My mother is a bad influence.

Today’s blog was going to be about Ave Maria, a Catholic planned community in Florida that we visited today. But my mother insisted that I tell this story instead. I hope my “Luteren” friends will laugh and cut me some slack – I’ve been to this meeting more than once.

So, here’s my first short story on the blog. And I am going to use it to introduce my novel’s main character, Bobby Kurtz. Sorry, Bobby, you just got drafted again.

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Bobby was skeptical about the intel that led him to this Lutheran church on the outskirts of Minneapolis. It seemed an unlikely venue for a group of domestic terrorists to be assembling to build chemical weapons. He hadn’t talked to the informant himself, but the man had supposedly had all the right answers to all the bad questions. There was too great a risk of an attack to ignore this warning.   His boss, Colene, had passed the file along to him. He was going in alone tonight, a weapons team would be located less than a half mile away in a nearby woods, but he was the only one on site.

He had a small chemical detection unit with him that would alarm if any of the precursors for weapons were detected. The tech guys told him that it would detect low enough levels that he could safely escape before any harm came to him, but he wasn’t taking that one at face value. Chemical weapons only needed a drop on your skin to wipe you out with the nasty ones.  

Bobby walked into the church just after six in the evening and was greeted by two elderly women with bluish hair and dour faces. The more pugnacious of the two asked him, “Are you here for the meeting?”   Bobby felt a tingle go up his leg. This might be legit info after all. “Yes, I didn’t think we’d be talking about it out here.”   The second woman screwed up her face and laughed. “Mister, it’s all we talk about. Just head down the stairs to the basement and it’s the second door on your left. Don’t knock, just go in. They’ve already started.”  

Bobby followed her line of sight and headed toward a door next to a small book rack. “No, the stairwell next to the window.” Bobby nodded and turned 90 degrees to the East and saw the stairs.   Walking down the stairs he felt the weight of his .45 under his left arm. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it tonight. The chemical detection unit in his pocket hadn’t made a peep on the earpiece he wore, but something smelled awful. What kind of weapon were these people working on, and why would the be doing it in a neighborhood church?   Bobby gently opened the door and looked inside. There must have been 150 people sitting at tables with plastic table cloths and flowers! What had he gotten into?  

He found out a second later when a 70 year old man snuck up behind him and said in a shouted whisper, “Come on in, we’re still eating. No need to sneak about.” Bobby hadn’t even heard him coming and had no choice but to enter the church basement.   Bobby passed a large table covered with literature for a missionary outreach group in Haiti. These people weren’t radicals, it was worse – they were Lutherans and he was in a Lutheran church basement at supper time.

Chemical weapons would have been preferable. If he survived this evening that informant was in for a beating.   The man who’d surprised him at the door introduced himself, “I’m Lars Tegner. I’ll bet you’re here for some of Gladys’ famous meatballs. Come on over and get a plate.”   Trapped, Bobby couldn’t refuse. Lars took him to a serving table covered with chafing dishes heated with Sterno. This was the source of the smell. The three little women behind the table grabbed the lids from the dishes and served up a plate for him faster than he could say “Alka Seltzer.” Bobby looked on in horror as they scooped up congealed butter noodles, meatballs that had last been “fresh” when they were spat out of a machine in a factory in Montana 19 months before, and covered them with gravy that looked just like the oil in his crankase when the head gasket had blown on his 1990 Bronco II. This was the stuff you bought at Costco in the 8 gallon can that carried warnings about prolonged exposure to children and animals. No doubt marked “institutional use only” somewhere under the FDA certificate.   They added a dollop of lime green gelatin desert that was filled with cole slaw. The only saving grace was the cookie they pulled out of a giant bag. It didn’t look too bad considering its accomplices on the plate.  

Lars escorted him to a table and introduced him to everyone there – not a single one of them a day under 68. Bobby gave his name as Jeff Laughner. His partner would be getting all the mailings, not him.   Bobby said grace and was immediately handed a cup of coffee. At least that’s what they called it. It looked exactly like, tasted exactly like, and was the precise temperature that you would have if you left a 50 gallon drum of water out in the sun during July for precisely five hours and then added a single cup of stale instant coffee for flavor. You could practically see the individual molecules of coffee looking for each other without much luck.   Out of politeness he choked the meal down. About the time that the cookie had sucked the last drop of moisture out of his abused mouth someone rapped on the microphone and said, “Good evening, Saints!”   They were greeted with an enthusiastic “Back atcha, Steve.”   The misery rose a notch as a woman, probably Steve’s wife, grabbed a second microphone and the two began a banter with each other. Without warning they launched into an old hymn and the crowd enthusiastically joined ìn, largely off key.  

One of the women at the table shot Bobby a dirty look and pointed an arthritic finger at the 7th generation photocopy of the night’s hymns on the table next to him.   Bobby faked a song or two and that seemed to placate the woman. She hadn’t taken her gaze from him for so much as a second. She wanted to be sure he was properly enthusiastic.

Bobby was relieved when the music stopped and things quieted down for a moment.   The announcement from the podium brought about a shuffling of chairs as the elderly around him started to lurch from their seats, “Plenty of food for seconds, go grab a plate before we start the meeting.”   Bobby gave serious thought to fighting his way out of the room, but the sea of walkers and canes would no doubt trip him before he got out from between the tables. Nor would his .45 do him much good, too many of them. It wasn’t their fault that he had been given bad intelligence. Other than the food they were harmless souls engaged in God’s work. He was best off just blending and making a break when the meeting was done. But there was only so much he’d do for the United States of America, and having seconds went beyond the call.

He quietly sat with his hands folded over his belly pretending to be full. The fact was that the portions wouldn’t feed a child but it was too soon to count that blessing.  

Two seemingly endless hours later the meeting was over. They had prayed over the budget, handed out awards, read the list of members who had died the preceeding month (the longest part of the meeting), and assigned tasks for the upcoming month. Bobby, having given Jeff’s name and information, volunteered to make phone calls to the hearing impaired members and remind them of the next meeting. He’d probably burn in Hell for that but it amused him.   The meeting was formally dismissed, but before thirty seconds had passed, as he prepared to escape, one of the men came up and said, “You gotta get up. That chair needs to be stacked and your keyster in it ain’t helping us get the work done.”  

A greatful Bobby nodded his agreement and fled into the night. With any luck he could get his stomach pumped before the meatballs killed his intestinal tissue.

Murph the protector.

Please forgive the typos, working on a micro keyboard while travelling.

Today I went to see Murph the Protector in Florida. My mom, who knew nothing of Lt. Michael Murphy went with me. For those who are with my mom on this, he was a Navy S.E.A.L. who was killed in Afghanistan. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions during Operation Redwings.

Go see it. It’s a documentary about his life. It focuses on the man, not the fight that cost him his life. Men like this are so amazing. He was what I call a “Sheepdog” in some of my posts. Sheepdogs are the ones who protect the flock and take down the wolves that surround the sheep.

My mom described it as “inspiring.” I am so proud of men like this. I hope to be like that in my hour of testing. He was a good man, a guardian of the weak since he was a kid.

Take your children over the age of 14 to see it. If they can understand the basic concept of combat and won’t be freaked out it will teach them a lesson about how to live your life in a manner that God would approve. And the story has at least one miracle.

Are you a sheepdog? Do you care for the weak? Will you stand up, literally, in the face of fire for your fellow man?

Thank you to Michael Murphy and all those like him on the ramparts tonight.

Did I mention we’ve got a daughter?

Meet Yolencia. She’s beautiful.

Let me tell you a tale. Several tales.

My wife and I dont’ believe in coincidences. My friend Tracy Griffin calles them “Godincidences” and I think I’ll just keep on stealing that expression.

I do voice over work for radio and television as well as on-camera work and my roles as Santa Claus. Part of the fun of that job is never knowing when I’ll get paid. I trust my agents at Moore Creative and know they’ll get me top dollar and send it to me when they get paid. So I don’t worry about it beyond knowing what the product is for the spot. (Can’t do certain items because of conflict of interest with my day job, and some spots I wouldn’t do for moral reasons.) As a result, I sometimes am lax in asking what a job pays. I figure we all have a vested interest in treating each other well and when the check comes I’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Background now in place on that little tidbit, let me tell you about Yolencia. When we were in Haiti with KTIS and Healing Haiti in February this young girl became my friend in a fast way. She’s delightful and I felt an instant bond. So did my wife, Kip. We talked with Jeff Gacek, the founder of Healing Haiti about arranging to sponsor her until she turned 18 and had to head out into the real world beyond the gates of Grace Village. He let us know that they were working on that and soon we would be able to do it all on their website.

Time went by, the website got overhauled, and yesterday I decided to check and see if it was ready to take sponsorships. I went to the web, found that it was ready, but was surprised that the monthly amount to sponsor a child was different than what Jeff had told me. It was actually less than I’d planned on spending.

And then the dollar amount to sponsor Yolencia for one year hit me like a brick in the face. Earlier that day I’d gotten one of those random checks from my agents at Moore. It was substantial and for kind of an unusual dollar amount. That amount was the exact amount to sponsor her for one year. I sat there stunned and then read her profile again. Now I’m almost ready to cry. This precious child and I share the same date of birth – November 1st.

My wife and I took up sponsoring Yolencia on Tuesday. We’re too old and set in our ways to actually have children in our house. But we can help out from here and as soon as we both looked at it together we went for it. Ideally Yolencia will find a family to adopt her and love her like God meant it to be. In the meantime we’ll make ure she’s taken care of in Grace Village.

I’m trying to work it out so that we can make it happen for another child we met in Haiti as well. But I feel today as though I have a new child. A daughter in Haiti. A girl who will grow to be an exceptional woman unless I’m mistaken. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know that we’re her sponsors yet. But I couldn’t be more proud if my wife had carried her for 9 months.

God is working in my life. And my wife’s life. And in Yolencia’s life. She may never see the home where I live, but I will surely be back to her home at Grace Village in the coming years.

Are you ready to let God work in your life? Are you up to the challenge of taking on the sponsorship of one of those children at Grace Village? (I’d grab them all up myself if I had the money.) Will you open your heart to Haiti? I have, and I’m a better man today for it all. And I’ve got a new daughter as a bonus.

So, Yolencia- Hi! It’s Papa Noel and I’m proud to say that I’m your sponsor on this journey through life. I’ll be seeing you soon and I can’t wait for the three of us to sit down and have lunch together. In the meantime – we love you.