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Better Off Dad

I am a stay at home dad. That’s pretty much all I am. I used to be other things before I started staying home with my kids. But now I’m just a stay at home dad, or SAHD for short. I know that’s what I am because that’s how people introduce me. “This is Marcus, he stays home with the kids (can you believe it?)” Or if they’re over the age of 55, I usually get the “He’s a Mr. Mom.” It’s said in a positive way, sort of like the way people say “between jobs” when they mean “fired for being an incompetent loser.”

December 2009 - Posts

  • An Open Letter to the Fruit Flies

     

    Dear Fruit Flies, 

     

    It’s been over a week since you arrived at our house.  I’m not quite sure who invited you, but my suspicion is on that brown half eaten banana I found under the train table.

     

    At first it didn’t seem like a big deal.  I mean, what’s a couple of bugs?  I figured once the banana was gone, that you would see the error of your ways and move on to populate  some other home, or a trash can, or that Pig Pen kid from the Charlie Brown specials.

     

    But no.

     

    You decided to hang around our house and just hover annoyingly in the air – not really doing anything, just hovering. And that was ok, I guess.  You only have a lifespan of about two days, and I’m not completely heartless.  If you want to live out your remaining hospice hours in my warm home, I am not so cruel as to suggest that you shouldn’t.

     

    But then you did something that I find completely imappropriate.  We have a pretty strict rule in our house about having, um, “familial relations.”  We have two twenty year old boys living with us and we have made it abundantly clear to them that, while we can’t control what they do outside of this home, they will absolutely NOT be bumpin’ uglies under our roof and we will NOT be raising their illegitimate children.  And they have complied with this request completely.

     

    You seem to have no such compunction to do so.

     

    You copulated with wild abandon and then released your thousands of unholy offspring into our kitchen, dying shortly thereafter and expecting me to care for them.

     

    Well, I will not.

     

    I hate to be so cruel, but I do have my limits and raising several thousand bugs is well past mine.  I politely asked you to leave and you did not and then once you decided to begin cavorting by the dozens within the bristles of my toothbrush, I was left with no choice but to forcefully remove you myself.

     

    You know what they say, “houseguests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.”  Of course, you probably like the smell of dead fish.

     

    Regardless, it was time for you to catch your train on the out of town express and I am just the man to punch your ticket.

     

    However, this is more difficult than it sounds.

     

    Sure, you are small and incredibly stupid and have little use on this planet aside from being the subject of 9th grade genetic experiments, but you are still shockingly difficult to remove from one’s home.

     

    We spent some time simply trying to swat you, or shoo you out the window, but this was not successful.  So I turned to the only source I trust - the internet.

     

    I looked up how to remove you foul beasts from my home and most of the methods rely on your utter lack of intelligence, which makes me wonder why I’m even writing this letter to you, but I’m too far into it now to stop, so….

     

    It turns out that the secret to catching you lies in using your favorite food / aphrodisiac – rotting fruit.  So we filled several bowls with old apple slices, covered them with saran wrap and poked holes in them, because apparently you’re smart enough to figure out how to get into a bowl of rotting apples, but not smart enough to figure out how to get out.  

     

    These apples are your personal Afghanistan.

     

    So, we placed several bowls around where you like to congregate and I’ll be darned, it worked.  We came down the next morning and the bowls were full of creeping, crawling idiotic little bugs.  So we pitched your little frat party in the outside trash and went on our merry way.

     

    Sure, occasionally we’d see a single one of you flying around, but we didn’t expect to get every single bug in those little bowls, and besides, what can a single fruit fly do?

     

    Apparently, the answer to that is:  give birth to several million fruit flies!

     

    We came down the next day and you were everywhere, swarms of you in the kitchen and living room and bathroom, like some kind of fruit fly night of the living dead.  I calmly put out more traps to catch you little buggars, but my wife was having none of it.  Her patience was gone!  And wielding an old issue of Ranger Rick she started getting medieval on your abdomens!

     

    She stayed up till 1:00 am one night seized with a savage bloodlust as she attacked you over and over again, crushing your tiny bodies against our walls and mirrors in an orgy of fury and rage.

     

    YOU WOULD NOT SURVIVE!

     

    But you did.

     

    And the next day you were back swarming in larger groups than before.  That night, we had some friends over for a holiday party and despite your not being invited; you showed up and flew hither and yon like we were camping in the woods.

     

    That was the last straw.  You can invade my house.  You can copulate with impunity.  You can abandon your progeny to live in my living room, but you may not ruin my holiday party!

     

    That night, after the kids were asleep, I laid out 10 different traps and then I got my ghostbuster on.

     

    Using the wand on my vacuum cleaner I began sucking you little bastards into oblivion.  I stalked you where you lived, where you fed, where you played.  I learned your secrets.  I know that you like to hang out in the medicine cabinet.  I know that you like to gather on the chandelier.  I know that you do not like strawberry jelly.

     

    You can run, but you cannot hide.

     

    Ok, you CAN hide and you do an awfully good job of it, but I’m still coming!  I have sucked hundreds, if not thousands of your brethren into the cylinder of doom where they have died a horrible death, mangled and twisted amongst dog hair and old cheerios.  And I will not rest until every last one of you has been eliminated from the face of the earth….. or at least our living room and kitchen.

     

    Let this be your final warning.  I know where you live, (because it is where I live) and I am coming for you.  

     

    And I never lose suction.

     

    So, sneak around to the top of the mirror, rest on the bottom of the molding, and crawl along the backsplash.  Your days are numbered!  Even more numbered than your already ridiculously small life span and I will not rest until your foul miniscule corpses are forever removed from my home and are nothing more than the forgotten remains of a failed infestation.

     

    Flee while you can, for the end is near.  And I will once again reign triumphant in my fruit flyless house.

     

    Best regards, to you and yours.  Have a great Christmas

     

    Yours Truly, 

     

    Better off Dad

  • Best Friends

     

     

    My son has a best friend.

     

    My daughter has some best friends too, but it’s not the same.  They are little girls who are best friends one day and then squabbling the next day and then back to being best friends the day after that until something else happens.

     

    No, Asher has a real best friend - a friend who is always his best friend no matter what.  A friend who he could play with every day and never tire of.  

     

    His best friend is Thaddeus and they are two shaggy haired peas in a pod.

     

    They first got to know each other shortly after they were born.  Their older sisters were in the same preschool and so for the first year of their life, they spent much of their time being dragged in and out of preschool.  Asher was usually swaddled up and sleeping in a swing and Thaddeus was almost always strapped into a cloth backpack his mom was wearing.

     

    So for many months they just passed each other in quiet slumber.  Over that year, I became close friends with Thaddeus’ mother Sandy.  We had similar parenting styles and had a lot in common otherwise, plus Sandy is a dead ringer for my wife so she’s easy on the eyes.  (Sandy looks so much like Sarah that Sarah has mistaken Sandy for herself in photos) 

     

    As the next couple of years progressed, Sandy and I got together regularly to let the children play while we talked or had coffee. 

     

    This, however, did not go particularly well.  In the years between ages 1 and 3, the boys fought constantly.  They would shriek at each other when the other one touched one of their toys, they would break down and cry when they were forced to share.  They loved to point out when the other was doing something he wasn’t supposed to. 

     

    And then one day it changed.  Sandy and I were having coffee and when I started to pack up and leave, we realized that we didn’t know where the boys were….. and that it was very, very quiet.  We rushed upstairs expecting to find one or both of them unconscious and there they were, playing quietly with a wooden train set.

     

    And from then on, they’ve been pals, best buds, comrades, or, as Asher insists on calling them, “boyfriends.”

     

    Part of the reason they play so well together is because of this shared history.  We have literally been sticking them on a rug across from one another since the time they were able to sit up.  But there is more to it than that.  They play so well together, because they are so similar.  You see the boys are both, I don’t quite know how to put it, but they are both really sweet.

     

    While the other boys in their preschool are running around tackling each other and throwing each other to the ground like a bunch of miniature hockey players, our two boys are running up and down the sidewalk on a mission to mars or cowboyland.  They are both easy going, friendly, positive little boys and yes, they are both sweet.

     

    Now, there’s nothing wrong with little boys throwing each other to the ground, but it’s nice that my non-throwing son has found a non-throwing friend.

     

    Last week, Sandy and I were somewhere watching the boys as they giggled and then conspiratorially whispered something to each other before then ran off in a flurry of squealed excitement.  Sandy just said, casually, as much to herself as to anyone “I sure am glad they found each other.”

     

    I couldn’t agree more.

     

    Finding a best friend is a pretty special thing.  A lot of times the social dynamics of elementary school can force people to pair up in best friend duos.  Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn’t.  There were certainly times in my childhood where I had a best friend and times where I had a “best I can do at the moment” friend.  And having that truly best, best friend – the kind that you want to play with every day and that you beg your parents to see when you’ve been apart for a couple of hours is a pretty wonderful thing.

     

    Right now Sandy and I also each have a two year old.  She has a little girl, Serena, and I have Micah.  They are not like their older brothers.  They are not necessarily sweet, and they are certainly not easy going.  And right now, when we put them on the carpet across from one another they scream and squabble and hit each other if the other one dares to touch their toy.  They are a mess together.

     

    But my hope is, that in a year or so, Sandy and I will be sitting, drinking some coffee and we’ll start to wonder why it has gotten so quiet, only to discover our two youngest playing quietly, happily together in some forgotten corner of the house.  Possibly discovering that their “forced to play with” friend, is now their “best friend.”

     

    It’s not easy to find a best friend.  We all have our own quirks and eccentricities and it can be difficult to find another human that appreciates those quirks but when you do, it can make all the difference in the world.  

     

    It can make life so much more enjoyable to live.  It can make playtime so much more fun.  And it can make a simple toy on a playground seem like a ride to the moon.

     

    I sure am glad they found each other.

     

  • The World is Going to the Dogs

     

    I was metaphorically flipping through the pages of the internet yesterday and came across this extraordinary headline:

    KATHERINE HEIGL'S ORGANIZATION AIRLIFTS DOZENS OF DOGS

     

    http://wonderwall.msn.com/tv/katherine-heigls-organization-airlifts-dozens-of-dogs-1528634.story?GT1=28135

     

    Apparently Heigel, who plays the blonde doctor on Grey’s Anatomy who’s always screwing up and killing patients even though she wants SOOOOO much to help them, donated some money to have 25 Chihuahuas sent to New Hampshire.

     

    Ok, I know that doesn’t make any sense and just sounds like a really really bad premise for a movie:

     

    “Beverly Hills Chihuahua II – The Road Less Pooped!”

     

    Anyway, apparently they have way too many of the little furry mongrels down in California and none up in New Hampshire, so this was kind of a socialist national redistribution of Chihuahuas.

     

    Fine.

     

    Nobody likes to see animals euthanized (ooh, except maybe those “crushers”  but that’s too creepy to think about) so it’s great that these pint sized pooches were granted a new life in the granite state.

     

    Oh, I think I left out one fact:  Heigel paid $25,000 to have these dogs airlifted to New Hampshire.

     

    TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!

     

    That’s $1,000 a dog!  I don’t even want to calculate what that comes out to per ounce.  Probably more than truffles!

     

    I mean, I am all for saving animals.  I love animals!  We have a dog and some neglected fish, I’m a member of the World Wildlife Fund and we even have a bird feeder (although it’s empty because of those damned squirrels!).  So my point is, I am a big fan of animals and it breaks me heart to think of poor little beady eyed Chihuahuas having to go into those little tiny execution chambers, but damn!  $25,000?

     

    I would have thrown them in a sack and drowned them myself before I would have spent $25,000 to airlift them to New Hampshire.

     

    There are so many things wrong with this story.

     

    1. Was New Hampshire really the closest place to send these dogs?  I mean, could you find a farther place to send them?  Are you sure they wouldn’t be even happier in Sweden?  Come on, you’re telling me that you couldn’t have found them home anywhere except a shelter on the exact opposite side of the country?

     

    2. $1,000 a dog?  What kind of plane were these dogs riding on?  You can probably rent a private jet to take you across the country for less than that!  Did they all have seats in first class?  (To be fair, that would make a great scene in Beverly Hills Chihuahua II)  I mean, did Heigel even check Southwest?  They have low low prices and luggage is still free!  Heck one of the dogs could have checked the other dog as luggage and you could have done it for half as much.  Hell, half the dogs could have been carry ons! 

     

    3. Why an airplane exactly?  Were all 25 of the dogs suffering a simultaneous stroke and needed to be immediately flown to Concord to their world class canine cardiac care unit?  Why not throw the bitches in a car and drive them to New Hampshire?  (you can’t be mad about that term, it is technically accurate)  I mean, I would drive 25 miniature dogs across the country for $1,000.  If you paid me $2,000 I’d even feed them and stuff.

     

    It just kind of appalls me that so much money was spent on such a weird little project.  I sometimes feel like people lose all common sense when they get wealthy.  

     

    “Oh dear, do you see that homeless man?  Do call Le Cirque and see if they can send him out some pate and champagne.”

     

    $25,000 could probably fund an animal shelter in New Hampshire for an entire year.

     

    I recently got a request from a group in South Africa that runs a soup kitchen in the slums.  $5.00 will feed a child for one month, which means that with $25,000 you can either mail some dogs to some cranky old New Englanders or you could feed 25 starving South African children

     

    FOR EIGHTY-THREE YEARS!

     

    Holy crap people!

     

    Now, I don’t want to get too high and mighty here, because I know for a fact that I spend money on stupid stuff every day and that if I wasn’t so selfish I could be saving up more money to send to starving kids or vanishing cheetahs in the wild or monkey cancer or whatever pulls your heart string.  I mean, nobody wants to look at their $5 venti, no fat, half whip, extra caramel caramel macchiato latte and think:

     

    “Hmmm, I could drink this beverage, or I could feed a starving child for a month.”

     

    We all spend money on stuff that we don’t need when we could be spending it to help others.  And maybe that’s wrong, maybe not.  I don’t know.  It sure seems wrong, but if it is, just about everyone I know or have ever met seems pretty darn guilty.  

     

    So I don’t want to give Heigel too hard of a time. Clearly her heart was in the right place even if her mind wasn’t.  And unfortunately, I suspect that her $25,000 to fly some dogs around probably seems no more ludicrous to me than my expensive cell phone seems to someone struggling to scrape together enough coins to buy a 99 cent hamburger.

     

    So let this just be a reminder to all of us that money is valuable that it can buy wonderful things and stupid things and that even when you’re doing something really good, you can still be doing something really stupid.  Because otherwise I’m deeply afraid we’re all going to end up in Hell, condemned by an overpriced latte, a fancy dinner or a first class ticket for some mutts.  And if I do end up writhing forever in the smoldering recesses of Hades, well,

     

    I hope I at least end up in a smoking brimstone cell next to Katherine Heigel.

  • To Know You is to Love You

     

    So, I was reading an interesting book last week.  And by “reading” I mean listening to it on tape while I drove to New York for Thanksgiving, and by “interesting book” I mean the newest Grisham legal thriller and by “thriller” I mean an intriguing the story that is not the least bit thrilling.

     

    But that’s beside the point.

     

    In this book, there was a judge who was a conservative / pro-business kind of guy who had been elected to the court on a platform of keeping juries from winning massive settlements from corporations.  Then through a series of literary machinations he finds himself being the victim of a corporate wrong doer and his perspective starts to change. 

     

    Now, in general, it is probably not wise to draw too many grand sociological conclusions from a legal thriller, but it did start me thinking.  Basically, this judge changed his perspective because he was now experiencing what other people who had gone through some difficult and tragic experience had experienced and he was almost instantly changed from being someone who dismissed those who were suffering to someone who deeply empathized with them.

     

    It’s a simple literary device, used hundreds of times before and in some ways it seems like the most obvious thing in the world: once you’ve experienced hardship, you are more sympathetic to those who experience it on a daily basis.  

     

    This is not a significant revelation.  I’m sure we’ve all come across this thought before and I certainly have dwelled on it at times in my life, but recently I began to think about it more in terms of our nations political divide and how that plays out in a geographical basis.

     

    Ok, let me explain.

     

    What is the generally accepted stereotype about political leanings in this country and its connection with where people live?  

     

    Basically that atheistic, commie loving, homosexual liberals all live in the urban areas and that the gun molesting, racist, right wing religious nutjobs all live in the country and suburbs

     

    Ok, that’s a bit of an over-simplification, but you know what I’m saying.

     

    Obviously, this is not entirely true.  To paraphrase Obama’s 2004 Democratic Convention Speech, “There are people who love commies in the red states and there are people molesting guns in the blue states.”  

     

    But in general there’s a lot more truth to the conservatives live in rural areas and liberals live in urban areas mythos than not.

     

    But why?  What is it that makes people who live amongst farming equipment one way and people who live amongst starbucks another?

     

    Well, you would have to be a total moron to suggest that there was a single reason.  There are clearly lots and lots of reasons, but let me suggest one narrow hypothesis.

     

    I believe that there is a lot of truth to that Grisham story about the judge.  This guy lived in a little middle class bubble most of his life.  He never had to struggle financially and he spent his entire career amongst people similar to himself - people of a similar race, economic status, sexual orientation and political persuasion.  That is until he ended up on the wrong end of a life changing catastrophe.

     

    I grew up in a rural area that also happens to be one of the most consistently conservative regions in the country.  Many of the friends I went to high school with who still live there still fit into that somewhat conservative mold.  They spend their days amongst the same people they grew up with and those people are, invariably, very similar to them in almost every way.

     

    Conversely, many of my friends who moved away from the area have grown more liberal over the years.

     

    Now, there is an obvious argument that those who were conservative were comfortable and stayed put, whereas those who were more liberal decided to move to places to be with other like minded people and there is a lot of truth to this, but I think it is more complicated than that.  

     

    I think that the people who moved to the cities or colleges out of the area were instantly surrounded by people who were very different from themselves.  I know I was.  

     

    They spent lots of time with people of different races, economic backgrounds, religions, sexual orientations, political persuasions etc.  They got to know these needs individuals as people first and then as stereotypes and categories second.  

     

    It is one thing to believe that homosexuality is wrong, but it is harder to believe that after you have met a really nice person who you find out happens to be homosexual.  You begin to wonder if maybe homosexuality isn’t wrong, but rather, simply different.  

     

    In fact, a recent pew research poll found that people who had a friend or relative who was gay were twice as likely to support gay rights issues than those who did not.

     

    http://pewresearch.org/pubs/485/friends-who-are-gay 

     

    Of course, this isn’t entirely true, if the only gay person you’ve met is a total jerk then I suspect this doesn’t work.  If  Perez Hilton or Andy Dick showed up at your birthday party, then you’re probably not changing your mind about anything except who put together the guest list.  That being said, Our family’s best friends happen to be a lesbian couple with two small children.  Kim and Anna are perhaps the nicest, most interesting people in the world and it is hard for me to imagine anyone who has met them walking away feeling the same way about homosexuals as they did before.

     

    Familiarity breeds tolerance.  

     

    I suspect that this holds true for issues outside of sexual identity.  I suspect that people who have a friend or relative who is black are far more sympathetic to issues facing the black community and that people who have spent time living among or working with the poor are far more likely to support issues that affect the impoverished.

     

    If you had met some of the third graders I taught in Mississippi such as Aloysius and Jessie who live with us now, and if you heard their stories of friends and family members who had died from lack of medical care, it’s hard for me to believe you wouldn’t better understand the need for health care reform.

     

    If you live in or have spent time in a city or urban area, you are far more likely to have met someone who is gay, or poor or of a different race than if you have lived your whole life in a largely rural homogenous area.  I think this goes a long way to explaining these geographical  / political distinctions.

     

    I would even take this a step farther, beyond the boundaries of pure geography.

     

    Have you ever wondered why all of those Hollywood types are such liberals?  

     

    I have.

     

    I mean come on, someone who lives in a gated community in a California mansion, flies on a private jet and makes millions of dollars simply for memorizing something off a sheet of paper ought to be crazy conservative.  They only spend time with the ultra-rich.  They’re never around people different from them.  They should be voting for whoever will institute the lowest taxes and that’s it.

     

    But they don’t.  Again, the stereotype is that all of those Hollywood actor types are a bunch of wacky liberals.  

     

    Why is that?

     

    Here’s my theory and it’s a little nutty, but stay with me.  Partly I think it’s because almost nobody in the world of acting started off making a lot of money.  Most started off dirt poor sleeping on the floor of a one room efficiency with fivez other people and waiting tables.  They remember what it’s like to struggle.  

     

    But I also think that acting is a field that requires you to empathize.  If you are going to play a homeless person, or a single mother, or someone struggling to get by, then you have to spend some time emotionally identifying with that person.  And that identification is essentially the same thing that happens when you become friends or acquaintances with someone.

     

    I know that, again, this is a gross oversimplification of the world, but I don’t think someone could possibly act one of the roles in “A Raisin in the Sun” without coming to empathize with people who live those kinds of struggles on a daily basis.

     

    You see, once you become an “other” it becomes awfully easy to identify with all the “others.”  But if you grow up as part of a dominant community then it can be very difficult to see the world through any other perspective.

     

    Why are Jews, as a whole, more liberal?  I think it is largely because they know firsthand what it is like to be oppressed - to be part of a minority.  I think this makes it much easier to understand the plight of other minority groups and of others who are suffering.  It makes you much more inclined to support policies that will help people, even if those policies aren’t necessarily going to benefit yourself.

     

    This is, of course, not a universal truth.  The black community, for a variety of reasons, has been very hesitant to support issues dealing with homosexuality even though there are large black populations in cities where there are large gay communities.  And although there are many rural areas in the South that have large black and white populations, there is often not support in the white community for policies that would help the black community.  Again, it takes more than geography.  In these situations, even though the communities are geographically close, they are still deeply separated by economics or cultural divides that can be hard to bridge.

     

    But it is still my belief that in situations where someone knows someone of a different group, or has been in a situation where they have been forced to identify with the plight of someone else, that this changes their perspective.

     

    Yes, this is nothing more than the old “walk a mile in a man’s moccasins” logic, but I think it holds true.  And as our nation grows and changes, I believe it will continue to hold true.  As diversity of all kinds begins to spread out of the cities and into the rural landscape and as more and more young people leave the rural areas for education, or jobs in areas that are more diverse, I believe we will see a country that becomes more and more tolerant.

     

    In some ways.  

     

    Race and sexual orientation will become less and less important over time as geography and the natural movement of people around the country and the world changes, but I fear this is not necessarily the case for issues of poverty.

     

    People born middle class tend to stay middle class.  People born wealthy stay wealthy and people born poor tend to remain so.  And not only that, but we tend to segregate our lives so that we are only around people of similar economic backgrounds.  By our choice of home, schools, restaurants, jobs and neighborhoods, we self segregate by economics.  Race and gender and sexual orientation are diversifying more and more up and down the economic spectrum, but that economic spectrum itself is not diversifying much.  

     

    But when it does, it is powerful.

     

    There are very few people teaching in impoverished schools that don’t see the need for economic policies that support the poor.  There are very few people who have ever worked in the Peace Corps who don’t come back believing strongly that our foreign policies need to be more compassionate and supportive of developing nations.  There are very few people who have ever worked as a community organizer in a poor neighborhood in Chicago who don’t grow up to believe strongly that health care reform is a political necessity.

     

    So, am I suggesting that if we sent a really nice homosexual, a poor person and an ethnic and religious minority to live in the home of every conservative that they would all become a bunch of liberals?  

     

    Am I suggesting that the only thing stopping this nation from turning into Sweden is some kind of multicultural exchange program?

     

    Do I really believe that the reason people oppose gay rights and health care reform and increased funding for schools is purely a matter of people not having met Kim and Anna or Aloysius and Jessie?  

     

    No, I don’t think it’s that simple.

     

    But I also know that, like me, your life would be forever changed if you met Kim and Anna or Aloysius and Jessie.

     

    And maybe it’s just as simple as that. 

  • Noah’s Lark

     

     

    Once a year we get together with a bunch of old friends and rent a house on the lake in western Maryland.  It’s a chance to relax, catch up with some old friends and let the kids run wild.

    It’s also a chance to check the progress on Noah’ Ark.

    As anyone who has ever driven I-68 can tell you, there is a small mountain church that is rebuilding Noah’s Ark ….  out of steel beams….. just like Noah.

    The God’s Ark of Safety Church in Frostburg, MD proclaims “Noah’s Ark Being Rebuilt Here!”  And indeed they are.  

     

    Alongside the interstate is a massive steel frame that the ark is being built around.

    I know, it seems a little crazy.  That’s a lot of time and money to be spent on a boat in the mountains.  I mean, aren’t there hungry people still out there somewhere?  But for anyone who has ever really wanted to envision Noah’s story, or for anyone who has seen 2012 starring John Cusack, then it isn’t hard to understand the importance of building an ark in the mountains.  

    Personally, I thought it was a little eccentric, but somehow admirable.  Here was a crazy little man in a tiny little church that was taking on a massive endeavor like rebuilding a boat large enough to carry two of every creature on the planet.  There was something charming in the insanity of the whole project.

    So, every year as we drove past on our way to spend a weekend at a luxurious home in the mountains (aren’t there hungry people still out there somewhere?)  I watched as the ark moved closer and closer to completion.  I watched as the steel beams stood there glistening in the sun.  Then the next year when the steel beams stood there glistening in the sun. Then the next year when the steel beams started to rust in the sun and then the following year when the…. Hey wait a minute, what’s going on?

    For several years we debated whether there had been any progress from the year before.

    “I don’t think that section on the back was there last year?”

    “Really?  I thought it was.”

    “I don’t think so, but I’m not really sure.”

    Eventually, however, it became clear that no work had been done on God’s Ark of Safety for some time.

    For some reason, I found this very saddening.  It became clear that this church had had a grand vision.  They would rebuild the ark!  This would be their claim to prominence!  People would travel for miles around to come to the little church that had a dream so big that it could not be stopped.  

    And yet it was.  

    In fact, it made me even sadder to think of this church raising tens of thousands of dollars, enough to hoist these massive steel girders into place, and always assuming that more and more money would come, only to realize that no, this was it.  The money was done.

    And all that was left was a hulking frame of a boat on the side of the highway - a rusting testament to their failure.

    Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me and I went to check the place out.

    Not in person!  Are you kidding?  These people probably eat scorpions and put snakes in their pants.  (Just kidding, you just hold the rattlesnakes, you don’t put them in your pants).

    No, I just looked them up online.  And here is what I found:

    http://www.godsark.org/ 

    Apparently back in the summer of 1974, when I was but a wee babe in diapers, Pastor Richard Greene had a series of dreams where God told him to rebuild the Ark.  And so he did….. well, sort of.  I’m not quite sure of the timeline, but the poor guy never quite got past that steel girder stage.  But he’s still hoping, and if you have any money to spare, he would gladly put it to good use.

    Sort of.

    So every year, we continue to drive past, and every year I check to see if maybe that last bake sale got them enough money to start up the building process again.  And every year I pass by disappointed, wondering if I will ever get to see a real life ark.

    And then something extraordinary happened.  I came across this video of Johan Huibers who is building an ark in the Netherlands.

    Apparently he got the idea to build a life size model of the ark (wait for it) 

    30 YEARS AGO!

    Are you following this?  SO, back in the 70s, God told some guy in the Appalachians and some guy in the Netherlands to build an Ark, and THEY BOTH DID.

    Of course, somehow, the Godless Netherlanders managed to finish it while the sad little Christ loving Americans couldn’t get past a completely inauthentic steel girder system, but that’s neither here nor there.  

    The other thing I like about Johan is that, at least according to this minute long video, he seems to have built the thing himself with naught but a power saw and the indomitable strength of his wooden shoes.  Not like the lazy Marylanders who apparently wanted to hire Clark Construction to build their ark.

    So I’ve got to tell you, I was pretty impressed with old Johan, I mean come on, with only 30 years notice, this man built an ark all by himself.

    Or did he?

    Bah duh duh DUM!  (Cue John Stossel)

    That’s right, Johan’s ark was only 1/5 the size of Noah’s ark (apparently Johan had a little trouble with the cubit to meter conversion math.  Gotta remember to carry the one.)

    What?  

    1/5 the size?  Why even bother?

    If you’re going to build an ark to prove the veracity of the Bible and the power of almighty God, you can’t exactly build a 1/5 size model and expect anyone to care.

    You know, in Paris, Tennessee there is a 1/20 model of the Eiffel tower, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking my wife there for our anniversary (Maybe our 1/20 anniversary).

    So suddenly, I was a little disenchanted with old Johan and his mini-ark.    Could no one get this right?  Would we have to wait for Noah himself to come back and make us a real frickin’ ark 300 cubits long out of genuine gopher wood?  (Where in the world we’re going to get that much gopher wood is beyond me.  Lumber liquidators only had 100 cubits worth)

    Wasn’t there anyone who could build a stupid lifesize ark?  (John Cusack?)

    But then the answer was clear.  Where do you look when you need to do the impossible?

    Hong Kong.

    That’s right!  Our friends in China’s capitalistic step child have done what Richard and Johan could not.  They built a true to life ark on the edge of the water.  And it is awesome!  These folks have created the Ark to end all Arks and I love it!  It is full size, it is poised on the water (just in case) and it has every amenity you could ask for.

    I mean what’s the point of an Ark if it’s just going to sit there.  That is an awful lot of space to just be used as a replica.  Is that really what God would want?

    Of course not.

    Which is why for only $100 you can tour the ark and the petting zoo and the ropes course and the basketball courts, and the 4D theater.  And you can eat in one of the four restaurants and even spend the night in the hotel which is run by (I kid you not) the Hong Kong YMCA.

    (It’s fun to stay in a giant ark at the YMCA!  Y –M – C – A!   You can get yourself clean, you can have a good meal you can do whatever you feel!)

    http://www.noahsark.com.hk/eng/index.php

    And of course there’s even time for self reflection.  After you’ve slept, dined, and ropes coursed yourself silly you can go to the “I-Zone” where you can:

    “Go on a date with yourself in the rainbow path. In a peaceful environment, stepping on the rainbow bridge with high and low steps to taste the "wisdom of living", participants can undergo every precious experience in your life from heart.”

    O.  k.

    After that you move on to the “U and I Zone,” the “I and Society Zone,” and finally to the “I and the World Zone – Cherish Our Life” where you can take:

    (and I swear on a stack of Bibles made out of gopher wood that I am not making this up)

    “A Journey in Coffin:  Did you ever think of what you would feel in your coffin and funeral? Who and what is most important to you in your lifetime? You can have your own answer through a reflective journey in our electronic coffin.”

    Holy Crap on a Stick.

    Gosh, it’s hard to imagine why God would ever have wanted to destroy the world.

    So I don’t know.  I just don’t know what to think.  I sure like the idea of a life-sized ark.  I’ve always kind of wanted to see what that looks like.  Is it just like the loveboat made out of gopher wood?  (Wait… and Gopher was the purser on the love boat… I think I’m on to something)  Or is it bigger, or smaller?

    And what the hell is a cubit anyway?

    Isn’t that just what Q-Bert was always hopping around on?

     

    And the truth is, I’m not likely to fly out to Hong Kong to see Noah’s ark, especially if I have to lie in a coffin to re-examine my life to do it.  And there’s no way I’m flying to the Netherlands to check out a stupid miniature ark.  So I guess I’ll just keep driving out I-68 and hoping that Pastor Greene can round up a few more bucks and build the ark church he’s always dreamed about

     

    And if I’m lucky, he’ll even put in a ropes course.

     

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