Back in off the ledge

Whew! That was a close one. We really thought we'd lost the boy there for a while. What a relief to see the Roscoe back to his old self, feet up, sipping a glass of shiraz and contemplating his next move in the culture war. Guess he's back in the game, for what it's worth.

We'll let you read about it in his own words:

I'd really hit a wall, man, and lost it. Lack of sleep. A 40-page term paper due—half in Greek. A final exam in New Testament Exegesis. A major project due at work. Neuroma in both feet that kept me from stress-release via running. Trying to warn the world about the ulterior motives of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and the Iranian president's ominous letter to President Bush. Worrying about the End of the World, etc.

I was posting all this stuff instead of sleeping when the worst thing of all happened—a great, huge collective yawning sound from the blogosphere.

Snore. . . Fwuf, snore. . .

No, not that! The one thing I'd begun to trust in to save the world for truth, justice and the American way. Anger welled up, as I remembered the only story that ever rewarded me with big numbers—my obituary for the world's ugliest dog. So, is that how it is? I'm going to have to learn to speak American Idol before anyone will listen?

Well, that ain't gonna happen. . . No way, no how. Yeah, maybe threatening to jump was just a cry for help. But seriously, if nobody had said 'please don’t go,' I wouldn't have come back.

Oh, yeah. And then George died. George Reitz, my liberal pastor friend in Queens who's birthed bunches of cross-cultural urban ministries and was rewarded with terminal cancer. I could tell you a lot of stories there, but it's just a bit too tender right now. Irrepressible George, who continued to minister to others till the end with his cancer-journey notes on-line. And, most of all, his laugh and his smile. George, my friend. Gone.

Damn. . .