Silent Shadow

People often marvel at how quiet I am. They tell me to lighten up, or that I take myself too seriously, or that I need to talk more. My responses vary depending on who I'm talking to, but range from a grunt ("Huh, yeah") to a cutting quip ("That's just because I communicate so efficiently I only have to say ten percent of the words you do") to a rhetoric piece citing university studies and Scripture, with a couple of quotable quotes thrown in ("Researchers have shown that many talkative people are only talkative for one of two reasons: vanity or insecurity. I suffer from neither. The Bible says, 'Even a fool, when he keeps silent, is considered wise; when he closes his lips, he is considered prudent.' Mark Twain summed it up nicely: 'It is far better to remain silent and appear a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.'")

Truth be told, though, I wonder sometimes, too. I think for the past year or so, it has been a function of my job. I'm getting a bit more adept at it now, but for months I've worked on the art (which is more of a laborious chore for me) of making small talk with people. I mean, I don't have to make small talk, but people generally get a little antsy when a police officer stands there and stares at them for minutes on end, so I make a go of it.

And so, I find something to talk about. If I'm scrutinizing them, it might be about how much they've had to drink. If I'm just getting information, it might be about...well, anything I can manage, to be honest. And so for ten hours a day, four days a week, I struggle to manufacture pointless conversation to keep people somewhat relaxed. The problem doesn't lie there anymore...the problem is going home.

You see, after all of this pointless chatter, I'm done. Sometimes I feel like I'm one of those airheaded girls in the mall on her cellphone, bobbing her head side to side as she gnaws on gum and injects her stream of inane blather with random occurrences of 'like,' 'totally,' and 'ohmigod':

"I was, like, down at the gas station yesterday *chew chew*, and, like, ohmigod, this guy totally butted in front of me in line! *chew* And I was like, 'Uh, like, excuse me!' And then the guy made some, like, lame excuse about his wife being in labor, or something stupid like that, and totally, like, ohmigod, blew me off!"

Because there are some things I say so often that I just go into macro mode. I initiate the sequence and words just start spilling out. There's the shoplifter sequence:

"Okay, I need to get your side of the story, but before I do that, I need to read your rights to you. This doesn't mean you're under arrest right now, I just need to advise you of your rights when you're talking to me, so listen carefully..."

The aw-shucks-gotta-give-you-a-ticket sequence:

"Okay sir/ma'am, there's your paperwork back; unfortunately, I am going to have to cite you for _________. There's more information on this envelope. You also ___________, but I'm just going to give you a warning on that this evening. I do need some information from you..."

And the accident sequence:

"Okay, here's your license and insurance back. This is the case number I'll be writing the accident report under; it'll be available in three to five days on the city's website, listed here at the bottom of the slip. If you go there, you'll see a pane on the left with an option to view accident reports...just click on that, enter your report number, and you'll be able to see a full copy of the accident report - everything I know will be on that report. Basically, though, if you just give this report number to your insurance agent, they can take care of everything behind the scenes...it's pretty hands off for you. Do you have any questions for me?"

So when I go home, not only do I not want to talk, I don't even want to listen. All night long I listen, to excuses through drivers' windows, to whiny teenagers in loss prevention offices, to a constant stream of radio traffic. I just want a nice, sensory free environment, where I'm free to listen to ambient noises like distant trains and computer fans and the slight whistle my nostrils make when I breathe.

Unfortunately, this is exactly the opposite of what Kimberly wants. While I'm at work gathering reasons why I do not want to talk or listen, she is at school gathering reasons to speak and be heard. She gathers observations and wants to share them with me; I gather observations and wish I didn't even know them. So, as you can imagine, more often that not this dynamic makes for a delicious little conversational impasse.

Beyond the job, though, I've just got a threshold thing. If I say something, more often than not I've already said it two or three times in my head, carefully parsing exactly what words I want to use. This is why I'm awful at comebacks - I always craft an impossibly witty response, but it's invariably about ninety seconds after you said your piece, by which time the moment has almost always passed. Everything's got to be a magnum opus with me.

Maybe deep down, though, it's just a defensive thing. Words are always clues - they're insights into someone's makeup, no matter how seemingly insignificant. The words I use and the way I say them give you information about how I tick. I guess in some microscopic way, that gives you power over me, and I resent it. I also know that you can't unspeak a word. There are a lot I wish I could wring out of the air. The written word is inherently destructible - paper is flammable and bytes are corruptible. If I decide I don't want you to see the very words you're reading in a week's time, you won't, and I can deny they ever existed. And while it's true that nothing published to the Internet is ever truly deleted, I can definitely make retrieval beyond your means.

So why do I talk so little? Probably because most people talk so much. I prefer to think. Few people think too much. It gives you a calm sense of focus. If everyone in a situation is talking, the cacophony is logic-blinding. If everyone is thinking, things begin to sharpen in resolution. I am out talking to people a great deal, but between dealings I have a respite in my patrol car. Even in stressful situations, I can still function because nobody is breathing demands in my ear. (This is probably why I so often tanked so hard in Field Training.)

I simply begin to assimilate data. 'I should turn my lights and sirens on. Check for traffic. I am going 130 miles per hour. The ice cream shop is open. The suspension is beginning to float. I wonder what would happen if I hit a raccoon at this speed. Check for traffic. A blowout would be really unfortunate here. That car has one headlight dimmer than the other. Hit the airhorn at the intersection. Check for traffic. Why does this person think they should stop right in front of me when I'm running code? There are three officers on scene now. Primrose turns into Westview west of Campbell. License plate begins with ADZ. Check for traffic.'

Struggle that it is, though, I still need to work on it. Kimberly deserves an ear and a shoulder, and my friends deserve more than silent ruminating and nods in passing. Silence is ultimately the cloak that veils everything about me except what I want you to see - the identity that I have so very carefully crafted. It's an extremely heavy garment at times, but it's comfortable, and it's what I've always worn.

Marvel if you like. But no matter how much you talk, you're wearing one, too.

Inoculating Against Reality

As a police officer, you're trained to look for patterns in behavior. This is often difficult, but not last night. The first four calls I went to last night involved intoxicated people. People driving into trees while intoxicated. Stumbling through parking lots while intoxicated. Lying on a sidewalk while intoxicated. Slamming into other vehicles while intoxicated. The allure of alcohol, I understand. The allure of drunkenness, I do not. Yet every night I see people defying what I consider perfectly sound logic. Logic that says, hey, if you're ignorant enough to drive drunk, at least stop driving after the first curb you run over. If you can't stand up, maybe you shouldn't attempt to walk. And if you don't have clean clothes or anywhere to stay, perhaps booze shouldn't be on your ought-to-purchase list.

For hours last night, inner Justin shook his head and rolled his eyes and tsk-tsked these people who couldn't negotiate those challenging sidewalks or use established parking lot exits or hold their bladder. As I later reflected on their choices, though, I realized something. They're not especially unique - they're just the poster children. Their means are decidedly liquid in nature, but they are only doing what we all do at some point or another: inoculating against reality.

Think about it. What are we told by marketers every day? We need to escape. We deserve to get away from it all. We need to lose ourselves in whatever they're selling. There is this perpetual idea that other is better. Somewhere else would be more exciting. Someone else would suit you better. Something else would provide more fulfillment. And we buy into it. Whether it's a vacation or a drug, a shopping trip or a porno, it seems we want to be anywhere but here.

And I'm often just as guilty as anyone else. But here is good.

In our fevered quest for other things, we tend to forget about the magic of here. We inhale meals that should be contemplated and savored. We take for granted people whom we should be learning and enjoying. We despise the quiet and the humble in favor of the flashy and the ostentatious. The blessings in favor of the fantasies. The real in favor of chasing the wind. We don't know our neighbors. We don't know our spouses.

We don't know ourselves.

I was in Colorado Springs with Kimberly a few weeks ago, and I was wanting to get some of the weather conditions for Pike's Peak. I flipped the television on, and was quickly courted by a commercial imploring me to visit beautiful...Missouri. I realized we all live in someone else's vacation destination. Live like it. Enjoy the vicissitudes of everyday life. Cherish the people around you. And quit sheltering yourself from real life.

"Don't worry about life. You're not going to survive it anyway." -- Unknown

Mirrored Expectations

(I probably ought to apologize for not posting anything for almost four years. And I would, if I had more devotees than limbs. But I don't, so I won't.)

I didn't expect much from the day.

I drove down to Dora on Sunday to preach at Needmore. I really wasn't expecting much out of the trip. I had about 48 hours' notice, so I didn't expect the sermon to go over especially well, and I figured I'd grab a bite with the family and hit the road to come back home. Thankfully, for once, I was wrong.

I struck out at around seven in the morning to great weather. After a fill up at the gas station, I was on the road. Road trips are actually a delight now thanks to my Slacker G2 - I was listening to great stuff from Ben Folds, Jimmy Eat World, and Metric. I rolled into Mountain Grove and realized I was pretty early, so I decided to stop and grab a bite.

I initially hit the left lane to go to Wal-Mart, but then I remembered the Country Mart just off the highway. I decided I didn't want to trek over five acres of Discount City for a cheese danish, so I veered right instead. I hopped out and went inside, expecting to settle for a premade pastry of some sort. As I walked in, I noticed the deli was on the west side of the building, and I thought, 'It would be cool if the deli was open.' Then, to my surprise, I saw the deli was open. I wandered over and found the next of the day's many delights: hot biscuits and sausage gravy, just waiting to be ordered. Not the cardboard hockey pucks covered with runny flour-water most places pass off as biscuits and gravy, but homemade biscuits with fresh, thick sausage gravy.

I asked for two biscuits with gravy and braced myself for the cost. I knew the flour-water pucks across the street at McDonald's were relatively expensive compared to the rest of the menu, so I could only imagine what these things would cost. The answer? Two bucks. I rarely smile when relinquishing money, but I couldn't help it. I ate them with joy in my car while I listened to a little old-school Silverchair.

I eventually found my way to Dora and the Needmore Church of God. From infancy to the time I was twenty years old, this was my church. I spent hours in that building being formed into who I am today, learning the old hymns of the church, the poetry of the psalms, and the power of quiet faith in simple people. I often balk at the idea that I could ever tell these people anything about how to live their lives, but they are kind enough to listen to me, anyway.

I only had a couple of days' notice, so I only had a six by eight legal pad scrawled with rough notes of what I wanted to say. I was fully expecting to burn through my material in ten minutes and to be forced to retreat to my notes over and over. To my happy surprise, though, I relaxed and just talked to everyone like the friends they were, and didn't have any problems with time or content.

After church the family gathered at Mom and Dad's house for barbecue, where I had my fill, of course. Then in the afternoon I decided to head out for a spin on the ATV. I buzzed around and got to one of the river bottoms, and this is where I had a realization. I had to swim.

I had changed into board shorts at the house, and it was way over ninety degrees. The water looked deliciously refreshing. I decided to go to one of my favorite swimming holes and take a dip (thanks to Kyle Kosovich for the picture). Silly me, though, forgot the undergrowth had already erupted in the woods this late in June. Thus I found there was suddenly a ticket price to get to my swim: sweat and pain.

I pulled the ATV off the dirt road and parked it in the weeds. As I looked, though, I realized they weren't benign greenery. They were the dreaded stinging weeds of the forested river bottom. If you've never walked through a thicket of them in bare legs...well, you're better off. I decided I would not be deterred, though. I high stepped through them Deion Sanders-style, then got to the small brook that empties into the river. I slogged and splashed though, sometimes deftly leaping log to log, sometimes plowing through thigh-deep water, but always pressing forward. After nearly breaking my face when a half-rotten log snapped in half under me, and after vaulting over a fallen log that likely grew up the same time my grandparents did, the ravine I was in opened up to the spectacular view of the Martin Ford shoal shimmering in the Bryant River valley.

I sloshed through the water of the shoal, which was easily twenty or thirty degrees warmer than the spring water I'd just left in the ravine. I stripped off my shirt, because that's just how you do, and my watch, because I really didn't care, and dove into the water. Standing neck deep in the river's water, I drew deep the aroma of my favorite smell on the earth: the scent of the river at the water's surface. Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about; others of you have no idea. If you don't, there's no way I can describe it to you. It doesn't smell like anything else, and it is what it is. For me, it's one of those smells that removes you from your present circumstance and takes you back to years gone by. It reminded me of a time when the most important decision I might make in a day's time was whether or not I wanted more mashed potatoes. As I exhaled that sweet breath, I settled into a sense of contentment and belonging. I settled, ultimately, into a worship experience.

There, alone in that lapping water, so removed that literally nobody could have heard me scream, I had the distinct feeling come over me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. There were thousands of places I could have been, but only one where I should have been, and that was in that water. I looked around at the leaves lush on the trees, the minnows flickering within six inches of me, the dragonfly hovering delicately above the water's surface. I felt torn by my own presence - somehow guilty of interrupting the symphony of circumstance swelling around me, yet assured of the fact that I somehow needed to participate in it, to allow myself to be a small part of it.

As I bobbed in the water, though, I wondered how on earth I was enjoying myself. I had another bout with the stinging weeds to look forward to. I was being attacked by mosquitoes bigger than horseflies and horseflies bigger than...well, bigger than they needed to be. I had crashed through stagnant, frigid water, listening to unknown critters scurrying in the underbrush around me, only to get to the river and pick about a dozen biting ticks off of my legs. Most would have declined to take the trip, and the rest wouldn't have enjoyed themselves once they got there. I mean, I was taking deep breaths, walking around neck deep in sediment-laced river water, for God's sake.

But I cherish that water. The journey was composed of steps worth taking.

I think there are ultimately a lot of things in life we cherish, or would cherish if we could. Invariably, though, things crop up in your path. People buzz around you threatening to drain the life out of you. Stagnation threatens to discourage your steps. Parasites attach themselves to you and consume your resources. The issue we must face is whether the journey to our goal is composed of steps worth taking. I know mine certainly was. For in that current, in that moment, I was allowed a sage's wisdom and a child's joy.

The sun's long rays bid me leave that emerald pool, and suddenly I was six years old again, begrudgingly trudging out of the water, which was already becoming palpably cooler. I took one last dip, finding a sturdy rock in the swift water of the shoal and holding myself under the surface, feeling the force of the water undulating and pulsing around me as I'd done countless times in my youth. At long last, I arose, heading back for the ravine. Before I plunged into its shadows, though, I paused and looked back.

The sun's light was beginning to take on a tangerine glow as it prepared to set, its warmth softly glinting upon the peaks of the undulating water. It was the bittersweet parting of one friend who must stay and another who must go. I silently promised my return and departed from a friend who will never leave me. I mounted my steed of steel and zipped back between the trees, splashing through standing water and relishing the abandon I thought I was too jaded to ever feel again.

I didn't expect much from the day. Little did I know that the day expected a lot from me.