written on 6/28/2003

“Behold, we have left everything and followed You.”–Peter (Mark 10:28)

I had been planning to write this entry a couple of weeks ago. After all, June 14 is the one-year anniversary of our arrival in Peoria. It seemed like it would be a good time to pause and take stock of how things are going. But, one thing led to another and I didn’t get to it. Until now.

This week, my parents and Gabrielle visited us. Today, they left to return home. It hasn’t become any easier to say good-bye. Arianna was particularly upset, but Crystal and I weren’t doing much better. (The boys were unphazed, but I think that is a function of age, not gender.) It is still hard to see my parents get into their vehicle and drive away. It has been a year, but it is still so hard. So very hard. I miss them terribly. I want them to be nearby so that I can see them, so that I can go over and drink sangria with my mother, to get advice from my father, to see my sister’s crazy grin. But now I live so far away, and it is a hard day’s travel to see them. True, God has blessed us with email and a telephone, so we can still stay in touch, but it is not the same as seeing face to face.

In God’s providence, last night we read from Mark 10 for our family devotions. In that chapter, Jesus is talking about the cost of following Him, saying that it is so hard for the wealthy to follow Him. And then Peter says to Jesus, “Behold, we have left everything and followed You.” Now, I do not know what was going on inside his head, but I can guess. Peter had left his business, his home, and his family to follow Jesus in His wanderings. The other disciples had done similarly. And Jesus holds out comfort to His weary followers: “â€?Truly I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or farms, for My sake and the gospel’s sake, but that he shall receive a hundred times as much now in the present age, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and farms, along with persecutions; and in the age to come, eternal life.” (Mark 10:30)

This has been a comfort to me, and as I consider my life, it is true. I have left my brother and sisters, but now I have the Lansberrys and Dringenbergs and Evans. I have left my house, but now I live in a larger home than I have ever owned. I have Christian brothers and sisters at work who dearly love me. My entire life is able to be devoted to ministry to other Christians. What Jesus has taken away with one hand, He has given back with the other.

In a lot of ways, as my family was here for this week, they lived this life. They got to see where I live, and the people with whom I live it. And so, as he was leaving, my father reminded me that God is doing good things here through my family. He could see how God was blessing us here, and he wanted to help me to remember. And he was right.

But still it is hard. As my mother said as she was leaving, “Hellos are easier.”

I recently had the privilege of hearing Michael Card perform. In his short musical set, he performed several new compositions, one of which was actually based on the Mark 10 passage. But the one that forced itself on me the most was a piece that Card was not even sure that he wanted to keep. I wish that I could remember the lyrics, but I can’t. All I remember was a sense of the death of deeply-held dreams and the parting of close family as time rushes forward to a long-dreaded time of parting. I almost started to cry. Because that is still what I feel. I still feel the loss of the dreams that my family had. Once we thought that we would home-school together, that our children would grow up with their cousins, that we would regularly gather around the table together, four generations spanning the decades. Now, our parties here are small, and I feel the lack of family. Even while my family was here, I kept looking for someone else, thinking that we were just one person short, that someone was missing.

Today I held my crying daughter as my parents left. But today I reminded her of our glorious hope, even if it was through my own tears. “And I heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, ‘Behold, the tabernacle of God is among men, and He shall dwell among them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself shall be among them, and He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there shall no longer be any death; there shall no longer be any mourning, or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:3-4) And I told her, “Arianna, one day Jesus is going to call for you. And He will take you away with Him, and we will not cry anymore.” On that day, all the believers from every time and place will gather together before the throne of Jesus, and we will never, ever, ever leave. We will be with Jesus forever. We will be with each other forever. There will never be another tear-stained parting of the way. For there will never be a need.

Maranatha. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

written by 12/22/2002

Tonight I went to Walmart. That’s right, the infamous Walmart of previous entries. Being there made me reflective. I often become reflective, particularly when I’m tired. Yes, I should probably be in bed now, but I wanted to get this written before I forgot it.

There was so much turmoil at Walmart. It was 11:30 p.m., but still there were people hustling and bustling around. Last minute Christmas shopping, I suppose. I was there for a couple grocery items, and I felt oddly immune from the rush. You see, this year has seen very little Christmas purchases in my family. Part of this is a conscious effort to become less materialistic, and part of it is simply a lack of funds. Crystal and I agreed not to purchase anything for each other, at least for the moment. Maybe we will buy just one thing, something for us to share. Maybe we will just go out together and watch The Two Towers.

Besides, I am getting the best present of all. On Monday, after work, we’re packing into the van and heading for Erie. Going home for the holidays. That means a lot to me. I pray that there will be no snafus to prevent us from going. That would be almost unbearable.

And so, as I stood in line, surrounded by the bustle of the crowds, I felt strangely detached. I was at peace. I felt no anxiety about preparing for Christmas. The packing is done. What few presents exist are wrapped. I felt no desperate wantings or wishings. I felt at peace.

And so I began to sing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel� to myself. It seemed appropriate. After all, isn’t this supposed to be the time when we particularly remember the awesomeness of the Incarnation? Emmanuel; God with us. The Transcendent One taking on human form, the Creator entering His Creation, the King humbling Himself. I had a thought yesterday about this when I saw a little baby, no more than one or two months old. At one point, my Lord was like that child. And, being a writer, I was struck by this thought. The Eternal Word that spoke Creation into existence had to struggle to learn to speak, just like the rest of us. That was a staggering thought and captured for me, on some level, the magnitude of what Jesus did for me.

But what did He purchase through His simple life and obedient death? Nothing less than victory over death itself.

“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel� is my favorite Christmas carol. It captures the melancholy existence that we struggle with on this cursed planet while still tasting of the purity of joy that entered our sphere one quiet night so many years ago. It is a carol that takes seriously the horror of a fallen world while still pointing to true hope.

It was also my grandfather’s favorite carol.

My grandfather died almost six years ago. In February 1997, he fell asleep in the Lord and ascended to glory. Since then, every Christmas, I have cried when I have sung that carol. It reminds me of him so much. And yet, at the same time, it also reminds me of the glorious hope that he professed.

Last year I wrote a story about this. That weekend I laid a copy on his grave. It had been five years since I had been to the gravesite, when I had borne him in his casket to his final resting place.

I returned to this story in November, when little Naomi passed on. This month, it was published in the newsletter that Samaritan Ministries produces.

And so I would like to share this story with you, a reminder of the reasons for Christmas. That, in the middle of the darkness of our sin and pain, a glorious light has dawned.

And tonight, I saw a glimmer of it hanging in the air as I waited in line at Walmart. A taste of purity, of life everlasting.

Veni Emmanuel
Dedicated to my grandfather, Andrew Anderson
Oh God, my Father! It has been five years
Why does it still hurt?
Why does it still hurt?

In stoic silence the oak tree stood its post. For years it had watched over the sleepers in their tombs faithfully. It had been many years since it had been a sapling, and those years had not been easy. During the summer its glorious foliage disguised its age, but the winter had come, stripping it of its leaves and leaving it cold and barren. Now, its twisted, gnarled branches spread out like arthritic limbs raised in benediction over the quiet family beneath it. How quietly they slept! How peacefully!

With staggering footsteps the old woman struggled through the cemetery. The recent snow lay in drifts, too deep for her to navigate. Slowly she picked her way between the tombstones, working her way towards the old oak tree. The bitter wind blew across the cemetery, singing the mournful song of winter. The oak tree watched her halting trek until she finally arrived beneath its spreading limbs. The snow had drifted over the gravestones, half-obscuring them. Slowly, the old woman lowered herself to her knees. Gently, ever so gently, she brushed away the snow from the middle gravestone.

“Merry Christmas, dear. It’s been another year.� She smiled, although her eyes were wet with tears. “The grandchildren visited today. They are all growing up so fast. And the new baby. Oh, you would have loved to see her.� A single tear trickled down her cheek. Words failed her. Wordlessly she reached out her hand and traced his name engraved on the cold granite. “I miss you so much,� she whispered. Her hand passed to the other side of the stone. There her own name was engraved. It seemed so strange to see her name etched in stone, awaiting the day that she, too, would come here to sleep. Her final bed was prepared for her. The tears came freely now.

“I’m so alone. The family does what they can, but then they leave and the house is so empty, so empty. Sometimes I imagine that I hear you in the next room, and I think that maybe—just maybe—you’re there, but you’re not. I’m so alone, so alone, so alone.� Sobs welled up from within her. The uncaring wind blew more strongly now, bringing with it a few flakes of snow. She stared up into the gray threatening sky. “Oh God, is this all that is left to me? The winter of my life spent losing all that I love? Why do I need to suffer like this? Oh why oh why?�

The cold wind bore with it a fragment of song. Somewhere carolers were singing. Their voices were borne to her on the wind. “O come, O come, Emmanuel….� The tears began anew. That was his
favorite song, his special Christmas carol. But as the tears came, the words rolled around in her mind. “O come, thou Dayspring from on high/And cheer us by Thy drawing nigh/Disperse the gloomy clouds
of night/And death’s dark shadow put to flight.�

Desperately she clung to the words. It was so true. Her life felt as if it were overshadowed with the gloomy clouds of an eternal winter, a winter ending only in the sleep of death. Everything around her withered. Friends grew old and passed on. The bonds of love in marriage, shattered by death. Her own body, worn and weary. Her life had entered its winter, and there seemed to be no escape. All that was left to her was an empty wasteland of ice and cold, through which she must wander until her death. It was a harsh pill to swallow, especially on Christmas Day.

The thought percolated through her head. Today was Christmas. She looked around at the gnarled oak, the somber sky, the gravestones. Today was Christmas. And the thought was glorious. It seemed so appropriate that Christmas be in the middle of winter, in the middle of this. In the midst of the death and pain, a glorious hope was given. In the frozen wasteland of life, an oasis was given. Our Lord came down to join us in our pain. He bore our suffering with us. He suffered the loss of friends and family. He wept by the tomb of one beloved to him. He joined us in the sorrow of this life and then He set us free.

She could almost here Him speaking now. “Patience, my child. Patience.� And she knew, as she looked over the empty frozen wastes of the winter of her life, that her precious Lord stood beside her in the snow. Soon, He would call her away to the beautiful Summer Kingdom of His love, and the snow would melt away from her forever. She began to sing quietly to herself. “O come O come, Emmanuel/And ransom captive Israel.� She laid a single snowdrop on the grave. “Good night, my love. Sleep tight.� She struggled to her feet. Pausing, she laid her hand on the tree. “Farewell, oak,� she said, “and guard the ones that I love.� Turning, she made her painful way from the cemetery. The oak tree’s branches were lifted, as if to wave good-bye.

Slowly snow drifted from the sky, blanketing the cemetery in white, covering the gravestones. Sleep soundly, dear ones. Sleep until the summer comes forever.

===============

Merry Christmas, everyone.

written on 11/2/2002

When I looked outside my window this morning, I saw the falling leaves, and I knew that all was lost.

My wife has been pregnant for nine weeks. Somewhere, our family picked up the tradition of giving pet names to the little ones in utero. So my wife dubbed our child “Cricket�. That was last week.

Late Wednesday night, she started bleeding. We rushed to the ER. It took them four hours to tell us that they didn’t have a clue what was going on. “See the doctor,� they said. So we scheduled the appointment. Early Friday, another appointment cancelled to squeeze us in. Was Cricket alive? Was she dying? No one could tell us.

Crystal began to bleed again Thursday afternoon. Back to the ER. It only took them two hours this time to confess ignorance. “Make sure that you see the doctor,� they said. He will know. He will know.

This morning I tried to wake up early. There was much to be done before we could get to the doctor. But I couldn’t. I was so tired. And Crystal started to bleed again. We tried to hurry. Showers. A quick cup of coffee. And outside, the falling leaves.

Autumn is the season of dying. Even in winter, I can see the soft slumber of the earth as it awaits its springtime renewal. But autumn is the season of dying, and I saw it this morning. The trees, dropping their leaves. The air was full of them, the leaves, and they felt like the touch of the Reaper, his cloak not black but a swirl of autumn colors. They fell within my heart, and I felt the cold conviction that my child would not live.

I almost wish that we still tore our clothes and threw ashes in our hair. At least then I could somehow express what I’m feeling. My sorrow I keep under control. I must. It’s in some compartment of my mind, and I let it out sparingly. Must be careful. My wife needs me. My family needs me. If I gave vent to my grief, I would not be able to function, not able to lead them, not able to care for them. It is only in the gaps, when no one needs me, when the children are given into someone else’s care, when Crystal is resting, that I can allow myself to release my sorrow. Bleeding out my grief. Like my wife is bleeding out now.

But what else is there to do? When I left Isaac at the Lansberry’s today, he didn’t want me to go. So I told him that I needed his help, that I was off to fight the monsters. But what is there to fight? I cannot shield Cricket from the fate that awaits her. She could be dying, and I can only watch. Helpless.

Swirling leaves.

It is in these times, when no one is looking, when no one needs me, that I hug myself and cry.

My wife saw the leaves this morning, too. “Look at all these leaves!� she said. “They look like butterflies.� And they do. I could see it, a beautiful swarm of butterflies, dancing on the autumn wind. And I remembered my God, Who can turn dying leaves into butterflies. He knows. He knows. And if He wants, Cricket will live. She is in His hands, and it is His decision.

But I so want her to live. I want her to see the bright blue of the sky, and the beauty of the trees. I want her to hear my voice and reach out to touch my face. I want her to grow and sing and dance.

But I also know that, if the Lord carries her home, it will be because of His mercy. She will never see the righteous suffer, as I have. She will never feel the pain of a friend’s betrayal, never stand at a graveside and mourn. The brokenness of this fallen world will pass her by, as she vaults into Glory. She will enter directly into the chorus that sings the praise of God in a pure and undefiled tongue, in the lands beyond the Sun where the holy ones of God forever live. Is this such a terrible fate for my little one?

I don’t know. I am torn. My heart breaks in two.

But my God turns leaves into butterflies and teardrops into dewdrops. Perhaps He will grant me my wish. But He will do what is best.

I have nothing else to cling to.

Nothing.

In the autumn wind
Butterfly leaves swirl—
Listen! Cricket’s song

—

Today, on November 2, 2002, Naomi Katherine Ben-Ezra went home to be with Jesus. He gently called to her and she leaped into his arms. We called her “Cricket�. He called her home.

I will go to her, but she will not come to me.

written on 9/15/2002

This is it. This is the last Illinois Journal entry that I will write. It seems appropriate. After all, this weekend is the 3-month anniversary of our being here. We arrived in Peoria on June 14 and unloaded on June 15. Crazy days. I must admit that they are blurs in my memory. I was running on heartache and exhaustion for most of that week, and most of the concrete events are lost to me. Vaguely now, I can put names to the faces that passed through my life during that weekend. Bryan Evans. Scott Price. David Price. Frank Riley. And was Tony Hopp here? I honestly can’t remember. Like I said, it’s all a blur.

But now, life is much calmer. I sent off the last bit of paperwork for my internship on Monday, so school is finished now. The job is going quite well. We’ve settled into the new house. Life is good.

But even better, we are getting to know the land and its people. Peoria no longer seems strange or difficult. Certainly the highway system could use some improvement, but at least now I know where it needs to be improved. And we have friends. We have been spending a lot of time with the younger Prices (in other words, about our age), and we have been enjoying the time spent. (David and Rachel are even learning to play Go! At last! Someone will play with me!) And Saturday night is now roleplaying night, as Ralph Mazza (another Erie expatriate) joins us for Pendragon (roleplaying in the time of King Arthur). It is a comfort to feel like we are no longer alone.

We are still making a decision about which church we will attend. Still, even that decision is proceeding smoothly, and I think that we will have settled on a choice within the next month or two. It will feel good to stop and rest.

Even my writing is beginning to take form. For a while I was having difficulty rediscovering the proper “feel� for my Alyria game. So I wandered off to a Website with free music to download. That’s my usual source from “weird� music. After downloading and listening to some strange ambient style music, I began to recapture the right vibe. So Wednesday I actually got to write, and it was working. There’s still a lot of work to do, but I think that it will proceed smoothly.

Crystal has put up a family website, for those of you who are interested in such things. The URL is http://benezras.0catch.com. (Yes, that’s a zero, NOT an “O�.) There are pictures there, for those who are interested, and we plan on adding more. Of course, she did this in between doing work on the church website (www.providencereformed.com) and being a mother of three young children. No wonder she is sleeping now.

All in all, life has returned to normal.

There was one final shock to deal with, though. Two weeks ago, Gabrielle returned home.

Don’t get me wrong. It was great to see my parents. I know that it helped my mother especially to see where I’m working and where I’m living. And, truth be told, I enjoyed giving them the guided tour. My only disappointment was the river. Sunday night we wandered down to the riverfront to show them the fountain and the park and the bridge. However, I didn’t think about its being Labor Day Weekend. The entire park was packed. Plus, there was a rap concert going on. Not quite the serene vista that I had been hoping to show to my parents. Sigh. Oh well. They still appreciated it.

But then the next day, they left to go home. It was hard enough saying good-bye to my parents, but it was torturous to bid Gabrielle farewell. In a way, we had already left my parents in Erie. But Gabrielle had come with us, and we had never said good-bye to her. For three months she had been part of our family. She hung out with us, helped around the house, changed diapers like the rest of us, and was generally a part of our life. And now she was leaving.

But before she went, we had a surprise going-away party for her. She was completely blindsided. All the preparation went on around her, and she had no idea. Of course, Crystal can be quite sneaky when she puts her mind to it. The party had a Nobilis theme, and we gave her a vase with (silk) flowers and a poem that Crystal had written that explained the symbolism of each flower. (For those of you who didn’t know, there is a fairly intricate symbolism associated with flowers. The roleplaying game Nobilis uses this “flower language� as part of the setting.) We then presented her with her own copy of Nobilis. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it’s quite a pretty book. She was very happy.

But now she is gone, returned to her home in Erie. For a while she made her home with us, but now she had to return to her place. But her place at the table is empty, and it is really only recently that we have grown used to it.

But I don’t long for Erie any longer. I feel at home here. I feel at peace. Yes, that is a good way to say it. I am at peace with the world around me. I am no longer a stranger in a strange land, a pilgrim and wanderer in search of home. Home is here with me. Some of it we built, some of it was given to us, and all of it was a gift from God above. We are home. Home.

Is this the end? How can it be? There is still more life to be lived, more problems to overcome, more of the goodness of God to experience. Perhaps it is better to say that this is the beginning. Our transition is over, and now we are truly ready to begin our life here in Illinois.

My wind chimes are hanging in the quiet room. I love my quiet room, although I rarely have the opportunity to make use of it. (Gabrielle loved the quiet room.) But it is a place of quiet, of peace, of refuge from the world outside. Leave your troubles at the door and enter. It is just like the garden I was hoping to plant back home, where my wind chimes used to hang. God took that garden from me, but He has given me so much more. And who knows? Perhaps I will have a chance to start another garden. Time will tell.

But for now, I am content with where my wind chimes hang. The quiet room, the house, the city, the job, the church, the people, the friends. My wind chimes hang in a good place, and I am glad that God has brought me here.

The wind dances across the plains of Illinois and touches on my chimes. The shimmering note hangs for a moment in the breeze. It falls on me like rain, like a benediction.

Peace be with you.

written on 8/26/2002

It’s been a while since last I wrote. My apologies. I have been spending extra time with Gabrielle, which has been eating into my writing time. You see, a week from now, she will be leaving.

That will be strange. In many ways, this summer has been a transitionary period. Here we are, in Peoria, and yet we had a bit of Erie with us. A bit of home. Now she will be leaving us, and when she is gone, we will truly be left alone. The transition will be complete. We will be Illinois natives.

It will also mean many adjustments, especially for Crystal. It was easy to leave the children with Gabrielle while she ran an errand, or to dash out on an impromptu date. (A drive in the country and a cup of coffee at a local coffee house. That’s romance!) Now it will be harder. Actually, it will be even harder than before we moved. At that time, we knew that we could ask our family for help with baby-sitting and finagle something. Now…. Now we’re not quite sure who to ask.

This will also mean a decision for me regarding this journal. From the very first time that I conceived this journal, I saw it as wrapping up at the end of summer. After all, if this journal was going to be about the move, then I can’t extend it too far. Eventually the move has to end. The emotions must eventually settle, and life must return to normal, even if it is a new “normal�.

Also, I find myself running out of things to say. After all, my weeks have grown calmer. Certainly I could tell you about the crazy day I had at work today, but somehow I think that I would be boring most of you. I probably wouldn’t want to read it myself. Besides, we all have crazy days at work, don’t we? Another sign of normality settling in.

Not that this is bad. I have existed in a state of abnormality for many months now. The uncertainty about the new job. The emotional time before the move. The turbulent move itself. Trying to find our way in a new place. But now the uncertainty has ebbed, the emotions have settled. I can find almost all my stuff, and we rarely get lost anymore. I feel at peace. I feel at home.

And maybe that’s where I’m going with all of this. On one level, this entire journal is about a journey, a search for home on the plains of Illinois. But now, I think that I have found it. The journey is nearly at its end.

But not quite.

I am reminded of The Lord of the Rings. (Lots of things remind me of Lord of the Rings.) At the very end, Frodo must leave Middle-earth so that he can go to a place where he will be at peace. While it is certainly better for him, this also means that he must leave loyal Sam behind. Each of them returns to home, but their homes are now separate, and even in the homecoming there is sorrow.

Part of me doesn’t want Gabrielle to go. I’m used to having her here. I’m used to being able to talk to her and see her and spend time with her. She’s almost a part of the household, not just a visitor, and when she leaves next Monday, a part of our household goes with her.

We are at home. She will be at home. And yet it will be bittersweet, because we cannot be together.

Part of me wonders if it will open the wounds of homesickness. I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.

But, right now, she is still here. So, in a few minutes, we’re going to watch a movie together on our new DVD player. Just because we still can.

Seven days and counting.

Hello, goodbye.

written on 8/15/2002

There’s a quote in the William Gibson story “Hinterlands� that I like. It goes like this:

“The French call it ‘le metro’, ‘the subway’ and the Russians call it ‘the river’, but ‘subway’ won’t carry the distance, and ‘river’, for Americans, can’t carry quite the same loneliness.� Since I spent eight hours by myself in a car last weekend, this seemed like a good way to start.

But that’s just because I’m strange.

This last weekend I went to GenCon. I arrived in Milwaukee at 10:00 p.m. on Friday and I left at 10:00 p.m. on Saturday. 24 hours. Funny, it seemed longer than that. And that’s good.

My wife thinks that I needed a vacation. When I came back and was rambling about how much I enjoyed myself, she was happy. I’m glad. She was the one who stayed with the children while I was gone. She loves me.

So, why did I enjoy myself? There are a bunch of reasons, and I’m going to tell you all of them.

First, I was able to go into frothing fanboy mode for a little while. I came to GenCon, seeking signatures for several of my books. I got nearly all of them. Greg Stolze signed both of my copies of Unknown Armies (“second edition and they still don’t know what the ARMIES are�). James Wallis signed my copy of “The Incredible Adventures of Baron Munchausen�. Veronica Jones signed my copy of Little Fears, which already has Jason Blair’s signature. Yeah, I know him, but I’m still happy to have a first-run signed copy of Little Fears. That will be worth something some day. And I bought a copy of Pantheon and had it signed by Robin Laws, although I kicked myself for not bringing my copy of Rune to sign too.

Okay, most of you have no idea who these people are. That’s okay. Just trust me that most of these folks are Big Names in the gaming industry, and it was neat to get their autographs. I even ended up going out to lunch with Greg Stolze and a few other folks. I ended up talking to Ron Edwards instead (who is also a rising name), but it’s the principle of the thing.

Second, I was able to indulge in a little bit of spending. I already mentioned that I bought a copy of Pantheon. This is a game of competitive storytelling which I have not yet played. I also picked up a copy of De Profundis. I’m really looking forward to trying this out. Basically, it is a correspondence horror roleplaying game, which makes a lot of sense, if you think about it. For example, the original Dracula novel by Bram Stoker is just a collection of letters, journal entries, and newspaper clippings. Many of H.P. Lovecraft’s stories involve correspondence as well, as the sender of the letters becomes increasingly frantic as the terrible dark truth unfolds before him. So, in De Profundis, you take the role of a horror protagonist, experiencing dark mysteries and seeing horrors unfold before you. You then write about your (imaginary) experiences to another player, who takes on the role of a correspondant of yours. The game encourages the use of actual letters, rather than email. Each letter is not merely a means of conveying information. Rather, it is a prop. Care should be taken to see that the letter looks proper as well. The writer is encouraged to save a photocopy, and the receiver should save the letters as well. Over time, a story will emerge, told through the correspondence of the two players. I’m planning on playing this with Gabrielle once she returns home.

I also grabbed a copy of Once Upon A Time, which is now back in print. I had heard so many good things about this game that I decided to buy it, even though it might have meant a dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. (I’ll explain how I avoided this fate in a moment.) This is a card game that is also semi-competitive storytelling. The way it works is simple. Each player is dealt a certain number of Once Upon A Time cards and one Happily Ever After card. The Happily Ever After card has a traditional fairy tale ending on it. For example, one card might read “And so they returned it to its owner.� or “And that is how the kingdom got its name� or some such thing. The cards each have various elements of fairy tale stories on them. Some sample cards include “Far Away�, “Parents�, “Cave�, “Fairy�, “Wolf� and so on. Gameplay is simple. One person begins telling a fairy tale. As he tells the story and uses different story elements, he plays appropriate cards from his hand. So, when the heroine comes upon a wolf, the storyteller can play the Wolf card. The goal is to get rid of all your cards and be able to play the ending on your Happily Ever After card in a way that makes sense. Of course, if you use a story element and don’t have a card for it, someone else can play the card instead, stealing control of the story away from you. It’s a big like playing round robin stories (aka stories in the round or progressive storytelling) except that you have more structure. Crystal, Gabrielle and I have already played and it is a hoot. I especially wanted this game because it strikes me as something that I could play with my children in a few years. I take pretty good care of my gaming material, so I have a reasonable chance of having this game when Arianna is 7 or 8. If I’m careful with it, this is a game that we could enjoy for years.

I also bought some more Button Men. For those of you who don’t know, Button Men is a dice game that is supposed to be an abstraction of a knock-down dirty brawl. There are many, many characters for this game and each of them is portrayed on a button the size of a political campaign button. Yes, they each have pins also. So you could walk around with your characters pinned to your clothes…if you really wanted to. I’ve toyed with the idea of pinning my Button Men to my backpack, but I wouldn’t want any of them to get lost or be damaged.

I am a sucker for this game. Last year, when I was at Origins, the company that makes the game was giving away free Button Men cut from the convention program. But you only got one button per program. I actually scrounged up three copies of the convention program so that I could get all three. Yes, I am a bit deranged.

So at GenCon I made the mistake of passing this company’s booth and poking through the Button Men. And what did I see? Samurai Button Men! I had to have them! I had to have them all! And so I bought them.

Like I said, I’m a bit deranged.

Third, I got to meet a lot of people with whom I have only corresponded on the Internet. I post at a gaming site called the Forge (http://www.indie-rpgs.com) and a large number of people from the Forge were at GenCon. It’s always nice to be able to put faces to names. Honestly, there are some of you that I’ve never met. Maybe we will someday. Wouldn’t that be nice?

But there was another reason that GenCon was wonderful. I’ve already mentioned the Forge, but, in order to explain this last reason, I must explain the purpose of the Forge. The Forge is dedicated to the independent RPG movement. Specifically, it exists to promote creator-owned, creator-published roleplaying games. Someday, I may write a journal entry on the current state of intellectual property and copyright laws. It might even turn into a rant, although I think that, as a former librarian and an owner of my own intellectual property, I have a fairly balanced position.

Anways, this year the Forge had a booth at GenCon. Jason Blair and Ron Edwards had split the cost for a large booth, and had opened its use up to indie publishers (for a small price) so that they could present and promote their games. It was a great idea. Even better, it worked very, very well. The booth was set up to permit multiple game demos to proceed at once, and it was a rare moment that no one was playing. Several people came to the show with very short print runs, courtesy of Kinko’s, and sold out. Sure, this was “only� 35 sales or so per person, but remember that these are games that did not have the benefit of a massive advertising campaign or a large established fan base awaiting the next supplement. These were sales to people who came by the booth, tried a game, and walked away with a copy. It was wonderful.

It was wonderful because it proved to me, beyond any further doubt, that the independent RPG scene is doing something important. Like the indie scenes in other art and entertainment scenes (music, film, etc.) these games are being produced by people who love games and are willing to be different and experimental. Many of these games violate fundamental assumptions about what a roleplaying game is “supposed� to be. Some of these games are in genres that are too niche to be approached by the big boys. But they sold, and sold well.

It was also wonderful because I saw a bunch of people cooperating. Rather than viewing each other as competitors for a small audience, every person worked to promote everyone’s games. I helped Jason sell Little Fears, but I also tried to direct customers to other games in the booth as well. Ron Edwards was especially noble in this area, as he demoed lots and lots of games, rather than focusing on his own. Also, in the forums, I have seen this spirit of cooperation as well. People offering editorial assistance, artwork, layout, cross-promotion and advice to fellow indie publishers. It is wonderful. A lot of quality work is being produced, and I saw it in action at GenCon.

And it gave me hope.

You see, I have already published my first game and tried to follow the traditional routes. It didn’t work. However, I’ve had my very special game, my baby, floating in the back of my head. I have so wanted to begin working on it. But I couldn’t. I was tired. I was burned out. I was exhausted by trying to run a game company by myself. I couldn’t do it, and eventually I collapsed under the pressure.

But now I have finished with school, and all of a sudden I felt an emotional burden lifted. Perhaps I could write after all. And then, as I was at GenCon and saw the cooperation and camraderie, it lifted my spirits. There were others out there who would be willing to help. And there would be those who would buy this game. Will it ever dethrone Dungeons & Dragons? I doubt it. But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that now, for the first time in months, I have the time, energy, and desire to write. I want to create, to finish building my world, to craft my manuscript, to guide it through layout and, in the end, hold the completed work.

It’s a long process. I know this. I’ve done it before.

But I’m ready for it.

===

I am including two columns that I wrote for the Gaming Outpost about the development of my game. Neither of them really have anything to do with the game, though. However, they do speak to two very important parts of art: passion and exhaustion. I hope that you enjoy them.

A Meditation on Summer Rain
“I’m still crazy. The rain feels good. I love to walk in it.�
“I don’t think I’d like that,� he said.
“You might if you tried.�
“I never have.�
She licked her lips. “Rain even tastes good.�“
What do you do, go around trying everything once?�
“Sometimes twice.�
—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

I went for a walk in the rain today. My job occasionally requires that I deliver miscellaneous documents in downtown Erie, which gets me outside and out of the basement where I usually work. Today it was raining.

It was beautiful. Let me tell you about it.

The rain begins to fall soon after I leave the law firm where I work to begin my rounds. Drop after drop pelts from the sky, spattering almost soundlessly on the sidewalk. Soon they fall more heavily, a quiet tinkling becoming a robust chatter as the rain dances on the newly paved roads. Rain runs off of rooftops in silver cascades and pours from invisible gargoyles to the street below. Leaves chatter and murmur in the growing downpour.

With a rush of joy I leap from under a protective awning into the summer rain. It is a happy rain, I tell someone later. Some rains are cold and cruel, cutting to the bone. But this is a playful rain, warm and gentle to the touch. It leaps around my feet as I frolic down the street. It runs down my face and soaks my hair. I tilt back my head and try to taste the rain, but it scurries away from me.

I love the rain. It is a reminder of what is good and wholesome about the world. Rain always seems to leave the city a little cleaner and more human than before it came. Rain washes away the dirt and ugliness, leaving sparkling beauty. When I walk in the rain, I feel connected to nature in a way that I normally only feel when deep in the woods, far from the hustle and bustle of the concrete jungle. The wildness in the rain invigorates me and inspires me.

People do not seem to appreciate the rain. All around me I hear people complaining about the weather. They are scurrying for cover or opening umbrellas or hiding beneath newspapers. I do not understand why this is. Have we forgotten the simple joy of rain? The city cringes and wilts beneath it. What a shame. In our passion to master our environment, we instead just tune it out. Are we so far gone from the natural cycles of life that a summer shower becomes an inconvenience?

Alas, I am on the job, or I might jump in the puddles or just sit and watch the rain pour down as the breeze blows off Lake Erie and swirls through the streets of Erie. The time passes all too quickly and I am back in the office. “Wet outside�, people comment. I just smile and say, “Yes, but it’s a happy rain.�

By now you’re wondering what any of this has to do with gaming. It is rather simple, actually. I believe that both game design and game play are art forms in their own right. That means that it is possible to approach them as an artist. Just think: when you game, you are creating art. Pretty neat, eh?

But what makes for good art? Lots of things, certainly. Technique is important, as can be training. But one thing stands out ahead of all these items. A true artist has to live. It is not enough to know your theory or your technique. You need to have experience in life. You need to experience the true, the good, the beautiful. Without this, any art that you produce, whether gaming or otherwise, will be flawed and lifeless. Good art is vibrant and full of life because the artist is vibrant and full of life.

The effects of this experience of life will show in two ways. First, you will find specific inspiration in the experiences that you encounter. I can point to many inspirations for Alyria that were drawn from my daily life. Would you be surprised if I told you that there is a huge clock tower near my workplace? What if I told you that I am a devoted fan of Bladerunner? What if I told you that an article on electricity theft in the Wall Street Journal inspired the lightning jacks of the Web? I know that I am not alone in this. As I recall, Underworld’s Head Count system, using coins instead of dice, was inspired while Gareth-Michael Skarka was playing with the change in his pocket while waiting for the subway. I am sure that many of you could also share similar experiences.

But, more importantly, this experience of life will inspire in you the passion to create. I was invigorated by my walk in the rain. I was inspired, well, to write this column. I wanted to share my feelings with everyone around me. I wanted to write about the beauty of the rain. This passion is what feeds my game design. This ought to be what feeds all game design. The best artists are those with a passion for their work. Without the experience of life to motivate you, eventually the pursuit of the art will become dry, a dull repetition of empty ritual. How many people have burned out on gaming for just this reason?

So, let me challenge all of you. Just for one day, put down your d20s and your rulebooks; your G/N/S, GEN and stances; your probabilities and your systems. Put them down and be part of the world around you. Walk in the woods. Read a biography. Go outside and gaze at the stars. Examine the intricacies of a leaf. Live a little, and it will show in your gaming.

That’s enough pontificating for the day. If you need me, I’ll be outside, dancing in a puddle.

Writer’s Block

“This space intentionally left blank.�-any government publication

I’m staring at the blank piece of paper in front of me. I think it is staring back. It hates me. I know it does. I can almost hear its taunting voice. “Go ahead. I dare you to write something.� It sits there, mockery oozing from its pristine white surface as I stammer, confused and bewildered.

Every so often artsy folks supposedly “lose their muse�. One minute everything is clicking and the creativity is flowing. The next minute, deathly silence falls. Or so they claim. I bet that a lot of people look at this as an excuse for the bohemian lifestyle of most artsy folks. Personally I never really understood what they meant either. Until now.

I have lost my muse.

The paper is still mocking me. I threaten to crumple it up and throw it in the trash. It smirks at me knowingly but is silent for now.

The sun is still out but I can see the moon rising from where I sit. It is framed rather nicely between the umbrella of the patio table and the peaked roof of the coffee house where I sit. A tree grows right next to the deck where I sit, spreading its limbs over me. I feel at peace. I have not felt at peace recently. Work has been busy and tiring. School has been obnoxiously boring. But most of all the dark shadow of Origins has been casting itself over my mind.

Most of you probably will not understand. If you are going to Origins, you are going as a participant, a gamer among gamers, making the pilgrimage to a gaming Medina. (Everyone knows that GenCon is Mecca, so Origins must be Medina.) However, I am going as an exhibitor, a very small press playing in the big boys’ pool. By the time this article sees print Origins will be over and I will be able to tell you how good or bad it was for me. Right now, the uncertainties threaten to overwhelm me.

That is why I am here. My wife could see that I was stressed and suggested that I come down to this coffee house and relax. We were just here for our anniversary and we both enjoyed the mellow,
artsy atmosphere, expressed in rich earth tones and the blessed smell of freshly ground coffee beans.

And so I am here, with my pen, prepared to do battle with this mocking sheet of paper, hoping to find my muse. Maybe she is hiding in the branches of this tree. Maybe she is curled up at the bottom of my cup of coffee. Maybe she is frolicking on the happy tongue of flame that dances on the candle on the table in front of me.

Or maybe she has not left at all. Could it be that the pressures of life have overwhelmed her voice? Could the strain and stress of the upcoming convention be distracting me from her clarion call? Maybe she is just asleep and needs a cup of coffee, too.

Whatever it is, one thing is certain. Now, as so many times before, I stand before the Wall. In any creative endeavor, whether writing or game design or painting or anything else, the Wall awaits. I have faced It before when working on Junk and now I face It again. It is the Wall that speaks to me from that mocking sheet of paper, taunting my efforts. I reach out to touch the Wall. It feels so hard and unyielding. Yet I know that more lies on the other side. Future columns wait to be written. The secret history of the Ark. The intricate dance of the Brotherhoods of the Right and Left Hand Paths. And more, so much more. I hear it calling to me from beyond the Wall.

My eyes narrow.

The paper shudders. It senses defeat.

There is no way over the Wall. There is no way around the Wall. To pass the Wall you must pass through It.

I pick up my pen.

I once read a book on writing called Writing Down the Bones. In it, the author talked about writer’s block. Her cure is simple yet profound: write. There is always something about which to write. If nothing else, write about your writer’s block. “Push through the Wall,� she would say. “Do not give up.� If I were not to write, the Wall wins. I cannot let that happen. Alyria waits on the other side. My muse waits on the other side.

I take a deep breath. My choice is made.

I step forward.

My pen is ready.

Slowly, painfully I press myself into the Wall.

And I begin to write.

written on 8/5/2002

I’m done with COBOL! I’m done! I’m done! I’m done! I’m done! I’m done! I’m done! I’m done! I’m done!

That’s it. Nothing particularly substantive. I’m off to do something fun.

written on 8/5/2002

It’s 9:30 p.m. but I’m feeling pretty good. I just kicked out a large amount of COBOL and, Lord willing, I should be done tomorrow. What a relief that will be! Part of the reason is that I spent an absurd amount of time on Saturday doing nothing but COBOL. Crystal and I went out to breakfast with another couple, which was quite enjoyable, and then I came home and started coding. I started at 1:00. I didn’t stop until 9:00.

It’s not my idea of an enjoyable day. I like programming, but coding COBOL is like kicking a dead whale down a beach, to use the classic hacker phrase. (“Kicking a dead whale down a beach� is a long, difficult, smelly, pointless task.)

But it’s almost done, and I’ll be able to enjoy GenCon this weekend without having it hanging over my head.

That’s right. I’m going to GenCon. Hooray! For those of you who don’t know, GenCon is the largest gaming convention in the country. Last year I was able to make it to Origins (the second largest convention), but I was working. This year I’m going as a civilian. The convention lasts from Thursday until Sunday. For a host of reasons I can’t go for the duration of the convention. Instead, I’m leaving Friday evening and driving up to Milwaukee, where the convention is held. (Next year it moves to Indianapolis, which I think is actually closer.) I’ll crash with Jason Blair Friday night and spend Saturday hanging out with folks that I’ve met over the Internet. Partly I’m hoping to put faces to names and network a bit. Partly, I just want to have some fun. I won’t have the pressure of having to sell anything. I can wander a bit and chat with folks that I know. I’ll probably even be able to get some gaming done. It should be fun.

But that’s actually next week’s topic. After all, I haven’t gone yet. Instead, I want to talk about my birthday.

I had a very pleasant birthday. My wife and sister planned a bit of a surprise for me. They picked me up from work and took me out to the gaming store in Washington. Then they handed me an
envelope with money and a card good for one copy of the Unknown Armies roleplaying game (2nd edition). So I went in, and I got my copy of UA 2nd.

I wasn’t expecting a birthday present, and I definitely wasn’t expecting this. I have the first edition of UA, but the newer edition has a lot more material and is better organized. Besides that, four
of the sentences in it are mine. That’s right. Look in the credits of the book and you’ll see my name. They even spelled it right!

So I picked up all 336 pages of gaming goodness and decided to put the rest of the money towards a computer game that I was wanting. (I ordered it online later that night.) Then we went out to eat at the Chinese buffet.

When we got home, I was greeted with banners, decorations, and a barrage of Silly String. Crystal had bought a small cake and topped it with twenty-five trick candles, which I still managed to extinguish without using water. (I’m so proud of me.) Then, after the children went to bed, we ended the evening with cheese, crackers, wine, and a viewing of that classic movie, Surf Ninjas. Cultured we are. Oh yes.

(Aside: if you’ve never seen Surf Ninjas, you really should. It is a farce of bad martial arts movies and bad surfer movies. One of my favorite scenes is when Zatch, the trained martial artist, fights a sword-wielding attacker with a pair of chopsticks. Don’t take too seriously, but do watch it.)

And so I turned twenty-five. It was a good day.

In a way, though, it was a milestone, though I didn’t think about it at the time. In addition to turning twenty-five, last Wednesday was also the fifth birthday that I spent with my wife. We
were married June 22, 1997, just over a month before my birthday.

(Do the math. That’s right. Married at 19. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.)

So I started thinking about my life when I was twenty, compared with my life now. So let’s have a look, shall we?

I was born at 9:46 a.m. on July 31, 1977. July 31, 1997 was a Saturday. At 9:46 a.m. I was at work. I had been there since 6:00. Or maybe it was 7:00. I’m not really sure. I know that my normal work hours were 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Of course, I lived 30 minutes away, so I had to get up at 4:50 to get to work on time. I used to fill a 64 oz. cup with coffee to drink on the drive to work.

But I’m fairly sure that Saturdays were different. Or maybe not. At least they were only a half-day. I got off at 10:00 or so. Or something like that. As I try to look back, my life is one big blur. You’ll see why in a moment.

I was working in a plastics shop. Actually, I was assembling Little Tykes toys. Mostly I worked on toy xylaphones. The plastic body was molded elsewhere and shipped to us. It had about eight holes drilled in it by a drill press. Then the rest of the line attached the wheels, the bars, and the striker on a cord. Usually I did wheels, but sometimes I ran the press. Of course, plastic shavings would get everywhere, and they wouldn’t go away. They’d get in your hair, in your clothes, down in your shoes. Inevitably I’d track some reddish-orange plastic shavings home with me.

Home life was challenging, too. Crystal and I were into our first month of marriage, which is the phase where you begin to learn how to live with each other. That is such a happy, wonderful thought when you are engaged, but it becomes difficult when you’re arguing about how to do the dishes (or whatever other stupid stuff we argued about). Even more, we had discovered that Crystal was pregnant with a honeymoon baby, and she had terrible morning sickness. So I would come home, dirty and tired, to a house that hadn’t been cleaned and where no supper awaited me, because my wife had been too sick to get out of bed.

And home…. Home was a small apartment in North East. We had a bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom. We had started married life with a waterbed, but it had sprung a leak, and we were sleeping in the living room. None of the rooms were on the same level. The kitchen was higher than the living room and bedroom, and I’ll bet that they weren’t level with each other, either. Sometimes the smell of marijuana would waft up from the apartment below us. The entire apartment must have been on one electrical line, because if we wanted to run the microwave, we had to turn off everything. All the lights. All the fans. The computer. Everything. What was worse, the circuit breaker box was in a different apartment, so if we blew something, I had to go around and get the landlord to reset the breaker. All in all, it was a classic “just got marriedâ€? apartment. We paid $300 a month for it.

I remember struggling on my twentieth birthday. Life was hard. I didn’t want to be at work, slaving to build cheap toys for children. I wanted to be home with my family. Birthdays are supposed to be something special.

But at the same time, it was special. Like I said, life from that time is a blur, but I have memories of my first birthday with my wife. I remember that she went out and bought me a deck of Middle Earth cards for another game. (I still have them. I dug them out and showed them to her as I was writing this journal.) They were only $8.00 or so, but they were what we could afford, and they were special, because she was making an effort to understand me and what I liked. At the time, she thought that all my games were crazy. (She has since turned to the dark side.) But she tried to get me something special.

She also put together a birthday party for my family and a couple of friends. I have a hard time remembering everyone who showed up, but I know that we packed at least ten people into that tiny apartment. It was her first time cooking for that many people, too. I don’t even remember what we had, but I remember that I really enjoyed it. I also seem to recall a water balloon fight before the party that ranged both in and out of the apartment. I think that we all lost.

Life was hard. Part of it was simply adjusting to being a real adult with real responsibilities and a real person relying on me for food and shelter. Part of it was that life was really challenging. But I also remember my birthday as being a bright spot in a hard time.

And now, as I cast my gaze over the past five years, I can see how God has been good to us. Until our move here, our housing cost didn’t increase past $350. We moved from the tiny apartment in North East to a larger apartment in the city, from there to a small house on Brandes Avenue, and then finally into the house that we bought on East 30th Street. Each time we upgraded our housing. Each time the cost remained about the same.

The birthdays continued. Crystal became more adept at throwing the parties. On my twenty-first birthday, my mother hurt her ankle trying to climb down from a tree in my yard. My twenty-second birthday was Tolkien-themed, as I recall, complete with music downloaded from the Internet. My twenty-third birthday was my first Japanese-themed party, complete with elegant tiger lily arrangements on tables set up in the back yard. My twenty-fourth birthday was simpler, but that was when the entire family schemed to buy me a pond for the back yard. And now, my twenty-fifth birthday. First a surprise party back in Erie that was an elaborate tea ceremony, and now a party here.

And life has improved over that time, too. Crystal and I have grown through the trials and become closer to each other. Her next two pregancies were not nearly as hard on her. I have three children whom I love dearly. And somehow along the way we have managed to improve our style of living somewhat. I look around my library while I write. I have my swords on their stand. I have the computer that I am using to write this journal entry. I have a stack of movies that still needs to be organized. I have CDs and software and boardgames and books. For crying out loud, I have a separate room that I can set aside as a library. I’ve never had that luxury before.

Life is good.

But even more than that, I look back over the last five years and see how I have changed. When I first married Crystal, I was a prosaic thinker. Poetry was no good unless it hewed close to the Rules of Poetry. Beauty was not an issue.

I could be very grumpy.

I was a pretty poor husband at times.

But I have changed. God has shown me an entirely new realm to be explored in the area of aesthetics. I have been given more control over my emotions. I think that I’m doing a better job at being a good husband.

God is good.

There are times that life seems very hard. Like now. Right now, life seems very hard. In those times, it can seem like we aren’t getting anywhere, that life is always bad. In these times, it can help to stop and pause to take stock of your life.

Right now life is hard, but I can see the progress. God is still good to us. He is still working in me. I am much better off now then I was when I was twenty. And, Lord willing, I’ll be able to say the same when I am thirty.

Something to consider when your next birthday rolls around.

written by 7/30/2002

Well, it is once again time for the weekly journal. Unfortunately I don’t really have something obvious to write about. Most of last week was spent in a state of fatigue. Even though I was back at work on Tuesday, I don’t think that I really recovered until Saturday, when my wife let me sleep in *very* late. So I think that I’ll just ramble for a while and see what comes out. It’s not quite stream of consciousness, but it’ll be close. Call it my reflections on the past week.

***

We got a dog last week. A coworker’s dog had puppies, and so we bought one. Actually I hadn’t been expecting her to come home until later. Crystal and Arianna had gone over to visit the puppy and ended up coming home with her. Sigh.

You need to understand that I don’t like dogs very much. No, that’s not fair to dogs. I don’t like animals in general. And I have a number of very good reasons. Well, I happen to think that they’re good reasons. I don’t trust them. They chew up stuff and bite people for no apparent reason. They relieve themselves when they feel like it and where they happen to be. In my mind, having a dog is like having a toddler that doesn’t wear diapers, except that it’ll never grow up.

Did I mention that the puppy gnaws on my toes? I HATE that.

So, if I’m so anti-dog, how did I end up with a dog in my house?

Because I love my wife. She thinks that having a dog will be a comfort to her, especially now that we have moved. And I think that she is probably right. Already she says that having the puppy around has helped. I don’t like it, but it is helping Crystal. Besides, we have a deal. She cleans up after the puppy until she is housebroken. That helps *me* a lot. And I named the dog. Her name is Arwen. Named after Arwen Undomiel, a character from “Lord of the Rings�:

“Arwen, daughter of Elrond, in whom it was said that the likeness of Luthien had come on earth again; and she was called Undomiel, for she was the Evenstar of her people.�

I love “Lord of the Rings�. My mother hooked me on the books when I was ten or so, and I have loved them more deeply every time that I have read them. Of course, being the terrible melancholic
that I am, one of themes of “Lord of the Rings� that grabs me is the theme of passing beauty. There is so much in the world of Middle-earth that is beautiful or wondrous that is doomed to fade. The
Elves are no exception. They know that by sending the One Ring to the Fire, they are condemning themselves to exile from Middle-earth and the destruction of all their works of beauty. Their time is
passing. And so we have Arwen, the last glimmer of beauty before nightfall. The last gift of a dying race to a world that will forget them.

Arwen, the Evenstar.

That’s SUCH a better name than Fluffy.

***

Crystal and I went storm-chasing late Friday night. We had been out to rent a couple of movies and saw lightning to the south and west. After watching “Get Shorty�, we saw that there was still lightning outside the windows. So we left our children in Gabrielle’s care and drove out into the countryside, looking for an open field. Not too difficult in Illinois.

It was almost frightening. The horizon stretched across my entire field of vision, and everywhere lightning crackled. Sometimes streaks would dash from the clouds and blaze on the ground. Other times it danced among the clouds, rippling in a blazing spiderweb of light. Crystal was enthralled. She has always loved watching storms, and that night she probably got the best show of her life. It made her day.

***

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will attain to the grand old age of twenty-five. Or so my wife tells me. I don’t happen to think that twenty-five is all that old. Then she goes on to point out how that’s one-quarter of a century. My goodness, you’d think that I was ready to keel over right this instance. I will be curious to see how I handle this. Birthdays are a big occasion in my family. We throw large birthday parties and generally make a big fuss. Of course, with the move, my wife threw my actual birthday party early, as you may recall from my first journal entry. I’m looking at my swords even as I write this, and I really can’t think of anything that I would have rather received.

But, because I’ve already had my party, we’re not throwing a big bash tomorrow. We *are* going to go out to eat at the Chinese buffet, though, and Crystal has a small present for me. That will be good.

Still, I know that I’m going to miss my family.

My mom has sent me two birthday cards already. Both were fairly silly, and the second seems like an impulse purchase. I can’t really explain either of them without showing you. Suffice it to say that they both fit my sense of humor perfectly. A little weird, a little twisted, just a bit crazy. But I know that it’s partly because she misses me.

This will be the first birthday that I’ve been away from home.

You know, as I sit here writing about all this, I’m really finding myself appreciating my wife. She knew that I’d be dealing with this. She knew, and that’s why she went through all the hassle and work and struggle of throwing me a surprise party back in May. She knew that it would help, and it does. It hurts a little less.

I’m sure that this is all part of the process of letting go, but I know that I don’t like it.

My father’s birthday is January 28. This past January, I already knew that there was the possibility that we would be moving. This year his birthday fell on a Monday, which was going to be a school night. Originally I had planned on attending school and missing the party. Then the thought wandered through my head. “This could be the last time you get to go to his birthday party.� So I went, and I’m glad that I did. Next January, I’ll be here, and he’ll be back in Erie.

I think that I’m going to talk about something else now.

***
I wish that I could report incredible progress on COBOL, but I can’t. Being ill and exhausted shot most of last week, and even after spending three hours on Saturday, it didn’t feel like I had made
all that much of a dent in the work. Oh well. There’s still the rest of this week, and Saturday is still available. Still, I wish that I didn’t have to be doing this. There are enough other crises going on right
now. My family needs me, and once again I feel like I’m being pulled away by school.

***

Something that I’m still getting used to at my new job is the faster pace. No, “faster” is the wrong word. Maybe “steadier” is a better word. Or maybe “absorbingâ€?. At my old job, there were lots of tasks that I had to do that I could do on auto-pilot. Part of my mind was doing the job, and another part was thinking about something else. I could brainstorm ideas for roleplaying or think about school projects or do game design stuff. Now I’m doing well if I get a few minutes to read, let alone think. I’m sure that some of this will change as I get a feel for the pace of the work and as I settle into normal work (once my internship is finished). But some of it is just a change of job. I’ll just have to get used to it.

Still I’ve managed to get some reading done. Since arriving here in Peoria, I’ve read the collected Dying Earth stories by Jack Vance, “On Writing” by Stephen King (a book that I would recommend to any budding writer), “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” by Robert Pirsig (second time), a few SF novellas in an anthology that I own (one by Vance, one by Cordwainer Smith, and one by Gene Wolfe, who is a personal favorite of mine), “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” (a series that has become more interesting as it grows up), and now I am reading “Watership Down”. Everyone who has read “Watership Down” has given it rave reviews, so I am continuing to read it. Truth be told, I found it rather slow starting. However, I did start it last week, and my fatigue could have played into that impression quite a bit. It does seem to be getting better, too.

Maybe it was just me.

***

Normally I wouldn’t go on and on about all the movies that I’ve seen and what I thought. However, there’s some significance to this one. A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I went to see “The Road to Perdition”…at the movie theater. That’s right; I know where the theater is now. I doubt that I’ll be able to afford another visit until December, but it is psychologically helpful to know where it is, at least.
Oh yes. “The Road to Perdition” was quite good, if you like that sort of movie.

(Why December? Because that’s when “The Two Towers” comes out, of course!)

***

Part of the reason that I’m so annoyed with COBOL is that I want to get back into writing. I have several unfinished projects that I want to complete. One is the roleplaying game that I’m working on. Additionally, I have a couple of stories in my head. The first is still just a seed concept, so I’m not going to tell you about it. (Can’t give away the surprise.) The other, though, is the continuation of a previous story set that I had begun. The first story of the set was one that I had written for the Little Fears roleplaying game. (I included it at the bottom.) The second story was a sequel story but written in the third person. (If you’re interested in seeing it, let me know. It’s pretty heavy, which is why I haven’t included it.) However, Jason Blair (the designer for Little Fears) was wanting a different sequel story and then
the line went in different directions and so on and so on. And somewhere along the line, I lost track of Jenna.

And I don’t want to do that.

Jenna was based on a composite of people whom I know personally. Bunny is actually a stuffed animal owned for many years by my own daughter. (We don’t know where he is now. Maybe the Closet Monster got him?) I was writing for those people. I wanted to give them a voice. So often we hear about the horror of child abuse in abstract terms. I know things that would make your hair stand on end to hear it. I have heard of such horrible things happening to people that I know that it makes me want to cry or scream or do something.

The truth is much worse.

And because you’re here, you get to be treated to one of my periodic rants.

They say, “Never read your reviews.” Amen. When Little Fears was released, it immediately became incredibly controversial, and my story was one of the reasons. It has been called:

—one of the best pieces of game fiction ever
—a worthless piece of drivel
—the product of a sick and deranged mind

and just about everything else in between. Certainly, some of the criticism was apt. I definitely have to work on presentation of first-person narratives (not one of my strong suits). However, this isn’t
what got me so angry.

There were those who thought that the story was unrealistic. There were people who thought that such things don’t really happen. I was accused of painting too extreme a picture.

Oh really?

I know someone whose stepmother had put padlocks on all the cupboards and on all the drawers in the refrigerator so that he couldn’t get to the food. This assumes, of course, that she had left the front
door unlocked so that he could get into the house. I know someone who spent all day preparing a birthday party for her father, only to find that he never came home. He was out getting drunk…again.
I know someone who fled her home, bruised and bleeding, because her father tried to choke her. At one point she grabbed a kitchen knife and held it behind her back, wondering if she would need to
save herself by killing her raging father.

And those are just the people that I know personally. That doesn’t include the stories that I’ve heard about friends of friends. Those stories are worse. Much worse.

Exaggerating the truth? Making it up? I sugar-coated the truth and they still couldn’t handle it. How could they be so blind?

So I want to write my story cycle. I think that I’m going to rewrite the first story. I think that I’ll do a better job if I write it in third person and it will maintain consistency with the other
stories. Also, that way I can remove some of the more obvious references to the roleplaying game. I want to tell the story of Jenna, a little girl pushed to the edge of suicide. I want to show how she is
driven to that point, and I want to show how she is saved. And I think that, in the end, she can save someone else. In the end, she sees a purpose to all of her pain. It will be a dark story but a story shot
through with beams of brilliant light. I think that it will be good.

But right now, all I have time to do is COBOL. ARGH!

The creative side of me doesn’t get much satisfaction from COBOL.

Oh well. Once I get it done, it will be finished forever. Then I can move on to something else.

***

Time for bed. I know that I am still tired from last week, and I need my sleep. I feel like I’m several weeks short on sleep, actually. I wish that there were some way to catch up. Too much to do, not enough time.

So that’s all for this week. Nothing really organized, probably nothing particularly profound. Just the everyday jumble of times and events, running together and swirling in the mind.

Probably a lot like your week.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,
Wow! I’ve never had a diary before. This is pretty neat! Can I call you Sarah? I’ve always wanted a friend named Sarah. Let’s see. I should tell you my name, too. My name is Jenna, and this is my friend Bunny. Today is my birthday! Let me tell you about it.

Daddy came home drunk today, so I made myself a birthday party. Bunny and I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the kitchen. I wore a party hat, but Bunny told me he didn’t want to. Then we got out the ice cream and made a little ice cream cake in a bowl. Bunny put a candle in it and we both sang “Happy Birthday�. I think that Bunny sang too loud, because Daddy yelled at us to Shut Up. I don’t like when he’s drunk. He never used to get drunk when Mommy was still alive, but when she died, he’s been getting drunk a lot. A lot of times I’m at home all by myself. Well, except for Bunny. He takes care of me. And now I have you, Sarah! I’m so happy that you will be my friend.

Love,
Jenna

******

Dear Sarah,
Something really spooky happened last night. I was lying in bed with Bunny trying to go to sleep. Daddy still hadn’t come home yet. Suddenly I heard someone calling my name! It wasn’t a very nice voice, though. It was all evil and dead. It gave me chills just hearing it. I got so scared, I hid under the covers and started yelling at it to go away. Then it started laughing at me. I almost had an accident, I was so scared. Then it said to me, “I will destroy you, Jenna.� I just couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed Bunny and ran out of my room. I tried to block my bedroom door with a chair but I don’t know if it worked. I tried to stay up but I fell asleep on the sofa. Daddy didn’t come home all night, but at least Bunny protected me. I’m scared, Sarah. I don’t think that it was just a bad dream. I think that something is living in my closet and it doesn’t like me at all.

******

Dear Sarah,
Today I made a new friend! I was playing outside with Bunny when a girl stopped to talk to me. She was really nice. She said that her name was Jessica and that her family had just moved in to a house down the street. I was so happy! We ran around and played on the swing set behind the school. I’m kinda jealous of her, though. Her mommy and daddy are happy and take good care of her. I wish that my daddy would come home more often and not be drunk all the time. He would know how to take care of that nasty monster in my closet. Bunny says that he will protect me, but he’s kinda small to be fighting a monster. (Don’t tell him I said that. His feelings might get hurt.)

I’m too scared to sleep in my room tonight, because of the monster, so I’m going to get my blanket and sleep on the sofa. Daddy won’t care. I don’t even think that he’s coming home tonight. I’m so glad that I can tell you this, Sarah. You are my closest and bestest friend.

******

Dear Sarah,
I hate my life! I hate it hate it hate it! I’m hiding out here under the slide at the playground so that Daddy and the Monster won’t find me. It’s raining and I’m cold and I’m hungry and I’m scared, but
I’m more scared to go home. They’re at home. If I go home, they’ll get me.

Daddy came home last night with a woman. They were both drunk. He was real mad to see me in the living room. He started yelling about how I always got in the way and how all he wanted was just to get laid (whatever that means) and he couldn’t now, because I was in the living room. He started yelling and screaming and throwing things and I got scared, so I ran into my room and slammed the door. Then I remembered that Bunny was still in the living room. So I decided to sneak out really quiet, so that Daddy wouldn’t see me and be angry. So I tiptoed out of my room and crawled along the floor towards Bunny. Then I saw Daddy and the woman on the sofa. It was pretty yucky. They didn’t have any clothes on and they were touching each other and stuff. Yuck! Then Daddy saw me. He was really mad. He slapped me across the face and yelled at me for being out of my room. Bunny tried to stop him, but that only made him madder. He picked me and Bunny up and threw us into my bedroom. Then he locked me in.

I started crying. Bunny told me that it would be okay, but he had been torn up a bit by Daddy and his stuffing was showing. That only made me cry more. Then I heard a noise behind me. When I turned to look, I started screaming. The Closet Monster was breaking my dollhouse into lots of little pieces! It turned to look at me and smiled. Then it threw one of my dolls at me. It was the mommy doll, with its arms and legs ripped off. Then it said, “I got your mommy, Jenna. I got your daddy. Now I’ll get you.� It picked up the rest of the dollhouse and dragged it back into the closet. Then it said, “I will destroy you, Jenna.� It shut the closet door.

I was so scared that I started crying. I was crying even more when I realized that I had had an accident. Big girls don’t have accidents! I grabbed my blanket and Bunny and I climbed out the window. And that’s why I’m here now, curled up under the slide. I want my Mommy, Sarah! She could fix this. I know she could! Mommy wouldn’t lock me in my bedroom. Mommy loved me. My daddy doesn’t love me. He hits me. I hate him! I hate him I hate him I hate him. But I don’t want to hate him. I just want him to love me and say he’s sorry and give me piggyback rides and make me dinner and tell me stories. Just like he used to. Why did he change, Sarah? Why is he so mean now? Why doesn’t he love me?

I’m so tired, Sarah. So is Bunny. Will you stay awake and make sure that nobody bad hurts us tonight? I’m sorta dry here, under the slide. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can pretend that I’m back in my bedroom, just after Mommy has tucked me into bed and none of this has ever happened.

Will you sing me a lullaby, Sarah?

******

Dear Sarah,
I’m feeling much better today. I’m sleeping over at Jessica’s house tonight. Isn’t that exciting? I’m so happy, I could cry. But I should probably tell you what happened today.

I snuck back into the house this morning. Daddy was still asleep. I didn’t want to wake him up, so I grabbed a sandwich for Bunny and me to share. I decided to go for a walk so that I wouldn’t have to be home when Daddy woke up. He gets these really bad headaches when he’s been drunk, and he gets mad real easy. So anyways, I started walking and when I walked by Jessica’s house, she ran out to see me. She was real upset and told me that I had to come inside and get cleaned up. Jessica’s mommy was upset too. I think that she almost started crying when she saw me. Anyways, they gave me a nice hot bath, which made me feel all nice and clean. My clothes were all dirty, so Jessica let me wear some of hers.

We had so much fun today, Sarah. Jessica and I played dolls in her room all day long. Bunny didn’t want to play, but we dressed him up in baby clothes and made him pretend to be the baby. I think he’s mad at me, but he looked so cute! Then we had pizza for dinner and we all sat around the dining room table, just laughing. Jessica’s mommy and daddy were both there, and they were so happy to have me with them. Even Bunny liked being there, even though he had to dress up in baby clothes. Then Jessica’s mommy said that she talked to my daddy and he said that I could stay here tonight. Jessica was so excited, because that meant that she could stay up late with me and have a sleep-over.

So, we got into our pajamas and started watching a movie. It was kinda scary and I didn’t like it very much. It reminded me of the Monster in my closet. When I told Jessica that I wanted to stop
watching, she turned off the movie right away. She was so nice and friendly that I decided to tell her about the Monster. I felt silly telling her, but she believed me. I was really surprised. Then she told
me about the Monster that lived under her bed for a long time and about Closetland, where big nasty monsters live that sneak out at night and attack children like us. She said that adults couldn’t see
them anymore, because they are too grown-up, and that us kids have to stick together. She said that she had fought off her Monster a long time ago with her glitter baton. Then she said that she’d let me
have it, because she didn’t need it anymore. I was really happy. The glitter baton even glowed special when she held it. Jessica says that it will glow really, really bright if there’s a monster around and
that the light will hurt the eyes of any monster that looks at it. She says that it will keep me safe. I gave her a big hug, and so did Bunny.

I’m so happy that I met Jessica. She’s like the big sister that I never had. She’s so pretty and smart. With this glitter baton, that mean Monster will never bother me again.

******

Dear Sarah,
I’m past crying now, Sarah. I have been crying so long that I feel like I don’t have any tears left. And now I have to go away, and you can’t come with me.

I should probably tell you what happened, huh? That might make more sense to you. Remember how I spent the night at Jessica’s house? And she gave me the glitter baton? I wish that she never had.
I came home so happy, because now I was going to be able to protect myself from the evil Closet Monster. So I waited all day long until it was my bedtime, because I was so excited. I wanted to see the Closet Monster now. I wanted to bop it on the head and yell at it to go away and leave me alone.

When it started getting dark, Bunny got scared. He wanted to stay out in the living room, but I didn’t let him. We needed to outnumber the Closet Monster. So we sat on the bed and waited…and
waited…and waited. I think that Bunny fell asleep for a little bit, actually. Then, all of a sudden, the closet door swung open. I could hear the Closet Monster breathing. Then it said, “I have come for you tonight, Jenna.â€? Then it jumped out of the closet right onto the bed. Bunny screamed and started biting it, and I pulled out the glitter baton and started whacking the Closet Monster as hard as I could. Glittering light shone all through the room as I hit the Monster with the glitter baton. It roared really loud and rolled off the bed. It looked at me and hissed. “Very well, Jenna. You win this round. But I will be back. Remember, I will destroy you.â€? Then it turned and ran back into the closet.

I was so happy that I jumped and skipped around. I had fought off the Closet Monster! Everything would be okay now. But it wasn’t.

This morning I got up and went to tell Jessica the good news. When I got to her house, there was a policeman with Jessica’s mommy and daddy. Jessica’s mommy was crying. During the night, someone slipped into Jessica’s room and did Bad Things to her. I don’t know exactly what, because the policeman didn’t tell me. Jessica was in the hospital. The policeman said that they were still looking for the person who did this to her but they hadn’t found him yet. I started crying. I knew who had done Bad Things to Jessica. The Closet Monster did, and she would be okay if she had kept her glitter baton. Jessica could have fought off the Closet Monster, but I had her glitter baton and so the Closet Monster did Bad Things to her. It’s my fault that Jessica is in the hospital now. I’m so sorry Jessica I’m sorry I’m sorry sorry sorry.

I ran away to the playground and sat under the slide, crying. Then, slowly, I knew what I had to do. The Closet Monster lived in my home, right? Well, what if it came out one night and couldn’t find me? It wouldn’t hurt anybody else because it would be too busy looking for me. All of a sudden, I knew what I need to do. I came home and packed some clothes into my pink backpack. Bunny wasn’t sure that this was a good idea, but he’s coming anyways. But I wanted to talk to you, Sarah, because you have to stay here. I don’t want Jessica and her mommy and daddy to think that I hate them. I don’t even want
Daddy to think that I’m mad at him. So I need you to stay and tell them that I’m running away because I love them all. I don’t want the Closet Monster to get them. He wants me, so let him chase
me. I’m quick. I’ll be able to run very very far, and I’ll have the glitter baton to protect me. I even packed a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, so that Bunny and I will be able to eat.

Don’t cry for me, Sarah. It will be better this way. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a mommy and daddy who love each other very much who will want me to live with them. Maybe the Closet Monster
won’t follow me there and I’ll be able to live happy and peaceful. Wouldn’t that be nice? So don’t cry, Sarah. There’s got to be a nice family like that out there somewhere. I’m bound to find them eventually. Right, Sarah?

Right?

Well, just after I sent out the last entry, I realized that I had misnumbered it. Entry #7 should be entry #6. Oh well.

But while I’m here, I’d like to note a moderate irony. In my last entry, I commented that I rarely get sick. Well, exactly 24 hours after writing that, I became very ill, causing me to miss 1 1/2 days of work. My average temperature was 102 degrees, and at one point I actually reached 103 degrees. Monday is a haze.

But I’m doing much better now….

written on 7/20/2002

Whoops. I almost missed this week’s entry. No computer problems this time. I’ve just been very busy with work and school. What a contrast, too.

Work has been great. Wonderful. Awesome. Fill in your favorite superlative here. Busy, certainly. Stressful, occasionally. But still wonderful. I really feel as though I belong. In order to understand how important this is to me, I need to tell you about the last six months or so of my employment at my previous job.

I worked at Knox Law Firm for over four years, and I have no regrets about working there at all. Before I was hired as librarian and closed file clerk, I was working for a vending company in the kitchen, preparing the cheap sandwiches and reheatable soups that you can find in certain vending machines. I distinctly remember when the job offer came. I had just returned from work. I was tired. I was smelly. I was dirty. Also, I had been getting sick all day, but I couldn’t afford to stay home. Staying home means missing a day of pay, and we were already on the brink financially. So I staggered in the door and collapsed on the sofa. I wanted to give up. And just then the phone rang.

It was Bob Pagni, my old boss from Knox Law Firm from way back when I had been a messenger. They were looking for someone to be librarian. Was I interested in interviewing for the job?

I started two weeks later.

I put a lot of work into that position. When I arrived, everything was a mess. Most of the old files were kept in boxes instead of on shelves, making it difficult to clear space for newer files coming into the file room. The files were still tracked using a manual card catalog system. The library was not much better. The library bills were a wreck. Bills that were six months old were still not paid. My cubicle was filled with bins of unopened mail. I didn’t even have a computer.

And so I set about putting things in order.

I implemented a number of projects to organize both library and file room. I put up new shelves in the file room, exponentially increasing our available space. I proposed a database to track the closed files and continually tweaked and enhanced it to improve its performance and functionality. I proposed and implemented new procedures to streamline the entire file closing process. I headed up the firm’s move towards more electronic research. I researched various vendors, negotiated with vendors, scheduled training sessions, and made presentations to the attorneys. I loved it.

But there were still problems. Originally my position was still only a glorified messenger position, and as I continued to develop my skills and knowledge, the position did not develop with me. I still was on call to push the mail cart. I still had to haul my own files. I still had to assist with the delivery runs to the courthouse and other locations in downtown Erie. In the eyes of the firm, I was still only a messenger. (There are some members of my audience who are probably shocked now.)
This problem only became worse when Bob Pagni left the firm and another administrator took his place. Bob and I had our conflicts, but I had complete confidence in him. On the one hand I knew that he was keeping an eye on what I was doing, but, at the same time, I knew that I could go to him with a problem and that he would take me seriously and take appropriate action. I wish that I could say the same about this new administrator. She wasn’t cruel or overbearing; I just wasn’t sure that she really understood what was going on. And, after several glaring instances, I gave up trying to go to her with problems.

One fairly significant problem was my pay. When I started at Knox, I wasn’t making all that much more than minimum wage. It was an improvement from the vending company, but it still was very little to live on. And, as the family continued to grow and the paycheck stayed small, it became more obvious that I couldn’t sit around, doing nothing.

At one point, I went to the administrator, asking her for a raise, explaining that my family needed the money. After consideration, she told me that she couldn’t do it, that she couldn’t just give me more money because my family needed it. She said that I was making the regional average for a position of my type. She could only give out performance-based raises. She said that we’d see how my summer projects went. She said that the firm would consider a raise then.

The words burned. And they continued to burn as I heard other rumblings in the office. Employees moving on to other offices, citing substantial pay differentials as well as improved treatment. One employee levelling charges of shocking unreasonableness by management after asking for a small raise. Dissatisfaction quietly voiced by long-term veterans who just planned on keeping their heads down and slogging through, because there wasn’t anything else for them.

Everything came to a head at the beginning of this year. 2001 was a disastrous year for the financial health of my family, as several financial crises as well as an attempt to start a business drained our resources. Moreover, I was working my way through night school, trying to get a degree so that I could actually support my family. (More on this later.) But I wasn’t finished yet, and I still had nearly a year to go. Debt was rising, and the income stayed low. My wife wanted me to ask for
a raise, but I was too afraid. I remembered the rumors and rumblings that I had heard. I was afraid that, if I asked, I’d be on the black list or, worse, fired. Certainly a little bit was better than nothing. Attempts to find other employment failed to find anything. Forty resumes with zero response. School dragged on me. Work stressed me. We lost two messengers, one of them walking off the job after telling off the administrator. My duties suffered as I had to assist the messengers almost
full-time, while the administrator slowly worked towards hiring a new messenger. (It was two weeks after the first messenger quit that she actually began advertising for a messenger. In the end, it was six weeks before she found a replacement.)

My work began to pile up. I was burning the candle at both ends, trying to keep up at work, trying to stay on top of school, trying to be a husband and father, just trying…trying…trying….

And then in February I received my annual evaluation.

The evaluation procedure at Knox is almost like receiving a report card. You are sent a self-evaluation form, and two attorneys and the administrator each fill out a form as well. The form lists 25 areas of work. Some are general to all employees and the others relate to the job specifics. The ratings are as follows:

0—Terrible
2—Needs improvement
4—Doing fine
6—Above and beyond

Those aren’t the terms used, but it’s enough for you to get the idea. By doing the math, you can see that if you are “doing fine� in each category, your score adds up to 100. The scores of the administrator and attorneys are averaged (using a weighted average), and the final score is used to determine your annual pay raise. You are sent a document with the three scores as well as any comments from the three evaluators and then you have opportunity to discuss the reason for the scores at a meeting.

I got my annual evaluation form back, and I was crushed. The two attorneys had given my superlative marks and were clearly happy with me. However, the administrator had not done so. Certainly she had indicated that I went above and beyond in the performance of my job duties. However, she also indicated that I didn’t cooperate with the messengers in covering document delivery (which was not true) and that my office area was a mess (which was true but was not completely within my control). In fact, due to the way the form was set up, I was penalized for not assisting the messengers
twice. So I ended up with three “Needs improvement� marks and only one “Above and beyond� mark. Now, remember that the “Above and beyond� counted all the work that I had continued to do on organizing the library and closed file room. It included all my ongoing work on training attorneys with the new electronic research service that we had decided to use. It included my current awareness efforts, staying abreast of law librarian issues and discovering new resources for our use. It included my participation on the LAW-LIB email list, where almost any legal research question can be answered in hours (and would you like that document emailed or faxed to you?), which had already saved several attorneys literally hours of research time. All the attorneys loved and trusted me.

All of this is on one side of the scales. And on the other side, I don’t help push the mail cart and I don’t keep my desk clear. Two minor issues, one of which wasn’t even true.

Yet all my work, my efforts, my ongoing research, was nothing before these two points.

I was devastated. I felt like I had been slapped in the face.

The next week I became very ill. I never get sick. Never. Perhaps once a year I will have to stay home from work, but I am never sick for more than one day. This year I started feeling sick on a Monday. I felt feverish and weak. It got to the point where I begged God, “Just enough strength until 3:00. That’s only two more hours. Just two more hours.� I couldn’t even think of getting to the end of the day. That was too far off. And at 3:00 I prayed, “Just until 4:00, God. Just until 4:00.� I staggered through the day. Everything was a haze.

I became even more ill that night, but I didn’t want to stay home on Tuesday. One of the messengers was going to be out each afternoon that week, and I knew that meant that Bill would have been stuck working alone. I had once worked a day as a messenger alone, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. So, I called in and said that I would stay home for the morning and come in for the afternoon. I struggled through that afternoon, came home, and collapsed. I was feeling worse.
My wife wanted me to stay home Wednesday, but I refused. I felt like I had some sort of duty to Bill. There was no other reason. Any sense of loyalty that I had once felt to the firm was gone in the wake of that evaluation. I just didn’t want Bill to be stuck all by himself. That was it. I woke up in the middle of the night. My wife had put me to bed early and had accidentally awakened me as she came to bed. I felt awful. All I wanted to do was stay in bed and die. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t, because I had to go to work. And I started crying. I was bawling because I couldn’t stand the thought of getting up and forcing my fever-wracked body to go back to that place, that place where they used me and sucked me dry and threw me back empty. I collapsed that night. My wife called me in sick that night. She made me stay home. She made me rest.

I returned to work on Thursday but something had died that week. My wife saw it. She said that I had been pushing and pushing but that getting the evaluation just took all the energy away. It was like my feet were kicked out from under me. And from that point I earnestly and fervently desired to be free of that place forever.

I had received a job offer in Illinois. I didn’t want to move, but I began looking into it. There were lots of reasons, but one that stood out in my mind was that I couldn’t bear to be at Knox any longer. It hurt too much.

I poured my soul into my work. And they gave me a cost-of-living raise.

Better to stab me in the chest, for they surely broke my heart.

But now……

But now I am at Samaritan Ministries. Now I feel like I belong. I have a fairly eclectic skill set. I am a computer programmer. I am a writer. I am fairly expressive in person and can be very friendly talking to complete strangers. I love computers. I love beauty.

And somehow my job is using all of these aspects of my personality. More than that, I don’t feel like a substandard citizen. I feel like I am a part of the group, not merely being employed. I feel useful and helpful. Moreover, I can totally give myself to the goals of the organization. At Knox I was just an employee trying to do a good job. Here I feel like I am ministering to fellow Christian brothers and sisters through my job. It makes such a difference.

Here, I love going to work.

There have been many struggles and stresses with this move, but work has not been one of them. No, not at all.

Still, there are other issues that are arising.

I started night school in September of 1999. Originally I was going to study to be a paralegal, but after receiving some vigorous advice to the contrary, I changed my major to computer science. It seemed like a good fit. My first exposure to computers and programming was in kindergarten and I have pursued my interest with varying amounts of vigor ever since.

However, it was such a struggle. I was attending a business school which thinks that it is important that all their students have exposure to various business topics, instead of, oh say, computer courses. I had three semesters of accounting. In total, I had five semesters of various programming languages (COBOL, C++, Visual Basic), and I’m still finishing up the last semester of COBOL. The w