Defending Mayberry

Courageous

2011-10-26T09:22:00.000-07:00

I took my teenage sons to see the movie Courageous a couple weeks ago. I joked that my big, strapping boys cried like little girls.

I, on the other hand, cried like a man.

This movie is the fourth film produced by the media ministry of Sherwood Baptist Church in Albany, Georgia. I have seen three of the four productions with my sons. There is a strong chance that I enjoyed this movie more than the other two simply because I can better identify with being a police officer rather than a football coach or a firefighter. (Facing The Giants, Fireproof)

Although the story had it's weak moments and a rather slow start, it was a very moving film with a very poignant message and I was glad I stayed till the end.

It could be debated (and already has) that the film delivers a gospel of morality rather than a gospel of grace. It could also be argued that the genre Sherwood Baptist Church chose to deliver this message was intrinsic only to those with a perception of, or attachment to, law enforcement. With these two elements in mind, I thought it might be helpful if a "Christ-following cop" translated the overall application.

Let me begin by stating that I was very excited to finally see someone make a police drama that was realistic.

By "realistic" I do not necessarily mean that every element of the movie appeared authentic. As a police officer, It was easy to be critical of certain details in the way the actors wore their uniforms, drove their police cruisers, carried their firearms and dealt with the bad guys. I knew this aspect of the movie would be a bit cheesy, and to a point, it was.

By "realistic" I do mean that the movie depicted authentic elements of real life. Most police dramas skip over "real life" and focus only on the excitement of the unbelievable. The cop gets into three firefights during his shift, kills ten bad guys, wrecks three police cruisers, blows up a building, seizes a semi truck full of drugs, solves the entire case using the most futuristic forensics and never does a single page of paperwork. He goes home to his apartment, drinks a beer, cleans his gun, sharpens his knife and goes to bed, usually alone.

Real life in law enforcement has more to do with spending your career wading through the cesspools of society trying to make some sort of difference without losing your faith and your family in the process. It is never as sexy as Hollywood portrays. It is often mundane, heartbreaking and disappointing. Realistically, the most dangerous thugs any law enforcement officer deals with are often the demons of his own cynicism and disillusionment.

I can count on one hand, with a few fingers left over, the number of police officers I know that are happily married (to their first wife), investing quality time in their children, and firmly rooted in their faith. Apathy kills more police officers than bullets ever will.

For these "realistic" reasons I was excited to finally see a police drama centered on fatherhood, family and faith; the three bloodiest battlefields in law enforcement--or any career for that matter.

Courageous is the story of four members of the Albany, GA Sheriff's Department (plus one unsuspecting Hispanic construction worker) and their individual, yet common, struggles to save their families from becoming sad statistics.

Although this review will not delve into every detail of the story, I will give you the opening spoiler because the first scene sets the stage for the message of the movie.

An unidentified man (who we later find out is the newest addition to the Albany Sheriff's Department) is putting gas into his truck at a local filling station. He walks away from the vehicle for just a moment and some carjacking thug jumps into his truck and takes off, spinning his wheels out of the parking lot. The owner of the truck chases him down, grabs hold of the steering wheel and wrestles the thug through the driver's window for several blocks of heart pounding, camera shaking, road raging excitement.

The vehicle's owner finally forces the perpetrator to drive the truck off the road, crashing it into the ditch. The felon flees and the owner of the vehicle, who we are led to believe just wants to get back his precious truck, opens the back door revealing a small child strapped in a car seat.

As the responding deputies later recount the scenario of the situation, one of them looks at the other and says, "What would you have done? Would you have held on to the wheel?" They both walk away stunned by the father's brave tenacity to save his child.

Some theologians have critiqued that this opening scene portrays the overall tone of what they suspect throughout the entire movie: When crisis comes, roll up your sleeves, muster your own courage, hold on tightly and do whatever it takes to save your family. This magnifies our human strength and leaves little room for faith in the grace filled courage of the gospel.

I would respond, out of both respect and personal experience, that it takes strength far beyond your own to hold on to the wheel when the enemy carjacks your family, and even more of God's grace to win the fight.

Adam Mitchell, Nathan Hayes, David Thompson, and Shane Fuller portray four cops going through life dealing with the temptation of settling into the statistics. Then a heartbreaking tragedy wakes them from their mundane slumber and refocuses their purpose.

The rest of the movie takes them through the process of repentance, restoration and sanctification as they begin to deal differently with the trials and temptations at hand. As Deputy Adam Mitchell emotionally expresses to his family, "I don't feel like I started well. I want to finish well."

Each officer seems to symbolizes a certain persona of the modern day dad. Adam is the hard working man who puts in overtime to support his family, misses a lot of his kid's activities, and then comes home and sort of checks out in front of the TV. Nathan is the disciplinarian who shelters his daughter from the harshness of the reality he knows so well. David is the immature, self centered, eternal youth who left behind a pregnant girlfriend in college and never looked back. And Shane is a cynical, divorced father spending every other weekend with his son, doing whatever it takes to make ends meet.

You don't have to be a cop to resonate with any of those characters.

As far as the presentation or presence of the gospel in the movie, I was concerned with the perception of the "Let's make a radical change" mentality. Although there are strong elements of the gospel message in the film (Nathan shares the gospel message with David in a scene that looks and sounds like a Baptist evangelism strategy instructional video) it is not a perfect portrayal of the gospel of grace.

But the gospel was still displayed in a movie that a few hundred thousand people (or more) watched. It was shared without heresy, without compromise, and without hesitation. I think that is a definite win.

Now back to my opening statement about crying at a movie, to which I am sure you are very curious. I have never openly wept at a theatre until Courageous. What made me cry?

I cried because I am a struggling father that fails more that he succeeds. I cried because I have a stressful job, vulnerable kids and a depending wife. I cried because I know my weaknesses, limitations and inclinations to settle for less than God has provided and paid for through the gospel. But mostly, I cried because my wife, my children, my friends, my church and my co-workers need me to be so much more courageous than I am.

My life is not a movie. But if a movie can cast a shadow of my desperate need for grace, how much greater is it in reality?

All of this leads me, not to boast in my own strength, but to fall before the all sufficient strength of God, found only in the cross of Christ, proclaimed only in the gospel of grace.

With that in mind, maybe the movie accomplished exactly what it was meant to accomplish; not necessarily to be a course in Reformed Theology, but to be a decent wake up call for fathers everywhere; a wake up call to realize their own inclination towards apathy, cynicism and sin while revealing their desperate need for a strong, courageous Savior.

In retrospect, I would love to see a movie like this directed by a bunch of Young Restless & Reformed Calvinists. But until that happens, I suppose I'll just have to keep taking my sons to see movies produced by Sherwood Baptist Church.

Super Heroes, Baby Birds, and Second Grade Saviors

2010-08-26T07:24:00.000-07:00

The police department office is directly across the street from our city’s public grade school. I think that is a good thing, considering all the unspeakable acts that have taken place against our children in our nation’s schools over the past few years. The playground outside the school building is surrounded by a 4 foot chain link fence that is hardly impregnable, but serves as a clear and safe border between the children and the roadway.

Almost every time I leave the police department in my cruiser, a group of children run to the fence to greet me, waiving, screaming and acting like 7-year-olds act when freed from the confines of their classrooms. I generally feel pretty good about my job when I pass the playground—like I’m doing something significant—at least in the eyes of every second grade boy who wants to wear a uniform, strap on a gun belt and drive a police car.

But today as I pulled out of the parking lot preparing to turn right onto Central Avenue, the faces that pressed up against the fence line were different. The body language was the same as always—they were waiving, jumping up and down and screaming like howler monkeys at a fruit market—but there was a distinct, shared, look of anxiety and fear in their eyes.

As one little girl in the crowd squeezed her body through the swarm and forced her skinny little arm through a hole in the chain link fence to point to the roadway, I discovered the cause of their angst.

There in the middle of the busy street, oblivious to the passing vehicles, was a tiny ball of down feathers rolling from lane to lane with the blowing draft of the transitory cars and trucks.

At first I thought it was a small toy that had left the confines of the playground and rolled onto the roadway—perhaps a home run ball that had traveled over the fence and into traffic. But as I took a closer look, I noticed this “ball” had a beak attached to it, along with two skinny legs and one giant aura of helplessness.

The dread in the eyes of the children was not from the miniscule fear that a whiffle ball would be flattened; it was the nightmare come true of every 7 year old—the overwhelming horror that a tiny, fluffy, harmless baby bird would be squished in the roadway right before their very eyes.

Their fear was quickly transferred to me.

It takes a lot to rattle my emotions. Not because I’m super tough and mentally strong, but because I’m somewhat calloused and conditioned to be cynically stoic. I’ve seen some horrific things as a police officer—things people shouldn’t see—things that are as unmentionable as they are unforgettable.

An old cop once told me that our minds are like video recorders and our eyes like zoom lenses. The more graphic the image, the more likely it will stay locked away in the film-room of our minds. “The more blood and guts you can avoid focusing on, the better off you’ll be when you’re my age” he would say. But even with that good advice, I have more than enough explicit tragedy locked away in my video vault room.

The scene playing out in front of me was not all that horrific sounding in comparison. It was actually kind of miniscule in relation to most of my everyday dealings. The violence of this feathered creature being snuffed out on the roadway was not what was impacting my soul at the moment.

However, the thought of this baby bird being squished by the tire of a speeding car right in front of these little children, who most symbolized innocence in our community, was stabbing my heart. And all of this great tragedy happening before the one guy that symbolized safety and security to these children was more frightening to me than all the blood and guts I’ve waded through in these many years of law enforcement.

Even as I paused to form a rescue strategy of leaving my cruiser, running out into traffic and scooping up the helpless little creature, a large box truck with dual tires approached the scene in direct line with the baby bird. I cringed as I thought to myself, “I’m too late.” I thought about honking my horn or hitting my siren to divert the children’s eyes from the pending grizzly scene, but all I could do was squint my eyes, shrug my shoulders, and clinch my teeth.

And just then, as if shoved aside by an invisible protective hand, the ball of feathers rolled slightly towards the center of the roadway as the large truck passed just inches from transforming the fluffy fledgling into a Polaroid picture of a bird.

I had to act quickly and drastically. I swiftly turned on the overhead strobes and flashing lights while simultaneously punching the accelerator and hitting the siren. My police car only traveled about 10 feet from the parking lot to the center of the roadway, but it was just as intentional and adrenaline filled as any high speed chase I have ever been on.

The cruiser lurched forward and then came to an abrupt stop, complete with the emphasizing sound of screeching brakes, right in the middle of the street, shielding the baby bird and stopping rush hour traffic. The perplexed drivers weren’t sure if this action signified a criminal roadblock, a hasty speed trap or a runaway police car jutting unmanned into oncoming traffic.

Then—almost in one complete motion—I exited my car, scooped the baby bird off the pavement, walked over to the crowd of miniature citizens gathered at the playground fence, and handed it to the little girl with the skinny arms.

“Thank you Mr. Policeman.” The little girl said as she lowered the bird to her waist, cradling it in her hands. The rest of the crowd gathered around her to inspect the unscathed critter. “Don’t thank me. You saved the bird—I just answered your call.”

Truth is, you never know when “answering a call” might just be answering a prayer.

As I turned to retrieve my police car from the traffic jam it was creating and release the line of backed up commuters, the entire mob of children at the fence did an about face almost in complete unison. They moved as an army of one towards the center of the playground shouting and singing victory chants in celebration of their triumph. The bird was in the center, wrapped in persevering hands, attached to the skinny arms of it’s would be savior.

A cynical smile crept across my face as I wondered to myself if I had actually rescued the fledgling or simply prolonged the inevitable. But the victory of the moment overcame my pessimism and convinced me that a shoebox in a 2nd grade classroom is a better chance at survival than a busy city street—any day.

Either way, I felt good about being a cop that day. I discovered that paying attention to the smallest things often reaps the most valuable rewards. A wise man once said, “It’s not the hero that makes the moment—it’s the moment that makes the hero.” I suppose that’s somewhat true, especially in the desperate eyes of hopeful 2nd graders and helpless baby birds.

You Can't Get There From Here

2010-04-08T08:19:00.000-07:00

The long line of static traffic leads like a fuse to the billowing black smoke rising from the interstate. The thick cloud blotts out the sun. I am directing ten lanes of traffic at the bottom of the exit ramp trying to get the vehicles off the closed down highway.

I-64 east bound would be closed for the evening: Four fatalities in two burning cars—one a small child.

It is a small act of God to reroute people who have their internal GPS set on a routine destination. When the daily flow is upset and detours are necessary, some people lose all sense of direction. And some just lose all their sense.

I would love to be able to lean into the window of every driver passing my post this evening and give them complete directions, along with a smile, and perhaps a pat on the back for being such a good and patient driver, but the volume of vehicles in this spaghetti junction depending on my whistle and arm motion for their life’s next breath prohibit me from being so cordial.

Still, they stop and ask.

Driver: “Officer, I’m trying to get to Charleston. Which way should I go?”
Me: “Sir, follow Route 60 east and get back on the interstate after Milton.”
Driver: “Thank you!”
Me: “Your welcome”

Pretty easy huh? Now multiply this by one thousand, while keeping the directional fortitude for the ten lanes of traffic that are crowded with confused drivers hanging on your next authoritative move to guide their vehicle through this jacked up junction and on to their Promised Land.

Next Driver: “Excuse me…I have got to get to Huntington to pick up my daughter from dance class. How can I get there from here?”
Me: “I-64 west is wide open. That’s been the way to Huntington since they put the interstate in Ma’am.” I say with a smile.

Like I said, take someone two blocks out of their routine and they lose all sense of direction.

Next Driver: “Hey, what’s going on?”
Me: “Oh nothing much, what’s going on with you?”
Driver: “No, I mean what happened? Is there a wreck or something?”
Me: “Yes, a very bad one. That’s why I’m out here directing traffic. (I’d love to sit down with you over a cup of coffee and describe every detail so you can be more informed, but I’m a little busy right now).” (Parenthetical thought)
Driver: “Oh, sorry”
Me: “I know, it's ok"

It’s getting hot. As the sun beams down on my unprotected head, beads of sweat congregate on my brow just above my Oakley’s. I can feel the perspiration rolling down my torso under my uniform. Polyester and perspiration make uncomfortable bedfellows. My vest locks in the heat as my cotton t-shirt absorbs the steam.

I had been drinking from a cold, plastic water bottle--my own fountain of comfort in this sticky pressure cooker of traffic hell, but I made the mistake of sitting it down in the middle of the intersection while I directed traffic.

I stepped off center for one light cycle to give directions to a wayward driver, and a black Honda snuck out of the Sheetz parking lot, cut through the intersection toward the Mall and ran over the cool canteen crushing my only form of refreshment, spilling its lifeblood onto the hot asphalt.

Next Driver: “HEY! When are you going to let us go? You let that line of traffic go twice and we are still sitting here! Come on!”

Me: (I first stop everything, walk up to the driver’s side window of the hostile operator, lift my sunglasses to rest on my forehead, lean into the window, pause for an uncomfortable five seconds to gain composure, replacing all the words I want to say with these)

“Ma’am, there is a reason for doing what I am doing. The vehicles that I let go through the intersection for two complete light cycles are coming off the interstate which has been closed due to a tragic accident that killed four people, one of them being a small child.

You are in the lane leading to the Mall. I realize that you are in a hurry to get to the Mall and do some shopping before it closes, but you are in the low priority lane.

(In just a moment I will let your lane go and when I do you can go shopping and then go home where you will probably fix dinner for your family and then sleep in a comfortable bed. When you get there, I will still be here directing traffic, and the families of those who perished will still be weeping over their tragic losses.) Another Parenthetical thought

You are clear to go now, have a nice day.”

As I walked back to the middle of the intersection to lead the symphony of the rhythm-lacking autos, two black transport vans from the medical examiners office enter the intersection onto the median of the snarled interstate, passing the stagnate traffic to pick up their precious cargo.

I pause in silent respect, reflecting on my own family and the grace that has been extended to me this day.

The silence is broken by the horn cussing of another angry commuter as the cars from the Mall lane pass slowly by—some feeling guilty from over hearing my sermon to the lead driver, others wondering whether they will eat dinner at Chick Fillet or Big Loafer.

The Ride of Your Life...For Just Three Dollars

2010-03-29T17:02:00.000-07:00

Eugene Porter brought his wife and four kids to the city the other day for a shopping trip. I can easily refer to Mayberry, B'Ville as the "city" when comparing it to the hollow in Lincoln County where the porter's trailer sits on cinder blocks and a prayer.

They came without money, only a food stamp card and a 1/4 tank of gas. Eugene later told me he left home that day without much of a plan. I speculated he had lived most of his life in that way. He was a large man with an unshaven face. It could be said that he had a beard, but the scruff on his chin and cheeks grew so unevenly and appeared so dirty that it was difficult to tell hair from poor hygiene. He was as round as he was tall and had hands as big as catchers mitts. But there was nothing foreboding about Eugene. He was harmless and gentle; soft-spoken and even polite.

I guess every man at sometime or another comes to a place in their life when they are sick of being poor, disrespected, humiliated and unable to give their family what the Great American comparison tells them they have to have.

It is said that desperate men do desperate things in desperate times. For Eugene Porter that time came as he drove through the WalMart parking lot glancing in the rear view mirror at his four small, dirty white t-shirt clad sons leaning forward from the unbuckled seats of the Plymouth family minivan.

"I didn't know what come over him" said his wife, Marybeth, in a country twang that sounded identical to Llewelen's wife, Carla Jean from the movie "No Country for Old Men". "He ain't never been in any trouble before. He ain't never done anything like this before! I tried to stop him, but he had a crazy look in his eyes...like it was someone else taken over him."

Something had taken over Eugene that day in the WalMart parking lot. It happens sometimes even to normal men, when desperation comes face to face with opportunity. Four hungry kids, one unimpressed wife, 1/4 tank of gas and a few dollars on a food stamp card, all in the backdrop of the nation's largest grocery and goods bonanza...and there to the right of his dirty minivan lay the opportunity to get more, be more and have more.

Barbara Mills had just wheeled the silver grocery cart to the side of her Honda Accord to load her plastic bags of abundance into the back seat of her conservative coupe. Barbara was a school teacher, almost of retirement age, who had a no-non-nonsense look to her clean cut and athletic build. She looked as if she was the type of woman who carefully calculated every step of her life keeping a skillful eye out for anything that might be out of order. But today, Mrs. Mills miscalculated.

As she unloaded the shopping cart from front to back, Barbara left her purse unsecured in the rear child seat of the buggy, which also just happened to be jutting out into the driving lane of one dirty white minivan driven by one Eugene Porter.

Before anyone could make a rational decision or even a preventive reaction, the large, hairy, catchers mitt of a hand shot forth from the Lincoln County limousine and snatched the purse from the shopping cart like a bald eagle's talons on a rainbow trout.

Barbara screamed for the perpetrator to freeze. Marybeth begged her man to stop, and the four Porter brothers cried from the rear of the van in a twangy unison, "No Daddy, No!" which, in the heat of the moment, could have been mistaken for "Go Daddy Go!"

Fueled by the crime of his life, the fearful snarl of his victim' and the cheers from his sons, Eugene Porter smashed the gas pedal to the floor and tore from the scene in a front wheel frenzy. With purse in one hand and steering wheel in the other he screamed off the lot, down the access road towards the highway to financial freedom as he blocked his face with his opposing shoulder from the flurry of punches coming from Marybeth's two closed fists.

He finally got everyone calmed down at the next red light after promising to take the purse back in a surrender of temporary insanity. But unbeknownst to Eugene Porter, this ride had just begun.

Glancing in his rear view mirror he watched in disbelief as a sleek white Honda Accord came around the corner of the parking lot on two wheels. The tiny car got larger and larger as it approached the dirty minivan while the angry face of the victimized school teacher became more and more visible.

It became shockingly evident that Mrs. Mills was not the only one who miscalculated today. As he was about to find out, Eugene had grabbed the wrong purse from the wrong lady.

The light turned green just in time for the minivan to clear the intersection ahead of the Honda and put some distance between victim and suspect. But the Accord gave furious chase. The two speeders crossed Hall Road and headed out to open highway on old route 65.

As Eugene rounded the corner of route 65 he lost control of his speeding death machine and smashed into an oncoming pickup truck causing heavy front end damage to the van and blowing the right front tire. The diver of the pick up truck, oblivious to what was going on, stopped his vehicle to check the damage. But with the crime still in full passion and the victim quickly becoming the assailant, Eugene kept the pedal to the floor skidding down route 65 in a shower of sparks generated from the bald rim on the asphalt.

He attempted to elude the chase car by ducking into the Montvaille subdivision off the side of the road, but Mrs. Mills was no sucker for shenanigans. With 30 years of teaching a generation of children, she was skilled in the fine art of reading behaviors and act beforehand to prevent them.

As the Plymouth made a wide turn into the subdivision, the smaller white Honda cut a smaller turn into the radius smashing into the side of the getaway van. Eugene was no longer driving to escape a crime; he was running for his life. In a desperate move he flung the purse from the minivan like the deadly, poisonous snake it was. But Mrs. Mills was no longer interested in the purse.

The chase continued throughout the Montvaille subdivision as frightened neighbors ran to their houses to call police. Although 911 had already been inundated with calls from the original purse snatching and the smash up derby along route 60, in the hysteria of the activity, no one could give an accurate vehicle description or location of events.

Police cars with lights and sirens were flying up and down route 65 following the gouge marks and shattered vehicle debris scattered along the roadway, not realizing that the chase was now going on in a quiet subdivision off the main highway.

Eugene finally found the exit of the subdivision which propelled the dirty white minivan back out onto route 65 in the same direction he had just traveled. With police cars closing in, Mrs Mill's Honda still riding his back bumper, Marybeth pleading and the four Porter boys crying and slinging snot all over the back of the Plymouth, Eugene Porter finally made the most rational decision he had made all day and brought the vehicle to a rest in the sanctuary of a local church parking lot off to the side of old route 65.

He exited the van and walked calmly to the rear of the vehicle creating a space between his innocent family and everyone who wanted to kill him...perhaps the most honorable and thoughtful thing he had done in his life.

As the first of many police cruisers shot in on the scene, Eugen raised his hands in passive surrender to the cops in a parallel effort to be rescued from the wrath his relentless victim who stood off to the side of her battered Honda shouting, "Arrest that man!" in a commanding teacher-like voice.

The traumatic shock of the incident, the tunnel vision from the chase and the deafening police sirens and blinding lights turned Eugene into a pillar of stone, unresponsive to the commands of the gun drawn officers to "Get down on the ground!"

After four or five ignored commands, "assistance" was then given to Eugene Porter to lie prone on the asphalt of the church parking lot. As the arresting officers straddled the startled suspect restraining his arms to be cuffed, the miniature army of t-shirt clad Porter boys descended on the struggle. "Don't beat up our daddy!" the cried, watching in horror as the arrest was affected.

Marybeth quickly gathered the small boys up and put them back into the minivan more concerned about the whereabouts of the driver from the white Honda than all the police in B'ville.

Mrs. Mills was not interested in the other occupants of the getaway car. In fact, she didn't even know the children where in the back of the van. All she focused on was the large, hairy hand of the man who mistook her for just another helpless victim. "That's him! He's the one who stole my purse!"

With the perp caught, cuffed and stuffed, a state trooper returned to the scene with Mrs. Mills purse. Curious as to what motivated a retiring school teacher to go Dukes of Hazzard on the asinine assailant, and for the accuracy of the police report, I asked the victim about the contents of the purse.

"Oh it only had three dollars in it. But it was the principle of the whole thing. It was my purse. It wasn't his just for the taking." The schoolteacher answered.

Eugene Porter was crying like a baby in the back of the police cruiser as he contemplated what prison may be like, Marybeth was sobbing uncontrollably in the passenger seat of the totalled minivan, and the four Porter brothers had a story to tell their friends at the Lincoln County Grade School that would rival most personal accounts of every police officer at the scene.

It was the ride of their life...all for just three dollars.

Getting Dakota Home

2010-03-16T08:06:00.000-07:00

As I walked into the department store loss prevention office I noticed nothing different than the hundreds of other times I have been there. Loss prevention officer standing in the doorway, stolen merchandise displayed on the desk and the presumed guilty party handcuffed, sitting in a chair.

The loot? One pair of leather Harley Davidson motorcycle boots, size 10. The suspect? A 20-something girl named Dakota, fresh out of rehab with that “weary” look of paying the devil for her addiction.

After the suspect was processed, fingerprinted, and photographed, I wrote her a city citation for shoplifting and released her from the store.

Heading back to my cruiser parked across from the department store, I braced at the cutting wind. The temperature was 32 degrees, but the night air and the wind chill made it feel more like 20. I drove across the mall parking lot heading towards the exit road when I saw Dakota walking beside the roadway headed towards the interstate.

Pulling up next to her I rolled down the window, “Where are you going? You can’t walk on the interstate.” She looked at me through her tightly wrapped hood and said, “I’ve got to get home.”

“Where’s home?” I asked, hoping it was far enough out of my jurisdiction that I wouldn’t have to deal with her again. “About 60 miles east” she said rather hopelessly. “Don’t you have someone you can call to pick you up?” I asked, again more with the anticipation of getting her off my beat and out of my hair.

“I don’t have a phone, and even if I did, I don’t have anyone to call. I’m not from here. I came here to go through rehab. Now that rehab is over I got nowhere to go. I just want to go home.” She said through broken breaths trying to block the sharp wind from her face with her hand.

“Get in.” I commanded in an aggravated tone. “I can’t let you freeze to death.”

I drove to the end of the access road and parked. “What am I going to do with you now?” It was really a rhetorical question, but like pulling my finger from a hole in a dam, out spilled the response in the form of an emotional plea that even this cynical cop knew was at least a little authentic.

“I came here to get off the stuff. I just went through rehab. I have a new born baby boy at home living with my mom. I did it for him. I have no one here.” Then came tears, “I have no money, no ride, no friends, no family, no phone…I have nothing.” She heaved through broken sobs, crying harder with each word that spilled from her mouth, “And I need...to get...back...home.”

“So you kicked your habit, but you are still out here stealing? Harley boots, size 10, who were they for—a drug dealer?” I shot back, not about to be taken in by the crocodile tears of a heroin addict.

“I stole the boots for a guy who said he’d give me a ride home for the trade.” She shot right back without a hesitation.

I paused for a moment looking at the pitiful creature in my back seat through the rear view mirror. Then I heard it, not audibly of course, still holding fast to my sanity, but I still heard it—a still small voice attempting to break through my hard skepticism, “Go ahead; take a chance.”

It was a chance. Drug addicts only do one thing really well and they do it better than any one else. They lie. I have been burned by these lies before, each time swearing that I will not fall for it again. Add to that my daily inundation of con artists, thieves and delinquents of all sorts and my cynicism becomes obvious and apparent.

But there was something different going on here—a different kind of plea. Dakota didn’t ask for money. She wasn’t seeking to be reconnected with friends that could “hook her up”. She didn’t want to hitch a ride to the neighboring city where the drugs were readily available. She just wanted to go home.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands as I mumbled under my breath, “I hope I don’t regret this”, then picking up the radio mic I informed dispatch that I would be transporting one female to the Greyhound Bus station in H’Town. I gave the dispatcher my beginning mileage and headed for the interstate.

Dakota didn’t say a word until we got to the bus station. As I opened the back door for her to step out she quietly said, “I thought you were taking me to jail.”

“You want to go home don’t you?” I replied

I walked her into the station and checked the bus schedule. It was now 10:30pm and the next bus for Dakota’s home town didn’t leave till 5:30 am the next morning. I gave the attendant $35.00 for a one-way, non-refundable ticket.

The bus station attendant looked at us like she was trying to figure out what was going on—a police officer in uniform buying a ticket for a disheveled young girl. I leaned over the counter and whispered with a mysterious tone, “She’s in the witness protection program…got to get her out of town.”

Dakota looked at me with a suspicious smile as I winked at her and handed her the ticket.

“Don’t be late,” the attendant said, “The bus leaves right at 5:30.”

“She’ll be here.” I said.

But already I was regretting my decision. I just bought a bus ticket for a complete stranger that I had very recently cited for shoplifting who just so happens to be a recovering heroin addict. It was 10:30pm and the bus doesn’t leave until 5:30am. What am I going to do with this girl for the next seven hours?

Dropping off a drug addict at a bus station for seven hours would be like taking an alcoholic to a bar to wait for his AA meeting. This part of town was infested with predators of all sorts and the bus station was their breeding ground.

I could call my wife and say, “Honey, I have a heroin addict that needs a place to stay, do you think she could sleep in our guest room?” I raked my hand over my face in frustration thinking to myself, “What have I got myself into.”

In a last ditch effort to get Dakota to the bus station on time and get her safely home, I went to the city mission and spoke to the on duty personnel director. “I have a girl that needs a place to stay for about seven hours.”

He looked at me with that, “I’ll do you a favor because you are a cop” look and said, “Sure thing. Let’s walk over to the women’s dorm and see what they got.”

It was going to be a cold night so the mission had already enacted the “turn no one away” policy. As we walked through the front door there were bodies all over the tile floor wrapped in blankets; entire families huddled together waiting out the night in the warm hallways of the mission.

“We got her a room.” Said the night manager, more confident than surprised, as if he were doing me a personal favor—which I guess he was. “Good deal.” I replied in approval.

I then turned to Dakota and pointed to her sternly with a parental tone, “5:30. You be there, ok?”

“I’ll be there.” She replied half-heartedly.

I thanked the night manager of the mission, got back in my cruiser and headed back to Mayberry.

I then finished up the paperwork, ended my shift and got home at about 1am. As I lay there in bed I couldn’t help but think with my skeptical mind, “She’ll never make it to the bus station. She’ll oversleep and then end up back on the streets of H’Town looking for money and doing whatever it takes to earn her survival.”

“Oh well, I did my part. I went above and beyond to help this girl. The rest is up to her.” I thought, trying to console my concern.

At exactly 5am my alarm went off. Not the alarm from my night stand clock, but the alarm from my conscience. “Get up, go to the mission and get her to the bus station. If you don’t she’ll never make it home.”

There was that voice again. Always reminding me that I took this job to make a difference, not for the big salary and free coffee at 7 Eleven.

So like a zombie under hypnosis, I rose from my warm bed, threw on some clothes and headed out. “Where are you going?” My wife asked, half awake and fully alarmed at my early departure. “I have to go help someone. I’ll be right back with the details.”

I drove my truck into town hoping that I would not even have to make contact with Dakota again. Maybe I would drive past the bus station and she would miraculously already be there. Maybe I would go by the mission and they would tell me that she walked out the door soon after I left, disappearing into the night on the dark streets of H’Town.

I drove past the bus station and saw no one. The building was empty and the lights were dimmed. The lot was bare except for one lone idling bus on the lot which I presumed was Dakota’s bus. It too was empty.

So I drove back to the mission expecting the latter of my fears to be reality.

I rang the mission door bell and a different night manager answered through the wall mounted security speaker, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a young lady named Dakota. She needs to get to the bus station to catch a bus in about 10 minutes.” I replied, probably louder than I needed to since I was talking through a speaker and not face to face. “Ok, let me check,” came back the voice from the amplifier.

As I stood outside in front of the mission door at 5:20am in the worst part of town on a freezing morning, half asleep, watching my breath form a foggy cloud in front of my face, my attitude began to take a nose dive. “Well officer Lucas, once again you did something incredibly stupid and naive. You believed that you could make a difference in someone’s life by sacrificing your own time, energy and money.”

Resigned to the disappointment that I had been had, I glanced at my watch and turned to the doorway of the mission for one last peak before getting back in my truck and heading back home. “The bus should be leaving right...about...now. I’m out of here.” I said with resentment under my steamy breath.

As I turned to go back to my idling truck, I caught a peripheral glimpse of a shadowy figure stumbling down the stairs inside the mission hallway. It was Dakota.

She jogged to the doorway and without making eye contact said, “Sorry I’m late, they didn’t wake me up.” I held the door open for her and pointed her towards my truck. “The bus may still be there. Maybe we can make it if we hurry.”

As we drove the five blocks from the mission to the bus station all was quiet in the pick up truck. “You hungry?” was all I could think of to break the uncomfortable silence. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, but I’m ok.” She replied with the longest string of words since her meltdown in the back of my police cruiser almost 9 hours ago.

After pulling into the bus station lot and seeing that the bus had not yet departed, I handed Dakota a cup of coffee and a McDonald’s bag containing an egg McMuffin and hash browns. “Thought you might need some breakfast this morning.” She thanked me without ever looking up.

I felt like I needed to say something profound before she departed. I wanted to tell her that God loved her and Jesus died for her and there was hope even for a struggling heroin addict. I thought about encouraging her to be a good mom and raise her baby to avoid the evils she had experienced. I wanted to say a lot of things as she stepped out of my truck, but at 5:30 am I had nothing.

As I glanced back at my dashboard and gripped the gear shift to make ready for my departure, I noticed a crumpled 3x5 card taped above my steering column. “Perfect” I thought to myself.

I peeled the card off the dash, folded it and handed it to Dakota. “Here, take this. It has helped me a lot. Maybe it will help you—if not now…maybe someday.”

She accepted the strange note and again without making eye contact said, “I’m not used to people being nice to me. Thanks for all you’ve done.” With that she was gone. I watched her get on the bus just to make sure and then I watched the bus door close, just to make real sure.

As I drove off the dark bus station lot, steam from the storm drains rose down 4th avenue creating pillars of fog that lined the street . The sidewalks were empty and all the traffic signals were green. A prayer of thanksgiving came to my mind straight from the missing 3x5 card that used to be taped to the dash.

“Jesus came into this world to save sinners, of whom I am the worst. But I was shown mercy for this reason, that in me, the worst of sinners, Jesus might put on display his perfect patience as an example to those who were to believe in Him for eternal life.” 1 Timothy 1:15-16

Common ground for a cynical cop and a homeless, heroin addicted shoplifter...both of them thankful for mercy as they make their way home, shaking their heads in pleasant disbelief.

Wreck on The Interstate

2010-02-21T08:38:00.000-08:00

Job 14:5 "His days are determined; the number of his months is with You; and his limits You have set so that he cannot pass.”

“Signal 3 on the interstate with a signal 40” It’s the kind of call that makes you wince at what’s to come; basically a bad wreck in which someone had been killed. I arrived on the busy interstate with the other officers to find a small pickup truck crumpled behind a large box truck connected to a tow truck.

I prayed to God for courage and strength as I rolled onto the scene. The accident site was horrific as the smoldering pickup truck held the limp body of a gentleman looking to be in his 50’s. A lot goes through your mind when you come upon a scene like that.

As I approached the driver’s side of the truck I immediately determined that the man was dead. The very next thought that came to my mind was wondering if perhaps I knew him. Dealing with death is so much easier when it’s done anonymously.

After coming to the conclusion that he was obviously dead, and that I did not know him, I calmly walked over to the witnesses and began taking statements while the other officers guided the traffic around the wreck. After that, I photographed the scene.

The only thing worse than arriving at the scene of a fatality; is getting up close and personal and photographing every gory detail. Taking pictures only magnifies the image that has already been downloaded on your mind’s hardrive.

One particular image that will always stand out in my mind from this scene was the man’s watch lying on the roadway outside of his truck, face up, clearly displaying the time—an ominous reminder of how important time was up until that moment, and how insignificant it became thereafter.

It was over two hours later when the coroner arrived on scene and pronounced the driver deceased. For two hours he was crumpled in the cab of his truck, slumped over the wheel, eyes fixed, body broken. I wondered who was missing him at home by now. No doubt he was late coming home from work. After the pronouncement was finally made, it was time to remove the body from the wreckage.

The firefighters used the “jaws of life” to remove the door and the funeral workers eased the body out onto the gurney. An EMT sifted through the man’s pockets for a driver’s license to get information for the report. After getting what he needed the EMT handed me the man’s personal effects: a wallet, one pocket knife, a small pocket notebook and pen, and the man’s cell phone. As I walked back to my cruiser with the property, the cell phone began to vibrate and ring. I looked at the caller I.D and it read, “Home”.

It was probably his wife wondering, “Where is that man? Is he ok? Has he been in an accident or maybe he’s just stuck in traffic? He better not be out fooling around!” I let the phone ring. It rang many times while we processed the scene and zipped up the lifeless body in a body bag to be taken to the funeral home. No one dared answer.

It may seem cruel to ignore the ringing phone of a dead man, especially when the call came from worried relatives, perhaps even his wife. But notifications like this are not to be made on a phone at an accident scene. They are to be made face to face.

It was almost midnight when the wife was finally notified by another police agency closer to her home. I was thankful for this neighboring agency, another small town cop who probably wondered if he knew this family as he approached the doorway to their home.

As I went through the man’s personal property, I was looking for something to give me the slightest hint that maybe he was ready to die today. Nothing confirmed that thought. The coffee in his thermos was still hot. The pocket notebook was full of schedules and notes. His to do list for today included scheduling workers for a cleanup job at the factory where he worked. Apparently he was a foreman on a jobsite somewhere.

He got up this morning, showered, ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, got dressed and headed off to the same job he’d probably had for the past 20 years, fully expecting to get home tonight, eat dinner, watch a little TV and do it all over again. But his routine got interrupted tonight and his route was changed as his destination was permanently defined.

As I drove away from the scene, I wondered if there was any evidence in my car, on my person, in my wallet or in my life, that I was ready to leave this earth tonight. Death has such a powerful way of focusing our eyes on life.

Wolves, Sheep and Sheepdogs

2010-02-21T02:22:00.000-08:00

By LTC (Retired) Dave Grossman

Most of the people in our society are sheep. They are kind, gentle, productive creatures who can only hurt one another by accident. Then there are wolves, and wolves feed on the sheep without mercy. Then there are sheepdogs, and I’m a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf.

If you have no capacity for violence then you are a healthy, productive citizen, a sheep. If you have a capacity for violence and no empathy for your fellow citizens, then you have defined an aggressive sociopath, a wolf. But what if you have a capacity for violence, and a deep love for your fellow citizens? What do you have then? You have a sheepdog, a warrior; someone who is walking the hero’s path; someone who can walk into the heart of darkness, into the universal human phobia, and walk out unscathed.

Sheep live in denial, which is what makes them sheep. They do not want to believe there is evil in the world. They can accept the fact that fires can happen, which is why they want fire extinguishers, fire sprinklers, fire alarms and fire exits throughout their kid’s schools.

But many of them are outraged at the idea of putting an armed police officer in their kid’s school. Our children are a thousand times more likely to be killed or seriously injured by school violence than fire, but the sheep’s only response to the possibility of violence is denial. The idea of someone coming to kill or harm their child is just too hard, and so they choose the path of denial.

The sheep generally do not like the sheepdog. He looks too much like the wolf. He has fangs and the capacity for violence. The difference though is that the sheepdog must not, can not, and will not ever harm the sheep. Any sheepdog that intentionally harms the lowliest little lamb must be punished and removed.

Still the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. He is a constant reminder that there are wolves in the land. The sheep would prefer that the sheepdog didn’t tell them where to go, or give them traffic tickets, or stand ready at airports in camouflage fatigues holding an M-16. The sheep would much rather have the sheepdog file down his fangs, spray paint himself white, and go, “BAAA.”

Until the wolf shows up. Then the entire flock tries desperately to hide behind one lone sheepdog.

Understand that there is nothing morally superior about being a sheepdog; its just what you choose to be. Also understand that a sheepdog is a funny critter: He is always sniffing around out on the perimeter, checking the breeze, barking at things that go bump in the night, and yearning for a righteous battle. When the buildings are burning, the guns blazing and sheep are fleeing for their lives--the sheepdog will be running against the crowd, towards the calamity, with his nose in the air and his teeth showing.

This is the main difference between sheep and sheepdogs. The sheep pretend the wolf will never come, but the sheepdog lives for that day. After the attacks on September 11, 2001, most of the sheep said, “Thank God I wasn’t on one of those planes.” The sheepdogs said, “Dear God, I wish I could have been on one of those planes. Maybe I could have made a difference.”

Some people may be destined to be sheep and others might be genetically primed to be wolves or sheepdogs. But I believe that most people can choose which one they want to be.

If you want to be a sheep, then you can be a sheep and that is ok, but you must understand the price you pay. When the wolf comes, you and your loved ones are going to die if there is not a sheepdog there to protect you.

If you want to be a wolf, you can be one, but the sheepdogs are going to hunt you down and you will never have rest, safety, trust or love.

But if you want to be a sheepdog and walk the warrior’s path, then you must make a conscious and moral decision every day to dedicate, equip and prepare yourself to thrive in that toxic, corrosive moment when the wolf comes knocking at the door.