Diary of a Network Geek

I went to church for the first time in years tonight.
It was a little different than I remember church being, but then, I expected it would be. It was nice, though. It’s a program called Mercy Street, which is part of a larger Methodist church. I was raised by Baptists in the Methodist church, because there wasn’t a Baptist church close to where we lived. (That’s sort of like being raised by wolves, but you’re not allowed to dance, BTW. My Father loves that joke for some reason.) So, it wasn’t too far off from services that I’d attended before. But, it was unusual in that the entire service was designed to appeal to people that have been, well, somewhat disenfranchised by organized religion. I always got tired of the money campaigns most churches had, so, I fall into that demographic. Well, I do for other reasons, too, but I won’t go there tonight. The cool thing about this place for me is that they never “pass the basket”. Not at all. There’s a “Carpenter’s Box” in the middle of the room and people who are called to give, can and do. To the tune of, roughly, $240, 000. All with no pressure and no passing the basket. Oh, that’s with under 400 members, but with an average of over 475 people attending. Yeah, more people attending than actually belong. Sort of different, isn’t it?
Anyway, it was good. Church has been something that I’ve missed, so, I think I’ll be going back. No, I know I’ll be going back. I’ve been needing something more in my spiritual life and church is it, I think. Regular church services and regular contact with a like-minded faith community. These folks seem like they’re headed down the path I would like to follow. So, yeah, it was comfortable being there. What’s more, it was comforting being there. Yeah, I’ll be going back.

No, really. Stop laughing! I’m serious!
Yeah, okay, I put on a tough-guy act a lot of the time, but I’m not. Really, I’m just a big coward. The other day, I got so freaked out about being alone in the house that I loaded up my .357 and put it in the electronic gun safe. (It’s one that I can use a key-code to open in case of emergency.) It’s sitting next to my bed. Right next to the sword. And the knives. Hmmm, I see a theme here. Now, you’d think that a guy who has all those “weapons” is some kind of maniac, right? Nope. He’s a coward.
Why is he a coward? Well, why, in a nice neighborhood where there’s never, ever been any trouble would a brave man need any protection like that? Right, he doesn’t. I have all that stuff because it makes me feel more courageous. More noble, somehow, in spite of how odd that sounds even to me. But, it’s true. I haven’t been in a fight since the Fifth Grade, though I got a little roughed up in my Sophmore year in High School once for running my smart mouth. So, why have I spent so much time learning about self-defence? Why did I take a college course on karate, taught by two somewhat psycho ex-Green Beret ‘Nam vets, no less? Why have I read countless books on hand-to-hand combat and knife-fighting? For pity’s sake, why did I let another ‘Nam vet teach me how to throw knives in the basement garage of the Hyatt Regency Chicago?!?
Simple. I wanted to make my Dad proud of me. My Dad grew up on the South Side of Chicago before and during the Depression. Yeah, he’s that old. I grew up hearing phrases like “It’s not how much dog there is in the fight, it’s how much fight there is in the dog. Be the dog with the most fight.” And, “Being tough is mental, not physical. Be more mentally tough than the next guy and you’ll be okay.” And, I heard stories about my Dad’s time in the Army. Violent stories about bar fights and big guys named “Swede” and “Moose”. Somehow from all that, I got that my Dad wanted me to be tough, not sensitive. And, really, that’s what I am: a sensitive artist. Well, a wanna-be artist, at least.
So, all this time, I’ve been working to be something that I don’t even truly understand. Along the way, I developed some calluses on both my body and my heart. I did get a little tougher, but that happens to everyone. Though, I have to admit that I’m surprised I can go for five minutes on my heavy-bag bare-knuckle, even today. Until this week, I don’t think I’ve hardly touched a punching bag since before I moved down from Chicago. But, those calluses are still there. Sometimes, people don’t understand those calluses. They think that makes me a tough guy, or a dangerous guy, but it doesn’t really. Just a guy who got a little lost and confused while trying to make his Dad proud.

You know what the funny thing is? I never really had to do anything. I thought I had to do something to show my Dad that I was a man, but I didn’t. Dad was always proud of me, even if I am a cream puff.