deVan and Picture #12: deVan’s Third Visit

Visit #3: Abrielle 

This is the third of the visits by young deVan to the building behind the unlocked door. Be sure to read the visits in order, starting with the Visit #1.

 

The unlocked back door seemed especially heavy as deVan hauled it open this Saturday morning. When he entered the sanctuary, the Church seemed especially dark. As he worked his way around the 14 Stations of the Cross, the story seemed especially sad.

            “What’s the matter, deVan?” That was the voice emanating so clearly from Picture #12, the voice of deVan’s good friend, who knew something was the matter.

            “Your big idea is ‘live in love,’ right?” deVan’s voice had an edge he did not try to mask.

            “Yes, that’s my big idea. Are you upset because it’s not funny?” deVan and man on the cross had been pursuing ways to infuse more humor into the man’s story.

            “No, I never expected it to be funny. But I didn’t expect it to be so brutal.”

            “All right, what happened?”

            Now deVan looked straight up into the eyes of the man on the cross. “What happened, Jesus, is that when you live in love, some people don’t want to live there with you.”

            Jesus most likely shook his head at this, although there was no way to tell for sure. “That can be brutal, all right. So?”

            “So, I go up to Aubrielle Vinly to discuss you. Aubrielle is a five star Christian, wears a cross neckless. She can’t be Catholic because there’s no Jesus on her cross.”

            “deVan, there doesn’t have to be a Jesus — anyway, it doesn’t matter; go on.”

            “Now, Aubrielle and I have known each other since first grade. She’s really smart, and she already told me she can’t be my friend because—”

            “Because you’re trans.”

            “Right. Which bothered me, but not too much because, before I met you, I figured, that’s how Christians felt so what can I do about it?”

            “I see.”

            deVan made a whooshing sound as he exhaled. “Well, I don’t see. I don’t see at all. I’m fine with Aubrielle not talking to me, and then I meet you and here you are talking to me and telling me I’m your friend.”

            “You are my friend.”

            “Yeah, we’re friends, you and me. Then a Christian tells me she can’t be my friend because you said she can’t. Do you see the problem here?”

            “Yes.”

            “You do?”

            “Yes, deVan.”

            “Jesus, one of you guys has to be right and one of you has to be wrong.”

            “About what?” Jesus asked.

            “About what? About me! She thinks I’m someone she shouldn’t talk to because Jesus doesn’t want her to talk to me, and here you are talking to me. That’s the problem you said you understood, understand?”

            “How do you see the problem?”

            “Simple. One of us is good, and one of us is bad. If I’m the good one, Aubrielle is bad for not talking to me. If she’s the good one, I’m bad because you said so.”

            Jesus paused to give this some thought. “deVan, remember ‘live in love.’”

            “Yeah, I do remember. It’s brutal.”

            “Sometimes, sure, but you have to get it right to start with.”

            “Meaning?”

            Jesus sighed. “‘Live in love’ is a little more involved than—”

            “I knew it! It was just too simple.”

            “Look, deVan. It is simple. It’s just there’s a bit more to it.”

            “What?”

            “I’m sure I told you this. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ It doesn’t work any other way.”

            “What the heck does that mean?”

            Jesus almost certainly smiled. “Love yourself. It means you are good, and you know it.”

            “Oh.” deVan stopped to think, and the man on the cross let him think. “‘Live in love’ starts with me saying I am good. If I am good, then Aubrielle is bad, is that it?”

            “That,” said Jesus definitively, “is most certainly not it.”

            “I see another complication coming.”

            “I see it as making it less complicated.”

            “Okay, Jesus, make it less complicated.”

            “Do not judge.”

            “Who am I judging?”

            “Anyone you call bad. Anyone you say is doing bad.”

            “But—”

            “There are no buts on this one, deVan.”

            “So she gets to judge me because I’m trans, but I don’t get to judge her. Do you know how that feels?”

            Jesus cleared his throat. “Did you check out the Stations of the Cross today, deVan?”

            “Yeah. I guess you do know how it feels. How did you handle it?”

            “I forgave them.”

            “Come on! Just like that, you forgave them?”

            “No. Not just like that. It was hard.”

            “So, I should forgive Aubrielle.”

            “deVan, you should love Aubrielle.”

            “So, if she came here you would talk to her, just like you talk to me?

            “Yes.”

            “Even if she’s mean to me?”

            “Yes, especially then.”

            “Dang.”

            “Dang?”

            “I’m starting to get this ‘live in love’ thing. I live in love, and I love others like I love myself, so I am good. No matter what others think of me, I don’t judge them as bad. I just keep loving.”

            “Sounds about right.”

            “I’m not sure I like it. I never get to stand up for myself.”

            “You always stand up for yourself. You are good. Never let go of that.”

            “Jesus,” deVan said, his voice in a whisper. “Is it wrong to be trans?”

            Jesus smiled, and this time deVan was sure Jesus was smiling because the warmth circled all around him. “You are good, deVan. Loving yourself means loving you the way you are. Anything else would be wrong.”

            “I’m glad you are my friend, Jesus.”

            “Thank you, deVan.”

            deVan brightened instantly. “And to prove it, guess what? I asked Aubrielle what she knew about James and John. You know, your youngest apprentices.”

            “I thought she wasn’t talking to you.”

            “Oh, yeah, true. But I started by saying I wanted to discuss the Bible, and she couldn’t shut up about it.”

            “So, what did she say?”

            “Lots. She told me they were brothers, James and John. By the way, how young were they?”

            “I’m not sure. Maybe 15 and 16, maybe a little younger.”

            “Didn’t you guys have child labor laws back then?”

            “No, and not for a long time after.”

            “Still, 15, dang. She said you pulled them away from their dad who had a fishing business.”

            “Pulled away is a little harsh.”

            “Still, Jesus, they left their father sort of hanging there.”

            “Was this what you wanted to tell me?”

            “No, but dang. Anyway, we’re looking for ways to make your message, story, whatever, more humorous, right? This James and John deal has potential.”

            “How? They were usually a pain.”

            “Aubrielle said they were your favorites, along with Peter.”

            “Yes, they were very passionate. And Peter got on my nerves, too.”

            “What’s the thing with one of the two brothers sitting on your right hand and one on your left hand?”

            “What did Aubrielle say?”

            “She said their mom told you to make sure they got special treatment, like she was a beauty pageant mom.”

            Jesus likely chuckled. “That’s not far off. The right hand left hand business was her mistaken notion that I was about to overthrow the Romans and establish a kingdom in their place. She wanted her sons near the throne she imagined.”

            “But your kingdom was not in this world. Didn’t you get that across?”

            “Obviously not as well as I thought.”

            “Maybe after the comedy lessons we can work on your preaching.”

            “No need to get cheeky. I brought them both up a mountain and showed them in no uncertain terms where my kingdom was. Scared the bejesus, pardon the expression, out of them.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Now what’s so funny about James and John and their beauty pageant mother?”

            “Are you kidding? It’s a comedy gold mine!”

            “Really?”

            “Sure.” deVan was excited. “Every teen move ever made has some kind of beauty pageant mom in it.”

            “That sounds like something that has been done before.”

            “That’s the point. Those movies are, like, happening today. This story, your story, takes place, what? Like five hundred years ago, right?”

            “More like two thousand.”

            “Years?”

            “Years.”

            “Dang!”

            And deVan and the man on the cross did some serious work on the funny side of the Gospel.

deVan and Picture #12: deVan’s Second Visit

Visit #2: The Comedy Lesson

Exactly one week after his first encounter with the man on the cross, deVan once again hauled open the unlocked back door of the Catholic church and slipped inside. He wanted very much to continue his discussion with the man in Picture #12, but it didn’t seem right to just walk over there. Instead, deVan went to the first of the 14 pictures scattered around the walls. “Stations” they were called.

            He stopped at each Station, like a train does, and thought about what his new friend had gone through the day he died. Since they had indeed become friends, deVan found it much harder to make his way around the church a second time. Tears were in his eyes and on his face when he circled back to Picture #12.

            “Why did they do this to you?” deVan blurted the words more loudly than he intended.

            “Hello, deVan.”

            deVan lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Jesus. It upsets me, you know? Who did this?”

            “The people in charge back then, the Romans.”

            “What right did they have to torture you and kill you?”

            Jesus sighed a little. “Oh, it was all perfectly legal. I was tried and convicted.”

            “Of what?”

            “Claiming to be a king. Only the Roman authorities determined who was a king.”

            deVan held out his arms. “Did you say you were a king?”

            “No. I made fun of earthly kings. I rode into Jerusalem on a donkey.”

            “What’s wrong with that? They didn’t have cars then.”

            “What was wrong was that I was mocking the Roman king. He would ride into a city with on a great steed—”

            “A what?”

            “Horse. With all kinds of banners and stuff.”

            “I see,” deVan said and smiled. “So when you rode in on a little donkey you were mocking the king. Cool.”

            “I was trying to get across that I wasn’t like the kings that rule the world. I didn’t depend on force, soldiers or weapons. I didn’t live in a palace with all kinds of luxury. I was not a king.”

            “What were you, then?”

            “I was a rabbi, a teacher of God’s law.”

            “So there’s God’s law and then there’s the world’s law. And because you followed God’s law, the world’s law said you should die.”

            “I couldn’t have put it better.”

            deVan shook his head. “All right, Jesus, all right. I get the world’s law. It’s how powerful people on earth stay powerful. What’s God’s law?”

            “Live in love.”

            deVan widened his eyes. “That’s it?”

            Jesus most likely shrugged. “Yes, deVan, that’s it. That’s the whole Bible, what I called the Law and the Prophets.”

            “I’ve seen bibles. They are huge. A whole lot more than three words.”

            “Ha,” Jesus said. “That’s just the start of it. Millions and millions of pages have been written about who God is and what God wants.”

            “And you’re saying it boils down to ‘live in love.’”

            “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

            “Okay, but how do you do that, live in love?”

            “See,” Jesus smiled. “This is where the words mount up.”

            deVan was just a tiny bit offended. “Look, I’m not asking for a bible’s worth of answers.”

            “I know, I know,” said the man on the cross. “I was asked the same question a few dozen different ways. ‘What more must I do’ ‘Who is my neighbor?’ ‘Which commandment is most important?’”

            “Did you always answer the same way?”

            “No, deVan, I was a rabbi, a preacher. We never answer the same way. Sometimes I would tell a story that made my point. Sometimes I just said some version of ‘live in love.’”

            “Okay, Jesus, give me a version of ‘live in love.’”

            “Are you testing me?”

            “I’m asking you.”

            “Fine. How’s this? Love the Lord your God with all your strength and love your neighbor as yourself.”

            “Yes, good, so, who is my neighbor?”

            “Ah. This is where I usually tell a story.”

            “Hm. I see where this could get to bible length.”

            “Right?”

            deVan thought for a moment. “So, is there a short cut?”

            “Sure. Just ask, am I living in love at this moment?”

            “Did you recommend that when you were a rabbi?”

            “Not exactly. Maybe I should have.”

            deVan raised his finger. “What you should have done is lighten up.”
            “Excuse me?”

            “Yeah. Religion, it’s always so, oh, you got to do this and you can’t do that. I mean, did you ever just crack up?

            “Crack up?”

            “Yeah, laugh. Ha ha ha, laugh! Wasn’t anything ever funny?”

            Jesus became a little vexed. “Yes, deVan, we laughed a lot, my friends and I.”

            “Why don’t we ever hear about it?”

            “Because the people who wrote about me weren’t focused on the comedy.”

            “Why not? A little comedy might have made you more interesting.”

            “You did the Stations of the Cross. You didn’t find that boring, did you?”

            “No, it’s interesting, but it’s sad. It makes me cry. You’re my friend, and this happened to you. It’s awful.”

            “It is. And I’m glad you are my friend.”

            “But you need to balance it out. You said you laughed a lot. Let’s hear about that.”
            Jesus became a little nostalgic as he thought of the laughter. “There was one time,” Jesus began. “My friends and I were walking to this town, and a crowd started forming around us.
            “Did that happen a lot?”

            “Yeah. I got a reputation as a healer, so people came with every illness under the sun hoping I would cure them.”

            “Not funny yet.”

            “Just listen, deVan. There was this guy, Zacchaeus, who wanted to see me, but he couldn’t with the crowd all around me, so he runs ahead and climbs a tree, a sycamore, I think.”

            “I’d do that.”

            “Yes, you’re pretty short. So was Zacchaeus.”

            “He was short.”

            “Yes, but when I saw him up in the tree, I didn’t know that.”

            “And?”

            “I looked up and said, ‘Hey, Zacchaeus, come down here.’”

            “You knew his name.”

            “People were pointing up at him and calling him, ‘Zacchaeus, how’s the view up there?’”

            “They were mocking him.”

            “So, I told him to come down. He climbed down. When he jumped to the ground right in front of me, I realized he wasn’t just short; he was very little. He came up to my cincture.”

            “Your what?”
            “My…um…my belt.”

            “And?”

            “I laughed.”

            “Right in front of him?”

            “I turned my head. But I think he knew. James and John laughed out loud.”

            “Who were they?”

            “My youngest apprentices. Not much older than you.”

            “Then what?”

            “Then, then I was so embarrassed I invited myself to dinner at his house.”

            “So you humiliated him and then mooched off him?”

            “No, eating at his house was considered an honor.”

            deVan pinched his chin and thought for a few seconds. “So him feeding you was an honor for him.”

            “You know, I’m the rabbi, kind of the important person, so who I choose to eat with honors them.”

            “I get it. If Taylor Swift came to town, it would be a big deal if some normal person had her over for dinner.”

            “Something like that, yes. Also, Zacchaeus was a tax collector and people did not like tax collectors, so eating at his house upset a lot of people.”

            “Now that’s like Taylor Swift eating at the Joker’s house.”

            Jesus was feeling a little anxious at this point. “I don’t think that’s a perfect analogy, but, look, I was just trying to get across that funny things happened.”

            “No, no, I’m with you,” deVan said. “This has potential. It could be funny. But you got to tell it funny.”

            “Tell it—”

            “Funny. Tell it funny. Like when you call the guy and he jumps down off the tree. You don’t say he came up to your, what was it?”

            “Cincture.”

            “Yeah, totally not funny. What about you say, he landed and then stood up. I was waiting for him to get taller but he stopped at my belly button.”

            “Belly button is funnier than cincture?”

            deVan sighed. “Yes, Jesus, belly button is definitely funnier than cincture.”

            And Jesus listened intently, as deVan, a kid with a genuine flair for comedy, discussed the many ways Jesus could make the story of the little person who climbed the tree much much funnier — all the while making sure nothing was said that would offend little people…or tax collectors.

            

            

             

            

 

 

deVan and Picture #12: deVan’s First Visit

This begins a series about a curious young lad named (by himself) deVan, small “d,” OK? It’s about a lot of things, but mostly it’s about friendship.

Visit #1: The Tri-OON Guy

 

He had walked by the big, wooden door many times and just as often had felt the urge to open it. It looked to be ajar, not tempting him but inviting him. “Come here, look inside, bet it’s interesting.” What made the unlatched door even more enticing was the fact that the front door of the church was locked, so clearly someone did not want him entering the building. Carelessly, they left the church’s back door accessible. That was the door he had waked by so often.

            He’d never been in this church before. No one in his family attended any church. He went to a synagogue once when his best friend Stewart celebrated his Bar Mitzvah. That was fun, for the first three or four hours. All in all, he had to admit he was more than a little curious.

            One Saturday morning he awoke, and the first item of interest delivered to his consciousness was a declaration: today, I am going into the church. He ate a bowl of Cheerios Oat Crunch cereal, his third favorite, left his house, and sought the back door.

            It was indeed unlatched and unlocked. That did not make it easy to pull open. It was made of wood, heavy and thick. This not only did not surprise the boy, it confirmed a conviction of his, that all Church doors, front and back, were big and thick and wooden and heavy and hard to open. A thin, insubstantial church door was just unthinkable.

            Inside he was greeted by a dingy wall three feet in front of his face. This was because he was in the middle of a long corridor. A bare light bulb screwed into the ceiling offered eerie illumination. Turning his head to the right he saw a room at one end of the corridor. The room looked uninteresting, so he turned his head left.

            Several paces down that way was a door, not much different from the door to his bedroom at home. The position of the door led him to believe that this was an entrance to the churchy part of the church. (It provided access to the sanctuary, but he wasn’t current on technical terms for various areas of a church.)

            He opened the door; it was reassuringly thick and heavy, not really like his flimsy bedroom door. He entered. Immediately to his right was an altar. The carpet behind it was worn, and he assumed correctly that the minister stood there during services.

            The boy looked about and smiled. The church was all his. “Hello,” he called, aiming all the way back to the choir loft. The returning echo caused him to emit a laugh, which also echoed. As he glanced around he saw a number of statues, all of them seeming to have adopted similar positions, standing straight and looking down, none of them wearing normal clothes. What they wore were robes, top to bottom, covering everything. Fashion sense was not in evidence.

            When he looked off to the left, against the side wall, he noticed a quite different scene. It became clearer as he walked toward it. It was a picture, or rather part picture. The items in the picture bulged out like little statues. He looked along the wall, all the way to the back of the Church, and saw that there were a lot of these bulgy pictures lined up side by side.

            He walked to the first one. A man in a robe was standing with other men beside him. At the bottom was an explanation: “Jesus is condemned to die.” It wasn’t hard to tell which one was Jesus. He was in chains and bleeding from the head because someone had pushed a circle of thorns into his skull.

            He knew some things about Jesus but not much. Most of it had to do with Christmas when he was born in a stable and animals sniffed him and all. But this was something else. Someone condemned Jesus to die? Now he was curious. He walked to the second picture.

            “Jesus receives his cross,” was the inscription at the bottom, and, sure enough, a couple of guys were putting a large wooden cross on his shoulders. The boy felt a little sick at this. “They made you carry your own cross? That stinks. What did you do to deserve this? I thought you just healed people and stuff.”

            He soon realized that the pictures were sort of like pages in a storybook. The story was easy to follow as the boy passed from picture to picture, 14 in all, circling the entire church. Jesus falls under the weight of his cross, not once but three times in three different pictures. A man named Simon helps him carry the cross part way. Jesus passes his mom and then some women who are crying. Finally, he reaches the execution spot, and he is stripped — that’s the word that was written — stripped of his garments, nailed to the cross he was carrying, dies, is taken down and buried. Some storybook.

            After making his way to the last picture, the boy meandered back to the one with Jesus on the cross, Picture No. 12. Jesus was hanging there looking down at two people standing on the ground below him. There was a man and a woman, also in head to foot robes, looking up at the man on the cross. “Is it true?” the boy asked. “Is this what happened?”

            “Pretty much.” The answer came directly from the picture, although nothing in the picture moved at all. The voice didn’t echo, it just sounded clearly in his ears, like it was coming from air pods, which it wasn’t.

            The boy looked up at the man on the cross. “Did you say something?”

            “I said the pictures are pretty accurate.”

            “So all this happened?”

            “To me, yes. Well, except…”

            “Except what?”

            “I’m a little embarrassed to admit it.”

            “Go ahead, there’s no one here but me.”

            “I fell a lot more than three times.”

            “How many times did you fall?”

            “I’d already been through a lot and was frankly exhausted. When they put the cross — the thing was heavy, no joke — put it on my shoulders, I slipped right away. I think I fell or stumbled about every two steps.”

            “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

            “I’m just saying the storyteller got it wrong, saying I fell three times.”

            “It’s fine. It’s actually better that way. My teacher calls it poetic license. It means the storyteller can change the story to make it more interesting.”

            “Poetic license?”

            “Yeah. Look, if they did a new picture for every time you fell, it would just be a story about you tripping and falling. They rest of the story would get lost in all the tripping and falling.”

            “I get it. It flows better with just three falls.”

            “Also, three falls gets the point across that you fell a lot.”

            “What brought you here, uh…”

            “My name is deVan. Small ‘d’ capital ‘V.’”

            “Nice to meet you deVan. I’m—”

            “I know, Jesus.”

            “Right.” Jesus paused. “deVan. That’s an unusual name.”

            The boy smiled. “Yes. I thought it up all by myself.”

            Jesus squinted or would have squinted if any visuals accompanied his clear air pod voice. “You thought up deVan? Didn’t you get a name when you were born?”

            “Yes, but I changed it when I transitioned. I’m transgender.”

            “How did you come up with deVan.”

            “How did you come up with Jesus, Jesus?”

            “It’s complicated. My name in my native tongue is Yeshua; the Greek is Jesus. It means, roughly, “he is going to save you.” I got that name before I was born.”

            “Before you were born?”

            Jesus paused and then spoke. “How is the transition going?”

            deVan smiled. “I started hormone blockers a while ago. I get weekly sessions with Dr. Wingott; she specializes in trans kids. We talk about how everything’s going. I know you’re from a long time ago. Do you know anything about transitioning.”

            Jesus chuckled. “I went through a pretty big transition myself.”

            deVan’s eyes widened. “You transitioned to a boy?”

            “Yes.”

            “So your sex registered at birth was female?”

            “No, my transition began before I was born.”

            Jesus now had deVan’s full attention. “This I want to hear about.”

            “The uncomplicated way of putting is, I was God and then I became human.”

            “That does not sound uncomplicated.”

            “Yes, there are many much more complicated ways to say it. It starts by understanding that God is a triune God.”

            “Try-OON?
            “Three in one. God has three divine parts or persons.”

            “Really?”

            “At least in this church.”

            “What do you mean “in this Church? Are you someone else in other churches?”

            Jesus sighed deeply. “I’m quite different in some other churches. You just happened to break into a Catholic church.”

            deVan raised an index finger. “I didn’t break in, Jesus. The door was unlocked.”

            “You happened upon a Catholic church. That why there’s all these statues.”

            “Other churches don’t have statues?”

            “Not on this scale.” 

            “Do they all have the 14-picture story on the walls?”

            “Only the Catholic churches. They call it ‘The Way of the Cross.’”

            deVan mused. “Not creative but pretty much on the nose.”

            “They are also called the ‘Stations of the Cross.’”

            deVan smiled. “That makes sense.”

            “It does?”

            “Yes. They’re like stations, train stations. You go around and stop at each picture, like a train.”

            “Hm,” Jesus said. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Anyway, in this church you were one of the three parts of the what kind of God?”

            “Triune.”

            “Sounds like a Marvel villain. Try-OON, three-headed evildoer from another dimension!” What do the other churches say?”

            “The Unitarian Universalist place two blocks over doesn’t generally go for the three-in-one notion.

            “What’s their pitch?”

            “If you stumbled into the Unitarian place instead of here, I would have been more or less a really good guy.”

            “Then I’m glad I stumbled into here. You’re a lot more interesting here.”

            “I’m glad you stumbled into here, too, deVan. You’re pretty interesting yourself.”

            deVan smiled up at his new friend. “Now you got three people looking up at you on that cross. Tri-OON, you might say. Can I come back again?”

            “Break in any time, deVan.”

            “OK, Jesus.” And deVan left the way he came, resolved to visit his new friend again soon.

Once Lost

Seven empty weeks had passed, and I couldn’t turn off that big fat L blinking like a neon sign in the front of my brain. It gave me vertigo. It told me the improbable happens, sure winners can lose by a nose or, in this case, .4 percent. Blinkety blink, you lousy loser. Blinkety blink.

   My wife said forget it, but then her face wore the smile she reserved only for happy occasions, and that told me she didn’t have an expression for this occasion. The staff said a million things, all of them containing the words “next time.” The only one who had the good sense not to talk couldn’t. It was a college kid I saw a lot of in the last weeks, a believer. He couldn’t talk because he was sobbing. First campaign — they never believe losing is one of the possibilities.

   I didn’t cry. In America only winners get to cry. Losers stiffen the upper lip and concede. Every politician’s favorite word: concede. Our system doesn’t leave us any other choice. We replaced monarchy with majority. They are king; they wield the scepter. And when they whack you in the rear end with it, you feel it. And when it hurts the most, you freeze your upper lip and concede. To them.

   Just before midnight put the knife in election day, I made a solemn promise. I wouldn’t read a single news site, blog, opinionator, or pundit about my defeat. I awoke next day at six AM, turned on my laptop and read every word I could find. At least it wasn’t a campaign promise.

   Every writer knew exactly what I did wrong to snatch defeat from the yawning jaws of victory. Courted the press too little. Or too much. Aligned myself too closely to the party. Or was too independent of the party. Compromised my vaunted principles. Or was too inflexible. When you and 49.6% of the voters end up on the short side of the equation, you were wrong and the 50.4% were right. It’s the unassailable logic of democracy.

   This day, seven weeks later, I took a walk. “It’s Christmas Eve,” my wife reminded me. “Your sisters are coming by at 8.”

   “Fine, see you then.” It came out hollow, not angry, though I was as angry as George Bailey. All I lacked was a cute kid trying to play a carol on the old piano and driving me nuts. No one even cared if I embezzled campaign funds. Losers rarely get investigated. What would be the point?

   It was dusk when I left the condo but freezer-chest dark and cold when I reached the outskirts of a neighborhood I knew better than to enter alone. Or not alone. But what did it matter? What if I got mugged and beaten up? Why should I care? What near death experience could be worse than losing that election?

   Less than a half hour later, I was mugged and beaten up. Turns out I cared a lot. For one thing, I realized almost instantly that a close electoral loss was not a near death experience now that I was having one.

   The two gentlemen who approached me quite justifiably determined that I was a Christmas bonanza beyond anything they deserved, and they lost no time rushing home with their treasures. First, of course, they brandished a hand gun, pushed the barrel into my skull, and suggested I do nothing that could be categorized as stupid. Frozen with fear, I did nothing but tremble. I wasn’t this scared during combat.

   I awoke, sort of, aware that I was no longer frozen with fear — just frozen — lying on cement, bent double and looking at a shadowy version of old combat boots near my nose.

   “Stay still.” A woman, and she spoke with authority. Not that moving was something I was actually contemplating. “You’ve been messed with. I think your nose is broke. Did they kick you in the ribs?” “Yes.” That was me. I could talk. And I knew they had kicked me in the ribs, though to this day I don’t remember it. I’d find out later two of those ribs were bruised not broken. The wimps. My vision was blurry. I was dizzy.

   “I know a place,” she said. Uncommonly strong, she lifted me to my feet, placed my hand around her shoulder and avoided the bruised ribs as she helped me stagger about two blocks. A street light told me she had dark hair cropped close to her head. She wore fatigues, military issue, the name patch torn off. I took note of the way her left sleeve was rolled. She was a Marine.

   It was a noisy Christmas Eve in the shelter where she gently deposited me onto a small but sturdy cot. A couple of itchy woolen blankets helped thaw me out. The room was not so much spinning as lurching up and down as if I were viewing it from a pogo stick.

   It began settling soon enough, and I matched the noises with dozens of down-and-outers milling and chatting, many eating a plate of steaming something they held in one hand as they walked about. The young woman who had brought me here reappeared and began bandaging whatever was cut, bashed or bruised about my head and face. I would end up with a full turban and a covering over my right eye.

   “What’s you name, Marine?” I asked the Jarhead. “Gunnery Sergeant Dunsett, sir,” she said smartly as she expertly wrapped me up.

   “I’m Major Villner, Sergeant. Seen action?”

   “Nineteen months in Iraq, sir.” “I served two tours there.”

   I noticed another space on her uniform where a medal once hung. “You were decorated.”

   “Bronze Star for Valor, sir.” She shifted her weight to let me know this was not a topic she was comfortable with.

   “What are you doing around here, Gunnery Sergeant?” 

    “I live here, sir. You are in my cot.” “Sorry, Gunnery Sergeant.” It seemed important to show her due respect for her former rank.

   “Thank you for your help.”

   She walked out of my line of vision, and inside 30 seconds two elderly men stopped by and spoke with sufficient incoherence to alert me that they were not entirely in their right mind. I wished them a Merry Christmas, and both seemed confused as they departed.

   I looked past them and saw a long table where the food was being doled out vigorously by smiling men and women. Above them, on the wall was a sign that read, “Live frugally; love wastefully.” I turned my head to one side and gasped loudly.

   An old woman’s face was positioned not two inches from me; we were precisely nose to nose, as she had bent down and cocked her head until it was parallel to mine. She beamed a smile that revealed a full set of even, white teeth, real ones. I gathered what wits I possessed, and I readied myself for her addition to this unique holiday experience. She backed away a bit, and I saw that she wore a dark blue overcoat and carried a multi-colored carpetbag on her arm.

   “You’re lost,” she said.

   I was still a little off. I must have thought she said “you lost,” because I answered, “Yeah, by less than half a percent.”

   She made sense of it. “You’re more lost than that. Here.”

   She reached deep into her carpetbag, withdrew a well-creased card and gave it to me. I looked at it, a Christmas card.

   “From my son.”

   I held it up. “He’s away?”

   “In Afghanistan. Helping people find their way.” A chaplain, I guessed.

   The front of the card bore a drawing of a manger with the infant in it. Lying in the straw at its side was Mary, her eyes closed, her face betraying exhaustion and pain. Joseph was on his feet, his back to the scene, his face in his hand, as if he was embarrassed. Below the disturbing picture, in a lovely font, were these words: A stable is not really a good idea.

   Inside the card, in a lovely font, was inscribed: Love the poor; hate the poverty. A handwritten note appeared at the bottom. “Much to hate. Still more to love. Ozzie.”

   I handed the odd card back to her. “Looks like I’m coming away from this with a whole new set of Holiday clichés. How long has Ozzie been over?”

   “His whole life.”

   Gunnery Sergeant Dunsett returned with bowl of hot broth. She sat and began spooning it into my mouth. She was careful not to singe the swollen upper lip. Or the swollen lower lip. She squinted like a seamstress threading a needle, then grinned as she emptied the spoonful onto my tongue.

   “You have a nice smile, Gunnery Sergeant. You should let people see more of it.”

   A second splash of the surprisingly delicious broth found its mark.

   “Nobody sees it.”

   “I did.”

   “I’m glad. Damn.” She spilled a drop onto my lip, and I winced. She suddenly looked about to cry.

   “Hey, Gunnery Sergeant Dunsett. You are not perfect. None of us is perfect. You are performing at or above expectations.”

   She calmed. “Yes, Major. My hand shakes sometimes, sir.”

   “How long have you been down here, Gunnery Sergeant?”

   “I don’t know, sir. I get blackouts and lose myself. I live here, take care of the guys.” She nodded toward a gaggle of cots where four or five men in disheveled military garb sat, apparently playing cards.

   “You take care of them?”

   “Like you, sir.” Another grin. For a moment, she displayed a wisp of the childlike features she once boasted.

   “No way they’re as dumb as I was strolling into that neighborhood.”

   “No, sir.” Now the grin took on an aspect that told me no one could be as dumb as I was. She gave me a last dose of the hot liquid, looked toward the door and said, “Oh, man, here come the ten minute do gooders.”

   There was a bustle at the entrance. A cadre of photogs, cameras clicking backed into the shelter, followed by one man with a communications backpack and a video camera and another with a mike pointed to the object of all the attention, who made an impressive entry.

   It was her, the Victor over me in the election. She was doing what victors do when they want to show their constituency what caring human beings they are — at least one day a year. Doing, let’s face it, exactly what I would have done.

   Gunnery Sergeant Dunsett had slipped away in disgust, but I was not left alone. The old woman with the blue overcoat and colorful carpetbag stood beside me and looked over at the Victor. “She’s lost.”

   I looked at the old woman. “She’s right where she wants to be.” She placed a wrinkled finger upon my cheek, the unbandaged one. “You are where you ought to be.”

   “So, I’m not lost after all.”

   “No,” she said, looking me in the eye. “You once were lost, but now. Not now.” She left before the debate could be concluded. I never saw her again.

   At that moment the Victor and her entourage approached the Gunnery Sergeant’s cot. She split eye contact between the camera and my well-disguised face. She was uncannily adroit at showing deep concern without actually coming close to touching me. She spoke as if we were in mid-discussion. “Please get well and have a blessed Christmas.”

   “Oh,” I said. “I am much better.” Then I called her by name. Her first name. It was about the meanest thing I could have done. She looked at me like Norma Desmond in the final scene of Sunset Boulevard and hustled on. The whole motley crew was gone in five minutes, and things settled down.

   Gunnery Sergeant Dunsett appeared beside a thirty-something white man with thick black hair and wearing a spotted butcher’s apron. “Sir, this is Rabbi Gold. He runs this place.”

   “Rabbi Gold? Where’s the frankincense and myrrh?” I guess it was a good day to be dumb.

   The Rabbi smiled indulgently. “Merry Christmas. Feeling better?”

   “I guess I feel about how I look. Thanks for the help.”

   “Thank Miss Dunsett here. She’s found folks in worse shape than you and brought them here. See those soldiers over there?”

   “Yeah.”

   “Miss Dunsett found those lost souls, too. Every one of them. They are all vets. All homeless, out of luck and out of options. ”

   “So,” I said looking at her lowered eyes. “Still serving her country.”

   “Yes, sir,” she said. “Of course, sir.”

   Rabbi Gold put a hand on her shoulder. “Long after her country abandoned her. Miss Dunsett has a number of medical issues stemming from combat, including a pretty severe head injury that causes some problems. But she does what she can.”

   She blushed just a little and flashed that beautiful grin for a split second. A brain aneurism took her from us on New Year’s Day, but not before she had found two more lost souls in tattered fatigues and coaxed them to the shelter.

   The Rabbi and I made sure she was given full military honors. Gunnery Sergeant Dunsett was buried in uniform with her Bronze Star, found among her meager effects.

   We have become good friends, Rabbi Gold and I. He still heads up a synagogue in the suburbs but spends all the time he can at the shelter. So do I, now. After two years, the Dunsett Foundation for Lost Veterans is building an impressive endowment. My wife works as hard as I do at it. Our motto, “Live frugally; Love wastefully,” now adorns the two additional shelters we’ve opened in the city.

   Funny thing about losing, being lost. You get a chance to come up with a whole new definition of winning. And if you’re really lost and really lucky, you might get to be found by a Gunnery Sergeant who knows the way and is strong enough to get you there.