When Good Doesn't Feel Good

Mitchell, Brody, Shannon, and Shelby,

Conventional wisdom: If you do good things for others, you will feel good.  That's why God's Grace is foolproof, because He knows that if He lets us off the hook, we'll get addicted to doing the right thing because we enjoy it and not because we're required to.

Except that doesn't work.  Not always.  Sometimes you do the right thing, and you know that you did the right thing, and it feels awful.  Someone close to you will tell you about how strong you were, but it doesn't make you feel better.

I'm a writer.  Not published yet, but I see the world as a writer does, with all sorts of possibilities with people, their motivations, their decisions, their consequences, and so forth.  I'm the person to ask when you want to think up of a situation where doing the right thing doesn't make you feel better.

Sometimes you have to let go of something, and you'll always feel sad without it.  But it's the right thing.

Sometimes you have to forgive someone for doing something unforgivable, and even though justice won't make you happy, neither will forgiveness.  So you're still unhappy.

Sometimes you have to compromise on something, because it's the only way to lose forward.

Sometimes you have to lay down your life for someone, and you especially won't be thinking to yourself about how good it feels.

Fact is, being selfless is against our nature.  Only Jesus could be selfless, because He was the Son of God, and He was God.  Only a triune deity, existing equally as three persons, could even begin to think outwardly.  Otherwise, every human being identifies as "self," and therefore it would be a paradox for us to be "selfless."  These words are opposites.

Except for when we take on the identity of Christ.  Then we're one in body with our fellow believers, and we're truly connected to others.

Still, being selfless isn't always easy.  We won't always be selfless, because we still have these sinful bodies.  And it will always be tempting for us to turn away from selflessness, because it simply isn't always pleasant.  Jesus Himself pleaded with the Father to lift the burden of His death from Him.  And then He walked off to His trial anyway.

Not because this act of giving made Him feel good. It had reached a point where it didn't matter if He felt good about Himself, or about whether or not He could live with a guilty conscience.  He was under enough temptation that He would have gladly shirked His duty and lived with that conscience.  The pain of crucifixion and then death vs. a lifetime of guilt?  Are you kidding me?  I'm human, and so I have the credentials to admit that I do things because I believe that a lifetime of guilt is a reasonable price to pay to spare me from the pain of selflessness.  I do it more often that I would like.

But Jesus didn't do that.  He walked the whole way, and He didn't do it because He was trying to avoid the guilt.  He did it out of love.

Sometimes I do the right thing when I really don't want to, and so many times I do it because I'm afraid of feeling guilty.  But there are times, mysterious enough as it is, that I think I might forsake my own happiness for a better reason.  Could it be that because God became suffering, that I have become more Christlike?

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

I Dreamed a Dream

Mitchell, Brody, Shannon, and Shelby,

When I was younger, this wasn't the song I cried to.  Then the movie came out, and I still didn't cry.  Then suddenly it hit me, when I saw Fantine appear before Jean Valjean at his deathbed.

Fantine was Jesus.

The Bishop was, too, actually.  A far more likely candidate.  I always honestly thought Colm Wilkinson looked like a silver-haired Jesus.  And since Colm Wilkinson played the original Jean Valjean, and since Jean Valjean was described upon his death as being a saint, that means that Jean Valjean, too, is Jesus.

But the point remains that the most unlikely candidate for God to reach down and say "You are the body of my only begotten Son" is Fantine.

A few months ago, something struck me pretty hard that brought me crawling to this song.  There was a dream I had, a hope that was wholesome and good, and I lost it.  It's gone.  It's over.  It's a done deal that it's never going to happen, that thing that I was really hoping for.  I'm going to die without that thing.  So I listened to this song, and it spoke to me.

And if Fantine is Jesus, how does that change my perspective on things?

The other song that I listened to during my depression was the first half of the Godspell finale.  The part where He says "Oh God, I'm bleeding, I'm dying, I'm dead."  Go ahead and find the song for yourselves.  I'm even providing a link for your.  It's that easy.  Just do it.

Do you hear that?  He's torn apart.  We make His death all PG-13.  We show it to our children.  We hang it up in public.  And because of that, maybe it's lost some of the impact.  What should be a tragedy is the subject of inspirational paintings, portraits of joy, and most grievously is flown around with all the same fanfare as the American flag.  Does that really make any sense?

If we were to actually put ourselves into Jesus' skin, what would it actually feel like?  Think about it.  This is a man dying.  It's not just physically painful, but it has all the dignity of a prostitute losing her life to her profession.  I would compare this to rape.  Who's going to glorify the rape of someone?  Who's going to make that the symbol of their religion and, God forbid, American pride?

Jesus is Fantine.  He's a woman who gave up all of her dignity to save a child.  He's a woman who could have lived a beautiful life, but had that stripped from her.

Does it not occur to us that Jesus might have had dreams?  He was human.  He had to have dreamed.  What must it have been like when He slowly had His life suffocated from Him?  Can't we hear it?  Can't we hear the shock when He cries out that He's bleeding?  He's in the process of losing everything, of vanishing from existence, of no longer being there for His mother, no longer having His friends.  And His friends have abandoned Him, His closest disciple outright denying Him.  Only two of the disciples bothered witnessing His death.  Out of all of the fullness and richness of life that could have been afforded to Him, He died very alone.

And then it hits Him.  He's dying.  He's actually dying.  This is it.  This is the moment.  Everything that He had ever been and done was just about to become someone else's memory.  He could feel it coming upon Him, not as some distant future, but right around the corner.  How do you possibly make peace with that?

He's dead.

And there's silence.

The world closes in around Him, the blackness overtakes Him.  The entire curse of creation clamps down like the lid of a coffin.  He dies a man without anything.  He dies a victim.  He dies without fulfillment.  And all that He did, did any of it ever matter?

Fantine is Jesus, and by God she saved us all.

I listened to these songs because I felt that.  In my bones.  I was trying to find closure, but every time I did it was an act of denial.  The fact is, I might move on, but parts of me are now dead.  I will never have my life as it should have been.  And it really should have been.  It's just that the world is broken, and it's not fair.

We raise our children to believe that everything is going to be all fine, but how we have blinded them to reality.  In the real world, people die unhappy all the time.  On a planet with seven billion people, do we honestly believe that everyone goes to their graves fulfilled?  Can I convince myself to be happy for someone when an entire world full of hopes and dreams died with them when they stopped breathing?  And to think, those dreams might have come true.  When we lower them to the ground and gather around in black suits, does the eulogist talk about those dreams?  No, they talk about how great the person was, how they smiled all the time, how they were fulfilled, and so forth, and it's not true.  The majority of all people live out unfair lives, and they die unfair deaths.

I have one last dream left in me, and I'm crying because I don't know if it will ever come true.  Just a few days ago, someone told me "we would explode the world with creativity!"  That's what I want.  I really have a vision for this, changing the world and history itself using my God-given gifts.  I want to be like Walt Disney.  That's my dream.  That's the kind of difference that I want to make.  But so far I'm still an obscurity, and I've been afraid for so long of how unlikely this dream is that I've suppressed it.  But now I've just been reminded of how badly I want this.

I live for two reasons.  To talk as much about Jesus and Grace as I can, and on account of these things overflow with abundant creativity.

When I die...

I don't want to think about it.

In any case, I've pondered the mystery that I will join the many, many other people who died unfair deaths after living unfair lives.  And before any of you try to tell me to think positive, let me remind you: Anne Frank.  There's no way in Heaven that you're going to tell me that her life was a celebration.  She wanted to be a Hollywood actress, and what she got was the last portion of her short life oppressed and directionless.  When she died, what did her life amount to?  Yes, her journal made a difference for us, but it didn't make a difference for her.  She died a meaningless death.

And I don't want to live and die without meaning.  I actually want to live out the identity that I have for myself.  I want to explode the world with creativity.  I have an imagination, people inside of my head that I want the whole rest of the world to see, and I owe it to them that they shouldn't die with me, that they should never be alone.

And if I find myself dying...I feel as if the entire world is dying with me.

The entire world died with Jesus.

And, of course, all who believe in Him will share in His resurrection.  For that reason, I know, many of us can be happy and hopeful when a loved one dies.  But it doesn't completely wipe away the emptiness I feel inside.

When Dillon died, I hated death.  I still do.  There's nothing that I hate more.  I hate it.  It's my worst enemy, my most personal nemesis.  It's unfair.  It's terrible.  It's unspeakable, and beyond my ability to describe.  I'm still angry with Death, and I want to expose him for who he truly is, for the entire world to see.

I want to see more people realize their most secret of dreams.  I want more people to rob Death of his sting.  He will still take them physically, but maybe fewer people will have to die as Jesus did.

But in the meantime?  Those people who die unfair deaths at the end of unfair lives?  They're Jesus.  Their dreams are like Christ.  Maybe we should give them a little respect.

Sincerely,
John Hooyer

Jane the Baptist

Chapter 1: The Family Reunion

The girl in a blue and white dress ran down the hallway to the kitchen.  The sun seeped through the slots in-between the window blinders, and there were no adults around, no one to see her, so the eight-year-old Julie stood on her tippie toes to turn on the faucet.  She opened the dishwasher and took out a clean glass, and then she filled it to the top.

Still no adults around, she held the cup with both hands and snuck out the kitchen door, into the backyard.  Her three cousins were there, paying a visit.  Mary, Michael, and Joseph.  Julie held up one hand from her cup to hold a finger to her lip, and handed the cup to Mary.  She held it close to her chest and brought her brothers into the garden.

Julie then ran next door to the neighbor's house and knocked the secret password on their back porch door.  There was the sound of light footsteps, and Matt, Mr. and Mrs. Shannon's five-year-old son, opened the door a crack to peek and see if it was her.

"Come on, Matt!  My cousins are here, so we can do it now!"

"Alright.  Where are we going?" said Matt.

"They're waiting in my parent's garden.  My parents are busy looking at pictures with my aunt and uncle, so we won't get caught.  But we have to hurry!"

Matt followed Julie to her cousins, who stood by a row of colorful flowers.  Julie took Matt by both hands looked him straight on.

"I'm ready," he said.

She looked him up and down, wondering if she was forgetting something, but he was right, and he was ready.  Mary handed her the the cup, and they all lined up to face Matt.  Julie took the cup.

"Matt, do you want to do the will of Jesus?"

"I do."

"And everyone here, do you promise to help Matt grow in the ways of Jesus Christ, our Lord?"

"We do," said her cousins.  "God helping us," added Mary.

"Do you accept in one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins?"

"I do."

"Do you confess that Jesus is the only Son of God?"

"I do."

Julie drew a cross in the air with her finger, and then dipped it into the cup.

"Matthew Bennett Shannon, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  You are a new creature in Christ."

She touched sprinkled his head with water, and the other children gathered around to put their hands on him.

~~~~~

Steven Shannon would be home late today.  He didn't mean to be, but by some twist of fate, three people called in sick, and someone had to pick up their work to meet the needs for the day.  It all came straight to his desk, and he filled out twice as much paperwork as he had expected to.

The sun was going down, and he took a slip outside during a coffee break to get some fresh air.  He looked to his left and saw George Keats, a fellow coworker, a ways further down along the building, standing alone in the parking lot.  His suit was in one hand, strung over his shoulder.

"This might be the first time I'll ever leave the building at the same time as you," said Steven.

"This day sure does suck for you, doesn't it?"

"I had to work longer hours when I was young.  Speaking of which, are these new hours of yours wearing on your health?  We haven't talked in a while.  How are the kids?"

"Nope.  My body can handle overworking myself.  Stress isn't getting to me too much.  I've been paying the bills, et cetera, and doing well.  As for the kids, they're great.  They're a bit older and rebellious, but I don't have to hold their hand all the time.  I actually find them more fun this time around than when they were so tiny, because they argue with me, and they always have something coming for them.  Matt is like what, three?  Too young to have opinions.  But Trevor and Lacy, my goodness.  'Dad, I think you should get us a television.  Dad, I'm too young to have to be paying for my own cell phone bill.'"  George rubbed his hands together and grinned like a demon.  "And I'm like, 'Ohhhh, now this is what I've been waiting for.  I had to be a pushover when your self-esteem was so fragile, but now I can show my true colors and throw the book at you!'  It's great.  You have no idea.  I love it."

"Sounds like you," said Steven.

George let his coat slide off his shoulder and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the inside pocket.

"I didn't know that you smoked."

"Well that's because you've never seen me late at night.  I don't do it when most people are here.  All of the questions people have over my health are sickening.  Do a favor, though, and stand on the other side of me.  I can tell that you're downwind right now."

Steven switched spots, and just looked at George.  It had been a while since they had talked, and they used to know each other fairly well as far as coworkers go.  It seemed like all possible conversations had been tread already, and there was nothing new to talk about, except that even now George remained something of a mystery.  Outspoken, confident, opinionated.  There was always something more to find out, but he still felt like he hardly knew him.

George sucked in another lungful of fumes and breathed out.  The smoke swirled.

"I'm assuming that you plan on quitting sometime," said Steven.

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Have you ever noticed that there are different types of smokers?"

"I know what you're talking about.  There's the scum, then the trash, then the factory workers who are better than both but still smoke anyway.  Somewhere in the middle there are the James Deans, the well-intentioned but stressed-out single mothers who didn't have the proper parental guidance and maybe saw one too many rated R films, and the optimistic high schoolers who think that they're invincible.  Then there are the philosophers, the aristocrats, and businessmen like me.  High society types, and I'm not smoking like a high society type."

"I'm trying to figure out what type of smoker you are."

"Oh, that's easy," said George.  He faced Steven, leaning against the wall, and before he continued, he turned his head around and blew out in the opposite direction.  "Actually, it's hard, because I decided that it would be hard to explain when I first started.  You won't figure out.  Active verb.  Well, forget it.  Passive verb: You'll find out, because I'll tell you.  Ha."  He blew in the other direction again.  "But first, you asked me if I planned tot stop.  Like you were assuming the best in me.  What a polite way of addressing a lifestyle choice that you disagree with."

"Yeah, I disagree with it.  But I respect your decision."

"Well the answer is, of course I will stop smoking."

"Do you know when?"

"Yes, whenever I want.  I have a contact who specially makes these cigarettes.  They have all of the poisons with none of the nicotine.  I'm not addicted.  I have to work myself into kissing this blasphemy.  But here's the point," he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth with his right hand and pointing at him, "It's not a fashion choice.  It's not a philosophy.  I want people to think it is, like I'm the kind of guy who smokes because I can do whatever I want because I don't care.  I don't smoke like a philosopher.  I smoke like scum."

"Hm.  Fair enough.  Hey, can I have that pack?"

"Sure," said George.

Steven held up the pack and shook it.  "Mind if I keep this?"

"It wouldn't make a difference, but I get the point.  One was enough to get us talking.  Interesting conversation so far?"

"Yeah, sort of.  Why did you start?  I'm just curious.  I've never hung out around smokers much, and I never related to it.  And you're not scum, so I'm even more confused.  I always wondered why people started if they knew what the consequences were.  There's no benefit, no logical reason, nothing that motivates them, and even if it's peer pressure, it doesn't make sense.  And of course, I never asked, because with most people that might just sound judgmental.  It makes me genuinely curious, though."

"Easy," said George.  "Each time you smoke a cigarette, you shave seven minutes off your life.  It's a socially acceptable form of suicide.  And I hate myself.  Everyone knows that I don't care what others think and that I'm confident.  Well: I confidently hate myself.  You smoke, and you're punishing yourself with the future.  It's an easy way to go.  You get there, and you're a bit older, and when death comes along, the end of life feels like the end of life either way you go, whether it's at age eighty or eighty-seven.  You don't feel those seven minutes that you lost.  And I'm sure that in the future, I'll be a nice guy.  I'll start loving myself again, but I want to punish myself before I can change my mind.  It's the perfect masochism, punishment without pain.  I will feel the hatred I had against myself even when I don't feel that way any more.  I'll be the past and the present, and upon my death, I'll have a holistic picture of myself, because I will simultaneously value and celebrate my life while dying on account of my own hatred of it.  All I ever was, in that one moment."

"Which is kind of scummy."

"Exactly, so you're catching on."

"And also philosophical, so your still something of a high minded smoker."

"Well, I never said I wasn't a hypocrite.  Seriously, though, if you think about it, why do you think people start smoking?  It's because they don't want to give their future selves a chance.  They want to sabotage the good person that they don't think that they're worthy of becoming.  I'm just the one madman who knows what he's doing."

George finished his cigarette.  He slipped his suit back on, and headed toward the entrance.  Steven looked at his clock.  He still had an hour left to go.  It would be dark.  He would have missed dinner.  Matt would be waiting for him.  He would feel emotionally exhausted when he got back, but maybe a little satisfied.  He definitely respected the venerable Mr. Keats for the rogue that he was.  Some people might not have expected it, but the Keats children were remarkably intelligent and stable, and they admired their parents.  His friend George was a remarkable father.

And still, a mystery.  Maybe he wasn't meant to understand.  Steven returned to work with his mind on home, knowing that he would return with a greater appreciation for the father he was, for the son he had, and for just how unique the Shannon life was.

With this on his mind, the remaining work passed in a flash.  He packed up, shut down the offices, and left with another one of his coworkers.  In his peripheral vision, he saw George leaving with Nancy, who worked in the office next to him.  In the distance, he could hear George cooking up the typical Keats dialogue with her.

"Of course, of course, I understand that, but how do you know that that's what you believe?  Have you actually been that sort of parent with your child?  And you ultimately won't know, will you, until they leave the house, and you're going to be filled with doubts for the first few years.  See, my methods are scientific and proven, so my self-confidence isn't an illusion.  You have great ideas, though.  Keep it up.  I accept that society needs guinea pigs like you.  Or rather, your children."

Steven laughed as he got into his car.

~~~~~

When he arrived home, he smelled dinner cooking.

"LaVerne?  Thank you, honey!"

He entered the kitchen and found her reading a book at the table.  Her humble features were so restful, and when she looked up at him, he felt the equivalent of a musical leitmotif, that feeling he always got when he arrived home.  The feeling that said, as redundant as it was, "Home!"

"I figured that since you would be late, I would wait on dinner.  How does it smell?"

"Good.  Hey, is that enough casserole for the three of us?  Matt should be in bed by now."

"I let him have some snacks out of the refrigerator to keep him fed enough, but he still has plenty of room left for dinner, which he should.  It's summer, by George, and he doesn't need to go to bed early every night, and I wanted to make sure that the whole family eats dinner together.  I don't want to make any exceptions."

"Okay, good idea.  Thanks for thinking of that.  Now where is Matt?  Matt!"  He heard footsteps coming down from the second floor.  "How long until the casserole is ready?" he mumbled.

"Two more minutes."

"Okay, plenty of time to set the table."

Matt reached the ground floor and ran straight into his father.  Mr. Shannon bent down and caught Matt in his arms.  "Hey there, my little buddy!  Tell me everything!  How did your day go?  What did I miss out on?"

LaVerne, from her chair, said "Well I was solving puzzles with him for most of the day, but he went out to to play with the Du Mez family.  You had a nice time, didn't you Matt?"

"Lava?  Lava lava lava lava lava.  Don't spoil it all from me.  I want to hear it all from the man himself.  Matt, let's talk."

LaVerne set down her book and opened the oven door.

"I had an awesome time with Julie!  She's so nice and cool, and her cousins were over this time for a family reunion!"

"That's so cool!  How many cousins were there?  Tell me, how many?"

"She had three cousins.  Mary, Michael, and Joseph."

Well then it wasn't really a family reunion, thought Mr. Shannon.  "Was that all?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that their family is even bigger than that?"

"Really?"

"Yes," said Mr. Shannon.  "The Du Mez family is huge!  Julie has over twenty uncles and aunts!  It would be pretty awesome if they all came over, huh?"

In the background, LaVerne began setting the table.

"Wow!  But I still had an awesome time.  I love them so much!  And today's my new birthday, I think!"

"Your new birthday?  Silly, what, did she adopt you?  You know that that girl loves you so much!"

"No, she baptized me!  I'm a Christian now!"

LaVerne stopped in her tracks.  Mr. Shannon missed a beat, then looked in her direction.  She looked at her son, then at her husband.  In a soft voice, she rejoined the conversation.  "Matt, what do you mean by baptized?"

"Julie brought me out and baptized me.  Her cousins were around to be witness."

"That's good, Matt.  That's good," she said.

"Your mother and I are so proud!" said Mr. Shannon.  He matched eyes with her a second time, then looked away.  LaVerne reached out and placed her hand on the Bible at the center of the kitchen table.  "You know, I think that we should celebrate by reading a special Bible verse for this dinner.  Lava, do you have anything in mind?"

LaVerne began rubbing the Bible.  Mr. Shannon couldn't afford to wait, so he had to improvise.  "Just a second, I'll set the rest of the table."

"What sort of baptism was it?" she said.

"Julie sprinkled water on my head, like this," he made the gesture with his hand, with zero coordination.  "And I'm a new person in Christ."

"Do you know what that means?" she said.  Right next to her, Mr. Shannon completed setting the table, and opened the Bible.

"Ah, here.  Honey, what do you think of this?" he said.

Matt had already forgotten his mother's question.  With the table fully set, and his father flipping through the pages of the dinner Bible, his mind immediately became distracted by food.  He pulled up his chair, and began fiddling around.

LaVerne looked over at the verse her husband had selected.  "No, that's not the one.  John, chapter three."  She put on her reading glasses and flipped to those pages and cleared her throat.  "Matthew?  Are you listening?"

"Yes, Mom," he said, and he folded his hands and closed his eyes.

"No, Matthew.  Bible first, then prayer.  Remember?"

"Oh, right."  He put his hands on the plate and tried the best to pay attention.

Mr. Shannon sat down in-between them.  His wife read the chapter.

When she was finished, Mr. Shannon hesitated and looked at his son.  He waited for a moment, then said, "Well, wasn't that special?  An extra long Bible verse today.  So what did you learn about Baptism?"

"John baptized, and whoever is baptized is reborn," said Matt.

"Something like that," said Mrs. Shannon.  She glance over the rims of her glasses to Mr. Shannon.

Honey, why is is that just because I'm the head of the household, I'm the one who has to explain things to teach him tough lessons?  He cleared his throat.  "Well, um...maybe this is a lesson best suited for another day."  LaVerne raised her eyebrows at him.  It was subtle, but he just felt it.  Her prodding him, and him feeling guiltily tugged along.  "Well, you can see that the people being baptized here were adults, and they weren't Baptized until after accepting Jesus for who He was."

"Hey, I did that!" said Matt.

"That's good.  That's good.  Because that's exactly what Baptism is," said Mr. Shannon.  "Say, honey, would you say that there was a particular verse that stood out to you?:

Her was soft again, in that guarded sort of way.  "Well...I liked the part that said "God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through Him.  Whoever believes in Him is not condemned."

"That's good.  Very good.  Good lesson.  Now I'm hungry, and I know that Matt is especially hungry.  How about let's eat?"

They picked up their silverware, and Mr. Shannon engaged in lively talk with his son while Mrs. Shannon remained a silent observer.

~~~~~

Matthew was tucked in bed.  Mr. and Mrs. Shannon were alone in the master bedroom together.

As he took off his suit and tie, he said, "Well, I didn't see that coming."

"Steven, that was a disaster!  How could you have — "

"Done what, exactly?  LaVerne, what was I supposed to do?"

"Tomorrow, you go and talk to James Du Mez and let him know what his girl did."

"You know what?  It doesn't matter.  He's baptized.  It's a bit early.  It's not what we would have liked.  But what's done is done.  He said that he believed that he was saved by Jesus.  it sounds like he just wants to be a Christian like his mom and dad."

"Steven!  You know this matters to me!"

Steven grabbed LaVerne by the face and kissed her with all his might.  They fell sideways onto the bed.  "And you matter to me!  Lava Shannon, you're the most amazing mother ever, and you're so completely right, so I know.  I want to sort this through.  I'm going to sleep on it, and I want you to sleep on it, too.  And I promise you, I will talk this over with all the right people tomorrow."  He kissed her again, and he kissed her again.

"But — "

"I don't want to hear it.  I propose that we both feel too exhausted to argue."

"No, Steven!"

"Oh, alright.  What do you propose?"

"You talk to Matt tomorrow, and tell him about Jesus, and tell him about why he has to really understand salvation."

"You know, I was wondering earlier, why is it always me?"

"Because Matt looks up to you as the mentor.  If he ever remembers any lessons I teach him, it's always the emotional stuff.  But you're a man.  He wants to think logically with you.  He wants to learn logically with you.  That's how boys are."

"So if we had a daughter, it would be you teaching her about Jesus?"

"No, it would still be you," she pointed.

"H-what?"

"The father is the ambassador of absolutes.  It's just nature!"  And then she kissed him.

"LaVerne, even though I care, I know that you care more about this.  Please have something to do with our son's learning.  Please.  I'll still do the part you expect of me, but I want to know how you're going to mother him."

"I don't know.  I don't.  I wasn't expecting this, and...I just don't know.  But please, I'm counting on you to do something for me.  I love you."

Steven closed his eyes.  He was tired.  "Well, since you love me...I'm talking with James tomorrow.  Come here."

They hugged.

"Lava Shannon..."  You're my favorite Lava Shannon.

"I'm lucky to have you."

I'm kind of glad that she leaves this to me, come to think of it.  If this was all left to her, I swear the boy would have been "Baptized by Lava."

They fell asleep with her in his arms.  And Mr. Shannon had surprisingly very happy dreams about his son.