The Rusted Musket

Liz and I have wildly swung like mental hobgoblins on this existential threat to “the Reason for the Season.” Some years we do the gift, other years we do not do the gift (hard Christmas for me), and then there’s the occasional year we use all our Christmas monies for other peoples gifts (very hard Christmas for me).

Recently we chatted with friends deciding against “Mall Christmas,” and choosing instead a form of “Christ Christmas.” Part of the decision means, among many things, no gifts forever, whatsoever, on Christmas. Oh, and to add to the horror they have three kids, all between the ages of “gifts are awesome” and “gifts make the year go round.”

Now before you get all uppity and declare them “lame’ish something or another’s” let me clarify. They’re not gift averse, the gift is good, especially for birthdays, bar mitzvah’s, and moon walks, but when it comes to December 25th the equation tends to look something like this:

Baby Jesus’s Birthday + Gifts for Ourselves = Something Lost in Translation.

I believe the Little Drummer Boy actually sings more than just a little bit of truth concerning the topic at hand. For instance, the Little Drummer Boy doesn’t fret over his Xmas list, or Xmen, or a full kit to go with his lonely snare. His thoughts are focused on what he’s got to give a King, which isn’t much he reckons, so he sings profundity, “I’ll play my drum for you.”

I’ll give the King my passion… my talents… my time…

Perhaps over all the seasonal debris and associated mental constipation we should be asking ourselves a similar question

What will I give a King?

Image Credit: Hemlocks @ deviantart.com

I skipped out the front door early December for a brisk morning walk with Liz down to the lake. I had my furry hat on head, sweat whicking layers on back, and a Djarum clove cigarette dangling from mouth.

Reader: “Wait, what did you say?!?” “Djarum clove cigarette dangling from mouth?!?”

Ben: “Yes, you heard correct.”

I would like to stop here and inform the reader I am not, nor have I ever been, what one calls “a smoker.” In regards to alcohol and tobacco I believe all habits are bad habits, but I do occasionally smoke a tobacco pipe in the respectable tradition of CS Lewis, GK Chesterton, and your Great Grandfather. The Djarum in question was from a bygone era, cast aside, forgotten, below decks within an aroma filled smoking box. For some reason, this particular morning, I rummaged through the chest of pungent scent, lifted one out, placed it in mouth, and walked out the front door.

During the walk, which was at “Real Fast Getting Sick Pace,” I let this weird smelling cylinder bounce up and down between my lips, not even lit. I thought to myself, “You know, why are you walking around with this thing dangling out your mouth?” “It just looks dirty, and someone might get the wrong idea.”

One mile, a cold big toe, and some odd minutes later, I removed the Djarum.

End of Story… Or so I thought…

Later that evening I walked down to my coffee shop to work on scripture and resume building and book reading. I was really into it when I looked up and saw J Rizzle, a kid from youth group, I waved him over. Stomach churning dialog commenced.

J Rizzle: “I think I saw you this morning.”

Ben: “Really?”

J Rizzle: “Yah, I headed in late to school, you were walking by the railroad tracks, I was pretty sure it was you, I was going to honk.”

(checking memory bank for when exactly I took the cancer stick out of my mouth… Crap, nope, still there)

Ben: “Shucks, you should have.”

(that is to say should have had my pipe dangling out my mouth, atleast then I would have had an air of sophistication)

J Rizzle: “Cool, well I’ll see you at youth group.”

(he totally knows)

Ben: “Cool, yep, see ya.”

I thought to myself maybe J Rizzle didn’t see it, like maybe my fur Peruvian hid it, or he was driving to fast to really look me over, and then I realized how silly everything I was thinking was. The bottom line is that a youth group kid, as far as he was concerned, saw me (a youth group leader), smoking a dirty cigarette.

I felt the net of stupidity closing in, redness coming to cheeks and neck. I lamented, I prayed, I apologized, I started typing this blog, then erased it, and then started it again.

Mostly I know I was taught a lesson today concerning brazen moderation lackadaisical freedom behavior.

And embarrassingly I’ve posted it to serve warning… Both to me, and perhaps you as well…

Last night Liz and I pondered aloud where we would put a baby Kelm if we ever had one (I think we talked about where we would put one because it’s the least intense “lets have babies” thing you can honestly talk about).

So I said the cradle would go anywhere our cozy apartment would allow because Kelm babies won’t care where they sleep as long as they sleep. But then I got really excited about the bed potential for the toddler years because then I could make the toddler Kelm a sweet bed underneath my huge computer table! It would be outfitted with LED tube lighting (like the kind I have under my pedalbaord) and I’d also let the boy or girl draw cave drawings on the underside (cave drawings due to skill level, not preference).

After I got done explaining the Toddler Kelm’s sleeping arrangements Liz said she wanted to sleep there too, and I don’t blame her…

Image Credit: Haruhara-sensei @ deviantart.com

I was subbing middle school English, watching an Anne Frank documentary, when I noticed something strange and peculiar; namely, the little Nazi in us all.

Early in the documentary, before the students turned their brains on, the narrator discussed Nazi technique used to paint Jews as inferior. While this narration went on the documentary showed footage of ugly, mentally estranged, weird looking folks.

The students, who weren’t paying any attention to the narration, saw only those images divorced from historical context and instantly laughed at them.

I hit PAUSE on the remote and spoke; “Interesting how most of you laughed and giggled at this footage. You do understand your response was exactly the type of response the Nazi’s were hoping to get from this here propaganda!?!” Silence in the classroom…

In thinking this through I’ll be honest, putting others down seems hardwired, not only in Nazi’s and middle schoolers, but you and I. In thinking this through there also seems to be another deeper hardwire, of some forgotten but deeply familiar home. A place of peace and rest with a photograph on the wall of family we don’t recognize but know is our own, and to which we owe a terrible loyalty…