Alprazolam 0.5 mg. It is Monday morning after the Thanksgiving 2010 four day holiday weekend. Creeping black dread descended on me like a Dementor this morning. Halfway to work on the 395 I ate one of the aforementioned tablets, after which a minor amelioration of my inexplicable melancholy began to take temporary hold on my downward spiral. What is it about this season that exacerbates my predilection toward bottomless depression? It is only during these short days and long, cold nights that this bleak thing mauls me like a fierce, slow-motion bear.
We are waiting. Waiting for word from a far off bank that may or may not say yes to our mad idea of radical change. I have loathed my worklife for at least ten years, though the reality is that I have felt this disenchantment for far longer than that. Working for the government in any capacity, a school district is no better than a sewer district for the back-of-the-house employees, has worn my very being down to exposed nerves. Dread gives way to panic that yields to horror as I near the end of my 22 minute commute. I have dragged myself to this place, or another that is identical save for the address, for over fifteen years. God has granted me a periscope into a life that could be, but I must rise to the surface on His path or be drowned by the evil one again and again. There are always newly rearranged distractions that lead me off God's path. Buy another car, have another glass of wine, read one more page of the latest news on CNN.com.
U-Swirl. Raleigh, NC. 2675 miles between Reno and Raleigh. $400,000, 90% of it borrowed from an SBA lender. Three kids to an entirely new culture. Or will it be Portland, OR? One coast or the other. Only God knows.
Monday, 29 November 2010
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
The End of Winter 2010-Miami Freakshow
Memorial Day 2010. More accurately, it is the day after Memorial Day and this quarter-filled office reeks of a long weekend of no air circulation at all. I may be breathing 100% methane for all I know. Radon is allegedly invisible and deadly, or so we've been warned. The kids have begun their annual month-long migrations to their other parents' homes in the far off lands of Seattle and San Antonio. After next Wednesday, no one under 32 will be in the house except Brownie, the fierce and foul cocker spaniel of doom.
We have chosen Miami as our kid-free destination this year. Had I been able to get a passport quicker, we may have opted for a European, or at least Caribbean locale. South Florida is about as far away as we can get from Reno, NV while still staying in the United States, so that's where we'll land next Wednesday night. Should we not make it back alive, Yelp cannot be blamed. "They were warned," will surely be a part of our eulogies. We have read that freaks will surround our rental car at every stoplight and may even attempt to mount us as we walk the streets of South Beach. I certainly hope not, but the reviews are not encouraging. "Tourists will encounter public nudity and sudden violence, even in the grocery stores," reads one reviewers' thoughts on an unnamed travel advice site. The Ritz-Carlton on Key Biscayne has already been identified as our safehouse should we be mauled or bitten by a nude local.
And here's the thing, we have walked down Market Street in San Francisco many times, dodging various sidewalk dwellers who often lay muttering to themselves in pools of urine. Gross, yes, but I am hearing that Miami may be upwards of a thousand times more intense than the Market Street scene. But we're going to roll the dice and see if South Florida tries to kill us.
We have chosen Miami as our kid-free destination this year. Had I been able to get a passport quicker, we may have opted for a European, or at least Caribbean locale. South Florida is about as far away as we can get from Reno, NV while still staying in the United States, so that's where we'll land next Wednesday night. Should we not make it back alive, Yelp cannot be blamed. "They were warned," will surely be a part of our eulogies. We have read that freaks will surround our rental car at every stoplight and may even attempt to mount us as we walk the streets of South Beach. I certainly hope not, but the reviews are not encouraging. "Tourists will encounter public nudity and sudden violence, even in the grocery stores," reads one reviewers' thoughts on an unnamed travel advice site. The Ritz-Carlton on Key Biscayne has already been identified as our safehouse should we be mauled or bitten by a nude local.
And here's the thing, we have walked down Market Street in San Francisco many times, dodging various sidewalk dwellers who often lay muttering to themselves in pools of urine. Gross, yes, but I am hearing that Miami may be upwards of a thousand times more intense than the Market Street scene. But we're going to roll the dice and see if South Florida tries to kill us.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
310 Plus 6
Six years in to my grand plan to reinvent, primarily, my whole financial scene. It has been successful to date and I see glimmers of possibilities that the Monterey peninsula may just be possible in another four-ish years...maybe six...but nonetheless not that far off. I have read 48 Days to the Work You Love by Dan Miller and I am working to remain in the mindset that there really IS something more out there. It takes consistent, if not constant, attention to formulate new possibilities. Someone recenly told me that the difference between a rut and a grave is the depth. I am committed to NOT getting to the six-foot mark.
The tenets of 310 involved total financial and personal freedom within 10 years from March 10, 2004. I have since paid off all debt except two houses and will be able to vigorously invest as soon as one remaining second mortgage is paid off in the spring of 2011. Reality says that my kids won't be totally out of the house until 2018 or 2020. That allows seven to nine years of the aforementioned effort at building real wealth and a springboard to phase 2, which should include a condo with a view of AT&T Park and true, Christ-centered peace.
Because the alternatives must be discussed, the well-worn path of despair should be pondered. Imagine another fifteen years behind this gray desk in quiet desperation? Work without passion stretching out into old age without hope of escape. Maybe another mortgage, backsliding into car loans, credit cards and dysphoria? Low end red wine and endless hours of television. All of this while the waves roll past the Golden Gate and the sun sets far out on the Pacific. The smell of grilled salmon and spinach risotto drifting in from the balcony. Countless bottles of velvety Silver Oak lining a wine cellar with reserves at the ready. The crack of the bat just across the way and the lights of the City twinkling on and on. Moonlight on the bay and the Berkeley hills beyond. So many reasons to press on toward the sublime.
The tenets of 310 involved total financial and personal freedom within 10 years from March 10, 2004. I have since paid off all debt except two houses and will be able to vigorously invest as soon as one remaining second mortgage is paid off in the spring of 2011. Reality says that my kids won't be totally out of the house until 2018 or 2020. That allows seven to nine years of the aforementioned effort at building real wealth and a springboard to phase 2, which should include a condo with a view of AT&T Park and true, Christ-centered peace.
Because the alternatives must be discussed, the well-worn path of despair should be pondered. Imagine another fifteen years behind this gray desk in quiet desperation? Work without passion stretching out into old age without hope of escape. Maybe another mortgage, backsliding into car loans, credit cards and dysphoria? Low end red wine and endless hours of television. All of this while the waves roll past the Golden Gate and the sun sets far out on the Pacific. The smell of grilled salmon and spinach risotto drifting in from the balcony. Countless bottles of velvety Silver Oak lining a wine cellar with reserves at the ready. The crack of the bat just across the way and the lights of the City twinkling on and on. Moonlight on the bay and the Berkeley hills beyond. So many reasons to press on toward the sublime.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Losing My Mind
It is a crystal clear, snow-blanketed morning in Reno today and I am as unhappy and bitter as ever. I find NO satisfaction in this work, though I am blessed beyond comprehension to be employed at this time in history. Today it is more than just work dissatisfaction. that has been a constant my entire life. I feel adrift without any sort of steering mechanism. My field of vision is narrowing to the point that I see only computer and TV screens followed by black nights and jarring awakenings each day. Where has euphoria gone? I laugh rarely and noticed the joy of it on a rare occasion the other night. Where has it gone?
Why do I continue to lose it, completely lose my mind, heart spiraling like an out-of-control rocket toward near certain destruction? My head hurts constantly. Neck pains define my existence. I am not a good dad. Patience ends like a solid wall of blackness on a downhill freeway.
I am a bad dad...not steady, not consistent, not firm, not fair. I want OUT! Out in general and specific...somehow I have lost my mind. I fear that I am one misstep away from eternal horror...though I know Christ is in my heart and His place is being prepared.
Would money solve some of this? If I had all of that, would it matter? Look at the mess Tiger Woods finds himself embroiled in. Has all of his money saved him from the cliff? Is it only today that will see me plummeting into the depths of my despair? Will exercise bring me about? When home comes in to view, will the cloud lift? Did my parents ever feel like this? Did my dad feel like this ever?
I am a lost soul in some ways...my eternal soul belongs to Jesus, but this plane has left me open to attacks from the prowling lion. Out of nowhere the beast has struck me on occasion, when I am not guarded with God's armor, when I am weak and wounded.
Leaving for the gym in maybe ten minutes...15 minutes of cardio and then some weights to relieve some of this constant black miasma. 2007 Fife Zinfandel at home tonight for cocktail hour and another evening of swirling fear, abated for a short time.
Why do I continue to lose it, completely lose my mind, heart spiraling like an out-of-control rocket toward near certain destruction? My head hurts constantly. Neck pains define my existence. I am not a good dad. Patience ends like a solid wall of blackness on a downhill freeway.
I am a bad dad...not steady, not consistent, not firm, not fair. I want OUT! Out in general and specific...somehow I have lost my mind. I fear that I am one misstep away from eternal horror...though I know Christ is in my heart and His place is being prepared.
Would money solve some of this? If I had all of that, would it matter? Look at the mess Tiger Woods finds himself embroiled in. Has all of his money saved him from the cliff? Is it only today that will see me plummeting into the depths of my despair? Will exercise bring me about? When home comes in to view, will the cloud lift? Did my parents ever feel like this? Did my dad feel like this ever?
I am a lost soul in some ways...my eternal soul belongs to Jesus, but this plane has left me open to attacks from the prowling lion. Out of nowhere the beast has struck me on occasion, when I am not guarded with God's armor, when I am weak and wounded.
Leaving for the gym in maybe ten minutes...15 minutes of cardio and then some weights to relieve some of this constant black miasma. 2007 Fife Zinfandel at home tonight for cocktail hour and another evening of swirling fear, abated for a short time.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Commuter Geography
Clipping the apex of the curve of the onramp this morning as I made yet another commute from home to work, I noticed the expanse of rabbitbrush in nearly full fall bloom cascading down the slope from the elevated roadway. It's not that I hadn't seen it before, rabbitbrush in northern Nevada blazes bright yellow every fall as the temperatures dip and the sun slants obliquely on its' slide toward the Tropic of Capricorn. This particular patch of Chrysothamnus nauseosus was another reminder for me that I won't be breathing through my nose until every grain of pollen from this autumnal beast is frozen into wintry oblivion.
This experience, which may have taken 5 seconds of my 15 minute drive to work, is one of dozens of unique scenes we all take in, regardless of means of transportation, every day on each of our well-worn routes to our places of employment. In my very typical, read "dull and thoughtless," subdivision, houses are packed in at 7 per acre. There was no thought of creating a pedestrian easement at the end of the cul-de-sac to allow school children to walk efficiently to the bus stop or all the way to school. Rounding the circuitous route out to main road reveals more inefficiences in design. Trails that end abruptly or do not connect, forcing walkers and bike riders through ditches on volunteer pathways.
I weave through chicanes of landscaped islands and ease along traffic calming curvilinear boulevards on the way to the freeway. Several massive cottonwood trees were spared the chainsaw and provide welcoming relief against the backdrop of 3-inch caliper trees struggling to take hold in the boron-laced soil of the original desert beneath. Wilder Nevada becomes apparent as I leave the pre-packaged subdivision behind. Open ditches front homes in widely variable states of repair. Trailer, trailer, clapboard ranch, faux-Georgian plantation home complete with massive RV garage, trailer, trailer...residential monotony replaced with architectural dissonance over the course of a mile.
Then the commercial buildings appear as the freeway comes in to view. Hay for sale along side a school district bus yard. Nondescript office buildings painted brown against the backdrop of the soaring mountains to the west. The road gets serious toward a major intersection with wider shoulders, steel guardrails and concrete medians made to keep cars going in one direction at a time. I've ridden my bike alongside this stretch on the weekend and have discovered massive culverts stuffed with shopping carts and garbage underpinning the road above. Detritus that has been ejected in one way or another from passing vehicles piles up in drainageways, unseen by motorists but well known to the rabbitbrush.
A stylish outdoor shopping center blurs by my speeding car as I race toward the apex. In the foreground of the view to the east, before the cookie-cutter houses line up to the base of the Virginia Range, a few 100-year-old ranch houses dot the landscape. Black and white cows stagger around the ranch fields, condensation blowing from their noses in the cold morning air. I hit an expansion joint that jumps the car slightly left. Correcting as I fly through the curve, my rabbitbrush scene flashes by and I am on the freeway.
Amidst other drivers slumped over their steering wheels, jockeying for position on the race to the office, I see a redtail hawk sitting on a light pole. The bird is huge, probably the size of a cocker spaniel with wings. It spots something on the rocky bank across the freeway, leaps from its perch and wheels around to cross the road perpendicularly. I approach his flight path at 65 mph and the hawk is flying low, perhaps 10 feet above the screaming cars. I turn to look as the bird zeroes in on whatever breakfast it may have spotted. Reality roars back and I am forced back to the task at hand of driving. One of my fellow motorists has opted to drive 45 mph on the freeway and people around me are standing on their brake pedals. I do likewise to avoid rear-ending the offending Hyundai Sonata that is weaving from lane to lane for no apparent reason.
Another half mile and there's my exit. It's a long sweeping off-ramp that hits you with a right then a left curve. I try to do this one at 60, though it's posted for 45. I make a good run at it and hear my lunch box tumbling over in the trunk, indicating that I may have hit the second curve a little to quickly. When that fun is over, I turn right past the In-N-Out Burger, which smells delicious even at 9:00 in the morning. A few people are walking down the street, though there are only intermittent sidewalks and then precarious paths on the edge of the travel lane. Lights in Reno are not timed at all and I hit the two between the offramp and my office. At the last intersection, I'm looking at a gas station, empty lot, car parts store and a drug store on each of the four corners. 0.2 miles later, I pull in to the lot and shut off the car. The engine clicks and ticks as it cools off and I lumber into the office, leaving freedom in my wake.
One day in the near future, I will pass that offramp and not look back.
This experience, which may have taken 5 seconds of my 15 minute drive to work, is one of dozens of unique scenes we all take in, regardless of means of transportation, every day on each of our well-worn routes to our places of employment. In my very typical, read "dull and thoughtless," subdivision, houses are packed in at 7 per acre. There was no thought of creating a pedestrian easement at the end of the cul-de-sac to allow school children to walk efficiently to the bus stop or all the way to school. Rounding the circuitous route out to main road reveals more inefficiences in design. Trails that end abruptly or do not connect, forcing walkers and bike riders through ditches on volunteer pathways.
I weave through chicanes of landscaped islands and ease along traffic calming curvilinear boulevards on the way to the freeway. Several massive cottonwood trees were spared the chainsaw and provide welcoming relief against the backdrop of 3-inch caliper trees struggling to take hold in the boron-laced soil of the original desert beneath. Wilder Nevada becomes apparent as I leave the pre-packaged subdivision behind. Open ditches front homes in widely variable states of repair. Trailer, trailer, clapboard ranch, faux-Georgian plantation home complete with massive RV garage, trailer, trailer...residential monotony replaced with architectural dissonance over the course of a mile.
Then the commercial buildings appear as the freeway comes in to view. Hay for sale along side a school district bus yard. Nondescript office buildings painted brown against the backdrop of the soaring mountains to the west. The road gets serious toward a major intersection with wider shoulders, steel guardrails and concrete medians made to keep cars going in one direction at a time. I've ridden my bike alongside this stretch on the weekend and have discovered massive culverts stuffed with shopping carts and garbage underpinning the road above. Detritus that has been ejected in one way or another from passing vehicles piles up in drainageways, unseen by motorists but well known to the rabbitbrush.
A stylish outdoor shopping center blurs by my speeding car as I race toward the apex. In the foreground of the view to the east, before the cookie-cutter houses line up to the base of the Virginia Range, a few 100-year-old ranch houses dot the landscape. Black and white cows stagger around the ranch fields, condensation blowing from their noses in the cold morning air. I hit an expansion joint that jumps the car slightly left. Correcting as I fly through the curve, my rabbitbrush scene flashes by and I am on the freeway.
Amidst other drivers slumped over their steering wheels, jockeying for position on the race to the office, I see a redtail hawk sitting on a light pole. The bird is huge, probably the size of a cocker spaniel with wings. It spots something on the rocky bank across the freeway, leaps from its perch and wheels around to cross the road perpendicularly. I approach his flight path at 65 mph and the hawk is flying low, perhaps 10 feet above the screaming cars. I turn to look as the bird zeroes in on whatever breakfast it may have spotted. Reality roars back and I am forced back to the task at hand of driving. One of my fellow motorists has opted to drive 45 mph on the freeway and people around me are standing on their brake pedals. I do likewise to avoid rear-ending the offending Hyundai Sonata that is weaving from lane to lane for no apparent reason.
Another half mile and there's my exit. It's a long sweeping off-ramp that hits you with a right then a left curve. I try to do this one at 60, though it's posted for 45. I make a good run at it and hear my lunch box tumbling over in the trunk, indicating that I may have hit the second curve a little to quickly. When that fun is over, I turn right past the In-N-Out Burger, which smells delicious even at 9:00 in the morning. A few people are walking down the street, though there are only intermittent sidewalks and then precarious paths on the edge of the travel lane. Lights in Reno are not timed at all and I hit the two between the offramp and my office. At the last intersection, I'm looking at a gas station, empty lot, car parts store and a drug store on each of the four corners. 0.2 miles later, I pull in to the lot and shut off the car. The engine clicks and ticks as it cools off and I lumber into the office, leaving freedom in my wake.
One day in the near future, I will pass that offramp and not look back.
Monday, 14 September 2009
The Great Reno Balloon Race Ruined My Sunday
When the alarm goes off like a bomb at 3:35 a.m. on Sunday morning after a restless four hours of light napping and half a bottle Kenwood Zinfandel on Saturday night, I find no awe in hot air balloons glowing and tipping precariously in the Reno predawn. I am tempted, in fact, to say that I hate this idiotic event that finds me groggy and disagreeable some 34 hours after the great balloons have been popped, or burned to black fragments of ripstop nylon now floating majestically across the Utah state line. Not that I wish any of the participants ill at all. Simply put, I am never going to awaken at an hour that is best suited for deep, coma-like sleep, ever, ever again.
With three semi-conscious kids and our neighbors in their minivan following behind, we lumbered off on deserted roads past other homes darkened by sweet sleep and waking times several hours, or maybe even days, away. It's been the same idiocy every year: load up the kids' wagon, hoist it into the back of the car, find somewhere to park in the same county, and then pull the fully loaded beast some fifty miles to the field where the balloons are being dragged around by inexplicably cheery pilots and chase persons. The dust alone, created by perhaps forty-thousand spectators, nearly asphyxiated me. Ah, but I am complaining again. I did bring one refill of coffee after an initial eight cups, the lot of which proved innefective in waking me past the jittery cadaver phase of caffeine intoxication.
Oh, but then the glow show started! The spot in the rutted field we selected was relatively pleasant and afforded a nice view of the balloons lighting up and then going dark in various intervals, which I think is the entire point of getting up at such a stupid hour. Sitting in the wagon, swilling coffee and watching my kids thrash about restlessly on the ground, I sought some reason for me to be happy about any of this. Finding none, I just sat there like a refugee in a sea of weird people.
Finally, the mass ascension took place and we were free to leave. Having forgot my sunglasses, the rising sun seared my eyes and embittered me further. Lugging the wagon back over the dusty trail to the parking lot, I stumbled on rocks and curbs, wanting to be away as quickly as possible. With something like eight-thousand balloons careening across the sky, bumping into power lines and motorhomes, some crashing in slow motion into hillsides, we made our leave of the place while other balloon-watchers staggered around violently, falling in to bushes and ponds.
Mimi's Restaurant was our breakfast destination and I swilled my mimosa in hopes that I could induce sleep right there and just doze in a booth for the rest of the day. When we finally made it home at nearly 10:00 a.m., I was ready to set my house on fire and take the next flight to anywhere. I tried to nap until at least 2:00, but my rest was fitful and fraught with bellicose children yelling at lungtop for no apparent reason. My day utterly ruined and the lawns still needing to be mowed, I dutifully got up and did the work before night fell again and sleep never found me.
If this rambling nonsense is just that and my writing is unclear, uncohesive and pointless, I apologize to anyone who reads this. I hate the Great Reno Balloon Race and never want to go again. May I be forgiven for my thoughtless and sleep-deprived gibberish.
With three semi-conscious kids and our neighbors in their minivan following behind, we lumbered off on deserted roads past other homes darkened by sweet sleep and waking times several hours, or maybe even days, away. It's been the same idiocy every year: load up the kids' wagon, hoist it into the back of the car, find somewhere to park in the same county, and then pull the fully loaded beast some fifty miles to the field where the balloons are being dragged around by inexplicably cheery pilots and chase persons. The dust alone, created by perhaps forty-thousand spectators, nearly asphyxiated me. Ah, but I am complaining again. I did bring one refill of coffee after an initial eight cups, the lot of which proved innefective in waking me past the jittery cadaver phase of caffeine intoxication.
Oh, but then the glow show started! The spot in the rutted field we selected was relatively pleasant and afforded a nice view of the balloons lighting up and then going dark in various intervals, which I think is the entire point of getting up at such a stupid hour. Sitting in the wagon, swilling coffee and watching my kids thrash about restlessly on the ground, I sought some reason for me to be happy about any of this. Finding none, I just sat there like a refugee in a sea of weird people.
Finally, the mass ascension took place and we were free to leave. Having forgot my sunglasses, the rising sun seared my eyes and embittered me further. Lugging the wagon back over the dusty trail to the parking lot, I stumbled on rocks and curbs, wanting to be away as quickly as possible. With something like eight-thousand balloons careening across the sky, bumping into power lines and motorhomes, some crashing in slow motion into hillsides, we made our leave of the place while other balloon-watchers staggered around violently, falling in to bushes and ponds.
Mimi's Restaurant was our breakfast destination and I swilled my mimosa in hopes that I could induce sleep right there and just doze in a booth for the rest of the day. When we finally made it home at nearly 10:00 a.m., I was ready to set my house on fire and take the next flight to anywhere. I tried to nap until at least 2:00, but my rest was fitful and fraught with bellicose children yelling at lungtop for no apparent reason. My day utterly ruined and the lawns still needing to be mowed, I dutifully got up and did the work before night fell again and sleep never found me.
If this rambling nonsense is just that and my writing is unclear, uncohesive and pointless, I apologize to anyone who reads this. I hate the Great Reno Balloon Race and never want to go again. May I be forgiven for my thoughtless and sleep-deprived gibberish.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
My Daily Prayer
Who would ever think that one could be so miserable at a job that is relatively easy, affords a reasonable schedule for parents, and pays $93,000 per year? It is stunning how incredibly bored I am at this gig. Stunning. And I say this because it’s viciously true. I arrive each workday at 9:00-ish, head for the gym from 11:15 to 12:45, and then drive home at about 4:30. All in all, I’m “working” maybe 6 hours, though I am up to date with all my assigned chores. What an apt word, chore, to describe this scene. I am, for the most part, utterly alone in this brown-gray office. Virtually all others employed here seem to drone on and on and on, wrapped up in the minutiae of far too drawn out details. I may be able to make it another year. Maybe.
September 11, 2010 will mark 15 years in what is essentially the same exact rut on the side of the road of life. Prior to embarking on this bland mission, I had viewed government work as some noble calling, a way to serve my community. It turns out that I am exceptionally selfish and do not have much desire or need to do this folly. I have one year…one year until the halfway mark of a “traditional” 30-year career. I very seriously may vomit right now. I simply, forcefully, willfully MUST find my way before that fateful date hits me like a black bomb. Otherwise, I fear, all may be lost and I will suffer through untold more decades stuck firmly in the bleak mud of this backwater.
God help me find my way. Matthew exhorts us to “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” (Matthew 7:13-14 - NIV). I would rather be riding the cyclone with Dorothy with the chance of meeting Jesus than slowly dying at this desk/casket.
September 11, 2010 will mark 15 years in what is essentially the same exact rut on the side of the road of life. Prior to embarking on this bland mission, I had viewed government work as some noble calling, a way to serve my community. It turns out that I am exceptionally selfish and do not have much desire or need to do this folly. I have one year…one year until the halfway mark of a “traditional” 30-year career. I very seriously may vomit right now. I simply, forcefully, willfully MUST find my way before that fateful date hits me like a black bomb. Otherwise, I fear, all may be lost and I will suffer through untold more decades stuck firmly in the bleak mud of this backwater.
God help me find my way. Matthew exhorts us to “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” (Matthew 7:13-14 - NIV). I would rather be riding the cyclone with Dorothy with the chance of meeting Jesus than slowly dying at this desk/casket.
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