David Ingerson's Blog

August 16, 2014

Do Standards Apply to All?

"Captain! You're bleeding!"

Suddenly all eyes were on me. As crew commander, what would I do?

I reached up, removed my headset and felt blood oozing from the top of my head into my left and right ears. In a flash I relived our crew´s vivid experience the previous day.

Having been alerted and directed to perform an immediate launch scramble mission the day before, our Air Force flight crew hustled to our Boeing 707 in support of operations in Iraq. Our navigator, a young second lieutenant, was serving her first rotation in the “Sandbox” as those of us experienced in the Middle Eastern theater of operations affectionately referred to the area. Not only was this her first deployment to Southwest Asia, but this was her first scramble alert launch.

Consequently, as our alerted crew sped our vehicle to a screeching stop just beyond our aircraft´s left wingtip, the excited newbie navigator pushed past the other three crew members, raced to the crew entry chute, and energetically scampered up the ladder. Close behind her, our burley copilot suddenly and unexpectedly found himself literally catching the navigator´s limp body in his flight suit-clad arms.

“Whoa, what´s happening?” I inquired as I raced to catch up with the other crew members.

By this time, the fourth member of our crew, our boom operator, had parked the car, grabbed his gear from the trunk and dashed into the middle of the commotion reaching the airplane and crew just ahead of me. After observing the copilot catch the navigator in his arms he declared, “Captain, she must have been hit in the head by the crew entry grate at the top of the stairs and passed out! It´s a good thing the copilot was right behind her to catcher her. Otherwise she´d have hit the ground—and that´s a nine foot fall!”

I stepped up to check on the navigator as she regained her composure. As the still stunned copilot set her down on her own feet she exclaimed, “I´m okay! I´m fine! Let´s launch!”

“Lieutenant, are you sure you´re alight?” I demanded.

“Yes, Sir; I´m fine,” she again insisted.

In a flash, my mind played through a myriad of unsettling possible outcomes. What if the navigator experienced a serious concussion and would require medical attention? What if she suddenly passes out in flight? The mission our alert launch was supporting was not an exercise. Hence, this was an operational alert launch. Ground troops´ lives depended on us doing our job—on time. There was too much at stake to delay our takeoff unless the navigator was unable to perform her duties.

My musing was interrupted by the nervous navigator again declaring, “I´m fine, Sir, let´s go!”

“Okay,” I pronounced. “If I see blood, we´re not launching until you get checked out by the medic. If no blood, we´ll press!” With that I quickly examined the navigators head to ensure she was not bleeding. Finding no blood, I hastily directed, “Let´s go!”

Within a very few minutes the copilot and I had started all four engines of our aerial refueling-configured jet aircraft. I quickly taxied our aircraft to the runway and immediately took off to fly our important mission—thankfully, uneventfully.

But, that was yesterday. Now, it was my turn. Today, again alerted and directed to scramble launch, I reached the aircraft first, climbed the crew entry ladder, pushed the metal grate out of my way—and again—the spring-loaded latch designed to hold the grate out of the way during crew loading failed to catch and the grate fell on my head as it had on the navigator the previous day.

Barely acknowledging the stinging pain I put on my headset, jumped into the left pilot´s seat, and immediately began starting our engines. By the time the copilot completed strapping in his seat I reported, “Ready to taxi!”

That was when the boom operator cried out, “Captain, you´re bleeding!”

For a fleeting moment I entertained ignoring the comment and simply pushing up the throttles to taxi for takeoff. As I felt all three sets of crew member eyes burning at me, inside my bleeding head the obvious question they were all wondering screamed: Does the standard you set for the navigator yesterday apply only to her or to all crewmembers—including you—the aircrew commander?

Realizing every second counted, I quickly unstrapped and advised the copilot, “You have the aircraft; I´m going to drive myself to the medic´s tent to get cleared to fly…be sure to complete all before taxi and takeoff checklists so we can immediately taxi and takeoff as soon as I get cleared!” I didn´t wait for his reply as I scrambled back down the crew entry ladder, jumped into our crew alert vehicle, and sped to the medic´s tent less than one half mile away right next to the flight line.

As the medic quickly assessed my injury he asked how I felt. Just like my navigator had yesterday, I replied that I felt fine and just needed to be cleared to fly so I could get back to my alert launch. Understanding the importance of our operational mission the medic agreed to clear me to fly but requested I come back to his tent upon return to base for a more in-depth check-out and possibly stitches. “Thanks, Doc!” I called over my shoulder as I hurried back to my alert vehicle.

Just as the previous day, we successfully accomplished our scramble alert mission and returned to base just before the sun rose in the wee hours of the morning. Upon completing our post mission paperwork and filing a ground incident report the second day in a row, our tired crew looked forward to morning chow before retiring to our crew quarters to get some well-deserved, much desired crew rest.

“Hey, Captain,” my copilot prodded as we walked to our alert crew vehicle, “Aren´t you going to return to the medic tent for stitches?”

“Awe, I´ll go later this morning after a long nap; I´m tired!”

“Yeah; me too,” he agreed.

In my exhausted state as I hit the pillow I winched as my sore head vividly reminded me of the injury I´d sustained barely eight hours ago. Before drifting off to sleep I found myself musing, I wonder how my crew would respect me if I´d not followed the standard I´d set the day before when the navigator injured herself loading the plane?

The Caleb Years: When God Doesn't Make Sense by David Ingerson
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August 9, 2014

Focus not on the Pain

One Wednesday evening as Kathy and I relaxed after dinner in the home of our friends, Rich and Mary, our conversation was abruptly interrupted by their son, Chris, as he suddenly burst through the door exclaiming, “Caleb fell into the cactus patch and I can’t pull him out!”

Rich and I rushed out to see my three-year-old wallowing in the cactus garden, desperately trying to stand up and walk out. I immediately stepped in, picked up my small son, and rushed him into the kitchen where Kathy and Mary began to remove the bothersome cactus spines. As I held my wriggling son, I was amazed to see hundreds of small transparent barbs imbedded in the small child’s fingers.

Caleb was surprisingly calm until he felt the pain the sharp spines caused as his mother painstakingly pulled them out—one-by-one. As his patience wore thin, I held him close, tightening my grip in order to keep him still. In that I had to go to work later that night at the 24 hour Command Center at Scott AFB, I had already changed into my Air Force flight suit. Unbeknownst to me, as I held my wriggling son, the prickly barbs imbedded themselves into the body and sleeves of my flight suit, like a seamstress’s pincushion.

Later that evening as my overnight shift at the command center wore on, the sharp needles worked their way all around my flight suit, causing me no small discomfort. Occasionally, I’d experience a sudden, sharp jab that elicited an involuntary, “Ouch!” No amount of squirming in my chair eliminated the sharp discomfort. What a sight I must have been as I wiggled and squirmed in my seat, seeking relief as the needles mysteriously jabbed me in sensitive areas of my body all night long.

I’ve come to understand that life is sometimes like those sharp spines. No matter how you wriggle and squirm, the barbs of daily life stressors and disappointments are often indelible. Although pain in life may be as unavoidable as it is uncontrollable, our reaction to the discomfort is ours to determine. If we focus solely on the annoying barbs, we’re apt to become distracted and lose focus. Whereas if we chose to do our best to live with the inevitable and unavoidable stabs of disappointment, we’ll be better suited to channel our attention and energies toward what’s truly important. Besides, if we’re patient, the painful barbs will eventually lose their sharp edge and work their way out.

The Caleb Years: When God Doesn't Make Sense

The Caleb Years When God Doesn't Make Sense by David Ingerson
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Published on August 09, 2014 07:19 Tags: barbs, cactus, life, ouch, pain, painful, sharp, spines, stressors

August 3, 2014

Something is Strangely Out of Place...

What! What is this? I see the figure of a man! In a flash my mind vainly attempted to reconcile the impossible image of something ominously out of place, within inches of my windshield, directly in front of my field of view.

Suddenly locked in slow motion, as time stood still, I became incredulously aware that a man’s head had just violently smashed through my car’s windshield from outside my vehicle, showering me with hundreds of tiny shards of glass.

Mesmerized, I observed his body in freeze-frame slow-motion brutally bounce off my car’s front bumper, hood, and then windshield. He rotated slightly and propelled into the air and landed straight back onto the very street on which he was walking less than three seconds before. He remained face-down and still, stretched out right in front of my vehicle’s path. With immediate adrenaline-augmented reflexes I vigorously jerked my steering-wheel and swerved to avoid running over his still body in the very place he landed.

Peering through my now spider-web cracked windshield I somehow brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop, jumped out of my car, and dashed back to the still form laying face-down and motionless in the middle of the darkened street. Blood continued to pour from his mangled face and what appeared to be a multiple-compound fractured leg.

“No! God! Help us! Save Him! Save Him! Please, God! Help!” I screamed for help, straining my voice so vigorously in those brief moments that I lost my voice and would be unable to speak in more than a barely audible whisper for more than two weeks! As I approached the motionless, bleeding form of a man, I strained my eyes to observe any signs of life. Much to my dismay I saw no movement—not breathing— I feared! As I knelt down next to him and saw the small drops of blood already congealing and hanging from his face like tiny stalagmites, I suddenly heard him snoring and was struck by an overwhelming odor of alcohol. “Thank You, God! He’s alive!” I rejoiced in my raspy, strained voice.

In was a Wednesday evening; therefore, as music director at our off-base church on Okinawa, Japan, I was returning home after rehearsal when this pedestrian suddenly stumbled off the curb into the street and in front of my vehicle. The kinetic energy of my car traveling at approximately 55 kilometers per hour shattered his left leg in several places. Although he also suffered intracranial hemorrhaging, within eight days a CT-scan showed the dangerous intracranial hemorrhaging had subsided, and the doctors began to hope for his survival and eventual recovery.

Then began a series of six major surgical repairs wherein the orthopedic surgeons sought to reconstruct his shattered leg. The many wounds on his face and head healed quickly and surprisingly well. The first four months after the accident the US government relinquished jurisdiction over me to the Japanese government judicial system. I was placed on “administrative hold” and was therefore not allowed to leave the island of Okinawa for any reason. The Japanese government wanted to be sure I would be available to stand trial for manslaughter—if the victim perished during his long recovery hospitalization. Meanwhile, from the very week of the accident and continuing for the next year and a half I visited Teruya-san weekly, often with my precious small children of whom he demonstrated a great fondness. We grew to be friends—amazing considering my limited Japanese and his lack of understanding English.

During his extended hospitalization, not only did his alcohol-damaged liver recover fully but also with the help of a Japanese translator, I was able to communicate the grace and love of God to this dear man. During the final month of our weekly visits, Teruya-san chose to embrace and place his faith and trust in Jesus Christ for eternal life! Contrary to the pessimistic forecasts of the doctors, Teruya-san amazed them by learning to walk again, albeit with a noticeable limp.

Although the circumstances of our initial meeting were ominously out of place and unwelcome, our eventual friendship conquered and crossed the cultural boundaries that so often separate. Although our tragic, unexpected encounter may have begun with devastating pain, it ended with a friendship that would likely never have occurred had we not met that fateful night.

All of us encounter trouble and inconveniences in our lives. Our choice: to consider them as irritating, unacceptable annoyances and learn nothing from them, or to consider the hardships and difficulties we encounter as discipline and thereby learn valuable lessons that can enrich our lives.

I encourage you to consider challenges as adventures and learning opportunities. The Bible encourages to “Endure trials for the sake of discipline…” (Hebrews 12:7a, NRSV).

If you consider hardships as discipline, when areas of your life seem out of place, you’ll learn to overcome and eventually the out-of-place item will make sense.

The Caleb Years: When God Doesn't Make Sense



Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
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Published on August 03, 2014 19:54 Tags: alcohol, broken-windshield, car-crash, drunk, hit, hospital, out-of-place, pedestrian, surgery, swerve

July 31, 2014

Of Course He's Had a Sucker, His Lips Are Purple!

Often during errand running, it was a relief to Kathy and a pleasure for me to take my son, Caleb, with me. One particular day he accompanied me to the base hospital pharmacy to pick up his digoxin. As we stood in line, an elderly gentleman in front of us noticed my cute two-year-old standing next to me and turned around to say hello. “Well, hello, young Fella. How are you? I see you’ve been eating a sucker. It was a grape sucker wasn’t it? Was it good?”

In a decidedly less than patient tone, I replied, “No, Sir, he hasn’t had a sucker. That’s just his lip’s natural color.”

With incredulity, the white-haired gentleman intoned, “Well, of course he’s had a grape sucker; his lips are purple.”

“No! He hasn’t had a sucker. So if you must know, that purple color is normal for him. He has a heart condition and we’re in line to pick up digoxin, one of his heart medications.” The look of terror on the kindly gentleman’s face was telling. He promptly turned away and likely marveled that it could be possible for a small, cute child like Caleb to have a heart condition. He probably understood heart conditions were only for old folks. If I’d been trying to get the old timer to buzz off, I succeeded.

Unfortunately, the episode demonstrated that in my frustration, I became too easily impatient with people who had no particular reason to understand about my son´s heart condition. The man in line was simply trying to be friendly to a cute little boy. While it's oftentimes entirely too easy when facing challenging stresses in our lives such as tending to a chronically ill child, or dealing with an estranged or in-trouble family member, one would do well to remember that our problems are our problems--not everyone elses'. It's unreasonable to expect everyone we meet to understand the stresses we're facing.

Understanding this concept helped me react in a more appropriate fashion the next time I met someone who took notice of my son's purple lips. Also I felt a burden lifted when I realized that everyone I meet will not be aware of my life stresses. Furthermore, I realized that I had no particular burden to explain the source of my stress. I could simply respond, "My son surely does enjoy his suckers--when his mother allows him one!"
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July 29, 2014

"Dad, there's a pig head in the refrigerator!"

"Dad, there's a pig head in the refrigerator!"

One hot humid Louisiana summer, tenants who were renting a two bedroom apartment from me unexpectedly moved out without notification before the term of their lease ended. Given that I was out-of-town performing corporate pilot duties five straight weeks that summer, by the time I learned they were gone, several weeks had elapsed.

I assigned my ten-year-old son Andrew the duty of cleaning up the kitchen appliances. Nearly immediately after commencing the clean-up he came running up to me in the apartment next door where I was busily painting, "Dad, there's a pig head in the refrigerator!"

"Well, just be sure to clean it out very well, Son."

"Okay, Dad; but, it's going to take a while," Andrew replied in a decidedly dejected fashion.

After returning to my painting I couldn't help wondering what could possibly make my son think cleaning out the refrigerator would take so long—despite the presence of a little pig's head—and why did he seem so dour about it?

Nearly two hours later, as I finished cleaning up after completing my painting project I went to check on Andrew's progress. He had moved the refrigerator outside the building and was using a garden hose to spray off the residue from the cleansers he'd applied during cleaning.

"Alright, Son…finished yet? By the way, what took so long; you weren't taking too many breaks were you?"

"No, Dad," came Andrew's clearly agitated response. "This was not an easy refrigerator to clean out. It was covered with mold and maggots!"

"Well, it looks completely clean and white--it appears you've done a very thorough job. Good job, fella!"

A couple weeks later the new tenants in that same apartment called my rental office phone and left an exceedingly animated-voicemail message, "There are maggots all over the inside our refrigerator!"

Impossible! I thought. I saw Andrew diligently clean out that refrigerator myself. That very day I took Andrew with me and drove out to inspect the strange situation. Sure enough, as soon as I opened the door I saw dozens of white squirming maggots wriggling all over the refrigerator. Shocked and incredulous I looked for clues as to the possible source of the maggots. It seemed the maggots were centralized around the outer regions of the inside of the door as though they didn't like the cool temperatures of the refrigerator and were attempting to wriggle to the outside and escape. Examining further I absent-mindedly bumped the insulated molding of the door and suddenly about fifty maggots literally fell out of the space between the door and the insulation. With this sudden discovery I pushed back the insulation all around the inside of the door and was amazed and sickened to observe hundreds, perhaps thousands more maggots wiggling behind each inch of insulation—all around the inside of the refrigerator door.

After replacing the refrigerator for our tenant Andrew complained, "Awe, Dad! I spent hours...the better part of an entire day cleaning out that nasty refrigerator....and now we know all my efforts accounted for nothing!"

"Andrew, life is like that. Oftentimes in life we can only determine our actions; not the outcome."
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Published on July 29, 2014 14:10 Tags: apartment, cleaning-out, dad, incredible, pig-head, refrigerator, son

July 27, 2014

Turtling the Lightning

“Whoa…kick out the main sheet! Davey Pat, kick out the main sheet! Hurry! Now! Kick out the main sheet! We’re going to flip!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” I shouted frantically.

I struggled but unsuccessfully fought to kick the cleated main sheet from its vicelike cleating. As the cold wind howled over us, the main sail remained tight and full in the powerful force of the chilly gale.

“I can’t get it out,” I bemoaned, “I keep missing it when I kick.”

“Oh, no, hold on, we’re about to turtle!” my uncle shrieked.

“Turtle?” I wondered as I exerted all my strength to hike, extend my body, over the edge of the nineteen foot Lightning sailboat as it fiercely tipped against the overwhelming wind.

My musing was violently interrupted when our sailboat suddenly flipped upside down in a powerful gust.

“Grab the centerboard!” my harried uncle and boat captain commanded.

“I can’t catch it,” one of our two other companions lamented, “the securing pin must not have been properly placed, the centerboard fell inside the boat.”

We were coming about—turning around, in nautical language—headed toward the starting line of a sailboat race when our turtling incident occurred. Within minutes of scampering as far atop the ship’s hull as possible, we began to shiver in the frigid waters of the Traverse Bay.

“We’ll just have to wait it out until the judge begins the race,” my uncle and captain-turned fellow survivor decried.

Meanwhile, his close friend and professional colleague, the fourth crewmember and only other adult participating in our boat's race that Sunday afternoon, declared with chattering teeth, "H-h-hey, I-I-I'm really st-t-tarting to get really c-c-cold here."

More than forty-five minutes later, after starting the sailboat race, the judge maneuvered his skip to our boat and rescued us from the chilly harbor waters of Lake Michigan. Barely eleven years old, this was not only to be my first sailboat race but also was my first sailing venture. After a brief introduction to the function of the main sheet which controls the main sail, as well as cursory training in handling the sheet, I was positioned at my station to perform my main sail management duties.

Although our uncle and ship’s captain had directed my elder brother and I to read up on the basics of sailing, we were ill prepared for the blustery winds of that fateful afternoon.

Upon our return home, my aunt energetically inquired how well we fared in our first sailboat race. My uncle barely squeaked that unfortunately we missed the race in that we turtled the boat.

“You, what!” my aunt shrieked. “How did you come to turtle your Lightning?”

“It’s ah…ah….kind of a long story,” my uncle began.

“I can’t wait to hear it,” my aunt replied. “Just wait until my sister learns what happened to her sons during their first sailboat race in her brother-in-law’s boat.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” my uncle began, “we may not have been able to join the race, but at least we got our sails cleaned.”

“You bet,” my aunt wryly teased, “I’m sure they’ve never been cleaner. They must be squeaky clean—just like your reputation as a fine sailboat racing captain—squeaky clean!”
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Published on July 27, 2014 21:10 Tags: aunt, cold, sailboat, sailboat-race, turtling, uncle, wet

July 25, 2014

“Oh, Daddy, look, a kitty!”

“Oh, Daddy, look, a kitty!”

“Oh, Daddy, can we have him?”

Driving along an Illinois State Highway, my four children, all under the age of eight, and I, were destined for the shopping mall to select an appropriate anniversary gift for my wife of twelve years. Suddenly, simultaneously, we all noticed a beautiful shiny black cat half lying, half sitting up in the middle of the roadway—in our lane—just thirty yards in front of us. As I slowed my vehicle and approached it, the cute creature seemed to be laying at a strange angle with half his body laying in the roadway and the other half upright and erect. The effect was that his head appeared strangely high as though supported by an unusually long neck, reminding me of an extended submarine periscope. His wide eyes were bright and inquisitive as he turned his head back and forth, as though he anticipated observing some exciting happenings.

As I maneuvered our minivan to park just off the roadway in a position abeam the feline, my children chorused, “Oh, Daddy, he’s so cute; let’s keep him for mommy—she’ll love him!” Approaching the relaxed-appearing cat, I noted that he strangely showed no anxiety nor made any attempt to move away from me. I mused that whereas my wife had hinted she was ready to consider getting a pet for our eager children, I proudly (or conveniently) decided that if this cute, shiny black cat had neither collar nor tag, I would consider it as an opportunity to satisfy my children’s desire for a pet and fulfill my obligation to purchase a wedding anniversary gift for my wife. Such a deal—a free gift—and a two-for-one free gift at that!

As I looked the precious kitty over, my children chirped, “Daddy, can we come and see him?”

“No, children,” I replied. “Stay in the car. I’ll bring him over in a moment.”

As a pilot, I had neither experience nor inclination toward medicine, or veterinary science for that matter. Hence, my cursory inspection of the collarless cat resulted in my observing nothing other than a simple laceration just above his left eye. “No problem,” I thought, “We’ll just stop by the nearest pet store and have him checked out to see if the cut above his eye would require stitches to heal properly.”

As I carried the cute kitty to our minivan, the children could hardly contain their enthusiasm. Although still dutifully strapped into their car seats, the children nonetheless took turns pleading with me to allow them to get out of their seats and hold the kitty as we drove to the pet store.

Arriving at the pet store, I sent eight-year-old Sarah to get a shopping cart. The cat continued looking all around with his bright eyes as he patiently sat still where I laid him, in the smaller upper basket of the shopping cart. I perched one year old Caleb’s car seat—with the child inside—on top of the large basket of the shopping cart while four-year-old Hannah Joy and six-year-old Andrew walked beside the cart, eagerly peering at their new pet.

Once we reached veterinary services at the back of the large pet store, we proudly declared that this well-behaved stray cat was our new pet, but he needed an examination to determine if he needed stitches for the small cut above his eye! It took less than five minutes of careful evaluation before the veterinarian suggested that we might want to reconsider our decision to make this cat our family pet. Devastated, the children all moaned, “Why, Daddy! We love him. He’s so cute. What’s wrong with him?”

“Doctor, can you provide me a clear explanation as to why you think this cat will not make a good pet?”

“Sir,” the kindly veterinarian gently began, “Do you see this cut above his left eye? This is indicative of having been struck by a car in his hindquarters and knocked forward onto his face. It’s likely a sure thing that he has suffered serious brain damage. Haven’t you noticed how very calm he is? That is not normal. His lack of nervousness is a bad sign. Furthermore, notice this….” As he said these words, he literally lifted up the cat’s tail and demonstrated that the cat’s hide on both sides of his tail was completely ripped apart from his backside and his tail had been very nearly severed from his body.

“With a tail damaged this severely, we’ll certainly have to amputate it to save the cat's life and there’s nearly a 100% certainty that this cat will be incontinent the rest of his life. And, by the way, after the many surgeries required to try to save its life, which will be very expensive—totaling several thousand dollars—it’ll require months of constant nursing to recover to some semblance of a normal life. In a word: the only practically reasonable course of action for this cat is to put it down, and we can do that for just $125.00 and a disposal fee of $35.00. Would you like us to take care of that for you? The nurse will take your VISA or Mastercard if you want to pay with a credit card.”

Dumbstruck, I slumped down on a bench next to the vet’s front counter. My elder children crowded around me clamoring, “Daddy, we don’t understand. Daddy, what’s wrong with our kitty?”

“Children,” I bemused, “I’m sorry, but this kitty is not for us; he was injured too seriously. The veterinarian feels the most merciful thing to do is put him out of his misery. Besides, I don’t think your mommy would be too happy about having to nurse an incontinent cat to health for the next several months—especially in light of all the additional medical care your little brother requires. Furthermore, it wouldn’t make a very romantic anniversary gift.”

After I paid the vet his fees to euthanize “our” kitty and dispose of the body, we slowly plodded toward the front door of the pet store. I’d never seen my children look so glum. I feared they’d trip or walk into a shelf stocked with kitty litter while looking down at the floor as they shuffled toward the store exit.

“Hey, guys! Wait! Look,” my six year old son, Andrew, shook and bounced up and down as he pointed toward a brightly painted multicolored sign which said, “Adopt a Pet Day!”

“Oh, Daddy, look at that beautiful kitty! He’s so fluffy!” the children cried. “Can we adopt him and take him home since our cat can’t come with us?”

“Sure, Children.” Afterall, I mused I’d already spent nearly $160.00 on a pet that we didn’t even get to keep. “At least this one will be free since the sign says, “Pet Adoption.” What a deal! I thought—and free!

Utter shock is the only way to describe my reaction when I learned that pet adoption was not free as I’d assumed. When we’d finally completed our “adoption” paperwork, the store attendant declared, “Okay, Sir, that will be $30.00 for the adoption papers and $30.00 for his mandatory immunizations, plus tax. Will this be cash or credit?”

I nearly broke down in tears as I replied, “Ah—let’s try our credit card.” I silently cried. “Oh, considering what I had to spend to put the injured cat down and dispose of his carcass and adopt this one; this is a $250 cat (plus tax)!” Meanwhile, the children’s angst was transformed to excited enthusiasm as they carried the cat in his cardboard cage to our minivan. They were so excited—surely their mother would share their enthusiasm.

Later that evening, after I’d put our children into bed, after my wife returned from work, the cat purred as it greeted her at the back door. Shocked to observe a strange cat walk right up to her she shrieked, “What! Where did this cat come from!”

“Ah…..it’s a ki-i-ind of a long story, Honey. Let’s save it for another day. Let’s just enjoy the last few hours of our anniversary. He’s your gift to commemorate this important day!”

“I don’t think I’m going to like this long story,” my bride tentatively declared.

“Ah, yes, well, ah…at least this one’s healthy; anyway, Happy anniversary!” I murmured.

“What! ‘At least this one’s healthy?’ you say. What do you mean by ‘…this one’s healthy’?”

After describing our $250 ordeal my beloved bride screeched, “What! You paid $250 plus tax to put that cat down, dispose of its body and adopt this one!”

“Ah….yes, Dear,” I admitted.

“On the farm we just took the seriously injured animal out back, hit it on the head with a shovel and buried it!”

“Yes, Dear. But, we live in the city limits—and I’m not even sure I own a shovel.”

“Oh, really! For the $250 you spent for this cat on our anniversary, you could have purchased ten shovels!”

“Yes, Dear,” I automatically replied.

“Well, as much as I just know I’ll enjoy this new cat, I know what I’m going to get you for our next anniversary, I’m going to buy you a deluxe visit to the local Spa for a pedicure, manicure, facial, and perm…oh, and if your work schedule just happens to conflict, I’ll take your appointment so we don’t lose the spot!”

All I could say to that was, “Yes, Dear…”

The Caleb Years: When God Doesn't Make Sense
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Published on July 25, 2014 20:21 Tags: angry-wife, anniversary, cat, children, dense-husband, pet

July 22, 2014

I got my $50 back

“But, Dad, did you get your $50 back?”

“Yes, Sarah,” I began. “I did get my $50 back, but not until I had my day in court—criminal court. And what a day it was!”

Several months earlier, having bonded myself out of jail the day before Thanksgiving—for the egregious crime of presumably allowing my tenant to fail to bring his trash can in behind the sidewalk within twenty-four hours of collection—I was keen to make the court appearance not only to contest the $250 fine but also to retrieve my bond money. My attorney had explained that the $50 bond I’d paid provided a surety to the court, guaranteeing I would not flee and would be sure to appear in court the next time scheduled. I wondered to which state or country the district attorney’s office suspected I was most likely to flee: Mexico, Canada, Brazil, Portugal, or Angola? My daughter thought it most likely Sarajevo so I could brush up on my Bosnian language skills. Oh, how I miss Sarajevo…beautiful city…lovely people…but I do digress…back to the story at hand.

On a crisp Tuesday morning that next February, my day in court finally arrived. Having never been in a courtroom other than civil court to evict a tenant or to answer a confused, distraught dry clean customer’s claim—a story for another time—I was somewhat apprehensive. Not only did I not know what to expect but I was also still struggling to reconcile how these proceedings were applicable to criminal court. In other words, I could not comprehend what my tenant’s supposed trash can infraction had to do with a criminal matter—nor was I pleased that as a property owner my tax payments were funding this misguided criminal case.

As I entered the courtroom, I was shocked to observe over two hundred individuals, all defendants like me, who were standing around waiting for something to happen. Soon, a representative from the marshal’s office called out, “All who are pleading guilty over here. All who are pleading innocent line up here!”

“Okay, that’s the line for me!” I declared. Only, no one in particular noticed my firm pronouncement of innocence in the pandemonium as the mass of defendants moved to form two very long lines. By the time I gathered my wits and aggressively stepped up to the appropriate line, I joined it as it circled around the court room the second time.

Eventually, I heard a marshal’s voice above the din speaking directly to a defendant, “I see here that you are charged with possession of illegal drugs with intent to distribute; how do you plead?” As I overheard his words, it suddenly occurred to me there was a rather broad range of alleged infractions being prosecuted in court that day—from illicit drug abuse to trash can abuse.

Having waited more than twenty minutes in the long not guilty line, I finally approached a rectangular cafeteria style table behind which sat several individuals who were passing out paperwork to the parade of alleged criminals. When I approached the first station, an all too businesslike marshal inquired of my identity and efficiently checked my name off the list. At the second station I encountered another marshal who handed me a document and instructed, “Print your name and sign here!”

After dutifully annotating my name, I began to examine the document. Although I was only able to confidently decipher approximately 70% of the legal ease, I certainly understood that annotating my name and signature certified that I had been fully briefed and understood my rights by a certain individual. When I asked the marshal if this certain person was available to speak with me and provide the referenced information, he muttered something about being a troublemaker and left me standing open-mouthed as the other alleged criminals elbowed their way past me to the next station.

After several minutes this marshal returned with an older, apparently more experienced, chiseled jawed marshal, who through clenched teeth seethed, “Sir, are you going to sign your name on this affidavit as my marshal has directed or not?” More startled than perplexed, I politely but assertively explained I was not prepared to sign a document that claimed I had been briefed by a person I’d not met. To this the short-fused marshal growled, “Okay, then just move along. We have ways of dealing with troublemakers like you.”

I began to move to the next station but the senior marshal waved me on and threateningly chided, “Just go sit down; we’re going to take ca-a-are of you-u-u!” About that time a general announcement was made: “All those who want representation but cannot afford an attorney proceed this way!” With the watchful eyes of the more than a little irritated marshals staring at me, I jumped up and followed the group of approximately thirty up the stairs and into an auxiliary courtroom.

After a clerical staff member handed out applications for legal representation, I began completing the form but suddenly stopped when I read that a $45 fee was immediately due and payable. I promptly raised my hand like a schoolboy requesting the teacher’s permission to use the restroom. Once recognized, I advised the spokesman for the court-appointed representatives that I was not prepared to pay the $45 fee. An assistant standing by my table literally ripped the form from under my arms and commanded, “Go back down to the courtroom!”

Within minutes of my return to the courtroom, the judge entered as a marshal bellowed, “All rise. Judge So-and-so presiding.” As soon as the marshal allowed us to be seated, the judge began issuing brief instructions and expectations. He then asked if there was anyone else who did not yet have representation but wanted it. I immediately raised my hand and was recognized by the judge. I could feel the stares of not only the more than 250 other defendants but also the glare of the senior marshal who stood in the middle of the courtroom as a traffic cop in the middle of an intersection attempting to direct traffic. I made my way around the jeering marshal to the middle of the courtroom in order to address the judge.

Once at the microphone, I explained to the judge that I had gone upstairs as instructed to request court-appointed representation but was surprised to learn there was a $45 administrative fee, which I was not prepared to pay. The judge thoughtfully stroked his clean-shaven chin twice as he nodded in agreement. “You know what,” the judge reflected, “I’ve often thought it doesn’t make sense to require a fee from a defendant who cannot afford representation. Tell you what, you go back up there and tell them Judge So-and-so sent you back for court appointed representation; I am directing them to waive the fee for you.”

As I excitedly spun around to head back upstairs, I again caught the eye of the snarling marshal, who in frustration looked as though he thought I had just flagrantly run a red light and should be ticketed—but alas, he didn’t have proper jurisdiction to issue such a citation.

By the time I reached the auxiliary courtroom, the court appointed attorney and clerks were wrapping up their preparations and packing up their briefcases. The other defendants filled out of the room to descend the stairs. As I attempted to get the staff’s attention, they only half listened until I explained how the judge had waived my administrative fee. The three individuals all simultaneously gasped, promptly turned away from me, and sped back down to the courtroom.

As I huffed to keep up, I called out to the attorney, requesting he stop and speak to me. He in no way acknowledged me. Back inside the courtroom, my name was called first. The senior marshal briskly marched straight up to the judge in an attempt to complain that I had not been cooperative. But the judge simply dismissed him and directed his attention to the prosecutor—the same attorney who had intimidated my property manager three months earlier during the first hearing regarding my tenant and his trash can infraction. As my would-be court appointed attorney approached the bench in frustration, I observed the prosecution, my attorney with whom I’d not even spoken, and the judge all engaged in a hushed, over-the-bench discussion regarding my fate as a trash can abusing criminal.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of intense discussion, the judge beckoned me to approach the bench. As I stepped forward all eyes were on me, especially the marshal’s eyes, ablaze with angst. The judge forthrightly advised me he had agreed to impose a thirty day prosecutor’s probation. He further explained that as long as there was no recurrence of the trash can being left out overnight after collection day within the next thirty days, the case would be dropped. However, if another violation is committed during the probationary period, I would be liable for both violations.

After confirming I understood the conditions of the probation, I was dismissed by the judge. Greatly relieved, I happily turned to depart the courtroom when I suddenly remembered my $50 bond. I stopped, turned, made eye contact with the judge as I raised my hand with my index finger extended straight up. “One more thing, your Honor,” I pronounced. The judge acknowledged me and nodded. “About my fifty dollars,” I began. “I’m not inclined to leave the courtroom without it.”

The armed supervising marshal glared at me and with intentional exaggeration put his hand on his side arm as he incredulously snarled, “Just get out of this court room and go to the marshal’s office. They’ll take care of you there.”

In disbelieve I considered it outlandish that the marshal had actually signaled he was prepared to use deadly force by placing his hand on his weapon; nevertheless, without another word, I skipped out of the courtroom to the marshal’s office to retrieve my $50.

The Caleb Years: When God Doesn't Make Sense
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Published on July 22, 2014 21:55 Tags: strife-court-judge-trash-can

July 20, 2014

$50 to bond myself out of jail

"Awe, Dad, I was looking forward to visiting you in jail on Thanksgiving,” my then eighteen-year-old first-born daughter, Sarah, exclaimed.

“Well, Sarah, I followed my attorney’s advice and bonded myself out by paying the $50 fee.”

“Well, maybe next year, eh?” she sheepishly smirked.

Apparently, one of my tenants had irresponsibly left his trash cans at the curbside overnight after pick-up day, one too many times. As the property owner, I was cited in violation of a local ordinance that requires trash cans be taken in, at least behind the sidewalk, no later than twenty-four hours after trash collection. I later learned—when I received the certified letter from the city—that violating this ordinance results in a $250 fine, which is prosecuted in Criminal Court.

Because by the time I was cited we had long since evicted the delinquent tenant, I was not inclined to pay a fine for his persistent negligence. The tenant had failed to notify my property manager of the two warnings that the local standards office, a.k.a., municipal trash police, had posted on his front door. Now that he had long since moved out, I had no ability to recoup the fee from him; therefore, I resolutely determined that I was not going to pay the $250 fine.

As a corporate pilot, my fluid flying schedule precluded my presence at the criminal hearing. Consequently, more than one week in advance I contacted the prosecutor’s office to advise them that I was unavailable to attend the scheduled hearing to contest the citation. Given that I was unavailable, I would send my property manager to speak on my behalf, particularly since he was more familiar with the details of the tenant and his trash can movements. The animated attorney’s response was comical. “Oh, no! He can’t represent you; he’ll be arrested for practicing law without a license!”

“Oh, pl-e-ease,” I chuckled as I replied. “He will not be practicing law with or without a license; he will simply be speaking on my behalf as my property manager who is responsible for interacting with and supervising our tenants. Besides, he is much more familiar with the facts than I am.”

As I had tried my best to make clear to the prosecuting attorney, I was out of town performing corporate pilot duties, the day of the hearing. Therefore, my faithful friend and property manager attended in my absence. Upon entering the courtroom, before the judge arrived, the prosecuting attorney called out my name. When my property manager identified himself as present on my behalf, she advised him that he was not authorized to be present. “You need to leave, now,” she snarled. In light of this presumptuous prosecuting attorney’s aggressive intimidation, and not knowing what else to do, my property manager promptly complied with her direction and exited the courtroom.

We later learned that after the judge arrived and his clerk called out my name, no one said a word. After a brief pause, the judge directed his attention to the prosecuting attorney—the same attorney I’d previously advised of my anticipated unavoidable absence. This prosecutor, the same attorney who’d just manipulatively intimidated my property manager into departing the court room just fifteen minutes previously, failed to volunteer that I’d made her aware of my lack of availability to attend the hearing more than a week in advance. She likewise conveniently failed to advise the judge of the fact that in good faith I’d sent my property manager to speak on my behalf regarding my tenant’s trash can incident. Nor did she volunteer to the judge that she had just intimidated my property manager into abandoning the courtroom. She kept all this relevant information to herself.

The result of her silence was that the judge understood nothing other than my failure to show. Consequently, he requested of the prosecuting attorney her recommended course of action. As we later learned, she requested the judge put out a “bench-warrant” for my arrest for contempt of court since I’d failed to show for the hearing. Later in the day she called my property manager to advise him of the bench warrant. My property manager contacted me that same day and briefed me of these strange developments.

In that my corporate flying duty ended a couple days later in Dallas where I’d left a car, as I drove the three and a half hours to my hometown in Louisiana I called my attorney and sought his counsel regarding an appropriate response to this peculiar sequence of events. In that he understood that my wife and three younger children were out of town and I would be alone with my eldest over the impending Thanksgiving weekend, he advised, “David, you’d better get to the Marshal’s office before they close at 5 o’clock today and pay the $50 bond to keep yourself out of jail. If you don’t, and you and Sarah decide you need a can of cranberry sauce and a patrolman thinks he sees you roll through a stop on your way to the store, as soon as he pulls up your driver’s license information he’ll see that there’s a warrant out for your arrest. He won’t have any idea that it’s for a silly reason such as it is. He’ll just do his job and arrest you and you’ll find yourself in jail until Monday over the long holiday weekend and Sarah will have to visit you in jail on Thanksgiving.”

Ironic that to ensure I made it to the Marshal’s office before they closed for the long weekend I had to speed on the Interstate in Texas—hoping that if a Texas state trooper stopped me for speeding I wouldn’t be arrested and extradited to Louisiana.

That very afternoon, after I paid the $50 fee to bond myself out I called my property manager and implemented a new policy:

Drive by and inspect each rental property weekly, particularly the day following trash pick-up to ensure the tenants take in their trash cans. We can’t afford to be blindsided like this again.

Although Sarah was disappointed she didn’t get the chance to visit me in jail over the long Thanksgiving weekend, after bonding myself out of jail I was notably relieved I didn’t have to worry about being arrested for such a heinous crime as failing to ensure my tenant put his trash cans back inside the sidewalk on a timely basis on pick-up day.

Stay tuned for Part II of The Trash Can Caper.

The Caleb Years: When God Doesn't Make Sense
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Published on July 20, 2014 20:34 Tags: attention, delinquent-tenant, trash-cans

July 19, 2014

What do you value?

Proverbs chapter 8, verse 8 says, “Does not wisdom call, and understanding lift up her voice?” Why does she raise her voice? For what reason does she cry out to those passing by? In the same chapter, verse 10, she exhorts her hearers to “take [her] instruction and not silver, and knowledge rather than choicest gold.” From that I gather that the very personification of wisdom is trying to get us to understand that the direction and education gained from wisdom is more valuable than silver and gold—even “choicest” gold. At today’s gold price which exceeds $1,200 per ounce, that’s some valuable information.

As a real estate investor I have various residential rental properties which must occasionally be cleaned upon a tenant permanently vacating the premises. Several years ago, I had to evict a tenant for failure to pay her rent two months in a row. After she vacated the property, I walked through inspecting the spacious two-bedroom apartment, which comprises one half of a two-story duplex with attractive hard-wood floors and ample ten foot ceilings. I was amazed to observe various piles of pennies and other small coins, mostly dimes and nickels absently left-behind. I found the coins here and there, left underneath as well as on top of furniture which the tenant also left behind.

Having allotted plenty of time for the delinquent tenant to remove her furniture before my inspection I was amazed that she’d elected to abandon as much of it as she did. I made rough mental calculations of the cumulative value of the furniture which appeared to be in serviceable condition. Based on my estimation, she could have made her delinquent rent payments if she had been able to sell the furniture she failed to remove from my building.

Turning my attention back to the coins I encountered, I thankfully gathered and put them in my pocket declaring, “These funds, although small, when joined with other funds will surely help me make my next mortgage payment!” As I inspected from room to room and my count of the value of the left-behind pennies and other coins exceeded two dollars I came to the following realization:

“If you do not value the small things—even the pennies—you will likely not see the value in the larger assets at your disposal.”

What do you value?


The Caleb Years: When God Doesn't Make Sense


Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
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Published on July 19, 2014 19:37 Tags: value