Nothing But Gray Skies

One thing about living in Indiana . . . it ain't home on the range, "where the skies are not sunny all day." Heck no! Indiana should change its state motto from "Crossroads of America" to "That small depressing state of affairs where the sun never shines!"

My wife and I have been talking about moving for years . . . and there's no doubt that our retirement years will be spent in a sunnier and more uplifting location. But our whole family seems to have gotten in on the act of late. Our daughter (God bless her) wants to get a teaching job anyplace, anywhere other than Indiana. Go for it! And our son has asked us numerous times, "Why do we live here?"

It's difficult to explain to a sixteen year old that there is lots of ministry and teaching to be had in a gray state like Indiana. Since 25% of Hoosier teens smoke, and depression and alcoholism ranks high in this state, and Indiana ranks near the bottom of educational benchmarks and half of Hoosier students don't graduate from high school . . . heck, Becky and I will always have a job! I keep reminding myself: This state needs ME!

And as for writing . . . it's much easier to write in a gray state. Sunny states . . . in other places where there are beaches and water and recreation . . . heck, there are too many distractions. I wouldn't write, I'd be out soaking up sun and overcoming my depression. No, the best writers live in Indiana, where there's nothing better to do but sit at a desk hunched over a twenty-five watt bulb and write about existential angst and the dreams one has for the kingdom of God (or Palm Springs, which is the next best thing).

But I am ready for a little sun, too. A little sun in Indiana is never taken for granted. People kill for it. They'll maim each other clamoring to catch a ray.

And me? I'll be right here. Behind the closed curtains of my office, rain or shine. I'll have the blinds pulled tight, regardless. And I'll be writing . . . dreaming of Acapulco and lying on the beach trying to dodge bullets shot from the pistols of drug lords . . . dreaming of the far shores of Italy and mafia hit men . . . hoping that some day, before I die, I might get to snooze on a tropical beach and drink coconut juice while my wife rubs my nude body with Wesson oil.

Ahhhh, but all good dreams must some day come to an end. Especially in Indiana.