Training Wheels

I can’t get it out of my head. I can’t.

****

Christmas. I got a Monkey Wards Hawthorne spider bike. It was a golden metallic color. It had the raised chopper handlebars but no sissy bar for the banana seat. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. But I didn’t care; the tricycle days were long gone, and I felt like a big guy.

Of course, it had training wheels because it was my first two-wheeler. I didn’t know how to keep those things from hitting the ground, but I still rode every day there wasn’t any foul weather.

Finally, on a cloudy, cool spring day, I had been riding with the training wheels off the ground. They were raised just enough so that if I got off-balance, I could lean on one. I wasn’t doing that anymore and, being very brave considering how beaten down I was, I went up the driveway and inside the house to my father’s office. I was terrified of the man. He’d terrified me for years, as far back as I could remember. That goes to age two or three, which I still have memories of to this day. He would have me sit on his lap, but I would cry for mommy.

It was never just his belt. It was also his yelling, which often preceded the belt. Yes, fathers do beat their toddlers with belts. It leaves lash marks, too. Of course it does.

I was brave to voluntarily walk into his downstairs office and ask, “Daddy, I can ride, would you please take my training wheels off?”

He didn’t seem annoyed. He was building a trucking company up from scratch, and so busy that we kids knew to give him a wide berth when he was in the office. His temper was as short as it could be.

But he got some wrenches and came outside, trying to hurry up and get back to work. The training wheels off, he guided me by holding the rear of the seat, down the driveway to the street. He pushed me along to gather speed, then at some point he let go. I didn’t know exactly when I left him behind or how far he went. I rode a short way and turned around, expecting him to be watching and smiling. Or something.

He was already gone.

Nowhere in sight.

Back inside.

My gut fell. My heart fell. For a few minutes, he really was “daddy,” and I loved him despite everything he was, everything he had done. But he did not stay. He did not share my joy that I could ride. Didn’t show pride. No boy ever wants anything as much as a father’s pride in him.

He never said anything.

A friend later took a ride on the bike and broke the seat clean off. It wasn’t his fault the sissy bar was missing. That’s half of the support of a banana seat. My father was enraged. He hated my friend. My bike sat in a corner of the car port for a couple of years.

By then my older half brother Joe was staying there, along with Ed, the oldest of the half-siblings. Joe washed the bike, took steel wool to the rust spots on the chrome wheels, and put a new and better seat and a sissy bar on it. My brothers, from then on, were more like fathers to me than my real father. They became like dads.

There are little things in a child’s life that matter so much more than grownups think. I wish more fathers could be daddies. I wish their moments as daddies weren’t measured in minutes, and if you have or had one of those full time daddies, be grateful. Remember the good, remember the lessons he taught you, harsh though they felt at the time. Those lessons helped make you the unique, special person that you are. Thank God for having him.

I did go on to learn many things from my father, harsh lessons with very damaging consequences. Not only for myself, but every person I have encountered since, especially those I loved but wasn’t good enough to be close to. Being socially involved is difficult when everything you’ve learned adds up to the hardest and saddest truth of all: I trusted no one and made damn sure to prove myself not to be trustworthy. That’s complicated and sick. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s a life sentence.

I’ve struggled with that ever since. Push people away so they can’t hurt you. Hurt them first because you love them and it scares the devil out of you. Arm’s length. This far, no farther.

Someone says “Hi, Mike,” one day in high school. My response: “Fuck off.”

I don’t wonder why my girlfriends broke up with me.

I wonder how they ever got close and how they put up with me as long as they did.

All this is not because my dad turned back into a demonic father so quickly and wasn’t there to smile or say something positive the first time I rode without training wheels. It’s not that.

But it is a memory that I can’t get out of my head. I don’t cry; not for that.

I cry because the man who gave me a push my first time riding without training wheels was himself a casualty. He must have been very hurt and badly damaged to have done those terrible things. I weep for the kindness he was capable of, not the cruelty and abuse, and the passing of his life, and for the lonely ending he had.

Forgiveness is not about another person changing their ways. Most can’t do that. Forgiveness is about taking anything and everything good in you and, even if you still remember and are still haunted and hurt, letting go of your hatred and anger. It is about you. Not someone else. It has to come from your heart.

And maybe one day, hopefully before I die, I can forgive myself for being someone who had no fault in being hurt. I hold myself guilty of everything. It’s wrong. How do I manage that?

Training wheels. Do kids use those anymore?

I wonder.

Do kids even want or get bikes?

If you think being haunted like this is easy to get rid of, or that I want to be like this, then today might be a good day to look in the mirror. Don’t look at me, I’m just an asshole. Look at yourself. Your life. And then give thanks to God for all of the blessings you’ve had. And have. They’re there, you just have to look for them.

May God bless you and forgive you on this Easter weekend, and may you forgive yourself for the things you aren’t responsible for.

Be well my friends.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Satan has Entered the Building. Can You Fight Him Alone? There’s Another Way

I welcome you. I’m happy that you’re here.

You may not like what I am about to write, but it needs to be done.

This is necessary because you are playing host right now to the devil or his demons. And you don’t even know it.

Now, of course, Satan is not omnipresent, nor omniscient. He can’t be like God. The scripture is clear: God doesn’t need to know how many hairs there are growing on your scalp. He doesn’t need to count them, nor does He need angels to visit you to count them. He already knows.

And Satan does not know. If there’s one thing he does know, it is that ultimately, he will lose. Sure, he’s arrogant and prideful, but he chose to leave the service to God and, at some point, had to realize it was all futile.

What we humans need to be mindful of is that if we choose to follow Satan and the ways of the world, we are taking a loser as our master. If you do not turn away from him, accepting Jesus as the way, the truth, and the life, God will send you to Hell, a very real place of eternal suffering. You will not get a chance once it’s too late, when you’re dead, and you want to repent. Jesus will be furious, and He will in judgment show His terrible fury. You won’t see Him as a creature of love.

Just one of towering anger, unable and unwilling to give you a pass. He suffered and died in your place, paying the ransom for your soul, because you sinned. He probably won’t even ask you why you never acted to accept His payment for your sins, why you chose to turn away and live how you wanted to.

Even Christians will face His wrath. Because they received His good news and knew better than to sin, repeating the same evil acts over and over again. He will already know how you chose and everything that you have done.

You may not be going to a Satanist church, but you’re still carrying out his wishes. And if you think you are special, think again. You aren’t because, as an unrepentant sinner, you’re sickening to Him.

Revelation chapter 3 verse 16:

So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of My mouth.

God has no love or compassion to those who claim salvation but are too weak and fearful to tell the whole world out loud that He is your Master and that you have no other. You can’t wear a cross around your neck and act like a demon in public. You can’t sit outside and pretend to read a Bible; you have to do that in private but live openly the life of a true follower, believer, and Christian. I’m sad that so many will be lost in such a terrible mistake. Walk the walk, in the footsteps of Jesus, because many are those who need your example, just as there are many who will hate you.

When you choose to live the life God wants you to, beware. The enemies of God will pounce on you, saying and doing abusive things. You must have faith, because no matter what is done to you in His name, and in service to Him, you will be blessed. The one thing I wish more pastors would do is to warn that the Christian must not look forward to Heaven, only to forget that down here on earth, there is so much to do. Hard work. Saving the poor, the sick, the sufferers of warfare, poverty, and much more. Those who are weak in spirit, who have only known a life of severe abuse or being surrounded by enemies, marauders, and soldiers, they need help.

Many need psychological help and support, and maybe they get it, but usually not. You can help. You don’t need certificates to be someone’s friend. You don’t have to understand what they have been through. All they need from you is unconditional love. That’s it. It can’t be contingent on any one or more things; you love or you don’t.

As I’ve written above, we can’t be lukewarm. Hot or cold, pick one. Either you’re lit by a soul burning bright with love for God and your fellow humans, your brothers and sisters, or you’re ice-cold, a layer of ice with indigo beneath, hinting at an even deeper cold further down. But being neither is far worse. That’s owned by people who know better but don’t act on what’s right. They really can’t be counted as anything except fuel for the fires of damnation.

If you truly love your Father, the Lord, then you will be guided by the Holy Spirit. You’ll know what to do. Who to help. Because so far, I believe that anyone who has the Spirit is capable of so much, but…

We aren’t doing enough. And the mission never ends. Until that great and terrible day of the judgment, we may not stop. Not for any reason. Didn’t you understand that part? Accepting Christ calls us to take up a cross and follow Him. Who do you know who does that?

I feel strongly compelled to return to church. That doesn’t make me look like a Christian because many doomed people go there. I need it for my soul. But I intend to live my last days in compliance with God’s grace and in His service.

We are all sinners. In Romans chapter 6 verse 23, Paul wrote,

²³For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

And we have all earned the death of a sinner. To be truly saved, we must first hate, feel shame, and be ready to abandon things that we have chosen over God.

To feel true shame, you have to look hard at your past and feel hate for your sins. You have to first feel shame.

I don’t like seeing people suffer. I don’t like hateful behavior. But if we really stop to think about it, you and I, we can’t stop the evil and the suffering. But combined with others, we can make a difference.

A small prayer even helps, and we can manage that. Did you ever wonder why Jesus said that we should love our enemies and be kind to those who use us?

It’s the essence of forgiveness. Praying for those who have deeply injured you is a very Godly thing. Think of how, after saying this, He was brutally beaten and then crucified. What did he say? It was a prayer. To His “Abba,” an intimate name for “Father,” he prayed for God to forgive the men who crucified him and mocked him. That’s how He wants us to forgive.

Remember what God did for you by sending his one, begotten Son. Remember how Jesus suffered in the garden as He realized that the worst kind of death was mere hours away, yet He went through with it anyway. He sweat blood as He prayed, torn with fear and grief, probably being given visions of what was ahead. He wept, and his sking was wet with perspiration and blood. He asked His Abba to take the bitter cup away so that He would not have to drink. But then He said, “As you will, not me.” It was a choice.

He had come for this. It was his mission. The final act was horrifying. But He endured. For those who had killed him, he asked the Father to forgive. For you, he died and then proved that in His faith, and in service to Him, we will not die but live on in spirit. He did not stay dead. He returned to show that death can’t claim a true follower of His.

Here we are. We’re at a crossroads, you and I. Set upon by Satan and his demons at every turn, as soon as our guard is down. You and I are surrounded. Demons, I assure you, are terrifyingly all too real. There’s only one way to fight them. That’s prayer. Not burning sage, putting salt around your doorways, not consulting witches, psychics, or shamans. Not by playing Gregorian chants. Not by spraying blessed oil or holy water.

Faith, powered by prayer, that’s all you need. Demons scatter when we pray; they can’t stand it.

Do what you can do for others, holding nothing back. Help people. Pray for them, and for your own forgiveness. When you are not right with God, your prayers may be heard, but once you’ve sincerely asked forgiveness of God, your prayers, the scripture says, “availeth much.”

I’ll pray for you, and I hope that you can make the decision to take the extraordinary offer of the grace of God through Christ Jesus, who died in your place.

May the Lord bless you and keep you safe this week, and if you can, try to go to church next Sunday. It is the place to go to learn, pray, and have the support of other Christians. Goodnight, and thank you for the visit.

Reunion

Yesterday, I had the most amazing experience: I had dinner with my previously estranged family. Two brothers, the wife of one of them, one nephew and his wife and daughter. Yup. My nephew is about to be a grandfather.

I’m not going to go back and look through the archives of my dead site to find the post where I wrote about them so horribly. Nor am I inclined to go back in this site’s archives to read more mean things I wrote.

I’ve only recently become aware that when I started this blog, I was a different man. In 2018, on Valentine’s Day, my son was found dead. Cause of death: fentanyl overdose. And my daughter was already gone, having drowned in 2012. I knew this call would come. Unlike my daughter’s death, which I never saw coming, I knew my son was doomed, and dreaded getting that one kind of phone call that every parent either does, or should, fear.

For days, I was numb. In shock. And when I finally got round to telling family, I took their lack of response (or the kind that I thought they should have) as uncaring and unsympathetic. I had brushed Death and been delivered by a higher power so many times that I can never count them all, yet both of my children were gone. And maybe I wasn’t the greatest father ever, but I was a dad. After years of blaming myself, I’ve come to realize that their deaths weren’t my fault.

Drugs, disease and loneliness; pain and a broken heart have more ability to steal life than any parent has to save it. I’m sorry for that. The saying that no parent should have to outlive their children is used so much that, until you’ve been there, you cannot know how true it is.

By the fall of 2018, one of our family get-togethers was upon me. I got texts and flipped out. What could I say to such people I loved but imagined didn’t care for what I was going through? And I wrote back some nasty stuff, and told them that they would never see me again.

Then, much later, it came time for me to get exactly how evil I had been. I don’t feel that I was selfish, just….evil. when your heart is broken, what can you do?

After my son was gone, I went crazy.

Then I went to Hell.

Having turned my back on family without giving them the chance to see me in person, to hold me in their arms and cry with me, I had one person left who worked hard to keep me grounded until my sanity came trickling back into my brain. She put up with so much for so long that those phone calls, by my estimate, did more than save my last threads of sanity; they saved my life.

And, perhaps, my soul.

We’ve never met. But she has saved me before. Part of me really wants to believe that she’s an angel.

So the time came for my brother to come to town after COVID-19 had kept him grounded. He said he was going to call my other brother; that made me nervous but hell. It was time. I had to mend at least part of the fence.

But then he added others to the list.

***

Lemme tell you about PTSD and one of its never-discussed symptoms. IBSD, or irritable bowel syndrome with the prevalent and humiliating sudden diarrhea that sometimes, under stress, cannot be held back.

That’s right: you’re not alone. It was hours to go before he would pick me up, but before I could dose myself with Imodium and clonazepam, disaster struck. No warning given. I almost made it to the toilet but hey, don’t be grossed out. I call it “shit happens”. I know, “Shut the fuck up, Mikey,” but it is a part of life for many people and these things should be freely discussed. Especially with doctors. PTSD is an incurable mental illness and this wasn’t my first miss. I’ve had it since childhood. And look: there’s no way to stop every symptom. Not with medication and not with therapy. I just watch what I eat and drink, and before going into a stressful situation, take the above-mentioned drugs.

After showering, it was time.

My big brother and I embraced, years of missing each other keenly felt. I almost cried.

I held that back. I hate crying.

We window-shopped at the mall to kill time, and I’m telling you true, that was good medicine after years of avoiding crowds and people. The smell of new clothes and fresh leather awoke in me a love of people I had never appreciated before. One woman tending a display in a store, a black woman with the most gorgeous hair, caught my eye; I complimented her on it and she gave a startled but pleasant “Thank you!” and that is not something I have been known to do. I’m a different man, and complimenting beautiful women comes naturally now; not in a condescending or solicitous manner but in genuine sincerity. And they know it. My day was made for the second time.

Dinner was awkward for me. I apologized for the things I had said, but I was assured that it had all been understood as soon as I had said it. I was always family and that was it. My nephew knows me, sees me as few others have, and when it was time to part company and we embraced, he whispered, “We’re Smiths. We know how this works. Don’t sweat the small things and take care of yourself. We’ll always understand, and I love you, and I’ve really missed you.”

That’s family. His wife is funny, wise and the picture of beauty and loyalty. His daughter will be due to deliver quite soon, so she suffers things I can’t imagine, and both brothers are plain hilarious, my sister-in-law witty and funny like everyone else. I think my best moment was when my brother was struggling to cut loose a potato skin and I whipped out a switch blade and offered to help. Illegal weapons always light up a party.

Well, that’s it. No names, no pictures; I defend the right to their privacy. I just couldn’t wait to tell you that I’ve actually healed, if just a little, or, at least, changed into a better man than I remember being. And I have my family back. And I’m grateful to God for them, and anxious to see them again, along with a few who weren’t there. Forgiveness from others is magical; Forgiveness of oneself only possible for me because of God. But it, like love, is powerful and sweet.