate and I had discovered in our quest for golf.

“What are you doing this afternoon?  I need to play.”

Hmmmmm.  I had to think about that offer for a minute.  I played 18 holes last night, walking the course for the first time this golf season, using carts up to this point due to the healing of my surgically repaired left foot.  Mir probably wouldn’t mind (and she didn’t).  I had found a course close by that had a cheap and early twilight rate.  The thing was that I hadn’t been on my bicycle since Thursday, wanted to get an off road ride in this afternoon because there was rain forecasted for this evening.  The trails may not be rideable for a few days.

“Sure.  How about around 5:00?  I want to get a ride in this afternoon, but I should be back in time to play.”

“You walk the course?”

“Of course.”

And we were set.  Mir was cool with it, liked the idea of me spending some time with our neighbor.

Trouble was that the ride was fantastic, so fantastic that I lost track of time.  I left at one in the afternoon, looked in the clock when I pulled into my driveway.  Five.  Oops.

I walked across the street, knocked on Sean’s front door.  Angie, his wife, answered and said that Sean had left a few minutes ago.  He was really looking forward to playing golf.

Oh crepe.

“Give him a call, tell him I will be there in a few minutes.”

I hustled home, changed out of my sweaty bike clothes, whipped on my golf schtuff.  Zipped to the course to find an anxiously waiting Sean at the first tee.

Dang best time I have had playing golf in ages.  We walked 14 holes and played until dark.  Talked like two old hens.  The guy could be my younger twin.  We left with the understanding that this should be an every Sunday night gig.

Cool.

But boy Is my body wondering what I did to it.  I love the tired, satisfied feeling that activity gives to me.  Ahhhhhhh.  Thank goodness for ice packs.

Until next time.

A bad choice?

Tags

conflict, family, fatherhood

There is a television commercial I see now and then where everywhere a man goes is a message, whether on the side of a bus or on a scrolling electronic sign, that tells him exactly what he should do.  There are times when I wish I could flip a switch and have that happen, the specific answer to the challenge I am facing blinking in front of me.  At the least I wish there was a light that flashed YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG or YEP, YOU HAVE IT RIGHT.

We all know none of that exists.

Some might say that God does work that way.  The God I know does not.  I think there are times God does provide a specific answer, but I think He knows it is best for me that I simply listen and learn on my own, using the guidance already there for me.. along with a bit of prayer.  I think it’s foolish when someone mocks God for not responding the way they think God should respond, the whole big voice from the clouds thing (a reason I will shut off one of the funniest shows on television, The Simpsons).  When someone mocks God for not being who they think He should be or respond in the way they want Him to respond, it smacks of immaturity, a child wanting to show up their father, not mature enough to understand his reasons or ways or that what he is doing is best for them, maybe even trying to teach them.

I understand that.  I am the father of teenagers.  Even more so, I am the father of a very strong willed 13 (almost 14) year old boy.  He is a boy who doesn’t want to accept discipline, who has invented in his mind a cruel father who is/has committed a multitude of sins, who withholds all things good from him.  My son expresses a lot of very cruel insults to me, threatens me both verbally and physically.  His immaturity is so crystal clear to me, clear in a painful sort of way.  He hurts me, attempts to crush me, daily.

I understand a little more how God feels when I and we try to take him down.  If you knew me, you would know that physically I am a very powerful man.  Strong.  When my son challenges me in the ways that he does, I could very easily hurt him back, both physically and emotionally.  I don’t retaliate.  I even try not to yell.  It even amazes me, because not all that long ago my anger would have gotten the best of me.  Somehow, to this point, I have been able to keep a reasonable calm with him.  I know that he has problems that go a bit beyond maturity, but I also know that a lot of his reactions are due to being a teen, that confusing cloud of this period of his life refusing to let him see me clearly.  He wants what he wants and is angry that I don’t seem to be doing it for him.  I know that some day he will look back on this time of his life and see all the good his father brought to him even when he does not deserve it.

I also appreciate God’s ability to act like He has a short memory.  That is so, so, so difficult.

My birthday on Saturday was a good day, but it ended on a rough note.  Mir and I went out to a movie, a rare treat for us, while Alyssa took Nate with her to church youth group.  The boys in the group invited him over for basketball afterwards.  At 9:30, he walked through the front door, told me he had a good time (from the hall) when I asked, then went right out the garage door, jumped on his bike and went to visit his friends a block over.  When Mir went out and brought him home, we had a very unpleasant time with him, one where I had to take things away from him and retreat as he punched me, threatened me.  I spent the night on the couch just to stay away from his general area.  I didn’t sleep.

Yesterday the drama continued and he went after me again, this time knocking the glasses from my face and punching me repeatedly in the chest.  I wanted so much to teach him a lesson, punch him back.  Instead I got up, distanced myself, told him what the consequences of his actions were going to be.  He was angry, so much that Mir took him away from the house in our van.  Even then he jumped out of the car to come after me.  I hadn’t yelled at him, had not given him reason to be angry with me.  I was prepared to give him back the things I had taken away the night before, gave him the conditions that the privilege of returning those items would bring, but he needed to agree to those conditions first.  Instead, he chose to be angry and abusive.

So I left.  I packed up my tent, my mountain bike and a few things, wrote a note explaining that I was leaving for the night in the hope that Nate would have a chance to calm down, left money for Miriam to buy food.  I distanced myself because I needed to, not because it was the best choice.

I wonder if God does that?  I don’t think He does.