Something to Believe In

A few years ago it became something of a tradition for me to dress up in a Santa suit and make an appearance at my grandchildren’s homes. 

I like it.  A lot more than I expected.  A lot of preparation goes into this event.  I have to change my appearance enough so they don’t recognize me.  

It’s a lot of work to become someone else to someone who knows you so well.  

A legend has even developed to explain the resemblance between Santa and Papa.  You see, Santa was going through Denmark, where my grandparents came from, one year many years ago.  He met and married a woman in my family, and so Santa and I are distant cousins which is why we look somewhat like each other.  It’s a family resemblance.  Which of course means that the kids are actually related to Santa.  I don’t think they’ve started bragging to their friends about it yet.  And I’m still not exactly sure how I’m going to explain the reality of Santa to them when they reach that point.  I have to acknowledge the fact that I have been lying to my grandchildren.  

Still working that one out.

I walk into the Christmas party and the eyes of every child are locked on to Santa with laser precision.    I even wore the suit to my church’s Harvest Carnival at Halloween one year.  I didn’t know what to dress up as, but then I realized I had this costume just sitting there waiting to be worn so I used it.  It was incredibly fun to see the looks on every kid’s face when they saw Santa at Halloween.  They all seemed to be in varying states of amazement, and the fact that I knew many of the kids there and called them by name made it almost epic. Kids across the street would point and yell, “Mom look!  IT’S SANTA!!” 

As I walked around with a Santa gift bag full of candy slung over my shoulder every child who saw me would simply stop and stare.  Sometimes their jaws would drop.  I would stop and open my bag and let them take some candy and talk to them for a minute.  Even as they reached into the bag to get their candy their wide eyes never left my face.  They were convinced that I was not a man in a costume even though it was Halloween.  

They believed I was Santa.

I made some discoveries about why I like it so much. 

When I walk into a room full of kids and they see Santa they really want to believe it’s Him!  They want Santa to be in that room, and they want to know that he knows them.  They want him to be real.

And this is essentially why I like it so much myself.  When a child looks at you with utter faith and devotion to who they believe you are it makes you want to do almost anything to fulfill their wishes. 

The dangerous part is that, for a little while at least, for just a moment, it makes you believe you actually can.

And there’s the rub.  Belief is a powerful thing, but when it’s directed at me I know I could never live up to the awe that I see in their eyes. 

We have a need to believe in someone.  We were created that way.  Without a focus for our belief we become aimless, weary, and despairing.  With nothing to believe in we die.

God knows this.  It’s why we have Christmas in the first place; to prove that God is real.  To know that He can live up to our faith, and actually exceed the limits of that faith.  To be completely and overwhelmingly real. 

And just to make sure we understand that reality He sends His son.  The flesh, blood, and bones of God.  Human like me, but worthy of my faith, my belief.  One who sees the darkest parts of my soul and does not shudder, who loves me nonetheless. The one who considers my life a gift to Him should I choose to give it, rather than the wreck I think I’ve made of it.

Believing and being believed in have two entirely different effects in our lives.

Believing in something is completely worthless.  There is no physical object worthy of our belief or devotion.  I might be devoted to a concept embodied by the object, but my belief cannot be in the object itself.  Its only value is in the amount of space it occupies.

Believing in someone is completely different.  A person can return your belief.  They can believe in you.  If you show them the truth of who you are then others can believe in you appropriately. 

There are times though, when I believe too much about someone.  I believe beyond their ability to fulfill my beliefs about them even though they have been honest about their abilities.  And sometimes they have presented a different face to me that belies the reality of who they are – this happens more often than I like.  It takes time to know a person well enough to believe in them.  A lot of time.

On the flip side, how does all this apply to myself? Am I showing others my true self?  Am I giving them enough of me for them to make an honest assessment of what they should believe about me?

Then there is the added dimension of whether or not I do, or should, accept what others believe about me.  Do they know me well enough to speak to this area of my life?  Can I be objective enough to hear if there is any truth to what they say, good or bad?  Does what they tell me serve me, or themselves?  Is it truth, or simply manipulation?  What kind of effect do they have on the lives of others to use as a litmus?

One of the main problems in our society is that we so often try to live up to someone else’s idea of who we are, or should be.  No one else’s opinion is ever objective, and rarely consistent.  I have seen so many relationships destroyed in the passion of a moment’s anger or misconception.  Few of us take the opportunity to look at the whole of the person we have known for a long time, and see what was said in the context of their humanity; their own faults and weaknesses. 

We have a need to believe in someone greater than ourselves.  

Think about this in realistic terms.  How would you feel if you had a friend who was rich and powerful, and neither of those terms applied to you?  Now think of how you would feel knowing that your friend had such a great love for you that he would give anything he had to care for you or protect you.  Most of us dream of being rich and powerful ourselves at some point in our lives, but we are also aware (usually) that we might not actually handle having all that very well.  I would likely squander much of it.  So, the idea of someone else having the responsibility for all of that is very appealing.  You know there is someone who always has your back, and has the ability to care for you in the right way.  When I was a child I knew that if an older kid picked on me one of my older brothers would “take care of the problem” if it became necessary.  The perpetrator would not go unscathed.  When I know someone who needs help with something that I can’t personally help them with I love to be able to say, “I know somebody who can help with that.”  But the fact is that I do bear responsibility for my own life, and the actions contained therein.  It’s also true that I am prone to failure, and I am just as responsible for that.

That’s why I believe in God.  I choose to believe in Him, because I want to believe what He believes about me.  He says He loves me.  He knows everything about me and does not waver in His attitude toward me.  He believes I can be better than I am, and because He sees me as pure as I was originally created to be I am inspired to be better than I am.  That’s not to say I am always successful.  I fail on a regular basis, but there’s always a better standard for me to return to.

When I was young and my parents had died, in the absence of an earthly father I eventually came to allow God to take over that role in my life, and I found Him to be a much different father than what I had expected of Him.  I found a father who has no faults who knows my shortcomings and loves me nonetheless.  

So this is the kind of man I now strive to be; in my case not to love others in spite of their shortcomings, but rather in spite of my own.  

My success in this varies greatly, but I keep trying because, honestly, there are a few people out there who really try my patience.  Particularly those who bully, threaten, or abuse others.  For them I just want to say “Back off, because you better believe Santa Claus is coming to town!”

My daughter told me a story of something that happened with my granddaughter Chloe a few months ago.  I’m not sure I remember all the details correctly but this is the main gist of it.  They had gone to a park so Chloe and one of her friends could play.  While they were there some older boys started to chase them.  Chloe was a little scared of them as they persisted, and so she stopped and turned to them and yelled what she seemed to think was the most powerful threat she could think of at the time; “You better stop, my Papa is DAN BODE!”  Apparently they left her alone after that.  I don’t know any of the kids there, and I was not present, but apparently she invoked my name with enough authority that they had second thoughts. 

I don’t believe in Santa the way I once did, but I still want my grandkids to, because then they unknowingly believe in me.  The thing is – they already believe in me.  They were raised with the knowledge that Papa has a special relationship with them, and they have lived according to that knowledge. 

The reason I believe in Christmas is because I believe in Easter.  Christ came into this world with an incredible lasting impact.  He left it with an even greater one.

No one else died to make a point of it.  Not on purpose. 

That’s really enough for me to place my trust and my belief in Him. 

©Dan Bode 2014

Graceful Words

There is crimson ink with which the words of my life are written.
It is a Grace etched on paper filled with imperfections,
Despite which the words are clearly read.
In the silence of my night the scratch of the nib on the page of existence
And the rustle of the turning page
Bring me solace.
The book is thick
Merely one volume of many,
The words written small and tightly packed,
So much to say,
Yet with all the time necessary to say it,
If I would.
Many are never spoken,
Not allowed to see the light of day,
But there nonetheless
Etched permanently into my life,
But not always read.
Some are studiously ignored in my attempts to gain control,
But then an unseen hand turns a page,
Erases a line,
Closes a cover,
Starts a new chapter with fresh ink/blood/Grace
And we Begin Again.

©Dan Bode 2014

Suicide and Choice

A few days after Robin Williams killed himself a guy named Matt Walsh wrote a blog post about his feelings and opinions regarding what happened titled: “Robin Williams didn’t die from a disease, he died from his choice”.  It was shared by a lot of people on social media and there were many and varied responses to the post.  A friend of mine shared it on his page and there were a lot of comments to it that led me to respond to it based on my own experiences as a “survivor”.  I commented with some basic thoughts, but I wanted to expand on it more so I added some more thoughts and am posting it here.  Everyone has something to say, and for the most part I feel like telling everyone that really when it comes right down to it: your opinion and mine is completely irrelevant.  But no one believes that anyway.  We all want to think that what we have to say Must Be Heard!  So, in that spirit, here is my response:

I usually don't get into discussions like this but I feel the need to say something here. My father committed suicide when I was 14. My wife committed suicide 2 1/2 years ago. I'm a former (and probably returning) Marriage and Family Therapist. I also read the article.
He does specifically say that he has dealt with this in his own life for a long time which people seem to keep ignoring in their comments for whatever reason.  I do think he would have been better off waiting for a little while to post it when the communal pain has lessened somewhat and we process it better, but that’s just my opinion.
Depression has clinical, emotional and spiritual dimensions that must be dealt with together.  Drugs have a place in the process but are not the end all.  There has to be therapy and network of friends to sustain them. There are some problems with this.  You can’t force someone to make and maintain contact with other people.  This is their choice.  If you call someone they choose to answer the phone or not.  If you go to their house they choose to answer the door or not.   We all make bad choices in our lives, but most of the time those choices do not have lethal consequences.
Clinical depression is more than just a feeling that we can talk ourselves out of.  There is more than one dimension to it, but we often refuse to look at from a multi-dimensional standpoint.  Our medical society wants to throw drugs at the problem and get us out the door.  Our spiritual society has, until recently, treated it as a purely spiritual issue that can be “prayed away”.  It can’t be treated one dimensionaly.  There’s a book that was written several years ago titled, “Why do Christians Shoot Their Wounded”.  It talks about this issue in detail.  Chemical imbalances by nature are an actual physical issue, but we tend to treat it as a more purely spiritual issue because it is expressed in our behavior and the things we say while under the influence of the imbalance.
The people left behind to deal with the aftermath WILL feel guilt.  It’s a given.  They will always have to deal with it and ultimately come to their own conclusion that the choice of the person who died was only his/her responsibility.  Not theirs.  I know this to be true.  To say they didn’t have a choice takes the responsibility for that choice off of the suicidal persons shoulders and leaves others thinking that there’s no hope – that they can’t make a better choice.  It also inhibits those left behind from getting the help they need because they always feel if they had just done one thing different everything would be better.
Everyone wants to do something, or blame something, or give responsibility to something other than the one responsible: the suicidal person.  We can’t have it both ways.  We can’t deny the horror of the act, and say it wasn’t his fault.  The fault lies with no one else.  The truth is it just makes us feel better to say it one way rather than the other.
Robin Williams was a good man who had an incredible impact on the world.  Because he made a bad choice does not make him a bad person.  His final choice does not negate what he did in life.  We don’t want to say anything bad about the dead so we don’t speak honestly about the issues that death reveals to us.  Our concerns are in reality concerns about what we have lost.  Denying the responsibility of his choice doesn’t make him better/worse.  It doesn’t make him less loved.  It does make it supremely more difficult for those left behind to deal with the real world impact of what he did.  They will be victimized by their own thoughts.  “What could I have done differently?” “Why didn’t I say this instead of that?” “Why wasn’t I there?”
The fact is, they make a choice, and they will find a way to carry it out.  The fact is the truly suicidal person is not concerned with what will happen to those they leave behind.  I know this to be true as well.  They are, at that point, truly selfish in their choice.  It might possibly be the only truly selfish moment of their lives if they are someone who gave of themselves so much in their lifetime.  They are simply unable to see past their own pain in that moment.  There are many people who are truly noticed as much by their absence as by their presence.  The clinically depressed person often hides the signs of their depression very well.  They are consciously aware of what they are doing and putting a different face on for everyone else to see.  Robin Williams was one of the few who were very open about it, and the public was then able to live with the illusion that he was taking care of it.  This makes the fact that he made this choice that much harder to accept.  Because he was so greatly admired and selfless in life no one wants to speak the truth and admit that he was, in that moment, selfish.  We are often upset when someone speaks the truth that doesn’t match our perception of someone else.
His family will go through a great deal emotionally in the coming years. They know he loved them completely.  But he still killed himself.  The anger and resentment they will eventually have to deal with will be hell for them, because it’s almost impossible to reconcile love and suicide.  And do you know the sad part of this? There are multitudes of people out there in social media that will be angry at them for feeling that way. People who didn’t know him or his family who think they know better.  To those I would say now in a pre-emptive statement:

Shut. The. Hell. Up.  Leave them alone.  They don’t need you to help them grieve.  They have enough of their own and will choose those who will help them get through it themselves.

And finally, remember that Matt Walsh writes a blog.  It’s one person’s opinion.  Just as is my blog that you’re reading now.  You can accept it or not, but no one is asking you to live your life by what he says.  He says some good stuff and some not so good stuff.  He’s as human as you and I.  As human as us and Robin Williams.  He seems to be speaking from his personal experience with this issue, and it sounds like a pretty raw knee jerk reaction incited by his own pain in dealing with the issue.
What you do with it is your choice.
©Dan Bode 2014

The Un-obligatory Father's Day Post

I am writing this for Father's Day, but not because it's Father's Day.  It's not something I feel I have to do.  It's something I want to do.

I'm writing it because Father's Day simply reminded me of what it has been like for me to be a father.  I've said before that any good that I accomplished as a father is not due to my own abilities.  If I have ever been good as a father, it is only because of the quality of my children.  I could not have asked for two better daughters than the two I have.  The women they have become are far beyond what I would have been able to imagine on my own.  I am forever grateful that they were given into my care.

I always think of my own father at this time.  Actually, I think of him quite often.  I have so many questions for him.  My father killed himself when I was 15, and my ability to get any answers was effectively stifled.  I would have wanted to know what it was like for him when he first became a father.  Mostly I would have liked for my daughters to have known him. 

When I look back at my life with my father I have to acknowledge that despite all of his faults, he was, ultimately, a good father to me.  In saying that I have to qualify it with the fact that I am the youngest of six children, and my siblings experiences with my father were very different than mine. 

My father was an alcoholic.  The last time I saw him he was drunk.  And yet, despite this, to me he was a good father.  My memories of life with him were generally positive.  He was a firm disciplinarian which I can attest to having felt the thickness of the calluses on his hands when he spanked me on my bare backside.  I also have to admit that I earned every spanking I got.  The other times when I had his attention were when he played catch with me, or showed me what he was working on in the garage whether it was a car or carpentry project.  I remember distinctly one time when he was making some bookends for my sister Diane, and he asked my opinion on how the pieces of wood looked when arranged in a certain way.  "I like them that way." I said.  He looked at me and smiled and said, "Ok.  Then that's the way I'll do it."  In that one moment of my childhood I felt completely valued by him.

I have to say though, that despite how his life ended, he was a good father to me, and I believe this is due in large part to my older siblings.  Their life with my father was very different than mine.  Their experiences with his alcoholism and controlling personality were far more direct, and frequent, than mine ever were.   I believe very firmly that my mother, my brothers and my sisters taught him to be a good father.  They took upon themselves all the pain in their relationships with him, and in effect, extended a Grace that covered me before I was even born.  They protected me so that I might have the good father that they missed.  They made him a good father for me.

And even beyond that, when I went to live at different times with my brother Bill, and later with my sister Diane, they became the parents I needed which is a debt I can never adequately repay, and one they would never ask me to.

For this I will always be grateful to all of them. 

In addition to all this I learned that God directly replaced my father's presence with His own when I finally chose to listen to Him.  This was the single most important choice I have made in my life, and I have never regretted it. 

Now I look at my own daughters, and I will never be able to express how grateful I am to be their father.  With all of the pain and sorrow inflicted upon them in their lives they still choose to love me.  And again that Grace is extended to me, and it makes my life more than worth it.

I am blessed beyond measure.

So, on Father's Day, the only gift I will ever want is to know that my children actually want to be near me.  I could ask for nothing better, nor desire anything more.

To my daughters, Jennifer and Kaytie, thank you for letting me be your father.

©Dan Bode 2014

Follow Your Doctor's Orders or You Will Lose Your Beard - Things You Never Think Will Happen To You

A few months ago I went to my doctor and told her I was having trouble sleeping, and asked if I could get something to help.  This is probably something you should never do.  Because they have stuff that will help, but it helps just a little too much.  I had tried all the herbal natural remedies and they just weren't doing anything.  So I went in to the office and we discussed my options.

She told me the primary stuff available (which will go unnamed by me) was effective, but it had some side effects.

"If you have problems with sleep-walking then you shouldn't take this, because it will make it worse."

"I've never had a problem with sleep-walking."

"Ok, we can try this first then.  Seriously though if you find stuff has been moved around in your house and you don't remember doing it you need to stop taking it."

"Umm.... ok..."

"I'm totally serious.  Take it right before you get in bed.  Don't take it and wait for it to start working, and then start doing chores or something.  You'll wind up doing stuff you didn't mean to."

"No problem!", I said, laughing.  I mean, really, what could happen?

So I took it home and tried it a few times, and it seemed to work ok.  I didn't need it again for a while and had more or less forgotten about it until the other night.  I had been coughing a lot due to my allergies, and having trouble falling asleep.  I decided this might be a good time to use it again.  So I took a pill, and, instead of going straight to bed, I decided to finish watching the show I had recorded earlier which had about 45 minutes remaining. 

I finished the show and walked into the bathroom.  I looked in the mirror and realized that I hadn't trimmed my beard properly for about a week and a half.  It was looking a little shaggy.  I picked up the trimmer and started trimming. 

Everything after this is kind of a bizarre haze....

One minute I was trimming, and then the trimmer was going straight across my chin and it was GONE! 

I could see my chin! 

I just stared at myself.

"Hmmm...  Something's different.... "

I looked down at my hand at the trimmer buzzing away contentedly.  Puzzled, I turned it off.  I set it down. 

I looked in the mirror. 

"My beard is gone...  When did that happen?..."

I had a vague memory of running the trimmer straight across my chin instead of just trimming the edges...  Suddenly I wondered if this is what Pooh Bear feels like when he says, "Oh bother..."

Then a thought surfaced, "I think I did something wrong...  I should go to bed.  Yup.  That's what I was going to do."

I moved to go to bed, and remembered my dog, Bean.  He needed to go to bed too.  Sometimes Bean has a problem settling down when it's time for bed so I got him a special collar that helps him relax.  It's green and plastic and it's loaded with pheromones that supposedly makes him think comforting thoughts about his mother or something like that.  I'm not sure if that's what he really thinks about or not, but I do know every time I put it on him he gets all Zen on me and lays down and looks happy.  And he sleeps pretty well.

I had the collar in my hand, and I honestly remember wondering if I should put it on myself.  But I realized that I didn't really need to think about Bean's mother.

I slowly and deliberately made a point of locking every single door and window in the house.  I think I examined the locks pretty well too.  I went to bed.  I think.  I remember laying down while Bean and I stared at each other.  He had his collar on which, by the way, I noticed actually glows in the dark.  He looked content.  I remember waking up briefly to the sound of Bean quietly "woofing" in his sleep.  Probably dreaming of running through a field of high grass next to his mother.

I woke up the next morning and went in to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. 

My beard was gone. 

My chin was naked for the world to see. 

I now have two new rules:

1. I am never taking one of those pills again.  Unless I decide to shave my beard off.

2. Follow the doctor's orders or you will lose your beard.

©Dan Bode 2014

 

A Splash of Blood - Happy Easter Everyone!

I was walking to work one day, and I noticed something on the sidewalk. I had actually seen it before, but never attached any significance to identifying it.
It was a stain left by some dark liquid that had splashed and dried. There was a trail of drops leading away from it back up the sidewalk for a few feet where it ended. It was interrupted by a footprint that cut across the trail. I had seen it for a few days prior to this, but in my hurry to get to my desk each morning I had given it almost no thought. Why today it caught my eye I have no idea, but as I passed it again this day I noticed the color of the substance. It was a deep, reddish brown.
I stopped in shocked realization that I was looking at blood!
How many people had walked past or over it every day and given it no notice? How and why had this that had passed through someone’s veins been so haphazardly spilled? It was no small amount. If I had a wound that allowed that great a loss I would surely seek help with it. There was no way to tell how this occurred, and yet my mind called up violent images that seemed unavoidable. How could blood be spilled after all without violence in such a public place without edge or forceful impact? And then I had to ask how having spilled could it be so easily ignored, as I had in fact done? How could I not have seen it for what it was?
It had to follow, of course, that my thoughts would lead me to Someone else’s blood, also shed with violence, but violence that ended in glorious purpose. And just as so many of us had walked over this splash on the sidewalk, how many have waded through rivers of the stuff that rage across our lives grasping for our attention only to be studiously ignored in an effort to maintain our self determined path at cross purposes to the Truth? What does it take for God to get my attention?
Just who am I living for anyway?
In the process of the Hebrew sacrificial rites that ended when the temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, one of the final acts was the pouring of the “drink offering”. Thus Paul, when he felt his death was near, wrote that he was being “poured out as a drink offering” (2Tim. 4:6). But just as Christ was the final sacrifice, so His blood is the final blood shed for our redemption, as He said at the last supper , “Drink from it all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” (Matt. 26:27b-28) And yet as final as that act is the flow continues at whatever rate is necessary to cover the sins of this world, for where sin is grace abounds.
What all this means is that we must let go, dive in, “go with the flow”, drowning and dying to live again.
And it all started one night long ago in Jerusalem.
Satan called upon Death, his most powerful weapon, to finally put a stop to the machinations of grace which Christ had begun. Death was a warrior at whose feet everyone had ultimately fallen. Death took Christ up in his giant fist and began to squeeze the life out of Him.
This Blood, this stuff of eternal life began to flow one drop at a time.
The whip scourges the smooth skin of Christ’s back.
Drip.
Death is confused by this sudden pain he has never felt before, caused by the touch of the blood of this Lamb.
The crown of thorns is beaten down upon His brow.
Drip.
Death begins to squeeze harder and harder trying to stanch the flow.
The nails are driven through Christ’s wide open hands.
Drip. Drip.
His body is taken down from the cross.
Death has used up all his strength to vanquish the enemy of Hell.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The stone is rolled away.
Death collapses, defeated, destroyed, a useless and empty husk.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Death has himself died, and from his lifeless grasp Christ has risen!
“O death, where is your victory?”(1Cor. 15:55)
Thomas places his doubting fingers in Christ’s open wounds.
Dripdripdripdrip….
The apostles live and die for the life He gave them.
Dripdripdripdripdripdripdripdripdrip…..
And as every river starts with just a trickle so this trickle becomes a torrent raging across time that no force of darkness can ever hope to stop, divert or slow.
“…this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many…”
He left a trail of blood that you can miss only after you have seen it first, and actively choose to turn away, but the Word was made flesh and He refuses to be ignored!
God could never again be relegated to the back of our minds as a mere “concept” anymore. He created a hallowed ground in every human heart; a holy of holies where only He can tread. His presence there suddenly made one thing obvious:
A choice must be made.
Always a choice.
Live or die.
You have a 50/50 chance of survival if you’re merely looking at the odds, but if you choose life it’s a 100% guarantee.
It seems a simple choice, but we make it difficult when we think we have a lot to lose. We try to hang on to what we have by shedding our own blood to pay the price for our freedom, but all I have is as nothing against the payment of this debt. And the only thing I have to show for my efforts are the scars left from where I’ve ironically slashed my own wrists trying to save myself.
Every year we celebrate Easter. Like many other things the true purpose of this occasion has been overshadowed by meaningless customs involving eggs, chocolate bunnies and new hats.
But some of us will remember.
I tend to look at it as two distinct events; His Passion and His resurrection. In reality I should see them as one. His death and resurrection were a single process that qualified Him as the complete sacrifice once and for all. Both events had to occur in order for His life to be enough to tip the scales in my favor.
Some only see the inside of a church at Christmas and Easter, and I suppose if you are only going to come twice a year those are the times for it. But I have to wonder if you aren’t hearing the same message both times.
At Christmas you hear the announcement of the angelic host:
He Lives!
Throughout Christ’s entire life on earth He prepares us for the show of strength that only He could perform. The one thing we take most for granted in Christ’s existence. For the Point of Easter, the Bottom Line, the Final Act is really the same that we hear at Christmas.
The inevitable conclusion of Christ is this same angelic message at Easter:
He Lives!

And as we come and sit on the banks of this never ending river of cleansing, bloody Grace, as we begin to comprehend that the supply never runs out we realize:
He Lives!
©Dan Bode 2005