Fights, Three Ways

I make 39 this week.

I feel old. I work hard, physically and mentally, but I feel old.

When I was 20 years old, I was in the unusual position of supervising a 40-year-old man. He was a good guy, and always did what he could to maintain protocol. He was a guitarist, and at some point he began to have problems with tendinitis. Soon we were discussing a few other nagging ailments of his, which he summed up quite seriously as "my body preparing itself to die."

I thought it was a bit macabre, a bit over-serious. Still do. But... I come closer to understanding now, all these years later.

***

Wolfboy got in a scrap at Chick-fil-A today. I'm told that in the playground area, a Spanish-speaking kid punched Wolfboy in the eye. My son didn't understand what he was saying, though he guessed the kid thought he was blocking the slide.

Wolfboy shoved the kid, who came back at him with several more punches, all of which my son blocked. The other kid gave up and left.

My son was upset, but not overly so. His eye is fine.

***

So MOBB and I were proud of him for defending himself without escalating, even using a little of the training I've given him. And as much as I wanted to, I didn't harp--much--on how he'd have been fully justified in letting that other kid have it.

***

Not all stories can be shared.

I spoke again today to the mother of the young soldier in Iraq. I mentioned him about a month ago I believe, how she'd just received her first message from him in two weeks.

He's coming home soon, and in fact is in Turkey or some more stable place for a stretch before being discharged in December.

She shared some of the stories that he told her, and I simply cannot put them here. Too shocking, too awful.

I can say that he told her, "I don't know if God will forgive me for what I've done."