Archives For Stories

O, Canada!

randomlychad  —  January 28, 2016 — 4 Comments

Canada. Land of maple syrup and poutine. America’s hat. You are home to some of the gosh darn nicest folks in this, or any other, galaxy. Lo, it has been many years since I visited your fair shores. But visit you I did one summer in my youth.

Here’s how it happened:

My bother and I were summering with the grandparents in the cool pines of Western Pennsylvania, when one say grandma decided we needed to see the falls. Niagara, that is. So she hustled us into her Oldsmolbuick, and off we were on a road trip. Over the river, and through the woods, with grandmother we went… to Buffalo. Home of wings, Bills, and freezing temperatures. And not a lot else.

In any case, grandma decided that experiencing the falls from the U.S. side, well, was falling a bit short. So crossed the border (“What’s your purpose in visiting Canada, eh?” “Coming to see the falls, sir.” “Well, have a lovely day, and don’t forget the syrup”), and headed for the view.

It was water. It was wet, moist, and misty. I’m not gonna lie, Marge, the surge of that powerful stream is pretty impressive. But it didn’t leave as much of an impression as the Canadian bread shop did. You see, grandma wanted to buy some bread. So why not buy it from a friendly Canadian shop keeper, eh?

So we did. And there, in amongst the loaves, was a special surprise.

“Grandma, what’s this?” I asked, holding up this unknown Canadian prize.

Turning to me, shrieked she, “Here now! Put. That. Down!” You have to understand, I was about eleven at the time. I goggled back at grandma, wondering what it was I held in my outstretched hand.

“Put that dirty thing down now! Where did you find that?”

You see, what I didn’t know at the time, what I held in front of poor grandma’s shocked visage, found there with the Wonderbread, was a Canadian wonder then unknown to my young mind:

An unrolled condom.
(It was probably maple-flavored, but we’ll never know).

O, Canada!

An Angry Prison

randomlychad  —  May 22, 2013 — 11 Comments

Anger

Today’s post is another in our ongoing series about anger. I’m thrilled to be hosting Chris Morris (see his bio at the end of the post).

An Angry Prison

I called my pastor for the same reason most people call their pastor—my life was falling apart, and I didn’t know what to do. My daughter’s health had taken a definite turn for the worse. She has always had seizures, but they were increasing at a staggering rate, so that she’d had more in the previous week than her entire young life. Add to this, her neurologist didn’t believe I was telling the truth.

So I scheduled a sit-down with my pastor, to get some practical guidance…since I am a hothead and don’t always handle tense situations the best. I am not sure exactly what I expected, but nothing prepared me for what he said. He essentially told me my own sin was opening the door for the Devil to give my daughter seizures. I needed to repent if I hoped to see my daughter healed.

I did not repent of anything that day, though in retrospect I should have, because I was angry. My daughter’s seizures were not then and are not now my fault. I don’t have a secret sin that opens a mystical pathway for terror to enter my family’s life.

Continue Reading…

[This short post is part four of an ongoing serial. Part one-three can be found here, here, and here, respectively. Thanks for reading!]

Forty-six days later.

I’m alone. Rations running low. Haven’t ventured out since the day I shot Carl. My God! What a mess that was!

What could I do? My son was trying to eat me.

My son…

Gone now. Along with the human race.

Can one man alone fight the future? I guess I’ll find out. This is my mess, and by God I’ll clean it up.

First, I need to find something to eat. And that means going out.

Big Mac? No thanks! I’m strictly vegan now. But it wasn’t so long ago that beef was safe… What I wouldn’t give for a chocolate shake!

And some french fries.

AS IF…

Gotta find canned food.

Here goes nothing…

If you have seen the movie Braveheart, you know of the scene where
young William’s father is brought home to him, on a cart, dead. You may also
recall that, after the funeral, an imposing, battle-scarred man
arrives unlooked for. This is William’s uncle Argyle. And his
frightening visage is grace’s unexpected face.

Of all the things he does for William, the most powerful is to,
despite his heavy loss, let him know that he is not alone in his suffering.

Grace once came to me like that–unexpected, unlooked for. Only his
face was not that of a battle-scarred Argyle, but that of my stoner
friend, Pat. His wounds, the ones I could see, were the battle scars of adolescence:
he bore the telltale pockmarks of acne.

Pat was a husky, olive-skinned Italian. And oregano was not the only
herb he was fond of. We were the same age, had brothers around the
same age, and were fast friends from about 1978 until high school.

Then our paths diverged, and he got into drugs. Somehow, God knows, I never
got into pot. I smoked–cigarettes, cigars–chewed tobacco, drank. But
somehow drew the line there. I don’t know why. Certainly I was wounded
enough to make drugs an alluring escape. All I can surmise is that it
must have been the grace of God protecting me (even before I believed
in Him).

So Pat cycled in, and out, of my life throughout the high school
years. Our biggest falling out had to do with something said in passing about my aunt. I didn’t see him for sometime. And one day, he dropped by unexpectedly. We had shared some in
our appreciation of the feminine form, swapped magazines.

In fact, it was about magazines that he’d come by. Thinking that he
wanted to borrow some of my goods, we went to my room.

“Dude, aren’t you sick of this?” he asked.

“What?”

“The porn, man, the porn.”

I took deep breath, exhaled, took another. Realized I was.

“Yeah, man, I am.”

“Let’s trash it, dude.” It took a moment to register what he’d said. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and said:

“Okay.” So that’s just what we did: took down the centerfolds, gathered the
magazines, trashed them all.

I felt so free, so gloriously free. Here was Pat, the stoner I
couldn’t get to give up weed, calling me out about my porn, recognizing my addiction (but not his own. And isn’t that the truth? We so often lack necessary perspective about ourselves). Looking
back, I realize it was God moving, perhaps getting my house in order: less than a year later I would bow
the knee to Christ, make my faltering profession of allegiance in a speeding car.

————-

After that day, I never saw Pat again–until his brother’s funeral.

Grace often comes like that–wearing a face we don’t recognize. Look
for it, and you will see. And how I wish that was the end of my
involvement with pornography (oh, it was–for awhile).

How has grace come to you unexpectedly?

Grumpy McGrumperson

randomlychad  —  November 1, 2011 — 10 Comments

'The Grumpiest Cat Alive' photo (c) 2004, Jonathan Keelty - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

Today, I woke after about six hours of sleep–sleep that, due to apnea, is not always refreshing.

Today, I woke up with a stiff neck, a headache, and a grumpy disposition. Owing to the fact that I didn’t sleep so well, I guess.

Continue Reading…