My Prayer Today

Sometimes I write out my prayers, especially when I am at work and taking time to close my eyes lends people to believe that I am sleeping. This particular one sort of encompasses some of the things that I have been learning about because of Brennan Manning and his passionate messages -- that is why I am posting it. Please do not consider these words Pharisaic, as they were not intended to reach anyone else's ears but God's.

My God, this poor boy has been ransomed by your grace and, with downcast eyes, I realize your love is like the oceans with their dark and wondrous depths. Teach my heart to pray in silence, my mind not to wander, my feet to be sure in each step of the journey. You have met me in the deafening quiet of my faith and you mix it with your blood, knowing how weak I am. My Father, I am not of the substance of heroes, but I pray you would use these rough and calloused hands for your kingdom. May I be a blessing to others, even as you have been a blessing to me. Lord, I want to know how to love unconditionally: teach me to pray for my enemies, to make space for your depth in my shallow self, to give my heart to you more fully. God, steal your glory back from me, for I do not know what to do with it, even as I try to rob it from you. Thank you for your goodness, for your incomprehensible nature, for your ruthless, unmitigated grace.

Sonnet VI

Sonnet VI

Barefooted, you tread the soft soil
damp earth of my self, quietly --
too quiet for words, or sighs
or breath – you come into the

center of my bosom like a phantom
and your hands reach up my trellis
counting the worn and tattered leaves;
I am growing warm underfoot.

With your eyes made of honey
and lips tasting of blood, your
silent invasion has caused a ripple

across my country-side; there are fires
where there was once peace. My damp earth
self is flooded with flame.

Sonnet V

Sonnet V

I awoke with clear and honest eyes
to you -- the embodiment of soft parts
and soft words, to your singing in warm hallways --
to corridors smelling of your handiwork.

With your voice, the bread rises with the sun, golden,
the cherries sweetly drain at mid-day,
the potatoes murmur in their boil at dusk.
But your crowning lies in the after-glow

of pumpkin-spice along the apple-pathways,
plucking fallen fruit from the orchard floor
and dusting each as a child before they

rest in soft-piles at the road-side.
How we dance in the honeysuckle goodness of your
hands, how we take in solid joy by the mouthful.

Sonnet IV

Sonnet IV

Naked, your body has the fullness of the horizon
The roundness of your breasts like the curvature of the world
where heaven meets earth and the
sea casts its shape.

In the Autumn twilight, I see you nude with poppies
and laurel, with the brown clay of our youth,
with fire and flood in your eyes.

Naked, you have traveled into my dreams, and naked
you rest there,
cupped like a dove in the palm of my hand
lying quiet in the hollow of my abdomen

My naked and lovely queen, how
your form calls to the glory of
the world.

Sonnet III

Sonnet III

In the wood-workings, the carvings of lost cultures
I glimpse your almond-eyes, standing as a
testament to time, a lighthouse in the darkness;
a piercing, perfect apparition.

Where the hibiscus grows and the sea-sand
glistens, there your tiny feet leave prints
on wet soil, fitting within my own impressions
in the dust. Here, even as we are apart

you live inside me. Where I travel, there
too you will be. When I float about those
bulbous waves as driftwood and the sea
robs me of my everything, still

I will keep you in the hollow
I've built within me. You will be carried still.

Pablo Neruda and the 100 Love Sonnets

This weekend, I picked up 100 Love Sonnets by the 1971 Nobel Laureate and my favorite poet, Pablo Neruda. He dedicated the entire book, every line, word and phrase to his beloved wife. With that in mind, I have decided to try my hand at a similar, though much smaller endeavor. I will write 20 sonnets and post them as they come. The term sonnet will be more a loose reference than a strict adherence. I will try to maintain an octet and sextet. I have written 2 sonnets today, so here they are.

Sonnet I

The twilight brings you to me
your thick-as-night hair destined
to entwine about my body, as heat
wrapped round the sun.

In your earthy-eyes, I see
the wheat and deep-soil color of kisses
of your lips pressed against my open heart
and the pulse of harvest, of wine.

Your hips, my portion of the moon
the sway and pounding of sea-salt
in the air, on my skin, in my body --
you have taken dominion.

May you produce a new measure, a new
world in me with your earth-forming eyes
and echo of endless foam.


Sonnet II

You are the heiress of beauty, a ray of stardust
of fire, of flame. Lighting in me that hot tempest,
you melt my bones and take the marrow of my manhood
for your own.

You drink me in with little sips, like lemonade
on summer days. Salty and biting, I go in your mouth
and traverse the insides of your body,
exploring the hidden hills with dark clarity.

My wild-fire, when your hands have seared my heart
and my blood boils with longing, when your pink'd
cheeks have scalded this white chest and burnt
into this body of wood, take me as your own --

Take me and recall my oaken fragility,
let the scent of my burning be your stonghold.

He Kau -- A Season

I am working on writing in Hawaiian, though I am sometimes unsure of the grammar. Here is the latest hand at it.

Kaini'i ikaika
Na nalu nui, huhu, hae
He kino o koa hehe'e
O konikoni
Me limu kohu, me lipoa
Emi a kahe 'oe
Kai make me ka mahina
Kaimalie,
Na wai o kalama
Ho'opa kahakai
Malu, kakahiaka hiki mai

English:

Powerful, salt-encrusted sea
waves large, angry, fierce
a body of melting, fluid strength
of passion
with red seaweed
and valuable seaweed
You ebb and flow
tides receding with the moon.
Silent sea, light on your waters
touching the shore
Peace, dawn approaches

A Funny Birthday

Saturday was my biological mom's birthday. She turned 57. A few days previous, Pualani and I put our heads together and decided to bar-b-q for her. Az was cool enough to come meet her, bake some cookies and brownies, and hang with us all afternoon. It had been over a year since I had last seen her.

At times, I got a distinct awkward feeling, as though we didn't really know one another. I suppose that is true. But we had some fun talking about when I was a boy and I think Az got a chance to see how I interact with my biological family a little more, so that was good.

For her gift, I made her a CD what we listened to while playing some dominoes. She loved it. I also did some hula for her, as I heard that she misses home.

The best part of the whole thing was just the time that we got to spend together and the fact that we got to eat. There were some initial set-backs to our cooking endeavors (Pualani was late to her own house, there was a stove-top fiasco, no lighter fluid, the coals wouldn't burn, etc.) but everything worked out in the end.

As a result of this whole thing, Pua said she is thinking about dancing when the Ike Kume class begins. I'm seriously looking forward to it.

Kahi Ao ka Mauka

Kahi ao ka mauka
Kahi po ke kai;
Kunihi ka mauka,
Malie ke kai.
Na wai no Kakahiaka
Kalama no Po'ele'ele
Ola, Make
Malu, Kaua
Na'e ku laua

Ke Kaiao O Ka La Mua

The Dawning of a New Generation


On Saturday, the halau (school) that I dance for (Na Meakanu O Laka O Hawaii) and the Ke Po'okela Cultural Foundation hosted a night of music and hula. Alongside our halau, 5 other schools had performers on stage ranging in age from as young as 4 to as old as... well, old.

I showed up at noon even though the show did not begin until 7 in the evening. There were plants to set up, a run-through to go through, people to meet, things to carry, etc. As one of the only men of the halau, I got a chance to serve the women, which was very cool. It is pretty amazing how many things a girl will bring to a performance.

Previously, we had all met here and there, made our own lei and kupe'e (wrist/ankle bracelets of ti leaf or kukui nut) and began forming the bonds of friendship. As a result, when everyone was there it was like we were all part of one very large 'ohana hula.

That part is true as well; our kumu hula (headmistress) taught each of the other kumu and gave them their title, effectually letting them teach others and pass on the knowledge of the kupuna (ancestors). This resulted in all of the kumu being close friends -- like family, and we, their students became family by association as well. Real hula has always been a matter of pride to the Hawaiian and we take our hula lineage seriously. This night -- The Dawning of a New Generation -- was Aunty Mohala's formal presentation of our halau to our new kumu hula, Mahiehie. It was Aunty Mohala's wish to present these new kumu as the new face of hula that we might begin to perpetuate our culture on our own.

The performance itself went off without a hitch; everyone danced well and we had a lot of fun. My favorite 2 parts, however, happened both before and after the show.

First - before the show - Polala (a man from Kauai) presented Aunty Mohala with some sacred gifts of the islands. Everyone was musing about in the lobby before getting to our dressing rooms when he asked her if he could present his makana (gifts) to him. When she said yes, he began a chant that was long, fluid and filled with ikaika (power). As soon as his voice began its rhythmic sway, the lobby became silent. All eyes turned to the exchange between him and her. She began crying as he told her in Hawaiian of how he climbed the mountain to get her gifts, of the making of her lei, etc. It was very touching.

Second - and equally important - was after the show when I got to introduce Az to my kumu, some aunties and fellow dancers. Everyone loved her straightaway and she fit in to this part of my family very nicely. It was very, very cool.

The above picture is of just a few of the dancers that performed in a piece called "He Inoa Kalani" -- a dance written by King Kamehameha II -- in which 60 people sat on stage, dancing and chanting. It was surreal.

Hula

"The following account is taken from the Polynesian Researches of the Rev. William Ellis, the well-known English missionary, who visited [Hawai'i] in the years 1822 and 1823, and whose recorded observations have been of the highest value in preserving a knowledge of the institutions of ancient Hawaii:

In the afternoon, a party of strolling musicians and dancers arrived at Kairua. About four o'clock they came, followed by crowds of people, and arranged themselves on a fine sandy beach in front of one of the governor's houses, where they exhibited a native dance, called hura araapapa.

'The five musicians first seated themselves in a line on the ground, and spread a piece of folded cloth on the sand before them. Their instrument was a large calabash, or rather two, one of an oval shape about three feet high, the other perfectly round, very neatly fastened to it, having also an aperture about three inches in diameter at the top. Each musician held his instrument before him with both hands, and produced his music by striking it on the ground, where he had laid a piece of cloth, and beating it with his fingers, or the palms of his hands. As soon as they began to sound their calabashes, the dancer, a young man about middle stature, advanced through the opening crowd. His jet-black hair hung in loose and flowing ringlets on his naked shoulders; his necklace was made of a vast number of strings of nicely braided human hair, tied together behind, while a paraoa (an ornament made of a whale's tooth) hung pendant from it on his breast; his wrists were ornamented with bracelets formed of polished tusks of the hog, and his ankles with loose buskins, thickly set with dog's teeth, the rattle of which, during the dance, kept time with the music of the calabash drum. A beautiful yellow tapa was tastefully fastened about his loins, reaching to his knees. He began his dance in front of the musicians, and moved forward and backwards, across the area, occasionally chanting the achievements of former kings of Hawaii. The governor sat at the end of the ring, opposite to the musicians, and appeared gratified with the performance, which continued until the evening.' (Vol. IV, 100-101, London, Fisher, Son & Jackson, 1831.)" -- Emerson, "Unwritten Literature of Hawai'i: The Sacred Songs of the Hula," 71, 72.

This Saturday, the halau (school) that I attend will be having a large performance in Redondo Beach. We are dancing with 5 other halau; this is one of the first shows of its kind as hula schools typically stay in competition with one another. The great thing is that our long-standing Kumu Hula -- Aunty Mohala -- was the teacher for each of the kumu hula from the other halau. During this time, she will also be formally passing the reigns to Kumu Hula Mahiehie, whom I have had the privilege of dancing under for the last six months.

The say that I am very excited about this event would be a gross understatement. As the days grow closer to Saturday, I find myself thinking about it more and more. E Ho'omau Hula!!! Imua!

Wrestling With Piper

Who would say that Herod's contempt (Luke 23:11) or Pilate's spineless expediency (Luke 23:24) or the Jews' 'Crucify, crucify him!' (Luke 23:21) or the Gentile soldier's mockery (Luke 23:36)--who would say that these were not sin? Yet Luke, in Acts 4:27-28, records the prayer of the saints:

"Truly in this city there were gathered together against your holy servant Jesus, whom you anointed, both Herod and Pontius Pilate, along with the Gentiles and the peoples of Israel, to do whatever your hand and your plan had predestined to take place."

People lift their hand to rebel against the Most High only to find that their rebellion is unwitting service in the wonderful designs of God. Even sin cannot frustrate the purposes of the Almighty. He Himself does not commit sin, but He has decreed that there be acts that are sin, for the acts of Pilate and Herod were predestined by God's plan. (Desiring God, 35-6)

Notice that Piper is not saying God allows sin. He says God decrees that there be acts that are sin, essentially that God Himself -- in all of his perfection and goodness -- wills that there be sin, without actually sinning. Is Our Great God a hypocrite? NO! He has made it so that in the end, we will see His Mercy and His Sovereignty, His Grace and His Judgment, and we will tremble with awe at the majesty of God! Yet this is something that is a hard hurdle to jump - a difficult idea to ponder, especially when coming to the conclusion that God is the ultimate causality of sin. Here is what Job said after losing his livestock and his family:

Naked I came from my
mother's womb,
And naked shall I return there.
The Lord gave, and the
Lord has taken away;
Blessed be the Name of the
Lord. (Job 1:21)

We all know that God let Satan enter into Job's life -- that he effectively stayed Satan's hand and did not let things happen to Job before its time -- but Job gives God the ultimate causality, not Satan. Job essentially says that it is because of God that he has lost his livelihood, his children and his livestock. And, instead of him being reprimanded, the very next verse says, "In all this Job did not sin nor charge God with wrong."

I am not coming to any conclusions about it at the moment, but I am trying to wrap my head around it, as much as God allows anyway. I know that His thoughts are far above my thoughts and His ways are far above my ways, but I would be hard-pressed not to think about it.

A Piece of a Chapter

There was a time in my life when the idea of beginning something new was both an intriguing and fearful premise: time before an elementary education, the promise of friendships, knowledge and a thirst for more. It was a time of togetherness, of family and of fortunes.

But it was not the fortunes of the wealthy or even that wealth couched in the memories of the elderly: these were the shining days of laughter, hope and smiles. Our fortunes were those of children hard at play and harder at the work of building into our dreams. Our wealth was found in the wink of a sapphire eye and the beat of a five year old heart, rusted with the joy of the young. Adam and I would be lost in the land of the imagination, which lay just beyond the grasp of our screen door when the others came home from school.

Books would go slamming and bags flying. School clothes would come down like the long hair of the islands, held aloft all day at the top of the head, while play clothes would be shimmied into at my mother's call to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Emotion filled our tiny home as our older sister rushed headlong through the lawn, taking no heed of us. And we would go one, Adam and I, in the jungle of our minds with G.I. Joe, sound effects and dirt clods. We were the safari hunters rambling through the honeysuckle in search of our great lion; we were the Tarzans of the white sycamores, the knights of the front lawn, the samurai of Mother's rock garden. Kings amongst children, we played; the living amongst the fantasy, we laughed. Then, in a flash, our glass house came crashing to the ground with the uttering of one frail sentence:

"In three months," Mother said, "you'll be joining your sister in school."

Were it not for the Kool-Aid and sunshine, I would have died there on the spot. But Mother knew that the time for learning was drawing near and the age of ignorance was coming to an end; after all, it was she who taught me best of all.

She told me as I sat barefoot and cross-legged on the kitchen floor, light coming through the window, while I sipped on my grape drink and played with my Hot Wheels. Standing over the stove, she said it nonchalantly as she stirred the green beans and double-checked the heat of the rice.

"Huh?," I said, looking up unbelieving, a purple Kool-Aid moustache developing on my upper-lip.

"This is it, little man. Soon, you'll be in school and making friends, coming home for lunch and wearing a backpack!"

"I don't wanna make friends. I wanna hang out with Adam."

"Well, Adam has a whole 'nother year at home with me, but you guys will still get to play in the afternoon."

With that, I felt the very first twinges of envy, fear and wide-eyed excitement. I mean, she did mention a backpack!

The Weird Lady at Work

Her name is Liz. Older. Totally nutters.

Here is only one example of the craziness that is her life:

I am downstairs at the local cafeteria, ordering a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast and she is ahead of me in the line. She orders the breakfast special, sans hash browns and toast. I immediately think "Atkins" and continue in my waiting. This is pretty normal, right?

Then, the guy gives her the total and she loses it! She becomes upset because he did not deduct the price for her unwanted potatoes and bread. She says, "You're not going to give me a discount?" as though that is what happens everywhere. He replies, "Uh. no." and she decides that this isn't worth her time, so she gives him this maniacal sneer, turns on her heels and huffs out, without so much as a good morning to me when she sees me.

Let me ask: when you order your fast food and request no onions, no tomato, etc., do you expect the burger to be cheaper? NO! So what's the deal with crazy Liz at work, looking for a discount on her already "special" breakfast? Totally weird.

Barn Builders, a Bildungsroman -- page One

"Goddammit!" Blood came rushing from his finger, it now smashed and turning a sickly dark color. He released the hammer – threw it more like – and proceeded to sit on the 4x4 he had been working on. He sat some 28 feet in the air, legs straddling the beam and dangling in the void. The hammer careened into the side of a trashcan below.

"Be careful, man. You’ll hurt someone otherwise." The man from the bottom looked up, craning his neck and shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun as it continued its descent westward. His hardhat had been worn out with scratches of overuse so he covered them with yellow nail polish. The polish was brighter than the rest of the hat, giving it streaks of cleanliness amidst the dirt.
"Whatever."

"What did you say to me? I thought I heard you say 'Whatever.' Perhaps my ears deceive me, boy. Don't pretend you're a man because you can climb up and hammer in some joists. It isn't your time, son. Not yet." The man's voice began hard and sharp but, by the end, had softened so that the boy had to strain his ears to hear him. The elder man looked down, knowing that he would have to show his son to the wilderness for a season, that he would have to experience the pitfalls of his manhood rather soon. But he didn't want to think about it. It seemed only yesterday that Cody was carousing around the backyard in his diaper, cheering on the dog at its digging. That was nearly 15 years ago.

"Ok Pop, I get it."

"Do you?"

"I think so. Yeah, I do. I get it."

"Don't play with me. I will knock you down from that beam quicker than you can scream for help. I promise you that."

"Ok, Ok. I get it."

"Good. Now get down here and get the hammer you threw away."

"Yes, sir."

The young man came quickly down the scaffolding, swinging from pipe to pipe, jumping full floors at a sprint, much like an ape-man. This was his favorite part, when he could go as fast as possible. His dad didn’t mind too much; he said if he hurt himself, he would be paying the bills. And besides, he smiled, a little adrenaline is good for you. The trouble is that Cody was addicted to it. That’s why he went all the way to the top of the structure, hammering and such as he went: that is why he came tumbling down headlong at breakneck speed – he was secretly a bit fearful of heights and this was how you got the most excitement. Landing in the dirt, he patted himself off, rubbed his hands into one another, grabbed a bottle of water and retrieved the hammer. Looking West, the sun had dipped below the tree line. He rubbed the back of his neck with the calloused palm of his hand, then turned to his father.

"How long you think till we're done?"

"Can't tell for certain. We're done for today though, if that's what you're asking."

"Yep. And no. I mean, how long till you think this barn's going to be finished?"

"A year or more the way we're working. It's just you and me and a lot of fresh air. So... I don't know really. We're already at it for 8 hours a day, 6 days a week. We have other priorities, too. And you need to make your trip into the woods some time between now and when this is finished."

"I know that. Just curious."

"You got other plans?"

"Like what, sir?"

"Like college, Cody. What are you doing after this?"

"Working with you, I guess. I wouldn't leave this for more school. I like the work. It suits me."

"Ok. Suits me fine, too."

They gathered the tools into the pickup, tossing in the trash of the day and climbing into the cab. They drove home in silence, only a half-mile away over a dirt road, with corn field and ash trees aplenty.

The Letter

Dear Dad,

This is a hard letter to write, but I suppose it has been a long time coming. I do not know how to soften the blow for you, to cradle your fall so that you feel less pain, or to write in a tone that would signify that I am a caring, human-hearted individual. The hard, bare truth is the only thing I can come up with -- you have been replaced and I am none the worse for wear.

When you and Mom separated that fateful night -- do you remember it? -- I thought I was being torn in half. Even then, during that thunderstorm and your continuous cries in the darkness, I knew what it was like to be something other than a child. Did you know that memory has haunted me nearly every night since its occurrence? It has taken up entirely too much of my life, making it so sleep is a difficult animal to pin down. I know you will say that it is not your fault -- that Mom had been drinking again and overreacted, that she should not have changed the locks, that when you cried out to me to open the door, I should have listened to your voice and taken the wrath of her, though she lay not 10 feet from me. And perhaps you are right. But you cheated. You traded us in for something -- no, someone else. You fucked that up, even if you married Mom because she was pregnant.

And why did you tell Pua that? You think its easy to know that your dad was around an extra 9 years and created 4 more children because of his first mistake, manifested in your very own flesh and blood and bone? You think that doesn't fuck with her head? I exist because you were too much of a coward to leave in the first place. You made me a product of your cowardice. I suppose I should say 'Thank you.'

After you vacated the premises, I put you on this pedestal. I was glad to bear your name, to be called 'Junior,' or 'Keithy,' or 'Little Keith.' I defended your actions -- or lack thereof -- to everyone. Keoki and I fought constantly because of it. But do you know he was right? I still hate to say it, but it is true. I realized how you were still running.

Even from the beginning, I was to be different from them. I look like you, have a similar build, speak in a similar fashion. I am a constant reminder of your fear. Where my siblings got a Hawaiian name -- something that spoke to their character, their spirit, their heart -- I got your name instead; the name of my runaway father. When you ran off with Marie, you took my masculinity with you. I resented you a long time for it.

I was taken in at 14; you know that. I call that man 'Pops' because dad has such a negative connotation in my mind. He helped usher me into manhood where you did not try. So yes, Father, you have been replaced. I don't hate you for your mistakes, though you have shown me what it means to be a bad father. Because of you, thank God, I know what not to do.

Progress

If you don't like, or are offended, by the F-bomb, don't read this poem!

There are many days
when I am too tired and
weather-worn to rise --
the alarm clock is a god-forsaken
testament to Progress --
Fuck Progress, I say
but I rise to dress with a pain
in my back
and sleep in my eyes
anyway.

Lights on, lights off --
I don't care.
I pull my jeans on over
my legs and hop-skotch
over soiled garments to the sink,
where I splash my face
and shave (every three days)
and put on deodorant,
brush my teeth,
pretend I am human again
and bemoan my need of a paycheck --
I'd rather be surfing,
or sleeping,
or sleeping on the beach in quiet
anticipation of surf,
but Progress has me at a 10-7
and I say Fuck Progress!
and sit through traffic anyway.

My boss is a douche-bag
and the work is a pain
but I say Fuck Progress
and do it anyway.

Autumn -- A Sonnet

This poem was written due to the change in seasons, the fresh start at Autumn and because I have heard a few folk speak of how this time of year is their favorite. It has been a while since I have last written a sonnet, but I wanted to try my hand at something with a little more form.

When once the leaves of living green did sway
and take the color from August morning
to float or spin through Summer wind each day
falling to Terra for her adorning.
Now the vig'rous pigment drains from faces
brittling stems and turning green to golden,
they wither, break in the driest places
crashing quiet to the Earth beholden.

The children come, as they are want to do
to stampede neat piles into mulch and mire --
Scattered to the winds by high-kicking boots
leaves end up as martyrs, kindling for fire.
From bowered at branch to litt'ring the streets
high in the heavens to tramped under feet.

Kakau -- Tattoo

Something I threw together. It is a work in progress. If you don't know about Hawaiian myth, this might be a little over your head. They believed that the spirit could be captured and forced back into the body through the sole of the foot, essentially slapping the spirit in. Also, Ka'ena is a place in Western O'ahu where the dead were said to jump into the Underworld (Po). Rowing is merely a symbol for the dead to continue in their activities that they participated in while still living. The last line simply means, "Remember Us."

Trace the symbols in blood and ink,
with fingertips and palms and eyes
perfect shapes of triangles
within triangles
within a greater portrait
to convey a greater meaning.
My leg and my shoulder
both tapestries to honor those
long dead
jumping from Ka'ena
or else floating down a quiet island stream
spirits too crisp, too strong
to head back through the feet
and the rowing goes ever on
and forever onward
I carry those generations in my flesh.
A constant reminder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Crimson seeps out and the black soaks in
sealing the present and the past
speaking in languages unheard
though understood beyond time,
when the ancestors drummed and chanted --
E Ho'omana'o Makou!

Standing Up

Jeff, my good friend, would never profess to being incredibly brave or courageous. His humility has a tendency to far-outshine these attributes and many a man would more quickly describe him as meek. However, this post is dedicated to him and his "intestinal fortitude," so to speak, in the face of danger and possible destruction.

Too often in our society, we men lie in beds of shame and fear while the world around us crumbles under its own dead weight. This story should prove itself an exception to those mornings of cold chill and colder hearts.

On August 27, 2007 Jeff woke up to the ring of his alarm clock at 4 in the morning. Such the creature of habit, he hit the sleep button, turned over and was comforted by the warmth of his wife by his side. They both teach at the high school level -- he crafting murals out of language, she creating fortresses out of paint and charcoal. A few minutes later, shots rang out in his apartment complex, jarring him awake where the alarm clock failed.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Pop. Pop.

Jeff, like many men, lay in bed and contemplated what he should do next. Continuing in his half-rest amidst twisted sheets, or getting up to continue in his normal routine, seemed the easiest and safest route to take. However, that is not what he did. He told Lindsey, his wife, that he was going to check it out and got dressed in his work clothes. Leaving the house and heading in the direction of the shots, he had his cell phone ready to dial the police. He entered a hallway and heard the muffled sobs, gasps and heavy breathing of an injured woman.

She stood propped against the wall, obviously in need of medical attention. She held a phone in her hand, but -- due to the trauma she had experienced -- she was unable to dial. She said she had been shot twice. Once in the arm. And once in the chest. Jeff hit the send button on his phone, gave directions to the police and moved forward to further evaluate the woman's injuries. As he did so, he noticed two men not far away, wrestling on the ground. The man on top yelled out,

"Help me pin him down. He shot her."

Jeff ran over and jumped on the bottom man's legs, holding him there for approximately 8 minutes until the police arrived, assault rifle in hand. All of the men (including Jeff) were handcuffed and questioned. When it was realized that Jeff called the police, they released him.

The woman lived, largely due to the fact that Jeff was there to dial for help. Being shot in the chest is sort of a big deal.

However, Jeff does not see it that way. When I told him he was a hero, he didn't believe me. He just did what he thought he should do, that's it.

I wish there were more men like this; men who saw these sorts of things that should be investigated and acted on them, even when that steel in the pit of your stomach is heavy and your mind says no. Don't go outside. It isn't worth it. Play it safe.

Just as important, I wish there were more women like Lindsey, who let Jeff take the risk. Who see the value in letting a man put himself out on the line. Who know the value of protection and the inherent danger of marrying a man of courage, valor and action.

So Jeff, thank you for being such a humble and brave example.