“The closer you are to death, the more alive you feel. It’s a wonderful way to live. It’s the only way to drive.” – Rush

A computer once beat me at chess. It lost at kickboxing, though.
The Mrs. and I have recently been playing chess. It’s not a lot of chess, it’s mainly on Saturday nights when things are a bit slower. I’ve been enjoying the games. If I were to guess, before the last time we played, the games tilted slightly in my favor.
I think I’ve won about 30. The Mrs. was still sitting at, well, zero wins.
30-0.
Don’t think poorly of her. The Mrs. is going from a standing start. At one point in college, I lived with eight other guys in a house, and nearly all of the time a chess game was going. I could generally beat everyone in the house by the end of the school year. It took a while for one guy, about four months. First, he wiped the floor with me, then he and I traded games. By the end of two semesters?
I usually won. I have played a lot more chess than The Mrs. I will say this, though, she’s smart as a whip, and when I give her position analysis and show her why she lost the game, she listens.
The Mrs. doesn’t listen like someone who wants to defend why they did what they did. She listens with the ears of someone who wants to learn, who wants to get better. There has been exactly zero ego in learning the game for her.
Did I mention that The Mrs. is competitive? Really competitive?

Ever notice that Tom Cruise has a tooth perfectly centered under his nose, like it’s one-half tooth too far over? Now you’ll never be able to unsee that. You’re welcome.
The last time The Mrs. and I played chess, we played three games. The first game, I crushed her. By the start of the mid-game, I was up on pieces and position. It was like a velociraptor in a room full of bacon-wrapped kittens covered in pudding. Then the next game. Again, by the mid-game, I was up. I was toying with her king like a teacup poodle lords over a pork chop, getting ready for checkmate.
Then, she moved.
Then, I moved. That’s the rule, right?
But my move made it so she had no legal moves left. The Mrs. wasn’t in check, but couldn’t move. I was winning, decisively.
But if she has no legal moves and her king isn’t in check?
It’s a draw. The score was now 30-0-1.
My blunder, her draw. The next game went, shall we say, a little differently. The start went okay. Then, in the mid-game? She took control and by the beginning of the end-game? I was breathing for air harder than Biden sniffing a teenager. Which Biden? Apparently any of them.

What mall did they get this picture taken at?
Then? I caught a break. The Mrs. was up on pieces and position, but I found a way out. I could keep her king in perpetual check.
The Mrs. moved, I moved, check.
The Mrs. moved, I moved, check.
The Mrs. moved, I moved, check.
Note: I couldn’t win, but I could make the game as annoying as an 8-year-old asking, “Are we there yet?”
Thankfully, there’s a rule for that. It’s called?
A draw.
We went from me constantly crushing her, to her lucking to a draw, to me grasping to find a way out of a game without a loss.
30-0-2.
Good for The Mrs.
And good for me. Now I’m going to have to work to bring my A-game. And Saturday nights just got better.
Why?
Would it be better if I could crush her in chess every evening like Oprah crushes couch cushions? Of course not.

I told my barber to cut my hair like he would for Tom Cruise. He made me sit on two phone books.
The best victories in life are going head to head with someone near your level in skill. Going all out. Pushing each other to be better. I mean, I can beat up any number of third graders. Honestly, I have no idea how many third graders I couldn’t beat up.
I could do it all day. It’s really not a challenge. Seriously, I could beat up lots of them.
But fourth graders? I mean, I could be at least the third-best player on the fourth-grade soccer team.
Life is challenge. Life is struggle.
And thank heavens for that. Or thank Heaven for that? (Stick with me – this isn’t a sermon.)
Speaking of Heaven, from the time I was just a little Wilder, I caused a *lot* of problems at church. I distinctly recall that I colored a picture of Jesus with His skin being bright purple. On purpose.

My only excuse is that I was five and had no glitter.
The Sunday school teacher came up to me and said, “Johnny, you know that Jesus wasn’t purple.”
I replied, “Well, please allow me to retort. Jesus is God, right? Well, if He wants to be purple, He can be purple.”
How can you argue with logic like that? Even kindergartners score some points now and then. I last saw my Sunday school teacher when I was thirty. She was really thrilled to see me. I think she was just happy I hadn’t started the Cult of the Glittery Purple Jesus. And, yes, all of those things really happened.
But back to heaven, or in this case, Heaven.
When they described Heaven to me in Sunday school, I was as appalled and indignant as a precocious five-year-old can be.
Sunday school teacher, describing Heaven: “You’re happy all the time. Nothing bad ever happens. You wake up and everything is fine.”
Five-year-old me thought: “Well, that sucks. It’s stupid. That sounds boring.” Even then, I was wise enough not to throw out a level-five heresy in the middle of Sunday school. Jesus might turn me purple or something. I’m certainly glad they didn’t teach me about Valhalla then, because that sounds much, much better than Heaven: Wake up. Fight and get soused and maybe die. Wake up. Repeat.

What did the Vikings call English villages? Chopping centers.
Sure you teach little kids the things that you think they like. But me as a little kid? Peace was the last thing on my mind. But I’m not alone.
When you look at the life of Jesus, He didn’t spend it sitting on fluffy pillows and eating Ding-Dongs®. Nope. If you think WWJD, remember, taking a whip and kicking vermin out of church is within the realm of permissible actions.
Jesus was clear in that: life is the struggle.
- Life is not about the easy way out.
- Life is not about running out the clock in the 20 years until you retire.
- Life is not about being nice.
If you played your life like a video game, your goal isn’t to have a pleasant but non-threatening experience. You want to climb the mountain, fight for the fair maiden, and drink from the skull of your enemy. I want The Mrs. to be kick-ass at chess, so when I win, it means something.
It meant something to The Mrs. when I had to force a draw to save my sorry (rare NSFW word coming) ass.
That, my friends, is life. Life is the struggle.
And my bet at Heaven is that it’s more like this:
LEVEL ONE COMPLETE.
PREPARE FOR LEVEL TWO.

I started a job digging deeper and deeper holes – but that was boring on so many levels.
Yeah. Let’s go. Let’s live life.
Bring.
It.
On.
Take big bites.
Who is with me?


























































