“R.D. was in a really bad lawnmower accident,” Cody said softly, closing his phone and shaking his head.

He was sitting on my parents’ hand-me-down couch in our spare-room-turned office at our house. Our friend Barrett was working on my laptop to get the wireless hooked back up. I was busy getting things ready for dinner, making rice and vegetables and pouring milk for everyone. In the normalcy of our evening, the words didn’t compute.

I raised my eyebrows, waiting for more. “A lawnmower?” I asked, confused. “Did he change jobs? And what kind of accident, like a really bad one? Who was it who called?”

R.D. is a friend of ours who took a missions class at our church with Cody throughout the past year. The group experienced quite a bit of life together. A tall and very skinny man, R.D. is 28-years old and has a wife, Jill, and a 3-year-old daughter named Kylie. R.D. is a teacher, and it is clear by his deep, loud voice and razor sharp humor that he’s good at it. He loves his wife deeply, and has a special connection with his daughter.

“It was Jeremy who called,” Cody said, referring to another of his classmates. “R.D.’s at Wishard right now. R.D. took up mowing lawns to keep the bills paid. I guess he was mowing a ditch or something and the lawnmower flipped over on top of him.” Cody’s eyes began to stare through the floor. “And it caught fire. They think he broke his back, and right now he’s in surgery and they’re trying to save his arm because of the burns.”

I was speechless. What a horrible, twisted thing to imagine a friend enduring. I swallowed, unsure of what to do.

“So you’re going to the hospital,” I guessed.

He nodded.

“I’m coming with you.”

After dinner, as we drove silently to the hospital, my heart sank lower and lower. I thought of Jill. A short girl with a big smile, she is bright-faced with a calm demeanor. I prayed she would be able to guide their daughter through this trial. When you’re young, you assume all parents instinctively know how to handle their kids in certain situations. Then as you get older and “parents” are your friends who are your age, you realize they have fears and insecurities like anyone else.

I thought of the fears she must be feeling, the questions she must have: How will they pay their bills? How will they eat? Where will Kylie stay? What will R.D.’s condition be when he recovers?

I clenched my teeth, forcing tears back into my eyes as the gravity of the situation swelled in my chest.

Cody reached over and squeezed my leg, shaking his head.

“This friggin’ sucks,” he kept muttering.

But when we arrived at the hospital, Jill seemed to be handling herself just fine, thankyouverymuch. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she was talking to friends and family, asking for Kleenex, giving updates and even cracking a smile. While she let the tears trickle when someone new entered the waiting room and embraced her, she held herself as though she had to stay strong for us and not the other way around.

I looked around and got goose bumps. People continued to fill the burn center’s waiting room. They were wiping away tears, reading their Bibles, constantly checking the door for the doctor, smiling and even laughing. Some brought snacks; some brought Jill extra clothes; some brought prayers and well wishes. All brought hugs. People poured each other drinks, ordered pizza and shared their cell phones. Some sat casually on the floor; some just held hands and talked quietly. Others paced. The hospital’s chaplain rolled in a cart of juice, coffee and pastries.

As someone passed me a box of Oreos, a wave of thankfulness washed over me. While I felt helpless, there was hope. There was prayer. There was the strength of a group being the strength for one. There were incredibly intelligent and caring doctors. There were compassionate pastors, endlessly loving friends and a God who makes a path when there doesn’t appear to be one.

Our pastor, Jeff, came out from R.D.’s hospital room, interrupting my thoughts. With his eyes glistening and a small smile, he said, “Same old R.D., making jokes. And it was so sweet. When he saw Jill, he was able to lift his arm and touch her cheek. He even begged her to unwrap some gauze so she could give him a kiss on the lips.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I just thought that was sweet.”

Silence.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“Let’s pray.”

P.S. R.D. continues to recover in the Burn Center at Wishard Medical Center in Indianapolis. He suffered a burst fracture in his back and third degree burns on one-third of his body. Once he leaves Wishard, he will be in rehab for about a month, meaning he will not be homebound for another two and a half months.

His sister and wife keep an updated blog, posting his daily successes and struggles. One section of the Web site allows visitors to sign a guestbook. Just by reading the guestbook, it’s clear that R.D., along with his wife and daughter, have moved many people deeply with their courage and patience during this time.

R.D. is passing the time by working his badly burned right arm, in and out of therapy, greatly increasing his range of motion. He is able to use a laptop and can update the Web site as well as keep up with his Fantasy Football team. He and wife have not abandoned their plans to plant a church… they just know they may have to tweak their plans.

His courage and humor continue to lift up everyone, including his own family. His wife Jill said it best in her latest blog entry: “God, thank you for the ways you redeem the crap and for breathing life into R.D. He is more alive right now spiritually than ever before, and I thank you for how this has already softened his heart and given him a renewed compassion.”

My family has had several pets over the years. The first one I remember was a goldfish my brother had when he was four or five. I think he won it at a church carnival, and I can’t even remember what he named it, but he sure was excited when he brought that fish home. So you can imagine his horrific disappointment when we found the fish belly-up in his bowl just a couple of days later, and then his panicked excitement when he thought the fish had come back to life while being flushed down the toilet. That can be very traumatic for a little guy.

My parents figured out that frail pets don’t make happy children, and the next pet that we got was a mutt named Sissy. She definitely was part German Shepherd, and probably had a little bit of Chow due to her spotted tongue, but she was a lot of fun. I would sometimes let her pull me down the street on my roller blades or skateboard, and she would run through the sprinklers with us when we played in the backyard. But Sissy started to fall out of favor with our family when she was not very gentle with my little sister, who was just a toddler at the time. We eventually had to give Sissy away when we moved, because she started biting my dad when he tried to put her into the car.

The next family pet was a Cocker Spaniel that actually belonged to my grandparents. They moved to their lake house after Grandpa retired, and Buffy no longer had a backyard, so she came to live with us. Buffy was old when we got her, and she was already deaf. My friend Kyle thought that was hysterical, and he would make loud noises behind her to see if he could scare her. No matter how many times she didn’t hear him, it never got old. Another funny thing about deaf dogs is that they apparently don’t bark. I think she only barked once the entire time she lived with us, and my mom was the only one who heard it. Buffy’s health eventually began to fail, and we had to put her to sleep.

We had a family funeral for Buffy out in the country, and I remember being sad, but I wasn’t heartbroken. To me, the pets that we had were never actually part of the family. They were just external entities; always present, but never of any real personal interest.

But that was all about to change.

In February 1995, we brought home a tiny little Lhasa Apso puppy that could almost fit entirely in one of my 14-year-old hands. She kind of looked like a miniature version of Falkor, the flying dog-like creature from the movie The Neverending Story. I also thought she looked like an ewok, but you can’t really name your dog “Ewok”, so I wanted to name her Yoda. But my mom and sister didn’t like that idea, so we settled on something a little girlier, but still very appropriate: Bitsy. Like itsy-Bitsy because she was so small. There are now several variations of her name that are popular with different family members, but the one that I like best is Bitsy-witsy.

Bitsy-witsy was (and still is) the cutest dog in the world. I realize that many people in the world probably feel that way about their dog, but I feel that I am more justified in that claim than all of those people. There were several funny things that Bitsy-witsy would do as a puppy that would entertain my family for hours. Like how it took her awhile to figure out how to run on the linoleum floor in the kitchen. She would peel out like crazy, especially if she was taking off from the kitchen. Another funny thing is that it took her awhile to figure out how to run at all. She would start off pretty good, but after a few steps her little doggie butt would start to swing around to the side until it was almost even with her head. Right about that time, she would hit the linoleum and it was all over.

Another funny trick was getting her to go outside, even when she didn’t want to. It was actually pretty easy. All I had to do was get really excited about it, and Bitsy-witsy would follow suit. This would usually involve saying “Does Bitsy want to go outside?!” several times really fast with an escalating tinge of excitement in my voice, and then just running to the door and opening it. She would bolt right out the door every time. Sometimes she would even stop and turn around, right as I was closing the door, with a look that said “Oh, man! Not again…”

There are also some stories that Bitsy-witsy would probably find embarrassing (that is, if she could read). One is the way I used to carry her around on my shoulders. I got the idea to try this after seeing a picture of Jesus carrying a lamb across his shoulders, the belly of the lamb against the back of his neck, and the front and back legs hanging down on opposite sides of his chest. I figured I could carry Bitsy around like that, and so I gave it a shot. She wiggled a lot while I was hoisting her up there and had this pitiful look of saddened terror on her face. I kind of felt bad, but at the same time, it was pretty cute.

Then there was the time I almost gave her heat exhaustion. She seemed to have so much energy that I thought it would be fun to take her running with me. I probably could have picked a better time than 5 p.m. in the middle of a Texas summer. It was probably close to 100 degrees, and we didn’t make it one block before I had to pick her up and carry her home. She drank water for a solid minute, and then plopped down on the tile floor right underneath the air conditioning vent. She was fine, but her little tongue was hanging out about twice as far as normal. Needless to say, I never took her running again.

But there is one Bitsy memory that is by far my favorite.

My senior year of high school, Bitsy-witsy and I had a morning tradition. My car was about 20 years old and needed to warm up for about 20 minutes before it was ready to drive. Every morning on my way out the door I would jingle my keys and Bitsy would come running to the door. We would go start my car together and jam for a few minutes to whatever song happened to be playing on the radio, which was usually the local classic rock station. Bitsy loves classic rock.

Sometimes she would roam around the inside of my car, sniffing in every little nook and cranny. Other times, usually when it was cold, she would just curl up in my lap in the driver’s seat, and I would pet her with one hand while drumming the steering wheel with the other. Then I would take her back inside, get my bag and be off to school. We practiced this car-starting ritual every day that year, and to this day, she still runs to the front door when I jingle my keys.

Bitsy-witsy turned 13 this year. I’m not quite sure what the multiplier is for dog years, but that’s a pretty decent little doggie life, and she’s still hanging in there. She moves a lot slower and she sleeps a lot more, but she will still snuggle up to you while you are sitting on the couch. She still comes up and sniffs me and licks my face every time I come home, and she still loves to lie on my clothes, whether dirty or clean. She may be a dog, but she is definitely part of the family, and Bitsy-witsy will always hold a very special place in my heart.

Each day, my dream-guy-of-the-moment sends me an e-mail as a part of his job at Steepandcheap.com. The second part of the e-mail always starts the same way: “Today on Steep and Cheap…” But the first part (oh the first part!)… The first part of the e-mail always reveals a little bit about the man providing me with great deals on outdoor gear. The first part is what is making me fall (slowly, daily, repeatedly) in love.

Here’s what I know:

He’s 29:

“In the Utah ski shop where I worked people called me a bachelor at 25 years old. Now I hardly know anyone who’s married and I’m four years older.” (July 31)

His name is Rocky:

“It ended up causing some confusion with the mailman since I had to tell him that a package would be arriving that would be addressed to Sparky instead of Rocky.” (Aug. 18)

He’s not super-religious:

“I was thinking about bar trivia this afternoon and how I’m terrible at any Bible-related questions. Then I came up with a Bible trivia question for myself: Quote a passage from the Bible. I thought for a few minutes, and the only one I can quote word-for-word is Ezekiel 25:17. It starts out, “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.” If the quote sounds familiar and the only Bible in your house is being used to keep a bed level, well, that’s because the quote’s from Pulp Fiction.” (Aug. 15)

He’s honest… well, sort of:

“I’m hedging on the morality of cashing a check that wasn’t supposed to go to me. It can’t be illegal, right? I mean, it’s a check that was sent to me with my name on it. I’d be an idiot not to cash it. I think I’ll give them a call tomorrow morning and ask if they meant to send the check to me, and then after they say “no,” I’ll tell them I’ve already cashed it anyway. Now I just need to find one of those all night check cashing places so they can’t call the bank and cancel the check.” (Aug. 19)

He’s an innovator:

“There’s not a human alive who uses only one ketchup packet when they get fast food. There’s such a small amount of ketchup in each pack that you need to take a fistful just to get a respectable pile for your fries. You have to figure that the packaging is more expensive than the actual ketchup, so there must be some financial motivation that’s behind producing all that waste. I suppose that if they put a lot of ketchup in each pack, then people would still take several packs and they’d be wasting ketchup. What they need to do is offer ketchup in a large size and the current size. That way they could give every person one of the monster size ketchup packs with their food, and then each person can fine tune their ketchup needs by adding units of the regular-size ketchup packs. It would take a little while for everyone in the country to get used to, but I’m confident we can make the change.” (July 26)

He’s up with the current news:

“The point is that anyone who talks about being hard on prostitution is probably sleeping with call girls, and anyone who harps on family values a little too much probably already left their wife for another partner.” (Aug. 16)

And, he can write (damn can he write).

Though I’ll probably never meet Rocky (because I’m a chicken and (I think) he lives somewhere in Mountain Standard Time), I am loving this crush. Each day when I log in to my e-mail, I have an extra reason to smile, because the e-mail from Rocky (29-year-old, honest, Bible-quotes-from-movies-remembering Rocky) is confirming that there are men out there who can — who WILL — use words beautifully and for good. And to sell things.

To sign up for your own Steep and Cheap updates from Rocky, click here.

The idea of murder has always bothered me. Not in the Ten Commandments, traditional sense that I’m sure you’ve already begun thinking about, but simply ending the life of a living creature. Euthanizing old dogs. Running over a squirrel. Stamping out ants. Sometimes I wonder about the animal afterlife. It’s usually after I am cleaning their exoskeletons off my New Balances.

I think about that as I engage in open warfare with the pests of my new house. To be honest, it wasn’t a surprise to find guests in our carpets. Since we were dealing with a foreclosure, it was obvious there would be some unwanted tenants. Most of them armed with spindly legs and numerous onyx eyes.

While I have delusions of grandeur, I must admit I am no dictator. My actions could not compare to Mao or Stalin or Pol Pot or Mussolini. Slaughtering innocents could not be on my conscious. It was a difficult position. By nature, I had to eradicate the intruders. However, in order to justify my actions, I issued a spoken decree. I told the winged beasts they had a few days to scatter. I told them we were the new lords and our house would be vacant of all idlers. To show mercy, the first spider I captured was cornered in a pint glass and released out the window unharmed. I gave myself a pat on the back for that one.

Over the coming days I turned a blind eye to the bloodsuckers and spore producers who roamed the nooks and crannies. When my girlfriend shrieked about a cockroach in the kitchen, I half-heartily went after the bugger before losing him under the dishwasher. When she was out of earshot, I whispered between the floor gap, “You owe me, dude.”

A week passed, and I finally realized my generous truce had to be called off. The house was ours and I had shown more restraint than most so-called pacifists. I took a quick lap around the interior. I flipped on all the lights and began sampling the corners and edges. For a moment, I thought my amnesty had worked. The wispy strings of web were empty. The windowsills and ceiling niches vacant. Somehow, my edict had worked. I had the power to not only talk, but to reason with the bugs.

That night I woke as I felt something brushing against my arm. No, not brushing. Walking. My eyes shot open and I shook my arm. As I did, I felt those many feet marching again, only more rapidly and this time across my face. With my other hand I tore my fingers across my cheek and threw something across the room. My girlfriend woke to find me fiddling with the light. I told her what happened. As she turned on the lamp my eyes caught the shadow of a cockroach scurrying across the floor toward the dresser. My hands went from object to object until I found something blunt enough to kill. With a downward blow from my sneaker, I smashed the roach into brittle, twitching pieces. Using the heel, I smeared its head in a brown line of hemolymph. Dropping the shoe, I turned off the light and retreated into bed, where it took a lifetime to fall asleep. So much for peace.

I can forgive a bee sting. I can forgive spider webs in the sock drawer. I cannot forgive a cockroach crawling across my face. I realized what had to be done. I bought a super-sized gallon of pesticide. I hooked it up and roamed the property. I became a domestic executioner.

For almost two hours, my glorified water pistol coated the little holes around the siding and the vent slits marking the crawlspace. I shot the venomous spray into every anthill, spider web, wasp nest and roach escape route I could fine. When I had saturated the exterior, I moved indoors and cut a noxious path in the kitchen and bathrooms before focusing on the bedrooms. My eyes were alight and the compassion I once had for living beings was gone. I just want to sit in the living room without noticing cave crickets hanging from the ceiling.

In the hours that followed, I watched the consequences of my vengeance. In one corner, a spider hung limp from a strand of web. The anthills near the porch were strewn with corpses and barren of activity. By the hallway, a dying roach crawled into the light before turning over on its back. Rather than just looking like a graveyard, the house had become one.

Several days have passed and I am still discovering the fruits of my genocide. The last few roaches are slowly coming forward from their hiding places. The anger that spawned this has all but left me. The lust to squash is gone. When I find them near-death, I simply pick them up and flush them. Drowning in a riptide of city water appears to be much quicker than choking on poison. It almost seems humane.

I try not to think about the animals I kill. Even on a small scale, it seems cruel to crush something because you can. Keeping the house free of bugs is reason enough, but I can’t help myself avoiding it… if I can.

An hour ago, a fly was bothering me, and I couldn’t find the swatter. I thought about rolling up some paper, but opted for an easier route. I opened the backdoor and flung my hands wildly at him until he scooted out the opening. Finally catching a hint, he darted through the open shaft. I watched him zigzag into the blinding light, his little, bloodsucking life spared for another day.

I love my work. A lot of my identity is wrapped up in it. “Recovery of sight to the blind” is not the miraculous healing attributed to Jesus or futuristic implants that instantly restore sight. It is slow, unglamorous rehabilitation — learning new ways to see. I teach my patients to learn to find and use healthy retina instead of looking through retina lost to progressive eye disease. Together we work on learning to read again or cooking or recognizing the faces of grandchildren after a prolonged period. Sometimes, my patients have gone up to five years without the things that mean independence and that bring them the most joy.

In social gatherings and introductions, after I explain my vocation, I often hear that it must take a special kind of person to do the work that I do. This is my least favorite response. Helping people who are blind see again is an incredibly rewarding occupation. And it’s incredibly indulgent. Each workday I make a difference in someone’s life. I get to feel validated. I get to feel that I matter too. I get to feel that I am fulfilling a calling, so the days that I don’t feel inspired don’t seem to accumulate. As result, my life has a constant infusion of hope.

Labor isn’t something I associate with my work. When Labor Day rolled around, I thought little of it, except for making social plans.

Often I’m blind to what hard work means.

Labor Day was first celebrated in 1894, a few months after federal troops brought a bloody end to a strike by 50,000 railroad workers. Establishing a day to celebrate the contributions of millions of Americans — including floods of immigrants — acknowledged that without carpenters, plumbers, steel mill workers and machinists, the United States wouldn’t have the strength that has distinguished it, especially during the Industrial Era. Acknowledging unglamorous labor was part of the process of obtaining protection and extending justice to people who toiled at jobs that can drain the mind and body, but needed to be done.

Unions were a milestone at the end of the Industrial Era, but the rights that were won didn’t account for everyone and don’t extend to many of the workers who make my life easier on daily basis. Recently on a Houston radio station, I heard an invitation to join workforce movement organizers outside the Porpusa Roja, a local chain restaurant, and protest unpaid wages of three women who had been exploited. The Houston Interfaith Worker Justice Center, which was organizing the protest, was also conducting a fundraiser in conjunction with an effort to raise awareness. Similar to the personal nature of the protest, the fundraiser idea caught my attention too. Donations could be made in the name of a worker the donor knew; a certificate would be sent to the worker honoring them and acknowledging the donor’s respect.

Do I know anyone well enough, in the type of work where exploitation is common, that I could give their address so that they could receive a certificate acknowledging their contribution?

Living life intentionally is a strong theme in my life. It’s partly why I chose my profession. But it’s also the reason that Labor Day has meant little to me. I get to choose how I spend my days. Almost everything in my life is discretionary, which is why I am preoccupied with wanting to make my life meaningful. Workers with two full-time jobs at minimum wage may not have the time to worry about this luxury.

The history of labor involves generations of workers who often had few choices. Labor can be all-consuming and not directly personally rewarding. Consumers rarely know the faces, hands and lives that make life easier, and even when we do, the connection is difficult to make.

Labor Day offers a lesson in new ways of seeing, and I hope that by next time it rolls around, I’ll know the address of a friend I would like to acknowledge.

“It’s like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continuously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. “Here’s your change.” “Paper or plastic?’ “Credit or debit?” “You want ketchup with that?” I don’t want a straw. I want real human moments. I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to be ant, you know?” -Waking Life

I’ve been living alone for the past two and a half weeks. That’s not a very long time, granted, but it’s just long enough to get used to having my house, my life, my thoughts to myself. If it means I’m going to bake banana bread and eat it standing over the kitchen sink, no one’s going to stop me. I can have as much or as little human interaction as I want.

Being an introvert, I’ll usually opt for the “little” end of the spectrum – I like people, but having to interact with a lot of them drains me. I tend to keep my head down and to keep moving when I’m running errands, trying to get the job done without too much hassle.

The other day, I was at the grocery store shopping for myself, which I find some selfish guilty pleasure in when I don’t have to worry about the likes and dislikes of five other people living in the house. I rolled my cart into the aisle with the cookies — my personal favorite section of the store — and picked up a bag of chocolate chip cookies to examine. After an internal struggle — Do I really NEED these cookies? — I placed them a little regretfully back on the top shelf. They teetered precariously for a second and then made a sudden dive for the floor. I, with reflexes I didn’t know I had, scrambled to catch it and managed to at least let it glance off of my hand and land somewhat harmlessly on the ground.

“Nice try,” I heard a voice say. I looked up and a smiling man with a long ponytail stood at the end of the aisle.

“Thanks,” I said a little sheepishly.

“I’ve never seen someone move that fast,” he said, grinning.

“Well, I’ll do a lot for chocolate chip cookies,” I said, and grinned back.

That’s all there was to our conversation, and that’s all it took. In that brief moment, I got a little reminder of the small, sharp joy of connecting with another person in a very unscripted way. Sometimes all that we need to be reminded of our humanity — and our divinity — is a laugh over our shared mistakes.

Too often I get in “ant” mode, scurrying to complete my task without bumping into someone unnecessarily. But it’s in the interruptions and diversions and dropped cookies where the masks come down and the grace shines through. I didn’t buy the cookies, but my day was sweeter all the same.