Ambulatio Noctavaga

The sound of the bell washed out over the sparkling hillsides, breaking the silent night with a smooth silver tone—just once, and then the silence overwhelmed it again.

I smiled. “Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one!”

Nothing happened. I hadn’t really expected anything to. The sudden appearance of a ghost at one in the morning this Christmas Eve would have shocked me just as much as Marley did Scrooge. The moment had passed, and things were as it should be: cold, crisp, and very clear. I gave up staring toward the church steeple and concentrated on not falling as I strode down the ice-glazed sidewalk. Whoever had shoveled it had given it their best shot, but they hadn’t quite reached the concrete.

It’s cold. My phone says that nature only has four of her degrees tonight. I wonder idly which four. A bachelor’s, two masters, and a doctorate, perhaps? She gave the rest up. They’ll be back someday, but tonight their absence can be felt by every inch of my cold legs. Only a thin (it feels thinner than normal) layer of blue sweatpants stands between them and all those missing degrees, sucked into the winter degree vacuum. As long as I keep moving, they’ll survive. The rest of me is fine. My power plant is insulated by four layers of cotton and polyester blends; my toes wiggle securely in a massive pair of twelve-year old floppy, toasty boots. If I’d been able to remember where my long johns were stowed last winter, I’d be perfectly outfitted for this little stroll.

Everything sparkles. The snow, the trees with their thin layer of snow and thinner layer of ice, the deceptively dark-hued roads. Streetlights and starlight glitter off every surface. There might be a moon floating somewhere too, but I can’t find her. The brightest thing in the heavens is a lone star in the south that I’m fairly sure is Venus, the Morning Star, an appropriate symbol of hope to men for millennia, just like this Christmas Eve.

I’m sure anyone who saw me trudging along through the three inches of snow wondered why I was there. An hour past subfreezing midnight isn’t exactly a popular time for a constitutional. One of the perils of working a night shift is that your clock can get really off, and I woke up this midnight fresh as a proverbial summer daisy. It felt like a good time to return the library books that were due yesterday. So I layered up, and off I went.

I actually had more company than I expected. A diesel truck grumbled its way down Washington Street, loudly voicing its displeasure for being forced to labor in the icy darkness. I glimpsed a party through yellow windows playing board games, coats and hats still on in an attempt to bolster poor insulation. Later, as I returned down Main, a quartet of WSU students wobbled stridently up the opposite side, their restraint removed and chilly bodies fortified by internal application of alcohol. Further on, the two lone employees of a bar stood together just inside door, waiting the fifty minutes until closing time would let them go home. Twenty years ago they would have been flirting. Now they’re just both on their phones.

But in spite of these, except for my own crunchy tread over potato-chip snow, it was remarkably quiet. I understood why all the old carols always mention the stillness of winter. In the days before the internal combustion engine, it must have been still indeed. Even so much further south in the bleak lands of Palestine, the coming of those angels would have been a mighty shock to shepherds used to “the bleak midwinter, when half-spent was the night.”

My thoughts drift from silence to carols, to my family far away in the warmth of Texas and Kuwait, and to my friends home with their families in places far and near, and I pray that they will know how blessed they are. For every Christmas many of us get a tiny glimpse of what the Eschaton, Tolkien’s Eucatastrophe, will be like. For we will be home, everlasting joy and food and drink will flow in abundance, and the family will be complete. We will go from wandering alone in the cold night—as fun as that sometimes is—to the warmth of the flame imperishable and the everlasting light of the Morning Star. My final thought as I knock the snow from my treads and twist the knob, ready to warm my knocking knees? Never take Christmas for granted. But don’t think that’s as good as it gets, either. 

Heroes IV--Stonewall Jackson

Heroes IV—Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson

Lest you think that all my heroes are fictional, let’s jump to a few historical figures. First off: one of the greatest (arguably) military men the Americas ever produced: Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson. Much as it embarrasses me to admit it, I still haven't finished Dabney's defining biography of him after three years of on-and-off effort. But I will. In the meantime, I still know a few things.

Born in the backwoods of Virginia in 1824, he survived becoming an orphan, brutal work, and poor schooling until he entered West Point at the age of eighteen. There he displayed a single-minded determination that was to mark the rest of his life, rising from dead last in the academic rankings to seventeenth by graduation. His peers later said that if studies had lasted another year, he would have made first place. He immediately left to fight in the Mexican war as an artilleryman, earning some recognition for a gallant defense at Chapultepec. He was assigned to the Virginia Military Institute after the war and taught there. While he was a terrible teacher—he memorized his lectures, recited them by rote, and never deviated from them—he was a better churchman, and taught Sunday school to the black slaves of Lexington. His first wife died here in childbirth.

When the war broke out, he organized the 2^nd, 4^th, 5^th, 27^th and 33^rd VA Regiments into a brigade he commanded. On July 21^st, 1861—156 years ago to the day—he led them to immortality on the fields of Manassas. General Bee attempted to rally his fleeing troops by shouting, “Look at Jackson! There he stands like a stone wall. Rally behind the Virginians!” Both the commander and the brigade would ever after bear the sobriquet “Stonewall.”

Afterwards came the triumphs that built his legend: The Valley Campaign, Second Manassas, Chancellorsville. His audacity, speed, and coolness under fire all became parts of an enduring story that was almost a myth. His basic Calvinistic believe in divine providence gave him no cause for fear, his solitary devotion to duty left him no time for playing politics. There were the enemy, and it was his God-given, terrible duty to destroy them until they laid down their arms. With his brilliance came all the usual idiosyncrasies of genius—he always stayed bolt upright even in the saddle to keep his organs in place; sucked lemons; tended to throw his left hand out, palm upright, as he waged battles and implored divine providence; and tended to throw the full weight of military court-martial at subordinates who committed very minor offences. But his soldiers loved him and he won battles—the two ultimate tributes to a fighting commander.

He died of pneumonia May 10th, 1863, eight days after being mistakenly wounded by his own troops after his great triumph at Chancellorsville. He had cemented his place in history in a little under two years. A great soldier, a devout Presbyterian, and a doting husband, he remains an inspiration to me and many others in North and South alike.

Heroes III--Obi-Wan Kenobi

Now that’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time...

(How long?)

A long time...

    Since according to the local paper, Star Wars came out twenty-five years ago today, it seems fitting to proceed to my next hero of fiction. Jedi Knight, teacher, hermit, strategist, and wiseacre, Obi-wan Kenobi stands out as the foremost character of Star Wars outside the Skywalker family. His portrayal has been excellent through every incarnation. Alec Guiness’ nuanced performance in the original when telling Luke his story is literally the reason George Lucas was able to make prequels. Ewan McGregor gave the young Obi-wan a dash of spirit and charm that along with Anthony Daniels carries the prequels through some of their worst moments (Except maybe that mullet in Attack of the Clones). James Arnold Taylor bridged the two with an excellent voice performance in Clone Wars. From the first lightsaber battle with Vader, to that epic multi-level duel with Maul, to Asaij Ventress, Grevious, Savage Opress and Maul together... even Anakin on Mustafar...he’s had the best battling skills in the franchise to date with a blade. And even in the darkest moments, he never loses his cool. 

And did you know that now that "Obi-wan Kenobi" is a traditional fourth nonsense answer on multiple-choice questions online? Now you do.

"I've got a bad feeling about this..."

The Sirens and Charybdis

It’s 0005. (That’s 12:05 AM, some of you.)

I’m up due to circumstances entirely within my control but outside my choice. You see, I’m in school, and I work a night shift. So occasionally when I get a day off, I wind up awake in the wee hours of the morning, blinking and wondering what on earth I’m supposed to do. I certainly ain’t sleeping.

Of course, the answer always lurks around every corner of every book on the floor and note on the desk: homework. There is always homework. Outline this. Study that. Memorize this. And with term finals starting in three days and plenty of work to still consider and the fact that I really haven’t grown any more disciplined than the old days of “eat, drink, and watch movies, for tomorrow is a test day” all piling up over my head, homework seems less of a duty and more like a hulking monster. A great, hungry, dragon-toothed, all-consuming monster; eating up all my joy, and time, and energy. “You want to read a book for fun?” he snarls. “Ha. You have an essay to write and a six-hour project due Thursday. You haven’t even touched them. And there’s your summary due tomorrow. Done any of that? That’s in twelve hours, mind. You want to talk to God about your future, your worry, your sins and triumphs? No time for that, miserable fool! I have consumed it! I will consume it all!”

Panic.

And when I panic, my habit is to run to my old false gods. Entertainment. Oblivion. Had I lived a hundred years ago, I’d be at the tavern, a large mug of something in my hand and two more empty beside it. Fifty years ago, I’d still be at the mall beating a high score on Pac-man or out cruising with the radio turned way up. Now I click a few times and watch Facebook or Netflix fade into a thousand little pixelated opiates; idols soothing and whispering, “Who cares about tomorrow? Dopamine, not deadlines.”

Odysseus didn’t get it quite right. Most of us don’t have to sail between Scylla and Charybdis, but between the Sirens and Charybdis. On the one hand is the great sucking monster of duties and obligations, pulling our effort, money, and time itself in like a great black hole. But push your way outside of that and you drift into a misty, golden-hued land of lotus fumes and soothing notes, promising to fulfill your every desire. Of course, it’s a trap. Death waits there as surely as at the bottom of Charybdis’ rotting, gaping maw. But it seems much more pleasant, and far more gradual. Listen to them sing: Why die today, listener? Far better to linger on in our voluptuous land of sensate stimulation. Are you not weary with much toil? Your roommate’s asleep. No one will ever know, and food eaten in secret is sweet. Come to us, and we will give you your heart’s desire. You wish for victory and bloody triumph? We have a thousand varieties, enough for a lifetime. You wish for a pretty companion? We have every kind, more than Solomon’s whole harem, without a disagreement or misunderstanding to be seen. You wish for peace? We have every Hallmark moment you could devise and ten more, all with just the right chords playing in the background. Come to us, and be free. Come to us and be happy. Come. Come. Come.

With that kind of siren call pounding in my blood and no other prospects but Charybdis’ dark vortex of school and work and endless chores, is it any wonder why I drift towards Siren Island so often? There doesn’t seem to be any other way out. Damned to either work myself to death or waste my life—I might as well pick the more pleasant option. There’s no other choice.

That’s a lie, of course. There is a way out, no temptation beyond what we can bear. But we have to find it, and it’s not where we think it is. Unlike Odysseus, God doesn’t give us a vanishingly small belt of safe sea in between our painful callings and our fleeting pleasures. We don’t have to constantly trim sail to maintain course between two dangers. He gives us an escape. There’s an exit sign flashing in the gloom. Unfortunately, it’s right in the middle of Charybdis’ dark, slurping mouth. “No, wait,” we think. “That can’t be right. God screwed up.”

If I can screw up, what chance is there for you, child? Look to the ant, go to your labor. Dive all the way in to it and hold nothing back. Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might. That includes work and homework and the dishes, you know—even every second of your time. For everything there is a season.

“Wait. Don’t you want me to be happy? What about pleasures and joy? Don’t the Sirens promise more of those than that monster of work, Charybdis?”

Why this aversion to work, son? Even I work in creating, sustaining, saving and beautifying. This is the path of life, where at my right hand are pleasures forevermore. There is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his work, for that is his lot and my gift to man.

Gulp. “If I go that way, there’s no way out. I’ll die.”

Yes, you will, He chuckles. But that’s all right. I’m in the resurrection business. 

Barbar-Y-ans: Men and the Differences of Civilization

Yes, this is pretty much my mother every holiday...

I just went home for Christmas. It was glorious. Every time I opened the pantry, there was food. Meals appeared on the table around six in the evening with scientific, predictable regularity. It was varied: chicken fried steak, breakfast casserole, turkey, cherry pie, green beans, mashed potatoes. It was endless: second helpings, third helpings, for twelve people. It was beautiful: eaten atop a tablecloth; with real napkins; a knife, fork and spoon to every plate; pitchers for the beverages; a centerpiece gaudily blocking your view of the sibling across the table.

And it wasn’t just the food. When you sat down to read in the easy chair, bookshelves placed to maximize space greeted you near at hand. Lamps adorned end tables and strategic corners. Decorations—almost unnoticed until you looked for them—lent a general air, a theme almost, to each room. Don’t even get me started on the Christmas stuff overlaying all this.

Home. I roll out of bed, shake my head, and wander to the kitchen; a bare white, frill-less affair which is (at best) merely clean. I yank open the refrigerator, grab an egg I hard boiled the day before, whack it a few times on the counter. The salt shaker is almost empty. I dust the egg with it, eat it in three bites over the sink, and chuckle at the difference between this and three days ago. Breakfast is served. Welcome to the key difference between a bachelor pad and a home: civilization.

Webster defined “civilization” as “The act of civilizing, or the state of being civilized; the state of being refined in manners, from the grossness of savage life and improved in arts and learning.” And I think access to this state is granted largely by the hand of women. If you want to build a great nation, a great city, a good home, you need the influence of women. Exclusive Y-chromosomes won’t cut it. Haven’t you ever wondered why manners and women are often so closely associated? When someone is rude and mannerless, the common thing to say is “chivalry is dead” not “manners is (are?) dead.” Women define polite society in ways that are literally everywhere.

Entering a building? Open the door. Walking along the street? Take the outside. Eating something? Pull her chair out and serve her first. Going somewhere fancy? Wear stark black and white and watch the colors, shades, and tones beside you become even more glorious by sheer comparison.  Setting the table for stew? Use the forks and knives. Yes, we all know that no one will actually use the forks and knives , that they will get dirty, that the twelve-year-old will get stuck washing three times the amount of silverware the meal actually needs. Need is pragmatic, utilitarian, male. The point is civilization—beauty. Speaking of beauty, Beauty and the Beast made this point about the influence of the fairer sex nicely. Remember how the Beast ate like a barbarian (or dare I say, a barbar-Y-an)? It was practical, quick—and utterly unsuitable for company.

This is not to say that men cannot build their own societies, their own civilizations, by themselves. Of course they can. But I think they differ qualitatively from what we commonly think of as civilization. The highest expression of male organization is not the ballroom, the state dinner, Christmas, or the welcome mat inside a cozy cottage. If civilization is the “state of being refined in manners, from the grossness of savage life…” then the Y-chromosome version is the art of refined savage life. Put a bunch of guys together for long enough, and they will produce hunting lodges paved in pelt and accented in antlers. They will not build homes and families dedicated to inviting others in; they will build armies and battleships, refined to the startlingly sharp purpose of keeping other people out.  The opposite of the welcome mat is the bayonet.

Women gave us meals with seven courses and thirty-two forks; men gave us carry-out pizza and that utilitarian (and ugly) utensil the spork. Now there are days when I’m greatful for my barbarian bachelor pad. It is disgustingly easy, charmingly disorganized, and there’s nothing to dust under on the shelves. But refined relationships—civilization—do not develop in a bachelor pad among the Y-chromosome crowd.

That takes the other half of humanity.