A Tale of Pajama -Clad Girls and a Stolen Goat

For a few days now, I've been giggling about a story out of Mankato.

Two little girls, ages 5 and 7, snuck out of their house on Saturday night, walked a mile to a Farm Park (whatever that is, exactly), and, uh...liberated a goat. They brought a leash with them and just walked the goat back to their home along a busy street, wearing their footie pajamas.

Fortunately, a neighbor saw them and thought it a strange enough sight to call 911, and fortunately, since they did look so odd, being so young, wearing pajamas in public, and leading a goat in the city, it was very easy for the chortling officer to find them.

I don't think it was very easy for the Police Officer to stifle her own laughter as she "assisted" the children and the goat home.

Today a local News channel posted a video of the story, well worth checking out!

2 MN girls pull off the great goat escape!

Now I want a goat! (Well...I've wanted goats for a long time, but I live in the city and I don't think my neighbors would appreciate goats in the garage. Or the yard. Even if they WOULD save on lawn mowing fees!

Just sayin'

Police, Justice, Saints

Have you ever been stopped by the Police?

The most common encounter with the Police, for most people, is either because something bad happened to them, such as a burglary or car accident or some other thing, or, perhaps, a traffic stop, better known as “being pulled over."

Has this ever happened to you?

How did you react?

Did you curse or maybe even go so far as to swear (take the Lord’s name in vain)? Did you break into a sweat, feel your blood pressure increase, hear your own heart beating in your ears without benefit of a stethoscope? (As an aside…did you identify any heart problems in that experience?)

Most importantly, did you harbor resentment against the cop who had the audacity to stop you?

Think about it, and after reading this post, think about it even harder.

Last Sunday when heading back to Minnesota from my short hiatus in Wisconsin, I was driving happily along the freeway, enjoying the fall colors, creeping past a few cars, always mindful of my speed, especially since Wisconsin and Minnesota do not have reciprocity.

Then I happened to see, in a flash, the blue car with the white stripe sitting in the median.

Whenever I see a squad car, I check my speedometer and usually see I am fine. That day, I saw that I was doing something around 80 in a 65.

Crap!

I hit the brakes immediately; only an arrogant idiot continues in his bad behavior as he encounters an authority figure. Looking into the air and whistling, for some reason, just doesn't seem to be effective while driving.

I watched in the rear-view mirror as the dreaded Wisconsin State Patrol car pulled out of its spot and accelerated, knowing darn well that it was because I was the idiot that cop was after.

Carefully, when I could, even though I hadn’t yet seen the lights, I moved into the right lane, and, still watching, saw immediately when that terrible Car of Judgment changed into my lane, following me. I knew what that cop was doing in preparation for the stop and I knew that it was over.

When I saw the lights come on, I was happy to see that we were approaching a rest stop, and although it had not been my plan to rest there, I took the exit and pulled over, thinking about the safety of the State Trooper who was stopping me.

My idiocy and inattention to my speed had put that cop in danger; I was glad for the opportunity to minimize it as much as possible while still stopping obediently without causing that unknown cop any additional stress.

Traffic stops are stressful enough.

I know; I’ve been there. I HATED freeway stops. In my department we walked up on the passenger side where we could, but all too often, the offender, in doing what he was taught, pulled up tight against the median or sound barrier in order to be out of traffic. That meant that I, as the Offending Police Officer, had to hang my authoritative rear end out into 65 mph freeway traffic, and God (as well as all cops know), drivers are oddly attracted to light.

Traffic stops are what kill most cops, y’all. It’s not Hollywood’s version of shootouts or cop show’s depiction of dangerous people who are stopped. Simply put, it is average people doing stupid things that force the police by necessity to be placed in a dangerous position that leads them into being killed.

Think about that and think about it hard the next time you complain you are stopped.

If that cop stops you and is hit by someone else, it’s YOUR FAULT. Period. Deal with it.

Were it not for your own breakage of the law, that cop would not have been standing there talking to you about the dumb thing you did to cause him or her to be standing there. And therefore, he or she would not be present in that location to be taken out by a drunk, or a driver even less inattentive than you, etc.

I’m sorry, I’ve been digressing. We were talking about ME weren't we?

Yeah. Me. The Offender.

I pulled over, finding that my cousin’s instruction on my cop-status-even-after-leaving-law-enforcement still remains: once a cop, always a cop. While I greatly cared about my own problem of, well, quite honestly, either paying for a ticket I couldn’t afford on the spot, or going to jail if I couldn’t or didn’t have the proper information, it was more important to me that the officer who was stopping me not be killed in doing so.

Yeah, my cousin (God rest his soul) was right. That training in stopping and being stopped really changes those who experience it. His observation, as I have now learned, goes far deeper than mere training; it goes all the way to deep respect and a true desire for the good of the other, if we are to become philosophical about this.

I also have to say that, even further, when you’ve broken the law, you know it, and you KNOW when what is happening to you is Justice.

As I waited for that Officer to approach my window, I thought hard about Justice. I knew I was caught breaking the law. It didn’t matter that I had not intended to hit such a speed. The fact was that I had not realized I was going so fast, and only that Squad had made me look, at that moment, at my speedometer. Yes, this traffic stop was objectively Just: I was breaking Wisconsin Law, and I was going to pay for it.

I watched to see how the officer would approach. She was coming up on the right (shoulder) so I closed my left window (to block traffic noise), opening the right one, my driver’s license already in hand.

She bent down and said to me, “You know I got you speeding.”

"Yeah.”

I was resigned to my fate already, wondering how I was going to pay this fine without going to jail.

I handed her my license and realized I was an idiot for not also having my insurance out, for which she had to ask. As I dug through my purse pocket, I found old insurance cards and began to panic. Was it even POSSIBLE that I did not put my current insurance in my purse??

I’d CITED people for having no insurance for that very failure!

As I, in growing panic, went through thing after thing in that pocket, my hands beginning to shake, I envisioned my car being towed in one direction while I, in handcuffs, went in another to await court the next day.

My friends, speaking as a former cop, even the most strict of MN cops did not recognize WI cops for being merciful. I’m sure they had the same opinion of us, all because of reciprocity laws.

The law is what it is. We were servants of that law....as was the Trooper at my window.

Thankfully I found my insurance card and handed it over. Then she asked me for Registration.

For those who don’t know, in Minnesota, this is sent to you by the State when it is time to purchase your tabs. There is something that is noted as a “cab card”, and that is your Registration. To be safe, when you purchase your Tabs, take everything the State sends you and keep it in your glove box to prove your Registration. Anyone can see your Tabs  on your plate, but the Registration has a bit more info and is easier for a cop to see if they have to stop you when you do something dumb.

I knew mine was in my glove box…somewhere. I told her verbally where it was, knowing what it is like to stand outside that window. She gave me permission to open my glove box, and I let her get a good view before I reached into it.

I also had to tell her that I was removing my seat belt in order to better access the contents. (I did NOT need a seat-belt ticket added on to what I was certain to be paying!). She told me that was fine.

Great. I paged through a whole bunch of crap I didn’t even realize was in my glove box and couldn’t find the document. My hands were shaking, I had already said to myself, “I was IN law enforcement…I know better than this…!” (I think she heard this although I meant only to be berating myself! *embarrassing*!)

Finally she said, “That’s fine. Does your car come back to you?”

“Yes. I am the only owner, everything is current.”

I’ll never forget what she said next: “I’m only going to write you a warning today. Stay in your car and I’ll be back."

I sat back, amazed.

I am the first person I know of from Minnesota who has EVER been let go with a warning from the Wisconsin State Patrol.

She would have been well-justified in writing me a ticket, which she told me when she came back, started at $200.

I don’t know why she let me go. Had I been stopping me, I am not at all sure that I would have been so merciful. 80 in a 65 ISN'T small potatoes! That’s speeding in any state, no matter what the law. ONE mph over the limit is an objective breakage of the law.

I was over by about 15 mph.

She handed me the Warning, my license and insurance, reminded me to keep it to 65, and told me to be safe. I told her the same.

As I drove off, I pulled out my rosary and I prayed it in both thanksgiving for this great mercy, and I prayed it for the Trooper in both reparation and for her safety.

I screwed up, she caught me, and because of my actions, I put her in danger.

Don’t comment below and say that by being a Trooper she takes that risk; that’s quite obvious and actually is a really stupid comment. She doesn't go into business to ask YOU to put her in danger!

The fact is this: you and I, when we break the law, whether frivolously by mistake or intentionally out of arrogance, we both put the officer who is bound to do his or her job, in serious danger.

Danger that would not exist for them were it not for our personal actions.

If you are one of those who were ever stopped for a traffic or other offense,  how did you react?

Were you arrogant? Angry? Did you wonder why they weren't stopping "REAL CRIMINALS"?

If you have broken the law, i.e., committed a crime, it means you are a criminal!Suck it up and admit it, and if you are truly a good citizen, realize that your own actions have placed another human being in danger.

If that cop died while stopping you, you’d live with that for the rest of your life.

So don’t let it happen. Ever.

If you don’t want to watch your speed for your own sake, even if you think it’s nothing to pay a ticket here and there, then think about the cop who might die just to inform you that you’re doing something stupid and should probably slow down before you kill someone.

I don’t personally know the cop who stopped me, and even if she had written me a ticket and made me pay on the spot or, had I not had documentation I legally must carry, had taken me to jail, this post would not change. (Well, it might be more interesting if she had arrested me and taken me to jail...)

But I still want to apologize to her for putting her in danger, and for that matter, the county Deputy who stopped me a few years ago when I missed a 40 mph sign in a speed trap. He was in even MORE danger because, after all, the roads were slippery and he didn’t have the buffer zone of being on an exit ramp.

I don’t know why the WI State Trooper let me go, but I do know this: I want her action to bear fruit. I want to remind people, in the name of the Wisconsin State Patrol, to keep an eye on your speed, not just for yourselves, but because of all the police officers who are willing to put themselves at risk so that others might not be killed by your stupid actions.

I took the lesson and hope it remains with me. As a cop I made traffic stops I intended to be “educative” to the driver.I am grateful to be the one receiving the education and know full well that should I breech the law again, I will not be granted another mercy.

Pray for the Police, every day. Pray for their safety, for their families who wait for them to come home at the end of their shift. Then thank God for them, for were it not for our law enforcement officers, we’d all be living in chaos.

When I was sworn in, my Mom gave me a medal, which she’d had blessed, of St. Michael the Archangel.(I don’t have it anymore as after I left, I gave it to another aspiring police officer. I also used to pray Psalm 190 every day before I went to work.

September 29 was the Feast of the Archangels, October 1st is the Feast of St. Therese of Lisieux, the Patron of Missionaries, and October 2nd is the Feast of the Guardian Angels. If Police Officers, everwhere, don’t fit into those categories (including missionary) I don’t know who does!

Please offer your prayers for those men and women who live among you, those you view with dread in your rearview mirror, and those you call 911 for when you are in need of help. Asd the intercession, for them, of the Archangels, of St. Therese, and of the Guardian Angels, for their own protection and for their ability and vocation (small “v”) to protect

And please, in your charity, pray especially for MN State Trooper, Officer Ted Foss, who was killed in a traffic stop. He was the husband of a friend and professional reference and the reason we, by law if not by common sense,  pull into the opposite lane in MN if we see a squad car responding to an incident on the side of the road, be it traffic stop or accident or mere assistance to someone in need of help.

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray;

and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host -

by the Divine Power of God -

cast into hell, satan and all the evil spirits,

who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Amen

Call me "Bones"

Tomorrow I graduate with my Master's degree: a day I actually thought would never come.

It's been a long 3 years. I've read a lot of books and in the meantime, I've built up a stack of "wanna-read" titles.  Right now I'm in the middle of 4 of them. Being sick of being in the middle of a stack of books once again, in the interim between our last class weekend and now, I've been immersing myself in catching up with my new favorite TV show, "BONES".

Shameful confession:  I actually fell in love with this show when I caught it sometime during my last semester of class.

Watching improbable investigations about crimes that were far more fascinating than any I ever completed has excited my good memories about law enforcement and investigation of fraud, and the other day I found myself giggling over an old memory.

I admit it: I'm still giggling a bit, especially at the similarities!

In my last couple years in Investigation, I was becoming very burned out as a result of several factors. Some of it was the fact that so many people were lying to me for very idiotic reasons. Some of it was the fact that people who were obvious criminals were lying just out of habit and their lies were so obvious it didn't even warrant an investigation. When I had legitimate fraud investigations I was just as happy as when I had legitimate customers.

As a result, I was becoming very jaded and crabby, and as a further consequence, at times I was beginning to lose my patience even while in the field.

On one occasion, we had an especially creepy (read: potentially physically dangerous) customer so my boss came out with me on a vehicle inspection that needed to take place at the suspected fraudmonger's home. As part of my boss's job was to do file reviews, he took this one as an opportunity, and part of that opportunity was to observe my customer interactions. Never mind the fact he was my "backup" in case this guy decided to act in the way his violent history portended.

This particular customer couldn't keep his own story, or his own alleged "damages" straight. He claimed he'd reported a theft, but there was no police record of his alleged report. He reported this and that damage, but when I was there, he gave me completely opposite "symptomatology" of his vehicle.

Tired of the game, I did what any good cop would have done:  I confronted him on the conflicts he was reporting in a very direct way:

 Me, being confrontational:  "That doesn't make any sense. In your statement you said X, but now you are telling me Y. Which is it?"

And then the customer stared at me and tried to hedge around the conflict. I was unrelenting and pressed him on the point.

I wanted to know what I was looking at and what I was assessing his vehicle for. What was he claiming? I did NOT have the time to come out to evaluate the next wishy-washy crappy thing he was claiming with regard to his obvious fraudulent claim.

When the customer went back inside, (tripping up his front steps in the process, only to stand up and state with great dignity, there, at 9:30 am on a weekday, "I'm drunk!") my supervisor quite literally PULLED me aside and said with gritted teeth, "QUESTION HIM ON THE PHONE, NOT IN PERSON!"

He was obviously holding in his OWN temper. (Imagine Booth and Brennan at this point.)

I feigned innocence even knowing I was totally busted in this file review.

Me, feigning innocence to my boss:  "What?  I need to know what he's claiming so I can document it. I'm just giving him a chance to explain his contradictions!"

The criminal customer was coming back down the steps, and this time managed to maintain his footing with the heavy assistance of the railing.  My supervisor stared at me balefully as I came from behind the man's  vehicle to accept some paperwork he was handing over.

I smiled sweetly and asked for clarification on certain points (i.e. I continued to drill him on his inconsistencies albeit in a bit of a softened manner.)

The customer moved into the garage to point something out, maybe some fluid drippings, and my supervisor said to me, again, with gritted teeth, "You are NOT carrying a .9mm anymore!"

Quietly and in a matter-of-fact tone I responded, "I didn't carry a .9mm, I carried a .45!"

Before my boss could brain me with his clipboard I stepped away to join the criminal customer in the garage to stare at the ancient oil stain he was claiming was a fresh transmission fluid leak.

This time I just rolled my eyes instead of responding, pretended to make serious note of the incident, and told the guy we'd be in touch, reminded him to get his forms in and that we were still waiting on the *snicker* police report (*that didn't exist*)

Once in the vehicle, my supervisor said to me again, "You need to remember that you are NOT carrying a .9mm anymore!"

And I corrected him AGAIN, "I didn't carry a .9mm! I carried a .45 !"

Boss:  "Whatever! Either way you're not carrying a gun!"

Me:  "He was lying to me! His story was drastically different in person than it was in his initial statement!"

Boss: "I know, I agree with you! I'm just saying that you aren't carrying a .9mm--"

"--.45!" (me, interrupting..)

Boss: "--anymore! This guy MIGHT have one and might blow you away!"

Me: "He's too drunk to walk up his own familiar steps, I doubt he'd have good aim."

Boss: "Then at least have the decency to protect company property from his bad aim." (half-joking out of exasperation at this point)

Me: "OK, fine."  (pause) "Why can't I have a gun on this job, considering all the customers who want me dead?"

*baleful sidewise stare from scowling supervisor*

Me: *sigh* 

...

Yeah, call me "Bones". (Only, don't call me Bones. Call me Dr. Brennan).

Once and for Always

Readers local to me are probably all very well aware of Sgt. Joseph Bergeron's death in the line of duty last Saturday, and of his funeral and burial today. I haven't said anything about it here on the blog, but just as everyone else, it has left me horrified. Although I was not able to attend the funeral, KARE11 live streamed it so I was able to catch parts from my desk at work, and many times had to blink back not just tears, but sobs.

No, I didn't know him, but I do know grief, and like his daughters, I, too, lost my father, although not through such violence. I sorrow for and with Sgt. Bergeron's family, if from afar, and as an ex-officer, I sorrow with Police Officers everywhere, especially those in Maplewood.  

I'm going to re-post a tribute I wrote many years ago, but first I need to provide a little explanation.

My cousin George, who died a year ago, was a cop for several years. He taught me how to shoot, he helped me make connections and as his wife told me at his own funeral, I was "always really special to him", but he was clearly always very special to me, too.  I'm sure my leaving Law Enforcement was a bit of a mystery to him, but he never asked, understanding that I really didn't want to talk about it very much.  I had called him after I resigned, and he said something to me I questioned at the time, given that my career was so short. But he understood something I couldn't grasp at the time:  the Job changes you.

When my cousin learned that I had no plans to pursue another law enforcement position, he simply said to me, "Once a cop...always a cop."  Over my protests, he went on to explain what he meant. He told me that I didn't see the world in the same way any more, I wasn't going to react to things like other people do, and I was going to find in many ways that even though I had left the Job, it wasn't going to leave me.

I found that he was right. The first cop to be murdered by a suspect was Tim Bowe, a State Trooper who was ambushed when he responded to a domestic violence call. Even though I hadn't been a cop for months by then, his death really rattled me. So has every cop's death since then.  Although the "once a cop always a cop" syndrome has hit me in many other ways over the years, I wrote the following essay/tribute while trying to grasp the reality of what had happened, out of my own brief experience and "inside" understanding of law enforcement.

Please understand that the following tribute is fictionalized; some of the experiences were mine, but I was writing from the perspective of "Everycop". The first paragraphs are my experience of training and why I got into law enforcement, but the rest is a generalized mix.
**

Don't Call My Name

I decided a long time ago to become a police officer. My family was shocked and most of them decided that I was insane. They spoke to me as if I were an irrational child, and everyone, EVERYONE, asked me "WHY!?"  I neither defended nor explained my choice. The simple reason was this: there was no rational or logical reason in the world for my desire to become a police officer. I knew the risks I'd be taking and I understood my family's concern.

So I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I went through the training where they made us run miles and hold the push-up position for what seemed like hours while we listened to our instructor give us his life story. They made us take our turns at leading calisthenics and if we didn't give it our all, they made us do extra. They stuck us in the "gas chamber" and gave us tear gas, CS gas, and pepper spray just to be sure we got our "money's worth" of education. They twisted our joints and shot at us, and throughout the training, they impressed upon us that no matter what happened, no matter how serious the injury, how intense the fear, or how close the panic, we were always to be in control of ourselves and the situation. They taught us the mentality necessary for survival on the streets. And they told us story after story of heroes fallen in the line of duty. They taught us to learn from their mistakes as well as our own and how to not make the same mistake twice. We may never get a second chance.

Throughout it all, I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

When I was finally hired, I raised my right hand to give my oath to God, my Country, my State, City and Department, to uphold the Constitution of the United States, enforce the laws, to Serve and to Protect. In a room full of collegues, family, and superiors, I gave my oath and silently prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I wore my brand-new uniform with pride, pinned on my badge, strapped on my vest, and holstered my loaded gun for the first time. As I did so, the full weight of my responsibility settled upon my soul. I experienced for the first time the taste of the knowledge that accompanies fear; sometimes "serving and protecting" means taking a life or risking my own...so I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I rode in a squad car, patrolled the strets, stopped offenders, served warrants, subpoenas, and took reports. I turned in documents upon which I had written, "status/inactive", knowing that someone's home, life, and rights were somehow violated, but I was unable to provide the solution they needed me to offer. I realized that although I was young and inexperienced, I was suddenly "Authority", and I supposedly had "the answer" the people I served were seeking. I comforted the grieving, warned the disorderly, and stopped the assault. I restored safety, referred people to other agencies for problems I couldn't fix, and I tracked down runaways and returned them to their parents, caring or otherwise. I held the hands of children trapped in twisted metal and I helped to save the life of someone's family member. Each and every day I saw both the best and the worst of human nature.

However, I always knew that I was not immune to the tragedies that strike unprovoked, so I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I learned early that because I wore a uniform and a badge, I was no longer my own person. My life was not mine; it belonged to the public and my reputation was relegated to the same. I became the target of hatred, unforgiving glares, and pointing fingers. Likewise I was seen as an expert in the law and the solution to life gone somehow awry. And I felt incredibly inept.

So I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I attended the funeral of a fellow officer who had fallen in the line of duty. I gave my condolences to his family and friends and I shared in their grief. As I paid my respects and said my goodbyes to the officer in the casket, I realized that his death was not personal. He was killed because he wore a uniform and a badge. He died for what he represented, not for who he really was. I knew that it could just as easily be any one of the thousands of officers who do the same job lying in that casket. I also knew that no matter who it was, the death would not be any easier to accept. And as the tears came to my eyes I understood the full impact of the identity I shared with this individual. And I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

When I flipped on the lights, switched on the siren and screamed through crowded intersections en route to a call of a "man with a gun," and as I risked my life to reach an unknown situation, I knew that I couldn't spend my career, and thus my life, fearing that my name would be called. So I put my life into the hands of the Lord and I did the job that no one else would.

I stood by the closed door, drawing my weapon as, from the other side, came the unmistakable sound of a live round striking the empty chamber of an unidentified gun. I didn't need to see the frightened eyes of the victim to know that I was living someone else's desperate prayer. I knew why I was there.

"God, you already called my name."

** (originally written winter of 1997, published to my blog April 16, 2007) **

Thank you, Sgt. Bergeron, for answering the call.

May you rest in peace

Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat (Requiéscant) in pace.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he and all the Holy Souls rest in peace.

Amen.

RainGlare

A Free-Association post compliments of Adoro being random:

I swore to myself I'd never write about my discernment again.

Obviously I'm an idiot for EVER having done so. It's hard to write about especially now, and when I do it, I get frustrated by the comments if I leave them open. It's frustrating to me because all I'm trying to do is be heard. The voice of those who are discerning is a lost one, and one often ignored, willfully. It's difficult, then, to put myself out there as that voice, and find that even the explanations are minimized, or people think that it's something that needs to be "fixed." We are a nation of "fixers". We have this weird need to end ANY kind of suffering, even if it is suffering that belongs to a certain kind of purification or formation.

We have this weird idea that everything needs to be comfortable or that everyone needs to be comforted. And we are willing to run all OVER people as long as it means they are "fixed" according to our own personal definitions.

As an aside:

Personally, part of my discernment problem is just that I happen to be a cold fish and can't stand people fawning over me, and I don't tend to fawn over others, either. (Maybe that comes from my few German genes, dunno). I question, though, exactly how I can both be a cold fish and a total softie with my heart on my sleeve all the time, but there it is. I'm a paradox even to myself.

I don't really know why I'm writing any of this. Who really cares? (For the literalists: that's a rhetorical question coming from the wry side. Please don't answer it.)

But here goes....

This evening, I got caught in some freeway traffic. It was rainy, the roads glared, the headlights glared, the windshield was partially fogging no matter what I did, and it was raining but inconsistently, which, combined with road spray, made it extra hard to see. When I drive in such conditions, even if I'm following an Uncle Ike type, I tend to just stay there until there is a huge gap in traffic, because I fear I'll miss something in all the rainglare and end up changing lanes directly into the path of a oncoming semi or something and end up being spatula'd up off the road and sent home in a bucket.

Tonight, as I drove a particularly bad stretch of constantly changing traffic, I followed the crowd in the right lane, and when I began to see flashing lights, I did check and try to move over a lane per Minnesota law. I wasn't able to get all the way over, and in fact, a racing driver actually swept PAST me as I was passing the Police Officer walking between the stopped vehicle and his own. I was amazed by the audacity of that driver, who should have KNOWN that law but still chose to ignore it and nearly cause an accident as he went between me and a car on our left in the next lane.

I was amazed only in that weird rhetorical sense that comes with wanting a Pollyanna attitude, yet not able to find it through all the cynicism that tells me the driver was either a total idiot, a total criminal, or driving so fast through the rainglared roads that he didn't see the cop on the side of the road until he was already done cutting people off. So, "amazed" but not a bit surprised. Rather, it was expected. Which is why I don't change lanes in such conditions. I'm not a Pollyanna.

Anyway, as I got back into the right lane, I thought about that Officer, and prayed for him. The cars in front of me...NONE tried to get into the left lane, even though it was clear. They slowed down, but at 50 mph down from 60...it's still deadly.

I remembered my own freeway traffic stops, quite vividly, actually. I hated them. I hated standing at the side of the road, cars and trucks flying past me as if we weren't there, as I bent towards the driver, trying to hear, trying to yell above the sound of traffic, but still trying to make sure I wasn't entering dangerous space.

Officer Safety is primary, even when the idea is a farce.

More cops are killed in traffic stops than in any other activity.

We can hover our hand near the gun on our hips, or we can have our hand on them directly, ready to draw, but if we're taken out by a semi, it doesn't matter what we're holding...it's the bucket and the deposit in the dirt for us.

That's what happened to a friend's husband. She was a cop in the city, he was a State Trooper. I remember when they were married, how happy she was. I remember her pregnancy...how happy she was. She was a good Sergeant and in charge of our Reserve unit. I graduated college, she was one of my references, I was hired, and after I'd left the Job, by a few years, I saw it on the news. A semi driver hit a State Trooper who was standing by a car at a traffic stop. The Trooper was killed. My friend...devastated. Their son...without their father.

It THRILLED me to see the new law in Minnesota requiring drivers to change lanes when they see an emergency vehicle on the side of the road. Yet, I realized tonight, that when rainglare comes into play, the law doesn't matter...no one wants to change lanes. They are willing to slow down, but suddenly the wild card driver that kills cops becomes more real to everyone, and no one wants to give way...everyone is just trying to survive.

And so all I could do was pray, because even I couldn't change lanes to give enough room, and when I did, the idiot without regard for anyone came flying out of nowhere.

Tonight...

Earlier this evening I called a friend about something, and we hadn't spoken in awhile. She knew about my discernment and made a comment. But she doesn't know what's happened. She said, "I hear you've been discerning something...."

I responded, "Not anymore. Not so much. Not ever." I paused, then said, "I'm in a black hole."

I found myself near tears. I've been trying not to think about it. To be content with where I am. Which is exactly where I started: nowhere. I was surprised at the tears that nearly came, and the frustration mounting to the surface. To realize Hope is really not part of my vocabulary any more, and hasn't been for a long time.

My friend was surprised, and said, "Well, we're all trying to find our way." Yes, true, but as I pointed out to her...SHE knew she was supposed to be married...and was living that. She has a foundation.

I'm just floating. Blinded. Driving in the rainglare. Standing in it, trying to survive.

RAINGLARE

It never stops raining. I can't see through all the glare, through all the mist, and all the darkness. Are there lights? Of course, that's what causes the glare. It's not good light. It's blinding, disconcerting, and because it's glare, it's also false.

How long have I been driving through glare, using the glare as guiding light?

I feel like I'm still on the side of the road, doing what I have to do, turning my back to do so, just waiting for that semi to come out of nowhere to run me down.

That's the nature of discernment. Everyone discerning their Vocation has to stand at that roadside, focusing on something else, trusting they'll survive, but knowing that everything depends on it. Vocation IS eternity in the sense that it is what brings us there. We're just trying to find the RIGHT road.

But a few of us wander for a very long time. 40 years isn't unheard of. Maybe more.

And we should expect to be trampled, to be run over by everyone else, because, after all, we're in their way...even when we're not. We should expect to be splashed, to be yelled at, to be given bad directions by people who aren't even FROM the venue within which we are seeking. That is the life of a traveller.

That's what discernment is; trying to find the road to our destination in spite of all the glare, in spite of all the rain that causes the glare. We're trying to get through the false signals, figure out the source of light from the mere reflections, making our way with the proper speed through the signals, moving with the traffic but not passing our own proper place.

Keep in mind: a Vocation is only the road...not the destination. It's the road we need to LEAD us to the destination, that destination being Eternal Life.

What IS our proper place?

Good question.

The Present. Where we are right now, in this moment. If we need to move over to accommodate some one else, we do so. If we need to dodge to avoid someone reckless, we do so. If we have to brake, we do so. And if we are totally blinded by the rain and by the glare, we stop and get our bearings, for to do otherwise is folly and may cause us to be lost.

Or maybe we DO need to be the one standing at the side of the road, with someone else, putting everything on the line. After all...it's ALL about sacrifice. We never know when we'll be called to offer our lives.

Just ask the Saints....

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StoryTime With Adoro: Criminal Law

It's been awhile since I told a "story". People seem to like my stories, even if they don't comment. They ask for them. And, by the way, I don't make these things up. If it's fictional, I say so up front.

Tonight's StoryTime comes as a result of two independent and unrelated inspriations. The first is Anita Moore's post at V for Victory! on the utter ridiculousness, amusement, irritants, and head-shaking she experiences (or has experienced) in Criminal Law. As, at one time I aspired to be a Criminal Attorney, and of course, saw the field from a different perspective, the following is my take in relation to her post:

Amusement: everybody who gets pulled over for drunk driving had "a couple of beers." Everybody who gets caught with marijuana last smoked the stuff "two weeks ago."

~ Anita Moore

Back in my very short time as a cop, I had to work on Thanksgiving. We had early snow that year (technically normal for Minnesota) and the roads, especially at "rural" corners, were covered in snow. It was common knowledge which bars/restaurants were having "parties" that night, and so we patrolled those areas heavily, as well as taking time to cruise our respective assigned zones.

That evening I remember confronting a guy named "Zack" (as we shall call him) outside of Champp's, a local sports bar chain. (I'm not sure if it's national as I'm too lazy to check.) Zack was drunk and was starting fights. But he didn't want to fight me and every time I found it necessary to get in his face and yell at him, he immediately calmed down and became malleable to direction. It helped that at the time he was in handcuffs.

As I recall, we let him go after charging him with Disorderly Conduct, because, in fact, by his willingness to cooperate with me he proved that he actually could take care of himself in spite of his lightweight "couple beers", and some of his friends were a bit wiser than he and desired to get him out of there. So we left and headed to the southern end of the large metro suburb. As we approached a hard left turn in one of the more "remote" heavily wooded neighborhoods, knowing the roads and turn were icy, I had no problem slowing and keeping the Squad under control. Yet it didn't surprise me to see a sedan stuck on that curve, and it surprised me less that there were four guys somewhere around 21 or 22 years of age sitting in that car.

(Mind you...I was 22 years old at the time myself. And yes, wearing a badge and carrying a gun and the authority of the law.)

As I approached the car, I noted they had their windows open and quite jovially greeted us with the air of innocence that belongs only to the guilty. These guys were really really friendly, the sort you'd want to meet any time of the day, and they were working hard to project that image.

I knew immediately they'd been drinking. (As if the car that welded to the ditch could have been suffering anything less!)

Of course, it's not illegal to be tipsy and sitting in the backseat of a ditch-encrusted car. As I joined in their overly-friendly banter, I shone my flashlight through the car, looking for evidence that the guys were still drinking. But my main focus was whether the driver had been drinking. (The fact the car was THAT FAR into the ditch was pretty damning evidence, but not enough for an arrest!)

The driver, too, was very happy to see us and as the peanut gallery in the back seat assured us that a tow had been called already, he showed us his cell phone to prove it, obviously in hopes we would move on.

Clearly they were operating off of the paradigm of "helpful cop" that would move on and ignore the obvious reality that not a single other car had managed to go off that road, and if so, they had managed to not be THAT stuck.

So I played the game, which wasn't hard. After all, I was their age! I knew what I would have been doing if I was still in Winona (although my friends were wise enough to take a cab!)

We talked a little about the weather, the slippery roads, the fact it was Thanksgiving and how our meals had been, etc. And then I "randomly" sprung the key question on the chatty guy in the back seat.

My question was focused on him because he was the obvious spokesperson for the group. I was sure he was the one telling the other guys "what to do". Yeah, I had friends like him, too, and knew that "that guy" was usually wrong, especially when there was trouble. And that made "that guy" the weak link. He had the pinache to think I was wrapped around his finger.

He was wrong.

Me to Chatty Guy in the Backseat: So you guys, how was the party at Champps tonight?"

Chatty-self-appointed-spokesman-guy in the backseat: It was great, there were TONS of people there!

I let him go on for awhile, nodding and smiling in seeming approval.

Then I said to the cringing and strangely silent driver who had long put his cell phone away, "Sir, will you step out of the car, please?"

The driver immediately opened the door, deer-in-the-headlights, and told me as he did so that he'd only had "a couple".

In appraising the position of his car and the proportionate support of his passengers, I wondered, "A couple kegs or a couple bottles of hard liquor?"

Well, let's just say this guy failed his field sobriety test and subsequently blew something over .20. At the time, MN was .10. And because our backup officers were vigilant and quietly circled around while I was "chatting up" the passengers, he was the one to spot the Open Bottle violations in the back seat.

Yup, it was a successful night.

Tonight, a local News Station, KARE11 , had a special on the Mounted Police in Minneapolis. (Not online as of this writing)

When I was in Law Enforcement Skills, I wanted to be one of them. At the time, I'm not sure that Minneapolis had Mounted Patrol, but St. Paul did and I aspired to be one of them. To me, it was the pefect place for me: I wanted to be a cop, and I loved horses and KNEW I could ride.

As it was, it wasn't until after I had left law enforcement that I finally came into contact with the Mounted Patrol, and given the story on the news tonight, I feel I have to write about it.

The story focused on their very necessary crowd control in Downtown at bar close.

Having been there, yes, I agree it's the PERFECT place, and they do a great job! There are a great number of people out there who don't realize the value of horses in crowd control and law enforcement, so I was happy to see this story, the officers, and of course, the well-trained horses that are ready for everything!

My own experience with the Mounted Police was also as a "drunk" (of which I'm still very embarassed!) However, I wasn't causing a fight. I'd left a bar, I was with friends, and in fact, I went TOWARD the officer, introduced myself,and we had a great and coherent conversation while we "talked shop" and I patted the horse.

As my friends and I left, I realized that in walking away from law enforcement, I was also walking away from the other part of that dream I'd held dear for a long time. I had loved the idea of serious law enforcement combined with horses, and of course, the PR that went with it. It was the Farm Girl in the City, and there is more beyond that.

But it wasn't to be.

Although I long mourned my exodus of that dream, I value my experience in law enforcement and am grateful especially to those officers who hold the position I STILL, in some ways, lament.

Tonight in watching the news, I wondered if maybe the Police have a program for volunteers to come in and assist with the horses. Maybe there is and maybe I should look into that. I love horses, I don't have a lot of time, but as they noted, grooming horses is calming, working with horses is calming, and having had THAT experience, well, I miss it and wish I had somewhere to go for that kind of "therapy". As it is, the programs I know about for retired horses and neglected horses are so far out of the way or require a time committment that that simply doesn't work with my schedule.

Hmmm...how did I go from snarky cop stories to lamenting my love for horses?

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I never said my blog would be organized OR predictable. Just sayin'

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Real Women Wear Kevlar

I don't know what made me think of this stuff, but this blog is in need of humor so here it is. Maybe I'm the only one to think it funny, but let me assure you, at the time it was just plain weird and unexpected. And I STILL think it's funny, even as I'm grateful for the seriousness of it.

Back in 1996 around this time, the dog days of summer, I was preparing to enter into what I thought was to be my career in Law Enforcement. I'd completed my background investigation, during which the investigators officially determined I was a REALLY boring person after verifying it with almost ALL the people who knew me. So I'd been called to the location of my future employer several times in order to complete paperwork, was sent to a couple uniform specialty stores to order my uniforms and patches, and went to the gun range to practice and hopefully "qualify" with the .45 Smith & Wesson I'd be required to carry on duty.

Well, I went about these trips to the Twin Cities from two hours away as required. It was interesting; I found it ironic that the uniform shops were found in the most urban areas, one of which was located on the infamous Hennepin Avenue (Uptown area), and the other on the ghetto street, Broadway Ave N. of Minneapolis, home, even to this day, of frequent street shootings and murders.

(Actually, in my last job, only blocks from the uniform shop, I witnessed a drug deal taking place before my very eyes, right there in the open air in broad daylight of...noon.)

But I digress. I remember finding the store, parking in the lot in back, and thinking of how embarrassing it would be for the future rookie to be mugged between the car and the store at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

It was weird being there. I was surrounded by Police and Fire uniforms, and others of these professions were consulting with various store employees, who were obviously very knowledgeable about what each needed specific to their departments. I was only 22, and felt like a stranger in this store; I didn't belong there. 

I felt like a little kid in a grown-up shop waiting for my Dad to come in to make his purchase.

I remember standing up very straight and trying to look official and professional, knowing I looked like a rookie, knowing that THEY knew that I knew I looked like a rookie. Because I was, in fact, a rookie. And, in fact, I wasn't even a rookie yet!

To be sure, I didn't even know what I was there for until they told me: my Department had sent an order and they were making a bullet-proof vest for me. Yup. I was there to be fitted for a bullet-proof vest.

I was SO glad Mom wasn't there with me. She might have fainted.

The reason I was there to be fitted for a bullet-proof vest was because, on the Job, someone might decide it would be a good idea to shoot me. And for some reason I didn't really have a problem with that idea. Because I would be wearing said vest. Knowing lots o'cops die each year anyway because vests aren't made for head shots.

Don't tell Mom, OK?

Anyway, I was measured, the vest and its Kevlar layers were explained to me, and I saw the trauma plate that goes over the chest up close and personal. They wanted to make sure I knew what I'd be wearing, maybe to give me a chance to turn the job down.

I left the store to head to my car, wishing I was already wearing the Vest in case I walked through one of the daily neighborhood shootings they use to welcome new guests to their area in that part of Minneapolis.

 It's a custom there, you see. If you're not bleeding...you're not family.

From there, my official Department business done for the day, I returned to my home in small-town Minnesota and went about my life in which the idea of being killed on the job was an unlikely event.

Then , a couple days later, I got a phone call from a woman working in personnel for the Department hiring me. She apologized for the call, but no need; I'd met her and she was a gem of a person. Then I realized why SHE was calling and not my future supervisor, who was male.

"I'm so sorry to call and have to ask you this..." her voice trailed off.  She was clearly embarrassed, and I waited patiently, having already had my life gone through to the extreme by perfect strangers who were looking for all sorts of junk. As it was, I THOUGHT I had nothing left to hide.

"Well, we got a call from the Uniform Company today, and they forgot to ask...um..." She paused again. "What is your bra size? I'm SO SORRY!"

I laughed, completely appreciating her embarrassment...I wouldn't want to call a near stranger and ask them that, either! Poor lady got conscripted, because apparently the woman who worked for the place making the vest destined to save my life at some point wasn't working that day. And it simply wouldn't DO for a man to call me and ask me for such an intimate detail! Can you IMAGINE how THAT would have gone?

I gave her the info (no, I won't share it), but it wasn't until I actually GOT the vest, two weeks after I'd already been on the Job, that I truly understood the importance of the question.

This is inside info, y'all. No pun intended.

I'd "worn" a bullet-proof vest before, one belonging to my (male) cousin who taught me how to shoot. He'd been afraid of ricochets in the gravel pit we used in target practice, so I wore his vest when shooting. And the thing was HUGE on me. It is a vest with a big metal "trauma plate" in the center to cover the major organs. The vest itself is made of layers of fabric, including Kevlar, which goes over the shoulders and around the torso, attached by Velcro straps on the sides. It's the kind of thing that, if you wear it properly, will not allow you to bend over and tie your shoes. So you make sure your shoes are well-tied BEFORE you don the vest.

Wearing one is like walking around in a modified body cast. New cops are discernible from veterans because the new cops look like robots in their new vests. Call them "Bender".

And just so you know...uniforms themselves are not made for women. We all wore stuff in men's sizes but tailored at the waist and hips as needed...the shirts...all men's stuff. And the end result is NOT flattering. Thank God working as a cop is not a fashion show...we'd all be condemned.

Anyway, bullet-proof vests are the exception and are worn UNDER the uniform shirts, over the required t-shirt. And the vests are tailored to accommodate...ahem...certain...womanly features...in accordance with her proportions. That requires certain intimate measurements. Which were (thankfully!) sufficient over the phone. The woman I spoke with explained that specific measurements were better, but they could go with something general and be fine. I was happy for that!

And to those who need to know...if we give the right info, the fit is right, too. In other words...don't lie about size. It doesn't work for men, and for them lying decimates only their pride. Women..if you lie about THIS size, you might be risking your LIFE. Besides...it's darned uncomfortable to wear something like this day after day in the wrong size!

For you see...Madonna wasn't the first woman to use armor as underwear. She just wanted to emulate REAL women who wear armored underwear.

I'm just sayin'....
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Thousand-Yard Stare

I've seen it, in the eyes of a young State Trooper. When I was in high school on a ride-along with another officer. I've never forgotten what that officer and a friend of mine told me; that look belonged to a man who had been involved in a shooting. He didn't talk about it. No one asked. It was the unspoken rule that one never speaks to a person who has killed another on the Job. Those who have been there know what it's like but the "uninitiated" have no right to infringe on that sacred ground.

Today at work, (yes, in all the chaos) a conversation came up; someone learned that I was once in Law Enforcement, and she asked what it meant to be a Catholic and be wearing a gun. Sadly, I was not a practicing Catholic at the time, but admittedly, that career was one that brought me closer to God in a multitude of ways. I can still hear the sound of a round being jacked into the chamber of an SKS as I stood on the other side of the door realizing my vest would not protect me.

That person asked me...what about now? Now that I am a practicing Catholic? Have my views changed?

No. Because unfortunately, sometimes the police have to pull the trigger. They don't want to. But they train for it, and all that is needed is for training to take over. In the end, it's not really the cop that shoots the perp; it's the training that does it. A wealth of knowledge and understanding that takes hold in a fraction of a second, for the purpose of defending life. And even at that, it's not an easy decision; it's a necessary one.

A devastating one for all involved.

Most people don't hear the real stories of the shootings that you see and hear about on the news. Most people just dissociate themselves and depersonalize all those involved, for that tends to be the nature of crime reporting.

When I was in training, I remember some guys talking about shootings as though they were a good thing. I knew a lot of guys who never aspired to the Job (thank God!) who spoke of police killings as a feather in one's cap, a badge of honor. And indeed, oftentimes, an officer who finds it necessary to pull the trigger and is justified (after a lengthy and in-depth investigation) is often given that proverbial badge-made-reality. But he doesn't want it. She doesn't want it.

Killing people is never a good thing. Even in self-defense and with the authority of the State on behalf of the lives of others. But it's better than allowing innocent lives to be lost. Judge, jury and executioner...in the hands of someone you hope and pray is properly trained to make that decision.

And in reality, there is no real training that can prepare one for such a result. That's part of the reason why cops are taken off the Job for awhile after a "Critical Incident". It's not just for the investigation; it's about the officer's sanity.

I'm glad that even before I was deeply into my training I met that Trooper with the "thousand-yard stare". It gave me a depth of understanding and made me truly consider how I'd feel if I were called upon to make that terrible call.

But yes, as a Catholic, a practicing Catholic, I could pull that trigger. I still own a gun, and I have no doubt that if it came to it, I could take a life. But I'd be changed forever.

Talk to Veterens. Talk to ex-police officers. Speak to those who have seen the worst. They'll tell you stories and they'll tell you all sorts of gory things you've never wanted to know. But they won't talk about THAT. They won't discuss it. It goes too deep, it has changed who they are and has placed a scar upon their souls that cannot be healed in this life.

Pray for police officers. Pray for soldiers. Pray for all those who are called to those fields. You'll never know the stories and you'll never see the scars, and that makes your prayers all the more necessary.
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God's Amazing Mercy

I have never been pulled over by the police before. In fact, the last time I was involved in a traffic stop, I was the cop. When I was the person behind the wheel of the car being stopped...we were in training.

Amazing...that training can really come in handy!

This afternoon I took Lexington Ave. home, as I had to stop someplace en route so this road was a better option than my regular one. It also happens to be a long road with varying speed zones, passing through farmland (in the 'burbs!), past small strip malls, etc. Today the weather wasn't quite nasty, but there was snow on the road. The temps made it mostly wet, but there were slippery spots and the radio was reporting various spinouts on the freeways. I was glad to be on this road...by that point it was a 2 lane, I was going at or just under the speed limit of 50 mph, and there was a good distance between the car ahead of me and myself. On days like this, even when I feel comfortable in driving the limit (usually I'm a granny on snowy roads), I keep a lot of distance and a lookout on what's up ahead in case slowing down is more difficult than it appears. So I assure you, I was driving quite carefully.

But then I saw a squad car, and for years, I have checked my spedometer whever I see a cop...and did so today, not even thinking about it. Traffic was slowing and I was, too, although I was a tad late in doing so as I'd crept closer to the car ahead of me.

And suddenly I got a sinking feeling as I saw the squad check his speed and turn around. Oh, no.

I kept driving, saw the next sign, 35 mph, and slowed down, still keeping my distance from the car ahead. The squad was creeping up. No lights. But I knew what he was doing...if he was indeed after me, he was getting close enough to read my plate and type or call it in. (I suspect they have computers in their cars in that 'burb). Then he had to wait for it to come back. I drove forward when the light changed, and then his lights came on. I pulled over, and sure enough he stopped right behind me.

That's when my training really kicked in; I made sure to pull as far into the right hand snowbank that used to be a curb as I could, and as I did so, I glanced back and saw that he was properly positioning the squad to offset, creating a barrier for his own safety. So there I was...being pulled over and thinking of officer safety!

I also rolled my window down and turned down the radio, pulled out my driver's license and kept my hands where they could be seen.

The officer walked up and, while he took my license, he told me that there was a speed reduction zone that went from 50 to 40 mph and he'd gotten me at 50. Then he asked for my insurance, which I reached over and took out of my bag, moving slowly, again, keeping my hands in very clear view. I knew what traffic stops were like; and what he needed to see from me. He verified that I still live at the same address, and walked back to his car. There was no conversation or room for it. His tone was polite and matter-of-fact.

I knew that the best way to respond in any traffic stop is with humility; if the police stop you, you've probably done something wrong and they saw it. If it was speeding, they have it on radar; as he'd said, I missed a speed zone sigh and was still going 50.

While I waited, I figured I'd be getting a ticket...which I can't afford. Not now. Not ever, but especially not now! And I knew that if I was 10 over, I deserved the ticket, and I would pay it without contesting it. I deserved it, pure and simple.

And I remembered that just the other day, a random thought popped into my head; where was my most recent insurance card? Had I put it in my car? I checked my bag...I had it in my backpack, both cards. I had NOT put it in my car, and as of today, it was still in my backpack. But because of that random thought, today I KNEW where the cards were, which saved me a trip to court to prove that I do, in fact, have insurance on my car. Had I not had that card, I knew, he's be writing a court summons for "no proof of insurance." That's actually not a huge deal; you just have to go to court to proove that you do, in fact, have insurance. Unfortunately, that ticket can often mean an impound...and you have to have proof of insurance to get your car out of impound. So, note to everyone...make CERTAIN that you carry your insurance IN your car or on your person at all times lest you do something stupid.

All of this flashed through my mind in a second, and then I was thinking about the ticket likely being written. I thought about begging God for mercy; it was 3:15 at that point, Friday during the Hour of Mercy. And I was going to get a speeding ticket. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And I had to humbly acknowledge that if he wrote the citation, I was deserving of it, and had to suck it up. But just the same, I prayed a few Hail Mary's, surrendering to what was to be. It was all I could do.

The officer got out of his car. There was nothing in his hands, but my DL. I figured he'd walk up and pull his book out of one of his pockets and hand me the citation there. I did not for one moment believe that I was going to come out of this unscathed.

He handed me back my license...and nothing else. He told me to be more careful next time and wished me a good day.

I was stunned. Just stunned. I DESERVED a ticket. But there it was...mercy.

As I drove away, I considered my own time in law enforcement. We often didn't write tickets in a traffic stop. And in fact, a secret a lot of people don't know, and one you should take with a grain of salt, police officers often don't begin writing speeding tickets unless someone is 10 over the limit or more. Anything under becomes a waste to one degree or another, and the courts often forgive them. 10 and over tends to involve knowledge of the deed, or actual inattention. Now, keep in mind, the Minnesota State Patrol may stop you for even 1 mph over the limit, especially if they are working traffic in a certain area. So, yes, you still can be cited for even minimal offense. So be forewarned.

One of the things I learned in my field training is the reason for citing someone...a traffic stop should ALWAYS be educational, I was told. Explain why they were stopped, to the point. Some people are amenable to education; some are not, but always try. Not every stop warrants a citation, and quotas are a fabrication of common urban mythology. We didn't stop people to make a quota; we stopped people for public safety reasons.

People with a lot of priors were much more prone to getting a citation; because a simple stop apparently never changed their behavior. Financial impact can actually make a difference for some. Other people apparently just like to finance the local government agencies through going too fast or engaging in some other unlawful conduct...willfully. Some people just shouldn't be driving, because they have no concept that their behavior affects others. Oh, wait...that applies to a LOT more than driving!

People with clean records can be a tossup, depending on what cop you talk to. Some officers see those with clean records as the perpetually lucky, and if they get stopped, now they're due. Other officers look at people with clean records as those who likely habitually drive well, and if they are stopped, it is in a brief moment, a speed zone sign missed, simple error versus actual willful breaking of the law. I think more often than not, if the infraction is that minimal, most officers will let people go with a word to take more care.

While I will be eternally grateful for today's experience of mercy, I wonder if the latter situation is why I "got off." My record is clean. Back in 1992 when I totalled my car 3 months after I bought it, I got a "failure to yield" ticket...the accident was my fault. Let me tell you...that accident taught me a LOT! And it lent to careful driving habits, especially when making a left turn. Yet even that incident arose out of a moment of confusion, not criminal intent. But even though I'd previously been innocent, my action caused harm thus I was deserving of a citation. Fault was REALLY obvious. And now, having worked in insurance, yeah, I agree...stupid actions sometimes make it obvious who broke what law. It's been years, though, since then, and as I explained, I've never been so much as pulled over...until today.

I suspect that the officer was actually running traffic in a problem area. A lot of people don't realize that when they set up speed traps or tend to stop people more often in certain locations, it's because of something brought to their attention by citizens. We used to sit in the briefing room every morning at the start of our shift, and listen to the letters sent in by citizens REQUESTING that the police dept. work traffic in certain areas where they live. This happened so much that the department established a traffic unit and purchased an unmarked car for the purpose. What does THAT tell you?

The next time you hear someone complain that the cops should be going out and catching "real criminals" instead of handing out tickets, tell them to take their complaints to the people who live in the location where he was stopped...so they can set him straight.

In my case...yeah, I was in the wrong, 50 in a 40, but my error came not from willfully speeding, but simply missing the speed reduction sign, and not by much. But still - it was what it was. He would have been just in handing me that piece of preprinted cardstock.

I'm happy, though, having that experience of mercy. Now I know how people felt when I left them with just a verbal admonition to be more careful. Yeah, I'll be more careful, too, especially on that stretch of road!

See? Education works!

BAD COP! NO Donut!

For some reason, recently I have come across three people who attended Law Enforcement skills training at the school I went to back in 1995. Two of the men I met attended the same 10-week program I did (as part of their four year B.A. degree), and today I met one who is obtaining an AA degree in Law Enforcement at that school.

I immediately inquired about the instructors, naming them. Most are still there, and it sounds like there are some new faces, too. My instructors are all close to retirement, and I consider that to be a loss for the new cadets coming through the program of the near future, although I am certain that they are passing on the torch in an appropriate manner. I pray the program, and thus all the students, will remain in good hands.

Although I discerned early on in my career that law enforcement is not for me, I will forever value the time I spent at Alexandria, and the challenges I was forced to face, one of which I wrote about as I mused the grace God provides to the martyrs.

As it turns out, much of what I learned in the past has provided an aid to understanding the spiritual life. But what I'm going to talk about today is really more about stereotypical humor than anything else.

With all the heaviness on my blog lately, it seems to me that some lighthearted remembrances are needed. I know that some people read my blog because they think I'm a good storyteller, thus I hope to continue to live up to their expectations. Besides; as we all know, telling stories can be cathartic and uplifting, both for the storyteller and those "listening."

Local Connections

This evening, after work at a gathering I attended, I met a young man who is in training now for Law Enforcement. As I walked into the house to "go get a plate!" in obedience to my hostess, another friend stopped me, telling this young man that I used to be a cop and he should talk to me. I stopped and chatted with him, and as it was, we spoke a great deal this evening. Please keep him in your prayers; he is young, enthusiastic, from a faithful family, and I think he'll make a great Police Officer.

Of course, as it is with anyone in the same field, we have to "talk shop", and cops, near-cops, and ex-cops just LOVE to swap stories! He hasn't gotten to some of the stuff we experienced in skills yet, but will in the coming year. Training is fun; there's no risk other than failure in the class, and that is the time to make mistakes - when they can be corrected and when they are not life-threatening for anyone. "Failures" can be re-tested and overcome. But before the tests come the practice, the introduction to new concepts and skills...and quite often, hilarity ensues as we all know, thanks to shows like COPS and the like, what certain events are SUPPOSED to look like.

In training, though, things don't always go that way.

Our introduction to traffic stops involved not the school's squad cars, but our own vehicles. Two students volunteered the use of their own personal vehicles, so we lined them up properly, with the "squad" in back of the "target" car, positioned so that the squad was offset for both lighting and safety purposes. This took place on the gravel "roads" built into the Skills Center designed at the school for the purpose of a myriad of police training scenarios.

We were learning not so much how to initiate a traffic stop, but how to discern when to stand ground and command, versus find cover and draw our weapons in preparation to use deadly force. It was something akin to a "draw / don't draw" scenario, the former of which would also require finding cover.

The instructor was giving each driver "secret" instructions before every scenario, so that the "officer" wasn't always looking at the same thing. The element of surprise was constantly present. It wasn't an ambush by any means, just a necessary play on our reactions.

I watched as several students had to determine whether to dive behind the car and draw their weapon, or simply order the the person to get back into the vehicle, keeping their hands in sight, etc. I was admittedly nervous...we all were. But we were also ready and excited for this exercise.

CONTACT AND COVER

When it was my turn, my friend and roommate was the person being "pulled over". At the start of the scenario, when signaled, I got out of the "squad" and began to approach the target vehicle.

My friend got out, holding something in her hand.

I reacted quickly, beginning to move behind the car for cover as I reached for my sidearm. (We were carrying training guns).

Just as I made my move, I immediately recognized that what she held in her hand was not really a threat to anyone but the gluttinous; it was a donut bag.

I stopped, and for some reason, the censer in my head was asleep at the switch so I exclaimed aloud, in great surprise, "THAT'S not a GUN!"

My class, standing at the "shoulder" of the road, doubled over laughing. I was too focused on what I was doing to be fully embarassed yet, realizing it would be better to finish the scenario before slinking into non-existence.

I stood tall and ordered my Target flatly (and somewhat sheepishly) to "Drop the bag!"

She obeyed immediately. Then I arrested her.

The class roared.

From that point on, one of our class jokes went as thus:

Posing in the correct firing position, holding the "gun", that being a hand mimicing a handgun cupped in the other hand as we would stand at the range. Firm expression. Loud, commanding voice.

"DROP THE DONUT BAG NOW!" (pause)

"KICK IT OVER HERE WITH YOUR FOOT!" ( pause )

"KEEP YOUR HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" (pause)

"GO GET ME SOME COFFEE!" (pause)

"KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"

I'm so proud of myself.

My very first traffic stop not only earned me a common greeting of "THAT'S not a GUN!" to the above scenario, played out over and over again. And I was a willing participant, finding it, of course, HILARIOUS that she got out of the car with a donut bag, of all things! I can't remember whose car that was, but I know he got ribbed for indulging in the donuts even before he was hired!

Yes, cops do laugh at themselves and their stereotypes, especially when they inadvertantly occur.

The Link Between Experience and Spiritual Life

If you know any police officers, military personnel, firefighters, etc., take some time and ask them to tell their stories. As especially about their bloopers in training. Everyone has them, and most of them are things that would seem like common sense to anyone not actually facing that moment. You never know how you will react. Sometimes training will tell, sometimes it won't. Sometimes it doesn't come together for you until the very "moment of truth" on the real job itself, and in that moment, you pray your training will overcome your humanity for a moment. But in training itself, often your humanity will dominate...and that's when you learn the most.

In the spiritual life, it is the same. So many things are an introduction or a test of some sort for us, sometimes our efforts, even the most brave of our efforts, are complete disasters. Sometimes we are successful, and sometimes we step forward and are surprised when things don't proceed as we expect...and we, in turn, respond in ways we don't expect. Relax. This is an opportunity to learn. It is a chance to take stock of where we are and realize, in all humility, that we have not "graduated" yet, God is not expecting perfection, and that we have to be prepared to make mistakes. If we don't stumble, in reality, we aren't learning much. We need to take risks, we need to step into the unknown in order to face the training scenarios God has in store for us. If we "fail", keep in mind that God has a sense of humor, wants us to learn from our failures but also see the humor in them because...let's face it. Sometimes our foibles are funny. It's OK to laugh at ourselves, learn the lesson, and move on. It takes genuine humility to laugh at our mistakes.

Tonight was a great evening, both in fellowship with good friends, and in meeting the next generation in law enforcement. I hope he makes even more mistakes than I did in training; those mistakes at the right time will make him a better cop when it really counts and when someone's life is on the line.

I also hope he doesn't become obsessed with donuts, but that's another story....

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Life's Lessons in the Small Stuff

My family came up this weekend to celebrate my birthday, and after we went out for dinner, we watched a movie; The Guardian, which, for those who have not seen it, is about the Coast Guard.

Perhaps I watch this type of movie differently than most people; whenever I view these kinds of movies, I can't help but take a trip down memory lane and recall lessons learned in my training for Law Enforcement, Firefighting, and Ski Patrol.

Some of what the movie portrays drives me absolutely crazy; Hollywood consistently can't get CPR right, they love to ignore technical details which would actually IMPROVE the movie if they were even close to accurate. And it also drives me nuts how they tend to glamorize certain aspects of such training and the jobs. Yes, it does make a good story at times, and yes, they get some of the details right, but having sweated and suffered through some very real stuff, well, let's just say there's no glamor and there's no mystery. It's hard work.

That said, I still can't help but fondly remember some of that hardship, because even now, I look back and realize that it helped to form me as the person I am today. I'll never forget our first day of Law Enforcement Skills training; Grant put us in the pushup position and proceeded to tell his life story. He'd been a Green Beret, was built like a "brick s***house", and had no problem with causing us pain. He knew what built physical strength and intestinal fortitude and didn't care if we were men or women; he was going to give us the benefit of his experience and his own training, and that began from the very first moment.

I thank God to this day that he was so good at what he did; he was one of the first people to teach me how to break through my own barriers and strive for the next step, no matter how much it hurt.

We had another instructor; actually a pair. They were part-time, were on the loca SWAT team and assisted at the Skills program. In reality, they just LOVED to pepperspray the unsuspecting students. They were good teachers, they were professionals, and they were two more guys who had no problem teaching us how to be tough, how to survive in the face of painful physical adversity, and when outside of class, they were personable and approachable and loved to talk about "the job".

Just this weekend, I actually saw one of my instructors on TV; he's the Sheriff now. I'm proud of him and I congratulate him, and I'm proud to claim to be one of his former students. My own failures were not his; and the lessons he taught carry far beyond "the job".

Another one of the cast of characters from my past is also a Sheriff. He was a Deputy at the time I was in high school, and I got to know him while I was a lifeguard at the pool since he was one of the lapswimmers.

I actually first met him while training to become a lifeguard; I was faithfully going to lap swimming every evening, and he asked me about it one day as we both happened to be taking a breather in between the facets of our training regimens. Not many high school students swam laps; those who were swimmers were training with the team, so he was curious. I explained my training, he wished me well, and we went on with our routines. (There is a certain solidarity among everyday lapswimmers - we get to know each other).

Well, as it was, I passed every lifeguard test but the sprint, and I only missed that by .08 seconds. I had a certain amount of time to retest, so I hit the training hard, really focusing on speed drills. This particular Deputy, if the pool was crowded, offered me his lane for awhile if I needed to practice sprints and couldn't do so safely. (ie; it would interfere with other swimmers, etc.).

He also happened to be there on the day I took the retest, and stopped swimming in order to see the results. Many of the other lap swimmers did as well - that solidarity thing again. I remember actually having 2 false starts; I was so ready to go that I dove in before I was given the signal!

In the end, I passed with flying colors - at the time, the requirement was 18 seconds. (It has since been raised to something like 20-25 seconds. Ridiculous). I can't remember my final time, only that I passed. That was enough.

That deputy was first in line to congratulate my success, and he happened to also be the one to offer me the Deputies' Association Scholarship for college a few years later.

He became Chief Deupty when I was in college, and as far as I know, he is still the Sheriff. I salute him; he never said much, I didn't know him well, but his support and assistance in more than one facet of my life made a difference, and I can guarantee you that there are many other people out there who also owe him a debt of gratitude.

I realize it seems that I go off track when I write of these kinds of things, however, as usual, I promise you that I have a point.

Going back to "The Guardian". This really is a great movie, because the two main characters are facing certain demons; an instructor, and a cadet, and their demons are the same. Not only does the movie take us through what created the problems, but how they were or were not resolved, and ultimately, there is triumph. What is a good movie without triumph?

But I'm going to drop a bombshell; one of the other reasons I really like this movie is because it brought me back to high school, when I seriously considered skipping college and entering the Coast Guard.

Yup.

I was gonna be a "Puddle Pirate". As the Navy apparently calls them, according to the movie.

Almost every day, I went into the career center and perused information on the Coast Guard, going over the same things all the time. They had everything; they would train me, there were several things I wanted to do; law enforcement, paramedic, swimmer. I could do it all if I really desired it. There was career stability, in a way, and some of what my heart craved; adventure. But I wanted to be the hero, finally, get out of my life that was out of control, and move into the position of "savior" of sorts.

I told no one this. Some of my friends knew I was considering it, but my Mom would have flipped out, thinking I was going to war. (That's not what the Coast Guard is about).

Finally, though, I discerned it was not for me and I went to college and proceeded to build a great resume then failed my real-life tests.

Yet a part of me has always wondered "what it"? What if I had joined the Coast Guard? Where would I be? Would I love it? I know there's no glamour; time and experience in my own chosen fields taught me that even before I graduated college. But it's one of those things I never did, and I joked last night with my brother that, now, in the face of my career woes, I'll just go do what I almost did so long ago...enlist in the Coast Guard.

No, I'm not serious. And I smile to consider "what if", the idealism of my past, the hope I had so long ago, and the reality the these people face every single day. Yeah, maybe if I could do it over I'd take that leap (right out of a helicopter into a huge storm and 30 foot waves!), but in the end, it wouldn't have been the right decision, either. Besides, I didn't know anyone in the Coast Guard...still don't. I'd have been even more out of my element there than I was in real life. And all that's really just an aside.

My point is not really to discuss law enforcement instructors or Coast Guard instructors, but rather, to point out that all of us can be "that" person to someone else. It was never that someone did anything HUGE for me; the things that helped me along and gave me confidence were, in and of themselves, very small. They were simple things, courtesy, everyday encouragement, everyday affirmation, not things that stand out as one momentous moment.

We never know who we affect. We don't necesarily know why God puts certain people in our lives, and what their roles are, and very often, it's not about how they affect us; it's how WE are called to serve THEM.

I thank God for the people and situations he's placed in my life. I thank God for the lessons they taught me; not so much with regard to the jobs, but rather, how to treat others, how to help others, and how to remember it's the small things in life that move the biggest mountains.

Don't Call My Name

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this piece a few months after I "retired" from law enforcement. I was inspired upon the occasion of the untimely death of a local State Trooper, whom I did not personally know, to write this piece. I further edited the work upon the tragic death of another police officer, whose wife, a Deputy Chief at the time, had been one of my references. I consider this to be a work of fiction because the experiences within are not necessarily "mine", but those of police officers collectively, throughout the world. The beginning is mine, although I suspect that others would state something similar. Police Officers everywhere answer to a true call; it is not just a job, and even a short time in the field marks a soul for life. .
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I decided a long time ago to become a police officer. My family was shocked and most of them decided that I was insane. They spoke to me as if I were an irrational child, and everyone, EVERYONE, asked me "WHY!?" . I neither defended nor explained my choice. The simple reason was this: there was no rational or logical reason in the world for my desire to become a police officer. I knew the risks I'd be taking and I understood my family's concern.

So I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I went through the training where they made us run miles and hold the push-up position for what seemed like hours while we listened to our instructor give us his life story. They made us take our turns at leading calisthenics and if we didn't give it our all, they made us do extra. They stuck us in the "gas chamber" and gave us tear gas, CS gas, and pepper spray just to be sure we got our "money's worth" of education. They twisted our joints and shot at us, and throughout the training, they impressed upon us that no matter what happened, no matter how serious the injury, how intense the fear, or how close the panic, we were always to be in control of ourselves and the situation. They taught us the mentality necessary for survival on the streets. And they told us story after story of heroes fallen in the line of duty. They taught us to learn from their mistakes as well as our own and how to not make the same mistake twice. We may never get a second chance.

Throughout it all, I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

When I was finally hired, I raised my right hand to give my oath to God, my Country, my State, City and Department, to uphold the Constitution of the United States, enforce the laws, to Serve and to Protect. In a room full of collegues, family, and superiors, I gave my oath and silently prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I wore my brand-new uniform with pride, pinned on my badge, strapped on my vest, and holstered my loaded gun for the first time. As I did so, the full weight of my responsibility settled upon my soul. I experienced for the first time the taste of the knowledge that accompanies fear; sometimes "serving and protecting" means taking a life or risking my own...so I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I rode in a squad car, patrolled the strets, stopped offenders, served warrants, subpoenas, and took reports. I turned in documents upon which I had written, "status/inactive", knowing that someone's home, life, and rights were somehow violated, but I was unable to provide the solution they needed me to offer. I realized that although I was young and inexperienced, I was suddenly "Authority", and I supposedly had "the answer" the people I served were seeking. I comforted the grieving, warned the disorderly, and stopped the assault. I restored safety, referred people to other agencies for problems I couldn't fix, and I tracked down runaways and returned them to their parents, caring or otherwise. I held the hands of children trapped in twisted metal and I helped to save the life of someone's family member. Each and every day I saw both the best and the worst of human nature.

However, I always knew that I was not immune to the tragedies that strike unprovoked, so I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I learned early that because I wore a uniform and a badge, I was no longer my own person. My life was not mine; it belonged to the public and my reputation was relegated to the same. I became the target of hatred, unforgiving glares, and pointing fingers. Likewise I was seen as an expert in the law and the solution to life gone somehow awry. And I felt incredibly inept.

So I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

I attended the funeral of a fellow officer who had fallen in the line of duty. I gave my condolences to his family and friends and I shared in their grief. As I paid my respects and said my goodbyes to the officer in the casket, I realized that his death was not personal. He was killed because he wore a uniform and a badge. He died for what he represented, not for who he really was. I knew that it could just as easily be any one of the thousands of officers who do the same job lying in that casket. I also knew that no matter who it was, the death would not be any easier to accept. And as the tears came to my eyes I understood the full impact of the identity I shared with this individual. And I prayed, "God, please don't call my name."

When I flipped on the lights, switched on the siren and screamed through crowded intersections en route to a call of a "man with a gun," and as I risked my life to reach an unknown situation, I knew that I couldn't spend my career, and thus my life, fearing that my name would be called. So I put my life into the hands of the Lord and I did the job that no one else would.

I stood by the closed door, drawing my weapon as, from the other side, came the unmistakable sound of a live round striking the empty chamber of an unidentified gun. I didn't need to see the frightened eyes of the victim to know that I was living someone else's desperate prayer. I knew why I was there.

"God, you already called my name.""