Just Don't Ask...

Some will say this is an untimely posting, but so be it.  Strike while the iron is hot.

This week has been a tough week in Mississippi.  Two police officers were shot and killed in the line of duty.  A Mississippi firefighter died while on duty.  There was a loss of three teenagers in a motor vehicle crash near my hometown.  You'll note that us in the rescue field use the term "motor vehicle crash", as opposed to "accident".  Accidents, by nature, are things that cannot be prevented from happening.  Poor choices, inattention to surroundings, and a host of other factors, some singularly, others cascading together lead to bad outcomes.  Preventable outcomes.  Fall and break a leg on the ice in winter?  Bad outcome, not an accident.  But I'm not here to talk about accidents.

You see, anytime we work through a crash, a shooting, a heart attack, a house fire, or any other form of human tragedy that you can dream of, we're often asked to share information and details.  Most often times, the request comes from well-meaning, but ill-informed people.

Here's a tip:  Just don't ask.

Why? 

First, in most cases we're legally prohibited from telling you.  You know, that whole "patient privacy thing."  But first, put yourself in the other person's shoes.  Do you want us describing the efforts we used to resuscitate you, or how we had to pry your broken body from the car?  Or what it was like pulling you from a house fire?  Or how your spouse beat, stabbed, or shot you?  If you don't want those details of your life out there, then have respect for those we're called to help.

Secondly, your prayer chain doesn't need details in order to effectively pray for someone.  Did you see an ambulance at the neighbors?  Did you see a fire engine working through a road congested with inattentive drivers, headed to a growing column of smoke on the other side of town?  You can stop right there and pray for whoever is on the receiving end of that.  You can pray for the hands, hearts and minds of those delivering the aid.  It doesn't matter whether the smoke is just a pile of brush, or if that EMS crew is feverishly working against all odds to breathe life back into someone.  What matters is someone needs help.

Most importantly, we just don't want to talk about it.  Sure if it's a simple trash fire, then no big deal.  But if it's a really bad case, we're doing all we can to forget as much of it as possible.  The bad part is, we'll never forget it all.  We'll carry some image around, or some smell will linger in our nose, and it'll last even longer in our memories.  One day years from now we'll smell a similar smell, and it'll all come rushing back.  Firefighters, police officers, and EMS personnel on average, in one year's time, see the same amount of human tragedy that you'll see in an entire lifetime.  Think about that.  How many times in your life will an ambulance be at your house, or how many times will you call the fire department or the police department for an emergency?  How many deaths of very close friends or loved ones will you personally experience?  Or how many of those will die while you're pouring all of you energy into trying to keep them alive, even if just for a little while longer?  We see your entire lifetime's worth of tragic circumstances each year that we work.  We don't want to re-live those moments.  We get enough to keep us busy without telling the stories all over again.  Yeah we'll tell the stories amongst ourselves, but we're family like that.  It's hard to understand if you're not inside that circle.  Just trust me.

Before you say I'm going off half-cocked, which I probably am, just know that I believe God has a plan for each and every one of us.  I believe in prayer and what it does for us.  But I also know that a simple prayer is an effective prayer.  Have faith, practice faith, and live according to that faith.

But please, just don't ask us what happened.  I don't know how many fatalities I've worked in 30-ish years.  I don't care to know.  I remember a few, mostly those that presented the most difficult situations from a technical point of view.  I remember some that stuck with us for emotional reasons.  But for the most part, I don't remember the vast majority of them.  We get pretty good at building a huge mental wall to keep all that in a safe place.  Don't ask us to poke holes in the wall.

Post-script: If you're Fire, EMS, or Law Enforcement and need a safe place to let these stories out, find a peer counselor in your area.  A peer counselor is another firefighter, medic, or officer trained in critical incident stress management.  We get this training so we can help our brothers and sisters in this business.  We help the helpers, and we do it confidentially and without question.  We'll listen, we'll guide you, and if we think you need more help than we can offer, we'll get  you in contact with a mental health professional.  You're not crazy, you're normal.  We want to keep you normal.

Thirty Years...

I can probably count on two hands the number of people that have heard me tell this story.  Today is a good time to write it down and let the words stand on their own.

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February 28, 1985 was a Thursday, and I was thirteen years old.

The day started out differently than usual.  At the time I had a paper route, delivering for The Commercial Appeal.  Every morning we'd be up early to get the morning paper delivered before school time.  My parents would drive; most usually Daddy would be the one.  We enjoyed the morning time together.  He taught me that it would be more personal that if, instead of throwing a rolled paper into their driveways, I should drop the flat newsprint at the doorstep.  Indeed, the gesture was well-received by my customers.  We'd make the rounds, sliding papers across wide porch floors.  If your paper was delivered to your back doorstep, and you had a small screened-in porch, I'd get the paper into your kitchen floor, if you'd opened the inner door to enjoy the cool morning air with breakfast.  But this Thursday morning was different, in that he got up much earlier than normal and ran the route himself.  I never knew why; indeed to this day I do not know.

In Carrollton, most of the local merchants and business owners would close their shops on Thursday afternoon.  I don't know when, why or how this practice got started, but it was their respite from a five- or six-day work week.  Spring was upon us, and around our house Thursday afternoon was yard-cutting time.  My grandparents lived directly across the street, so we shared in the yard work.  My granddaddy owned a small grocery store just down the street from where we lived, and my grandmother ran a rural mail route.  Going to school that morning, I knew we'd be in for leaf-raking and grass cutting when school was done for the day.  The day was sunny and a bit warm for February, but Old Man Winter was tired and willing to yield his grip to the vibrancy of a young and promising spring.

Daddy worked for the state parks system.  As I remember, I don't think he was home when we left for school that Thursday.  He'd run the paper route on his own, then I assume had gone to work.

The school day was typical and of no particular notoriety.  We were in the eighth grade, with about thirty of us in my class.  Most of us had grown up together, forming friendships as early as kindergarten, if not earlier.  We went through the normal cycle of algebra, English, history, science, and study hall.  I recall a few fleeting mental images of study hall foolishness that afternoon, sitting at the far back table in the library, next to the window.  Beyond that, it was just another day.

Now home from school, it was yard work as usual.  Between the routine of the day and the actions of time, there are no outstanding memories, aside from the knowledge that I would be glad when we were done.  But it would be a nice evening, not too cold yet not too hot.  It wouldn't be long until the honeysuckle would be blooming, and lightning bugs would be telegraphing their intentions to would-be suitors in the insect world.

Then the alarm came.  Granddaddy and Daddy both were volunteer firemen in town.  Granddaddy was the Assistant Chief at the time.  I'd been privileged to "start early", as I usually tell folks.  They'd let me start going with them to fires about a year earlier.  I'd even been allowed to sit in on a week-long training from the state fire academy the summer of 1984.  With my certificate in hand, I thought I was something.  The firemen, all family friends, let me hang with them and do various "go-fer" tasks on the fire ground.  Laying hose, hooking up the hydrant, washing and rolling hose after a fire, things like that.  It was good for me, as it kept me out of trouble and under they eye of responsible people.

That Thursday afternoon a little past 4:00 PM the town's fire alarm cried out.  We dropped our yard work and piled into Granddaddy’s truck to see what was the matter.  When we turned the corner at the end of the street, the answer was evident in the thick column of black smoke flooding the sky from across the bridge in North Carrollton.  Something big was burning.  Down the hill and across the bridge and to a full stop in front of the local clinic, people were gathering and looking as Chaos and Change were lurking in the shadows, and we just didn't know it yet.

The two-story heavy timber and masonry construction building originally served as a hotel in another century.  Progress had brought change, and on that Thursday the building was a hardware store.  An addition to the rear of the store provided room for lumber cutting and storage.  Black-brown smoke with some yellowish tinge belched from the union of these two buildings.  The town's fire engine was parked just off one corner, and men were moving a heavy 2 1/2 inch line down an alleyway that separated the fire from a long row of businesses.  We had exposures to protect, and if we didn't, a large portion of the town's economy would be gone.  This would be a fight, as the hardware store and lumber area offered rich and plentiful fuel for the fire to consume.

The job of moving a heavy, bulky 2 1/2 inch hose line is difficult at best.  A few men had found an opening to the fire building, and were attempting to reach the seat of the fire.  Along with several others, I joined in the effort to help the nozzlemen move and manage the line.  There were probably four to six people on the hose, and I felt like the right place for me to be was at the end of this group.  To our right were the exposures, and the fire building was to our left, still belching acrid smoke, with little flame visible.  Air currents around the buildings kept some smoke low, but it wasn't unbearable.  Everyone was concentrated on finding the seat of the fire, but were hampered by lack of access to the store and storage areas.  Some were making quick entries into the front of the hardware store area to recover whatever items they could lay their hands on.

Time often seems to stand still at times like this, or, more likely, we lose sense of how much time elapses.  What seemed like only seconds was, in truth, probably several tens of minutes.  I distinctly remember two or three firefighters making their way around the building, passing our location.  Daddy was in the group.  I'm not sure if they were searching for better access points, if they were trying to get a complete idea of the totality of the event, or if they were just getting from one point to another.  I do, however, distinctly remember how red and flushed their faces were, whether from smoke, exertion, or both.  

I'd not seen him before on that Thursday, and was a bit surprised to see him there.  We exchanged quick, worried glances, and I asked if he and the others "needed air", meaning self-contained breathing apparatus.  He quickly shook his head "no" and he, together with the others, went further down the alley into the smoke.

More time passed, seemingly more slowly than it really did.  Despite the noise and the confusion, things seemed to have settled into place.  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Then it happened.

The specific sequence of events is too co-mingled in my memory to separate them into distinct threads for this writing.  Some, however, stand out.  First was the mighty and thunderous rattle of bricks falling onto the tin covering that served as an awning over the front door and windows of the hardware store.  The awning joined the front of the building between the first and second floors, and extended ten feet or so in front of the store, and was held up by wooden beams.  The sound of masonry onto metal was followed instantly by ground-shaking impact as the bricks landed.  Debris, sand, and mortar dust kicked up into the air with some velocity, stinging our exposed skin.  There really wasn't much time to react.  Those of us on the hose dropped it and sought shelter behind the nearby fire engine.  A brief moment of silence that seemed to never end followed.  Before the dust even settled, the silence was broken.  My first memory was that I hear someone screaming.

Confused, I got up and walked toward the rear of the engine to see what was going on.  Two sights were then forever burned into my mind...someone pushing my mother backwards across the street, and my grandfather wiping his brow and moaning "What will we do....what will we do now?"  I remember being confused, but as many people have experienced, there comes a time that you just know, but you don't want to admit that you know.  Stage 1 of Grief: Denial.

The clinic across the street became the focus of attention; the two doctors there were long-time family friends.  Our fire chief had suffered a blow to the head from bricks, resulting in a severe concussion.  It was reported that two others were trapped beneath the rubble.  Denial was strong, I didn't want to admit, nor did I want to hear that one of those two was my dad.

Ambulances were summoned.  Confusion seemed to rule the day now.  We were directed into the clinic to wait.  I was standing behind the receptionist's counter when Denial gave way to Anger.  A gurney rolled into the lobby and down the hall passing our spot.  The long yellow turnout coat was pulled up high over the head of the person lying face-down on it.  Khaki work pants held a pair of twisted legs that ended in a pair of blue tennis shoes that I knew all to well.

I don't remember who said it.  I'm sure one of our doctor-friends broke the news.  It was beyond hope, and absolutely nothing could be done.

We were briefly moved down the street to a house of someone we knew who offered us their home until we could be taken back to ours.  If time had seemed to stand still earlier, it had ground to a halt now.  I don't remember how we got from there to home.  Much of the next several hours are now completely lost to time.

Help had come from all around.  I remember late that night the fire chief from a neighboring town coming to my grandparent's door to extend his condolences to my mother, sister, and me.  It was a surprise to see him standing in the doorway in his turnout gear, a man we'd never met, but was visibly shaken at the day's events.  He stopped by on their way out of town.  Many countless others came over the next few days.

Somewhere in the process I'd pulled some muscles in my back, requiring a visit to the doctor for medication.  It was painful to stand for the many hours at the funeral home the next evening, but I was determined to not miss speaking to anyone.  We were overwhelmed with the volume of people that came.  These hours and days moved more quickly, so much so that they are now just a cloud of brief images.  Flashing red lights in the procession; a state trooper solemnly holding an intersection; a flag being folded.

It is now thirty years later.  Many of those memories are fading.  But some ghosts still remain, and perhaps shall never die.  I should want that they would not die, either.

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Epilogue-
I'm lucky, by some standards, to be where I am today.  One of only nine people in all of Mississippi to have the job that I have as an emergency response coordinator in our state's public health emergency preparedness program; a former county emergency manager and fire coordinator; communications officer; and currently a hazardous materials technician, emergency medical technician, and firefighter.  I cannot count the number of fires, wrecks, floods, tornadoes, ice storms, snow storms, hurricanes and other things I've seen in 30 years.  In all that time, though, the events I've described above set forth three rules I try to work under, and teach at every opportunity, lecture, or in any class I'm teaching:  Rule #1 is I go home, without exception.  There are people that like to see me, and having my name carved in stone and cast in bronze isn't what I want for them.  Rule #2 is if you're working with me, and I can help it, I'll make sure you go home too.  Rule #3 says that I expect you to abide by the same rules, accordingly.  

Stay safe, look out for those closest to you, and expect no less from them.

Another good read...

In France this week we saw a handful of terrorists meticulously assassinate an office of journalists and satirists.  The reaction from the world of social media was swift to identify with, and to support the ideal of a free and open press, and free and open speech.  Those ideals are codified as inalienable rights in our United States Constitution.  However, time and social norms have indeed restricted speech, often in the name of political correctness.  And we have been silently complicit.

David Brooks of The New York Times nailed it in a recent op-ed piece. 

The journalists at Charlie Hebdo are now rightly being celebrated as martyrs on behalf of freedom of expression, but let’s face it: If they had tried to publish their satirical newspaper on any American university campus over the last two decades it wouldn’t have lasted 30 seconds. Student and faculty groups would have accused them of hate speech. The administration would have cut financing and shut them down.
....
The massacre at Charlie Hebdo should be an occasion to end speech codes. And it should remind us to be legally tolerant toward offensive voices, even as we are socially discriminating.

Go read the entire article here.

Dear Church...

I got this link from a friend of mine.  I won't even attempt to put any polish on it, because none is needed.

http://www.faithit.com/dear-church-heres-why-people-are-really-leaving-you/

Mountain Dew

I love some good old Bluegrass, like Flatt & Scruggs.  However, as opposed to the subject of this song, I prefer my "mountain dew" to be made from a grain mixture of at least 51% corn, aged in charred, new oak barrels, distilled to no more than 160 proof, barreled at no more than 125 proof, and bottled at no more than 80 proof, and aged for several years, preferably in a store house that rotates the barrels from top to bottom....otherwise known as Bourbon Whisky.

Second Chances...

A friend of mine committed suicide last night.

 

Heck of a way to start an entry, huh?  What follows is a way for me to work through some of my thoughts, and more-so a plea.  I'll ask your indulgence as you continue to read.

 

Some of you will know who I'm talking about.  Most won't, and that is ok, because the message isn't about the person.  The message will be about you.

 

I'd never met my friend face-to-face, but we shared three bonds through social media/text/phone:  We're both Christians, we're both responders, and both concerned about the physical, mental, and spiritual well-being of our fellow firefighters, medics, and police officers.  We shared many conversations over the past three or four years.  The topics ranged from the benign to the sublime.

 

He met his Salvation in a hospital bed, after being shot while on a traffic stop one night.  From that day on he wanted to reach out to other officers, just as he had been reached by a police chaplain.

 

He had tasted the bitter taste of divorce, of being shunned by his friends and his church.  He knew there was more joy, more grace, more forgiveness than he had been shown by those who claimed to have cared for him.  He had recently found new joy in a new marriage, in a new state, with new friends and a new job.  His passion for reaching out to responders grew and manifested itself in a published book that outlined his story.  Plans were being made for a second, follow-up book.  He ministered daily to those he knew online and in person.  He prayed for many, even for some of you on this email.  Hundreds of cards were mailed to encourage officers, dispatchers, firefighters...anyone who wore a badge.  

 

Recently, he and his wife hit a speed-bump in their marriage.  In talking to him over the past couple of weeks, it really wasn't that big of a deal in the walk of life.  How they handled it could have been better, and they knew it.  But it separated them, and brought him pain.  Each day we'd text back and forth, just checking in to see how he was doing.  Some exchanges would be brief, others would be protracted, but they were healthy.

 

A text from him Sunday morning read: "You talked to me in a weak time last night and still loved me.  Thank you.  I feel refreshed today"  Other texts on Monday from him read: "Guard your family my friend, with added emphasis....The enemy is serious"

 

Then news this morning. 

 

One thing I'd told him over and over: "My phone is always on".  There were no texts last night, no phone calls.  Oh how I wish there had been.  We'll never know what was going on last night, what demons overcame him.  

 

Why do I write today?  There is help.  We all - ALL - have a breaking point.  We can never know what that breaking point is until we reach it.  And until we're there, we can't say how we'd handle it.  

 

I am not a psychologist, but I am a peer counselor.  You have a friend.  I've seen many of our badge-wearing brothers be helped along, but they had to reach out first.  From major tragedies to those who have appeared on my doorstep saying "I was driving along and picked out the tree I was going to hit....but decided to come see you instead".....you can be helped.  

 

We're brothers.  We help people.  But that doesn't place us above being helped.  Do not let this darkness overtake you.

 

My phone is always on.....   Grace & Peace my friends

 

(PS: I'm fine.  I write to vent.)

My Pipe...

Whene’re I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away,
My thoughts as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.
Like me, this pipe so fragrant burning
Is made of naught but earth and clay;
To earth I too shall be returning.
It falls and, ere I’d think to say,
It breaks in two before my eyes;
In store for me a like fate lies.
No stain the pipe’s hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death’s call I must harken
My body too, all pale will grow
To black beneath the sod ’twill turn.
Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then, instantaniously,
The smoke off into thin air going,
Till naught but ash is left to see.
Man’s frame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.
How oft it happens when one’s smoking:
The stopper’s missing from the shelf,
And one goes with one’s finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell,
How hot must be the pains of Hell.
Thus o’er my pipe, in contemplation
Of such things, I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, on sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.

Johann Sebastian Bach

A Lesson from an Observation...

I spent two days on the road this week for work, and I'm finding that I like road trips less and less.  But they are a necessity from time to time.

One night as I passed a group of businessmen who had gathered in front of the hotel, I couldn't help but overhearing some of their conversation.  It seemed they were talking about a meeting they had all attended that day, about things they learned from the speaker, and how that would improve their roles in the business, and how - hopefully - their division would be better than another division. 

While they were having their meetings, I was attending meetings too, with my colleagues from around the state.  But our meetings weren't about motivational speakers, they weren't about making or selling more widgets, nor were we hoping to out-do another division in our industry.

We spent most of two days having animated and spirited discussions about plans and decisions that would directly affect the lives, health and safety of hundreds of thousands of Mississippians affected by disasters.  For us, that is a normal day.  When we were done, I drove home to another night of teaching future life-savers...my EMT students.

Those involved in the art of capitalism are what made this country great.  But for the life of me, I can't find what satisfaction they gain in the long-term from their careers.  In my state, I'm one of nine people out of nearly 3 million that do what we do.  We're 0.0003% of the state's population, but the things we do affect the other 99.9997%.

I'm blessed.

Memorial Day...

Today we remember those who gave their lives in defense of this country, for its flag, and for the ideals it represents to the world. 

I met a veteran on Memorial Day who hadn't died on the battlefield for his country, but he had certainly given a good portion of his life to it.  It seemed fitting, in some way, that he passed away peacefully in his sleep on Memorial Day.  We don't normally wait for the funeral home to arrive, but being that it was a holiday, they were short-handed and it just seemed like the proper thing to do, to carry this gentleman from his home. 

I don't know when he served, but his age meant that it could have been World War II, Korea, or maybe even the early stages of Vietnam.  Maybe it was a little of each.  But that doesn't matter.  He stepped forward when his nation asked him to.

I wondered if his brothers-in-arms were gathered to welcome him today, men who had gone long before in battle, others later in life.  I wondered what that reunion must have been like.  I wondered if he walked upright, strong, and youthful. 

Memorial Day honors those who fell in battle.  Veterans Day honors those who remain among us, though for many their latest sun is sinking fast. 

Carry on, Sir.  Carry on.

Obvious things...

There are so many different applications in this video, that I really don't know where to start.  Go beyond the natural difficulties couples sometimes have in talking (and guys, that cuts both ways), but consider how true this is in every day life with friends, or at work, or in church, or as a society as a whole.  We spend more time fretting about the symptoms than the cause.  If we fixed the original problem, we wouldn't have much left to complain about, would we?

It's Not About the Nail from Jason Headley on Vimeo.

Volunteers...

Volunteering, as defined by Wikipedia, is generally considered an altruistic activity and is intended to promote good or improve human quality of life. In return, this activity produces a feeling of self-worth and respect; however, there is no financial gain...

In the United States, about two-thirds of firefighters are volunteers.  The first fire companies formed in the embryonic Colonies were volunteers, and the tradition has continued for over three-hundred years.

Today as the State of Texas remembered those who died in West, Texas at a fertilizer plant explosion, I chatted with a friend who was in attendance.  We talked about how these volunteers are our nation's true heroes, who through a selfless spirit of altruism, committed themselves to the defense of their community.  This was the scene today.  I have no more words to share.

Photo from www.mysanantonio.com

This week...

My goodness, what a week this has been.  A bombing in Boston.  Ricin in the mail.  A small Texas community devastated.  Ending the week on a high note, a 100-hour manhunt ends with the capture of one of the Boston bombing suspects.

This week I was in a conference with some 600 of Mississippi's emergency response officials, including police officers, firefighters, medics, hospital personnel, and emergency managers.  To say we had a lot to talk about would be a gross understatement! 

First, let's look at Boston.  As you know, two explosive devices detonated near the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  While the picture is still being put together, there doesn't appear to be a specific target, making this incident a classic act of terrorism.  The aim of terrorists isn't to kill....it is to instill fear.  We don't yet know if the bombers were influenced by foreign players, or if they were just two young men playing out a demented prank.  Three were killed, hundreds injured.  Boston medics, officers, and firefighters dove into harm's way and saved many.  We saw Bostonians stand up and fight back, and they did not let fear rule the day.  Certainly there was apprehension as the suspects became known.  A police officer was killed by the suspects; another gravely injured.  Communities were locked down, neighborhoods evacuated during the manhunt.  When the final review is penned though, the case was cracked by everyday citizens reporting information to the police.  Boston-area residents fought back in a civilized manner by working with police, not as vigilante hero-wannabe's.

At our conference this week, we heard how, as emergency mangers, we should "engage the public" in a "culture of preparedness".  Also, "it's a team sport, what yall do".  The discussion regarded disaster preparedness, but those words rang true in Massachusetts this week.  Police officers - civilian guardians - engaged the public in a team sport, and it paid off.  It can work to capture terrorists, and it can work for floods, hurricanes, and tornadoes.

The drama that unfolded in the northeast, however, almost overshadowed the events in a small town where a "culture of preparedness" is a way of daily life.  West, Texas, is a small town of 2800, and like many small towns it is protected by a cadre of volunteer firefighters.  On April 17, an alarm of fire at a fertilizer plant brought these volunteers from their homes and jobs.  Before the day would end, five volunteer firefighters and four emergency medical volunteers were killed in a massive explosion that devastated the small town.  There is not a single person in that town who is unaffected.  If their house or business wasn't damaged, they were probably related to a responder.  In larger cities, public safety personnel have a natural disconnect from most of the public, as it's just a job.  In towns like West, that depend on volunteers, your barber might be the fire chief; your pastor may be an EMT.  They're not just public servants, they're friends integral to your everyday life.  The town lost firefighters who may have been mechanics, teachers, welders, church deacons.

So as you go on your way, two communities separated by a half a country share a common pain.  Keep them both in your prayers.  When you can, take time to visit your police officers, paramedics, and firefighters.  They may be paid for what they do.  But they may be doing it simply from the goodness of their hearts, giving their all for you.  Embrace a "culture of preparedness" in your home by getting to know these men and women.  Do not simply ride the wave of appreciation we'll see in the next few days.  They're there every day...

42 Years...

Well, I wanted to write an introspective post for my birthday.  I started writing a few days ago.  After a few paragraphs introspect turned into a borderline depressive missive.  My mind goes into dark places sometimes.  The draft got deleted tonight.  In its place, I'm starting up my own Bucket List.  Here are two that have been on my list for a LONG time.
....................
I want to see the Boston Pops Esplanade Orchestra in Boston on the Fourth of July.  I want to feel the concussion from the fireworks over the Charles River for the finale. I want to hear Beethoven's 9th Symphony at The Proms in London....all the while having no idea where my tastes for classical music comes from...


Götterfunken!

Considering a change...

This will be a ramble, so hang in there...

Over the past few years I embraced various social media outlets like Facebook, Twitter, and Google+.  Each one have their merits, pro's and con's unique to each service.  I share some friends across all three, others are unique to one outlet. 

This blog links out to all three whenever I tap out a new entry.  Within a half-hour of a new posting, the title and link are spread out to many friends and acquaintances.  A blog gives your much more than 140 characters to convey more depth to the reader.  But in today's world, anything much longer than the 140-character limit may gain the writer a TL;DR (too long; didn't read).  So be it.  The brevity of instant messaging must soothe the sensitivities of those who are challenged by a meaningful exchange of ideas.  Again, so be it.

Guilty as charged, I've been a contributor to the short-message communications format.  It's easy to formulate a quick text to my three favorite social media services.  Tap out the characters on the phone, hit send, and the earth-shattering thought of the moment is forever digitally enshrined in the annals of history of modern man.  What I had for supper, what music I was listening to while driving, snarky comments while sitting in random meetings.  It's all out there, somewhere in the digital ether.  I'm sure my great-great grandchildren will be impressed with my collection of works.  I shall, perhaps, upon my passing, leave directions to my progeny to download and have bound all of my status updates.  I'm certain such a volume will gather little dust in the great libraries of the world.

All social media services evolve.  Facebook has, of late, seemed to become not so much of a place to proffer personal updates, but more of an avenue to simple "share" and re-post content created by others.  My newsfeed is littered with a host of shared recipes, satirical political and animal memes.  Perhaps the politics and LOLCats are somehow cyber-related.  I've been considering giving the digital axe to Facebook friends who never post original content.  Twitter, depending on who you follow, can be a good source of news and special-interest information.  I like it.  Google+ still doesn't have its legs yet, but some in my cyber-society are migrating there.  There are unique offerings in Google+ that I haven't fully explored yet, but I plan to.

So, after that diatribe....I'm considering coming back to this blog more often in the future.  The format here may not be as dynamic, but I can offer more.  The Big Three social media will still post links from here, but you'll have to actually visit to read it all.  And that might require a bit more neurological power than is required to process just less than one gross of text characters.

PS:  I don't play Mafia Wars, Lucky Slots, or any other game on Facebook.  No matter how good our friendship may be, repeated game invitations only serve to nudge you closer to the "Defriend" cliff.

On Gun Control...

I've stayed quiet for the past week on the topic of gun control.  For the most part, the people closest to me know where I stand on guns, and I don't see my views changing in the future.  Tonight, I found two well-written articles, and I wanted to share them, because they effectively capture my thoughts.  Both are extensive writings, so be prepared to read and be challenged. 

My thanks to both for taking the time to write.  Neither were done in a few minutes' time.

Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.

The first is a link to another blogger in his entry, An Opinion on Gun Control.

Second is an Open Letter, written by a fellow Mississippi Gun Owner:

This is an open letter to anyone interested in the national conversation concerning gun control and violence. Like everyone else, I am shocked and saddened at the recent violent criminal act that occurred at Sandy Hook Elementary. That combined with the ensuing national discussion regarding gun control and violence motivated me to write this open letter.

First, let me tell you a little about myself. I am 37 years old and I am from Mississippi. I am an avid sportsman and competitive shooter. I am an instructor certified enhanced firearms permit holder, and I currently compete as an “A” class Production division shooter in the United States Practical Shooting Association. If you don’t know what any of that means, don’t be impressed. I am nothing special. This time a year ago, I had never owned or fired a handgun in my entire life. Up until January, I had always been intimidated by them based on what I had read or heard in anti-gun propaganda, and somewhat fearful of them because I am part of the first generation that grew up in a culture that has glorified criminal and unsafe gun violence on television, movies, and in video games, but more on that later.

This time last year, I first looked into getting a concealed carry permit and purchasing a handgun for self defense. The prospect of that was so very new and foreign to me. I decided to educate myself about guns, gun laws, and the effects guns have on violence. I also decided to educate myself on defensive techniques and safety procedures. I sought out the proper training, familiarized myself with handguns and became comfortable and proficient with them. I then got into the sport of competitive handgun shooting. I now own 10 guns, have fired 20,000 rounds in the last 12 months, and have competed in 31 different shooting sports events since March, and I carry a handgun on my person everywhere I am legally allowed. In the span of the last 12 months I have went from being intimidated and fearful of handguns and thinking that they were the root cause of violence in our country, to completely comfortable with their use and gaining the understanding that they are a tool that has been proven to be effective in reducing violent crimes. It has been an interesting year, to say the least, and I wanted to share with you some of the things I’ve learned along the way, especially in light of the recent national conversation that has misrepresented guns and their effect on violence.

The research I have done shows that guns are an effective tool in reducing violence. You often hear that an armed society is a polite society, and I have found that to be true both in my research into the subject, as well as in my anecdotal personal experience in the last year.

I highly recommend everyone purchase and read the book “More Guns, Less Crime” by Yale professor John Lott. It is an exhaustive analysis of the effect of gun possession on crime rates. It is the most extensive empirical study of crime deterrence that has been done by anyone to date. He presents the results of his exhaustive statistical analysis of crime data for every county in the United States during 29 years from 1977 to 2005. The book examines city, county and state level data from the entire United States and measures the impact of 11 different types of gun control laws on crime rates. Lott also examines the effects of gun control laws, including the Brady Law. He also spends time discussing gun ownership rates and crime rates in other countries, such as the United Kingdom. His exhaustive research on this issue has been peer reviewed and supported by several noted academics in his field, and it has become the definitive reference in discussing the effects of guns on crime rates.

I also recommend his follow up book, “The Bias against Guns”. In this book Lott details the effects of gun laws on multiple victim shootings in public places. His two main arguments are that gun free zones increase these events, and that shall issue concealed carry laws greatly reduce them.

Lott's first argument is that gun free zones are attractive to criminals because no law abiding citizens will be able to stop them from taking hostages or killing. Lott makes the case that gun free zones are the safest places for criminals, and that it should not be surprising that these kinds of situations occur there, when criminals have so much incentive to do so.

Lott also examines the converse, when ordinary citizens are given the opportunity to carry concealed weapons to protect themselves. He shows that mass murders decrease greatly when law abiding citizens are allowed to carry, explaining that criminals know that in public there is a good chance that someone nearby will be able to stop them.
Combine this with the knowledge that every public mass shooting except for one that has occurred since 1950 in which three or more victims died was in a gun free zone, and that the average number of people killed in mass shootings in gun free zones in which police stop the shooting is 14.29 and when not in gun free zones and civilians stop the shooting that number drops to 2.33.

The second book also discusses the effect of having guns in the household, focusing on two points. He demonstrates with his exhaustive analysis to nationwide statistical data that people are almost never killed accidentally by their own guns and that most deaths involving guns in the home are suicides, and children are much more likely to be killed by household items such as 5 gallon buckets, beds, or pools than by a gun.

It’s eye opening, especially considering what you’ve always heard or been told by the majority of the media and in anti-gun propaganda.

In addition to those two books that I highly recommend, I also have comes across several other interesting pieces of information in my research over the past year that bolsters the truth that more guns equals less crime.

For example:

In 1976, the Washington, D.C. City Council passed a law generally prohibiting residents from possessing handguns and requiring that all firearms in private homes be kept unloaded and rendered temporally inoperable via disassembly or installation of a trigger lock. The law became operative on Sept. 24, 1976. On June 26, 2008, the U.S. Supreme Court, in a 5-4 ruling, struck down this law as unconstitutional. During the years in which the D.C. handgun ban and trigger lock law was in effect, the Washington, D.C. murder rate averaged 73% higher than it was at the outset of the law, while the U.S. murder rate averaged 11% lower.

On October 1, 1987, Florida's right-to-carry law became effective. Since the outset of the Florida right-to-carry law, the Florida murder rate has averaged 36% lower than it was before the law took effect, while the U.S. murder rate has averaged 15% lower. The previously mentioned book details similar occurrences across several different states as they have passed right-to-carry laws.

In 2007, there were 27.7 million emergency room visits for non-fatal accidents that year. Only 00.05% or 15,698 were firearm related.

In 1997, the UK instituted a complete ban on handgun ownership by civilians in response to the Dunblane massacre. The Dunblane massacre is an incident that occurred in the UK in 1996 in which a criminal shot dead 16 school children and their teacher, very similar to the recent Sandy Hook tragedy. The complete handgun ban was instituted in an effort to keep such a tragedy from ever occurring again. It was enforced by the confiscation of over 162,000 thousand guns and over 1.5 million pounds of ammunition. Using "records of firearms held on firearms certificates," police accounted for all but fewer than eight of all legally owned handguns in all of England, Scotland, and Wales.

As of 2012, the violent crime rate in the UK is 5 times that of the United States.

As of 2012, despite a complete ban on handgun ownership for the past 15 years, there is an average of 12,000 gun crimes committed a year in the UK.

In 2010, thirteen years after the ban enacted in the UK to prevent mass shootings at the expense of private gun ownership, a criminal in Cumbria shot 23 people, killing 11, before killing himself.

People often theorize what would happen if guns were completely outlawed, and I point them to that 1997 UK gun ban, and explain how it had failed its purpose, and resulted in a violent crime rate five times that of the United States.

According to the FBI, in the US from 2006-2010, there were 153 mass killings. A mass killing was defined as one in which 4 or more people died as the result of one incident. 33% of these did not involve a gun. That is close to 50 mass killings in a 5 year span that did not involve guns. I point to this when explaining to people that banning guns will not stop mass killings.

Of the remaining amount that involved guns, each and every one of them occurred in a gun free zone. I explain to people that gun free zones are established by legislation at the urging of the anti-gun crowd with good intentions, but the unintended result is the creation of a target rich environment for criminals that is guaranteed not to present the potential for an armed response from a law abiding citizen. Gun free zones, while intended to prevent gun violence, have ended up becoming veritable killing fields. Sandy Hook Elementary School was a gun free zone.

The deterrence factor of a potential armed response from a victim, while not quantifiable, cannot be ignored. It is not coincidence that every mass shooting since 1950 except for 1 occurred in a gun free zone. Criminals select these target rich environments because they prefer soft targets and choose to avoid the potential armed response. Studies have shown that even if no one is armed, the lack of a location being designated a gun free zone greatly decreases the chance of a mass shooting occurring. Just the possibility that the potential victims may be carrying guns prevents crime, whether or not the potential victims are carrying guns or not!

Look towards Kennesaw, GA as another example of the effect deterrence has on crime. In 1982, in response to the growing nationwide amount of violence and crime, Kennesaw enacted a law that every head of household had to own a gun. Over the next 25 years, not a single gun crime occurred in Kennesaw, GA.

Contrast that with the fact that 26% of gun crime in the US occurs in Chicago, New York City, and Washington DC, despite them having some of the strictest gun control laws in the country and only having 6% of the population.

On the national defense level, look no further than to the infamous quote, “You cannot invade the mainland United States. There would be a rifle behind every blade of grass”.
The more research I did, the more amazed I became at how every notion I previously held concerning guns was wrong.

The current national dialogue is in regards to a potential forthcoming Assault Weapons Ban. This would place a limit on magazine capacity at 10 rounds, and ban any semi-automatic weapon that had cosmetic features similar to assault rifles.

What most people don’t understand is that assault rifles are automatic weapons, and are strictly controlled. The guns you see talked about in the media are actually not assault rifles; they are semi-automatic rifles that have cosmetic features similar to assault rifles. Basically, they are made the same color as the guns the military uses, but they function differently. The gun used in the Sandy Hook incident was not an assault rifle. It was a semi-automatic rifle with cosmetic features similar to an assault rifle. In functionality, it is just like your grandpa’s hunting rifle, in fact, probably less powerful as it fires one of the smaller caliber cartridges available. It cosmetically resembles a military rifle because it has molded plastic painted black to make it look like one. The more you learn about the equipment, the more ridiculous you realize the efforts have been with gun control.

This exact ban being discussed was already tried before and has been shown not to have any impact whatsoever on crime rates. From 1994-2004, the federal assault weapons ban was in place, and it has been shown by both the CDC and the Violent Policy Center to have had no effect on reducing violence.

Even worse, Connecticut already had this exact same assault weapons ban that had been previously tried on the federal level in effect during the Sandy Hook incident.
Attempting to enact the same legislation now when we know it doesn’t work doesn’t make sense. It seems like a hurried reaction to appease the many uninformed masses of people who do not understand and are fearful of guns with no real goal of accomplishing anything meaningful.

Aside from denying several million Americans the ability to lawfully pursue something they desire, and putting thousands of people out of work who manufacture these items, we already know from the previous attempt that it will have no effect at all on violence.

It amazes me that due to the large number of people ignorant on the effectiveness of guns as a tool against violence, we would enact legislation that we know does not work, at the expense of denying millions of Americans an activity they desire, and costing thousands their jobs.

Rather than enact ineffective legislation to appease a voting bloc that is ignorant to the facts, let’s try addressing the real problems that exist in an effort to effect real change.

President Obama said we would have to take a hard look at ourselves and make some tough choices. Let’s do that.

1. End the drug war. Studies show the drug war is the single biggest cause of violent crime in the United States. There are shelves of books written about this, so I am not going to write another one here.

2. Ban gun violence in video games. A complete ban, not just a rating system or trying to limit it to adults. Ban gun violence in video games. It serves no necessary purpose, and it has been shown that exposure to such violence in young children desensitizes them and predisposes them to acts of violence when they get older. It makes absolutely no sense to me that a 20 year old man cannot walk into a sporting goods store and buy a single-shot shotgun to participate in a wholesome family friendly trap shooting event, but his 9-year old brother can spend 4 hours a day every day participating in a simulation in which he is using a fully automatic assault rifle to kill, maim, and disfigure hundreds of thousands of opponents in a criminal and unsafe manner. On a personal note, I grew up playing sports games, and didn’t start playing violent video games until I was 27 years old. I played a lot. I even competed professionally. I played daily. I honed my craft. I stopped 6 years later when I started to notice mild symptoms of battlefield induced PTSD, despite never having served in combat or experiencing any type of traumatic event whatsoever in my entire life. I found myself having night terrors and flashbacks to years previous to virtual locations and situations I experienced inside video games. I cannot imagine the effects these games will have on young children who grow up playing them at a tender and impressionable age. I have told my wife, if we are ever blessed enough to have children, I am completely comfortable in taking a child as young as 6 years old and upward to the range and teaching them proper gun safety and responsible gun use for recreational and sporting purposes, but from the day they are born to the day they leave my care at 18+ years old they will not be allowed to participate in video games that simulate extreme gun violence, criminal behavior, or battlefield experiences.

3. Along the same lines as above. Ban gun violence on TV and in movies. Yes, it is time to make tough decisions and sacrifices to make a difference. No reruns of old ones, nothing. Complete ban on the glorification of criminal and unsafe gun violence on television or movies. It serves no purpose. It amazes me to hear an anti-gun proponent advocate the complete ban of the safe and responsible use of an effective tool against crime, and at the same time defend his own right to be entertained by the glorification of exaggerated and gory criminal acts of unsafe and unrealistic gun usage in TV and movies. It saddens me that the most popular networks carry virtually non-stop programming that glorifies gun violence in a completely unrealistic criminal and unsafe way, and yet I have to order special packages of little known or heard of sporting channels to find programming that depicts safe and responsible gun handling in a realistic environment. Get a stopwatch and a remote control and see how long it takes you to find a show depicting criminal and unsafe use of guns and extreme gun violence. It won’t take long. Now do the same and try to find a program that is instructional on safe and proper gun handling. I’ve been looking for months.

4. Address the mental health issue. Earnestly.

5. Teach gun safety in schools. We have sex education to prevent teen pregnancy. Let’s teach gun safety to prevent firearm accidents and educate our children properly. As it is, your kids are learning about guns, but they are learning about them from television, the movies, and video games. Don’t let that happen. Guns are useful tools. Let’s educate people on how to use them properly, and let’s start at an early age so we reduce the number of firearms related accidents that happen when kids aren’t aware of the basic safety and gun handling. Let’s familiarize them with effective tools and prevent them from growing up with irrational fears.

6. Make guns more accessible for law-abiding, responsible adults. Let’s untangle the spider web of varying gun laws from different states that make interstate travel a nightmare for responsible law abiding gun owners, but have no impact on criminals. Let’s standardize those state laws, ease the restrictions that only effect law abiding citizens. Make CCW reciprocity nationwide, but make obtaining one require stringent background checks, and ensure proper training requirements are met. This would allow us to use a nationwide CCW license as a easy way to vet anyone who has it as a responsible and law-abiding gun owner with access to expanded privileges regarding right to carry. I would use Mississippi’s enhanced permit model as the benchmark.

7. Eliminate gun-free zones completely. Statistics show they are gun violence hot spots and mass shooting killing fields. Only law abiding citizens observe gun-free zones. Criminals seek them out for soft targets with no possibility of armed response.

Ultimately, however, we have to do something, and as a nation and to a person, we have to define the problem we really want to solve.

People say guns are the problem, but that isn’t true. The real problem everyone wants to eliminate is crime and violence.

What we all want to accomplish is to reduce the amount of crime and violence nationwide, and try and prevent incidents like the one at Sandy Hook from ever happening again. Let’s take cues from the UK and their failed attempt at a complete gun ban and resulting mass shooting and violent crime rates 5 times that of the US as an indication that gun bans don’t work.

Let’s take a cue from the failed attempt to establish gun free zones here at home as a safe harbor for gun violence when in reality the opposite effect has occurred in them being actively sought out by criminals in order to carry out massacres.

Aside from this, I additionally want to specifically reduce gun crime and firearms accidents amongst children and young teens. Banning the glorification of gun violence in video games, television, and movies can move to accomplish this goal, combined with responsible instruction in schools on safe gun handling and responsible usage.

Let’s change the culture by raising our children to be knowledgeable and responsible with the capabilities of these effective tools rather than having them grow up with unrealistic depictions and the glorification of wanton criminal acts barraging them daily on video games, television, and movies.

Let’s do this. Let’s do this now, and let’s do it right.

Bearing the Pall...

For so many years I never really knew what the origin of the term pall-bearer was.  What exactly was a pall?  I'd heard the phrase "cast a pall over....", usually associated with a sense of foreboding.  But to my knowledge, pall-bearers carried caskets out of the church and into the cemetery.  The "pall" is typically, though seldom used, a flag or other ceremonial fabric covering placed over the casket.  Therefore, those carrying the casket are bearing the pall...pall-bearers.

Since my youth, there have been several occasions where I've been asked to be a pall-bearer, typically for relative.  It may be seen as a duty, but to me it is a high honor for a family to ask that you gently escort their beloved to their place of rest.

This week, though, the honor of the title took on new meaning to me.  The pall was cast on Wednesday afternoon, just before four in the afternoon when my phone rang.  One of Therapist's aunts was calling - unusual, but not unheard of.  This was not to be a social call.  Therapist's dad had been found unresponsive in his garden, and in the aunt's words, "was gone".  She said she'd called me because I'd know what to do to notify Therapist.  The truth is, I had no idea what to do.  Years of comforting the sick and injured, hundreds of hours of training, none of those things had taught me how to do this.  I walked across the house to find my wife.  As I drew my hand to knock on the door where she would be found, I had no idea what words I would say.  A thin door stood between her and the worst news...

We would quickly gather the family at Therapist's parents as the pall settled around them.  Two of our boys were out of state, we had to make plans to get them home soon.  So many things must happen: arrangements, plans, flowers, visitations, food, finding room for people to sleep...chaos with no hint of order.

Therapist's parents had taken me and Mini-Me into their family with open arms, full of grace.  We weren't strangers, we were given family status without reservation.  Mini-Me quickly gained Mr. Armstrong's admiration and respect.  Mr. Armstrong had taught and preached for many years, gaining the respect and admiration of thousands of students and parishioners through the years.  Yet he gave us his respect and admiration.  His gentle manner and unassuming demeanor was reminiscent of some of my relatives, and we connected quickly.

I wanted to support my wife this week.  I just wanted to be there for her, to know that she had someone to fall onto when she needed to.  I wanted to be just at arm's-length away, to give her room to grieve but at the same time be close enough to catch her if she fell. 

It was Therapist's mother that surprised me though, asking if I would be a pall-bearer.  Me?  I'm the new guy in the family!  I'd be walking alongside men that had known Mr. Armstrong for decades; I'd only known him for a couple of years.  Surely there must be someone else.

Bearing the pall is more than a few steps in a cemetery.  You're asked to give a final aid to one who can no longer carry himself; to serve one who can no longer serve.  Bearing the pall is a silent ministry to the closest of family, attempting to lift for a time some of their burden.  Mr. Armstrong would have likely shunned physical support in life, preferring to not be a burden to those closest to him.  It was indeed a solemn honor to bear the pall for him and his family.  I only hope that I can continue to serve his daughter in an honorable way.

Objects In Mirror...

"Objects in mirror are closer than they appear." 

If he only knew how close I feel to him on days like we had today....

Going Home...

As I sat in a staff meeting Friday, friends in the Jackson, Mississippi, area forwarded pictures of the "Final Patrol" of Pearl police officer Mike Walter, who was killed in a gun battle while serving a warrant.

The collection of patrol vehicles from across the state was impressive as they escorted Walter's funeral car and his family from Jackson through the streets of Pearl on to Pinelake Church.

We have the duty to honor our dead, especially to those who daily put themselves between civilized society and those people and situations that seek to cause harm.

We see them on our streets in patrol cars, ambulances and fire engines.  We teach our children to respect them, to feel safe around them.  We use the term hero because they have chosen a profession that gives us the opportunity to live in safety.

They are the people who intervene in our living nightmare as our possessions burn before our eyes, or as a loved one slips away.  They have trained to silence their fears for a time so that we may be comforted by their actions.

Yet through it all they are daughters, sons, husbands, wives, mothers and fathers.  They go home each day thankful for their safety.  They pray for that safety in one breath; with the next they pray for grace and peace for those they love should misfortune befall their watch.  That is one fear that cannot be muted.

This weekend hundreds of men and women who are sworn to serve and protect will commit their fallen brother to rest, as a young girl and her mother look on.  Stoic faces of officers, firefighters, and medics will hide the anguish raging inside, for they see their own loved one's faces in those of that daughter and wife.

In time, flags will be raised to full staff and badges will be uncovered.  Family and friends will return to their lives.  A daughter and a mother will shoulder the reality of an empty chair in their home.  A quick smile, hugs, or laughter from a father will never return.  A wife will sleep next to an empty pillow as her community heals.

Future memorial services will see this man's name cast in bronze and cut into stone.  He will be remembered for his sacrifice, yet no adulation, no honor, no memorial can replace what these two have lost.

As responders, the greatest memorial we can give our family is not having our name among those plaques of bronze and marble.  Though future generations may see those names, the greater blessing is knowing the souls those names represent.

Look upon the faces of the survivors, and commit yourselves to going home....

Last Night...

I went camping with Mini-Me last night, as he wanted to be in the words early to turkey hunt this morning.  We'd been wanting to get a camping trip in before it gets too hot, and turkey season is ending, so what better time than now?

As we sat by our campfire staring up at the moon, planets, stars, we were reminded that living in a city deprives you of little pleasures in life.  One among them is failing to see how beautiful the night sky truly is.  City lights blind us to the vast majority of the sky's beauty.

I couldn't help but recall my favorite piece by Beethoven, in the finale of his 9th Symphony.  While I don't pretend to know Beethoven's motivation behind the words, the lines "We enter, drunk with fire, Heavenly one, your sanctuary!"  Admiring the beauty of the heavens from around a campfire....

Scroll down, push play and turn it up LOUD.  Remember, Beethoven was deaf and couldn't hear his own work.  Then enjoy the words....

Translated from the original German: 

Oh friends, not these tones!

Rather, let us raise our voices in more pleasing

And more joyful sounds!

Joy! (Joy!)

Joy! (Joy!)

Joy, beautiful spark of the gods*

Daughter of Elysium,

We enter, drunk with fire,

Heavenly one, your sanctuary!

Your magic reunites

What custom strictly divided.

All men become brothers,

Where your gentle wing rests.

Whoever has had the great fortune

To be a friend's friend,

Whoever has won a devoted wife,

Join in our jubilation!

Indeed, whoever can call even one soul

His own on this earth!

And whoever was never able to, must creep

Tearfully away from this band!

In My Seat...

Watch all of this video....the message doesn't come until the end.  "...somebody died in my place....somebody died in my place not once, but twice."