Recently the town council of Eugene, Oregon, faced a difficult and controversial vote. They struggled with a divisive proposal that threatened to incite the community and tear the council apart. One of the council members proposed that they say the Pledge of Allegiance before each council meeting.

Huh?

A few years ago I spent some time in Russia, part of the former Soviet Union. As an Air Force pilot in the European Theater I figured I might go there someday, but it wasn’t like I anticipated. I flew into the country as a passenger on an Aeroflot airliner, not as a combat pilot in the A-10. My wife and I made the trip to adopt the two girls that we have called daughters for almost five years now. Traveling into former enemy territory to adopt children is an eye-opening experience to say the least.

I found a land still reeling from the lingering effects of socialism and communism that barely operated at a level above the third world, and in some cases definitely performed below third-world standards. I saw the collectives, large utilitarian apartment buildings with crumbling facades. I traveled on roads in such need of repair that I was sure that the richest man is town had to be the mechanic that sold and replaced shocks and struts. I shopped in poorly stocked grocery stores with scarce and sometimes rotting produce. The experience reminded me of some of the South American villages I had seen. It certainly didn’t feel like I was visiting a former world power.

The most dominating relic of the communist reign was the over bloated bureaucracy everywhere we went. We spent hours in dimly lit hallways waiting for our turn in front of some obscure official just so we could get the rubber stamp and go on to the next official. We would enter agencies with our facilitator and find a jumbled mass of humanity waiting for a rubber stamp – no lines really, just a huddled mass of confused and bureaucracy-weary patrons with hollow eyes. A door would open and someone would press forward into the office, and then the door would close to a collective groan. As an outside observer the whole process appeared to be more like the Keystone Cops routine than a functioning government. I longed for the organization of the Department of Motor Vehicles with their please-take-a-number system.

The most notable cultural difference in the process was the lack of humor. No smiles. No friendly banter. No chuckling at whispered jokes. Russians frown on (literally) too much public frivolity. I surmised that it must stem from years of oppression. Why highlight yourself by smiling or laughing if you know they can haul you away in the middle of the night without just cause? Although public displays of happiness are taboo, Russians are very friendly and personable, one on one.

Through all of this I saw a light. Capitalism had taken hold, and it was growing. In Moscow, Saint Petersburg, and even smaller Petrozavodsk, modern stores were popping up. Small businesses seemed to be thriving. Technology was becoming the rage. Women’s fashion (a sure sign of coming prosperity) was a booming business. Economic freedom was invading deep into the heart of the former Soviet Union and setting up shop.

After several long weeks, the appropriate number of rubber stamps on our paperwork, and several thousand dollars (yes, new unfolded twenties and hundreds), we were going home with our two new daughters. We had one last bureaucratic visit – the American Embassy in Moscow. After passing the Marines at the front door, we found a slice of Americana. People smiled and laughed. The process was streamlined and organized. We even took numbers and waited to be called. We didn’t need a facilitator to grease palms so we could move past the mob. It was a welcomed sight.

When we touched down in Los Angeles I wanted to cry, but it wasn’t because of the smog. We were back in the USA! A black woman in a uniform smiled at us as we approached passport control. She chatted with us about our trip. She made jokes with the girls and tried to make them laugh (even though they didn’t understand). When she finished reviewing our packet of paperwork she took us over to another desk with three men behind it – an Asian, a Latino, and an All-American Anglo. They laughed and joked with one another. They teased each other. They helped each other.

I smiled and started to cry. “Can I tell how good it is to be back in the USA?” I said.

I explained that I thought they were the epitome of what this great nation stands for. Each of them came from different ethnic backgrounds and different cultural viewpoints, yet they worked together without evident problems. They laughed and joked with one another. They were efficient and professional. Their diversity was a strength, not a weakness. They carried themselves like a free people unafraid of despots and tyrants. To this day I still get choked up at the contrast between a free people and those suffering from the effects of long-term oppression.

In the end the City of Eugene, Oregon, compromised. They decided to say the Pledge of Allegiance four times a year at the meetings closest to four national holidays. Their courage and patriotism is underwhelming.

I am glad I live in a country where a city council can decide against saying the pledge, or pass resolutions that are intended to undermine federal policy without fear of the gulag. I will shed blood to protect those principles of the Constitution that afford us those freedoms.

BUT I have no respect for citizens so ignorant to the greatness of this nation and its founding principles that they have to debate whether or not to say the Pledge of Allegiance at an official government meeting.

Maybe we should start a fund to educate them. I even have a name for it – One-Way Tickets to Tyranny Ville. Maybe a few weeks in the former Soviet Russia or a month in Cuba would bring them a new perspective. They can pay for their own way back. Enjoy the trip.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to play with fire, but I did it anyway. I was showing off to my younger sister.

I don’t remember the time of day, but I think it was early afternoon. I don’t remember the time of year, but it must have been summer because we weren’t in school. I do remember what happened, and to this day, I can remember the sheer terror I felt when I watched orange flames engulf an old Indian blanket and grow into a small inferno.

The massive milk barn was a farm kid’s paradise. It stood like a castle looming over the entire farm with gigantic domed tin roofs rising up into the sky that could be seen for miles. A tall concrete silo stood beside it like an impenetrable watchtower. The bottom floor of the barn housed cattle on one side, and two milking bays with a cooler room for chilling the fresh milk on the other. Every morning before going to his factory job, my dad rose early and herded the milk cows through one of the milking bays to be milked, but the other bay was used for storage.

Upstairs, the loft opened up like the ceiling of some gothic cathedral reaching heavenward. One side held several years worth of hay. The other side sported a basketball court with a thick rope for climbing and swinging that hung from the pinnacle of the dome. In a time when we only had three black and white TV channels, that barn became a fantasyland full of never-ending adventures.

When it finally burned to the ground, the glow from the fire could be seen on the other side of Simpson County.

That fateful day, I was at the barn with my younger sister Cameo. Somehow, we had grown bored with swinging on the rope, building forts in the endless stacks of hay, and shooting basketball. We went downstairs to check on the baby calves in the livestock area.

I don’t remember if I had the matches in my pocket, or if I found them lying around, but when our journey took us from the livestock area to the storage area, I decided to play with fire.

One of my dad’s hobbies (it was probably a money-making enterprise disguised as a hobby since he had a house full of kids, a day job, and a dairy farm to run) was keeping bees. He had stacked empty beehive boxes alongside a mountain of wooden honeycomb frames. All of these tinderbox materials were covered with an old tattered Indian blanket woven with rich threads of black, red, and tan. I thought the large stack would provide a good hiding place for playing with fire.

“I can light a match and blow it out,” I said after we hunkered down out of sight.

My sister watched with wide eyes as I opened the box of matches.

I lit a match and watched the red and yellow flame come to life in my hands. The smell of sulfur burned my nose. Cameo bit her bottom lip. I blew out the match with a heavy breath.

“See,” I said, “I can put the fire out.”

She smiled, but I don’t know if it was out of relief, or delight in the dangerous deed. Her smile spurred me on.

I lit another match and we stared at the flame as it burned towards my fingers. I waited until I could feel the flame singeing the skin on my fingers before I blew it out. My sister giggled, and I filled with an egotistical sense of power that only a young boy playing with fire can feel.

I noticed several pulled threads from the Indian blanket were hanging down. “I can light on of these threads on fire and put it out,” I announced. She drew in a sharp breath.

I lit another match.

Of course, the thick woven blanket covered seasoned wood, paraffin, and beeswax. I was lighting the fuse to a powder keg and didn’t realize it. I was too caught up in the excitement of playing with fire. I was heady with the emotion I evoked in my little sister’s eyes as I moved the bright flame to a hanging thread, and lit it on fire.

In an instant, the flame flickered brighter and hurried up the thread so fast that it startled me. My sister gasped. I dropped the box of matches.

“I can put it out,” I stammered. I began smacking the growing flame in an attempt to stop its upward climb. My swatting hands only provided the fire more oxygen and within seconds the blanket was engulfed in flames.

“Run!” I yelled.

My sister, no longer amazed at my fire skills, scurried away and out of the barn. I stopped and grabbed the phone on the wall. My fingers couldn’t work the old rotary dial fast enough. I didn’t dial 911. It hadn’t been invented yet. I dialed 777, the number for a direct access to the farmhouse about a hundred yards away. I could see the fire growing, and my sister Cameo standing in the sunlight just outside the doorway waiting for me to save myself from a fiery death.

I don’t remember who answered. As soon as I heard another human voice in the earpiece, I screamed, “The barn’s on fire! The barn’s on fire!”

They may have said something in response or offered some instruction, but I didn’t hear it. The fire had began to bubble the paint of the roof above it, and I was convinced that the entire structure was about to come crashing down around me.

In a panic I tried to think. What should I try to save? Should I try and get the cows out of the barn? Was anybody else upstairs?

I ran up the stairs and found the loft empty. As I came down the stairs, I saw my brother’s old toy John Deere tractor sitting in the feed room. In my mind, that was an article worth saving and I steered it out past the growing fire, into the other milking parlor, and hurried for the front door.

As I got to the door, my oldest sister, Carol, jumped off her bike and ran through the door.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked.

“Over here!” I shouted, as if it wasn’t obvious.

She hurried over, assessed the situation with one look, and picked up the water hose that lay just below the phone. Her hand spun the spigot full open in milliseconds. She pointed the spray nozzle at the base of the fire and unleashed a wet fury to battle the beeswax blaze. In a matter of minutes she had the fire under control.

I felt a sudden urge to hide. I was sure I was going to throw up. Maybe I could hide, and then throw up. I loitered in the background as siblings rode up on bikes or ran barefoot to the front door of the barn and gazed in at the scene of billowing smoke and blackened boards. I glanced at Cameo. One look from her told me she wouldn’t tell. I tried to blend into the background as older siblings and my mother took charge and assessed the damage.

I thought I might be in the clear, maybe even a hero since I had made the phone call, but then I heard a siren. A few moments later I heard the big tires of the fire truck come to a skidding stop on the gravel in front of the barn. My dad came roaring up on the old Allis-Chalmers tractor right behind the firetruck.

I knew that if I confessed to my nefarious deed of playing with matches, my life was over. Either my dad would give me the whippin’ of my life, or the firemen would throw me under the county jail until school started again. I was doomed.

I slithered back into the feed room and hung my head. I don’t remember if I cried. I think I was too afraid. Eventually, my dad found me.

“We found some matches behind the beehives,” he said. “Were you playing with matches?”

I hesitated and looked at the floor. After a long pause, I nodded my head. My face must have been as white as a sheet. I waited for him to take off his belt, or maybe explode with justified anger, but instead, he just let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m glad nobody was hurt and Carol was able to put out the fire,” he said.

He squatted down and looked me in the eyes. He must have seen the sheer terror on my face and decided that any further punishment would never come close to the punishment I had already given myself. He put his rough hand on my shoulder and lectured me. I’m sure his words were wise, but I was so relieved at not getting a whippin’ or getting thrown under the county jail, I don’t remember a word of it. I never played with matches again.

Life for a farm kid soon returned to normal. The fire made the local paper, “Booher’s Beeswax Burns Barn.” I wanted to laugh, but the best I could muster was an embarrassed chuckle.

We enjoyed the barn for several more years, but then my grandmother, a widow living alone in the other farmhouse, sold the place and moved into town. I was twelve when we moved across the county and said goodbye to a farm kid’s paradise disguised as an enormous silver-domed milk barn. We all moped around the new place remembering the long afternoons of fun under the big barn’s watchful rafters and loving roof.

One night later that fall, an orange glow lit up the moonless sky. Somehow we knew that the barn had finally met the demise I had almost given it years earlier. After one look at the collapsed roof and charred remains of that beautiful building, all desire to return to the old farm disappeared. Without our castle, Camelot was just another piece of dirt.

At family reunions we reminisce about the lazy summer afternoons we spent in that barn. My siblings still tease me about almost burning it down. I harbor another memory. I remember the look of a concerned father, and the whippin’ I didn’t get for playing with fire.

The other day I had breakfast with an old friend. We were in the Air Force together, back in the day, but we had another connection as well. We were also business associates in a multi-level marketing company.

I got involved in the business when a coworker approached me about an opportunity he was excited about and invited me to listen to a presentation from one of his “business partners.” At the time I was a little disillusioned with my military career, so I accepted the invitation. A few nights later, Tom rang my doorbell.

His soft-sell approach was smooth and convincing. He carried himself well, and exuded confidence. He was excited about his message. His excitement and delivery piqued my interest, and I agreed to investigate the opportunity more. In the end, my wife and I got excited as well and jumped in with both feet.

We plucked away for five long years with hope, determination, and perseverance. We went to lots of high-energy meetings, technique seminars, and long-winded presentations. We listened to lots of cassette tapes (remember those?). We spent a lot of time and energy trying to build our business. We made a lot of presentations. We met with lot of rejection. We lost sleep. We fought. We struggled.

Although we achieved a measure of success, it was a failure in the end.

Fast forward nineteen years. At breakfast I asked Tom if he ever regretted that whole experience. (He had achieved quite a bit of success in the business, but in the end he also met with failure.)

“Not at all,” he answered without hesitation.

He went on to explain how those years of struggle had changed his life. The books he read, the mentorship he received, the friends he made, had all changed his life. Yes, he regretted some of the foolish decisions he made, but overall the experience taught him so much that he didn’t consider it a negative. He reminded me that our friendship of almost twenty years had started because he rang my doorbell that night to give me a sales pitch. The opportunity itself had not succeeded financially, but it had taught him and prepared him for other opportunities that had borne fruit.

I fear one thing – failure. That overriding fear of failure has been the most powerful force in my life other than my moral/religious beliefs, and truthfully, the fear of failure in the spiritual realm has been a big motivator in my walk of faith as well.

Fear of failure can paralyze you. It can keep you huddled in a mass of nerves on the sideline of life while others play, and win, the game. It can keep you from happiness when you do achieve something because you fear losing it all. That very real fear can crush your dreams before they ever have the chance of breathing the first breath of opportunity. Fear of failure can suck you into the shallow cesspool of mediocrity and keep you drowning there even when you have the power to stand up and walk out of its filthy knee-deep waters.

Yet, failure is often the best teacher. Failure teaches you what doesn’t work. Failure teaches you perseverance and patience. Failure hones your ability to endure long, boring hours of monotonous labor. Failure teaches you about teamwork. Failure exposes hidden enemies, and helps you discover friends in the most unlikely places. Failure drives home each lesson like a sledgehammer pounding painful blows at your ego until it humbles you into submission and exposes the truth to you in a way that you can no longer deny with your arrogance or self-denial. Failure reveals your character. Failure teaches you to appreciate success.

I’m glad Tom rang my doorbell all those years ago. He shared a vision, a dream, of the possibilities that life holds. That vision motivated me (and still motivates me) to go out and fail my way to success.

Let failure teach you. Let failure motivate you. Let failure inspire you. But don’t let it stop you from dreaming. Don’t let it stop you from trying. Don’t let it sideline you in the game of life. Go on and succeed by failing.

Failure teaches us more than success, and without failure, we would never succeed.

We recently got a call from the high school principal. He was suspending my son.

I was sure that the offense must be bad if a suspension was involved. I thought about the possibilities – fireworks, a knife in his backpack, fighting, or maybe destruction of school property. He is a good kid, but since he was getting suspended, I expected the worst.

I asked my wife what he had done to deserve such a significant punishment. “He ‘pantsed’ a kid in gymn class,” she said, unable to keep a straight face. I questioned her again, not understanding, and not believing, what I had heard.

She explained, “He ‘pantsed’ someone. You know, pulled their pants down so that their underwear showed.” She started laughing out loud.

Since she had a commitment, I was elected to go to the school and meet with the assistant principal.

As I drove to the school I remembered a story about my Grampy. He was a teacher and school administrator that knew how to deal with class clowns and unruly students. One day in Ag class he was teaching the students how to shear sheep. One of the students smarted off and asked if the shears would cut human hair. The smart aleck ended up with a buzzed head, compliments of my Grampy and sharp shears. According to the story, everyone in the class laughed about it, even the student with sheared hair. From then on they called him Turnip Head.

Today that would be a lawsuit.

When I saw my son in the Assistant Principal’s office, he was devastated. His head was hanging low, and he was on the verge of tears. He told the story, and admitted to the crime. So, open and shut, he was guilty as charged. He had indeed pulled the shorts of a classmate down during a coed gym class and caused an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.

I asked about the recipient of the prank. He had been trying to do the same thing to my son, unsuccessfully. He also felt bad that my son was being punished. That brought me some peace of mind. At least it wasn’t a malicious act, and the two boys could still be friends and laugh about it.

“How long is the suspension?” I asked. I expected a day or maybe two.

“Five days,” she replied. “That is the standard punishment for the offense.”

Five days! For pulling a guy’s shorts down around his knees during gym class!

I kept my cool and asked, “Was my son aware of the policy against such behavior?”

The policy had been clearly stated, explained, and emphasized at the beginning of the year, but my son didn’t remember it. This is where we explained that ignorance to the law is not a viable excuse. (This was really happening. My son was being suspended for five days over an innocuous prank.)

I don’t excuse his behavior. It was below the belt… er… out of line. I couldn’t fault the administrators (except for the complete loss of common sense). They had clearly communicated the expectations, and evenly applied the punishment for all perpetrators. However, I did feel a little like Rip Van Winkle. I had fallen asleep for several years, and when I awoke, petty pranks had become heinous crimes. How had we arrived at this point?

My wife, my son, and I met with the Principal. Not long into the cordial discussion, I got my answer. This particular prank had been played on an unsuspecting student a few years ago at a neighboring school district. The administration addressed it casually, as we would have in times past. The parents of the prank’s victim sued the school.

The moral of the story?

If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you can read this at a clean and efficiently run school, thank a good school administrator. If can read this and find it absolute maddening that we punish innocuous pranks so severely, thank sue-happy parents and their slimy lawyers.

Usama Bin Laden is dead. Yippee… I guess.

It is difficult to celebrate the death of another human being, but in his case, I can certainly understand the desire to give a little shout for joy, or at least relief. He was, after all, a mass murderer hell-bent on our demise, indeed the very destruction of our way of life.

I’m sure you remember where you were on 9/11. So do I. But I also remember just as vividly the moment I learned that I had helped train one of the nineteen hijackers of 9/11.

The Monday after 9/11 I was driving north on the 101 approaching the intersection of the 202. I was on my way to teach a group of Australian pilots in the Boeing 737 simulator. I was listening to the news. When the name Hani Honjour came over the radio in connection with the attacks, my blood ran cold. I picked up my cell phone and called Julie at Jet Tech, a flight training school.

“Is it true about Hani Honjour?” I asked.

“Where are you? You’re not driving are you?”

I let out a string of expletives as she tried to calm me down. It was true. I had helped train one of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers, and my life would forever be connected to that tragedy in a bizarre connection of events.

Hani Honjour, born the fourth child of seven children, came to Tucson, Arizona, in October of 1991. His eldest brother Abdulraham helped him secure room and board. Between 1991 and 1998 he came to the United States to study on three separate occasions. On September 11^th, he was at the controls of American Airlines Flight 77 when it slammed into the Pentagon.

I was devastated. Guilt burdened me as I thought about my involvement with such a horrible tragedy. I replayed my interaction with Hani over and over again in my mind searching for some clue to his intent. I pondered my actions, and considered plausible alternatives, but the past was hard as stone, and I could do nothing to change it.

I remember well the day he walked into my classroom. He was average build, and wore a baseball cap over his thinning hair. He sported a thin dark mustache that accented a sharp nose. He was quiet, and every time I looked at him he reminded of a mouse timidly waiting in the corner for a chance at the cheese.

I administered the pretest to the class. He failed it. I told him that he probably wouldn’t make it through the course because he wasn’t prepared. He explained to me, in broken English, that he was only monitoring my class. He would start his official training the next week.

I would like to say that my innate ability for sensing danger kicked in at that point, but it didn’t. Something gnawed at me. Something didn’t feel right, but I certainly wasn’t afraid of a mousy, average-built foreigner in jeans and a baseball cap. During the first break, I walked into the manager’s office and closed the door.

Peggy sat behind her desk full of schedules, invoices, and student files. She looked up and asked, “What’s up?"

“What’s up with this Hani guy?” I asked. “He’s never going to make it through the course."

We discussed the issue mostly from a proficiency standpoint. We both wondered how he had even qualified for a flying license since his English proficiency was in question. We talked around the issue. Both of us felt something was amiss, but we couldn’t put our finger on it. We chalked it up to our concerns over his lack of proficiency and ability. Since he was our student and our customer, we pushed those feelings aside and strategized on how to help him get through the program.

Peggy did commit to one important task. She promised to call the FAA and raise the flag about our inept student. Our discussion and her follow up were the only things that helped assuage my guilt when the truth about our suspicious customer finally hit the airways.

Hani Honjour never did graduate from the B-737 type-rating course at Jet Tech. Peggy, his various instructors, and all the staff bent over backwards to help him. I bought him lunch. My wife even gave him a ride to a nearby restaurant. Imagine this future inflictor of terror and horror riding down the street in a minivan with my bubbly wife at the wheel and my two small kids tagging along. Who knew that he was a deadly snake just waiting for his opportunity to strike?

Years ago when I was a kid, a pack of wild dogs infested the woods on the back of our farm in Kentucky. They killed some of our chickens. They threatened our cattle. It wasn’t safe for us to go outside. My Uncle showed up with a large-caliber hunting rifle. He told my older brother, probably only about twelve at the time, to grab his twenty-two and some ammunition. They were going to get rid of that menacing pack of wild dogs.

We normally think of dogs as man’s best friend – loyal, loving, protective. We don’t like the thought of killing them, but these dogs were different. From our house on the hill I watched as my brother and Uncle followed the fence line down the hill and took up a position behind some brush. The wild dogs were lounging under a tree next to the pond. The shooting started. Several dogs went down and the others started to disperse, but one dog, the largest of the group and probably the leader, started up the hill and doubled back as if he knew the source of the gunfire. I was terrified as I watched the big black dog round the brush pile and bear down on my brother and Uncle. At the last moment my Uncle turned and shot the dog. It didn’t die on the spot, but it left mortally wounded and would never threaten us again.

I lamented the death of those dogs. It was such a waste. I must have said as much, because my Uncle took the opportunity to teach me a bit of homespun wisdom. “Some things just need a killin’,” he said.

Years later, as I tried to make sense of my own connection to 9/11, his words rang true again.

Hani Honjour, and several more of the original 19 hijackers, tasted of the best this country had to offer and then summarily rejected it. They freely traveled our clean and efficient highway system. They dined in our varied restaurants, and shopped in our sprawling shopping centers. They enjoyed our hospitality and were treated with respect, even kindness. In Hani’s case, we bent over backwards to help him achieve what we thought was his dream – becoming a commercial pilot.

The 9/11 hijackers were not sheltered soldiers ignorant to the lies propagated to foment their hatred. They saw the web of those lies unravel before their eyes, and then with malice, picked up the threads of those lies and reweaved the web themselves.

The hatred that fuels the terrorists should be fought on all fronts. We should promote the principles of freedom that make our country great at home and abroad. We should extend a hand of kindness and generosity to our enemies. We must strive to better understand the plight of misguided people around the world. We must build bridges into enemy territory through sacrifice and selflessness.

However, we cannot forget that in spite of our good intentions and best efforts, some hatred is insurmountable and just needs “a killin’.” We must remain vigilant and prepared for packs of wild dogs hell-bent on our demise.

Usama Bin Laden is dead. Yippee.

They say the traditional publishing model is dead. The buzz on the street is self-publishing, or even better “e-publishing.” Well after wasting several hours trying to self-publish and e-publish a short story with illustrations, I’m not so sure about the demise of New York publishing houses.

I wrote a simple, feel-good short story that takes you back to the first Easter morning via the viewpoint of the stone in front of the tomb. It may not be a classic masterpiece, but the message is very meaningful to me, and I wanted publishing it myself, or maybe just get it out there into the digital world for people to enjoy.

I hired an illustrator. She produced some simple pencil drawings that captured the essence of the story quite well. I bought them, scanned them, and inserted them into the story at just the right spots using Microsoft Word. I printed the story. It looked just like it did on my computer screen. My editorial staff (my kids) reviewed it and gave me the thumbs up.

Next, I went to a well-known self-publishing site and opened an account. According to their advertising, they offered turnkey solutions for printing the book. With a click of the mouse, I was on my way. (Take that you New York fat cats!) As instructed, I converted the word document into PDF, and uploaded it. I picked a standard size for my best seller, and fumbled through their cover design process, which was too elaborate for my small project. Finally, I got to the last step and the website began to convert my words and purchased sketches into a book! (It was like Christmas morning!) Wait… a message popped up. My book was too short and they couldn’t publish it.

I mumbled a few less-than-Christian things at my computer screen.

My wife overheard my ranting and had pity on me. She sent me a link for self-publishing that she heard was one of the best. I cooled my jets, resolved not let this setback be the end of a worthwhile story, and clicked on the link.

This site was better. It had better testimonials. I opened an account. They had a wizard button! (I spit in your face cruel traditional publishing model!) At step two I was trying to upload the cover and found myself restricted to a variety of vanilla options, but for a small fee they could help make my cover eye-catching and professional. Of course, I remembered the old adage, “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” and accepted one of the vanilla options. When I got to the end, I found myself in a quagmire of legalese about distribution, royalties, and ISBN numbers. It gave me a headache, and I went back to my ranting.

The next day, I remembered an email I had previously received about e-publishing. I combed through my various spam folders and found it. It offered a simple way to get your books out into the digital library using adjectives like “free,” and “easy.” Still longing to get my inspiring treatise in the hands of longing readers, I decided to give it one more try.

The account setup lived up to the advertising. I was ready in a snap. Then I uploaded the book and the website converted it. “Finally,” I thought, “I have found the holy grail of e-publishing and my story will cruise along the information superhighway to wonderful digital destinations all over the worldwide web.” The website informed that the conversion of my story was complete, and I clicked on the preview button.

“Why are all my illustrations out of order?” I wondered as I clicked through the preview. “Nothing is where I put it." My voice grew louder. "It doesn’t look anything like it does on my computer screen or my printed copy!”

Several hours and multiple attempts later, my wife found me screaming at the computer again.

“What’s wrong dear?” she asked.

“I just want to write! None of those self-publishing websites worked as advertised.”

“What do you mean?”

“They all claim to be easy, simple, and free, but the after several hours of trying, I still don’t have my illustrated short story any closer to being published than I did since I got my last scathing rejection letter.” I continued my rant for a few minutes. I ended it with, “I just want to focus my time on writing!”

She sensed my frustration (and having read the majority of everything I have written – she knew my writing needed my time… a lot of it), and offered a solution.

My wife is now my agent, publisher, and promoter in the self-publishing world. That should free my creative mind… but it will make the rejection letters a bit more interesting.

One night, a couple of years ago, I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts and images raced through my mind and pulled me out of bed. I didn’t want to wake my wife, so I grabbed my writing notebook and went downstairs. There in the dim light of my living room, I wrote a short story. It took me about twenty-five minutes to put the basics of the story on paper. It took me over two years to get it published

I let the story sit for a few weeks.

Then one afternoon at Scout Camp with my son, I was free for a couple of hours. I sat down among the pines of the Arizona high country, opened my laptop, and typed up the story. It flowed from my fingertips just as easily as it had come to me that sleepless night. I was excited.

I tinkered with the story from time to time. I trimmed it down. I changed wording. I tried to find the essence of the story and tell it in the most straightforward fashion possible. I let a few people read it. They enjoyed it, and I was encouraged.

Later that summer, I attended a seminar hosted by Orson Scott Card. I mentioned the story to him and asked for advice. He recommended a title change, and suggested that I find an illustrator. I began to think it might get published.

I started looking for a home for the story, but I really didn’t know where to start. I sent the story off to a traditional publisher and described my vision for its publication. A couple of months later, I got my first rejection letter.

The story sat, but I didn’t forget it.

As Easter of 2010 approached, I pulled it out and dusted it off. I reworked the opening and polished the prose. I gave it to a few friends to read for Easter, and everyone praised the story. But I still didn’t know what to do with it.

The story sat waiting for me to do something.

Another year went by and as Easter of 2011 approached, the story and its message haunted me. I pulled it out again and gave it another edit. I tweaked a few words and sentences, but realizing that story wasn’t commercially viable, I still wondered how to get the story out for others to enjoy.

Then, a friend sent me an article about self-publishing, and I wondered if I should try that with this story. After all, this story meant something to me, and I felt compelled to make it available.

Following the advice of Orson Scott Card, I emailed my friend Alexy Bikman who occasionally works as an illustrator. I gave her a copy of the story and asked her if she could produce some simple drawings to help bring it to life. She quoted her price, and started her work. A couple of weeks later she delivered a few simple drawings that I thought captured the vision of the story. I took those drawings and combined them with the words to make a nice illustrated short story.

I decided to publish the story digitally first, and then work on the hard copy format second. It took me several maddening attempts to get the formatting right, but I finally published the story using Kindle Direct Publishing. You can find the story on Amazon for ninety-nine cents. If you don’t have the Kindle, you can download the Kindle reader software for free. Then set up an account to purchase books, and download the book to your computer, Kindle, Nook, smart phone, or any other electronic reading device.

Here is the link to download it -

http://www.amazon.com/Stone-ebook/dp/B004VYS7GK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1302529014&sr=1-1

Here is the first paragraph –

Graves are often marked with headstones, because the dead, like stones, are cold and lifeless. They lie in the stony earth and return to dust, but I can tell you that the dead will remain neither dust nor stone forever.

If you enjoy the story, write a review for Amazon and tell your friends.

If you think a hard copy would be nice, post a comment here or email me.

Each story you write is important to you. After all, you gave it life. You brought it into existence. It is a part of you. This story, although small in scope and simple in plot, represents the best part of me – my core beliefs. I want others to understand how I feel. I want them to know what I know. That’s why I never gave up on “Stone.”

I hope you enjoy this Easter story.