Before Singing AMAZING GRACE At The Funeral For Jonathon Aguirre

(*Written on the flight to Colorado in lieu of sleep. I was not sure if I would be able to say anything, but felt the need to put pen to paper for a few brief but heartfelt words. I kept it short though my affection goes long into the night.)

"This song of grace is my prayer for Chuck and Josephine, for my Uncle Ben and Aunt Virginia, for Michelle, Rachel, Desi, Brian, Deborah and Joseph. It is my prayer for each one of us here, family member, friend and acquaintance, who grieves the terrible loss of Jonathon Aguirre -- a young man with whom my entire family fell in love, based on the pure merits of his heart, charm and energy.

In Ephesians 4, verse 7, Paul tells us that grace is given to each one of us according to the measure of Christ's gift. I was personally impressed with how well Jonathon exercised Christ's precious gifts. I believe that in the days, weeks and months to come, everlasting grace will heal the broken hearts before me. They will cling to the countless pleasurable memories of an exceptional young man.

With his brightness of being, his endless capacity for humor, his penchant for self discipline, and his sheer joy for all the good and simple things in this life, Jonathon Aguirre managed to accomplish at the age of 19 what few of us ever figure out given a much longer existence.

This is his legacy. If we but live out one aspect of his person, we honor him and we honor the exemplary efforts of his parents and grandparents, who should feel justifiably proud even in the midst of their present sorrows. For through their love and parenting, they gifted the world for a brief but glorious time with a radiant light, a handsome star now belonging to the [His] heavens."

LYRICS FOR AMAZING GRACE

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.

GARY - A Wordless Playground Story

"Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in 'sadness,' 'joy,' or 'regret.' Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train car constructions like, say 'the happiness which attends disaster.' " --Calliope/Cal Stephanides, heroine/hero of MIDDLESEX by Jeffrey Eugenides

This passage caught me, held me, whispered its truth in my ear even as my eyes read, and reread, the lines copied here and those beyond. (Page 217 in the 'Home Movies' chapter of Book Two if you are interested past this blurb.) It if difficult to lasso a single word, throw it down on the page, and have it cry out the fullness of feeling in a moment, within a heart, in a chain of events confined to a single day yet encompassing a complexity of expression all along the vast spectrum of human emotion. For instance, how can death rub shoulders with pleasure in the space of an hour and coexist? Why does alarm co-mingle with relief and not cause guilt? These are compound feelings requiring compound descriptions. Though my love runs deep for specific single words, I realize that single words are isolating and limiting at best. Even with the most audacious of authors, the most passionate of pens, some element of the human experience is lost in the translation.

In a recent letter from Gary, he wrote concerning the mailed copies of my blog which he had read. He lamented over his inability to find enough adjectives to fill out his writings for the blog. He wished he possessed a style more like mine. He felt his words were inadequate. With great haste, I addressed and stamped a letter downplaying his misgivings, alleviating his doubts, assuring him that his STYLE was just fine. His descriptions were more than adequate as he writes in the most natural of ways about hybrid emotions without purposely seeking to do so. His experiences have laid the wooden slats for a swaying span of bridge which extends from his life, over a valley of tumultuous memories and troubled waters, and into the land of my life, the lives of my readers, of OUR readers. Across this expanse we are all able to meet in the middle, balancing against the rocking, steadying ourselves in the midst of unfamiliar but accessible territory.

Forget single adjectives. Tell us your story, Gary.

September 28, 2009

When I was twenty-two years old, I was at a prison in Sacramento (actually Represa, CA) called New Folsom -- at least by everyone I know. I was young, dumb, inexperienced, and addicted to heroin.

I had a job in the main kitchen & went to work five days a week at noon. My life, for a guy starting a thirteen-year sentence, was okay. I really didn't see myself living to see freedom again. Didn't much care, really. It's hard to explain that feeling, that mindset. I hope never to feel that way again. Maybe even forget it.

So, I come out for work one day. We all gotta stand around outside for the work-change, 'til they open up & process us. My work-dog, Joker from San Fernando Valley, is squatted down out front, smokin' a cigarette. I squat down next to him & ask him what's up. It was pretty quiet on the yard, a little tense, but not unusually so.

I started to jump up & go holler at a partner of mine in front of one-block, and Joker snatched my arm & told me to sit down & keep still. The blacks had something going on.

So I watch, and I see two blacks walk by, one of whom I work with & talk to every day. They stop in front of one-block, in front of two more blacks, and one of them, my co-worker, pulls out a knife, raises it way up high, and stabs this dude in the chest.

I will never forget the way that guy dropped. Exactly like if you were to hold a rag doll upright and suddenly let it go. He literally folded like a string puppet cut loose.

"That fool's dead, youngster," Joker told me. I watched that kid chase the other guy up the hill, across the yard, wielding that bloody knife. My eyes were steadily drawn to the body of the victim. He was lying in the most awkward position, dead & still.

The guy I worked with was my age, doing a life sentence. I guess he didn't too much give a shit, either.

We went to work. I got even more loaded than I was at the time, & when we got off that night, I had to walk around the crime scene tape to get into one-block where I lived. There was a blood stain on the concrete, but that was all.

I had never witnessed a murder. Never did again, though I saw a lot of attempts. I've sat & listened to guys tell stories and make light of all kinds of terrible things. It's usually the prevailing attitude. There's nothing light about that bloodstain, all that was left of that guy.

I noticed, during my short time out there (he refers to his 3 weeks of freedom in October of last year) that prison shows, documentaries, interviews, etc. are popular [with free folks]. They talk to guards, wardens, etc. and they pretty much all say what savage pieces of shit we are. I wonder how many of them could live my life? How long 'til they tapped out?

I heard somewhere that you can judge a society on how they treat their prisoners. Welcome to America. You know how many times I've seen guards do things as bad or worse than what many inmates are in prison for? I've been thrown down stairs while handcuffed, pepper sprayed, shot with block guns & generally battered around many times. Woo! Hoo! What fun.

California is on the verge of bankruptcy, yet they pay babysitters of us [us - 'prisoners'] wages far, far higher than teachers or actual police officers. How can that be?

All these years I've been seeing psyche people, and they never gave me the tests, or talked to me in the manner that a doctor recently was able to figure out a diagnosis for me in a matter of about eight hours. Now they're gonna send me to another institution when they figure out how to get it done, & stop 'continuing' the matter [in successive court hearings]. When a judge orders ME to do something, I get locked up if I don't obey. When he orders someone who's not a scumbag convict, but an officer of the court or whatever, they get to drag their feet & lolly gag with no punishment whatsoever.

That's the world I live in. I'm trying to learn how to be better, but my patience is wearing thin. I feel like that bloodstain . . .

I Should Be Sleeping

I'm in South Carolina, stylishly ensconced in a posh beach resort courtesy of half-off rates I stumbled across while perusing 'Hotels.com' for . . . well, hotels. A resort just yards from the white sand along the Isle of Palms strip of the Atlantic Ocean never crossed my fiscally conservative mind as an option. And, then in a display of online providence, the proper combination of website advertising, pricing and need culminated in a mental explosion, decision, purchase, which led me, my husband and my son to the Wild Dunes Resort on one of the many small islands dotting the harbor town of Charleston where, incidentally, the first official battle of The Civil War was fought. (The Confederates won and held their position until just days before the North emerged victorious in the overall struggle.)

In the main, we had a swell time. Sunrise on the beach was all you'd think it was cracked up to be. A molten sun spilled rich color, reminiscent of ripe fig and peach, across the gentle waves of the morning sea and led right to where we stood in awe of the sight. Of course, compulsive girl that I am, I recorded it on digital camera and cell phone and IPHONE, sending text messages out to a few chosen friends and family as the scene unfolded. (Maybe there should be a TAKE 2 in eight hours and 21 minutes without the tourist aspect. Just me, my God and the natural tableau which allows day to usurp night.)

However, this is not a forum for extolling the virtues of the 'Fall Break Impromptu Getaway.' Though, it's not the worst idea I ever had. Nor is it a free endorsement for 'Wild Dunes' -- though they give real meaning to truth-in-advertising. What this is, as I sit in the dark of the living room in our 1-bedroom well-appointed semi-condo room with palm trees just outside our terrace, while my two men slumber in the aftermath of prime college football viewing with bellies yet swollen from a pizza-and-dessert gorge at Whole Foods Market, is a painfully sharp contrast to the end-of-the-day being had by people we love living half a country away from us at present.

While we cruised the bicycle paths up and down the incredible streets of our island getaway on rental bikes, our cell phones were busily ringing and beeping and vibrating within our backpack of trip necessities. I told my main man to leave them be. They'd still be there when we completed our tour of colorfully fantastic beach homes and lazy lagoons full of turtles and wading fowl. But, the sounds of technology would not cease and my husband could not long endure the thoughts of concern over their frequency.

On both of our mini-screens were missed calls from his mother and brother. Not a good sign as they knew we were on vacation and would not chat us up without good reason. Oh, how I wish that had not been the case. The one side of the conversation my son and I witnessed stirred a deep sense of unease within us. The news relayed doused all fires of fun and frolic: someone had died.

Early this Saturday morning, on a road leading into Walsenburg, Colorado, black ice conspired with the wheels of a vehicle to convey a young man of nineteen years to his death as he made his way from college to his parents' home for the weekend. Jonathon Aguirre, son to Chuck and Josephine Aguirre, brother to Michelle, Rachel, DesiRae, Bryan, Debra and Joseph, grandson to Ben and Virginia Aragon, nephew to Juanita Aragon, relative and friend to countless, met his end in a lonely random car accident. Because he was late and they were worried, his mother and father ventured out in search of him and happened upon the scene just moments after he was pulled from the driver's seat and swiftly escorted to the local hospital. He was most likely killed upon impact. A small blessing to consider that he did not suffer. We look where we can for any consolation available at such dark times as these.

This kid . . . he was special. Truly. These are not the post-mortem superlatives of a grieving cousin. I say he was exactly what he was in life and will be remembered as such long past his death. He liked and was well-liked. You'd wish him to be the visitor at your table for any occasion. He was a cure for the rainy-day blues. Smiles and laughter seemed to originate from the center of his being in a never-ending supply available to any and all at no charge. Baseball was his passion. He played it well and with vigor. His sense of discipline was impressive in one so young: he cared for his body through food and exercise as though he believed it to be the temple the Lord says it is. Though distance kept us from seeing him often, the time in which we collectively shared space and conversation was so memorable that we replayed our impressions of him over and over again. My kids found him charming; my middle daughter thought him worthy to date had there not been blood between them.

We last basked in the glow of his attention during our vacation in July of this year. At one point, I wandered away from the kitchen at our Aunt Donna's house only to return fifteen minutes later. Jonathon glanced my way, that wide red smile in place, and exclaimed, "Where'd you go? Sit down here. I want to visit with you!" Now, I wish I'd spent the entire evening sitting at that old oak table with him. Later that night, I lovingly and firmly ordered the entire Aguirre troupe to pose on the newly-erected porch steps of the house on the family hill for a group photo. Jonathon thought it the perfect ending to a festive evening. You can see it in his face when you look at the picture. When we set foot in the 'Boro, I plan on enlarging that shot and framing it for his parents. Never have I been more pleased to be the annoying point-aim-and-shooter of our large clan.

I want them to know they did well. By them, I mean his mom and dad. That should extend to his grandparents, too, as he and his siblings grew up in their home. They worked hard raising those children, with Jonathon as number three, and they heaped love and attention in massive amounts. He represented the Aguirre family well and naturally. He loved each and every one of his siblings in a very openly affectionate manner. Their closeness was noticed by all of us cousins. I can not bear to imagine the hole his untimely passing has left in each of their hearts. I pray the Lord's grace upon them at this time. I pray the countless healing tears will fall and soothe the seemingly endless ache within. I pray time, family and friends will facilitate healing in the days, weeks, months and years which follow the initial shock of this tragedy.

Though intimately acquainted with the agony which accompanies the sudden unanticipated loss of children, I've not lost my own. Whatever contemplations I've entertained in the past few years can not begin to taste as bitter as the draught which has been forced on Josephine and Chuck. I share a mother's grief with this mother of seven. People often say it must be easier to bear a child's death when there are more children yet left. I don't agree. She has merely magnified maternal feelings seven-fold . . . her mourning is thus magnified to this same extent.

I yearn to bear at least one-fold of this burden for a woman who has lost the first son of her womb and of her heart. And, I'm intensely sorry for the loss this planet endures in losing one of its finest persons. We are all dimmed in his absence.

Godspeed, Jons.

GARY - Inked

September 18th of 2009

I always have tattoo ink on me, my fingers stained, my pants smeared from wiping my hands. Shirts? Fuhgeddaboutit. Dots, splots, speckles and spatters. Take a picture and you can play the Rorshach game with it. I think I see a wizard holding a glass . . .

I do all the work it takes to set up, to prepare to get ready to put ink on the skin because I love it. I love creating something on someones skin and hearing them say, "I love it."

I got stories for a hundred and one-teen American endless nights. They all end up with me having ink on me, stained beyond removal. We all end up with ink on us. It's the cost of doing what we love. Mostly for who we love.

B.B. [King] said he did what he did because love came to town. Amen O-G {means 'original gangster' as initially used by true gang members; now it can also refer to a pioneer and master in any given field}. Amen.

Why in the hell isn't there a complaint desk somewhere? Somebody to tell me why? Scratch that. I'll tell you why. The reason is we wouldn't have time to do anything else. We'd be at that sucker every damn day.

Those of us who have people who actually listen to us, well, words fail miserably when it come to explaining what that means. It means the difference between choosing life over death, to the other option.

So, like, I used to be just a recovering addict & convict, but now I have mentally diseased tagged onto the end there. Kind of like a tail on a kite, blowin' in the wind, string broken, flailing at each gust of wind. So, yeah, I'm what you call a triple threat. A guy's gotta have a repertoire, ya' know? {He put after this sentence: Don't even check the spelling, just ride with it.}

There's a certain freedom that comes when you've just laid down the last little piece of security-blanket- bullshit-lies you've been telling yourself & the world forever. "This is me. I'm all the way me. Dinged-up, cylinders misfirin', oil leakin', primer-red, rust-bucket me."

I'm thirty five on November 26 this year. Fifteen years in prison, jail, and now I'm off to the place where they give you fancy white coats that save you the trouble of using your own arms, like a sucker, when you could be sucking your meals thru a straw and living in a clean, white, soft-walled cubicle. Mmm . . .

But, seriously, it beats prison with a huge stick. I believe I'll retire the old J-21474 tag on my handle, thank you very much. {That 'tag' was his identity in prison; any letter sent his way without that number was sent back. When he was released last October, I was over-the-moon with the idea of never writing it again. I've actually had to train my brain NOT to write it on letters now; it's not required on the county level. I want to keep it that way!}

Close your eyes (after you read this) and remember . . . remember your first kiss, your first broken puppy-loved heart. Think on the people & moments what made ya' who ya' be. Think of all those terrible, painful moments in your life that put one more solid, true piece of wisdom inside you, never to be shaken out of the great basket of unchanging stuff in life.

The true, the real, the loves & honesties are gonna be the same for eternity, like it or not. Might as well just accept those ink stains as the price of admission. It's well worth all the other stuff that comes with it.

It's been a long time since I've written anything like this. {I guess he doesn't consider his incredible letters to me, so expressive, so open, so very THERE, in that statement.} Something that actually flowed out of me. It's nearly 2AM & I have court at 10AM. I got the rest of my life to sleep, right?

I phoned my sis (the one who so graciously zapped this to you after typing it out) at 10:30PM last night, 12:30AM her time & asked her to explain to me [that] this is real and not some big game where they take it back at the last minute and send me up for six hundred years.

Yeah, prison-hardened me, callin' a girl to give me a phone hug and tuck me in for the night. {Gee, when is the last time I was referred to as a girl? But, I often call him a boy.} Funny thing. I'd do it again right now, if I could. {Funny thing, I'd give fifty phone calls just to tuck him in for the night in person right now.}

There is no moral [here]. No hook. No poetic justice. No ironically genius epipharrific jazz. Just remember to appreciate the ink stains on your life & self. Rub some off on some deserving soul near you. Here, come a bit closer. Let me flick a drop or two on you . . .

You're the lead actor in your movie. Be a good thespian & ham it up a bit. Don't take any of this shit too serious. Nobody leaves this world alive. Enjoy it 'cause it's unbelievably short.

L8R, -- Me

My brother needs to get his stories out there. As long as he wishes, I hope for this blog to exist as a forum for that necessary expression and expulsion of demons, episodes, memories and events. I don't care how he writes those words, in what order or array, as long as he just does it as the old Nike adage goes. (GRIN!)

On the subject of tucking in -- a short revelatory history: I did not read this post before transcribing it. It came to me new as the sentences entered my mind via my eyes, did a short circuit through my heart, and found its way here from the rote action of my ten digits. This morning during my walk while listening to "The Count of Monte Cristo" on my IPOD, hoping against hope that Monsieur Morrel would not do the noble thing and shoot himself to preserve his family honor, I found myself clutching my hand to my chest as a flashback from my precious time with Gary during his freedom last year hit me hard. The emotion overwhelmed me with its tenderness and its ferocity of feeling.

We enjoyed several late nights and early mornings of endless chatter, catching up and laughing and just being. At the end of these nights, I sank into Brother John's couch with my comforter while Gary pushed his air mattress as close to the couch as it could go without actually becoming one with the piece of furniture. When he was snuggled in, with his eyes covered beneath his t-shirt out of sheer habit - guards shining their flashlights into the cell at all hours of his sleeping cycle for years on end - he would reach up to find my face and lightly, quickly, so earnestly trace my features to reassure himself that I was, indeed, there. To ensure I was not an apparition dreamed up by his fevered and lonely mind. To prove his freedom a real and solid thing with a new cast of characters of his own choosing and hoping. Once reassured, he would either hold my hand for a time or simply rest his arm on the couch until we both nodded off, with him experiencing some of the most relaxed sleep he'd ever had since his early childhood. To point, he really was as a child in these tender moments. It both broke and boosted my heart.

Can you imagine?

Fall-l-l-ing

Fall has arrived. This year the acorns are enormous and picture-perfect. No, Martha Stewart perfect! I would enjoy admiring a bowl full of them on my dining room table. It's easier than attempting to fit the entire oak tree in my home. Much like the turning leaves in hues of browns and reds and all manner of earthy shades in between, acorns for me signal the changing of the guard. I've been their biggest secret fan since I first laid eyes on them in Seattle, Washington as a small girl. The tree-lined streets in older neighborhoods offered a visual feast of the squirrel snacks in clusters along the branches and in dizzying array at the foot of their parents. They stir my desires to wear long-sleeves and jeans; to sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg atop the foam on my chai lattes; to place lovely pumpkins of all proportions on my porch and patio; to light a blaze in our outdoor fireplace and watch the flames with my family; and . . . to handle the damp and malodorous football clothes in my son's gym bag after football practice.

Sc-r-r-r-r-a-a-t-ch-ch-h-h the needle on the record! Hold up a red hot minute! Why are his rank jerseys and socks making their way into my personal musings about the greatest season of the year? Can't anything, ANYTHING, just be about me? Must this intrude upon my inner sanctum, my woman-cave, my, sigh, blog?!

As I was saying before my olfactory senses suffered a PTSD attack due to my earlier laundering this afternoon, autumn is here. It was officially welcomed earlier this week. The TODAY show even announced it to their entire viewing audience in between world news updates and make-overs with Kathie Lee and Hoda. I must confess to a warm tingle which suffused my entire body with the innocent pleasure that only crisp cool air and the scent of homemade baked apple anything could inspire. Speaking of inspiration, there is a poetic appropriateness to the changes which take place as summer surrenders her last breath to possession by autumnal airs. The same air upon which hordes of blackbirds and gaggles of Canada geese take flight en route to their winter addresses. A winter address? I have a winter address and it is identical to my spring, summer and fall address. I wouldn't mind winging it to hang out for a few months with my avian friends in other parts. Maybe I could set up a temporary P.O. box. Then, I wouldn't concern myself overly much with the first report cards of the school year, wondering why that 'A' looks suspiciously like an 'F' with a slight alteration on its right side. There would be no fund-raising e-mails from the baseball booster club or magazines to sell for the middle school to neighbors up to their eyeballs with unread issues from last year's orders!

Stop! Halt! Cease and desist! Or, should I say cease to persist?! For the love of all things seasonably mild, THIS again? Is it absolutely necessary to drag outsiders into this otherwise charming rendition of Gloria of Sunnybrook Farm? For just the littlest of whiles, can't I be Heidi of the hills, living with her grandfather and his goats, at one with nature and peace and simple happiness?

So, like I mentioned before intruders stormed the gates of my hideaway fortress and forced me to bare arms, er, bear arms, that interim period between the extremes of heat and cold has gained entrance into our weather once again. The next few months are ripe for harvest moons and corn mazes - not to be corn-fused with maize. Hearty sojourners will point their cars to higher altitudes and gaze upon the new deciduous foliage wardrobes before their wearers go naked for winter. Hot steaming cider will give new life to old mugs previously hidden behind sweet-tea glasses. Brothy soups brimming with chicken and vegetables and thick stews replete with chunks of beef and potatoes will find their way to the dinner table. Rakes will replace shovels and weed-whackers. Scarecrow men will adorn front lawns, and garden patches with just-about-ready jack-o-lantern candidates will entice excited children to bring them home. Halloween, with its orange and black motif, and trick-or-treaters with gobs of mini-chocolate bars I'd like to heist, will offer the backdrop for the 20th birthday party for my first child. Yes, I'm whipping up an intense three-layer pistachio cake in green and black with a rich chocolate ganache frosting. We'll fork over the cash for her and then turn right around and do it all over again the following weekend for my middle child. As brilliant as we were in spacing them three years apart, where's the genius in birthdays separated by a mere week ?!

Huh? Excuse me, but I'm doing WHAT again? Wandering away from the theme? Rambling off the beaten path? Digressing from the main? Ohhh, I give up. They win. They are my theme. Fall is only the briefest of sidebar plots in the big story. Perhaps I'll try again in the winter. Everyone will be in the froze, with blue lips and mock- turtlenecks and Ugg boots, hoping for egg nog and gaily wrapped packages. Maybe they will be too distracted to butt in to my mental meanderings. But, until then, somebody please pass the candy corn.

How Are You? He's Fine.

A gentleman approached me the other afternoon with a question. That most standard of all questions. "Well, Gloria, how are you?" Now, we were at a tailgate party for the middle school football team. He was the president of the booster club. We had spoken casually several times over the course of setting out watermelon, cooked meats, cold pasta salads, packaged cookies, and those rather large orange Thermos beverage dispensers full of lemonade. I figured since we had covered the everyday greetings in those earlier chats, he must intend for me to answer honestly as opposed to politely: one being how life really is treating me; the other being the locked-in "I'm good, real good, and you?" that falls so easily, so inanely from the lips of so many.

Before I progress, I must tell you I often trip over this popular greeting phrased as a question. When I find myself giving the standard reply, I internally administer a good swift kick! My close friends know this about me. It is a mindless social pleasantry -- I truly, really, wholly detest thoughtless, executed-by-rote social pleasantries as a practice. I don't, however, detest being pleasant. Nor do I dislike the sparing art of being social. But this one question sticks in my craw -- so ubiquitous, empty and bland. It's like me eating one of my rye crisp crackers without almond butter and grape preserves; not worth opening my mouth over. No one truly expects a mindful answer. In fact, a mindful answer produces looks of dismay and discomfort in the one doing the querying. They are conditioned to speak it; others' ears are conditioned to receive it and regurgitate the common reply. Period. End of exchange. Though I realize this is the expected modus operandi, I don't subscribe to it. Maybe this speaks more to the rebel in me, mellow though it may be, who chafes at the expected. But, it seems to me if such words as to one's true state are put out there, one ought to feel the freedom to answer and actually see the listener's ears visibly perk up.

But enough soapbox expounding.

The gentleman with the seemingly earnest question? Remember him? Well, I fixed my eyes upon his ears and gave him my answer. "You know, I'm about as good as can be expected. I have my ups and my downs. But, I'm plugging along, doing the work, expecting things to get better as they usually do." As he knows about my brother, Gary, following the story by e-mail somewhat along since early fall of 2008, he threw in the follow-up, "Is that because of your brother in jail?" And, being socially adept enough to realize I could not possibly hope to, nor did I want to, relay the full import of this past year's developments to this man I barely knew, with skirted cheerleaders running around us, Oreo cookies in hand and their breathless stories about the boys in helmets and uniforms falling from their lips, I said, "Yes."

Because he continued to stand there, in front of me, positioned to receive more news, I went on. I updated him on Gary's upcoming transfer out of the prison system and into the state hospital system. I explained why that was good news. I touched upon mental illness and treatment. I mentioned the rebirth of my brother's faith in Christ and his yearnings to remain in the fold. As I spoke, I discerned a subtle shift in my fellow booster club member's features. I noted his eyes wandered past me, taking in the clouds and the football players as they marched across the field into the stadium, though he continued to nod and comment in the affirmative. When he reengaged, he opined as to the wonderful fact that now, with Gary's faith restored, he could clean up his act and work on those things in himself that needed fixing. He could be strong and emerge from his brain fog and make better choices and live out the rest of his life with purpose. There was a bit more. It was all peevishly positive, much like the encouraging speeches he intones at the beginning of football season to all of the parents; much like the group prayers he leads before we eat our common meals during our months together as parents to middle school athletes. What he lacked, however, was true understanding. And, any ability to see that he should try and understand beyond the accepted stance that being active in Christ will make us all happy and healthy. He left no opening for a mental illness diagnosis to exist. Gary's difficulties were rooted in weakness and an inability to function under God's grace.

What I say is this. It is that very attitude, so heartfelt and righteous, probably without vanity but also without discernment, which allowed Gary's intolerable situation in this life to go for so long without being recognized for what it was. Mental illness was not a thing said aloud or given any space upon which to walk or room in which to spread its wings. Whatever was wrong was all in his control to change. Totally and completely. His unwillingness to surrender to what God had for him was his downfall. Everyone tried to help and he pushed them aside. Everyone was blameless. Their role in aiding Gary was over because he did not accept their plans and ideas on who he was and what he was to become. Yet, no one took the time to try and know him and understand his pain. He was a boy in severe crisis. The general answer was to drag him to church. (Not that I downplay the significance of the body gathering.) Get him rededicated to the Lord. Show him the error of his ways. Put him in a program and get the scripture pumped into his head and heart. Convert him from the way of the black sheep of the family and enclose him within the ranks of the accepted and the expected.

If it had been discovered that a tumor resided in his brain and was to blame for his behavior, that would have been all right. There would have been prayer for healing. Trips to the surgeon. Books on how-to-cope. An actual surgery to excise the invader. Physical therapy to recuperate him, to make him whole, to reconnect the synaptic connections within his gray matter.

As it turns out, there WAS, and is, a tumor in Gary's brain. Insidious and invisible to the naked eye, thus allowing it free reign and room to develop for hundreds upon thousands of days: bipolar disorder, compounded by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his childhood. It has been detected and traitor! we know your name! My brother can learn about the differences in his behavioral and thought processes which cause him to stand out from average folks. No longer must he agonize over what is wrong with him and wonder why he does the crazy things he does. He won't need to rely upon street drugs or alcohol to self-medicate. And, all on his own, by his lonesome, even with a relationship with Christ, he could not simply will his way through the complex chemical processes which are active and present in his physiological being any more than he could have willed away a brain tumor.

Whether or not modern-day healing takes place, which I believe it does, it is ignorant to hold the mentally ill responsible for an illness they did not choose, when they have not the knowledge or treatment to corral it and correct it, just as it would be ignorant to put blame on a person born with cerebral palsy or an individual who contracts a serious illness later in life. This is an imperfect and fallen world. Biblically, the Lord did not state that the sick need healing but the mentally ill can pray away their dementia or throw memorized verses at it and receive deliverance. I think a case can be made for differences between mental illness and demonic possession if there are those who wish to take that stand. Infirm is infirm. All who suffer and bear the weight deserve our empathy and our understanding. If one is not in the know, either get in the know or hold your tongue lest it inflict permanent or long-lasting damage. And, think as to whether you would desert your spouse or child or good friend in the midst of a protracted battle with a physical affliction. As tough as it can be to hang with them in the down moments, should we then cut our emotionally ill loved ones from our lives? I, for one, say no, we should not.

Do YOU Enjoy Being A Woman?

Each time I step into my shower, I'm told to enjoy being a woman. No, it's not some odd well-wish by my husband. And, no, I don't own a parrot. Nor do I self-administer a pep-talk before taking up my body puff. What does come into play here is my habit of reading labels. Specifically, the back of the 'SUMMER'S EVE Feminine Wash' bottle. Right there, printed in navy blue letters against a strip of pale green are the very words 'Enjoy Being A Woman' accompanied by the website address for the product. Invariably, I ponder this directive, unsure as to how the use of this hypoallergenic gelatinous goo can induce me to celebrate my femininity.

Well, today I finally surrendered to my curiosity. I visited www.summerseve.com in the hopes of illumination on the subject. I might as well have clicked on ESQUIRE magazine dot com for all I got out of it; at least at ESQUIRE, the glossy photo-spreads are pretty clear on certain well-recognized womanly attributes which are happily delivering joy to inboxes and P.O. boxes all around the world! Still, here's what the C.B. Fleet company has to say at their URL about the enjoyment of womanhood. Point by point.

First, their mission is to help me enjoy being a woman. That's a bold mission statement so rife with expectation that they are sure to disappoint right out of the gate. I don't recall filling out a questionnaire or answering a series of queries by phone solicitation. There was no representative at Wal-Mart in the personal hygiene aisle to chat me up as to my likes and dislikes, wants and hopes, problems and issues. Already, I sense false advertising.

Second, to accomplish this goal, they provide solutions which will keep me free from worry. They even offer multiple options so I can pick what's best for me. As I have yet to emerge from the shower worry-free during my long-standing acquaintance with SUMMER'S EVE, I thought perhaps the Internet site harbored the stress-reducing options not found in the bottle. I searched and searched for 'how-to-dumb-proof-my-kids' or 'healthy-dinner-menus-for-a-year-so-your-husband-won't-ask-WFD-by-text-every-cotton-pickin'-day' or 'take-care-of-my-mother-and-mother-in-law-for-the-rest-of-their-lives' or even a 'world-peace/secret-to-looking-like-Linda-Hamilton-in-TERMINATOR 2' combo. Nowhere. What DO they offer, you might wonder? The assertion that feeling fresh and clean in either sensitive skin formula, Berry Bliss or Morning Paradise will do the trick. Balance the PH levels in your nether regions and life will roll along in a most relaxed and joyous state.

Third, they know that men and women have different standards of freshness. Therefore, it is to my exacting and specific requirements that their line-up has been created. What is it, do you suppose, that I desire in personal cleanliness which differs so dramatically from the wants of a man? (Other than I have no special wish to be told that I smell like an 'Irish Spring' or exude eau d' 'Red Zone.') Odor-free and squeaky clean, jelly bean, will do just fine by me. Is THIS how I enjoy being a woman? If so, then do guys strut around not caring whether they stink and grow layers of grime in their special places and in this reciprocal way enjoy being men?

Finally, harsh ingredients are avoided in their formulations to ensure safety and avoid irritating reactions. Hmmph. Safety they say? In my entire bathing career, aligned with SUMMER'S EVE as I have asserted all along, I managed to get pregnant THREE TIMES. Maybe I didn't rinse thoroughly enough? Oh, and I've slipped on the floor more than once or twice. As for irritating reactions, my husband would vouch for a myriad moments of perplexed snarlings and baffling attitudes emanating from my person, both before and after showers. Perhaps I used more than the recommended 'small amount poured onto hand or washcloth?'

I notice now, examining more closely the fine print on my gynecologist-tested intimate cleanser, that it specifies FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY. Well, smack my forehead and pass me a V-8! My visual acuity must be dimming with age or perhaps my memory slipped on the wet floor, too. The answer WAS on the bottle. That's the reason I'm yet overwhelmed with worries, feeling unsafe and irritated, and unable to be the ultimate girly-girl. I've been slamming shooters of feminine wash! Heck, I'll shove those shot glasses to the back of the cabinet, immediately. There's still hope for me to enjoy being a woman after every thorough cleansing.

I'm off . . . to shower the right way. Thanks, SUMMER'S EVE, for the encouragement. Feel free to use my testimonial on your website if you want.