Lent has a way of making us ask questions we might rather avoid.

It asks us to give something up, to examine our motives, to sit in the quiet spaces we usually fill with noise. And this year, one question keeps returning for me:

Am I truly loving people — or am I just trying to earn their love?

I think about the lengths I sometimes go to for certain people. The extra effort. The carefully chosen words. Anticipating their needs before they ask. On the surface, it looks generous. It even feels generous. Most of the time I believe it is, when I examine it.

But when I look honestly at my own heart, I sometimes see something less pure. I see how easily my “love” can become effort. Performance. Positioning.

There are people I know who do not particularly like me. Some I don’t especially enjoy either. And yet I feel something come over me — a determination to win them over. To soften them. To change their hearts and minds.

So I offer help. Extend invitations. Show up generously.

I tell myself this is Christlike love.
I tell myself I am loving my enemies.

But if I am honest, there is often another voice underneath:

If I do enough, maybe they will choose me.
If I am useful enough, maybe I will belong.
If I am good enough, maybe I will be seen.

This year, Lent is not letting that voice stay hidden.

So I sit with the harder question: If I knew I would receive nothing in return — no praise, no validation, no reassurance — would I still show up the same way? Mostly yes, but truly, sometime no.

If I earn love, I’ll be happier.
If I earn admiration, I deserve it.
If I earn belonging, I’ve won.

But love that must be earned is not love at all. Why is it so hard to be at peace accepting God’s pure love? Why does it feel like it’s not enough?

Many of us learned early that love had conditions: be helpful, be impressive, be indispensable, be easy, be more. So we spend our lives trying to become worthy of affection rather than simply receiving it. I sometimes feel like I’ve squandered my whole life chasing love.

But the love Lent points us toward cannot be earned. It can only be received. And when we begin to believe we are already loved without performance, something changes.

We start to love without bargaining.
We serve without needing applause.
We give without quietly keeping receipts.

This Lenten season, I am asking God to purify my motives — to teach me how to love without trying to secure something in return.

Because the more I sit with the question that began this reflection, the more I realize how easily love can become something else — a quiet attempt to secure approval, belonging, or reassurance.

And perhaps the deeper work of Lent is learning to let that go.

To stop trying to earn what has already been given.

To trust that being loved does not depend on how well we perform.

And from that place, to return to the original question — not with certainty, but with honesty:

Am I loving people … or am I still trying to earn love from them? As always, we are works in progress.

The post Are We Truly Loving People, or Just Trying to Win Them? appeared first on Headliners Mission Group.

I’ve built my own little catalog of commonly misused words over the course of a few years. These are the words that reliably make me wince, the ones I notice every single time they’re used incorrectly.

Some of them are grotesque, though some can make me laugh.

You may have your own kind of list like this. Certain words that, once they’re on your radar, you can’t not notice. They jump out at you mid-sentence and quietly ruin your flow. So now I’m curious … what’s on your list?

SPIEL: Turns out, I’ve had this one backwards. I always thought pronouncing it shpiel was wrong, but it’s actually correct. The word comes from Yiddish, and even though it’s spelled spiel, it’s meant to be pronounced shpiel.

• Example: “He gave a long shpiel about his investment strategy.”

FROU-FROU, NOT FOO-FOO: Working in the hospitality industry, I hear this tons. “I don’t like foo-foo drinks” is what they’ll say. Definition: fancy, showy, or frilly ornamentation. I never correct them.

• Example: “That restaurant’s decor is a little too frou-frou for my taste.”

Recurring, NOT Reoccurring: You can use the word “reoccurring,” but only when you’re speaking of something that happens again, but not on a regular basis.

• Example: “There’s a likely chance storms will reoccur today.”
  Recur is when something happens at regular intervals.
• Example: “My recurring dream came back last night.”

MYRIAD: This word simply means “many.”

Even in otherwise polished, professional articles, myriad is often made more complicated than it actually is.

• Incorrect: There was a myriad of options.
• Correct: There were myriad options.
• Example: “She has myriad reasons for loving that city.”

REAL-TOR, NOT REAL-A-TOR: Very few people use the correct one here, sometimes not even the realtor themselves. It’s a trademark name.

• Example: “I spoke to my real-tor about listing the house.”

IRREGARDLESS: In dictionaries this is listed as “nonstandard” or “incorrect” usage. Regardless means “without regard.” So, when you say irregardless, what you’re really saying is: without without (twice) regard.

• Incorrect: “Irregardless of the weather, we’ll still go hiking.”
• Correct: “Regardless of the weather, we’ll still go hiking.”

JIBE, NOT JIVE: This is another one the dictionary lists, though considers non-standard. It’s become so common over the years that it’s starting to be looked at as acceptable.

• Incorrect: That story doesn’t jive with me.
• Correct: That story doesn’t jibe with me.
• Example: “His version of events just doesn’t jibe with the evidence.”

LITERALLY: This one drives me nuts. People often use “literally” for emphasis, when they mean “figuratively.”

• Literally means something actually happened, exactly as stated.
• Figuratively means something is being expressed as a figure of speech or exaggeration — not actually true.
• Incorrect: I literally died laughing. (You didn’t actually die.)
• Correct: I figuratively died laughing. (You’re exaggerating for effect.)
• Example: “She was so embarrassed, she literally wanted to crawl under the table.” (Better: figuratively wanted to crawl.)

BEMUSED vs. AMUSED: Bemused means confused or bewildered, not entertained.

• Incorrect: I was bemused by the comedian.
• Correct: I was amused by the comedian.
• Example: “He looked bemused when we explained the rules.”

NAUSEOUS vs. NAUSEATED: Nauseous means causing nausea, while nauseated means feeling nausea.

• Incorrect: I felt nauseous after the ride.
• Correct: I felt nauseated after the ride.
• Example: “The smell of the paint made me nauseated.”

“SUPPOSED,” NOT “SUPPOSABLY” (Also Correct: “Supposedly”)

This mistake shows up a lot in casual conversation. “Supposably” is not a word. The correct phrase is “supposed to,” and it’s used for plans, expectations, or obligations.

• Incorrect: I’m supposably meeting her later.
• Correct: I’m supposed to meet her later.
• Example: You’re supposed to finish your homework before dinner.

“Supposedly” is a real word, but it has a different meaning: it indicates something that people say or believe, but might not be true.

• Example: She’s supposedly the best singer in the class.
• Example: The movie is supposedly very funny.

FLAMMABLE vs. INFLAMMABLE

Ironically, “flammable” and “inflammable” mean the same thing: easily set on fire.

The word “inflammable” can be confusing because people sometimes assume the “in-” prefix means “not,” but in this case, it doesn’t.

Example:

• Keep all flammable liquids away from the stove.
• Keep all inflammable liquids away from the stove. (Means the same thing, but “flammable” is safer for clarity.)

I COULD CARE LESS vs. I COULDN’T CARE LESS: Saying “I could care less” implies you do care at least a little, which is the opposite of what people mean.

• Incorrect: I could care less about that show.
• Correct: I couldn’t care less about that show.

DON’T vs. DOESN’T: (Yes, This Is Still a Problem)

• Don’t = I, you, we, they → I don’t get it.
• Doesn’t = he, she, it → She doesn’t get it.

If you say “he don’t,” “she don’t,” or “it don’t,” somewhere an English teacher just died a little. Don’t do it. Ever.

The post One Spiel on Misused Words appeared first on Headliners Mission Group.

When things seem off, chaotic, or just plain strange, we’re quick to ask this: “Is there a full moon tonight?” For centuries, people have believed that the full moon brings out unusual behavior in humans. From emergency room surges to bizarre public incidents, stories about the “lunar effect” are widespread in both folklore and modern culture. But is there any truth to these claims?

The History of Full Moon Lore

Beliefs about the full moon’s power date back to ancient civilizations. The word lunatic comes from luna, the Latin word for moon, reflecting the long-standing belief that lunar cycles influence mental health and behavior. Ancient Greeks and Romans thought the full moon could incite madness, while in medieval Europe, it was linked to werewolves, witches, and sorcery.

In modern times, emergency service workers, police officers, and hospital staff often share anecdotal evidence of heightened activity during full moons. Sergeant Al Shaffer, with the Newark Police Department, tells us this: “As a 29-year veteran of the Newark Police Department, I’ve seen my share of wild nights. More times than I can count, I’ve heard officers say, ‘It must be a full moon.’ And, truth be told, sometimes it actually was.”

The Moon’s Gravitational Pull: More Than Just Tides?

It’s a scientific fact that the moon’s gravitational pull affects Earth’s tides. But it does more than raise and lower ocean levels. In fact, the moon actually tugs on the Earth itself — ever so slightly stretching the planet into an oval shape, especially near the equator. Scientists call this “Earth tide” and though the shift is tiny — measured in centimeters — it’s a real and measurable deformation of the planet’s surface.

Now consider this: if the moon can pull at the Earth’s crust and move entire oceans, could it also affect our bodies, which are composed mostly of water? Some researchers and spiritual thinkers speculate that even if the effects are too subtle to measure directly, they may influence us subconsciously. Our circadian rhythms, hormonal cycles, and even mood might be nudged ever so slightly by the moon’s phases. While science hasn’t conclusively proven this, it remains a compelling line of thought that fuels continued research and curiosity.

This can be compared to women’s menstrual cycles. Men, take note — many don’t even realize what’s happening during a period. The body is shedding an unfertilized egg, contracting and flushing out material that’s no longer needed. It’s a natural force, just like the pull of a full moon. And while women often get dismissed as “cranky” or “PMS-ing,” it’s undeniable that these forces, though unconscious, have real impact on mood.

The Power of Expectation and Perception

One major factor contributing to the belief in full moon effects is confirmation bias. If someone expects strange things to happen during a full moon, they are more likely to notice and remember odd incidents — and less likely to recall similar events on other nights. This phenomenon plays a powerful role in shaping our perceptions and reinforcing superstitions.

Sgt. Shaffer explained it this way: “When I step back and look at it more carefully, the evidence just isn’t there. Studies show very little proof that full moons cause more crimes or 911 calls. What really seems to happen is something called confirmation bias. Here’s how it works: if I have a very busy night on patrol, then look up and see the full moon, I connect the two. That ‘confirms’ the old belief, even if the moon had nothing to do with it.”

Additionally, the media often highlights bizarre stories that coincide with the full moon, further embedding the idea that the moon influences behavior.

So, Does the Full Moon Really Change Us?

It doesn’t seem so. “The truth is, there’s no strong statistical link between moon cycles and crime. The real reasons for busy nights are things like alcohol, large crowds, holidays, or big events in the city,” Sgt. Shaffer said.

“Still, the folklore around the full moon isn’t going away. People like to find meaning in what they see, and a glowing full moon is a powerful symbol. Even today, after a hectic shift, you might still hear officers say, ‘It must be a full moon.’ Sometimes it is — and sometimes it’s not,” he said.

The moon has pulled at the Earth since time began. Maybe it’s not so far-fetched to think it tugs at us, too.

The post It Must Be the Full Moon appeared first on Headliners Mission Group.

In grade school we are all taught our A, B, C’s, but rarely were we ever tested on our Alfa, Beta, Charlie’s. If you’ve ever been on a phone call having to spell out your name or the email address you created in 8th grade, odds are you had to spell phonetically. When ‘A as in Adam’ and ‘B as in boy’ leave your lips, you’ve just used your own, personal phonetic alphabet. In an increasingly loud world, where the three-second video clip is king and everyone and everything is vying for attention, slowing down and conveying a message clearly us a necessity. Over 100 years ago, a new alphabet was created to help with this very issue – though referenced in pop culture and every day parlance, its inception was mainly to support military operations and aviation. Saying that life is a battlefield, (not love: sorry Pat Benatar), in this sense, is not far off.

Created to Support Military

“Radio communication is where it started,” says Dan Bell, a retired 22-year veteran of the Marine Corps. “I joined the Marines in 1977 and had to memorize it. I had many classes down at Parish Island. It’s kind of like verbal Morse Code.”

And while he’s absolutely right in its most well-known form, the need to incorporate universal phonetic spelling started pre-WWI as a way to support two-way radio communications (both in militarily and for the amateur radio aficionado) and low-quality long-distance telephone circuits.

Uniformity Helps Combat Background Noise

The early 20th century saw the creation of the Amsterdam-Baltimore Alphabet insomuch that the letters were represented by different country names: Amsterdam, Baltimore, Canada, Denmark, etc. Then, post WWII and after years of additional studies, some done here locally at The Ohio State University in Columbus, the Able-Baker Alphabet was adopted with some new phonetics, to better ensure that words sounded different enough when spoken to combat potential background noise and confusion.

“Many sounds are highly confusable within a language,” says Meghan Sumner, a linguistics professor with Stanford University, in a recent interview with Popular Mechanics reporter Kimberly Hickok. For example, the sounds “th” and “f” and very similar (thin, fin) and easy to confuse, as are “m” and “n” sounds, they explain. “Especially in the contexts that are noisy or when you can’t see the talker,” such as over a radio with background noise or interference. The NATO Phonetic alphabet helps avoid that ambiguity and makes it clear what the letters are, Hickok reported.

Alphabet Was Made Universal

Named after the organization that first approved its broad use, (the North Atlantic Treaty Organization), the alphabet was standardized to ensure its functionality more broadly.

“Across languages, speakers might hear a sound, but map it onto a different sound category in their own language, especially in context of background noises,” Sumner says. “For example, the Spanish pronunciation of the letter “P” sounds very similar to the English pronunciation of the letter “B.” This could cause issues when communicating the names of the people or places to someone who may not be familiar with those names in the other language, Hickok reported.

“Working with other countries [we] needed familiar language,” further explains Dan Bell. The variety of changes that have been applied over the last almost 100 years to this and other similar phonetic alphabets were done so with the arc of universality to compensate for the differing linguistic tendencies in other countries. Relative to global miliary alliances, its importance in the field cannot be understated as a bridge between countries, though also with a nod to uniformity among American military branches themselves.

“When you communicate in the field, you’ll have the Navy and the Army in the same area [and] when you have joint operations you have to have the same alphabet,” Bell states.

Ironically, in daily use, at least one universally adopted word is officially spelled differently than pop culture conveys: Alpha is actually spelled Alfa.

Similarly, the pronunciations are different that most would have you believe: Lima = LEE MAH; Qubec = KEH BECK; Victor = VIK TAH.

Keep in mind, this alphabet differs in usage, but holds a similar mode of messaging conveyance with other types of speech. For example, acronyms, which are abbreviations of a name or multiple words used as a word itself, like NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration), or initialism, which are abbreviations consisting of initial letters pronounced separately, (LOL = Laugh Out Loud, FOMO = Fear Of Missing Out, or CPU = Computer Processing Unit).

So next time someone asks to spell a street name or confirm an alphanumeric license plate, remember the NATO Phonetic Alphabet when speaking with the local customer service representative. Papa-Sierra: There is an alphabet for numbers, too.

Commonly Referenced Phonetic Alphabet Phrases:

Well-known Berlin Wall access point between East and West Berlin, Checkpoint Charlie is actually Checkpoint – C

Oscar Mike = On the Move

Lima Company from Brook park, Ohio is actually Company – L, who are the third battalion of the 25th Marine Regiment (See: Lima Company Memorial at the Ohio Statehouse)

Fans of the History Channel Show The Curse of Oak Island might hear brothers Rick and Marty Lagina refer to buried treasure as ‘Bravo Tango’

Link to websites to grab a table of current NATO Phonetic Alphabet and the one for numbers:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NATO_phonetic_alphabet

https://www.popularmechanics.com/culture/a39297126/origin-of-the-nato-phonetic-alphabet/

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“Look, there’s Spike,” Jimmy pointed out to us.

“What is that girl doing? Is she on rollerblades? Oh my God,” Susie snickered in disbelief.

We were on our way to the Silver Cloud for afternoon drinks, and there she was heading up Lombard Street. It was the first time I’d seen her, platinum blond hair nearly to her waist, skin pasty white as glue, decked out in spandex shorts and a dinky sports bra.

She strode east from Octavia, arms swinging, legs gliding, carefree but with direction. She stopped before the next block, swinging her hips around to the iron gate of an apartment building, and disappeared inside.

“We just saw your girlfriend, Sammy,” Susie teased to the little Vietnamese man behind the bar at Silver Cloud.

“What you mean?” Sammy asked, pouring beer into a glass.

“Spike, your little honey.”

“No. No. She not my girlfriend. I only go out with her a few times,” Sammy laughed. “She too expensive.”

“Ugh, you better watch it Sammy,” said Susie, turning serious. “I know that really, you like that girl, but you better be careful. Who knows what diseases she has. I hope you’re using protection.”

Sammy looked embarrassed. “No, she nice girl.” And that was all we talked of Spike before turning our attention to our beers and speculating on that evening’s business.

It was about a month later I got to see Spike close up when I moved into her building. Kitty, a Vietnamese friend of Sammy’s was the apartment manager and had told me one night about a vacant studio upstairs from his unit. It was the break I needed to get away from Jimmy, Susie’s brother and the guy I shared an apartment with near Haight-Ashbury. I had started to get nervous with all his cocaine-snorting buddies around.

I was caught off guard by my first exchange with Spike. I was going up the steps; she was coming down, singing very loudly some song I didn’t recognize.

“Hi. Are you Spike?” I asked, immediately regretting I’d called her that. Maybe it wasn’t her real name. I never bothered to ask.

“Oh yes. It is I, the one-and-only Spike,” she said dramatically, flicking her fingers to toss her hair off her shoulders.

“Hi. I’m Jackie. Jimmy and Susie’s friend. Sammy just hired me down at the Silver Cloud.”

“Jimmy and Susie? You’ve got to be kidding, right? Oh, I bet they’re loads of fun,” she said, not even hiding the sarcasm.

“Um, they’re O.K.,” I said, shrinking beneath her scowl.

“Yeah … well, see you around,” she brushed me off, starting back down the steps and picking up the singing again. I went to my apartment and spent a half an hour wondering about her. Who was she? And where was she going with all that makeup on and long gypsy skirt?

I soon learned that Jimmy and Susie weren’t making up what Spike did as a profession. Her unit was adjacent to mine, one floor lower. From my kitchen I could see her bathroom window, and one day, when I was being nosy, I spied down to her place to see if I could see anything. Much to my surprise, her bathroom was aglow with red light. And I witnessed the light on numerous times thereafter when I looked down to see what she was up to.

I really didn’t care what the girl was into. Rather, I laughed to myself inside at the oddity of the experience of living next to a prostitute, if she should be called that. Maybe working girl is a better term.

I found myself feeling sorry for her. She was so young – she couldn’t have been more than 25, yet she was so pale and worn looking. And how could she be so bold? Did she know she was ridiculed by the Silver Cloud circle?

I decided I’d try to befriend her. I just walked downstairs and knocked on her door one day.

“Yes?” she answered, flinging the door open. Again, I became fixated on her over-the-top regalia: long, painted-on ribbed knit dress, red, with slits to the hips and layer upon layers of makeup.

“I was just heading to work,” I said, intimidated, partly disappointed that she’d even opened the door.

She asked me in. “I was wondering if you knew about the karaoke contest tonight. It’s one-hundred dollars for the winner. You should come and try,” I told her.

“No, I don’t think so,” she grimaced. I offered myself a seat on the corner of her bed. There was no other seating. It was weird seeing her studio, which was just like mine, but reversed. Hers faced Lombard Street, mine the back garage.

“I’ll be out tonight spreading around some naughtiness,” she went on.

Oh God, I thought, not asking her to elaborate. I prayed she wouldn’t start talking about the business. My mind raced, looking around the room, trying to find a focus, something to say.

“I like your light,” I blurted out, pointing to a lava lamp on the bedside table.

“Creates a nice mood, doesn’t it?” she said and just kept going about her business picking clothes up off the floor and folding them, not even really looking at me.

“Yeah. Well, I better get going to work now,” I said and hurried out of there.

I was so relieved walking to work. I decided I was scared of Spike. I wanted so badly to know her story, but I was too much of a coward to even talk to the girl.

A few days later I was heading upstairs to my place and saw the Indian clerk from the corner market trotting down the steps. I knew him well enough from my frequent visits to the store and was surprised to see him there. He was whistling, tucking in his shirt, and his face glistened with sweat. I was repulsed.

I don’t know what ever became of Spike. I can’t even remember if she lived in the building when I moved out. She came into the Silver Cloud a couple of times to see Sammy since the day I went to her studio. When she did, she always had to suffer the wrath of Jimmy and Susie – spewing insulting comments under their breath, ignoring her presence, and even one time I remember, Susie screaming in Spike’s face about her tired skin. The poor girl always took it, too. She never even flinched.

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My grandpa always says how he fell in love with my grandmother’s big brown eyes.

He says I have her big brown eyes.

Although, I wish people would look past my big brown eyes.

I wish people would look at the way I sympathize.

Look at the way I’m paralyzed by my fear and my worries.

Every night I have this recurring dream.

I wake up in a sea on a thin sheet of wood.

This sea slowly changes from calm to raging.

My brain starts disengaging.

I lose track of the things in my life.

These big brown eyes don’t just smile.

They cry rivers of tears

Flooding my senses

and Making me senseless.

These big brown eyes need to be wiped.

They need to be cared for.

They need to be prepared for the hardships to come.

These big brown eyes need someone to step closer and realize they aren’t just brown

But green, and a little yellow when the sun hits them just right.

The only emotion they have isn’t sadness

But a mix of confusion and pride.

These big brown eyes need someone to guide them home.

The post POEM: Big Brown Eyes appeared first on Headliners Mission Group.

The way most people talk to each other has drastically changed in the past few decades. Words, phrases, and jokes are being spoken that would have been absolutely shocking a century ago. Foul language was only spoken by those who were considered “indecent.” Now words like the F-bomb are so commonplace that even children will speak them in conversation. But why does this actually matter? Just because certain ways of speaking were taboo in some other outdated culture doesn’t mean that they are now. How can things like swearing, sexual humor, and sarcasm be a problem? Well, because words really do have power. In fact, they are one of the most powerful forces in the world.

Since words are our way of communicating what we think and feel, they have a direct influence on everyone who hears them. For example, I bet you aren’t thinking about donuts right now, but now that I have mentioned them, you probably are. To take it even further, imagine a large, fluffy donut with a thick layer of shimmering glaze on the outside. It is soft to the touch, and the glaze is so fresh that its gooey texture sticks to your fingers. I’m willing to bet that now you probably are not just thinking about a donut, but you are starting to want one. Perhaps you aren’t. Perhaps you don’t like glazed donuts for some strange reason. But even then, what you just read prompted you to some sort of reaction.

No matter what, when we communicate verbally to another person, we are influencing what they think about, and sometimes even the way that they think. In fact, by reading this very article you are being influenced in some way. Whether that be toward agreement or disagreement with my point, you are thinking more deeply about this topic than you were before you started reading.

But what you say doesn’t just affect others; it also affects you.

The words that we say begin with a thought in our own minds, and when we speak that thought, it actually reinforces our thinking. Psychological evidence shows that if someone repeats a certain phrase numerous times daily over the course of a few weeks, it can actually rewire that person’s brain to come to believe that statement, even if they did not believe it before. Some communist countries have used this as a tactic in their re-education camps for POWs. By making their prisoners repeatedly speak phrases and sentences that are affirming to their communist regime, they eventually start to question what they believe to be true. This can clearly be seen in our own behavior.

For example, I used to work for a Catholic ministry that hosted overnight retreats for teens. There was one group of boys that was adamant about how much they did not want to be there. All they did was complain. There was one moment when everyone was eating breakfast. I remember quite a few teens on the retreat complimenting the food. They enjoyed it and wanted seconds. But not this group. They tried it and thought it was so gross that they refused to eat any more. Same food. Same day. Totally different attitude. By constantly reinforcing the idea that everything at the camp was a bad experience, they convinced themselves that the food, which was ordinarily enjoyable, was disgusting.

If our words have such an effect on others and on ourselves, then we need to take a closer look at the kinds of things that have become normal in our modern culture’s communication. It only takes a couple of minutes on the Internet to see that our world is full of swearing, sexual humor, complaining, and negativity towards others and oneself. These trends in speech are very destructive. Although we might not think that it means anything, when we use foul language and curse words we are choosing to carelessly throw around racial slurs, sexual euphemisms, vulgarities, and more.

There seems to be some dark part of us that revels in speaking an evil word for its own sake, and that ought to concern us. Vulgar sexual humor is even more destructive. Sex is one of the most sacred aspects of being human. It is created to be the deepest expression of love between two individuals, and it serves as the foundation of a healthy family. When sex is misused and removed from its proper context, as it is so severely in the modern day, it destroys families and damages one’s ability to love purely and authentically. When the jokes that we make lead us to rejoice in the perversion of sexuality, we are setting ourselves up for failure and influencing ourselves to see others as sexual objects rather than people.

There are so many ways speech can significantly impact us, negatively and positively. But my encouragement to you is this: if you still are not convinced, I challenge you to try to spot how the things that you hear others say seem to affect you and/or themselves. The Bible describes the tongue as a rudder that steers a ship. What we say is so powerful that it can literally steer the direction of our lives, or even the lives of others. If you want to do good, speak what is good and virtuous to others, and encourage them to do the same. If we can change our culture’s speech, we might just be able to change the world.

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SYMMETRY IS BEAUTY

I’ve often read that physical beauty lies in bodily and facial symmetry. Evolutionary theorists explain that symmetric faces are a greater sign of fitness and superior genetics, a characteristic evolved to help individuals choose the healthiest mate. Any deviation from symmetry – asymmetry – often points to unattractiveness, perhaps someone unfit or diseased, leading us not to want to mix with that particular partner. This is what “they” say anyway.

WHY ARE SOME OF US ASYMMETRIC?

While many scientists claim that these symmetries are a sure sign of biological fitness, it is possible that symmetry, or lack thereof, is not due to genetics, but the amount of exposure to stressors during bodily development. It can only be one or the other that is responsible for our funky body sides. Sometimes we’re born with oddball parts, like when one of our limbs is longer than the other; sometimes we build them on our own, as we see in athletes with differences in muscular makeup; and some are brought on by environmental factors from an early age, like nutrition, pollution or cigarette smoke. Still though, one has to wonder if these asymmetries do in fact, influence our overall fitness. Would we doomed to not attract a mate? And, because I have one breast that’s fattier than the other, does that mean it’s more prone to breast cancer? Or, if my leg is shorter than the other, will I have joint problems in my lifetime?

NEW-AGE IDEAS

There are even new-age explanations on body symmetries. One interesting one I found explains it this way: the left side of the body is the feminine side and represents the mother. The right is regarded as the masculine side, representing the father. When we continually have problems with one particular side of the body, it can mean there are issues with the parent – represented on that particular side – which have not been settled.

BRAIN HEMISPHERES

How do brain hemispheres factor into bodily symmetries? They don’t really; they are symmetries of their own, although with asymmetrical roles, working as “duel-core” processors. They have no control over bodily aesthetics, only functions. It’s difficult to read about body symmetries, however, and not have this topic included alongside.

DO SLEEP POSITIONS FACTOR IN?

Back to environmental factors affecting symmetry, I’ve wondered whether my sleeping patterns have an effect on this. It is known that the position you sleep in affects your health: lying on your back is the worse for sleep apnea, sleeping on the left eases heartburn and acid reflux, etc. There are many pros and cons for all positions. I believe that our bodies behave in certain ways – evolutionary protective strategies – to protect us from danger. I often worry about heart disease since it runs in my family. It has been found that sleeping on the right side – which I always do – helps with heart function. Sleeping on the left is related to heart enlargement and can contribute to dysfunction. In regard to my body’s symmetry, perhaps my right eyebrow is so much higher because of years of my face being smashed in my pillow on that size. Who knows;)

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Ah, the classic, typical phrase: “It is what it is.” A true gem of linguistic laziness, perfect for those moments when you want to sound profound without actually saying anything of substance. Instead of offering insight or empathy, it throws up a white flag and surrenders to the chaos of life. Congratulations! You’ve just won the award for Most Unhelpful Response.

You know what takes effort? Actual engagement. Acknowledging feelings. Problem-solving. “It is what it is” is the verbal equivalent of shrugging your shoulders while scrolling through your phone. It’s lazy and dismissive. It is NOT what it is. Fight!! Find a solution. A real conversation might involve some actual thought — imagine the horror!

And let’s not forget how it kills conversations. When you say this, you might as well be saying, “I’m done talking; let’s move on to something less meaningful.”

Next time you feel tempted to lean on this tired cliche, consider a little creativity in your response instead. How about something like, “Life’s a mess, I know.” At least it acknowledges the struggle without pretending it’s just a shrug-worthy fact of life. Remember, the next time someone hits you with “It is what it is,” you have every right to roll your eyes and demand a better conversation.

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Driving past the expansive property, one might dismiss the establishment as just another honky-tonk, its history buried within its dilapidated walls, dismissed or forgotten by previous generations, so that those who currently frequent it have no clue of the events that transpired in its glory days.

Joan, a widow in her fifties and determined to make a fresh start in life, operates the propriety, which consists of a full-scale bar and restaurant that serves everything from chicken wings to Saturday-night prime rib.

Joan’s daughters, Jo and Ann, both divorcees, help with the operations, and Jo, the younger of the two, resides in the living quarters in the east wing of the building with her son Jack.

Jack struggles with embarrassment over where he lives and does his best to keep it a secret at his high school, which is the one in town where the kids from affluent families attend. It just so happens that the inn sits on the school district’s borderline.

Jack is lucky enough one day to get a ride home from school from a fellow sophomore, Danny, which he’s reluctant to accept but does anyway simply for the pleasure of not having to ride the bus.

“You can just drop me off at my mom’s work,” Jack tells Danny, pointing to the inn on the horizon.

“Ugh, what the hell is this place? Your mom works here?” Danny asks, disgusted and in disbelief as he pulls his Toyota Celica into the gravel parking lot.

“It’s not that bad,” argues Jack. “She works in the restaurant. I get free food, anything I want, whenever I want.”

“Yeah, but look at the place,” Danny laughs. “Are there even bathrooms in there?”

“Very funny,” Jack says as he climbs out of the car, sick to his stomach at the thought of Danny knowing the truth – that he actually lives there. He feels ashamed that his mom works inside and will never have the means to help him get a car like so many of his classmates have.

He walks in the door to the bar, dark, smoky, and sour smelling even at this mid-afternoon hour. Jo sits on a stool on the corner of the bar, cigarette in hand and engrossed in conversation with a hunkered-over old man named Paul, a regular.

“Hi Mom. Hi Paul.” There are a few others scattered down the long bar, all clasping beer bottles with their attention focused on the T.V. in an overhead corner. There are no women at this hour, only sad and thirsty, blue-collar workers, or so it seems to Jack.

“Can I have a Nestle Crunch and Mountain Dew, Mom?”

“Yes, but then you need to get over home and get the house cleaned up,” Jo instructs. “I’ll be home late.”

Jack cuts through the inn’s kitchen to a door that opens to a long hallway leading to the apartment where they live. Another door beyond that opens to a screened porch, an addition built on to the inn, and is accessible from the front of the property.

Above the door inside the apartment the name Gant is inlaid in glass. No one knows about Gant, a slave from the Civil-War era, who had been freed and moved to Ohio to set up his homestead here in this very spot.

No one knows that the rusted old chandelier in the apartment’s living room, missing many of its crystals and not even in working order, once gleamed with brilliance, lighting the prosperous landowner’s great room.

Jack races through his chores, grabs a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the fridge, and heads out the door and around to the back of the property to its basement, where he’s certain he’ll find his uncle, Tony, Joan’s son, tinkering on some project in a forgotten room.

Aside from the inn’s location in a depressed part of town, its natural surroundings provide some solace for Jack. Oak trees surround the sides of the inn, and a few hundred yards from the back of the property lays a broad, wooded area full of creeks. Beyond that, the interstate. Jack and Tony spend lots of time in those woods talking about bands, World War III, and flipping over rocks looking for crawdads.

Immediately inside the basement door are stale beer smells from a room on the left where the bar’s cans and bottles sit in trash bags waiting for Tony to take them to the Dumpster. Jack sometimes helps and when he does, Joan usually gives him five dollars.

Jack finds Tony right where he expects, in the second room on the right, buried in his Guitar magazine with a Pepsi and Marlboro in his hands. What neither of them know is the basement where they hang out, eleven rooms in all, used to hide slaves running for their lives – for their freedom.

Together, Jack and Todd explore many areas of the basement with its dirt-stone floor and walls so old and fibrous that one could punch a hole through them.

They only share a passing wonder of the peculiarities the basement contains: a sunken room with a fireplace, a deep pit in a centralized spot from which many of the rooms surround. The purpose of the pit is unknown to them; now it holds the bar’s kegs.

Once, in one of the rooms in the back right, Jack and Tony found a small niche, not quite large enough to hold a body, not that they even thought of it, but they found a dusty, decaying baby shoe.

Both the basement and the woods are refuges for Jack and Tony, and they congregate in both spots daily. They each share unspoken dreams of finding glory in their adult lives, of doing something great, being productive, rich, and maybe famous even. They both are filled with hope in what their futures will hold, and it’s for this reason they get along so well.

“Wanna go to the woods?” Jack asks Tony.

“Yeah. Let me grab my cigs here,” Tony replies, tucking them into the pocket of his Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up to his biceps. He brings along the Pepsi, too.

“I’m thinking I might move to L.A.,” Tony says as he bolts the basement door. “They’ve got this guitar school out there called MI. You know Nancy Wilson of Heart? I guess she went there. I figure if I keep working and save some money, I could just drive out there once school’s done.”

“Oh, man, that would be so cool Tony. And I could come out to visit you.”

They climb a small hill at the inn’s borders and find the path leading to the creek. They aren’t yet in the thick of the woods; before the creek’s edge is a dusty field with only a few scraggly shrubs and meandering paths.

Their favorite spot is where the creek waters collect into a huge pool, deep enough to swim in if they wanted to, though they never do. They have to climb down an embankment to get to it, dodging poison oak and bush limbs.

Today they sit near the creek’s edge on a soft mound of pebbles, the kind perfect for skimming across the water. They hang out until dusk talking about what it would be like to live in L.A. Jack’s enthusiasm only fuels Tony’s ambition to take the leap and actually go there.

“Just go,” Jack urges. “I’m sure you’ll find a job when you get there. I mean, it’s L.A. There’s gotta be all kinds of jobs in a place like that.” Tony nods and looks thoughtful thinking of the truth in Jack’s words.

Jack feels envious about the prospect of Tony leaving, but thinks his own destiny holds something just as exciting, if not more.

It’s nearly dark when they get back to the inn, and Tony goes into the bar to see if Joan’s ready to call it a day. Jack’s relieved to see his mom hasn’t made it home yet. He quickly eats a mayonnaise sandwich before heading to his room, anxious to retreat there so hopefully he won’t have to talk to her.

Later, Jack’s jolted awake by the thud of Jo’s pocketbook and clang of keys hitting the kitchen counter. He lies still in anticipation of her entering his room. It’s almost midnight and he’s certain she started drinking after her shift.

Luckily, Jo just goes through her nightly bedtime process and goes straight to bed, much to Jack’s relief.

As he’s on the verge of sleep, he feels a soft blowing on his right cheek. He slowly opens his eyes to witness the foggy shape of a body beside his bed. There’s the shape of a head, but with no eyes, and he only sees the torso, with stubs as arms.

The figure doesn’t move. Jack’s chest seems to seize up and he can’t breathe. Just as he’s coming to grips in his mind about what he’s seeing, he blinks and the body is gone.

He quickly bolts out of bed and springs into the living room to the couch, where he sits frozen in the dark, looking around only with his eyes and trying to make sense of what he saw. Maybe it was a dream, he thinks. He stretches out and eventually his nervous, rigid body relaxes into sleep.

Jack dreams of the woods. He’s in the shallows of the creek, in the very center, barefoot, and desperately running upstream, splashing, legs heavy as lead, screaming in the black night, but no words coming out, from something chasing him, though he can’t see anything. But he knows something’s there, behind him, over him, descending its weight on his back and pushing him forward.

The presence is on him now, pounding, pounding from behind, but he feels nothing. His entire body twitches, as if electrified, and he realizes someone’s pounding on the front door. He lies still, but it continues, more aggressively now.

He runs to Jo’s room and stops dead in his tracks at her door. He sees on his mom’s cedar chest another foggy figure, this time an entire body, that of a man, who’s sitting on the top with his legs crossed, back bent over and head in hands. As quickly as Jack makes it out, the fogginess dissipates.

“Mom, wake up.” There’s no response. “Mom there’s someone at the door.” He only hears her heavy breathing. He clasps on to her shoulders and shakes her, but her body is floppy and unresponsive.

The knocks grow more urgent. Jack can’t stand the noise, so he angrily goes to the door.

“What do you want?” Jack yells, cheek and nose lightly pressed to the door to see what he can hear.

“I need to talk to your mother,” a man’s voice calmly, but sternly requests.

“She’s not here. Get out of here or I’m going to call the police.”

“You’re not going to do that. Open the door so I can talk to your mother.”

Jack looks out the window onto the screened porch to see if the door to the hallway is open. It is. The man must be giving up because he steps out onto the porch, and Jack, not expecting this, crouches onto the floor, quickly closing the curtain except for a small sliver to peek through.

Jack can’t see the man, only a black shape of a body, and it stops as if it senses movement. “Why can’t I see this guy?” Jack wonders. There are lampposts outside streaming light onto the porch, yet Jack can’t make out any detail of the man. He’s just a solid black form. There’s no color of hair, no facial profile, no texture of clothing.

The figure backs up into the hallway, but not with steps; it floats back in a swift, swoosh of movement and Jack sits paralyzed.

There are soft knocks at the door.

“Let me in,” says the voice. Jack just sits there.

“Let me in … or I’ll have to come in myself,” says the voice, this time oozing deep, metallic tones.

Jack’s heart is racing realizing the figure has no intention of leaving. Until now, he thought merely holding his ground would make the man give up and leave.

He tries a new strategy of mocking the evil voice, “I’ll come in myself … oh, I’m really scared now.”

Jack’s face is against the door, which suddenly vibrates from the force of the figure’s fists pounding against it. He steps back, looks, and finds the door has cracked. He shudders and steps back further when the pounding comes again, and again, until the wood starts splintering away.

Black smoky streams work their way through the cracks and Jack witnesses them form into arms that are now reaching for him. He tries to run, but the streams extend to his neck and clasp on to it, squeezing, choking, until he’s blinded with brilliant white light. Then he sees nothing.

When Jo doesn’t find Jack in his room the next morning, she figures he’s snuck out of the house, something he’s been known to do. As midafternoon rolls around she begins to worry, and by dusk she’s calling friends and family to see if they’ve heard from him.

It’s Tony who goes into the woods to see if he can find Jack there. He heads to their favorite spot first, and that’s where he finds him, face down, swollen in the water, floating, brushing softly against the bank.

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