I'm not sure you want to watch this movie. But if you do, expect to be punched in the gut. No doubt about it- it is a horror story. However this time the damsel in distress is not rescued. She gets AIDS... because her daddy raped her, while her momma watched. There is not much that is fairy-tale, entertaining or "precious" about it. So why would a person want to see a movie like this? Because, you need to. True, it is not escapist fun. But a film can be a powerful vehicle to present a needed message. As most of us blithely journey through our carefully created worlds populated with too many persons like ourselves, we need to recognize there is a higher purpose. Precious is there.

Likely you would not want to invite Precious home for Thanksgiving dinner. Just a smidgeon of her negative characteristics include morbid obesity, brooding and ugly demeanor, profanitiy-laced language, violence, and illiteracy.

A big question the movie forces you to consider is why she is this way? I realized even while watching that most likely it will be labeled as racist. And, sure enough, a quick Google-search verifies my suspicion. And while I understand, I think it is a shallow and unfair interpretation. An ugly picture of a segment of culture is presented, and the villians are black. The father is a child molester. The mother is a self-absorbed and welfare abusing. Truly they are monsters who happen to be black. Also I have no doubt these people exist.

I know about racism, likely better than some ivy tower intellectual or smug socialite who seldom encounters a person of another race. I have grown up around it, and I know it is from the pits of Hell. God, whom I love and most importantly love me, has been forcing an ongoing transformation of my heart about the matter for many years. A racist is someone who believes in the inherent inferiority of another race of people. He believes skin color is evidence of innate superiority. So a racist could watch this film and walk away with the enforced presumption that all blacks are like the protagonists. But he would have to be blind to do it, because the thread of the film concerns the amazing strength of Precious. How she emerges with dignity is the miracle. Of course, willfull blindness is necessary for racism. And I will place such a midset in the same category of garbage as the dysfunctional parents in this film. 

Precious survives because she is an amazing person. But like the turtle on the fencepost, she does not do it on her own. She encounters people who care: a teacher, a social worker, and a hospital aid. These seem to be normal persons with their own imperfections and problems, already too busy and perhaps a bit jaded about life. In other words, likely they resemble us. But they take time to pass along a little love to someone in desperate need, someone hiding behind a rough exterior who could very easily be overlooked and forgotten.

You know what? I thank God, when I was a little boy growing up, these kinds of people didn't overlook me.

Jimmy is supposed to come by in about 20 minutes, so we can talk.  This guy is a real challenge- he has numerous problems with the law, as well as ongoing domestic altercations.  I have gotten to know him through community service.  He’s had what seems a decade of work mandated by various judges for problems mostly related to substance abuse and somehow I have become a good connection for him to do the work.  And I think it is because I’m a bit of a pushover.  The guy is elderly, diabetic, has a bad eye, and has never learned a proper work ethic.  But I see deep in his heart a good man and feel there are possibilities, so we work together to get these required hours completed.

Like I’ve said, he has a drinking problem, which is the gateway to most of his hardships.  I can’t directly relate, since I was mildly intoxicated only once in my life and have not touched a beer in 25 years.  But I had a slew of relatives who were drunks, and I’ve seen it’s disastrous effects on individuals, family, and society all through the years.

Jimmy is very different from me in many ways.  He is of a different race, culture, educational background, economic standard, etc.  Still we find ways to talk.  And, I think, to like each other.  He has come to my church a couple of times.  And I credited the hours toward his community service, which is most likely a stretch.  But heck, the guy needs 350 hours!  And in my opinion as a pastor, he needs the very strength and life-change which is offered at our church. 

So, if he ever gets here we will talk.  And pray.  He thinks he is a victim.  And I think, while he is intelligent in a street-smarts way, he’s not very smart with his lifestyle.  He hangs out with the wrong people, especially on weekends.  He will tell me about his financial problems, and I will remind him again that a guy with his smarts and abilities can and should be doing better.  And he will tell me of his intentions to serve God, which I know will be sincere for the moment, but likely only for the moment. 

Jimmy laughs often as we converse- a fun chuckle with a twinkle in his one good eye.  And I like him.  I just wish I could help him.

Now the guy is late.  Again.

Jimmy is supposed to come by in about 20 minutes, so we can talk.  This guy is a real challenge- he has numerous problems with the law, as well as ongoing domestic altercations.  I have gotten to know him through community service.  He’s had what seems a decade of work mandated by various judges for problems mostly related to substance abuse and somehow I have become a good connection for him to do the work.  And I think it is because I’m a bit of a pushover.  The guy is elderly, diabetic, has a bad eye, and has never learned a proper work ethic.  But I see deep in his heart a good man and feel there are possibilities, so we work together to get these required hours completed.

Like I’ve said, he has a drinking problem, which is the gateway to most of his hardships.  I can’t directly relate, since I was mildly intoxicated only once in my life and have not touched a beer in 25 years.  But I had a slew of relatives who were drunks, and I’ve seen it’s disastrous effects on individuals, family, and society all through the years.

Jimmy is very different from me in many ways.  He is of a different race, culture, educational background, economic standard, etc.  Still we find ways to talk.  And, I think, to like each other.  He has come to my church a couple of times.  And I credited the hours toward his community service, which is most likely a stretch.  But heck, the guy needs 350 hours!  And in my opinion as a pastor, he needs the very strength and life-change which is offered at our church. 

So, if he ever gets here we will talk.  And pray.  He thinks he is a victim.  And I think, while he is intelligent in a street-smarts way, he’s not very smart with his lifestyle.  He hangs out with the wrong people, especially on weekends.  He will tell me about his financial problems, and I will remind him again that a guy with his smarts and abilities can and should be doing better.  And he will tell me of his intentions to serve God, which I know will be sincere for the moment, but likely only for the moment. 

Jimmy laughs often as we converse- a fun chuckle with a twinkle in his one good eye.  And I like him.  I just wish I could help him.

Now the guy is late.  Again.

Big Dog likes the ladies.  And I understand, but it's not a good thing with his roaming ways in this high traffic area.  So, a couple of days ago I made an appointment with the vet and took him to be neutered.   Unfortunately the clerk told me the paperwork was not in order and turned us away. 

Walking back to the car, it seemed to me Big Dog had a renewed spring in his step and a smile on his face.  What do you think?

Next to a busy shopping center that I find myself frequenting several times per week, Hispanic men tend to gather en-masse.  They are looking for work.  Specifically, they are laborers awaiting anyone willing to hire them for the day.  I understand the ongoing rate is $10 per hour paid in cash, plus a meal.  And until recently, they had little trouble finding employment, and most would be gone before noontime.  Now they seem to linger most of the day, conversing and pestering passersby. Waiting For Godot.

Of course the authorities know they are there.  This is a conservative and Republican area.  Therefore we have legislated the obligatory, and in my opinion draconian, rules against illegals.  It is patently hypocritical that our economy is so much dependent on these same people.  Businesses hire them for the cheap wages, to do jobs that most good white folk consider to be beneath their dignity and below their worth- jobs like landscaping, mowing, and otherwise primping the opulent homes of those who pass their silly legislation and then pay the criminals under the table.  The police do nothing to disperse the gathering of these law-breakers, knowing to do so would likely mean a quick change of venue or even demotion.  You don’t “bite the hand that feeds you”.  Or, in this instance, cleans your gutters and tends your children.

I do not like driving down that little stretch of road.  Fox Street.  And I try my best not to make eye contact with any of the dozens of hungry looking men, because to do so inevitably elicits a query for work.  I feel sorry for them.  The housing industry, once so robust, has dried up.  So the majority of these immigrants cannot find work.  Since I live and pastor in a transitioning area, I have met lots of these people with brown skin and strange language.  They are not evil.  Simply they want the same as most- pay bills, raise families, worship God, and be at peace.

It is not a perfect situation.  I think they should make a better effort to assimilate, and especially to learn the English language.  We should do better to put an end to the black market economy, and that includes fines for employers who like to pay cash and thus circumvent the tax system.  A reasonable and accountable path to legal residency should be provided for those now here illegally.  I believe such would be well received.  And let’s do away with this silly and unworkable notion of shipping fifteen million people back to Mexico.  It’s not a workable solution.  Besides, then a lot more fine and upstanding American citizens would have to trim their own hedges.

The gentleman at the door said hello, and that God had told him to stop by to see me.  That got my attention.  I did a quick scan to make sure he was not concealing a weapon or bomb or some other device that God might want him to use, and then invited him to come inside and have a seat.  He was elderly, walked with a limp, and had an eye swollen half closed.  I was not too interested in chitchat, but did want to know what this mission from God was all about.  He told me he was an Apostle of God, a Reverend, who had recently moved from Ohio to this area to begin a “Ministry of Restoration” for troubled pastors.  Troubled pastors?  I told him I might have my conflicts within and without, and sometimes even with God, but that basically I am at peace.  He smiled and said his intention was to establish an ongoing ministry to churches and pastors throughout the region.  Fine, I said.  Then he got down to the more immediate purpose of the visit.  He had some health problems associated with diabetes that required a trip to a physician in Columbus, with the costs being around $100.  And God had told him to stop by and make this request.

So, I’m thinking, “How do you argue with God?”  It’s really an unfair device of religious debate, and I see it employed quite a bit.  If one feels that God has told him to do something, then he is likely not to be dissuaded.  No amount of reason, logic, conversation, or counter will suffice.

Really, he was a pleasant man, and I felt compassion for his plight.  As best I could discern, truly he did travel across country without financial means simply because he felt it to be God’s will.  He told me he had a couple of Bible college degrees, and seemed to be fairly rational and reasonable, except for his faith.  I told him that I was concerned for his well-being, that he seemed like a nice and sincere person who truly loved God.  But even the Apostle Paul was a tentmaker who did not just strike out on a mission in abject poverty.  And I told him we already have capable people in this area who do his projected ministry, noted and trusted counselors and therapists with established offices & clientele.

Simply he smiled at me.  He knew I did not understand.  And at that moment I realized there was a gulf of difference between us.  And, who knows?  Maybe, for his place and time in life, indeed his life is at this moment most pleasing to God?

So I gave him some money, held his hands, and voiced a prayer for God’s guidance and protection.

Sigh.

I want to pass along just a bit of stream-of-consciousness thought about a troublesome incident from earlier this day.  And I will forewarn you that I have not thoroughly thought through this matter nor very carefully chosen the use of my words, matters I usually try to address before crafting a post.  So what follows is simply what is on my mind at this moment, and surely subject to growth and change.

The conversation was with about a dozen elderly ladies with whom I usually enjoy interaction.  I have considered them all to be godly persons, in that they have shown to me spiritual discipline and Christian character over the course of several years.  In the line of bantering while having lunch together, I casually told them I had just finished reading Dreams Of My Father by Barack Obama.  And I commented that, whatever your take on his politics, one would surely agree that he is a smart man and an excellent communicator.  The response was uncomfortable silence.  I heard a lady muttering to no one in particular that we will just see how smart he is when he loses the next election.  A gentleman standing over to the side said  Obama was a terrible president, and that he will surely lose in 2012.  And I could clearly sense by the uncomfortable coldness of everyone present that no one was ready to acknowledge my gentle challenge that our President at least deserves a begrudging respect.  When one asked me later what I could possibly see as good in this man, I responded just briefly about how he arose from a quite difficult background to the highest office in the land.  She was not buying my argument.

Here’s my beef: I am not a political supporter of President Obama, something which anyone who even briefly knows me would acknowledge.  But even as a political conservative, it is not hard or even unreasonable to agree that he has written a compelling book and he deserves respect for becoming President against such staggering odds.  The ladies with whom I spoke are mostly widows of husbands who worked union jobs, and they now have comfortable lives supported by union pensions.  They are Dixie-crats; they may be conservative in their social and religious views, but they have been faithful to vote Democrat throughout their lives.  And I am convinced Barack Obama is no more liberal than Bill Clinton, or certainly John Kerry.  Yet they seemed to have no problem voting for those men. 

So, what’s the difference?  It is pretty obvious to me, and I do not like the conclusion.  

I've been driving around this morning with a shiny new windshield.  It was cracked for the last couple of years, compliments directly of a semi-truck without mudflaps, and sometimes I think indirectly of a Higher Power intent that I not be overly enamored with a nice car.  Of course I know such is not true.  I think.  But it is uncanny how many times rocks have cracked the windows of my vehicles.  Long ago I met a dump truck on a road in Michigan that tossed a rock into my windshield.  In anger I made a u-turn with the intent of chasing the guy down.  I never caught him, which was probably lucky for me.  I remember, one time, driving a couple of hours to salvage yard to purchase a replacement window.  Arriving home, carefully I sat the delicate glass on the carpet.  Then turning, accidentally I overturned the chair.  Yep, it cracked my $75 windshield into a thousand pieces.  And the proprietor was not interested in providing a free replacement.

Likely it is illegal and could be dangerous to drive around with a cracked windshield.  But I'm cheap.  Finally I set aside sufficient funds and called for estimates.  It was not nearly as expensive as I thought.  Here is my review of the folks who did the work, H&A Mobile Auto Glass .  So, I guess, now I am an officially published author!

I have a question about tipping.  Do you tip a guy who puts a windshield into your car?  I thought about it, and finally decided it would be nice to make the offer.  But I only had $4 in my pocket.  So, a secondary question: Is it better to give a cheap tip, or nothing at all?  He was professional and gracious, and received the tip without a smirk.  Afterward, while inspecting the work and admiring my new windshield, I noticed the installer also had adjusted the hinge on my hood, allowing it to close at a more fitting angle.  I had wondered how to fix that for some time.

Well, I guess I should have also given him the two extra quarters in my pocket?

Here is a confession: I have been directly instrumental in the untimely demise of our family cat, Scooter. Were the victim a human, likely a court of law could not formally convict. But even with acquitted in the courtroom, this perpetrator likely would receive dirty looks from the gallery, and meet outside with protesters wielding signs scribbled “Cat Killer!” As it is, my family seems kind and understanding. My wife says he was old and it was simply his time to pass. And my daughter foregoes the manipulated logic, simply pining with pity, “Poor daddy”. But I have to live with myself. I did not like the cat and spent little time with him. I fed him, petted him on occasion. And then I killed him. Sometimes I feel bad about it.

Scooter was our cat for 18 years. Overall he was a gentle and forbearing creature. Early I had him neutered. Likely he never fully understood the dastardly deed, but from that moment he never wielded to me the title of owner. My job was to feed and house the critter. Others were reserved the privileges of petting and purring and his ghastly habit of drooling. And that was o.k. with me. About ten years ago he started the particularly annoying habit of entering my bedroom at around 2 a.m., to scream me awake. I did not like it and let him know with a broom. The habit continued, but followed with a dash to a preplanned place to hide. Months later he quit. But sometime I would see him, sitting on the arm of my favored chair, staring at me with disgust as he shed fur and emitted gases. We did not like one another. At times I would mumble bad things, but I really did not mean it. Honestly.

The kids dressed him in doll clothing. The neighboring felines beat him to a pulp. My son and his friends spent a few days baptizing the poor creature. Rocking chairs pinched his tail and heavy shoes sometimes mashed his toes. Still he prevailed.

A month ago, on a rare occasion, I was rubbing his back and scratching his cheek. Drool flowed freely upon my sleeve. I felt a rash along his back. With the best of intentions I went to the drug store to buy a spray medication, and generously doused his skin. Later I learned from the vet to never use human medications upon animals! Just a few minutes after the application, a series of sad events unfolded before my eyes. The cat tumbled from the arm of our new sofa- the arm he had been using to sharpen his claws- onto the carpet. There he lay with legs pointing rigidly into the air and tongue hanging out. Eyes stared blankly toward the ceiling. Scooter was paralyzed. After about five minutes he rolled to his side, vomited, and staggered from the room. He went outside to sleep under the shrubbery, something never done previously. I guess it was as far as he could get from me?

For four weeks he refused to eat. He would drink a bit of water, and milk. I tried force-feeding, and all kinds of goodies and treats, to no avail. The vet said his kidneys were shutting down and he had entered a death fast. He spoke with his usual detachment. But while carrying the emaciated cat from the room and out the door, I am sure his sweet female assistants looked at me with contempt.

Today he is gone. We took him to the vet to have him put out of his misery. To be specific, my wife took him. I was a coward to the very end. She brought him over to me, wrapped in a blanket, warm and purring. I scratched his cheek and rubbed his head, and told him I was sorry. He didn’t seem to be angry. 

Should I hear a familiar screech in the middle of the night, I’ll not reach for a broom. It would be fitting retribution.

The mother of the victim stood to testify before the court at the sentencing hearing. Her eyes were misty and voice halting, and what I heard was not the least bit anger, but rather the bleeding of her heart. With words she shared a picture of her son that we needed to see. He cared about others, especially the elderly. He helped an infirmed man to maneuver his wheelchair, a hungry man with a meal. He proved to be a loyal friend, a good brother, and a good son. This was a person destined for a quality life and to make a difference for others. Sometimes during the recitation she would stop with the story for a while, lingering in silence and tears to regain her composure. At one point she looked over to the perpetrator. With softness to her voice, she told him that she did not hate him and did not want to ruin his life. And likely it was not permissible of the court, but she wanted to offer a gift to the young man. It was her son’s gym bag, to serve as a memory of his life and containing some literature about how one could find peace and forgiveness. This was because she was sure her son would want to make the offer. And when she walked from the stand into the arms of her sobbing family, the courtroom sat together in quiet respect and deep sadness.

The brother spoke also. His words were more mechanical, which seemed to me his only way to make the presentation without being totally engulfed in the emotions. He added more to our understanding of his brother as a quality person. He asked a young lady to stand, introducing her as his sister.   She stared strait ahead with face and eyes revealing no emotion. He told how she once was a vibrant and alive and fun young lady, but now seemed just a shell of her former self. Her life and energy now gone. He told us matter-of-factly that the same day he lost his brother, he also lost his sister. I sat stunned.

The defense now offered their testimonies, intended to encourage the court toward leniency. First the father slowly walked to the bench. I could not help but notice how much he had aged in the last year and now looked so very old. He told of how his son was raised in church and was active in High School sports, and never previously been in trouble with the law. He told of how proud he was when his son joined the army, later to serve in Afghanistan. Then he spoke of how his wife died of cancer about a year ago, of how devastating this event proved to be upon the whole family. I heard the ache in this father’s heart. I knew he drained his savings to try to help his son, and approached me several times to pray for his son. This dignified man looked the judge in the eye and begged, yes begged, for leniency. It seemed to me the judge looked down, unable to maintain eye contact with the hurting and sad man.

The next two witnesses wore military attire. They were his officers while in training and also in combat. They wove stories of a conscientious soldier doing his duty well. One gave a stomach churning account of warfare , of seeing a comrade blown to bits and the shocking effect upon the defendant.

Then the perpetrator of the deed stood to testify. To me he looked a bit awkward, in an ill-fitting suit and mussed hair. Obviously he gained a lot of weight in the last several months, probably a product of worry and depression.  He was not a smooth speaker; just a boy, in way over his head.  And he spoke from a broken heart, wiser but too late.

The story was told matter-of-fact, without excuse. I think we all appreciated the honesty.  He was home from military duty, soon to be married. It was the night of his bachelor party. The evening was intended for fun and drinking, with a designated driver enlisted. All went well at first. He had a drink and a nice chat with his dad, and then with his friends went to a bar. The place offered free drinks to those serving in the military, and this young man and his pals took full advantage. There was some fighting. Sometime in the evening the designated driver also started drinking. A friend became highly intoxicated and was asked to leave. And, this boy/man/soldier found himself in a dilemma- his driver was gone, and his friend needed to go home.  He told us all, at that moment, that he made the worst decision of his life.  He decided to drive the car, to take his friend home. He came to an intersection at a high rate of speed… and he hit a motorcycle. He did not remember much about the details- who was supposed to stop, how fast he was going, who disobeyed the specific traffic signs. All he recalled was pulling into a parking lot and talking with a police officer.

Then turned to the broken family, and spoke. The words were plain and from his heart. He was so very sorry. His desire was to spend the rest of life making restitution for this tragedy- speaking to groups, helping young people, and never again taking a drink. I believe he was sincere.

And he cried. All through the hearing he cried a bit.  At this moment it disintegrated into blubbering, ugly, deep-from-the-gut wailing. I felt such sorrow. And I noticed the other family was crying, as was the judge and the lawyers.

So much about life, to me, involves a tension between law and grace. This young man committed  a one-time and stupid and terrible act. For the sake of a life now gone, a shattered family, and a lesson to society, punishment had to be exacted. He faced a sentence of up to 30 years of incarceration. This seemed to me to be excessive and a waste of what otherwise still could be a good and meaningful life. More probable would be a sentence of between three and ten years in prison, of which 90% must be served. The judge spoke with eloquence and emotion. Seldom before had she seen such magnanimity on the part of an injured party. And she believed the young man to be a kind and decent person who made an awful mistake.

But she had the reputation of a no-nonsense litigator, and she intended to show respect for the law. Then she scanned the courtroom, and exhaled a sigh tired and sad. A moment of silence followed.

Five years in prison, followed by seven years probation.

Charles was handcuffed and taken away.  I hugged the family.  And cried.  And walked to my car in silence.

Nobody wins.