Meaning

Meaning

As I was typing this last week, all I had in mind was to write about a fun pursuit that I was recently in in.  Jacked adrenaline, reckless speeds all in a snowstorm, all that good jazz.  I even left my computer open as I went to work to remind myself that when I was home I needed to finish the writing that I started.  That won’t be the case this week.

You never know what’s going to happen.  Everyday I’m learning that more and more as I work the job, that it’s always best to be prepared for the unexpected.  On this particular day last week, I signed up for a Holiday overtime shift. I decided to get to the post a bit early to catch up on paperwork so that I could get as much road time in a possible.  By 11 P.M. my shift start, the “Blue goose (patrol  car)” as we call it, was affectionately steaming in the winter night, loaded and ready to go.

My partner and I had decided to stay in the post a bit longer before going out on the road.  I had just settled in my chair at 11: 15 when that hair raising emergency tone (See my last post for audio on it) that possibly freezes life itself went off in my ear.  “911 call, PI (personal injury) crash, I-94, mile marker 52. Unresponsive male, not breathing.”

I flew out of my chair with my partner hot on my heels.  We were probably less than a 2 minutes away. In my ear piece I heard my partner pipe up over the radio “County, 51, we’re headed that way from the post.”

Every crash scene is different, but as I’ve learned the job, I can usually tell right off the bat which ones are serious.  I got a sickening feeling in my stomach as I rolled up to the scene on the side of the interstate.  A blue semi-trailer was pulled off to the side of the road with his hazards on…about 50 yards up the highway was a crushed car about 25 yards off the highway on the “ditch side” of the road.   Our blue and red lights bounced off a man who was frantically waving his hands at us.  I could see the panic in his eyes.  My partner had already started for the medical kit and I sprinted towards the car.  As I got closer, I saw that this car was crushed on the back end with an individual slumped over the passenger seat.  The semi-driver was frantic on the shoulder side of the road, almost as if he couldn’t believe himself what had happened.  “I just didn’t see him man, he came up so fast, I just didn’t see him…”He started sobbing and walking back and forth along the highway. “Sir, get in your semi, get your seatbelt on, and stay there until I come and get you do you understand?” No sense in getting another person injured…The semi-driver, who was obviously in shock, looked at me and nodded on auto pilot as he retreated to the cab of his semi.  

It’s in panic moments again where I’ve learned that you have to remain calm, and establish some sort of sense to a situation.  By this time traffic had slowed to a crawl as onlookers stared.  My heart was pounding in my ears as I waded through snow to get to the vehicle.  As I got closer I saw that it was a male slumped over the vehicle.  One thing that I’ve noticed about myself when a chaotic scene takes place is that everything gets quiet on the inside for me, and I latch on to that.

As I turned this male over to examine him, lifeless ice blue eyes looked back into mine.  In that brief second I wondered who this man was, what he did for a living, and what his story was.  I glanced down checked for a pulse.  None…by this time my partner had arrived up to the car and broke out the medical kit.  Together we lifted him out of the car and onto a snowbank…It was there, on the side of Interstate 94, in 25 degree weather   that I gave CPR compressions for 8 minutes to try and save this man’s life until an ambulance arrived.  Those 8 minutes felt like an eternity. I’ll spare the details this time.

He died.

Now, I didn’t write this to tell you of a cool story, or for you to feel sorry for me, or any of that.  In fact, I write this as a challenge to you.

Every life has meaning.  Every  life that is lived has value.  Live a life that reflects your soul.  Live a life of abundance, joy and perseverance.  Every life should be a celebration of our fullest potential. 

Recently, I’ve decided to become a military nerd again and have been reading any book that I can get my hands on regarding combat, brotherhood, and the struggle to make it back home.  Several of these books include “American Sniper,” “Fearless,” and “Into the fire.”  In each book, it talks about a military service members sacrifice towards their fellow brother in arms, and their selflessness.  I’m always inspired by these stories of bravery.  It always inspires me and encourages me that life is not nearly as tough as I think it is.  But I always walk away from a book like that thinking “Wow, what an incredible life that they lived.”

We can get sucked into living a life for ourselves.  I’m guilty of this.  But what I’ve learned is that the more we help others, the more we live our life to its truest meaning and potential, the more our story is shaped into what we were created for. 

In the end, if you look back on your life, can you ask yourself “Has what I’ve done made an impact or difference in someone else’s life?”  If you can answer that question honestly, I think your grasping the idea.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future! – Jeremiah 29:11”

*I do apologize for the short post, since the case is still open.  I will make sure to write another one shortly*

Death

When there is an emergency in Van Buren County, dispatchers press a button at the dispatch center that sends out an emergency tone to every State, County, or Township car.  This emergency tone blares in every portable radio and car radio in the county.  I don’t know why, but the pitch is a high pitched warble that fluctuates between a piercing scream and an erie mournful  wail. The hair on the back of my neck stands up every time I hear it.  The tone itself can stop any one in their tracks…If I’m at the post when the tone goes out, I whip out my pen and start writing on my hand or whatever is closest.  If I’m driving in my State Police patrol car, regardless of if I’m on the highway or regular road I pull off to the side of the road and begin plugging in the coordinates on my computer.

On this certain day, myself and my partner were at the post at around 4:45 A.M on a Sunday  morning, doing report writing, gun cleaning, and doing a few odd things before our shift ended.  For a Saturday night, the night had been a steady flow of arrests and busy per usual.  I remember us both being exhausted as we set in doing our report writing at our respective computers.  However, the day shift wouldn’t check in for a couple more hours, so we were still the only car on in the two counties for the State.

I remember the emergency tone as it came through  my ear piece that was connected to my radio-that shrieking, screaming, wail and my hands froze mid typing.  The dispatcher on the end droned out “911 call of single vehicle into a tree,  unknown injuries,  called in by an off duty township firefighter.”

My partner radioed up our coordinates and waited for a response as we headed toward our already running patrol car.  We knew that jurisdiction issues would arise and we would be taking the crash.  “Van Buren to 51, looks like you’re going to be our closest car if you could head that way.  “En route from the post,” my partner responded.

It’s interesting when you’re dealing with high stress situations, you quickly find out what you’re made of.  As I activated our emergency lights and siren and screamed out of the parking lot into the darkness, my partner was calmly talking on the radio as if he were having a casual conversation with a friend.  Above the scream of the siren, the roar of wind, it’s impossible to hear anything, much less think.  I still was able to pick out certain details dispatch was telling us.  Car fire…unknown if occupied…  I looked at my speedometer…100 mph…110 mph…120 mph…130 mph…finally the 2010 bright blue Ford Crown Vic that we punished every night hit her final gear and settled into a cruise…. 130 mph was going to be the fastest we were going…Inwardly I cringed and wished we had a Dodge Charger as those hit 150 mph like it was an every day speed….every mph faster I went I figured would be a chance to save someone.

My adrenaline was rushing but on the outside I tried to not show it.  My partner and I were conversing of simple strategies.  “I’ll get the med kit, you get to the car.” “CPR and then stabilize.”  Already Van Buren advised us that fire and an ambulance were en route to the scene.  I covered 15 miles in a matter of minutes…As we rolled up on the scene, a dark county road, my brain processed everything in real time.   Our emergency lights danced off the canopy of trees that were overhead, and off to the right side of the road around a single tree, I saw a metal object-twisted, charred, and disfigured.   Small flames licked around a metal object that was completely wrapped around the base of a 2 foot tree.  There was smoke everywhere, as if someone had set off one of those fog machines that football players run through.  I flicked off my siren and left my lights on as to alert others to our location. 

“Van Buren County, this is 51, you can show us on scene.”  My partner and I rushed up to the car, our blue and red lights from our patrol car penetrating through the smoke.  Through the smoldering smoke I could barely make out anything inside.  The heat coming off the vehicle was incredibly hot. Everything inside the car was black and cooked, like the inside of a grill catastrophe.  The vehicle was completely wrapped around this small, 2 foot tree, like a bow around a Christmas gift.

The first thing I smelled was something burning…it took a minute, but I figured it out… burning flesh.  It’s a smell that is unmistakable.  It’s thick, and hangs in air, penetrating and clinging to everything that it comes in contact with.  I braced myself as I worked from the front of the car around to the trunk.

The second thing that I felt was death.  I eventually located the body, pinned back in the trunk.  The impact had caused the driver to get pushed through the backseat and into the trunk.  My brain couldn’t grasp how forceful of an impact it was.  The body was burned badly, and the only thing I could make out was bleached white ribs and teeth…it’s like it wasn’t a real human being, like a body from the TV show “Bones.”  Immediately I grabbed onto that thought.  “It’s not real.”

My partner in the meantime had confirmed for himself what I had already discovered.  He ripped the license plate off the vehicle and after the scene was secure with fire, ems, and other police officers, we went to track down, identify, and notify whoever it was in the vehicle.  My bright orange medical kit was in the front seat, mocking me as I looked at it.  I threw it into the trunk and slammed the lid shut.  Frusturation had set in for both of us.

The actual crash site in the daylight

The vehicle license plate came back to a house less than 3 miles away.  “They were three miles away from home…what a cruel joke.”  Outwardly my partner and I knew it was a job we had to do.  We tried to joke with each other as we had in many circumstances as we drove to the house.  This was different.  No jokes could cover this one.  The home whose driveway we rolled into was modest.  Nothing special.  One thing I did notice was several vehicles in the driveway.  My partner cussed aloud.  I felt his frusturation.  After spending over an hour and a half at the scene, emotionally exhausted, we knew were about to deal with a ton of family.

Inside I was heavy hearted.  At 6 A.M. we were about to deliver news on someone’s front door that someone was gone from this world.  The door opened to a middle aged man in his 50’s.  His face was marked with confusion. “Sir, can we come in and talk to you?” He cordially invited us into his living room, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Inwardly I could still smell the smoke and burning flesh on my uniform. 

“Do you know a Diego Rodriguez?” His face was marked with confusion. “Yes, that’s me.” My partner shot a glance at me and I shot a look back at him. “Ummmmm, what do we do now?”

“Sir, who was driving your car last night?”

 “My daughter.” 

“Is she here?”

“She went out last night, let me check.”

He left and trudged to a nearby room and knocked on the door.  “Maria, the cops want to talk to you.”

Inwardly I prayed for a response…”Maria!?”

A few moments later a college aged girl rushed from the room, on full alert.

“What happened!” She gushed out. “Ma’am, who was driving the vehicle last night.”

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as I watched her frantically call her boyfriend who had dropped her off a few hours earlier.   She explained that she had received a text from him saying that he was only a few minutes away from home.  

By this time, 5 other siblings, a set of grandparents, an uncle, and both parents were all sitting down in the living room with solemn looks on their faces as they watched their family member frantically call every person she knew was with him.  Every report came back “No, he’s not here, he said he was going to your house.”

She crumbled to the ground sobbing, clutching the phone to her chest as my partner told her that her boyfriend was dead.  Her family members all sat in shock,  3 of her siblings holding her as she wailed.  I still remember those cries.

Next we had to track down his family and inform them.  We gave the girlfriend strict instructions to not contact the family until we had notified them.  As we pulled into the driveway, the sun was just coming up. My partner pulled over the car.  His face was grim. I already knew… “Don’t worry man I’ll do this one.”  I told him. He nodded and put the car back in drive.  Even in hairy situations, we had always maintained a pretty good attitude about things.  This one for some reason had sunk in with both of us.

 I remember the 4 stairs I climbed felt like an eternity.  I remember knocking on the door and meeting another 45, proud looking, man with jet black hair.  He already knew something was wrong.  “He didn’t come home last night,” he told me in a soft tone, that had an accent to it.  “Is he ok.”  As he spoke these words, I knew that he knew that his son was dead.  A thousand, charged, non-verbal communication signals were going back between us in those three to five seconds.  I’m sure the look on my face said it all.  They teach you on death notifications, to be straight to the point.  So I was.  My heart broke for him. “No he is not. I’m sorry sir, but your son, Jamie, is dead.” 

A father’s love for his son was on full display as this man cried on his hands and knees on his porch.  As we pulled away, I remember thinking that the worst feeling in this world was being a parent and having to bury your own child.

I wanted to destroy my uniform as I came home midafternoon.  I could still smell the burning flesh.  I was exhausted and mentally drained.  I took a shower and went to bed.  I ended up staring up at the ceiling for 3 hours replaying the body, cries, and the pain that these family members displayed.  I remember thinking “Someone just died, and I can’t even show any emotions.”  Frustrated with myself, I went to the gym and took it all out on a set of weights and a 7 mile run.  Still nothing.  I had no feeling left, I was numb. I showered again, ate and tried to sleep. Nothing.  This process continued.  I was awake for two days straights while my brain processed it all.

Peace was only achieved when the good book was opened.

“Hebrews 4:16-Let us then approach God's throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”

That was the first verse I read two days later and the last one too; as I passed out for 12 hours straight in deep sleep.

Life Is One Big Awkward Sandwhich

You know, things can just be down right awkward sometimes can’t they?? We've all had those moments. Moments where we've seen people trip and fall...and you don't know whether to laugh or help. Or if you've ever been in a gym and seen a person get absolutely crushed by the bench press bar and can’t get it off their chest. Or maybe it’s been a date that within the first 10 seconds you can tell is going to be an absolute fail, the times when you've ran into an in-law or ex- flame and you’re forced to make awkward conversation, or where you get caught red-handed doing something you know you shouldn't have been doing.

What I’m trying to get at is we ALL have had awkward moments. You’re probably thinking of one of them right now as you read this like “Yep, I remember that!” Heck, I might have had one with you!  For me personally, I've always had an admiration for people that have the absolute skill and grace of playing off an awkward moment. You, know the smooth talker. The one who could convince a person that water is imported from Mars, or that a giraffe is actually called a raccoon in the English language.  

It’s like the skill is uncanny, an unlearn able sixth instinct. Maybe it’s a practiced skill acquired over time, like a surgeon delicately threading a needle or attaching something back into place on the operating table. Whatever it is, I’m finding out that I DO NOT HAVE THAT PRACTICED OR AQUIRED SKILL. I mean ZERO.

I’m finding instead that I have a gift for the opposite. I find myself in awkward moments, and then somehow, add to that awkward moment. So much that within the last few months, I have added a new life motto to my bag of life quotes. “Life is one big awkward sandwich, and everyone’s gotta take their bite out of it.”  I’m quickly finding out that I might as well make mine an extra large with a side order of “things just got weird.” Yep. That’s me.So you’re probably wondering why this is such a long intro. DANIEL JUST TELL THE STORY. Well, the story has to be set up first. For those of you who do not know me well, let’s just say my family is still trying to figure out what planet I came from. Things are usually A) FUN or B) AWKWARD with me. There is no C option. So with that being said, the story and ground work has been laid to how awkward things can be.

A wise man once told me that if I were to ever move into a new city the first thing you do is get a good mechanic to fix your car, a good pastor to preach the word, a good landlord to protect your valuables, and a good barber. So I’m happy to say I have checked those off the box one by one.  What the wise man did not give me any advice on, is what to do when one of the above breaks the law…

It was a typical Friday night. I love working the weekends equally as much as I am disappointed to not being able to enjoy them. You see, the weekends are usually the best time to work as a law enforcement officer, especially when working 3^rd shift. It’s like being a kid in a candy store with so many options to choose from. The candy being cars and complaints. The candy store being whatever city or township I decide to meander into or get dispatched to. Oh, the joy of working for the State Police, where jurisdiction lines are met with the logo on the side of the car that says “State Police.” That’s why some people love us. That’s why some people hate us. You can go anywhere. Cue story.

Around four AM on this particular night, I happened to be in the very lovely county of Kalamazoo on patrol. I had already stirred up the hornet’s nest with a couple of solid arrests, and I wanted to get back in an hour and a half to do some paper work before my shift ended. One thing I’ve learned out quickly is the second you think about paperwork, something always happens. In this event as I was driving down a semi-popular road, when I observed a red sedan come blazing out of a private driveway. “Hmm, no turn signal, no stop, and he crossed left of center?” This was worth a talking too. I sped up to the vehicle. While speeding up to the vehicle, I noticed in my rear view mirror that a blue car had also come out of that exact same driveway, and was speeding up to catch me. I wondered if he thought I was the car he was supposed to follow? Again.  No turn signal, no stop, and drove left of center. What this driver of the blue car also failed to realize was the word “State Police” on my bumper. So as I sped up to catch the red car, the blue car followed hot behind me, inches of my bumper. I looked at my speedometer. 70 mph in a 45 mph zone. The dilemma hit me. Do I pull over the red car in front of me or the blue car behind me?

I pulled over and let the blue car speed on by me, dumbfounded that he didn't even slow his speed down once he passed me. I can’t make this up. You would think that someone would be smart enough to not tailgate a State Trooper, and then when the Trooper pulls in behind them to slow it down. NOPE.  He continued on, and then swerved into oncoming traffic and narrowly missed a head on collision with another vehicle.  I decided I was going to have a serious chit-chat with this goofball. I flipped my lights on to pull over the vehicle.

 I've learned quickly to never expect the usual when pulling a car over. Some people pull over with grace and gentleness of an old pro. Some slam their brakes on like they've just had a seizure, some will do anything to pull over including running stop signs, and there are the select awesome few that will actually stop dead in the middle of the road. That’s always fun. As I walked up to the car, I could hear loud, muffled music coming from the passenger compartment. As I made my “approach” I observed a single male sitting in the driver’s seat looking out the other side of the window at my partners approaching flashlight. He didn't even see me. I tapped on the window. The second the window rolled down, I could smell the overwhelming odor of “intoxicant’s” coming from inside the passenger compartment of the vehicle. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out two and two. It was as if someone had opened a liquor cabinet inside of the car, drank the whole thing, and then dumped the rest of it inside the car, and then proceeded on their merry way. What came next was awkward.

It becomes awkward the moment you pull someone over that you know.   Well for me at least. Especially at 4 am in the morning. And me being awkward by nature, it pretty much just turns into a bull in a china shop type effect. The harder I try to NOT make it awkward, it becomes more awkward. I’ve learned to accept it now. Hey, life is an awkward sandwich and everyone has to take a bite out of it right? I was ready to take a LARGE sized bite, and graduate to a whole another level of “It just got weird.”

 Now you usually have two options in an awkward moment, and this goes outside of work. Play it off and act like you didn’t recognize the person and keep it moving. Or start joking with them, shooting the breeze, and make less of an awkward situation. You have about a fraction of a second to make up your move, and then it becomes a potentially catastrophic event. It always turns catastrophic for me. Like tsunami sized catastrophic.

 Back to the traffic stop. There’s always little things that I look for when at the vehicle. I treat it like a game of chess. I play my move based off the responses that I receive from the individual.  To be honest, the questions I ask are loaded anyways. I already know the answer, you already know the answer, and I’m usually already three moves ahead of you. It’s old school. It makes honest people honest, and liars, well, liars.   My game plan was WRECKED the minute I opened my mouth to talk to this individual. “Hey sir, State Police, can I see your license, registration and proof of insurance? “I stopped, paused, and began grimacing inwardly.  As I looked at the eyes, I knew I recognized them. Let’s name this individual “Eric.” And let’s say “Eric” had one of the 4 professions that the wise man told me to seek out in the beginning of this little tale.

 Now, I had two options with Eric. And I only had that fraction of a second to figure it out while talking a foot and a half away from this individuals face. I could act like I didn't know who he was, or I could start joking around and shoot the breeze with him. Obviously I picked the wrong one.  The question I found asking myself was “DID HE KNOW IT WAS ME!?” I've heard that oftentimes with one wearing the law enforcement uniform people disassociate a face. They just see the badge, gun, and flashy lights and forget the face. I was praying to God he didn't recognize me. I tried the first option. Be professional, be polite and see if he knew it was me. FAIL.

He recognized me. He was relaxed, smiling and loose. I knew then that my cover was burned and that I was about to win the Nobel peace prize for awkward moments. He had zero fear of consequences happening to him. Eric handed me his license, registration, and proof of insurance and began chuckling at me. I smiled awkwardly back I’m sure, and still tried to play it off as if I didn’t know it was him. I began using more “sirs” than an English squire in attempt to make him do a double take and think maybe I had a twin. I was thinking, “God, why didn't you give me a TWIN!!!??? “ Didn’t work. ENTER AWKARDNESS.

I looked at the license, then back at Eric. He must have sensed my reserved nature andNow I know how my mother felt when I lied straight to her face as a kid and she knew it.

began trying to play it off too. “Great,” I thought. “Now we’re both going to act like we don’t know each other.” Somewhere I knew the awkward gods were crying with laughter.  I made the first move to get the party popping. I smiled again. “Eric, how much have you had to drink tonight?” Eric laughed, “Aww sir, not a thing!” “Ah, he get’s it,” I thought “He’s calling me sir right back.” I looked at his eyes. They held an arrogant look to them. They also told me different about his drinking that night. We can cue that awkward moment when someone lies straight to your face and you know it-but they don’t.

I dropped my smile and stared at Eric. Cue awkward silence again. I continued to look at him, the awkwardness ever growing. My face was hot red and I knew it. Thank God for dark nights. Eric continued on smiling, “Look sir, I just got done dropping some people off man. My ex-girl kissed me goodnight, she was drinking with her people so that’s why you smell alcohol on me and in the car.” Inside I was dying to tell Eric how rich I would be for every time I heard that story.  Cue awkward silence. He was trying to smooth talk me. Not happening. The elephant was growing. I knew what to say, I just didn’t want to say it. But I did. I faked the best fake smile ever again. “Eric, you mind stepping out of the car for me so I can check your eyes to see that you’re good to drive?” The elephant now had a pink tutu on. Eric laughed at me like it was all a big joke. “Why?” he drawled out. His eyes were about as glossy and bloodshot as ever as I looked at him. I tried to put it as gently as possible, but anything stated by law is not going to be gentle.  “Well sir, due to the condition of you’re driving and the intoxicant’s that are coming from the passenger compartment of the vehicle, I have enough probable cause to ask you to do so.” Eric looked at me and then busted out laughing again.  “Dude that was a sweet speech SIR, they taught you well.” He couldn’t go without throwing that little lick in there. Cue boiling anger. Eric stumbled out of the car, and went to the front of the bumper, smiling and laughing as if the whole thing was comical. I was about to jump off a diving board of awkwardness. I’m sure had it not been for my red strobes hitting my face he could have easily seen the awkward red look on my face.

Eric bombed all the honesty check questions I asked him. I checked Eric’s eyes, and gave him other tasks to accomplish while he was outside of the car. The whole time Eric simply laughed and was trying to joke with me while I attempted to do my job. AWKWARD. I could imagine awkward bats probably circling overhead  the traffic stop comically laughing. My partner, at the beginning of the traffic stop, saw that everything was ok, gave me an awkward look and headed back to the patrol car to begin Eric’s paperwork. He already knew what I was going to do. Plus, if there were no drugs or guns he didn’t have a reason to stay up there with me. Eric didn’t have a clue how far gone he was. He was blitzed. Then came the most interesting part for me, where the elephant in the room put on pink ballerina shoes and began waltzing around. The PBT. That little thing where you blow into a straw and it tells you the level of intoxication.

And that’s where the gloves came off for Eric. As I waited for the results, Eric became desperate. “Bro! Look at me, look at me.” Like I a wasn’t already looking at him. Eric was becoming unpredictable. He got close enough to me to where I smelled the alcohol rolling off him. I began wondering in my brain if he had been drinking Jameson or Jack. “Look man, I know it’s you! And I know you know that it’s me!” I looked at Eric, and he continued. “Look, straight up man to man, I made a mistake. We all make mistakes, just let me go man, I promise I won’t do it again. We’re boy’s right?”  I politely put my arm on Eric’s chest and told him to take a step back for me so we could talk.

Just to clarify about knowing Eric. I had seen Eric about four or five times throughout the course of business the last several months. We were courteous with each other, shot the breeze a couple of times. I highly doubt if that qualified as us being “boy’s.” Before I could respond, “My PBT chirped to let me know that I had a reading and I glanced down at it. My suspicion was confirmed. He was more then 3 times over the legal limit. I’ll let you do the math. I knew what I had to do.  I looked at Eric and he looked at me, “Just tell me straight man, am I going to jail?”

There’s no easy way to sugar coat telling someone they are going to jail. What was I going to say? Yes, Eric, you’re going to jail, but don’t worry they have fluffed pillows and solid room service! No. So like all awkward things, the bull in china shop effect took over. “Yes. You are. Eric, turn around and put your hands behind your back. You made a mistake and you’ll get through it.”

I felt sorry for my partner who was in the passenger seat watching this whole ordeal take place. He had no clue what just happened. Nor did I know what was about to happen as I escorted Eric to the back of my patrol car. The awkwardness was about to graduate to idiocracy.  Eric turned into a drunken rage in the backseat. Now, I can take a lot. And so can my partner. What we can’t take is idioracy. Once I got Eric in the back seat, he let loose a very impressive string of cuss words directed at me and my partner. Nothing new. This wasn’t my first rodeo. And my partner had 15 plus years. As I we waited for a tow truck for his car, Eric tried to hit the homerun with both of us. “Well sir, is this what you wanted you little (insert choice words.) I bet if you take these cuff’s off I’ll show you who the bigger man is, you (insert choice words.) My partner began chuckling. He knew what I was capable off. “Oh what’s funny did I say something funny?” Eric spat out.

“Sir you need to calm down.” My partner had a very valid point. But that phrase never works. “Oh I need to calm down?” Eric drawled out. I turned to look at Eric, who began screaming at the top of his lungs “WE WE WERE BROTHERS! WE WERE BROTHERS YOU AND I! AND YOU DID THIS TO YOUR BROTHER?” *Cue another string of cuss words.*  Eric continued “I see what you did, you did this to get with my ex-girlfriend didn’t you you little (cue cuss words.) I turned towards Eric to begin talking to him to explain that I didn’t even know he had an ex-girlfriend, but he cut me off, “Dude, I hope you have such a good lawyer because I’m going to sue the hell out of you.” “ My partner began reading Erich is chemical test rights. “No, eff you dude, You both are racists.” I can honestly say that’s the first time I’ve ever been called a racist. I can also honestly say that’s probably the first I’ve heard of two African-American cops get called a racist. My partner was looking at me with an incredulous look on his face “Do you know this guy?” I turned at him and whispered, “Not anymore.”

 Needless to say I don’t go to that place of business anymore… Let’s just say life is one big awkward sandwich…

***All stories told are true events I have had on my job. Secondly, every one of my stories that I tell have all been closed by arrest or court decision. And lastly, all the names I use are fake, and if I deem so, profession too.***

My First Encounter

"So I’m finding out that myself and strippers don’t mix."

Not at all. And when I say not mixing, I mean an oil- water combination. My partner has always told me, “Oh don’t you worry, you will be able to tell instantly when it’s a stripper that you’ve pulled over.” I’ve always wondered about that. Cue first encounter with pulling over a stripper. You never know what you’re going to get when walking up to a car. I think more along the lines of  "hope for the best, plan for the worst."  So far, at least at last count, I still have 10 toes and 10 fingers.

"The first thing I noticed when I walked up to the window was the eyes that followed my every move through the side mirror." Most people begin squirming in the car, trying to find paperwork or look at the flashing lights behind them, find them too bright, and then look forward. I thought that was a bit odd…but nope, those eyes stared right at the back me defiantly. She was prepping for a fight. “Here we go,” I thought. It had already been an emotionally draining and chaotic night and I sensed it wasn’t going to get any calmer.  My 6^th sense was already going off.  I knew she couldn’t see me walking up to her car, but she was still looking back. The window rolled down and I knew it this was going to be a game of wits.

"As soon I stuck my head down to talk to her at her tiny car, she blew a cloud of smoke into my face. Cue boiling anger." Biggest pet peeve ever is when someone blows smoke into my face. “Ma’am, please put the cigarette out while I talk to you.” Defiant eyes stared right back at me.” She flipped her hair back, took another hit blew it the opposite way and then flipped the cigarette right past my left ear. “Sure darling.” Cue second bout of boiling anger. I hate it when females use the words “Sweetie, darling, honey, or any affectionate term with talking with me.”  My anger was through the roof. But was I going to do, arrest her for being a jerk? She was sizing me up, poking and prodding. “Very well,” I thought, “Two can play this game.”

“Ma’am, State Police can I see your license and registration please?” Usually when talking with a normal person, they are a bit flustered, begin scrambling around the car searching for their information, and 90% of the time pause momentarily to look at me while I explain the reason for my traffic stop. Most people end with “I’m sorry officer, here’s my information, I’m running late etc…” Most times it’s all about the attitude. Not with this chick, she raised herself up higher using her steering wheel and looked me dead in the eye. “What in the hell did I do wrong??” “Oh here we go,” I thought.

 Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame strippers for being rude, they deal probably with more idiots than I do a night, and if someone touches me I can take them to jail. I do, however, blame strippers who are rude to me. I’m about as respectful as it comes when doing my job. And when you change lanes without a turn signal, blaze across two lanes of traffic and attempt to turn the wrong way onto a 1 way street, well that’s going to warrant a little talking to.

After I explained all this to her, she responded with the classic line. “There’s people getting killed in this city and you have nothing better to do than pull me over?” Cue another bout of boiling anger from the pet peeve jar. She then stared at me for a couple of cold seconds while I looked right back at her. I again repeated myself, “Ma’am license, registration, AND proof of insurance please.

She gave me a look that could have killed cancer and turned around to look in her glove box. I lowered my head a bit more to get a whiff of the car. And there it hit me.  The overwhelming smell of perfume, cologne, and cigarettes. It was almost as if someone had set off a perfume bomb in the vehicle, put a week’s worth of old cologne in it, and then covered the car with smoke. Instantly it popped into my brain, “Ma’am, where are you coming from?” This delightful individual once again killed me with kindness.  “Where do you think? Strolling downtown?” She gave me a look that assumed I was dumb and stated “I work at the strip club.” “Ok, ma’am I’m just asking.” I returned to my car where my partner immediately informed me that she had a warrant for her arrest. After a brief conversation, I returned to her car.

 For privacy, we will nickname this girl Stacy. As I returned to Stacy’s car I prepped for the worst. “Stacy, can you step out of the vehicle for me please?” Again, the glaring eyes. “What did I do wrong?”  As a police officer when I ask you to step out of the vehicle I’m not doing it to have a little chat on the side of the road because I can see that your legs are cramping up. Usually it ends with me putting you in cuffs. Again, I repeated myself, “Ma’am I’m not going to ask you again, step out of the vehicle you have a warrant for her arrest.” Stacy looked up at me again, smiled, and flicked her hair and then stated “Wow, look at you Mr. tough guy asking a girl to step out of the car. Don’t you feel like a hero all high and mighty?” There are very few people in the world, if any that can push me to lose my temper. I was thinking of all the smart aleck comebacks I could say to this girl. She had managed to hit all my button’s in one conversation and I was about to lose it with her. And she knew it. But one thing I pride myself on is taking the high road, being respectful, holding my tongue and let the courts figure it all out.

See what Stacy didn’t know was that even before I went back up to the car to arrest her, I was planning on releasing her that night. Her warrant was a type where you could either haul her down to jail or release her on an OR bond. She had no clue that I was going to get her information in the car, take her out of cuffs, give her a court date, and let her go on her merry way. However, as I escorted her back to the car the name calling continued. Once she was secured in the back of my vehicle, she shut down. 1 word replies. Short responses. Curt answers. She was on the defensive, and was fighting like a caged animal.

It had been a long night. My partner who was sitting next to me received the same treatment from her. “Ma’am why are you being so disrespectful towards us, what did we do?” he asked. Short pause. I looked back at Stacy. She defiantly responded “I was at work all day getting hit on, grabbed, and poked. I’ve been on my feet all day, and all I want to do is GO HOME AND SLEEP.” She practically shouted it at us. My blood was boiling. My partner immediately countered. “Ma’am there is nothing better that I would rather do than to let you go home and sleep. But you have to understand that this is MY job. You had the warrant. You did the deed. Please respect it, and please respect us.” Her response: “I still didn’t do anything.”

Stacy threw in one last shot as I filled in the last of her information into the computer. “You guys really have nothing better than harass people huh?? When’s the last time you had a tough night? You haven’t had as tough a night as I had I bet you. I’ve been on my feet all day, dealing with idiots. You guys barely do anything I bet.”

My partner paused and clicked his pen into his breast pocket before calmly answering her. “Stacy you are getting released tonight. My partner is going to walk around to your side of the car, get your signature, and you will be free to go this night. Please show up for court.He then calmly continued. “ And Stacy, please do not assume anything about my partner and I. "We don’t judge you for what you do, please do not judge us for what we do." I looked in the rear view mirror at Stacy. She had a dumbfounded look on her face. My partner continued “And for your information Stacy, before pulling you over, our last call was responding to a homicide where a young man was tracked down and shot to death at a poker game no more than an hour ago. So please don’t assume.”

Stacy was silent as I got her out of the car. She looked at the ground as she signed her signature to her OR bond. As I bid her a good night, Stacy apologized. “I’m sorry officer. I was acting like an idiot.”

 There was not much that I could say to Stacy except what my partner had just stated to her. “Once again Stacy, I don’t judge you, please don’t judge me. Please drive safe and show up to court for your appearance.” Stacy nodded and got back into her car and drove off.

I then continued on with my night.

"This is why strippers and I do not mix."

A Proud American: Easier Said, Than Understood

I’m proud to be an American. I’ll let that sink in. Now, before you read any further, think of the first image that pops into your mind when you read the sentence “Proud to be an American.”Before you assume that I’m going to be someone who goes way overboard on this topic, let me tell you why It is that I am proud to be an American.

                Let’s be honest with ourselves here. Most people who say that “I am proud to be an American,” are probably the ones who run their yap a little too much. They are the ones you see on T.V and cringe as they are outspoken, arrogant, brash, and rude. They are probably the ones who get in arguments just for the sake of it. As to their main argument? “America is better than any other country because We ARE better.” Wow. Sound logic there buddy. Way to make us seem even more arrogant. I've seen those types before. They’re also the ones who you see arguing the “We-were-here-first theory.” Again, astounding comprehensive reasoning skills. Little known fact though: Most all of us as Americans are descendants from immigrants there champ. You missed that memo. And my personal favorite, the “Other-culture’s-don’t-think-or-act-like-us-theory.”  C’mon now that gets old real fast.  So I can understand why sometimes we as Americans can get a little ashamed in saying we are proud to be American. We don’t want to be wrongly associated with that group of Arrogant Americans (as I call them), so we hide. I’m here to say we should have a humble, appreciative pride in our nation.

Before I explain why I am proud to be an American, let me say that this does not have anything to do with politics. So for those of you who were thinking that I was going to go off on one party or another, sorry to disappoint you. This writing will hopefully have nothing to do involving current debates that have been going on in our country (i.e.-Gun control laws, gay marriage, abortion, etc.) No, my pride of being an American goes way deeper than current debates.

 A couple weeks ago, I had the opportunity to travel to our nations capital- Washington D.C. It had been several years since I had been to D.C. It’s funny as you grow older how you begin to appreciate the value in things. The museums and monuments that I ran past as a kid with not a care in the world were now places that I wanted to spend all day at. Yes, I actually wanted to go in buildings and museums. Again, I guess it’s true what they say-as you get older you learn to appreciate things more. Instead of seeing stone monuments and going on to the next thing, I took time to listen, sit, and observe.

By the time we hit D.C on the first day, it was pretty well dark outside. As we got unpacked, several of us decided to walk around the city that night. It shocked me how D.C is very much a working district, and how the tourism dips in the colder months. As we walked around D.C at 8 PM on a windy, December  night I couldn't notice how quiet it was. Barely any cars moved on the streets and in the distance the capital loomed, brilliantly lit in the night. I don’t know what came over me, but right at that moment I realized again how proud I was to be an American.  Similar to DC residents, anyone who lives in a place like D.C would probably get bored of seeing the capital. Something about that building, the history that took place in that building made me once again proud.

                Another moment that stuck out to me was when we visited the World War Two memorial. I had never seen it before, and if you haven’t seen it I highly encourage you to visit it the next time you go…heck, Google image it to get the idea. It encompasses you from all sides when you walk in. Something about being in it was so peaceful to me as I sat, yet  I felt very close to the tremors of a war that almost nearly ripped apart our nation and the world. As I sat quietly reflecting, an elderly man with a cane slowly labored by and went up to one of the slabs where there was a state name etched in. He silently wept as he traced his finger in the concrete outlines of the state, and then moved on to the next state name. He did the same thing, and then moved on to the next.  I sat in a state of shame and amazement, because I had no business to be even watching him. I felt I was intruding upon his private moment. But I continued watching him. To me, the memorial was a symbol of achievement in conflict that symbolized a part in which America had helped in. It was put and constructed with the greatest care. Every stone, rock, slab, and concrete had it's place in re-constructing hallowed memories. To him, this was something greater than just concrete and a pile of rocks that were put together. It was a silent appreciation of a sacrifice that happened a very long time ago.  I watched as the elderly man slowly finished his traces and walked away. Nobody noticed him, but I will never forget for as long as I did the moment that I witnessed.

                That is why I am proud to be an American. Simple sacrifices that good people make for each other every day, and the hard work of their efforts. It sums up what an American is and should be. I firmly believe the spirit of America does live on, and it is up to us as Americans to be o.k with making sacrifices for each other, and helping others. This is what America was built upon and the foundation has been laid deep down by those who came before us.

                Yes, I know, America is not perfect nor will it ever be. Yes, America and we as Americans make mistakes. We need to get better at certain things, and help others out more. I’m not a politician and thank the Good Lord I am not. However, I believe in hard work and the spirit of helping others out. I believe that the foundations in which America was built upon have shown out throughout generations and generations of those who helped build it to what it is. We are the ones entrusted now to make sure that the spirit of America lives on. So as I type in this moment, I am proud. For I realize how fortunate I am to grasp what it truly means “Proud to be an American.”

Finding Stillness within Chaos...

Finding Stillness in Life

 

                Camp Grayling- As I looked thru my sights and centered them in on an Armored Personal Carrier that was sitting on a hilltop 250 meters away, I couldn’t help but feel nervous as heck. Shooting at anything is an adrenaline rush like none other. My fingers trembled as I loaded rounds into my magazine and again peered thru my scope to double check that everything was well enough to proceed. I was so focused looking thru my scope that I could feel the blood pounding in my ears. Yet deep inside me there was stillness. There was a quiet confidence that deep down told me that I done this shot before, and had trained for hours and hours running gun drills.  Being in that place blanketed and reduced all of my natural body reactions—the excess of adrenaline, narrowed tunnel vision, and trembling hands. Inside I knew I was going to hit the target.   I adjusted my scope again, my made final corrections and pulled the trigger for the spotting round. A small flame shot out as the tracer burned through the air and deflected off the hull. I was dead center. My assistant gunner tapped my shoulder and tucked in close to my side before yelling out the final call. “Back blast area all secure…ROCKET!!” There was a slight pause as I depressed the launch lever, and pulled the trigger. The rocket left with a loud and violent explosion of color and sound. I struggled to maintain control of the launcher as the rocket roared out. I saw nothing thru my scope as the rocket had kicked up dust, dirt, and rocks, temporarily blinding and deafening me. Less than a fraction of a second later I got my result. The sound of a rocket exploding and an intense heat reflecting back towards me told me I had hit me target...then there was eerie stillness…

 

It’s hard to find stillness in life isn’t it? Sometimes we forget what stillness is or even what it looks like. Usually when we try to be still, we usually end up getting dragged away by the hustle and bustle of everyday life. I will be the first one to admit that I am guilty of this. In several conversations I had with friends this week, the topic of “stillness,” was brought up. It’s something I finally realized I was supposed to write about. I often forget the meaning of being still. Stillness means to say nothing. It means to simply listen.

 

As Americans, we hate being still. We associate “busy” as a good thing, and an expected way to live life. “Oh hey Mehari how’s life?” 9 times out of 10 I will reply, “Oh it’s busy, but good.” Don’t believe me? Here’s a test. Next time you go to a movie theatre, restaurant, or someplace that has a line where people have to wait for something, see how many people can’t seem to stand still. Some will pull out cellphones to try and look busy, some will adjust their clothes for the billionth time, and others will fidget with their keys. As a culture we hate being still. Trapped inside a car, train, or airplane? No worries, just fire up your Wi-Fi device or iPod and rock the time away!

Time is the biggest enemy of stillness. I mean after all, they say time is everything right? Time is money. Time to go. Time to do this. Time for that. I don’t have time. I demand your time. Everyone operates on time. Everyone operates plugged in. Smart phones, tablets, iPods, radios, TV’s all are components of time. They demand our attention. We get so plugged in that we forget what stillness is and what stillness sounds like.  Once again, I have my hand raised. Guilty as charged.

One of the verses that I NEVER UNDERSTOOD in the Bible was from Psalm 46:10. Be still and know that I am God.  To me it made no sense at all. By knowing God, I thought it meant that I had to actively pursue and seek him. That’s what most people are led to believe. We forget that God always pursues us. It’s in that stillness where oftentimes he may be found…

It’s oftentimes shocking what you hear when you intentionally take time to be still. In 2007, I experienced what being still meant in a trip I took a trip to Alaska with a leadership development team. If you have never been to Alaska, it’s some of the most breath taking scenery you could ever lay eyes on.  Snowcapped mountains are everywhere dotted with green forestry at the base of these gigantic mountains. Every day I woke up surrounded on every side by these beautiful mountains. Every day for an hour and a half each morning, each one of us had to spend time alone in devotions. Devotions are never fun at 8 AM. I thought it would be a waste of time, and I didn’t want to do it. Yet everyday I would split off from the group and wander around for an hour and a half. Let me tell you that in the mountains of Alaska, by yourself for an hour and half, you learn quickly to be still. You learn to hear things you wouldn’t normally hear. A gentle wind breeze, birds chirping, bee’s buzzing, and other random things. After a while, I started to just listen. There wasn’t anything else to do. Stillness just sunk in.  In fact, the stillness became loud. It was like I had turned on something inside I never knew I had. It enveloped me. It was in that stillness time, where God taught me who he really was to me. He was everything. He was that still, quiet, reassuring presence radiating his love down on me. It was truly overwhelming. It’s something you have to experience in order to grasp but in that moment I knew that God would always fight for me because he loved me no matter how bad my flaws or shortcomings were. God isn’t stupid; we’re just sometimes too stubborn to think he can help us.

 

Try it. I dare you. Take 15 minutes and just be still. It could be turning off the radio when you’re usually listening to it while driving or while you’re at the gym working out with your iPod in. Heck, light a candle at home, turn off the lights in the room and just be still. See what happens. What’s the worst that could?  After all, he created you right? Why wouldn’t he want to talk to you? You’re his kid.

 

The Power of Forgiveness

1stSgt William Bodette

           “Gentleman, I wake up every day with a smile on my face”, drawled out 1sgt William Bodette to our company. He paused a second to spit a stream of tobacco juice on the ground before continuing with a smirk on his face.  “And I suppose you wonder why’s I wake up this way” He scanned our company with that steel  look in his eye before continuing.  “Its cuz every day I wake up knowing that God put me on this earth specifically to take human life.  That’s my sole purpose gents, and it’s my only purpose in life.” He stopped to shift his rifle and point towards the looming mountains in the distance. “So think about that thought when things get hard on this little hump of ours. You got 1o mikes to prep, we’re stepping in 15.” He strode off. Cole leaned in towards me. “This is going to be a straight up death march.” And it was.

          1sgt William Bodette is a living, breathing war hero in the Marine Corps. He has spent more time in the Corps than I have been alive on this earth, and with 6 combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan to say he has combat experience is an understatement. There is a jagged scar that twists down from the side of his mouth, down to his neck that he got in combat. There are always Marines that I encounter where I think to myself, "The Taliban or Al-Queda really don't know who they are messing with, I'm SO glad he's on my team."  1st Sgt. Bodette is one of those individuals. If you think I'm lying, google his name. he's a big deal.



 

True to his word, the hump was hell on earth. There’s a difference between hiking and humping. Hiking is for leisure. You stop, take breaks, and enjoy the view. Not so with humping. You move with speed and purpose. It’s a test of will. Almost like a power walk but you’re loaded down with gear. That hump will remain the most difficult hump I have ever done or will do in my life.  The California Mountain range we were climbing physically and mentally destroyed our company. Every time we thought we had crested the final ridge, another ridge line appeared in the distance. The mountains kept going up higher and higher stretching further and further.  Two and a half hours into the hump, the straps on my 75 lbs. pack had dug into my shoulders making my arms go numb. “Well, that’s one less thing to worry about,” I thought. Truth was I was in misery. The mountain seemed to go straight up, creating a gradual increasing strain on my back and a slow burn in my legs. I glanced around. Pain reflected in every sweaty face. Marines soon started dropping out like flies. I looked over. One junior Marine struggled to carry his weight beside me. I knew what I had to do. “Hey, strap the baseplate to the back of my pack.” Relief filled the younger Marine’s face as he gratefully added the weight to my pack. My misery turned to agony. But if there is one thing I take pride in, it’s my ability to hump a pack. I’ll go forever; it's simply a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Another Marine behind me was ready to drop out. “Hey,” I screamed at him, “Don’t quit! Grab on to the back of my pack, and let’s go!!!!” In reality I didn’t know how much further I could go myself. I looked over at Cole and Caterina for some mental reassurance and saw the same pain deep in their eyes. "Are we going to make it?" I wondered. We all did, but by the end of our day's hump, our company was stretched out over a quarter mile. It truly was a death march. I had been pushed physically and mentally past what I thought I could accomplish multiple times. The Marine who held onto the back of my pack the entire way thanked me as he limped off to sit down. “Mehari, I owe you,” he then looked down at his feet, and then back at me. In pain he smirked, "Think you can help me with these?" I already knew the drill. I took my K-bar knife out from my pack and cut his bootlaces off. His feet were so swollen from the weight he carried; he couldn’t get his boots off.


 


 

No one likes carrying weight.  It’s heavy, painful, and burdensome.  I think back to the physical weight I carried on the day I humped up the mountains.  No matter how slow or fast I walked, the weight followed me, firmly strapped on.  In fact I got so used to the weight that my body actually adjusted to it without me even knowing. It’s the same way in life as well. Some of us have baggage from our past that we carry around like a weight strapped to us.  Some of us walked around with this weight for so long that it is firmly entrenched within our lives without us even realizing it.  As we accrue this weight, it begins to control how we act, move, and look at life.  We begin to react from encounters and situations based off of this weight that we have collected. We begin to be defensive against people, shutting out those who actually do care and in turn, it drags us down and hinders us from being free.  In some instances it controls every aspect of our lives.

Those “some of us” sentences written in the above paragraph are directed at no one other than myself. I recently realized I was operating out of my hurt for a long time. I was carrying weight around that I really had no business to be still carrying around. It was preventing me from moving forward freely. Sometimes the burden of hurt shapes to yourself, and you begin to hold onto those things. I realized I was self-inflicting myself, and as a result I was walking around with a “chip” on my shoulder.

I began to seek out people where we had hurt each other. It was a long list, and I was shocked by the time I was finished writing it. Things with people ranged from simple misunderstandings to deep, entrenched hurt on both sides.  Let me tell you that there is NOTHING more frightening personally for me than confronting people who have either hurt me, or I them.  I would rather just say nothing, deal with it, and move on. I guess it was similar to the pain of having a bone healing improperly and the docs have to break it all over again to set it right. That’s exactly what I had to do. Some people accepted my apology; some wanted nothing to do with an apology.

 

Yet I walked away from it all free. I physically felt as if weights had fallen off my back. There is nothing more freeing than the words “I forgive you,” or asking for forgiveness. There truely is power in forgiveness.
 The more you can forgive, the more you can step closer to what you were truly called to live. A life lived in its full and deepest meaning...