The Voice of Fear

How do we learn to manage fear?  As small children, it is such a fundamental part of our learning about the world, but as we begin to mature and fear less of what we see, we learn from our parents and other sources about how much there is to fear that we can't see.

When I worked at Games Workshop, I thought their model of leadership values was, as they say, spot on: honesty, courage, and humility.  To this day, I use this simple rubric to assess the leadership of others, the quality of people entering my life, and my own behaviour.  When I berate myself for coming up short, more often than not, it is for a perceived lack of courage.  Why did I do that?  Why didn't I speak up when someone else did that?  Why did opt for the easy choice instead of the right one?

As a parent, your biggest fears reside in your children, whether it is not doing enough for them, or doing too much.  You try to teach them to listen to their fear, and to be informed by it, but not to let it control them. And you worry about how you model bravery to them.

Thursday nights are my chauffeur nights.  After dinner, Audrey takes Glory to Irish dance, then heads off to her own choir practice.  I take Fenya to her choir downtown, then head over to St. Albert to get Glory, and at one time, took her downtown to pick up Fenya before we all returned home.  She is big enough now that she likes staying home for the short bit of time it takes me to fetch her sister, and it lets her get to bed earlier to boot.

Two weeks ago though, I had left her downstairs working on a school project, and was on my way to pick up Fenya, when the speaker in the car chimed with an incoming call.  I saw the call originated from home and pushed the button on the steering wheel. "Hello?"

A ragged breath on the other end, rife with uncertainty.  "Daddy?" Glory whispered.

My blood ran cold, but I tried not to let it colour my voice, "It's me baby, what's the matter?"

"Daddy, I'm scared...I thought I heard someone upstairs," she said timidly.

I had locked the door when I left, and knew it was (almost) completely unlikely someone was in the house. I also knew, to my shame, that part of the reason for her trepidation was that she was also scared of my reaction.  I made my voice as reassuring as possible.

"I don't think that's very likely honey, but do you want me to come home?"

Silence.

"Should I come home Glory?  Would you feel better if I did?"

Another whisper, almost a sob of relief, "Yes, please."

Running a couple of route options through my head, I elected to loop around rather than reverse my course; fewer lights and left turns.  "Okay kid, I am on my way, I will be home in six minutes; do you know why six minutes?"

A short pause, "No, how come?"  Still whispering.

"Because 'nothing takes five minutes', right?"  (One of our favourite lines from Blackhawk Down.)

Another pause, then, "Okay."

I accelerated up 127th street, and said, "I'm on my way back, but I have to hang up on you for a minute, okay?  I have to call Fenya and tell her I will be late picking her up.  Do you want me to call you back?  Would you feel better if I did?"

A quieter whisper now, barely audible: "Yes, please."

"Okay, I will call you back as soon as I can.  I love you," and hung up.

Reaching Fenya's voice mail, I explained what was happening, and that if she could get a ride home to please do so, but I would be back to pick her up as soon as I could.  After taking a moment to assure her that no, I didn't actually believe any one was really in the house, almost for certain, I hung up and called the house.

As the phone rang, there was the briefest of moments where the tactless, tactical side of my brain observed that if, in fact, there was an intruder in the house, Glory answering the phone in mid-ring was a sure tip-off that they were not alone, but before I could refute the absurdity of that insight, she answered.  Still the uneven breath as she greeted me, with an even quieter whisper this time: "Hello?"

"Hi honey, it's Daddy; where are you?"

"I'm in the basement, behind the couch...close to your desk.  Daddy, I'm scared..."

(The analytical side of my brain wryly observed that the C-sharp I was hearing was unquestionably the sound of a heartstring being plucked, and the associated pang was almost certainly not sudden-onset angina.)  "I know, sweetie, I'm coming as fast as I can."  It's true; if the photo-radar contractor was in his usual spot on 142nd Avenue, this would be an expensive trip.  "That's a smart place to be if someone is there, but I don't think there is.  What's Nitti doing?"

"Nothing..."

"That's right, and if there was someone at the door, he'd be barking lots, right?"

"I guess..."

"But I am coming anyways, because I know you're scared."  Thank God most of the ice was gone from the corners, this one was usually a skating rink.  "I'm going like a police car, can you hear the engine over the phone?"

"Yeah..." (Was that a smile I could hear?)

"I will be there in two minutes, all right?"

"Can you come in and say 'Glory, I'm home' really loudly?" still whispering, but less shaky now.

"Whatever you want kid.  I am at the end of the block now and can see the house.  I am going to hang up and I will be inside as fast as I can, okay?"

"Okay Daddy."

"I love you," I said again, and hung up.

Seconds later I was in front of our house, and out of the car, racing up the steps with the keys in my hand.  The door was locked, as I was (almost) certain it would be, but I still opened the door with what I have heard referred to as 'violence of action'.  I snapped on the light switches by the door and shouted, "Glory, I'm home!" at the top of my lungs, which produces a considerable volume.

I quickly turned left into the master bedroom, snapped on the light, and went to my bedside to retrieve the oak police-style club I keep there.  Before I could find it, I heard Glory in the kitchen and called her name so she knew where I was.

I met her at the door and she launched herself into my midsection as her arms wrapped around me, and we both felt quite a bit better for the experience.

"Are you all right?"  I asked her.  She didn't look up or loosen her grip at all, but nodded emphatically.  "C'mon," I said, "Let's go get your sister."

By the time she got her coat and boots on, Audrey had arrived, and by the time I was a block away, Fenya called me to say she had gotten a ride with another family.  When I returned home and explained to Audrey what had happened, she chided me a little bit for the alacrity of my response.

I bristled up a little bit.  "It's all fun and games until you hear your child whisper, 'Daddy, I'm scared,'" I said, and truth be told, the widening of my wife's eyes and the involuntary protrusion of her lower lip was both validating and gratifying.  "And even though I was (almost) certain everything was all right, I will gladly trade making Fenya wait a little while in a safe place for a chance to sort out the daughter that needed me as fast as I could.

"Maybe next time I will go through all the logical reasons why there can't be a stranger in the house, or monsters in the closet, or whatever, but this time, the first time?  The most important thing I could teach her was that if she needs me, I will be there."

Audrey nodded.  "And when we tell the girls that if they are at a party or with someone who has been drinking and they call us to come get them..."

"Sure," I relented, "A little credibility could go a long way if or when that ever happens."


Since I intend to be a parent for the rest of my life, it is important for me to make my peace with fear, and to teach my daughters to do the same.  It can't be ignored, because sometimes fear is our first and best warning that something has gone awry, but if we can deal with it in temperance and respect, then we are probably ahead of the game.

Fear of the unknown, fear of the other, fear of change, fear of loss; how much of the negative interactions of our world are driven by fear?  How much peace do we create when we help others deal with their fear?  I think the most universal wisdom in the Bible is that aphorism attributed to Solomon, "This too shall pass," but I am starting to think that the angelic greeting of "Fear not!" may be of even greater comfort.

Being able to do that for Glory certainly was a blessing for me.

The Faith of Mathesar

I had the opportunity to watch Galaxy Quest again over the holidays, with someone who had never seen it before, which made the entire experience that much more enjoyable.  It is a tightly written comedy wrapped around a very passable adventure story (which apparently is how it was initially presented to the producers, with the comedy arriving later on) which is pushed to greater heights by a wonderful cast, most especially Alan Rickman.  There are even a couple of touching moments, slid deftly in between the farce and the spectacle.

It's a fun movie to watch, especially if you happen to be a bit of a nerd, because then you can catch little reflections of yourself in almost every character: from the fanboys trying to ascribe a consistency and meaning to their favourite entertainment, to the existential crisis of the actors who find themselves wondering what impression their work may have left on others, or even themselves.

I've seen it many times before, and I'm sure I will watch it again, but reflecting on it this time got me thinking about faith.

In the film, the alien Thermians have patterned their society and technology based on what they have seen on the television series Galaxy Quest, a thinly (like, we're talking onion skin here) veiled analog to Star Trek.  Unfortunately, they have no concept of art, or artifice, or even lying, so they are convinced that the contrived adventures, last minute escapes and indomitable courage they have witnessed in these 'historical documents' are all legitimate.  After convincing Jason Nesmith, the actor who plays Commander Peter Quincy Taggart (Tim Allen), to join them in negotiating peace with their tormentor, Sarris, the other actors (mostly begrudgingly) follow suit, only to find themselves horribly out of their element, and facing not only their own demise, but the possible destruction of an entire species looking to them for their salvation.  Heavy stuff for a spoof comedy!

The dramatic turning point comes when the sadistic Sarris clues in to the truth of the situation, and makes 'Taggart' tell the Thermian commander Mathesar (brilliantly played by Enrico Colantoni) that they have been lying to him, and that not only are they not the heroes, but there never were any heroes, there wasn't even a ship.  It's a good bit, full of existential angst, and is the emotional lynchpin that the second act uses to slingshot us into the third.  If you've never seen it, go away and watch it, then come back and finish reading this later, there's a spoiler storm a-brewing.  If you just want a reminder, take a few minutes to watch this video:

There is a lot to take in here: Sarris's declaration that the humans have far more harm to the Thermians than he ever could, Mathesar's insistence that there is a ship, and that it cannot be a model because inside he has seen many rooms, and finally, Nesmith's persistence that no, there is no ship, no crew, no agency protecting the galaxy, and that everything Mathesar and his people have staked their lives and civilization on is a lie.

In the middle of a goofy sci-fi comedy, they tune out the action and the laughs for a handful of minutes, and frankly suck all the fun out of the room, leaving the viewer, like Mathesar, in a dark and confusing place.  But then something interesting happens; in fact, a bunch of interesting things happen.

Nesmith improvises an escape plan that utilizes the talents of his colleagues, and then begins formulating a counterattack in precisely the way a good commander would.  He inspires, delegates, and takes personal risks to insure the safety of 'his' ship and crew.

Alexander Dane (Alan Rickman), who detests the sci-fi trappings he has been forced to endure in his work, especially the warrior culture of his alien race, encounters a Thermian who has not only modeled his life after them, but found meaning and success in doing so.  The catchphrase which has been a millstone around his neck becomes a touching benediction to the one person in the universe who may actually believe in it, and, we hope, can take comfort in the fact that by Grabthar's Hammer, he truly will be avenged.

The other ersatz members of the crew pull together and support each other in a manner we've seen played out on starship bridges for over four decades now; in keeping with the mantra of their own show, they never give up, never surrender.

Of course they triumph in the end, this is not a documentary, and the reason we love happy endings in our entertainments is because there seem to be all too damned few of them in real life.  Mathesar returns to the bridge, complimenting the commander on his cunning ploy to convince Sarris that these humans were not the brave and loyal crew the Thermians knew them to be.  His faith has been rewarded, and they soon part ways.

Now there are a couple of ways of looking at this situation, the easiest being that the Thermians are guileless rubes whose naivete almost resulted in their extinction, and who only manage to survive to the end credits through the barest margins of blind chance.

The harder way is to acknowledge that, in the end, the actors who portrayed the fictitious crew of a made-up spaceship are as brave and loyal and resourceful as their on-screen counterparts, and that the tools given to them by the aliens they inspired with their fictions are sufficient to win them the day.  From Mathesar's perspective, Nesmith's assertion that their ship is only a few inches long, is completely ludicrous; after all, they are standing right in it, aren't they?

Sarris's condemnation of the harm done by the humans to the Thermians is extremely short-sighted when you consider that somehow these actors (and writers, and special effects and make -up artists etc.) have inspired an alien race to build things that should not work.  Thankfully, they didn't know it was impossible when they did it.

I've felt like Mathesar at times, clinging to my belief in things I can't display or prove, sometimes in the face of overwhelming evidence.  And I should say here that I don't just mean God or religion or spirituality or the soul.   I know some philosophers think of God as a construct, a stand-in for our limited understanding of the infinite, and that if He didn't exist, it would be necessary to create Him.  But there are other constructs like that, which we cannot prove or disprove, and have to take on faith : justice, for one.  Love, for another.

After their civilization was nearly destroyed, the Thermians discovered the Galaxy Quest broadcasts, and found within their simple heroism and complicated idealism a means of re-purposing themselves.  The fact that the actual events might never have transpired has little to do with the values presented, or the benefits received.  Their ability to take something patently fake and make it real reminds me of the Discordian teaching that 'all things are true, even false things'.

On the television series Babylon 5, another science-fiction television character has said, "Faith manages."  The fact that the words were written by an atheist does not make them any less profound, or true, just ironic.

Still, we can't rule out the possibility that I have wandered into the same fanboy trap as Justin Long's character, searching through blueprints and schematics and star charts, as much a theologian as an engineer,  looking for a meaning that perhaps isn't there...



[Transcripted:
Brandon Wheeger: But I want you to know that I'm not a complete brain case, okay? I understand completely that it's just a TV show. I know there's no beryllium sphere... 
Jason Nesmith: Hold it. 
Brandon Wheeger: no digital conveyor, no ship... 
Jason Nesmith: Stop for a second, stop. It's all real. 
Brandon Wheeger: Oh my God, I knew it. I knew it! I knew it! ]

...or perhaps is hidden in there after all.