God's Henchmen

The folks who own the cabin next door are named Ron and Joan.  We love them dearly and talk back and forth through the hedge and trade tools and home maintenance advice from time to time.  They actually live in Missoula and just come to their cabin on weekends.  They’re members of a Catholic church in Missoula and many times over the years we’ve seen them leave early on Sunday morning to get back home for mass.  It must be pretty difficult to leave on a bright July morning as the sun is just coming up over the mountains and streaming across the lake.  For the life of me, I don’t know how they do it.  I’d be thinking up all sorts of excuses to stay for one more day.  But they leave most every Sunday. 

And then, on top of that, they told us that Ron was going to learn to be a deacon for their church.  It would involve classes for five years and wives had to attend also.  There would be reading and homework and countless hours of lecture.  And here’s the kicker.  The classes were to be held in Helena 115 miles away from Missoula.  If memory serves me correctly, they had to go over once a month for the whole weekend.  Wow.  That’s commitment.  Well, a few months ago Joan said that the five years was nearing an end and Ron was going to be ordained in a ceremony in Helena.  For me, that five years seemed to go really fast…probably not so much for Ron and Joan.  As they were talking about Ron’s ordination Noel said, “You know, I’d really like to go to that.  Will you tell us when it is?”  And then a few weeks ago we got an invitation in the mail.  It seems that 17 deacons were going to be ordained all at once in this ceremony.  Well, we really didn’t know what we were in for, but you just have to honor that sort of commitment and so we were happy to go.

I must admit, I was pretty excited.  Noel was raised Catholic and every once in a while he’ll get the urge to go to Mass.  Although I have no idea what’s going on I always have a great time.  Catholics really have the whole pomp and circumstance thing down.  Everything is a huge ceremony steeped in centuries of tradition.  And the entire Mass is a feast for your senses.  You stand up and then you sit down.  Just when you get comfortable you stand up again; then you kneel.  Secretly I think the whole thing is perfectly timed to prevent falling asleep.  One time I was so mesmerized by trying to figure out some of the scenes in the stained glass windows that I didn’t realize I was supposed to sit down and was the only one left standing in the whole church.  Noel basically pulled me down.  Needless to say, I’m a lot more alert now. 

There’s always a bunch to look at too.  The Catholic churches I’ve attended have all been just beautiful.  The sun streams through the colored glass and shines on ornate woodwork.  There are draperies and crosses and statues and carvings everywhere.  Pretty cool, but pretty ornate…lots to catch your attention.  And one of my favorite parts is the swinging balls of incense.  I’m not sure if this stuff comes straight from the Vatican, but it sure is potent.  I can’t wait until it wafts over my row.  I breathe it in as deeply as I can just in case it’s specially formulated to make you holy.  And then there’s singing and organs and speeches and readings.  It’s grand.  And the best part is that I know nothing about any of it and I have no idea what it all means.  Every once in a while Noel tries to explain a few things, but I prefer not to know the real significance because I’m sure the reasons I make up in my head are a whole lot more fun.  I get no end of enjoyment from it.

So anyway, we were invited to this huge cathedral called Saint Helena.  We made the day of it, driving the four and a half hours through some of the most beautiful scenery past lakes and mountains and rivers.  We had a lovely dinner near the cathedral and then made our way over to the ceremony about fifteen minutes before it was to start.  On the way we congratulated ourselves for such perfect timing.  Noel said, “This is great.  We’ve got plenty of time.”  It had been a glorious day and we were jubilant.

Well, we thought we’d sneak in by a side door, but as we turned the corner into the chapel we realized that we had come in pretty much at the front by the altar.  And as our eyes adjusted to the dim light we saw hundreds of people already seated.  Since nothing else was happening at the time, it seemed that every pair of eyes turned to look at us.  Little did we know that as we were enjoying our pasta, apparently all of these folks, knowing that this was the hottest Catholic ticket in town were racing to snatch up every available seat.  Now, let me stop right here to tell you that entering a Catholic church is a lot like going to Costco.  You’re either a member or you aren’t, and everyone knows the difference by the way you come through the door.  At Costco, you rummage around in your wallet for your special card and hold it up for the guardian at the door to see.  She nods, and you get to enter.  Now, if you’re a Catholic you go through the door and do a special little ritual consisting of a slight bow to the statue of Jesus, then you dip your hand in a bowl of water and cross yourself.  It’s really quite lovely and I think it would be very nice to do in order to sort of shake off the cares of the street and remind yourself that you’re in a church.  I think it’s good to pause and orient yourself to the new environment.  But, of course, I don’t do this because I don’t know how and I’m not really a member.  I know this, and now everyone else seated in the church knows this.  The only difference from going to Costco is that even if you’re not a member the good and gracious Catholics let you go in anyway. 

Well, here we were in the front of the church, hopelessly looking for a place to sit.  No one budged.  No one scrunched closer to his neighbor.  No one motioned for us to sit down.  We scanned the entire church.  Finally, we found two seats near the end aisle.  Score!!  I asked the man sitting near the end if the seats were saved and were so pleased when he shook his head.  We smugly sat down and looked up to find that we were seated squarely behind a huge marble pillar about three feet in front.  Why the builders of this cathedral even extended the pew this far is beyond me.  Perhaps to accommodate the blind?  I decided these seats would simply not do.  I was not going to drive four and a half hours to stare at a pillar, so I took matter into my own hands and sent Noel in search of different seats.  “Come back and tell me when you’ve found better seats.  I’ll hold these,” I whispered.  Imagine my surprise when just a minute later I looked up to see him gesturing wildly from the very front pew.  Score!  I made my way again to the front of the church in time to hear a lady tell Noel rather firmly, “You can’t sit here!  These seats are reserved for Ron and Joan.” 

He replied, “Oh, I thought they would be sitting up front.” 

As I got up to leave I think I heard her mutter, “This is the front.”

Well, we were off again with every pair of eyes following us.  Little did we know that we were the warm-up show.  We finally found some seats in an overflow area to the side of the chapel and we could just see the altar if we craned our necks to the left and looked through an open door by the choir.  I’m sure the several hundred people who watched us make our way in, through, and around the church were a bit disappointed to see that we actually were going to sit down and stay down.  So, in order to entertain them a bit more we decided to stand near the side door when anything interesting was happening and walk up a few stairs to a platform and sit down during the singing parts.  We pretty much ended up standing when everyone else was ordered to sit and sitting when everyone else stood.  But, what the heck, everyone knew that we didn’t have the Catholic Costco Card anyway.

And then it started.  The bells outside started ringing and the organ inside started playing and the choir started singing.  I stood on tiptoe to see the altar boys and girls carrying tall candles enter the chapel followed by twenty or thirty priests in white robes.  It was amazing.  But, then, oh then…there were men marching down the aisle wearing long black capes and tremendous black hats with splendid white ostrich plumes.  Oh those Napoleonic chapeaus!  They were glorious!  They were grand!  They were magnificent!  Now, I may not know much about religion but I do know that I should not covet.  But, I’m just saying that one of those hats would make a wonderful addition to my collection.  “Who are they?” I whispered.  “Are they the Knights Templar like in the Da Vinci Code?” 

“No, Shelley,” came the reply, “those are the Knights of Columbus.” 

I don’t know why they are called that, but forever more when I think about Christopher Columbus I will imagine him standing on the deck of the Santa Maria, pointing grandly to the New World as he jauntily flips his black cape over his shoulder.  He will be wearing one of those amazing hats and the ostrich plumes will be waving softly in the breeze.  

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, the swinging ball of incense entered and just behind came a man with a lovely, white and red robe and a huge red hat.  He looked for all the world like Father Christmas.  He even carried a shepherd’s staff!  “Who’s that?”  I whispered. 

“The bishop,” Noel said through the corner of his mouth.  I must admit that at first I was a bit disappointed but then I decided a bishop is pretty much like Father Christmas.  You don’t see him very often, it’s a big to-do when he does come and he is probably very kind and very wise.  I loved him immediately.

He stood up, removed his beautiful red hat to reveal another red hat underneath (really…it was just like The Cat in the Hat) and began to speak.  He told the deacon candidates that he wanted them to consider the depth, flavor, color and texture of their ministry.  (Don’t you just love that?)  And then he went on to list seven qualities that he wished them to possess.  He called them ‘Hallmarks of the Ministry’.   Now, I must admit that it took me a bit, but I finally got the gist of this whole thing.  All of the qualities started with the letter ‘H’.  So, he talked a bit about humility, then holiness, then happiness and then hope.  He went on with healing, hospitality and ended with humor (my personal favorite.)  And he called them ‘Hallmarks’ (get it?)  I must admit my mind wandered a bit and I wondered what God would have done if he thought that all of the Commandments had to start with ‘C’.  And of course, because I was still thinking about the black hats I thought about Coveting, but then I couldn’t think of any more except Cussing and Cilling (okay, I know that’s really a ‘K’ word.)  So then, I started thinking about more ‘H’ words and decided that it was fitting that we were in the Cathedral of St. Helena in Helena, Montana.  And with all due respect I decided that I would call the bishop “The Head Honcho.”

Just then, his speech ended.  A quick look at the program and I noted that his speech was called a Homily…a fact that filled me with an inordinate amount of glee.  And the singing started again.  Now, I’m not really complaining, but the Catholic congregations do a bunch of back and forth singing with the choir called Responsorial Psalms.  Basically, someone from the choir sings one or two lines of a tune that is full of sharps and flats.  They’re nearly impossible to sing.  And I’m telling you that the people who are supposed to sing these things have wonderful voices and probably teach singing at the local college.  They can’t even hit the notes.  And then sadly, it’s the general congregation’s turn…the folks who probably only sing on Sunday.  Those who are wise know to just keep their mouths shut or at best, they mouth the words.  The rest try to follow along, but like I said, these things aren’t exactly what you would call melodies.  The whole effect is a little depressing.  And to make matters worse, the same thing is sung over and over and over again.  I think it would be so much better for everyone involved if they just took the same words and set it to the tune of say...”Row, Row, Row your Boat.”  Lots of people would sing because it’s actually a singable tune, and since you’re singing the same thing over and over again, just like “Row, Row, Row your Boat”, it could be sung in a round.  Certainly a more joyful noise all around. 

Anyway, we struggled through some of the singing and then all of the deacon candidates had to lie down on their stomachs with their noses pressed into the travertine marble as a sign of humility. 

The effect was really quite humbling for everyone and a memorable statement about their submission to God.  But, they had to stay there forever and ever while we heard another rather tuneless song about all of the Saints and all of the Catholic churches in Montana (don’t ask me why.  I tried to figure that one out and I have no idea).  I started to worry that they weren’t going to let them get up, and then I thought that one of them would start snoring and it would drown out the singer which would have been a blessed relief.  But, they were finally allowed to rise.  Now let me pause to tell you that several weeks ago, Ron and Joan’s dog tried to race Ron down the back steps of their cabin.  The dog won because Ron ended up on the ground with a broken ankle.  He still wears a boot cast and only recently advanced from crutches to a cane.  Well, there he was face down on the marble and everyone else was getting up.  For one long breathless moment we all worried that he would remain there for the rest of the ceremony.  But two other deacons rushed to his side and sort of tuna-hauled him up, white flowing robe, boot cast, cane and all.  There was a collective sigh all around.

Well, the ceremony was grand and it certainly held my attention.  Now, as I sit at my computer I think back over the day.  Again, I’m amazed by the commitment of those seventeen deacons.  If everyone loved something enough to make this kind of sacrifice I think the world would be a much better place.  And their intentions of service to God and their fellow men are most honorable.  I wish them all well in their endeavors.  I may not be of their particular faith, nor obviously do I understand it, but I admire their ideals, respect their dedication and hope God blesses them in their good deeds.  And I’m glad that the powers-that-be in the Helena Diocese pulled out all the stops to pay tribute to them.

As we were making our way out of the cathedral (ahead of the crowd, I might add) I asked Noel exactly what a deacon does.  He told me that they are kind of helper priests who assist in baptisms, weddings, funerals and that they work with the sick and the poor and the down-trodden just like Mother Theresa.  Well, unfortunately that got me thinking.  (I’m sorry; I just can’t turn off my brain.  I’ve tried.)  And I thought that “Helper” was a nice word because it started with “H.”  But, “Helper” just doesn’t have enough power…enough zing.  It just doesn’t give the right vibe.  So, all sorts of “H” words started tumbling around in my brain and just like a Bingo ball, the one that tumbled out was “Henchmen.”  That’s it…they’re God’s Henchmen!  A quick check of the dictionary reveals that I’m right.  I easily skip over the definition that involves members of criminal gangs and come to the part about henchmen being loyal and trusted followers or subordinates.  Henchmen are also pages of honor to a prince or other person of high rank.  Who, I ask you has higher rank than God? 

So, Ron my dear friend, I’m glad to know you.  I’m happy that I got to witness this rite of passage as you attained a goal that most would find too daunting.  And I’m especially glad that you live next door just in case any extra holiness, goodness or purity rubs off.  Heaven knows, we can all use more of that.  And if I smell incense coming through the hedge, I’m telling you right now…I’m breathing in deeply.

Creamy Dreamy Greek Yogurt

My friend Teresa gave me this recipe a couple of weeks ago.  I was a bit leery at first because I went through a yogurt making phase last year and tried using a recipe that a Greek friend of mine gave me.  It involved the oven, a candy thermometer and several "Turkish towels" to sop up the whey.  It turned out thin and tangy.  We hated it.  So, I wasn't really sure I wanted to try again until Teresa gave me a taste of her last batch.  Yummm!  It wasn't tangy at all and it was so thick and delicious.  I had to try it and I'm glad I did.  I've made two batches now and we love it.  We've started using it instead of sour cream because it's so rich.  And I make mine with non-fat milk!  Teresa tells me that the recipe is quite forgiving.  She forgot her last batch for 5 hours as it merrily bubbled along in her crockpot, but it was still just fine.  Try this soon.  If you like Greek yogurt...and judging by the huge variety at the grocery store many people do...you won't be disappointed.  It's easy.

Creamy Dreamy Greek Yogurt

Put 2 quarts (8 cups) of milk (you can use any variety) in your crockpot.  Turn it on high, cover and let it heat for two and a half hours.

After it has heated for the two and a half hours, turn off the crockpot and let it all just sit on the counter for another three hours.

After that time is up, dip out two or three cups of the milk and whisk 1/2 cup Greek yogurt (from the store or from a previous batch) into it.  Add this all back to the rest of the milk in the crockpot.

With the pot off and unplugged, wrap a thick towel or blanket around it.  I use an old down comforter.  Let it all sit snuggled up in the blanket overnight or 14 - 16 hours. 

Line a colander with a piece of fabric.  I cut up an old white T-shirt.  Place the colander into a pan or bowl that will support it with enough room for the whey to drain into without touching the bottom of the colander.  Cover with plastic wrap or aluminum foil, then put it in the fridge for about 6 hours.  If it's thick enough for you at the end of that time, spoon it into a container and cover. 

Mine seems to get too thick and I end up stirring some whey back into it.  I get a little over 3 cups of yogurt plus a whole bunch of whey.  If anyone has a good idea of what to do with the whey, please let me know.  I hate pouring it down the sink, but rationalize that making the yogurt is sooooo much cheaper than buying it at the store that it's okay. 

Dad's Garage (reprise)

I went to the thrift store yesterday and noticed a sign on the front door stating that all coffee cups were half off, so I thought I'd take a look.  And there, up front and in the center was a Corelle coffe cup exactly like the one my Dad used every day.  Yesterday was his birthday and I like to think that he put it there to acknowledge that I'd been thinking about him all day.  And so, in honor of my father's birthday I'd like to re-post an essay I wrote about him a little over a year ago.  It was fun to rummage through the albums to find a few different pictures.  I didn't realize how much I would feel blessed by taking this time to honor him.  Happy Birthday, Dad!

A few weeks ago, my friend’s father passed away while she and her mother were looking through the many and varied items in his garage.  He had been lingering in his body for several days and they had been keeping watch over him.  Finally, to get a bit of reprieve they went out to the garage to start sorting through a lifetime’s accumulation of stuff. I felt that it was fitting that he would choose this moment to leave, knowing they were looking at the odd assortment of items he had chosen to keep over the years.  I imagined that he couldn’t quite hear their comments from his bed, so thought, “Well, this might be as good a time as any to sever all ties to this body and drift over to the garage for one last look and listen.” 

As I think of this scene, I remember my father’s garage in all its messy, yet somehow organized glory.  Oh my goodness, I loved that garage almost as much as I adored my father.  In the garage I could get to know my true, authentic father.  He didn’t really have a lot of say in the decoration of the house.  He put up with the pink bedroom and the fuzzy toilet seat covers and the bric-a-brac in the china cabinet without saying a word. 



Our dog Puddles and Dad in the Nagahyde recliner

But, in his garage, where he reigned supreme there was none of my mother’s input and I could get a glimpse of the real man that was my father.  I never dared to go out there when he wasn’t there.  But, when he was working at his metal lathe or fighting with some engine overhaul I could spend as much time as I liked as long as I didn’t make too much noise.  He’d often forget I was even there.  I would gaze in wonder at decades of accumulation stuck between the stud walls, hanging on nails from the ceiling and tucked into shelves and cupboards he had made.  Where had this come from and how had he gotten it all in here?  I knew that he built the garage shortly before I was born, so all of this was placed purposefully by him, yet it looked like three lifetimes’ accumulation.  Of course there was the usual assortment of tools for every purpose.  My dad could do or fix anything, so a man must have a wide variety of tools.  But, in addition to the usual sledge hammers, pitch forks and chisels were other mystery tools that he had fabricated for specific purposes.  There was the special rake for removing leaves from the gutters and another one for removing leaves from the ditch.  There were rolls and rolls of tape for every purpose and an entire drawer devoted to gloves. 

One time he was putting a new starter on my International Scout.  A trailer had rolled over his foot a week or so before so he was on crutches and I was designated to retrieve the tools as he needed them.  He was able to tell me, “I need the 11/16” socket that is in the first bank of drawers, third drawer down, upper left-hand corner, fourth socket from the front of the drawer.”  I would find the drawer filled with perhaps two hundred items, but he was never wrong as to the needed item’s location.  Almost all of these tools were engraved with his name.  I still am amazed when I think of man who valued his belongings so much that they all bore his name and that he knew where every single item was located. 

Dad had a safari hat hanging from a hook above one window in the garage.  I always wondered where it came from and when he had worn it.  I guess I could have asked, but then if the answer had been mundane I would have been very disappointed.  I preferred to think that in a past life, way before I was born he had traveled to Africa on safari to stalk lions and zebras.  He was a quiet man, not given to talking about the past, so you never knew.  I placed the hat in the same category as the blue fishing pole that was so stout you could have caught a hundred pound fish with it.  We lived near mountain lakes and I had been fishing with my father any number of times.  But, that pole was not for the lake trout he usually caught.  No, that thing was from a far greater adventure.  Perhaps marlin fishing off the coast of Florida from a huge yacht before he even knew my mother.  My dad, the man of mystery.



Joe, Dad, Aubrey and Casey about 1983

He loved Will Rogers’ folksy style and had a framed picture of him hanging above his workbench. The caption at the bottom read “Beloved American”.   That was my dad.  He worked hard, loved his country, always voted, watched the news every night, enjoyed the outdoors, raised a huge family and at the end of the day was simply a humble, loving man who was doing the best he could.

He’s been gone from this life for many years now, but lingers with me often.  It is usually when I am using his yellow-handled hacksaw engraved with his name, or when I am religiously watching the nightly news or when I’m fixing some broken down item that I found at the dump.  I sometimes catch him smiling down at me through Will Rogers’ eyes as I get a glimpse of the framed picture that now hangs in my messy, yet somehow organized garage.  Dad, I’ll always miss you, but am comforted that your spirit is within me every day that I live. 

How about we go on a safari?  Just you and me.

North Fork Magic

What an enchanting stay we had last weekend at a Forest Service cabin close to the Canadian border!  Good friends had invited us to join them a few weeks ago when they rented the Schnaus Cabin, but we already had plans.  It was such a good idea however, that I booked it for the next available weekend.  And we were so grateful for the idea.  This lovely cabin is at the end of a 43 mile very bumpy gravel road purposely designed to make travelers slow down and take in the scenery.  Our bums were massaged by the rutted road (mine actually tingled when we got out of the truck…an altogether interesting, though not unpleasant sensation).  Our journey took us past bubbling waterfalls, through dense forests and also through stands of ghostly tree trunks resulting from the Roberts fire a few years ago.  We stopped to stare in awe at a herd of forty-two elk.

Stunning scenery and the North Fork road caused us to quiet our minds and remember yet again our good fortune in living in this inspiring country. 

 So, by the time we reached the cabin we were pretty mellow and our springs had un-wound enough to appreciate the absence of noise…well, save for the wind hushing the pine trees and the occasional call of a bird. 

Arm in arm we stood on the front porch to take in the grand views of Glacier National Park. 

Wow…

After a dinner of fish and shrimp cooked on the propane range I settled by the wood stove with a glass of red wine to read by the light of the propane lamps. 

Log books are provided for guests to journal in and as I read the entries I knew that this “Schnaus Haus” had worked its magic on many others who came before. 


Here are a few of their ponderings:

No cell service, no TV, no WiFi.  HEAVEN!!!

The flutes were used to lure the mountains out of their clouds – a tip for you if you’d like to see the Glacier views.

Lovely stillness.

Made a cozy fire and enjoyed a bottle of wine.

We ate ~ we drank ~ we sang ~ we played ~ we laughed ~ we drank some more.

Falling stars and yellow gold trees…the North Fork dazzles once again.

Took a little hike yesterday looking for trolls and faeries.

Blessings are upon us.

And then there was this musing written in tiny, widely spaced print. I wonder what a handwriting analyst would make of this?

I wonder about her.  If she’s nervous.  If she’s packed or packing.  What she’s bringing.  What she’s told her friends.  “I’m going to Montana to see an old friend.”  “I’m going to Montana to see an acquaintance.”  “I’m going to Montana to see a guy I went to high school with that I haven’t seen in five years.  I once told him I had a crush on him.”  She flies into Kalispell tomorrow for five days…wish me luck… 

I felt the presence of those folks who in finding a bit of their souls here, also left a bit of their souls for me to find. 

Contemplation.  Contentment.  Restful, blissful quiet. 

Yes…

Recommendation:  let the Schnaus cabin work its magic on you.

Italian Fisherman's Stew

I've been trying to follow the Mediterranean Diet more often, especially when cooking at home.  It is supposed to be a very heart healthy diet.  For those of you who don't know what this Mediterranean food pyramid looks like, here is a quick snapshot.  You just have to love a diet that includes wine! 

So, I found a recipe for this stew that I'd clipped out of the newspaper long ago and never made.  I adapted it, and the results were delicious.  Besides that, this recipe follows this food pyramid almost perfectly, right down to the red wine.  Enjoy it with those you love and do your heart good!

Italian Fisherman's Stew

Croutons

2 slices of peasant bread, cubed

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 teaspoons  balsamic vinegar

1/8 teaspoon salt

Freshly ground pepper

Soup

1 ½ tablespoons olive oil

½ onion, diced

2 carrots, diced

2 celery ribs, diced

½  red sweet pepper, diced

1  fourteen ounce can diced tomatoes

Zest and juice of one orange

1 teaspoon sugar

Pinch of red pepper flakes

1 cup red wine

1 bottle clam juice or 1 cup chicken broth

½ teaspoon dried thyme

Salt to taste

Freshly ground pepper

¼ - ½ pound scallops (depending on your budget)

¼ - ½ pound peeled shrimp

2 T. fresh, chopped basil

To prepare the croutons, spread bread cubes on a baking sheet.  Bake at 375 degrees until toasted, about 10 minutes.  In a bowl, combine olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper.  Set aside.

To prepare the soup, heat olive oil in a large pan over medium-high heat.  Add onions, carrots, celery, red sweet pepper and garlic.  Sauté 10 minutes.  Add canned tomatoes, orange zest and juice, sugar, red pepper flakes, wine, clam juice and thyme.  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Bring to a boil.  Cover, and simmer over low heat for 30 minutes.  Uncover, add scallops and shrimp and cook 3 to 5 minutes until shrimp are nice and pink. 

Just before serving, pour oil mixture over croutons and toss well.  Ladle up the stew and garnish with basil and croutons.  Wait for the applause.

I think that most any seafood would be good in this stew.  I'm going to try a meaty fish like cod and also throw in a few clams or mussels.

...and Justice for All

I stared at the back of Tyler Miller’s head as the judge told him that he was going to prison forever.   He bowed his head slightly, but other than that small movement I couldn’t discern a reaction.   I wondered if he had held out the hope that at one time in the far distant future he would be given the chance to live in our world again.   I knew that he would not be eligible for parole until he was 84 years old.  Would that have sustained him and given him enough incentive to be a better prisoner?  Somewhere in the innermost part of his heart would he have still held the dream of being a part of his baby daughter’s life?  Could he toe the line long enough to make it out again, or even live that long? 

But, today with the judge’s words that hope was extinguished completely.  Tyler was given two life sentences with no chance of parole.  As the right side of the courtroom erupted in clapping and yelling and as the people over there hugged and congratulated one another I saw my husband turn and glance at me.  There were tears in his eyes.

Noel was the lead counsel on the defense team for Tyler Miller and has worked on this case exclusively for over a year.  And through it all, he’s seen Tyler under the influence of methamphetamines when he raged and was incoherent.  He’s spent hours talking to him through a glass wall when he didn’t feel it was safe to sit in the same room with him.  He’s also spent hours sitting beside him, reviewing strategies for countless hearings and briefs and petitions.  He’s known him at his worst and also when he was healthier.  Being jailed was the only way that Tyler could stay off meth, eat healthy and also get the care and medications he needed for his mental illness.  And as the layers of drugs were peeled away and chemical imbalances were changed, a different man emerged.  Over the months Noel began to see a man whose intelligence he respected and whose unwavering, though misguided love for his small daughter was always his anchor.  Noel really cares about Tyler.  He likes him.  He also knows him in ways that few others do. 

I recall the day we first heard Tyler Miller’s name.  It was Christmas Day 2010 and we had turned the television to the ten o’clock news.  The lead story was of a double homicide in Kalispell.  Tyler was accused of murdering his ex-girlfriend Jaimi Hurlbert.  He then turned his gun on Jaimi’s daughter Alyssa Burkett, who also died.  I looked at Noel and said, “I wonder if that will be your next client.”  It was only a few days later that he was assigned to the case and the County Attorney decided to seek the death penalty.  I didn’t realize what a large impact these decisions would make on my husband or even how much it would affect me.  I was both horrified and intrigued by the case and proud that my husband was one of the few attorneys in the entire state who could qualify to defend a capital murder case.  I knew he was excited about the challenge but he tried to tell me what a huge undertaking it really was.  He would have to go to Kentucky to what he referred to as “death penalty school” where he would learn many of the nuances and strategies involved in adequately defending someone who is charged with a crime worthy of the death penalty.  His other cases would gradually diminish until this case would become his sole priority.  An entire defense team was formed consisting of attorneys, investigators and support personnel.  Outside experts were consulted, evaluations of Tyler’s metal status were completed and long meetings were held as defense strategies were hashed out.  A capital murder case is serious business.  Putting someone to death for a crime is no small matter, so there are regulations and laws to ensure that their defense is adequate. 

But, I really am getting ahead in the story.  Here’s what happened.  On Christmas Day 2010, Tyler went to his mother’s house in Kalispell where members of his family were celebrating.  He was in a rage because he knew that his ex-girlfriend Jaimi Hurlbert was using meth.  She had just gotten off parole a few weeks earlier and quickly and easily returned to drug use.  They had been exchanging hateful texts and voice messages regarding their relationship, drugs and the care of their daughter, Haley.  It escalated in the days before Christmas and Tyler, ironically also using meth, decided that he would save his daughter from both of them by first killing Jaimi and then turning the gun on himself.  That Christmas day he hid a gun in his waistband and went to his mother’s house.  He tried to avoid hugs from his family for fear that they would feel the hidden revolver.  He lay in wait for Jaimi who was to come and pick up their daughter, Hailey.  He didn’t know that Jaimi’s fifteen-year-old daughter would also come.  When Jaimi drove up he met her outside, shot her and then in his fury he also shot Alyssa.   He ran out of ammunition as he fired at them and then he kicked at them in his crazed rage as they lay dying.    Perhaps if he had saved a bullet he would have turned the gun on himself as he had intended.  Perhaps he wouldn’t have.  In the end, he fled but was captured by law enforcement some hours later. 

It was a heinous crime involving innocent children, drug-induced mania, escalating violence and too easy access to a firearm.  I was revolted by the entire story as it unfolded on the television newscasts.  Noel would come home after spending hours working on the case and then more hours dealing with Tyler at the jail.  As I said, at first he was out of control, raving and bragging about his crime.  He sent handwritten letters to Jaimi’s family describing the deaths in detail and telling them that if he had the chance he would do it all over again.  Jaimi’s father appeared on the news one night as he read portions of the letter and I could see the hurt and hate in his eyes.  After the newscast as we ate dinner I turned to my husband, “Why do you let him do that?”  I asked.  “Isn’t killing this man’s daughter and granddaughter bad enough?  He gets to brag about it?” 

Noel just said, “Tyler is out of control right now.”  He couldn’t say more without breaking confidentiality. 

But, I wasn’t satisfied.  “Okay, tell me this.  Why do you do what you do?”

“Because I believe in our system of justice.  I really do believe that everyone deserves to be represented.  That’s the main reason that I became a lawyer in the first place,” and then he went on to explain more reasoning for going to law school.

“But, that’s not what I meant,” I persisted.  “Why have you chosen this particular path?  You could have done corporate law or a zillion other things within the law.  Why do you choose to defend rapists and child molesters and murderers?  You did choose this, you know.  It didn’t just happen.”

“Okay, I understand what you’re asking now.”  He was quiet for a bit as he took a couple of bites of his dinner.  He finally said,” I think I actually have a knack for this.  I can identify with the people I represent.”

“What?” I almost shouted, “You’ve got to be kidding!  You are none of those things.  I don’t even understand how you can stand to be in the same room with them, let alone work so hard for them.”

He patiently replied, “You know Shelley, they are people and I have to remember that they all have a story.  I like to find out what that story is.  If I’d made different decisions in my life, going to prison for one of these crimes might have been my story.  Sometimes it only takes one bad decision to start heading downhill.  I’ve learned at least one thing…it’s a slippery slope.  One bad decision too often leads to a bunch of others.” 

I’ve thought about that dinner conversation many times over the past year.  And I’ve come to see things in a different light now.  I think that Noel does have a knack for what he does and a huge part of his success is that he can look beyond the heinous acts to see the human standing behind.  He was born with the incredible gift of naturally seeing the good in people.  This is a trait that I’ve noticed in his entire family and he’s passed it on to his two daughters.  Speak ill of someone?  Never.  And they aren’t being naïve.  They just easily step over the negatives and look for the good.  I think Noel has perfected this as he encounters all sorts of people who have committed terrible crimes.  He usually meets them when they are at the lowest points in their lives and he looks at them and treats them with humanity.  And they respond to this.  I like to think that this treatment helps them be a bit better too. 

A few months ago I was talking to a friend of mine and I was comparing my typical work day to that of my husband’s.  I work with delightful children and basically I play with them to help develop their visual and fine motor skills.  My day is spent cutting out paper Valentines, finger painting or assembling jigsaw puzzles.  It’s all about love and joy and fun.  Noel spends his day in the jail, doing battle with the County Attorney and advising clients whose luck has run out.  I said, “I don’t know how Noel deals with this all of this.  His day is all about negativity and I’m afraid that sometimes this negative energy follows him home.  I don’t want him bringing it into the house.”

My friend said, “I think you’ve got it all wrong.  Just because you spend your day differently doesn’t mean that yours is all positive and his is all negative.  Stop looking at it like that.  Your husband just deals with a different kind of energy.  Labeling everything as only good or bad leads to trouble.  Think of it only as different energy.”  I’ve liked that perspective and have thought about that, too in relation to the dinnertime conversation I had with Noel about why he does what he does.  It has helped me look at Tyler and my husband’s other clients in a different light. 

A couple of months ago the County Attorney withdrew the death penalty, so a hearing was scheduled to  pronounce the sentence.  Noel asked me to go.  As I sat behind Tyler and Noel in the courtroom I tried very hard to look to the man behind the crime.  Jaimi’s family and friends took the stand one by one and yelled, cried, shouted and called him everything from a “monster” to “the devil.”  One family member said, “You are only evil Tyler Miller.  Only evil.”  Now, I don’t know what I would say if my child or sister or aunt had been murdered.  Given one last chance to speak directly to the murderer, what would I say?  I really don’t know. 

I do know that I’ve been trying to see the world and people in shades of grey rather than all black and white.  I do not believe that Tyler Miller is only evil, no matter what he did.  Although it is easier to pronounce something or someone as totally good or totally bad, I have come to believe that this is not really so.  We are all a mixture of goodness and of evil, decency and indecency; kindness and cruelty.  We all have the capability to be virtuous or vile.  Now, I think I understand a bit better when Noel tells me that he identifies with his clients.  Yes, he’s made better choices in his life, but recognizing his own frailties helps him see and celebrate the humanity in others. 

As I sit here at my computer I think back and again see my husband turn to me with his eyes brimming with tears.  I believe they were tears of loss.  That day officially marked the loss of a human being who had the capacity to do great and honorable things in his life.  Noel was also losing a companion, a son and a friend.    Although Tyler would not get the death penalty, Noel really wanted him to be eligible for parole in the far distant future.  He told me that he felt like he lost his argument in the hearing.  But, today was about loss of other types, too.  Both of these good, solid up-standing families lost a child to drugs and to all of the sadness and pain that accompanies drug use.   Two teen-aged girls testified of their anguish in losing their good friend Alyssa.  And a small child lost her biological parents in a tragic and violent manner. 

Was justice served?  I do hope so.  But, more than that I hope that this day brought closure for all concerned.  Now as time passes, may peace and healing follow the loss and fill the void. 

And when all is said and done, may we remember to honor both the frailties and the strengths that make up our own humanity.

Chicken Satay Flatbread

Noel and I went to Spokane, Washington for his birthday and ordered a Chicken Flatbread as an appetizer at a really great pub.  We loved it so much that we were determined to replicate it once we got home.  But in the end, our son-in-law Brad and Noel devised this recipe to the delight of all of our Christmas Eve guests. 

You gotta try this.

(Don't wait 'til Christmas.)

Chicken Satay Flatbread

1 ½ pounds skinless, boneless chicken breasts, cut into strips

1 C. plain yogurt

1 t. freshly grated ginger

1 T. curry powder

Olive oil for sautéing

Cut chicken into ¼ by ¾” strips.  Sauté in olive oil until no longer pink.  Mix the yogurt, ginger and curry and add to chicken, heating just until warm.  While chicken is cooking make the peanut sauce.



It seems like Brad, the sous chef does a lot of work



Peanut Sauce

1 cup smooth peanut butter

¼ C. soy sauce

2 t. red curry paste

2 T. brown sugar

2 limes, juiced

¼ cup hot water

Combine all of the above ingredients in a blender or food processor.  Puree to combine.  While the motor is running, drizzle in the hot water to thin out the sauce.  You may not need all of it. 

Spread the sauce evenly over pieces of flatbread (see note below) to within ½” of the edge.  Ladle chicken mixture over the sauce and then sprinkle with shaved or grated Parmesan cheese.    Broil until cheese melts.  Garnish with chopped peanuts and chopped cilantro.

Note:  I stopped at Subway and bought some of their plain flatbread.  Noel bought some flatbread at the grocery store. Both were good.  We decided that ideally we would like the bread to be about 1/4 inch thick.  I tried making some in the bread maker, but didn’t roll it out thin enough so it was a bit too much bread with each bite.