SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME – the book

—CHAPTER TWO—

The war in Vietnam ended in 1975. This was when America said, “To Hell with it,” and went home.

The thirty-year war between Ethiopia and Eritrea ended when, in 1991, Ethiopia gave up and went home.

This is not the only parallel between the two wars.

The Eritrean war strategy was directly inspired by Chairman Mao Zedong’s playbook—the same one used by the North Vietnamese during the Vietnam War. The EPLF (Eritrean People’s Liberation Front) understood that fighting Ethiopia on their terms would be suicidal. In terms of weapons, finances, and manpower, Ethiopia had such an overwhelming advantage that a direct confrontation would end in catastrophe.

Instead, the EPLF used a series of strategic withdrawals into the deep countryside. This stretched the Ethiopian military and supply lines too far to support a continued invasion.

During this time, the EPLF did a brilliant job of galvanizing support from the Eritrean citizens by doing its best to take care of them.

Once the Ethiopian military was stretched too thin, the EPLF and the eager-to-assist Eritrean populace used every available guerrilla warfare tactic to extend the fight until the enemy found itself in very harsh terrain and engaged in a mobile war that it was unprepared to fight.

During the 1977 battle for control of Nakfa, Ethiopia lost its momentum and retreated south of the town. Over the following eleven years, Eritreans successfully repelled eight major invasion attempts by Ethiopia.

Speaking of Ethiopia, they maintained their  “Throw It Against The Wall And See What Sticks” strategy for all thirty years of the war.

The Ethiopian president overseeing these repeatedly unsuccessful invasions was Mengistu Haile Mariam. He was a dictator of the worst kind. During the famine of the mid-1980s, he diverted large amounts of grain to starve as many people as possible. In 1984, Mengistu dedicated himself to organizing a massive parade in his honor. He likely used the money from the grain sales to fund it.

Well, that didn’t help with his standing among his fellow Ethiopians.

While he was a high performer at inflicting misery, Mengistu wasn’t particularly good at anything else.

As mentioned, the EPLF built goodwill among the Eritrean citizens, who were willing to do anything necessary to unite against the enemy. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Mengistu humiliated as many of his citizens as he could. As a result, he resorted to conscription for manpower. Thousands of young Ethiopians were snatched off the streets and thrown into the front lines. They had no training, didn’t want to be there, didn’t care about taking orders from people they disliked or mistrusted, and were hardly interested in sacrificing their lives for their country.

When Ethiopia took over the main urban areas and seaports of Eritrea, the Ethiopian soldiers raped, pillaged, and destroyed everything and everyone in sight, which, of course, created even more resolve among the surviving Eritreans to, when the time came, fight back.

Ethiopia’s many failed attempts to invade Nakfa relied on random bombings and simple ground assaults. The Eritreans were so deeply entrenched in the Nakfa area that these tactics were ineffective. Ethiopia’s ground forces became target practice for the EPLF, which proved to be highly skilled in guerrilla warfare.

I don’t believe it occurred to Mengistu (or anyone else, I guess) to try something other than conventional tactics. It was a ridiculous cycle of fail, rinse, repeat, fail, rinse, and repeat. Based on Einstein’s definition, you can add insanity to Mengistu’s list of qualities.

So, there you have it. The EPLF had its citizenry behind them, fought the war on their terms, picked off Ethiopian invaders at a rapid clip, and waited for Ethiopia’s soldiers to pack up and go home.

If you are over fifty years old, Ethiopia’s handling of the war should sound remarkably familiar. It is the same brilliant strategy employed by the US “leadership” in the Vietnam War.

I find this fascinating. In 1977, Ethiopia began its chaotic efforts to take Nakfa. In 1975, the US left Phnom Penh and abandoned South Vietnam to the North Vietnamese. It’s not as if these failures are ancient history. It was just two years earlier when the US revealed the blueprint for failure. It was in all the newspapers.

How stupid do you have to be to think using the same strategy would work against the EPLF?

Answer: You have to be “Mengistu Stupid.”

Whenever I lose my car keys, forget why I went into another room, space on taking the trash out, or bump into the curb when parking, my immediate thought is, “I am too stupid.”

I’ve learned to follow that thought with, “Well, at least I’m not Mengistu Stupid.”

It seems to help.

Back to Nakfa…

We were far enough in the sticks that the road amounted to a narrow, winding path that was sometimes barely passable. Under the cover of darkness, we drove through streams, brush, twists, turns, and horrendous terrain. We didn’t encounter any hostilities. The experienced people in the truck said the Ethiopians didn’t know the “road” existed.

We came across a couple of Eritrean checkpoints, which, given that we were still in territory allegedly controlled by Ethiopian troops, seemed pretty amusing.

The first checkpoint served as a refueling station. Gasoline was stored in extensive underground facilities.

The second checkpoint had a massive selection of spare parts, in case your vehicle needed repairs. I’m not sure if it was a DIY operation or if you left your truck with mechanics named Diesel, Rebel Yell, or Spike to have it fixed.

People slept in shifts on some ancient mattresses on the truck’s flatbed. I found some available space on one and, after watching Vineet seize the moment and move next to Jen, I quickly fell asleep.

When I woke up, we were in Nakfa.

I took a look at Jen and Vineet. They were having an earnest conversation.

“No, Vineet. I do love you. I love you so much. I genuinely love you…as a friend…maybe a brother…no, definitely not like an uncle. You’ll make some woman incredibly happy…some other woman. Annoying? You’re not annoying! I admire your tenacity…from afar. It’s not me…uh, you…take the relationship to the next level? Um, would the previous level be okay? Alexander the Great? You named it Alexander the Great? No, please don’t show it to me…”

The truck stopped. Jen, Vineet, and I jumped off the truck.

Once Jen’s feet hit the ground, she was surrounded and given a hero’s welcome. Anyone within eyesight ran to her. Over an hour was spent in group hugs and tears. It wasn’t just her Christian pals who were over the moon. Eritrean Muslims, aid workers with no religious affiliation, EPLF fighters, women, and children all joined in.

Everybody revered her.

Before the first Bruce concert, she was an annoying ditz. Three weeks later, my girl is the sum of Queen Victoria, Mother Teresa, Florence Nightingale, Harriet Tubman, and Marie Curie.

Times two.

Times infinity squared.

I may not be the greatest judge of people after all.

Having stepped away from the greeting committee, I looked around. I was half-expecting to see a nearly deserted town like the ones I passed while driving through West Virginia’s back roads, where collapsed buildings were surrounded by rusted cars and debris, and a few shell-shocked citizens wandered through the main street with no clear destination.

That was not the case.

Nakfa was open for business. Most essential services and utilities were available. A functional judiciary system was in place. Distribution centers were stocked with food and medical supplies.

Folks had transistor radios. A radio station broadcast music and updates to Eritreans all day.

Hell, there was an entertainment center. A large one.

A clean, functional hospital had been chiseled into the side of a mountain.  It was the size and shape of Concourse D at Dulles International Airport.

Being mostly comprised of fortified bunkers, subterranean structures, and buildings covered by a dense forest, the place didn’t risk any chance of being mistaken for Savannah, Georgia.

It didn’t have much risk of being spotted by enemy aircraft, either.

Despite all the Ethiopian bombing campaigns, a few buildings that were in view of Ethiopian bomber pilots remained intact. As we unloaded supplies from a truck, I asked one of the English speakers to explain how, given all the aerial assaults, the buildings managed to stay upright.

“Yeah, ya’ know, right? We reckon the bomber pilots are too pissed to find a target. One time,  we dressed up some mannequins, put ‘em in sight of the bombers, and they blasted the bejesus out of everything ‘cept the mannequins. Missed ‘em every time. Maybe they’re just galah, ya’ know? Don’t think any of ‘em could hit a bull in the ass with a handful of sand.”

“I don’t think any of them could hit a bull in the ass with a handful of sand.”  What the hell does that mean?

He continued. “The bastards aim to hit people. Children, too. Bastards. Oh, yeah. I’m Bruce. Pleased to meech-uh.”

We shook hands. I introduced myself.

A bull in the ass…maybe that’s Australian for, “Can’t hit water from a boat.” Who knows?

Bruce was working with the Red Cross. He was fascinated by my backstory. I explained all the contortions that brought me to this moment in life and my current role as Jen’s bodyguard.

He thought for a moment and said, “Crikey.” Pause. “Yah keep her [Jen] true blue, Mate. She may be from the States, but she’s all Aussie to me. A one-off. Don’t make ‘em like her anymore.”

“I got that impression, too.”

“When she went walkabout with Azza, we figured they were goners. Only Jen could turn that into a winner. But they paid a packet in the meanwhile, yeah? Hell on earth, they were in.”

I slowly shook my head. “I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.”

“One of a kind, ‘eh?”

“One of a kind,” I replied.

Bruce’s hometown was Perth, Australia, which is way the hell and gone at the western end of the country and is conveniently situated thousands of miles from everything.

Based on Bruce’s description, Perth seemed like a college town with a dozen frat parties happening all at once. A million people, drunk beyond reason and covered in puke, stumbling around with an oil can full of beer and asking passing kangaroos, “Is that a koala in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?”

Bruce insisted there was no better place to live.

“Sounds like Heaven.” It was all I could think to say, but I did feel strongly about the sentiment.

We compared Australian Rules football to American football and reached the clear conclusion that they had nothing in common. Then, out of left field, Bruce asked a question that might have been a warning shot. “You aiming to get in her knickers, Mate?”

“PFFFFFFFT,” as I spit water in all directions. “Well, no, actually. I’m giving her knickers, and the relevant attractions located within, a miss. Even if I were keen, I wouldn’t bother trying. She’s not the least bit interested.”

“Yeah. Good man. No need to muddy up the pool now. Tight timetable she’s got.”

Tight timetable for what?

Bruce had supplies to deliver. “Yer a prince. Come by some evening. Get pissed with the boys and girls.”

“Thank you! Best idea I’ve heard in years.”

Random folks introduced themselves to me. They were a little too happy to meet me. They couldn’t thank me enough for stopping by Eritrea. Clumps of gratitude were hurled my way, and more than a few individuals hugged me.

What is wrong with these people?

I spotted a happy and relieved Jen speaking with a circle of young adults, who, based on their dumpy and drab attire, I determined were of a similar faith.

I busied myself by toting boxes to a building while, in my self-appointed role, keeping an eye out for hostile forces, which, as I reflect on it now, was rather stupid on my part.

In my defense, I was a new entrant in the bodyguarding game.

Jen summoned me to meet the kids in her Godly crew. They were effusive in their delight to meet me, although without the hugs. Hearty handshakes and firm eye contact were as far as they were prepared to express themselves, which was fine.

At the time, I wasn’t that keen on hugging strangers who may have some hideous fungus to share.

Still, they poured out praise and good tidings enough to make me nauseous. One guy put his hand on my shoulder and bellowed a prayer at me for about 45 minutes.

Tone it down, Bruno,  would’ja please? Jesus! I mean, jeepers.

Eventually, Jen and I picked up our belongings and walked to a fortified shelter that served as a communal bedroom.

I asked, “Is everyone so thrilled to meet strangers such as yours truly? Seemed a tad extreme to me.”

“I told them I came back because of you.”

“Oh, naughty, naughty. You told a fib.”

“Nope.”

“Did, too.”

“Did not.”

After walking in silence for a minute, I said, “I know my memory left the building years ago, but I could have sworn you were coming back here regardless of my, or anyone else’s, assistance. I’m tagging along just to keep you alive and well and living in hope.”

Jen stopped. “I chickened out. Before we met at the second show, I told Vic and Dan I wasn’t coming back here. It was too… I gave up. I couldn’t do it.”

“Hardly the impression I got. You gave quite a sermon at some point in the conversation. ‘Jesus helps me feel better about my future.’ ‘Jesus sacrificed his life for me.’ I remember quite a bit. You were rather convincing.”

She smiled slightly. “I know.” Pause. “That’s when I started changing my mind.”

“I didn’t detect a moment of doubt. Shows what I know. ‘If you believe in something, then you can live life with passion.’ ‘I can’t turn my back on Jesus.’ Compelling stuff for someone who thought it’d be best to walk away.”

We faced each other. “I had to hear me give myself my own sermon. You listened. You coulda told me to get off my high horse. You musta wanted to.”

“No, actually. I felt rather honored, but my mind was racing in all directions. Kinda like a thousand cats who just dropped into a mouse farm.”

“Then you said you wanted to come with me. I didn’t believe you. But you said you were asleep for years and that you just woke up. I thought maybe I’m asleep, too. That’s when I woke up, too.

“If you didn’t say what you said that day…if you didn’t say you’d come, I wouldn’ta come back here and you woulda stayed asleep.

“We’re both are where we’re supposed to be…where we are meant to be. It isn’t a coincidence. It’s not an accident. I so hope you believe that someday.”

“So, you didn’t fib. You’re not a fibber. You are, essentially, fibless.”

“Mister Funny Man.”

We found the shelter. There were two open cots. I walked toward one of them and was immediately advised, with abundant severity, by three women in the room that I was on the wrong side of the curtain. I was on the girls’ side.

Not good.

There was none of this cohabitation-between-the-genders nonsense around here. Uh-uh! No funny stuff! The women went on to tell me that the girls’ shower times were separate from the boys’ and no fair peeking! Furthermore…

I interrupted. “Guys, gimme a little credit. I’m not gonna watch the women take showers. Come on.”

Before any of them could say more, Jen quietly told them that I was with her. That put an immediate end to their further instructions.

An image of Vito Corleone from the first Godfather movie jumped to mind.

She speaks quietly and calmly. Nothing remotely threatening or confrontational. But they all listen, they fill in the blanks, and no one pushes back. Not one word. “He’s with me” meant “stop talking, ladies.”

We made it an early night. Thinking I shouldn’t give a bad impression on the first day, I gave Bruce’s invitation to get drunk a miss.

The next morning, we woke up to the not-so-distant sound of bombs exploding. No one panicked. Sometimes, the Ethiopian air force would come by in the morning to target children on their way to school. The locals had taken precautions to keep the kids safe. It helped that paid Ethiopian informants provided the EPLF leadership with plenty of warning.

Eventually, all was quiet, and people went about their day. Jen and I walked to a supply distribution center.

On the way, Jen warned me about a local gentleman named Chris. “He’s, uh, unusual. Chris does all the planning…uh, logistics. He is amazing. But, uh, not great with…people. He tries…uh…not incredibly good…with people. It’s good…uh, real good…to, like, not stare at him…or touch him…don’t get too, uh, close.”

“I think I can manage that.”

A minute later, she said, “Don’t touch anything. Nothing, uh…don’t touch…just…uh…don’t.”

“Right-o.”

Another minute passed before she spoke again. “Uh…his sense of humor…is…he doesn’t have a sense of, uh, humor.”

“Would it be quicker to tell me what I can do?”

“Maybe.”

Another minute passed.

“Don’t do anything loud.”

“I have a thought. I’ll stand away from everyone and wait for you to pass critical information in my general direction. That work?”

Another minute passed.

“Uh, yeah. That’s a good…idea.”

We entered Chris’s underground sanctum. It was organized, but in a uniquely odd way. Objects were placed at strange angles, papers were spread across a desk like a fan of playing cards, and sheets of paper forming a perfect arch were stapled to a wall. A large map, with detailed lines and patterns, was attached to another wall.

Chris was autistic. You probably guessed that by now. I was unfamiliar with autism. In the mid-1980s, I’m reasonably sure that few people knew much about the subject.

The first time most Americans learned about autism was when we saw the movie “Rainman.” All we discovered from the film was that autistic people get their underwear from K-Mart.

I worked in the tech industry for a long time and had colleagues at various points on the autism spectrum. They designed complex network infrastructures. When it came to subject matter expertise, they had their shit down cold.

These folks knew everything.

I was on friendly terms with almost everyone in that department. Whenever I worked on an elaborate project or one that had no precedent, I asked at least one of the network designers to critique it.

They were always willing to help and never asked for anything in return.

Their input saved my ugly ass many times. I always included their names on the design documents, which meant a lot to them. Not so much for the publishing credit, but for the public acknowledgment.

Now, were they always nice with their input? Hell, no. Fortunately for me, I was interested in their honesty, not their diplomacy.

I gained some insight into how they viewed the rest of us, which I can accurately summarize this way:

You people need to read the manual, the answer is in the manual, read the manual, stop being dishonest, I don’t want to take drugs just so you can feel more comfortable, you promote people based on quality and quantity of blow jobs so stop questioning my judgment, read the fucking manual, maybe I don’t like looking at you because you’re ugly, I don’t have an attitude I just have standards which is why I don’t laugh at your jokes, I’m not acting friendly to you because I don’t want to be friends with you, try having morals, stop saying something is an analogy when it’s a simile, if you don’t have anything to say then don’t speak, stop using euphemisms that you don’t understand, and, for the love of God, read the manual. 

Just because there’s more of you than us, it doesn’t mean we’re the ones with the disorders.

Oh, yeah, can you get to the point? I swear, you people shove as few ideas as you can into as many words as possible.

I think that covers the high points.

I’m told the ideas expressed above are not unusual for folks with autism, although with much less derision.

Sadly, for everyone involved, the network designer’s interaction with clients had to be minimized. This was because they repeatedly engaged in the most disgraceful, irresponsible, and unforgivable crime one can commit in the corporate world:

They told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

It gets worse because they refuse to use the mandated, disingenuous, misleading, deceitful, politically correct, corporate psycho-babble required in the business world to close the deal quickly before the customers realize they’ve just been screwed back to the Stone Age.

They even dared to treat the CEO no better than they treated the security guard. There were documented cases, with eyewitness corroboration, where they refused to wipe the CEO’s ass on demand.

Chris was an interesting gentleman. The first trait that stood out from miles away was that he had no tolerance for those who showed laziness, unaccountability, arrogance, evasiveness, disorganization, inattentiveness, stupidity, and lawlessness.

I figured our working relationship was doomed from the start, as those are eight of my finest attributes.

He was a native Eritrean, but to a degree, he spoke English. His favorite saying was, “We go do some job.” That was his way of saying, “Let’s get to work.”

Another facet was his monumental, non-negotiable moral imperative and maniacal disapproval of anyone, particularly himself, who crossed the line between right and wrong.

Once, Chris found out that a fellow aid worker had missed a deadline to pay back a small loan. The guy had been in the hospital due to a serious illness and was working on getting back on his feet. The lender was completely fine with giving him an extra month to repay.

Chris, however, was not impressed. He confronted the aid worker as, in his view, this was not how Christian men behaved and insisted that the aid worker pay the debt immediately.

How, the aid worker wondered, was he supposed to get the money immediately? Chris’s helpful suggestion was, “Beg.”

After a prolonged silence, he elaborated. “Get tin cup. Dance on highway.”

The worker felt a more respectful tone would be appropriate, to which Chris responded, “You don’t deserve no respect. Pay your debt. Then maybe get respect.”

Chris then paid the lender in full and gave the aid worker sixty days to pay him back.

I stayed out of harm’s way while Jen approached Chris. When he saw her, he jumped to his feet, bowed repeatedly, and held one of her hands with both of his. Like everyone else in the country, he was excited to see her. Jen introduced me and provided a detailed explanation of my role.

Once she finished, Chris said, “Yes. I know.”

I said, “Hi, Chris.”

He briefly glanced at me. “You’re standing too far away.”

“Well, I didn’t want to get in your way.”

He pointed to a spot on the floor marked with masking tape. “You should stand here.”

It didn’t take me long to realize that Chris was the Wayne Gretzky of transportation services, inventory management, resource allocation, and supply chain administration. There were over thirty trucks delivering food and supplies throughout the Eritrean-controlled territory. Among other things, he knew the exact number and weight of every item on each truck, the details of each route, arrival times, current inventory levels, dates and times (within half an hour) when new supplies would arrive, and the locations of everyone directly or indirectly involved in the operation. This meant tracking other aid agencies to ensure folks weren’t overlapping or duplicating efforts.

At any moment, he could tell you where every truck was located along its appointed route. This was in 1985. There was no commercially available GPS tracking. There were no “Find Me” apps for mobile phones. This went unnoticed as there were no mobile phones,  either.

Chris didn’t need GPS. He knew the location of everyone and everything at all times.

He didn’t have to check his notes or verify anything. If you asked him any question, he would give you an immediate and accurate answer.

Every time.

I dedicated the morning to learning some of the intricacies of Chris’s world.

The rest of the day was spent with folks loading grain and supplies into various trucks and distribution centers. I enjoyed it. There was plenty of snappy banter among us: no worries, no depression, no committees, and no downward spirals.

Meals approximated “stew,” depending upon your definition. There was plenty of flatbread, which was helpful because it could scoop up the stew and bring it to your mouth. Breakfast, and dinner all consisted of stew and flatbread. Of course, no one complained. The region was, after all, in the middle of a famine.

After dinner, Jen and approximately 15 of her pals gathered in a circle. Jen suggested I join them.

What are we doing now? If someone suggests playing spin the bottle, I’m leaving.

Among those in the circle, I was the best-dressed, wearing jeans that fit, sneakers, a bandana, and a muscle shirt. I was the only one not dressed in the grim uniform of like-minded and very young believers. The people came from all over the world, and they all arrived at this place at this time, knowing how to dress alike.

I listened to the drone of simultaneous conversations for 15 minutes. Folks were tired. There wasn’t much in the way of energy or focus. People sounded the same as corporate employees arriving at an 8 am mandatory meeting.

Amid the cacophony, Jen quietly suggested a group prayer. I was sitting next to her and could barely hear her say anything. Still, once she spoke, all conversations came to an immediate stop, and everyone’s attention was on her.

How the hell does she do that?

After leading the prayer, Jen had the floor for a few minutes during which she introduced me. Word must have spread quickly, because everyone already knew who I was and why I was there.

Three people stood and gave their “testimony.”

Not all at the same time.

They took turns.

Just wanted to clarify.

Well, I’ve heard testimonies before. When I was a kid, I had to listen to them during Sunday School. They came from these sad-sack, repressed guys who, biologically speaking, were seventeen. Emotionally, though, they were closer to ten, and I’m not kidding. Plus, the poor, dumb bastards were so conflicted about sex and so determined not to think about sex that all they thought about was sex.

Their testimonies sounded something like this (reading between the lines):

Well, you know, like, I went to church all the time when I was in elementary school. It was so cool. All my friends went to church. We had so much fun. We didn’t like have, uh, you know…urges…like…naughty…thinking. Um, you know, Jesus was my hero! He’s so amazing. He is! God is, uh, so, like, big.

And, and…large…powerful…with, like, um, thrust…and, and…pounding.

But, like, middle school, it’s so, like, you know…I mean…middle school is…you know, is, one real big sin…and, and, Satan will make you do…things…with, uh, like…yourself…and, and…it’s sticky.

Then I started drinking Dr. Pepper. From the can. Like all day.

I lost my holiness to the darkness of Hell because, like, you know, middle school is a life of shame and sin…and, uh, and…plugging…lips…and, Dr. Pepper…and, the devil made me do…stuff…when the lights were off…needs…uh, with, sinful hole…pink…like, evil…lips.

Middle school teachers made me read bad books. Bad, bad books. There’s this book…written by Satan called “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret.” Her body did…stuff…with, with, like, things that…flowed…and, and, and….from, like, openings, and…fluids…and…she had…needs…from Satan.

The worst was Sex Ed classes in 8^th grade. They had pictures of parts of things and drawings with arrows. The arrows pointed at…parts…girl…parts…and areas…and, there…I can’t…roast beef…and, filth that was…like, er, um, floppy.

I washed my eyes for two straight days after seeing those pictures…evil…bad…pictures…I looked…fluids…can’t stop…must stop…looking.

Middle school takes away your soul…makes you slaves to sin because they, you know, put the school next to a gas station where Satan sells, uh, condoms in the gas station bathroom right next to the Dr. Pepper machine…addicted…to…and, it itches…some…times.

And, the cafeteria lady said something about some guy’s cannoli! That’s what they call that…thing…that…thing that girls don’t…have.

I washed my ears for two straight days.

A teacher made us read a book by Satan called “Lady Cheverly’s Lover,” er…something…about…some old lady…who had…longings for…she…does things with, with…boys…bad girl…bad, bad girl…needs…discipline.

I washed my eyes for two more days.

Satan sent this evil girl…uh, uh, stuff…in her…underpants, and, and, pressed her…parts…on…my…moist…sticky…she tormented me with…things, and she said…and rubbed…urges…openings, and,and…inserting…bad…very bad.

I washed my cannoli for two straight days…quivering, sticky… cannoli.

Huh? What? Hurry up? Okay.

One day, in my, you know, I sat on a park bench after another night of sinful behavior. It was almost 8:30 at night! I just opened my sixteenth can of Dr. Pepper that day and, like, I was about to give in to my addiction to sin, when, like, you know, I heard the Lord say to me, “Maybe you should slow down on those Dr. Peppers. That stuff is making your teeth turn brown.”

Right then, I knew…Dr. Pepper would never answer my prayers the way God could.

I ran home and brushed my teeth for two consecutive days!

Just remember, kids. When God closes one door He opens a window, and God never gives you more than you can handle, and everything happens for a reason, and God has a plan, and I’ll put you on my prayer list, and have a Jesus filled day, and your faith will grow like a mustard seed, and I can feel the Holy-Spirit is working on you right now, and be blessed just like me. Amen. Okay. Bye.

I’m synthesizing the testimonies. You figured as much. But I was 11 at the time, and this was how I interpreted them.

I was prepared for more of the same.

And, to a degree, they were.

Except they lacked the hollowness of those from Sunday School. These testimonies recounted recent and difficult experiences: the loss of a parent, an injury at the hands of a significant other, and the death of a friend.

Yes, there was some inane dogma, an over-reliance on clichés, and attempts to oversimplify some complex issues.

But these were naïve, sheltered young people who were not immediately prepared for the sort of shit that flies in the real world. They spoke about facing some ugliness, having to quickly accept their very human limitations, acknowledging their inability to fix what wasn’t fixable, and relying on faith to get them through the ordeal.

But something wasn’t quite right. The testimonies sounded contrived and the speakers delivered them with very little enthusiasm or conviction.

Do they even believe what they’re saying?

These kids are confused. For the first time, all three are trying not to question the faith they once never doubted. Now, they’re unsure about almost everything. The unspoken story is their growing uncertainty. They can’t admit it to us or themselves.

But it’s still there. They have many new questions. The default answers, which were so obvious for so long, no longer do it for them. I’m sure everyone in this group knows how they feel.

Sadly, none of them can say it out loud.

Jen, whose sense of the moment was astonishing, asked each person to share a personally traumatic or tragic event that challenged their belief system and explain the steps they took to keep the faith.

No wonder everyone shuts up when she speaks. Holy shit, as it were. Girlfriend is ten lengths ahead of the field. She knows exactly where this is going to go and how to get there.

Again, I don’t think these kids got out much before reaching college age. Aside from those who shared their stories, the worst day of their childhood was when Dad spanked them after they told Grandma she smelled like horse urine.

The first few yammered about their unwavering, unquestioning, undeniable “childlike” faith in the All-Mighty while hiding behind some common, and annoyingly trite, Christian phrases. By golly, despite these horrors, their faith never wavered.

Everyone in the circle, except Jen, nodded vigorously in agreement. Yes, faith with the innocence of a child! That’s what they had! That childlike faith, by golly, helped them overcome the embarrassment of publicly apologizing to Grandma for the “horse piss” comment and putting ice packs on their asses.

What a crock of shit. It ain’t childlike, it’s childish.

Jen continually, but gently, prodded the group for a little more honesty. The childishness quickly slipped away. Before long, one person mentioned “losing my way.” Next, a man shared that he’d been sidetracked from his mission, followed by a woman who admitted she wasn’t sure “what to think, anymore.” Finally, some brave individuals spoke about times when the dreaded doubt crept in. Another woman said she could use all the help she could get because, when it came to faith, the well was running pretty dry.

She wanted her old faith back, the one that didn’t ask questions.

As people spoke, the circle became quieter. The intensity increased with each speech. Emotions were getting real and quite raw.

Other than offering a few encouraging words, Jen let the others do all the talking.

Jen’s conducting an orchestra and getting everyone back in tune. She’s running the show but doesn’t care if anyone fails to notice. She’s one of those people who lead without ever saying, “I’m in charge.”

The Anti-Al-Haig has arrived.

They’re coming together, holding each other, and shedding tears. These kids are accepting and truthfully revealing the one thing they’ve been avoiding since puberty: they have doubts.

Bif, Marianne, Muffy, Skippy, and the rest are pleading guilty to the crime of thinking twice about all they were told. Now they’re scared. Do they believe their souls are hanging in the balance just because they spoke honestly?

Well, they all believe God considers watching an R-rated movie an abominable sin, so, yes, they do think their souls will turn into road kill any minute now.

As the evening was coming to a crescendo, it was Jen’s turn to speak. Everyone leaned forward and stared at her.

Jen addressed the 800-ton guerrilla in the room with a straightforward discussion of her four days in captivity. She didn’t lay it on thick, but she gave enough detail to cause more than a little distress within the group.

Me, included.

She began by saying that during her stint in Hell, she wondered if God no longer cared. She even thought that God might not exist. Maybe faith in something unseen was just a bill of goods. She had plenty of doubts about everything she had believed. After that first day, she and Azza felt like giving up and dying. Death, at that moment, seemed like a real improvement over this.

She’s shocking everyone. “Did Jen have doubts? Inconceivable!” They’re stunned. Their Patron Saint is proclaiming that she’s no less human than the rest of us.

Even the wildlife has stopped talking.

By the second day, she realized that her only way to fight back, her only weapon, was to regain her innocent and unwavering belief in God. She thought that if she could restore that belief in her heart, then she and Azza might have a chance. Okay, the odds weren’t in her favor. She understood that.

To do this, Jen first accepted and embraced her doubt. She didn’t judge herself badly for feeling this way. As she analyzed all her second thoughts, she concluded none were nearly as compelling as her faith.

Her audience, whose members assumed that doubting anything was a hanging matter, was transfixed.

At any rate, Jen sang hymns, prayed aloud, pleaded to God to save her attackers, and shouted her gratitude for being alive at this moment. At first, it was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she kept at it. Initially, her captors told her to shut the fuck up while they kicked her around, but they only strengthened her resolve.

A day later, she felt an almost immediate change within herself. God made sense again. Her faith grew stronger. Then, Azza experienced something similar. Soon after, the men who had abused her changed. At first, it was remorse. Then, they were overwhelmed by guilt they couldn’t bear. They begged for their forgiveness. While she held Azza, Jen forgave them. She also told them that true forgiveness can only come through praying to God. The same men who had been savages just a day earlier were now crying and asking God to forgive them.

On their own accord, they took her and Azza back to camp. Then they turned themselves in to the police. Usually, for the crimes they committed, they would have faced the death penalty. Jen convinced the authorities to spare their lives.

The moral of the story was that she, Jen, rediscovered her elusive, innocent, true faith using, as a springboard, the doubt brought on by a horrendous ordeal.

Childlike faith, she said, wasn’t innocent at all. It was just naïve.

In her mind, naiveté was useless. Besides, it’s unattainable. Once it’s gone, it’s not coming back.

Recovering her innocence was her goal.   

To her, an innocent belief, a genuine belief, was something you earned the hard way. She wondered if experiencing doubt was a prerequisite to finding that unshakable faith.

When Jen said all this, she sounded as if she was trying to figure it out herself right then. She stared into the distance and spoke as if she hadn’t fully embraced the idea that doubting God was a necessary step to believing in Him.

Oh, she’s not thinking twice. I know, and she must know, that each person who’s not sure what to believe, and that includes just about everyone here, will double their efforts to find out.

She’d make a killing selling used cars.

No one spoke for a long time. There were tears and sniffles. You could hear the gears turning.

Her final thoughts for the night were spoken with much more authority and assurance:

Finding true belief this way is not easy.

But it saved her life, Azza’s life, and the lives of her captors.

It will, most likely, save more lives.

Maybe accepting your humanity, being honest with yourself, and not pretending to be perfect is worth a shot.

After all, it’s your faith we’re talking about. So, make it yours.

The group remained silent. There were no rah-rah, happy-happy, joy-joy demonstrations. No cheerleading. No fake enthusiasm.

The looks on each of their faces are indelibly etched in my psyche.

They were ready to run through a brick wall.

Finally, the group stood. Someone led a longish prayer while almost everyone  cried outloud and tightly hugged one another.

Eventually, everyone stood in a circle again.

Jen asked if anyone had something they wanted to contribute before calling it a night.

“Jen, yes, indeed, there remain voluminous reflections I am compelled to disclose the correlation of our devotion to the Lord with relationships in unions such as marriage…”

Fuhhhhhhhhhhck! Vineeeeeet!

“…to apportion my comprehension in the matters of true, innocent, faithful love of our Christ Jesus. Indeed, God does not bequeath to us more than we can handle…”

You are playing Vibe-Whack-a-Mole! Maybe it’s Whack-a-Vibe. Whatever it is. Stop trying to smash it back to the Stone Age.

“…and my love, as every faithful husband’s love for his betrothed and the Lord above, shall grow like mustard seeds…”

Too late.

You’ve turned the vibe into a vast pool of pus.

“…until we depart this world, indeed, walking by faith into bliss, just as we shall in holy matrimony…”

Vineet, at your earliest convenience, blow it out your ass.

“…and they shall be one flesh! Marriage is, indeed, most honorable…”

This guy can vaporize good juju from 1,000 yards away.

“…marriage should be honored by all, and the marriage bed kept pure, for God will judge the adulterer and all the sexually immoral…”

Jen interrupted. “Thank you, Vineet. Thank you. Your words bless us. But it’s curfew. We have to get inside…now.”

I’ve never seen so many young people honor a curfew with such abandon.

“…there can be no doubt. Doubt is a weakness and is the adversary’s delight… Banish doubt from…”

I looked at Jen. “I’m only staying here because you are.”

“…for I shall take to my deathbed the belief that…”

Jen ended the diatribe. “Vineet! Good night!”

As Jen hurried away, Vineet scrambled to catch up and inflict her with more wisdom.

I remained a few yards behind them.

Before Jen retired to the sacred girls’ side of the room, I asked her about the next day’s agenda.

She looked back and said, “Meet at 8? Here? We’re hitting the road. Not too far. That’s alright with you?”

“Road trip! Goody-goody. Can’t wait.”

She tilted her head. “I can.”

“We can do this. I have no doubt. Did I say that? Cheers.”

“You’re right. Road trip! Good night.”

Tomorrow should be…interesting.

I plopped on the mattress and immediately discovered it was constructed for anyone under 10 years old. Once I scraped myself off the floor, I carefully performed several contortions to get most of myself on the mattress, and I stared at the ceiling.

What did I witness in that little pow-wow?

Did our hero cynically manipulate a bunch of sheltered and comically limited people to draw the conclusion she wanted?

No.

Were the youngsters conned into buying premium, 100% guaranteed, new and improved, old-fashioned, all-natural snake oil in a can?

No.

Was she trying to make a sale?

That would be three “nos.”

Jen didn’t spew a Christian sales pitch because, in her refined view, this bad boy sells itself.

She told them the truth and let them run with it.

When the meeting started, her audience’s emotional range stretched from point A all the way to point B. Each person’s intellectual spectrum was black and white – never the twain did meet. Their world was like a machine-level computer program, except that “zero” and “one” were replaced with “you’re on the train” or “you’re underneath the wheel.”

In their experience, if you followed the program blindly and without questioning, an authority figure assured you that God approved, so keep up the good work. But if you were judged guilty of even the slightest misdemeanor or asked for clarification on a troubling concept, then you had the dubious honor of that same person eagerly punching you in the face while explaining that you’re a maggot heading to Hell unless you get “yer mind right with God.”

Tonight, things changed. They discovered all the colors and confusion that come from living in our beautiful, ugly, majestic, evil, wonderful, and disgusting world.

Those who paid attention can take their naïve, childish, uneducated, unrealistic views on God and religion, put them in a neat pile, and drop them into the nearest shredder.

In her own friendly and understated manner, she told them it was okay to face up to the difficulties without having to lie to themselves.

Being honest was your soul’s wake-up call, not its death sentence.

More importantly, they were given permission to embrace their imperfect, chaotic humanity and pursue the hard-won innocent faith of a grown-up.

Just do it on their terms this time.

“After all, it’s your faith we’re talking about.”

—END OF CHAPTER TWO—

Chapter 3 is on its way.