I’ve never been a math guy. Numbers scare me in the same way zombies do; both seem so foreign and lack even a hint of personality. Words can sing. Numbers just stand there mouthing.

The unhealthy relationship I have with plusses and minuses does not apply to homework, however. At least not the kindergarten kind. Because even if 1 + 0 = ? is just as cold and emotionless as ay2 + by + 2a + c = 0, it is a little easier to figure out.

But not to my son, who understands the concept of adding one thing to another one thing and getting two things about as well as I understand how to split the atom. Put all of that together, and you have a recipe for disaster when the two of us sit down to complete his assigned work.

Last night we sat at the kitchen table to tackle the beauty that is addition. Past practice has taught us that both patience and planning is key. Which is why I brought coffee, and he brought Kool-Aid and a Tootsie Pop…

Our fair town has all the modern conveniences of any big city. We have a post office, paved roads, working stop lights, and a sign outside the bank that tells us what the temperature is. We also have cell phones, DSL, ATMs, and several institutions whose sole purpose is to deliver artery-clogging fried food as quickly as possible.

We’re contemporary, our little settlement. Not chic, maybe. But not archaic.

Except for when something catches on fire.

The local fire department is sandwiched between The Old Schoolhouse Restaurant and the baseball field. Whether this is by design or chance is unknown to me and not really a matter of consequence. Either way, its location is perfect. The firehouse is smack in the middle of town.

Jutting out from the top of the building is a steel tower with a horn at the top, put there years ago for the simple reason that our firefighters are strictly volunteer. No one here is a fireman as much as a fireman-slash-something. We have firemen/farmers, firemen/business owners, and firemen/retirees. So even though someone is always milling about the firehouse during the day, the majority of our rescue personnel are busy making a living elsewhere. That siren comes in handy.

Since I live and work outside of town I’m not really sure if they use the siren as often as they once did. Cell phones and pagers may have rendered the siren obsolete except for announcing the start of the town parade every July.

When I was a child, though, things were much different. I grew up about three streets down from the siren, close enough to be a weekly witness to its terrors. I never got used to the rising and falling whine that would overcome the birdsong and the rustling leaves. I’d run into the house with my hands over my ears, trembling.

It wasn’t so much the sound that bothered me, it was what the sound meant—trouble. Grave danger (“Is there another kind?” Extra points if you know the movie). It meant lives were in peril.

Though I was too young to adequately process what was going on, hearing that siren was proof of a basic law of life I desperately wanted to avoid accepting. Even though my world was blessed with the usual, the unusual could bare its fangs at any moment. Life could still find you and leave you battered, and there just wasn’t a whole lot anyone could do about it.

That changed the day I rode my bike to 7-11.

One dollar was more than enough compensation for a week’s worth of making my bed and emptying the trash, especially when it bought me three packs of baseball cards. A 1979 Topps Reggie Jackson was what I’d been after all summer, and I was bound and determined to find one.

I jumped the ditch between the road and the parking lot and skidded to a stop near the trash cans outside the store. There stood two farmers, sweaty and smelling from a day’s work in the fields and drowning their sorrows in two bottles of RC Cola.

They nodded and I sir’d them both, and just as they were about to resume their conversation, I heard the low guttural sound of artificial noise.

The siren had begun to go off.

My knees buckled and I froze, unsure of whether to jump on my bike and race home or find comfort in the back aisles of the store. It was a moment of indecision that felt like an eternity.

I looked to the farmers for help, but they had forgotten me.

“Time to go to work,” one said to the other. They both tossed their half-full bottles into the trash, raced to their trucks, and sped off toward the firehouse. Moments later the larger of the town’s fire trucks sped by, siren wailing. One of the farmers was driving. The other hung onto the back, steely-eyed.

It was true, I decided, that there were neither guarantees nor givens in life other than this one simple truth—sooner or later the siren will sound, and it may well be for you.

It will sound the first time your heart is broken or the first time you faith is tested. It will echo when your dreams shatter into a thousand gleaming splinters or your trust crumbles under the unbearable weight of disappointment.

When the shadows of your yesterday match your every step today. When expectations seem too large and strength too small. When the rising sun becomes more a cause for dread than joy.

That’s when the whine will rise and fall. When we are faced with this one choice—whether to flee or stand, run away or toward.

Whether to cry out “Why, God?” or “Time to go to work.”

I read an article last week that said the Pill is responsible for the decline of the masculine male. The theory is that the hormones ingested dull a woman’s natural desire for strong men and replace them with a desire for weaker ones. Weaker in appearance, anyway.

The division of Helen Long’s estate was fairly straightforward. Her two story Cape Cod was to be sold and the proceeds divided between her daughter, Tina, and Mark and Matthew, her two sons. Personal items that held sentimental value were evenly distributed, stocks were liquidated and moved to provide for the grandchildren’s college education, and the vacation home in the Outer Banks was to be shared by everyone as a way to keep the family from drifting apart.

That last bit wouldn’t happen. Not to Helen Long’s family. She had spent too much time and given too much effort in keeping her family together to have them fall apart once she was gone. It was her mission in life, her purpose, and she could think of no better goal to devote her life to fulfilling.

She had done a good job, too. Having your last remaining parent pass away can bring out the worst in families, but this wasn’t the case for the Long family. In the months between the news that Helen’s cancer had spread and her death, she took great pains to ensure everything would go as smoothly as possible.

Funeral arrangements were made. Last minute bills were paid. And though Helen didn’t frequent church nearly as often as her children, her pastor visited often in the last weeks.

In a way, Helen’s passing was to be her crowning achievement. She, not her husband, had kept the family close over the years. There had never been rifts or disputes between the kids, never so much as an argument. Her dying wish was to keep it that way, to give her family something that would allow them to remember their mother’s love. Even in death, Helen would teach them.
And oh, did she teach them.

The funeral services were handled with both precision and ease. There was sadness, much sadness, but there had been ample time for goodbyes. Mark, Matthew, and Tina held their own. Even the grandchildren didn’t cry. The pastor himself said it was one of the most peaceful funerals he’d ever presided over.

When the lawyer called a week later for the reading of Helen’s will, it was only the children who attended. Their spouses and children didn’t feel a need to play referee or look after the best interests of their mates. After all, everything had already been settled. Everything would be fine.
They were right about the former assumption. The latter, not so much. Because while Helen had included her children in all of the planning, she neglected to mention the letter.

The lawyer presented the envelope to them and asked that they verify it had not been tampered with. Tina gave a sideways look to Matthew, who echoed it to Mark.

The lawyer lifted his reading glasses to his eyes and leaned back in his worn leather chair as he carefully slit the envelope open, revealing a single sheet of paper upon which a single paragraph had been written:

Dear Children,

Do not mourn for me because I will not know it. I’m gone. That’s it, just gone. Don’t go fooling yourselves into thinking that I’m sitting on a cloud somewhere with a smile on my face and wings on my back, because I’m not. I’m dead. There’s nothing after this life, so remember what I always told you—all you have is each other.

For the first time since her mother’s death, Tina began to cry.

Helen’s three children sat silent as the lawyer then proceeded to review the contents of the will, all of which didn’t matter before the letter and only mattered less after. Because the money and the trinkets and the vacation house wouldn’t make up for the fact that they would never see their mother again.

All this time, and they never knew. Tina and her brothers all attended church regularly, and they all were certain of their eternal home. They simply took it for granted that Helen was certain, too. After all, she had sat beside them many times in church.

But neither of them had ever bothered to make sure. They never asked that question. And now, suddenly, it was too late.

Two years after her mother’s death, Tina still carries that letter tucked inside a pocket of her purse. She showed it to me last week. The ink was worn and the paper crumpled, as if it had been thrown away and reclaimed time upon time.

“I can’t let it go,” Tina said. “I never will.”

I don’t expect she will. I wouldn’t, either. Tina still carries the burden of never asking her mother if her soul was secure. She holds out hope Helen’s mind was changed in her last minutes of life. That the letter was written in a bout with hopelessness and despair that was lifted in that last breath, and she will see her mother again.

I hope so, too.

I knew it was a stranger when the doorbell rang. Anyone who was familiar would have either knocked or just walked through the front door. That’s the way it is with country folk. The door’s always open, and you’re always welcome.

Unless, of course, you happen to be selling something. And this guy was selling something.

He was in his twenties and sharply dressed, shuffling his feet as he waited for an answer to his intrusion. He ran a hand through his hair when I appeared, a last ditch effort to make himself look more presentable. To look perfect.

He had no boxes or bags, no SUV with a vacuum cleaner in the back. Just a book in his hand. A book that he was unknowingly folding in a fist clenched with worried determination.

“Sir,” he said, “Do you know Jesus Christ?”

My initial reaction was to answer yes, I did indeed. That not only did I know Him, we happened to be on good terms. But as we stood there regarding one another, a tiny thought formed deep in my mind and bubbled to the surface.

Here was a young man doing something I could not fathom—knocking on a stranger’s door to talk about Jesus. He had no doubt prepared for this moment. He had prayed and studied and practiced countless times for this one moment. Telling him the truth would get me back to my evening and him back to visiting people who needed him. On the other hand, he might also be a little disappointed.

“Nope,” I said. “And I don’t care to, neither.”

I saw for just an instant the faint beginnings of a smile upon his lips. This was his chance. What he’d been waiting for.

I stepped between him and the giant painting of The Creation of Man on the wall so my fib could be preserved.

“Well sir,” he said, “if you’d give me a few moments, I’d like to convince you that you really should and offer you this Bible and a prayer of thanks as a thank you for your time.”

“Don’t know,” I answered, “I’m pretty busy.”

He didn’t budge.

“Tell you what, though,” I said, “I’ll give you five minutes. You gonna say that dinosaurs aren’t real and that I’m goin’ to hell?”

“No sir,” he said. His smile brightened and his posture loosened. The hard part was over. “I just want to know how you’re feeling.”

“How I’m feeling?” I snorted. “That’s how you people start?”

“Just curious,” he said.

“Well, aside from being a little tired from work and a little aggravated at the bills, I’m doin’ just fine. You?”

“Oh, I’m good,” he said. “Didn’t used to be, though.”“How’d you used to be?”
“Confused,” he said. “Angry. Like there was a hole in me, you know? And no matter how I tried to fill it, it just wouldn’t fit. Know what I mean?”

“Not really,” I said. “I don’t know anything about a hole in me. Sounds kinda sissy.”

“It’s not sissy,” he answered with a shake of his head. “It’s the truth. Everybody’s got a hole in them, and God is the only thing that can fill it. He can give you what you don’t have.”

Those words struck me. God can give me what I don’t have? True. For all of us, in a way. But what He knows we don’t have and what we think we don’t have are two separate things. And in that, I saw my chance. All that young man wanted to do was go to bed tonight thanking God that he had led someone to Christ. I wanted to know how far he’d go to do it.

“Listen to me, buddy,” I said. “My daughter? She’s sick. And my job’s in trouble. Our money’s drying out, the truck’s on its last legs, and our furnace needs replacing. So you tell me giving my life to Christ means He’ll give us health and wealth, I’ll take that Bible and read it cover to cover and you can pray with me all you want.”

He stood silent in front of me. This was it. The moment of truth. And though I couldn’t say for sure, I could imagine what he was thinking.

But I was wrong.
“I can’t promise that,” he said. “Look, I’ve only been a Christian a few years. A lot of things get harder. Sometimes it feels like God’s not even there. Some days you’ll still hurt and worry. But the thing is, it’ll be okay. You’ll still mess up, but He makes it all good. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.”

There. He said it. Not what I wanted to hear, maybe even not what he wanted to say. But he said it.

I realized then that God was smiling upon that man, whether he succeeded or not in sharing Christ with me. As much as God commands our love and faith, He also commands our obedience. Not only to Him, but to the truth about Him.

“I’ll take that Bible,” I said.

And we prayed.

I suppose it’s sort of ironic that even though I work at a college, I never actually attended one. The reasons are many and the story long, so I’ll just summarize and say that we were not cut out for one another. Which is maybe a shame. Maybe my road would have had a few less potholes.

Then again, maybe not. I know my fair share of people who have had the advantage of a college education. On the whole they have better jobs and enjoy a more comfortable lifestyle than I do, which is good for them.

But I’ve also noticed that no matter how much education a person has, problems still abound. No one’s smart enough to outsmart life. And no matter how much studying we still won’t be prepared for everything.

That’s what Emily taught me.

To read about her and what I hope to be the future of college education, follow me on over to katdish’s blog. And remember, there are some tests you just can’t study for.

I’d spent every afternoon that week repaying a favor. Peter had helped me install some flooring in my house, so helping him repaint his garage was the least I could do. It was good, honest work. Also a little dull. But we received more than enough entertainment from Peter’s neighbors across the street.

“Transplants from the city,” Peter said. “Mister, missus, and six-year-old Mary. Good people. Mary could be a handful, though.”

Peter had been known to offer the occasional understatement.

Mary’s father visited us one evening under the guise of interest in our painting. After a few minutes of polite banter, he got down to business. Despite all of their efforts to create a stable and safe play environment for Mary in their fenced-in backyard, she now wanted to begin playing in the front yard.

“Traffic’s bad out there,” Peter said.

“That’s what her mother and I said,” Mary’s father answered. “But she’s a good girl and she knows to stay out of the road.”

Peter and I exchanged a look.

Mary’s father continued: “My wife is busy with her home business during the day. She can’t mind Mary in the front yard like she can in the back. The fence is a good babysitter. But since you guys will be out here painting anyway…”

“We’ll watch her,” Peter answered him. Then, under his breath: “Somebody’s got to.”

The next day, Mary followed her father out the front door as he left for work. He opened the door of his SUV, bent down, and whispered one last don’t-go-into-the-street warning into his daughter’s ear, wiggling a forefinger for emphasis. After a peck on the cheek, he climbed into the vehicle. They exchanged waves as he left.

Mary’s mother poked her head out of the front door while talking into the Bluetooth headset clamped onto her ear. She smiled and went back inside to tend to business.

Mary had reached the edge of the driveway before her mother had shut the door.

Peter and I paused in our painting to stand guard. Mary eyed the pavement. Quick glances at first, then longer stares. She looked down the road to her right, then left, then back toward the house. Then Mary raised her right leg, leaned back slightly, and gently touched the toe of a small, pink shoe onto the dark blue pavement.

She spun on her heels and raced back up the driveway to the safety of her porch. Even from across the road, I could see her panicked breaths.

And her smile.

It was Mary’s first taste of defiant self-assertiveness. And it looked like it tasted just fine.

Two hours later, Peter and I were painting the back side of the garage when there came the sound of brakes meeting rubber meeting pavement, followed by the bellow of a horn. We raced around front to find Mary joyous, jumping up and down and waving to a blue Toyota, the driver of which had her hand to her chest and her mouth wide open, no doubt contemplating both the suddenness of life and the consequences of vehicular manslaughter. Mary’s mother raced out the front door, scooped her daughter up in frantic arms, and whisked her inside.

Thus ended The Great Front Yard Experiment.

Mary and her father strolled across the road that evening to see how the garage turned out. The four of us sat on the back deck and examined both our work and Mary’s adventure.

“I just don’t understand it,” her father said. “She knows better.”

Mary looked up at her father and smiled, then asked if she could help me clean the brushes.

Curiosity got the best of me while we scrubbed the bristles. “Mary,” I wondered aloud, “why did you go out into the road?”

“I wasn’t supposed to,” she said.

“That’s right. So why did you?”

“Because I wasn’t supposed to,” she said again.

And then I understood. Within each of us resided a hint of rebellion. What made us human wasn’t our ability to know what’s right, it was our tendency to know what’s right and do wrong anyway. Like Mary, we all stood daily at the edge of should and should not, torn between what we know we aren’t supposed to do and the overwhelming desire to do it anyway. Sometimes, we stepped back from that edge. Other times, we stepped forward. Either way, it was our decision. Fate and destiny were no match for the human ability to choose. It’s what made us so special.

It’s also why we tended to make such a mess of things.

Mary, I knew, would learn all of this the same way I did, the same way we all do. She would grow and experience, fail and hurt. She would gather regrets that would haunt her and joys that would sustain her. And when the time came, she would vow that her children would not suffer the same mistakes she had made.

But as we both sat and scrubbed the paint brushes, I could envision some distant tomorrow when Mary would tell her own child not to play in the street. And I could see a few minutes later another small shoe tip-toeing the edge, teetering between should and should not, then gently stepping into the world of the forbidden.