“How are the mighty fallen, and the
weapons of war perished!”

—2 Samuel 1:27
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I first heard the news in my truck as I was returning to the office around noon that day. Eliot Spitzer, the Governor of New York, had been caught in a prostitution sting, patronizing a call girl. A huge scandal. I gave an involuntary little whoop of triumph, reflexively rejoicing in the news.

Immediately cognizant of the Scriptural admonition, in Proverbs, I think, not to rejoice when your enemy suffers misfortune lest the Lord withdraw His wrath from him, I tried to restrain myself. So the Lord wouldn’t withdraw His wrath. Wouldn’t want that to happen. Restraint was difficult. Racking my brain, I reasoned that Spitzer was not my personal enemy, but a cultural one. Restraint fled and my joy flowed forth again. I reveled basely in his misfortune.

It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving perp. Eliot Spitzer is a vile little weasel of a man who aggressively created a fearful reputation over the last decade or so as the Attorney General of New York. He developed a particular fondness for hounding Wall Street businessmen, sometimes trumping up charges where none existed. During his mad scorched-earth tenure, he ruined scores of families, and imprisoned men who had committed no crimes along with those who had.

All because he could. Because he had the power. Raw, unvarnished power. Power that defined his existence. Power he drank as a nectar. And he used it ruthlessly for his own personal benefit, to forge his own career path, all the way to the Governorship of New York state.

Raised in soft comfort of staggering wealth accumulated by his real estate magnate father, Spitzer grew up with a golden spoon in his mouth. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He attended the finest private schools and graduated from Princeton, an elite Ivy League college and later Harvard Law School. Nothing wrong with that either.

He emerged from his educational track with a singular goal. Change the world to his own image. There was something drastically wrong with that.

He wasted no time establishing his reputation as a tough ruthless prosecutor. Pushed the limits of his official power to the extreme. Wall Street bigwigs soon quaked and turned pale at the mere mention of his name. He went after high profile CEOs and squeezed ruinous settlements from petrified victims. Once-vibrant companies were left bankrupted in his wake, often with no charges proven against them. He continued his destructive swath unabated. No one could stand up to him.

His anti-business fanaticism did not go unnoticed by the media. Before long, he was the toast of the liberal elite, who despise business. The darling of the Left. They loudly cheered Spitzer on, elevating him over time to the realms of the gods. He preened and basked in the false glory of their soaring adulation.

But the gods, as the Greeks said (or was it the Romans?), have feet of clay. Especially puffed-up little liberal human moral crusaders. As Spitzer was soon to discover.

Somewhere along the line, around ten years ago, it turns out, he developed a particu-lar fondness of another sort. He began soliciting call girls. Breaking the very laws he so publicly and adamantly enforced. He got away with it for years. But the whole sordid mess was unveiled a few weeks ago. Because of some stupid amateurish mistakes he made moving his funds to pay the escort service.

The mighty little god crashed to the earth in ruins. Poetic justice prevailed. His weapon of war, the law, triggered his own destruction.

At the peak of his power, with almost unlimited future potential, he threw it all away. His power. His prestige. His office. His public reputation. More importantly, his family. A beautiful wife, who may or may not have known of his shenanigans. And three lovely daughters. His life in shambles.

His children, I’m sure, have banished him to his own personal Hades.

To be fair, we are all capable of doing what Spitzer did, I suppose. The human heart knows no boundaries of depravity. Including our own. But most of us don’t do what he did. Because most of us are restrained by some standard safeguards such as con-science, morals, or just plain good old fashioned fear of getting caught, and publicly shamed. Whatever our reasons, whether our motives are pure or impure, we just don’t do it.

The revelations of his crimes instantly smoked out the usual vast army of left wing apologists. Singing their litany of excuses. Victimless crime. Wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in Europe. America is so prude and old-fashioned, to ruin a good man for such normal activity. Many of the apologists had not been seen in this capacity since the Clinton years. The spittle-spewing Alan Dershowitz, virulent atheist and prominent Clinton defender, was especially vehement in excusing Spitzer’s actions. (And no, I DON’T watch news programs at home. I saw it at the gym and read it in the paper.)

Why did he do it? Why would a man in his prestigious position pursue such a reckless course? Gamble everything, put so much on the line? For so little?

Probably because he actually believed all the fawning accolades of the liberal press and his elitist friends. Because he was nihilistic. Above the law. He was all-powerful. The rules didn’t apply to him. For no other reason than he was who he was.

Hubris. Arrogant pride. Subject to no laws but his own. He was a god.

Only he wasn’t. No man is.

The hubris bug stings a lot of people a whole lot less prominent than Eliot Spitzer. In their own little fiefdoms. Who believe the rules don’t apply to them because they are who they are. Who selfishly plunge about in pursuit of their own agendas, with no thought or consideration for anyone but themselves. Who embrace devastation and worship desire.

They wipe their mouths and say, “I have done no wrong.”

When they have.

But there is always a price. A day of reckoning. In the end, their arrogance will be futile. Their power and pride reduced to ashes. As was Spitzer’s.

They too will learn what he learned, or die absorbing the lesson.

The real God’s laws will see to that.
________________________________________________________________________

When it comes to the culinary arts, I relate to the Apostle Paul, who considered himself the least of all the saints. I consider myself the least gifted, the least capable, the most unskilled of all cooks. I don’t do it. Period. Unless you count grilling as cooking, which it might be. I consider heating prepared soups an accomplishment. And toasting bread.

A few weeks ago I met my friend Allan for coffee. He spoke glowingly of the bean soup he’d made in his crock pot. I perked up. It sounded simple enough. And I had a crock pot at home.

Allan was very enthusiastic. Nothing to it, he claimed. Just soak the beans overnight, throw them in the pot the next morning with some meat and water, and presto, a delicious concoction is born.

So I bought a one-pound bag of beans at Giant. A 16-bean mixture. Looked delightful in the bag. On Saturday night I called Allan for final instructions. Soak overnight, place in crock pot the next morning with bacon and water, turn the crock pot on high, and go to church. Oh, and I’d need a medium onion. The onion. I’d forgotten it. I immediately rushed to Giant and bought one.

I soaked the beans overnight. They swelled tremendously. The next morning I poured them into the crock pot with water and a dozen chopped up slices of “Steve Beiler” organic bacon. Diced and added half the onion. Stirred in pepper and a few spices I found in the pantry. Left the pot turned on high.

When I returned from church, a delicious aroma wafted through the house. The soup looked succulent. Juicy and rich. I opened the pot and poured in a spoonful of sea salt and mixed it in. I turned the pot to low and left it to simmer through the afternoon.

Around six, my friends Allan and Bill arrived to help me eat the soup. I was a little nervous. Figured I’d order pizza if the beans were inedible. Needn’t have worried, though. The beans were just plain mouth watering. We wolfed them down with slabs of homemade bread and great hunks of Swiss cheese. I couldn’t believe how delicious it tasted. I felt like a five-star chef. My guests were generous with their accolades.

I definitely plan to experiment with more bean concoctions in the future. I’m thinking barbecued beans with sausage. Or other exotic sauces. Maybe I’ll even add beans to the menu of my famous summer cookouts.

About five years ago at work I sold a post frame garage to a customer. A young guy and a bit of a hothead. It was a small project and I babied him along through the three or four days of construction. He was happy with the building.

A year later he called me. He had installed an opener on the garage door. It had mal-functioned and the door cables were tangled up, immobilizing the door. He wanted me to send someone down immediately to fix the mess for free. I politely pointed out to him that we had not installed the opener. I could send someone, but we would have to charge for a service call.

He argued. Became increasingly heated and irate. I stood firm in my refusal. Then he cursed.

“(Bleep) you and your (bleeping) company,” he shouted and slammed down the phone. I quietly filed his name in my memory.

The years passed and I thought of him sometimes. I don’t get cursed at every day. Very rarely, in fact. I wondered if we’d ever hear from him again. Then one day recently, out of the blue, he called. He was moving and wanted a quote for a new garage. To be built ASAP. I heard and immediately recognized his name. He was the man who had sworn so savagely at me.

I would not work with him again. I conferred with the office staff and asked for a volunteer to deal with him. Andy offered to take the quote. I refreshed him on the situation and told him word for word what the customer had said when he cursed me. Andy looked indignant. We decided to add a hefty extra fee to the quote just for the hassle of dealing with his temper.

Andy prepared the quote. I asked how much he’d added for curse insurance.

“Seventeen hundred dollars,” he said. I gulped. It was a bit more than I had expected, but I let him run with it. The customer, of course, was free to go elsewhere for his building. There’s plenty of competition out there. He could take or leave our quote.

He bought the building. His heated moment, loss of temper and six unfortunate words had cost him $1700.00. Calculates to around, let me think, oh, about $283.34 per word. Pretty expensive swearing.

Spring is here, but it’s still March. Among other negative things, March is the month of the sports drought. Football long gone, baseball still weeks away. I abhor basketball. I yawn at March Madness and the Final Four. Nascar is on, but only a few hours a week. I’m in withdrawal here. Come on, April. Come on, baseball.

Congratulations to John and Dorothy Wagler of Bloomfield, Iowa on the birth of their daughter, Kara Lyn, born on March 18, 2008. Her sister Vanessa and brother Brandon welcome her.

Easter is here. As early as it ever comes. I observe it as a Holy Day, but don’t usually attend the sunrise services. I’m just not a morning person.

A BLESSED EASTER TO ALL MY READERS.

“The Ides of March are come.”

—Shakespeare, “Julius Caesar”
__________________________

March is the cruelest month.

The month of madness, betrayal, rage and pain.

They were in trouble and they knew it. During that summer of 2006. They existed together, but that was all. Their marriage would soon be over as well, barring a miracle. They spoke through the vast distance that separated them. Attended church together. Smiled in public. Even laughed together. Genuinely. People thought, what a nice, well adjusted couple. They so complement each other. But the perception was false and hollow. And they knew it was not true.

They had separated once before, for six months, a few years back. Both had worked on what it took to get back together. Attended counseling sessions. Talked. They reunited on the first day of spring, March 20. And everything went OK for awhile. But something under the surface always rankled, something not right. She was unfulfilled. He did not trust her. Mired in the issues that had separated them, they drifted apart again. The shaky foundations they had built together deteriorated. Over time, into nothing.

The summer drifted by, week by week. They talked now and then. Seriously, about their future, and whether it would be with each other. They attended a relative’s wedding out of state, in June. Hung out with his family.

She’d always wanted to see Valley Forge, so one Saturday morning in late August they packed a picnic basket and went there. Parked and got out. Walked the little paved path that traverses the perimeters of the camp and battlefield. Beautiful day. Windy, though. And unseasonably cool. Clouds obscured the sun for minutes at a time. They walked along, chatting amiably.

At mid-point they found a stone bench. And sat and talked. She told him she was leaving. He already knew. They had discussed it before. He didn’t want her to go, but didn’t know what to say. He knew he couldn’t convince her. She wanted actions, not words. He knew she was unfulfilled. Felt unpursued. She expressed her frustrations that day, clearly. Not in anger, but honestly, with feeling.

Gloom descended on him. He heard her speak, but her words might as well have been spoken in another language.

“I will never be able to be what you want,” he said. “The kind of man you want does not exist. Or marriage either.”

“You won’t, if that’s how you feel,” she said. “You won’t even try.”

He could live without her. He’d seen and experienced hard things before. Brutal life-altering things. Years ago, in another lifetime. Before he’d ever met her. Walked away when he thought it would kill him. It had taught him that when all else was stripped away, in silence or after all the words that could be spoken had been said, each person ultimately stands alone. And walks alone. There was no one he couldn’t live without. No one. He had learned the lesson well. He would survive.

He looked at her, then away. At the people strolling past. He fleetingly wondered what problems they were facing. If any of them could relate to him. He turned back to her.

“I have a lot of faults, I know,” he said simply. “The way you say. But I’m a good man. And you know I’m a good man.”

A white cotton-candy cloud swept across the sun. The air chilled instantly. They got up and walked on into the wind.

The weeks passed. Things were going on. And had been for most of the year. Evil things. He sensed it or should have. But he was bogged in a stupor of depression and despair. So maybe he just chose not to see what became so clear in retrospect. He hunkered down and waited for the day to come. Her plans were made. And she told him. All was set. She would leave in March.

March. The date seemed far away, yet so close. As the days counted down to D-Day, he felt it in the distance like some huge, looming storm. Approaching slowly, moving toward him inexorably, relentlessly.

He feared growing old alone.

They had one major fight, in early January. On a Saturday afternoon. She was packing her things in plastic storage containers she had bought at Wal Mart. He paced about the house, perturbed.

“It’s never going to work,” he said. “You going all the way out there and staying with her. She’s strong-willed. As you are. You two are going to fight. It’ll never work.” He walked back into the room where she was packing.

She was coming to confront him, her face contorted with rage. “Stop it right now,” she screamed. “All you do is walk around saying smug, stupid things. Stop it.” Tears of rage rolled down her cheeks.

He walked into the living room and sat on the couch, shaking. She raged on. He waited until the tirade subsided.

“You are my wife, and I love you,” he said dully. “What am I supposed to do, just sit around and watch you leave? We are married. You are my wife. I am your husband. To me, that means something.”

They both trembled with tension. And anger and frustration and stress. She struggled to control herself.

“You’ve known I am leaving,” she said, more calmly. “And you haven’t done anything to stop it. Now all of a sudden you act like you don’t want me to go.”

“I’ve never wanted you to go,” he retorted. “You know that. You are the one who’s leaving. I’m not.”

She looked at him and the rage seemed to drain from her. She spoke his name, which was unusual. They rarely addressed each other by name anymore.

“Your heart has left this marriage a long time ago,” she said.

He got up without a word and walked out to his truck. He drove around on the back roads aimlessly for an hour.

D-Day minus one. A Wednesday. He went to work as usual, then to the gym. Tried to approach the day as normally as possible. His great fear was that he would break down as she was leaving. He dreaded the actual moment.

She would leave early the next morning. He had arranged to take the day off from work. He would go work out at the gym, then meet a close friend at noon. At a park for a few hours. Just to talk it out. Help him through that fateful day.

She had packed all her things. He helped her carry the plastic storage boxes to the garage, where they would stay until she could come and retrieve them. All the stuff she would take with her was packed in suitcases and bags and boxes.

Evening came and darkness fell. Her car was parked outside, at the end of the short walkway. Pointed toward the road.

Around nine o’clock, she was ready to load. He lugged out the large suitcase and placed it in the trunk. Then stuffed in boxes and bags and jammed the trunk lid down. Then he crammed the back seat with boxes and bags until it was full.

They chatted amiably. He felt strange. Surreal. But he held up.

He knew that when she drove away the next morning, she would never return.

They talked. He asked her to text him when she arrived at her destination. So he’d know she was safe. She said she would.

They went to bed late, after eleven o’clock. She gave him half an Ambien so he could sleep, and took the other half herself. Mercifully, they both fell asleep in minutes.

They slept through the night.

The clattering alarm roused them. He awoke. And realized the date was here. That had loomed so fearfully in his mind for so long.

She got up and he heard her puttering around in the kitchen and the bathroom. Getting ready to leave their home. He lay there in bed. Awake. And numb.

The final moment. She walked through the bedroom doorway.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Take care,” was all he could think to say. That was all. Nothing profound.

She approached him and stood by the side of the bed. Leaned above him. Placed her arm around him. Said a short prayer. For traveling safety. For herself. For strength. For him. He said nothing.

She walked out of the bedroom. The kitchen light went dark. He heard the porch door shutting softly.

And then she was gone.

He lay there, but sleep did not come again.

After awhile, he got up. Took a shower. Got dressed. An evil pulse throbbed silently through the house, a harbinger of the brutal truths that would emerge in the coming months.

The eastern sky shimmered with the brilliant hues of dawn. The day broke. It would be clear and sunny.

It was March. The cruelest month.

He walked outside alone to face the world.