It has been almost two months since I blogged (funny how that word has forced its way into the English language). One of my friends, who will remain unnamed, but I will give him the name George, wrote to me, "You had a nice Christmas letter, but that didn't make up for the fact that I Reid has been vacant for two months. Slacker."
Nothing like a nice little slice of guilt cake for the holidays, topped with a inch thick icing of sarcasm. Thank you, George.
George is one of my good friends and it pleases me to no end (perhaps even inflating my ego more that it should even though George, if he looks closely, could spell the word 'ego' out of his own name - I digress once again) that people are reading the blog and even more than one person has said they enjoyed it. What a nice little Christmas gift.
Another woman e-mailed me this week and asked about the history of the song "The Little Drummer Boy." Her question was, "I don't ever remember a story in the Bible about a young boy bringing a drum to play for the baby Jesus." Well, here is the rest of the story.
As the shepherds were tending their flocks by night, lo and behold an angel of the Lord appeared behind them, scaring them witless and said - "Go to the city of David and there you will find this day the Savior born, the one who is to be the Messiah." Of course the shepherds were extraordinarily frightened, but then a whole company of angels appeared in the sky playing their trumpets and singing loudly, "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those he favors."
The youngest of the Shepherd boys, George, said to himself, "Himself, that brass section needs a drummer!" So George decided it was time to make for himself a drum, but what should he use? He couldn't very well use one of his own flock - the owner might not feel that was a good use of resources and surely he couldn't use tree bark. But then, as the angels were singing, he heard the sound of a ram caught in a thicket behind him. The ram's voice miraculously morphed into human, "I waaaant to be a baaaasssss drum." Thinking that this ram was heaven sent, young George took the ram and sacrificed it, taking the best parts for himself and his fellow sheep herders. George said, "Now that we are full, let us go to the town to see what thing has occurred."
The shepherds ran as fast as they could, over the rivers and through the woods. George stumbled once and fell, but the little drum stayed intact. His friend Richard helped him to his feet and said, "Hurry up, the Christ child doesn't have all day."
And so they ran faster until they reached the place that the angels had told them. A star shone high over head casting down a beam of light on the strangest of places. In the midst of the squalor and noise of a tiny town like Bethlehem, the rays of the moon came to rest on a stone cave, where, at the entrance, a mother and a new born were watching the festivities of the night. George and Richard pushed their way through the human mass, passed the animals in the streets and stood at the feet of mother and child. George looked at Richard and said, "Do you think this is the right baby?"
Richard said, "The baby would be wrapped in swaddling clothes so this is a pretty good bet."
George asked the woman, "Shall I play for you?" The woman smiled, not saying anything even though she secretly did not like percussion instruments. George said, "I call this song, 'Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum.' I'm not very good at lyrics, Miss. When I get some good words, I'll come back and play for you again." So, young George the shepherd, played his song "Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum" for the mother and child. The people of the town began to grow agitated and began shouting for an end to the one note symphony. "Be Quiet!" But George shouted back, "Go to sleep! I'm playing for the Christ child." George continued his monotonous bass beat until the baby Jesus became disturbed by his playing and began to cry. Mary wished that George would not play his drum any more but George and Richard had lulled themselves into a trance. So, the baby Jesus took matters into his own hands and reached out for the drum. George noticed that Jesus wanted the drum and he was very honored. So, handing the drum to Jesus, the savior reached out and touched the drum and it was once again turned into a living ram. All were startled except for Mary who pondered this in her heart.
Thus the little drummer boy lives in legend.
Thus this, of course - and hopefully very cheek full of tongue - is not legend or fact but hopefully a humorous way to introduce the most wonderful time of year - Christmas. The real message behind the littlest of percussionists is that a gift is not truly about volume but about substance. Jesus is faithfully committed to receiving all gifts even if they are not gold, frankincense or myrrh. What is important for me to always remember that the greatest gift that God wants of us is our hearts - for the essence of our love to be placed at the foot of the manger - that our lives are gathering of breaths that expel forth the air that proclaims "Glory to God in the highest!" And, from the knowledge that we are no longer subject to darkness of this world, we realize the light has come and we receive peace. Peace that passes all understanding. We don't need to place a Wii at Jesus feet, nor the newest thing in the catalog - not even a nice polo sweater for the little baby Jesus on a cold winter's night, even if those swaddling clothes are dirty and threadbare. No, just your heart. Just your love.
Return to the manger this Christmas and remember the gift of the Little Drummer Boy - it was not his drum playing, but his heart.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Trust Factor
I have been doing some deep pondering lately about the idea of trust. Animals, by nature, are designed for distrust. They have sensors which allow them to always be prepared to fight or flee - they are wary that anyone, or anything, could be a predator. Some animals can't even trust their mates. Take, for instance, the praying mantis - imagine the male praying mantis spending his wedding night with his wife, they, in delirious joy consummate their marriage. He wakes up in the middle of the night and she is devouring his leg. He should have seen that coming. He should have put out a midnight snack for her. Alas, he just becomes part of the big circle of life.
Or what about certain crocodiles. The mother crocodile lays all the eggs, protects them from danger, watches them crack open and out spew the little crocodiles. Imagine her frustration when her mate comes round the corner whistling, "Boy, am I hungry," and grabs a few of his children for breakfast. Brutal. Animals are brutal. In a survival of the fittest world, most animals will go to extreme efforts to stay alive even if it means devouring the related competition.
There are certain animals that I don't trust. Take spiders, for example. The exterior of a spider is unappealing, for sure. Fangs, prickly legs, some of them even have the appearance of hair. Their fat, little bodies promise hidden grossness if they remain too long near me. Egg sacks hanging from the ceiling; spider webs drifting across my face as I go out to get the mail. Ugh. Some people would call my arachnaphobic lack of trust for spiders as irrational, but I find that almost all of my fears have a rational episode in my past for my lack of trust.
When I was ten years old, my family and I went camping with my grandparents. We had a glorious time running around in the outdoors; the trees smelled like dirty suitcases. The grass felt like a bed of scratchy softness. The air whisked through my hair as I ran, stumbling to play catch with my uncle and my siblings. It was so nice to get down and dirty.
At night, my parents told me to go to the bathhouse to take a shower. I grabbed my gear and gingerly crossed the gravel road in barefeet, the rocks seeming to poke holes in my soles. The cicadas were serenading me to the showers and I took my time - whistling, sometimes singing - looking around to see if there were any young ladies, you know how it is. I opened the swinging door, screeching, it slammed shut behind me. The showerhouse didn't have any lighting except the natural stuff that God creates. I showered, basically in the dark. Taking my time, I washed the grunge off the day and prepared to add more the next.
After the shower, I dried off and headed to the mirror to make sure that I had the part of my hair directly down the middle 80's style. Just as I was about to finish, I noticed something in my hair begin to move. Then, like a horror movie, I noticed that it was a daddy-long-legs spider dripping its way down my hair and then...then...it's... first...leg...hit...my...cheek...bone. I was revolted but I couldn't move a muscle - there this thing was taking its merry time going for a walk about my face.
The next thing that I realized was that my mouth was open and that I was screaming like a young lady. From that moment, I have learned not to trust any spiders and specifically those that want to use my face as a racetrack.
Our past informs our level of trust for things. I have a friend who was bitten by a dog when she was younger. Now she cannot even come near them. Another friend fell off a ladder; he cannot even stand near ladders now. Someone else I know saw the airplanes flying into the Twin Towers - she cannot even think about flying in an airplane.
Our lack of trust is not limited to animals or inanimate objects. Often, there are moments when we have been hurt emotionally, physically or spiritually by those closest to us. Whether intentionally or accidentally, our psyches and souls remember and carry scars and we are wary of repeating those incidents as coming close to a pot of boiling water. So I ask the question, "Why do humans trust at all?" If we are so prone to hurting each other, if we carry within us the ability and predisposition to harm others, why do we open ourselves to vulnerability?
That is the question I have been wrestling with lately. Someone once told me I had to earn their trust - they weren't just going to give it to me because someone else told them that I was trustworthy. So, I have taken that to mean that trust is somewhat of a commodity - something that is given away. Trust can be hoarded, kept to yourself. But what are the benefits of trusting someone else? Well, you are invited to write to me and let me know if I am way off base, but I view the benefits of trusting others are that four sets of eyes are better than two. When we trust others, we are trusting that they are looking out for our interests as well as their own. When we trust, we are allowing the other person to stand at our back and take care of us without fear of being stabbed. When we trust, we open up that box inside of us that allows others to become part of our being.
God created us to be in community. It is very difficult to be in community without trusting at least some of our fellow human beings. Without trust, we are individuals in a divided world. Without trust, our hearts begin to grow a hardened shell around them and some spark of life cannot light the fire - the ache to be special to, and protected by, someone else.
It is a hard thing, to trust. I invite you to pray about those whom you trust and those whom you mistrust this week and think again about the episodes in the past that don't allow us to trust and which create the hardened shell around our hearts.
Or what about certain crocodiles. The mother crocodile lays all the eggs, protects them from danger, watches them crack open and out spew the little crocodiles. Imagine her frustration when her mate comes round the corner whistling, "Boy, am I hungry," and grabs a few of his children for breakfast. Brutal. Animals are brutal. In a survival of the fittest world, most animals will go to extreme efforts to stay alive even if it means devouring the related competition.
There are certain animals that I don't trust. Take spiders, for example. The exterior of a spider is unappealing, for sure. Fangs, prickly legs, some of them even have the appearance of hair. Their fat, little bodies promise hidden grossness if they remain too long near me. Egg sacks hanging from the ceiling; spider webs drifting across my face as I go out to get the mail. Ugh. Some people would call my arachnaphobic lack of trust for spiders as irrational, but I find that almost all of my fears have a rational episode in my past for my lack of trust.
When I was ten years old, my family and I went camping with my grandparents. We had a glorious time running around in the outdoors; the trees smelled like dirty suitcases. The grass felt like a bed of scratchy softness. The air whisked through my hair as I ran, stumbling to play catch with my uncle and my siblings. It was so nice to get down and dirty.
At night, my parents told me to go to the bathhouse to take a shower. I grabbed my gear and gingerly crossed the gravel road in barefeet, the rocks seeming to poke holes in my soles. The cicadas were serenading me to the showers and I took my time - whistling, sometimes singing - looking around to see if there were any young ladies, you know how it is. I opened the swinging door, screeching, it slammed shut behind me. The showerhouse didn't have any lighting except the natural stuff that God creates. I showered, basically in the dark. Taking my time, I washed the grunge off the day and prepared to add more the next.
After the shower, I dried off and headed to the mirror to make sure that I had the part of my hair directly down the middle 80's style. Just as I was about to finish, I noticed something in my hair begin to move. Then, like a horror movie, I noticed that it was a daddy-long-legs spider dripping its way down my hair and then...then...it's... first...leg...hit...my...cheek...bone. I was revolted but I couldn't move a muscle - there this thing was taking its merry time going for a walk about my face.
The next thing that I realized was that my mouth was open and that I was screaming like a young lady. From that moment, I have learned not to trust any spiders and specifically those that want to use my face as a racetrack.
Our past informs our level of trust for things. I have a friend who was bitten by a dog when she was younger. Now she cannot even come near them. Another friend fell off a ladder; he cannot even stand near ladders now. Someone else I know saw the airplanes flying into the Twin Towers - she cannot even think about flying in an airplane.
Our lack of trust is not limited to animals or inanimate objects. Often, there are moments when we have been hurt emotionally, physically or spiritually by those closest to us. Whether intentionally or accidentally, our psyches and souls remember and carry scars and we are wary of repeating those incidents as coming close to a pot of boiling water. So I ask the question, "Why do humans trust at all?" If we are so prone to hurting each other, if we carry within us the ability and predisposition to harm others, why do we open ourselves to vulnerability?
That is the question I have been wrestling with lately. Someone once told me I had to earn their trust - they weren't just going to give it to me because someone else told them that I was trustworthy. So, I have taken that to mean that trust is somewhat of a commodity - something that is given away. Trust can be hoarded, kept to yourself. But what are the benefits of trusting someone else? Well, you are invited to write to me and let me know if I am way off base, but I view the benefits of trusting others are that four sets of eyes are better than two. When we trust others, we are trusting that they are looking out for our interests as well as their own. When we trust, we are allowing the other person to stand at our back and take care of us without fear of being stabbed. When we trust, we open up that box inside of us that allows others to become part of our being.
God created us to be in community. It is very difficult to be in community without trusting at least some of our fellow human beings. Without trust, we are individuals in a divided world. Without trust, our hearts begin to grow a hardened shell around them and some spark of life cannot light the fire - the ache to be special to, and protected by, someone else.
It is a hard thing, to trust. I invite you to pray about those whom you trust and those whom you mistrust this week and think again about the episodes in the past that don't allow us to trust and which create the hardened shell around our hearts.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Bugs
One of my co-workers has a bug. Physically, she is aching, sniffing, sneezing, stuffy-head (you can problably state the slogan with me.) If one were to look at her, one would see that she is having trouble sleeping; the bug is wreaking havoc with her emotions and that which has infected her, keeps her from concentrating on the task at hand. Her nose is red from blowing; her eyes are watery; her lungs rasp and ache and I feel sorry for her. I cringe every time I hear someone say, "Oh, it's just that time of year," as if that will make the ill person feel better that the earth produces germs at particularly repetitive times.
There are certain medicines that you can take to rid yourselves of the cold bug, flu bug and whatever other kind of insect you choose to adapt as a symbol of an illness. I often wondered why germs are called bugs - it seems somewhat derogatory for those poor defenseless germs that inhabit our airways and sinuses (I'm kidding of course.)
But there is one bug that has infected another one of my friends that is certainly welcome. The Love Bug (not the 1970's version of a VW Beetle that has a talking front end and is prone to driving itself around a racetrack) has found its way to Trina. Bit her hard, too. I can see the results of its infection. Her nose, at times, is red from crying with happiness (I think its happiness?), perhaps its just the scrambling of emotions when the Love Bug bites. Her eyes twinkle with happiness - she has placed a picture of her loved one, Dan, right next to her computer - it seems that she can't take her eyes off him; certainly, she may be having troubles concentrating and that is not a bad thing at all - no sirree - not a bad thing at all.
What's different about my friend Trina is that she's been married to Dan 19 years already. After a few rough years, Trina and Dan had found themselves inoculated against the beautiful disease - the disease that causes feelings and flooding of emotions to wash over them - to look at each other as if the time they spent together was the most precious possession on earth. They had, it seemed, become immune to looks and touches, a brush of hair, coquettishness, his wanting to impress her with his strength. Their eyes became dimmed of the light of love; the infectious laughter that once permeated their one-ness, had been eradicated.
After many months of trials and talking, emotions and encouragement, Dan found Trina again; Trina saw Dan the way he was but especially the way he is and found that they had wasted enough time avoiding love. Trina came to me a few weeks ago and asked if I would bless their rings for them - if I would help them reaffirm their vows, in a way, that they made 19 years ago. In the midst of God, in the sanctuary, with their son Brandon watching, they professed that love would once again be a constant in their life - that through their own blood vessels the Love Bug would do its incredible best.
I don't think that Trina an Dan are the only ones that suffer, or have suffered, through a time of numbness in relationship. Why do we become immune to our partner's love? Why do we starve the bug that seeks to infect us with amorous love from God? I think it comes from our willingness to set aside our priorities in life and deal with the pressures of the present - the stresses of life that need our immediate attention - and we lose focus on the big picture. All becomes blurry because of struggles at work, putting food on the table, disciplinary problems for kids and we forget the very first moment we saw the love of our lives.
The first time I met Christine is still crystal clear in my memory. I was returning from a fishing trip in Canada, my sister Vikki was driving; we entered the city of Minneapolis where I was to join a Youth Encounter band as the bass guitar player. My sister and I were very close, but she also had a endeared relationship with my current girlfriend at the time. As we stepped out of the car, I looked up and an angel appeared in front of me - it was almost as if I was a deer and the brightness of the sun caused me to pause - I felt run down by a train - WHAM! There she was, this tanned Venus wearing short shorts and a blue t-shirt, her bleached brown hair plaited, big brown eyes - She saw me too. The love bug took a chunk out that time. As I tried to pry my mouth off of the ground, my sister came and stood in front of me, grabbed my by the shoulders and said, "Don't you dare."
Well, I dared.
Throughout our married life, just like Trina and Dan have done, Christine and I continually search for new ways that we can invite God to infect us with the Love Bug. This sounds a bit schmaltzy, cheesy and all sorts of things that only Nicholas Evans could write about (or maybe Danielle Steele). But, I honestly think that we need to open our eyes anew every day and find ways to introduce the host into our system - be carriers of love - all sorts of pieces of the analogy can come to light. Love-sickness, it's a real disease, and a great one.
Find some time to talk with your loved one, or family, or whomever that is closest to you, to re-establish the things that you love about them and why they make you happy. Write lists including the memories that jump to your mind that are crystal clear when you were happy together.
Grow some bugs.
There are certain medicines that you can take to rid yourselves of the cold bug, flu bug and whatever other kind of insect you choose to adapt as a symbol of an illness. I often wondered why germs are called bugs - it seems somewhat derogatory for those poor defenseless germs that inhabit our airways and sinuses (I'm kidding of course.)
But there is one bug that has infected another one of my friends that is certainly welcome. The Love Bug (not the 1970's version of a VW Beetle that has a talking front end and is prone to driving itself around a racetrack) has found its way to Trina. Bit her hard, too. I can see the results of its infection. Her nose, at times, is red from crying with happiness (I think its happiness?), perhaps its just the scrambling of emotions when the Love Bug bites. Her eyes twinkle with happiness - she has placed a picture of her loved one, Dan, right next to her computer - it seems that she can't take her eyes off him; certainly, she may be having troubles concentrating and that is not a bad thing at all - no sirree - not a bad thing at all.
What's different about my friend Trina is that she's been married to Dan 19 years already. After a few rough years, Trina and Dan had found themselves inoculated against the beautiful disease - the disease that causes feelings and flooding of emotions to wash over them - to look at each other as if the time they spent together was the most precious possession on earth. They had, it seemed, become immune to looks and touches, a brush of hair, coquettishness, his wanting to impress her with his strength. Their eyes became dimmed of the light of love; the infectious laughter that once permeated their one-ness, had been eradicated.
After many months of trials and talking, emotions and encouragement, Dan found Trina again; Trina saw Dan the way he was but especially the way he is and found that they had wasted enough time avoiding love. Trina came to me a few weeks ago and asked if I would bless their rings for them - if I would help them reaffirm their vows, in a way, that they made 19 years ago. In the midst of God, in the sanctuary, with their son Brandon watching, they professed that love would once again be a constant in their life - that through their own blood vessels the Love Bug would do its incredible best.
I don't think that Trina an Dan are the only ones that suffer, or have suffered, through a time of numbness in relationship. Why do we become immune to our partner's love? Why do we starve the bug that seeks to infect us with amorous love from God? I think it comes from our willingness to set aside our priorities in life and deal with the pressures of the present - the stresses of life that need our immediate attention - and we lose focus on the big picture. All becomes blurry because of struggles at work, putting food on the table, disciplinary problems for kids and we forget the very first moment we saw the love of our lives.
The first time I met Christine is still crystal clear in my memory. I was returning from a fishing trip in Canada, my sister Vikki was driving; we entered the city of Minneapolis where I was to join a Youth Encounter band as the bass guitar player. My sister and I were very close, but she also had a endeared relationship with my current girlfriend at the time. As we stepped out of the car, I looked up and an angel appeared in front of me - it was almost as if I was a deer and the brightness of the sun caused me to pause - I felt run down by a train - WHAM! There she was, this tanned Venus wearing short shorts and a blue t-shirt, her bleached brown hair plaited, big brown eyes - She saw me too. The love bug took a chunk out that time. As I tried to pry my mouth off of the ground, my sister came and stood in front of me, grabbed my by the shoulders and said, "Don't you dare."
Well, I dared.
Throughout our married life, just like Trina and Dan have done, Christine and I continually search for new ways that we can invite God to infect us with the Love Bug. This sounds a bit schmaltzy, cheesy and all sorts of things that only Nicholas Evans could write about (or maybe Danielle Steele). But, I honestly think that we need to open our eyes anew every day and find ways to introduce the host into our system - be carriers of love - all sorts of pieces of the analogy can come to light. Love-sickness, it's a real disease, and a great one.
Find some time to talk with your loved one, or family, or whomever that is closest to you, to re-establish the things that you love about them and why they make you happy. Write lists including the memories that jump to your mind that are crystal clear when you were happy together.
Grow some bugs.
Friday, October 17, 2008
A Beauty Pageant
The other day I was perusing all of the movies that we currently own on DVD. An assortment of genres spring forth from the shelf in our basement: action, drama, comedy, of course children's movies - a tear jerker for myself when I need to pop the cork on my emotions (Armageddon). As I was running my finger across the top of the DVD's attempting to find something that would capture my interest, I came across a movie that I hadn't seen in a while - Little Miss Sunshine. For those of you who haven't seen this brilliant motion picture, it is a story about a family who must make their way across the great southwest to California where the youngest daughter is to be entered into a beauty pageant - a.k.a. the Little Miss Sunshine pageant.
As I watched this movie again, I noticed a great consistency with the plot line from another one of my all time favorite talkies - National Lampoon's vacation. The Griswald family, against all odds, wends their way across country to California to visit the Nirvana like destination of Wally World. Watch and see if I'm not the only one who sees the similarities.
Anyway, one line in the film really struck me as poignant. Dwayne, a young man whose dreams of becoming an Air Force pilot are shattered, is talking to his uncle outside of the pageant. Dwayne says, (and I'll paraphrase here because I'm not sure profanity would be a good thing for this blog) "All of life is a beauty pageant: Jr. high, highschool, college - job, home life. It's all one big beauty pageant, trying to outshine everyone else for some inane trophy or title that says, 'I'm number one!'" I agree with Dwayne on many points - Life, in its very essence, in its very fundamental core, is a survival of the fittest. It is incredibly easy to be sucked in to the inflow over us that tells all of us to strive to be at the top of the heap. Our very human nature screams, "Everyone - look at me! Remember me! I want the world to remember my deeds because if they don't, what was the point?"
I have seen beauty pageants before. Usually the television coverage shows only a few brief segments - the interview and the swimsuit competition. Listen to that: the swimsuit competition. Is it actually possible to compete while wearing high heels and a one piece swimsuit that looks like everyone else's? How are they judged? Are they critiqued on their ability to smile while being uncomfortable that everyone is viewing them as a sexual object? Why not have the television show the talent competition - I'd love to hear some great singers, actresses or see some incredible dancing. To me, Miss Wonderful would be a talented representative of the United States of America at the Miss Universe pageant (Don't get me started on what I think of a pageant called 'Miss Universe.') We compete to be beautiful. We compete to be beautiful by the standards of a sex starved society. Society says if you are thin, have straight teeth, nice hair and a taut body, you are one up on the rest of us slouches.
So, I have tried, at times to be anti-beautiful (it's not such a hard thing in my case.) I will let my hair grow to long. One such instance in high school, I had a Mul-hawk. For those of you who don't know what that is, a mul-hawk is half mullet and half mohawk. I know that you are all jealous and I will try and find a picture for my facebook page. When my brother first gave me my mul-hawk, I was an organist at a tiny country church in rural Iowa. One cold fall morning, I put my stocking cap on and drove the ten miles to church. The older ladies of the church greeted me warmly; they loved to have a young organist. "Good morning, Reid," they twittled as they reached out to shake my hand or touch my arm. I stood quite a bit taller than most of them and as I took off my cap, the reception was almost as if I had pulled a snake out from under my hat. Gasping, the ladies took a step back - I knew the reaction would be strange. They gathered in a corner while I took my coat off and placed it on a hook. Then, there was a tug at my sleeve, and Mary pulled me around to face her. She could not even look in my eyes; they were glued to the top of my head. "Reid, we have decided that you must wear your hat during the service." So, I wore my hat during the service even though I was in a room all by myself where no one could see me. I used to take naps during the sermon - fortunately I was a light sleeper and could hear the 'amen' at the end of the oration.
I have grown my beard long enough to braid it. My visage was so different when I returned from Europe 12 years ago, that my sisters and parents didn't recognize me when I stepped off the plane. Danielle later said, "I was sitting next to Vikki (my other sister) and I pointed to you and said, 'there he is, I think.'"
My other anti-beautiful that I shared at a service the other night was my first vehicle I owned by myself. My brother's first car was a 1980 white Camaro with T-tops - it looked like it was straight out of a Whitesnake video with scantily clad lady writhing on the hood. Maybe that's why he bought it. My sister Vikki's first car, I think, was a Honda - nice white one also. My little sister's first car, if memory serves me correct, was my parent's white Ford(?) maybe. Nice white cars. When I finished the tour with Youth Encounter, I had $800 to my name. It seemed like an exorbitant amount of money after earning $50/month as a volunteer for a year and a half. Of course there is no such thing as an $800 car at a used car lot, so I went into the megatropolis of Rake, Iowa and sought out a friend of the family who liked to fix cars up and sell them off.
He had two cars and they were nothing like the cars that my siblings bought. They were both Mary Kaymobiles - pink exterior (I like to think of it as a salmon color - much more masculine), maroon interior and manual windows. 1988 Buicks. He had two of them; one was non-dented, no rust that he was selling for $1000. Too rich for my blood. The other was well used; it looked as if someone had decided that a Mary Kaymobile was a good hunting vehicle and had driven it through the fields. Imagine your surprise, if you were a hunter, out in the bush waiting for game when a 1988 pink Buick comes ripping through the field on the trail of a deer. Anyway, Mr. Woodwick was selling her with an $800 price tag. Excellent. I was so proud to pay cash.
I packed up Pinky, as I named her - later we would trade her in for a 1983 F-100 brown pickup named 'The Brain.' So, I packed up Pinky pulling a 6 foot u-haul trailer that held all my belongings and headed for the Grand Canyon State (Arizona) where I would be holding a job as a youth director.
Funny thing - as a youth director driving a Mary Kaymobile, all the kids always new where I was. And, in fact, the cool thing for kids to do was to ride with me in the Pinkymobile on our way to youth events. The Anti-beautiful thing began to catch on. Soon, kids were asking me if, when they bought their first car, they should get a Gremlin or an Omni.
In some ways, there is something completely beautiful about not worrying about the exterior. Like Pinky, our exterior's all fade a bit after a while. The polish wears off, the rust begins to show. Perhaps the body become a little outdated, doesn't start as well in the mornings or cold - but cars are, at their core, simply just a mode of transportation. Our bodies, in some respects, are that also. What is important is not that they always remain shiny and nice-smelling (although I would think that would be imperative for upkeep), but that they bring our souls to people and places so that we can experience all that God has for us. So I say, enjoy the ride and stop worrying about the mode.
Well, I guess I mixed enough metaphors for the day. And perhaps I've delved a bit too far into an idealistic world. But, seriously, enjoy the ride today. Take a few minutes to not look in the mirror and take heart in the beauty of what God is doing in the world.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Relationships? Anyone?
I think all humans are egoists at some level. Human nature would dictate that we think much more about our own needs rather than the needs of others. We are so caught up in our own brains, trapped in our own skulls, linked to our own desires that putting ourselves in other people's shoes is a stretch in the least, and impossible at most times. There is an old Native American adage that says, "Do not judge until you walk another mile in his moccasins."
I think the new concept is, "if you walk another mile in his moccasins you will not only have his moccasins but a one mile head start."
It's difficult to be in relationship with other people. They aren't like me; they don't think like I do; they care nothing about what is most important - always putting my needs first. Much of our Biblical tradition encompasses this critical action of human nature - being in relationship. Humans are social animals; we were made to live with or near each other. But that poses the fundamental question, "How do I live with my neighbor? - especially when they are so... (fill in the blank).
Relationships, for me, sometimes will fail because of the other person, but usually because of some failing in myself. In college, I was in the jazz choir called the "Castle Singers." (perhaps a better name could be chosen, in my modest opinion, for a jazz choir, but who am I. Interesting side note, the name 'Castle Singers' was farcically changed to 'Cattle Swingers' then, on that same theme to 'Bovine Tossers.' It was an interesting, fun time in my life). The Castle Singers was a forty-plus member singing group backed by a five piece jazz ensemble. Throughout the year we would practice for specific events on campus and then once in the late winter/early spring we would travel somewhere in the States or abroad. Castle Singers was a mixed group, equal numbers of male and female and when equal numbers of males and females are thrown into close proximity, well, nature takes over.
I had my eye on Nicky for a while. She was smallish, with brown page-boy cut hair, brown eyes and small hands. She was a soprano in the Castle Singers - I a tenor. Every once in a while I would catch her looking at me out of the side of her eye, coquettish, you know the look, the one that says, "I'm watching you but trying to look like I'm not watching you but hoping that you are looking at me not watch you." I had talked to her a few times before I summoned up the courage to ask her out. The meal was fine but there was a subtle undertone of she wanting to become much more serious at that point in time. I, on the other hand, seriously avoided all serious dating relationships. The more we talked, the more I found out that we really didn't have that much in common, she was incredibly intelligent, I was, well, very social. After dinner, I walked her back home to her dorm room. In the dark, she reached out to hold my hand. Normally, this would be a big step in a relationship. I didn't want to hurt her feelings so I led her on, I guess. We walked hand in hand, every once in a while she would pull my arm closer and put her head on my shoulder, all the while I was recoiling because she was getting a little too close. I needed space - freedom; a ball and chain I needed as much as a second nose. We reached her dorm in the cool early autumn evening. The moment had arrived - the kiss. It's a big decision that has to be made. Is it a kiss on the lips promising future commitment? Is it a kiss on the cheek perhaps meaning a testing of the waters - wanting to appear wholesome? Is it just a hug basically meaning "You know what, I like you because you have such a nice personality."
The decision was made for me. I was only going to kiss her on the cheek but Nicky grabbed my head and kissed me right on the lips. I guess I knew where she stood, if only I could have told her what I was really feeling, what I was really thinking. If only in relationships we could just talk to each other openly and honestly with respect.
Instead, I ended up kissing Nicky, and telling her I would see her the next day, and telling her what a wonderful time I had. Nicky bounced into her dorm. As I was leaving, I heard some of her dorm mates shout out the window, "Nice kiss. Woo Hoo." They'd been watching us. Wonderful. Now their were witnesses to my lie.
Nicky and I didn't make it, obviously, since I've been married to Christine for eleven years now. Christine may be appalled that she wasn't my first kiss. I told her that she was, after our first kiss, but I don't think she really believed me. Anyway, the story with Nicky takes an embarrassing turn. Instead of telling Nicky the truth, that I thought perhaps friendship instead of a serious dating relationship would be best, I told my identical twin brother about a great young woman that I had met. I introduced him to Nicky. About five months later they were engaged. I guess Nicky was truly ready to get serious fast. In case you wanted to know, his relationship with Nicky ended in disaster also. Now I have that guilt monkey on my back.
Relationships. In order to be in relationship with someone else, we have to communicate openly and honestly, we have to establish ground rules. I have to learn to give in; I have to learn to "let love be genuine, hate what is evil and hold fast to what is good." I need to love others with mutual affection. Let others love me too, rather than just loving myself.
But not only do I seek relationship with other people, I desire relationship with God. So often, I treat God like one of my failed earthly relationships: I lie to Him. I am not open and honest. I don't seek to spend time with Him. I am constantly in the crush of succumbing to my own desires. Why doesn't God give me everything that I want?
If I truly was in relationship with God, I would seek to understand what God desires first and understand that God desires me to love Him with my whole heart, soul, mind and strength, not so that I can use Him to my own ends, but that he would use me to love others. It is much easier for me to love others when I love God. When I come to the realization that I trust God and God trusts me, I have no fear of jealousy, that God will fall for someone else more than (or instead of) me. God loves us so that we can love others without fear or reservations.
So, God established the ground rules for loving others. In the 10 basic commandments, God puts a fence around relationships to allow us freedom to communicate and love. Traditional understing is that the first three commandments organize our relationship with God. The last seven how we live in community with each other. I could go on and on about Lutheran understanding of the 10 commandments, but let's, at this point, leave that for a Confirmation lesson and live in the moment. Don't steal anything from God or each other. Relationships are about giving, not about stealing.
So, this week, wherever you read this, think about the relationships you have established over the years. How can you help fortify or even rebuild relationships knowing that God has loved you first?
I think the new concept is, "if you walk another mile in his moccasins you will not only have his moccasins but a one mile head start."
It's difficult to be in relationship with other people. They aren't like me; they don't think like I do; they care nothing about what is most important - always putting my needs first. Much of our Biblical tradition encompasses this critical action of human nature - being in relationship. Humans are social animals; we were made to live with or near each other. But that poses the fundamental question, "How do I live with my neighbor? - especially when they are so... (fill in the blank).
Relationships, for me, sometimes will fail because of the other person, but usually because of some failing in myself. In college, I was in the jazz choir called the "Castle Singers." (perhaps a better name could be chosen, in my modest opinion, for a jazz choir, but who am I. Interesting side note, the name 'Castle Singers' was farcically changed to 'Cattle Swingers' then, on that same theme to 'Bovine Tossers.' It was an interesting, fun time in my life). The Castle Singers was a forty-plus member singing group backed by a five piece jazz ensemble. Throughout the year we would practice for specific events on campus and then once in the late winter/early spring we would travel somewhere in the States or abroad. Castle Singers was a mixed group, equal numbers of male and female and when equal numbers of males and females are thrown into close proximity, well, nature takes over.
I had my eye on Nicky for a while. She was smallish, with brown page-boy cut hair, brown eyes and small hands. She was a soprano in the Castle Singers - I a tenor. Every once in a while I would catch her looking at me out of the side of her eye, coquettish, you know the look, the one that says, "I'm watching you but trying to look like I'm not watching you but hoping that you are looking at me not watch you." I had talked to her a few times before I summoned up the courage to ask her out. The meal was fine but there was a subtle undertone of she wanting to become much more serious at that point in time. I, on the other hand, seriously avoided all serious dating relationships. The more we talked, the more I found out that we really didn't have that much in common, she was incredibly intelligent, I was, well, very social. After dinner, I walked her back home to her dorm room. In the dark, she reached out to hold my hand. Normally, this would be a big step in a relationship. I didn't want to hurt her feelings so I led her on, I guess. We walked hand in hand, every once in a while she would pull my arm closer and put her head on my shoulder, all the while I was recoiling because she was getting a little too close. I needed space - freedom; a ball and chain I needed as much as a second nose. We reached her dorm in the cool early autumn evening. The moment had arrived - the kiss. It's a big decision that has to be made. Is it a kiss on the lips promising future commitment? Is it a kiss on the cheek perhaps meaning a testing of the waters - wanting to appear wholesome? Is it just a hug basically meaning "You know what, I like you because you have such a nice personality."
The decision was made for me. I was only going to kiss her on the cheek but Nicky grabbed my head and kissed me right on the lips. I guess I knew where she stood, if only I could have told her what I was really feeling, what I was really thinking. If only in relationships we could just talk to each other openly and honestly with respect.
Instead, I ended up kissing Nicky, and telling her I would see her the next day, and telling her what a wonderful time I had. Nicky bounced into her dorm. As I was leaving, I heard some of her dorm mates shout out the window, "Nice kiss. Woo Hoo." They'd been watching us. Wonderful. Now their were witnesses to my lie.
Nicky and I didn't make it, obviously, since I've been married to Christine for eleven years now. Christine may be appalled that she wasn't my first kiss. I told her that she was, after our first kiss, but I don't think she really believed me. Anyway, the story with Nicky takes an embarrassing turn. Instead of telling Nicky the truth, that I thought perhaps friendship instead of a serious dating relationship would be best, I told my identical twin brother about a great young woman that I had met. I introduced him to Nicky. About five months later they were engaged. I guess Nicky was truly ready to get serious fast. In case you wanted to know, his relationship with Nicky ended in disaster also. Now I have that guilt monkey on my back.
Relationships. In order to be in relationship with someone else, we have to communicate openly and honestly, we have to establish ground rules. I have to learn to give in; I have to learn to "let love be genuine, hate what is evil and hold fast to what is good." I need to love others with mutual affection. Let others love me too, rather than just loving myself.
But not only do I seek relationship with other people, I desire relationship with God. So often, I treat God like one of my failed earthly relationships: I lie to Him. I am not open and honest. I don't seek to spend time with Him. I am constantly in the crush of succumbing to my own desires. Why doesn't God give me everything that I want?
If I truly was in relationship with God, I would seek to understand what God desires first and understand that God desires me to love Him with my whole heart, soul, mind and strength, not so that I can use Him to my own ends, but that he would use me to love others. It is much easier for me to love others when I love God. When I come to the realization that I trust God and God trusts me, I have no fear of jealousy, that God will fall for someone else more than (or instead of) me. God loves us so that we can love others without fear or reservations.
So, God established the ground rules for loving others. In the 10 basic commandments, God puts a fence around relationships to allow us freedom to communicate and love. Traditional understing is that the first three commandments organize our relationship with God. The last seven how we live in community with each other. I could go on and on about Lutheran understanding of the 10 commandments, but let's, at this point, leave that for a Confirmation lesson and live in the moment. Don't steal anything from God or each other. Relationships are about giving, not about stealing.
So, this week, wherever you read this, think about the relationships you have established over the years. How can you help fortify or even rebuild relationships knowing that God has loved you first?
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A Large Leap of Faith
By nature, I am not a gambler. I neither particularly enjoy riverboats nor Kenny Rogers' music, although I did quite like his duet with Dolly Parton - Islands in the Stream. It's a catchy tune, I think, but lyrically not Shakespeare. Gambling does not light up any particular pleasure center of my brain. Taking risks does not really thrill me; I am perfectly comfortable making few waves and testing the water with my toe instead of my head.
For me, it is always enjoyable to go to the swimming pool and watch people to see where they are on the Risk Factor Scale. The RFS can be used in all sorts of places besides swimming pools - the RFS works at airports, amusement parks and public restrooms. Using the scale at swimming pools is quite easy. Those lowest on the RFS are usually the mothers of plural children who have simply come to the swimming pool to enjoy the liquid babysitter. Mothers of plural children (MOPC) wear bathing suits but never fully intend to use them. MOPC's usually have five or six different swimming suits gathered over the years of bearing children, but are hesitant to throw them out - and why would they? They've never really gotten them wet before. MOPC's on the low end of the RFS usually wear floral colored bathing suits with little skirts attached to the waist and are covered with a bathrobe. As they deftly prepare all the children for their afternoon of swimming, they are careful not to come in to contact with the water - generally for fear of ruining their coiffure, or more importantly, getting their hands wet so they can't read their Danielle Steele novels. After administering all the sunscreen and instructions to their plural children, the MOPC will check the surroundings and approach the water very carefully. If there are any splashing children in the vicinity, she will offer a visual reproach letting any child in the area know that she is not in the mood for any Tomfoolery. After the area is clear, she will sidle extremely close to the edge of the pool, swaying this way and that and slowly dip the largest toe of one of her feet into the pool. Satisfied that the 90 degree pool water is definitely too cold, she will retire to the plastic chairs affixed under an oversized rainbow umbrella where she will submerse herself in the lives of rich and romanced.
On the mid range of RFS sit the parent of small children (POSC). Usually, the POSC have only one child, although there have been instances where POSC's will have twins or other multiples. But, the parent of small child must go into the water with the child. The humor arises when the parent places the child into his or her flotation device and begins to follow him or her into the three feet of water. As the water level arises, the parent begins to bob a bit like a the head of a duck, the water chills each rising inch of skin. Of course the POSC has to avoid being splashed and sprayed by nearby children. There are certain impossibilities, and this is one of them. Measures are taken to make sure that no water is splashed either on the chest or back. As the parent goes farther and farther into the water following his child, his chest makes a concave shape, his mouth forms the letter "O" and he breathes in and out deeply sounding like a locomotive. Then, when least expected, he is splashed from behind and the supercooled water hits his back. His chest turns convex and he turns around wanting to impale on his gaze, the impish child who dares get him wet in a swimming pool. But, he has overcome the medium risk factor.
The Maximum on the risk factor scale are considered the kamikazes. They take no notice of their own bodies or the bodies of anyone else in the general vicinity. Often, they are swimmers who where cutoff jean shorts and sleeveless t-shirts to the pool. Kamikazes are basically adult children who come to the pool and actually beat their kids to the water. Kamikazes will race to the deep end, ignoring the screaming whistles and shouting of the life guard to "Walk!" and hurtle themselves through the air oblivious to the icy immersion that is coming. Because kamikazes have little regard for their bodies or their lives, they are also the ones who would dare push into the water a low risk MOPC.
I've known a few kamikazes over the years; I have never been one but I was surrounded by them in college. One bright sunshiny day in the fall of 1994, my five college housemates and I, along with 6 other young men, traveled to do something that most TV commercials will put disclaimers on shouting "Do not attempt this at home!" Once per year, classes are cancelled for a day of rest and relaxation. The 12 of us men decided to board up into two vehicles and drive north for a bit of exhilarating fun. The crisp autumn air pinched our cheeks as we squished all 12 of us into two vehicles. My friend, Tim, owned a late '70's Ford LTD that could have carried all twelve of us, but wisely we separated for the journey to near Nashua, Iowa.
We were full of laughter and expectation. During that same summer, my workmates from Godfather's Pizza had taken me on the same journey, to the rockpits to do some cliff jumping. I am not afraid of heights, nor am I ponderous, normally, when it comes to trying new things. It was fun flinging one's body from three stories to fall into 12 feet of water - kind of. After the initial rush of adrenaline and a slight degree of "Uh oh, what have I done," hitting the water, albeit like a bowling ball hitting the floor, there was a sense of accomplishment. To a young mind, it might be something like this - "Well, I've succeeded in surviving another bout with stupidity."
We 12 had decided to try out the pits. Of course with young males, braggadocio is a constant. Puffing out our chests we boasted who would jump the highest and the farthest; who would scream the most and who would not utter a sound. We laughed and joked until our chests hurt, but all the while a gnawing sense of anxiety permeated our large automobiles.
As we arrived, Tim's LTD doors screamed in protest as we pushed them open. The ticking of the engine provided a backdrop for us young roosters crowing and clucking out of the cars. We journeyed briefly through a patch of trees to the edge of the water and across the pond we saw the cliff. "That doesn't look that big!" Curtis exclaimed. Everything looks smaller from a distance, I think: mountains, buildings, problems. We took off our shirts as we swam to the other side of the pond. The water was freezing - perhaps it wasn't that cold but my blood was not pumping as well because of an increase in nervousness. The closer we swam, the bigger the cliff got. At the base, where the footpath led up to the ledge, 10 young men treaded water while two convinced the treaders that everything would be all right.
Shaking our heads, up farther and farther we climbed until I stopped them at the place we had jumped last - about thirty feet above the water. My brother Ryan shook his head, "Anybody can do this - come on, girls - let's go to the next level." In reality, there was no next level but higher my brother took us - no one wanted to be the one to say stop; no one wanted to be the one labeled as a chicken.
At forty-five feet above the water, my brother stopped at a very small out cropping and said, "Here is where the rubber hits the road, Boys!" In my own mind I thought, "Here's where my brain has taken a vacation." "Well," Ryan said, "Who's first?" Surprisingly, no one raised their hand.
Ryan looked over the edge, took a deep breath. I wanted to shout, "Stop! This is ridiculous!" But isn't it funny, how at some of the most important moments of life you can only move in slow motions, almost as if you are living in a dream? Ryan's body hurtled, plunged off the side of the cliff hitting the water forty-five feet below. A tremendous splash attempted to reach us as the rest of us carefully peered over the ledge hoping to find a young man swimming and not lay broken on the rocks below. For a few moments, nothing, and then Ryan's head came bobbing up to the surface, his first yell, "Yaaaaaaa!" His second, "Oh man, that stings!" A sense of relief huddled over us; the sense of foreboding left us -palpable sighs of joy. Tim said, "All right, who's next?"
None of us should have gone next. Just because one person made it doesn't mean the other 11 of us would have the same luck. But, one by one, we took the leap. Like lemmings, we followed a leader off the side of the cliff to the sparkling greenish-blue water below. I was the last one to jump. I'm not sure whether from personal fear or I wanted to make sure everyone was safe first. Leaping without knowing the resolution is a difficult thing. It's one thing to know the consequences; it's another thing to know the consequences and still jump.
I took three steps back, the gravel crunched under my tennis shoes. Quickly taking breaths in and out I ran forward and jumped into open space as far as I could. At first, there was a feeling of being suspended, perhaps somewhat like a puppet on a string, a kite flying, a dandelion seed finding a new home. But then the plummet. I'm not sure that I actually hit terminal velocity but I was going plenty fast. The whole trip took maybe two seconds at most but the water rushed up at me like a runaway train. There was no stopping this trip. The water and I met quite hard. I had been leaning back a little bit and the slap of the water on the skin of my back echoed in the pit. My brain registered the pain milliseconds after impact. I was underwater, trying to take a breath and scream at the same time; when I came up, my friends were all standing on the shore holding their hair and laughing. I wanted to scream but all the air had been knocked out of me. After being under water for a brief time, it was almost like coming out reborn.
Water is a funny thing - it's crucial for life and it can kill. Its chill is a salve for warm skin. Hit hard enough it can burn. When water is in us, we have life; in it we can die.
It was a baptismal like day. My life truly changed that afternoon. My friends and I experienced a transformation. Into the water, braving death, we went - scared and afraid. Out of the water we came, confident of life.
I'll let all of you finish the analogy in your own lives.
For me, it is always enjoyable to go to the swimming pool and watch people to see where they are on the Risk Factor Scale. The RFS can be used in all sorts of places besides swimming pools - the RFS works at airports, amusement parks and public restrooms. Using the scale at swimming pools is quite easy. Those lowest on the RFS are usually the mothers of plural children who have simply come to the swimming pool to enjoy the liquid babysitter. Mothers of plural children (MOPC) wear bathing suits but never fully intend to use them. MOPC's usually have five or six different swimming suits gathered over the years of bearing children, but are hesitant to throw them out - and why would they? They've never really gotten them wet before. MOPC's on the low end of the RFS usually wear floral colored bathing suits with little skirts attached to the waist and are covered with a bathrobe. As they deftly prepare all the children for their afternoon of swimming, they are careful not to come in to contact with the water - generally for fear of ruining their coiffure, or more importantly, getting their hands wet so they can't read their Danielle Steele novels. After administering all the sunscreen and instructions to their plural children, the MOPC will check the surroundings and approach the water very carefully. If there are any splashing children in the vicinity, she will offer a visual reproach letting any child in the area know that she is not in the mood for any Tomfoolery. After the area is clear, she will sidle extremely close to the edge of the pool, swaying this way and that and slowly dip the largest toe of one of her feet into the pool. Satisfied that the 90 degree pool water is definitely too cold, she will retire to the plastic chairs affixed under an oversized rainbow umbrella where she will submerse herself in the lives of rich and romanced.
On the mid range of RFS sit the parent of small children (POSC). Usually, the POSC have only one child, although there have been instances where POSC's will have twins or other multiples. But, the parent of small child must go into the water with the child. The humor arises when the parent places the child into his or her flotation device and begins to follow him or her into the three feet of water. As the water level arises, the parent begins to bob a bit like a the head of a duck, the water chills each rising inch of skin. Of course the POSC has to avoid being splashed and sprayed by nearby children. There are certain impossibilities, and this is one of them. Measures are taken to make sure that no water is splashed either on the chest or back. As the parent goes farther and farther into the water following his child, his chest makes a concave shape, his mouth forms the letter "O" and he breathes in and out deeply sounding like a locomotive. Then, when least expected, he is splashed from behind and the supercooled water hits his back. His chest turns convex and he turns around wanting to impale on his gaze, the impish child who dares get him wet in a swimming pool. But, he has overcome the medium risk factor.
The Maximum on the risk factor scale are considered the kamikazes. They take no notice of their own bodies or the bodies of anyone else in the general vicinity. Often, they are swimmers who where cutoff jean shorts and sleeveless t-shirts to the pool. Kamikazes are basically adult children who come to the pool and actually beat their kids to the water. Kamikazes will race to the deep end, ignoring the screaming whistles and shouting of the life guard to "Walk!" and hurtle themselves through the air oblivious to the icy immersion that is coming. Because kamikazes have little regard for their bodies or their lives, they are also the ones who would dare push into the water a low risk MOPC.
I've known a few kamikazes over the years; I have never been one but I was surrounded by them in college. One bright sunshiny day in the fall of 1994, my five college housemates and I, along with 6 other young men, traveled to do something that most TV commercials will put disclaimers on shouting "Do not attempt this at home!" Once per year, classes are cancelled for a day of rest and relaxation. The 12 of us men decided to board up into two vehicles and drive north for a bit of exhilarating fun. The crisp autumn air pinched our cheeks as we squished all 12 of us into two vehicles. My friend, Tim, owned a late '70's Ford LTD that could have carried all twelve of us, but wisely we separated for the journey to near Nashua, Iowa.
We were full of laughter and expectation. During that same summer, my workmates from Godfather's Pizza had taken me on the same journey, to the rockpits to do some cliff jumping. I am not afraid of heights, nor am I ponderous, normally, when it comes to trying new things. It was fun flinging one's body from three stories to fall into 12 feet of water - kind of. After the initial rush of adrenaline and a slight degree of "Uh oh, what have I done," hitting the water, albeit like a bowling ball hitting the floor, there was a sense of accomplishment. To a young mind, it might be something like this - "Well, I've succeeded in surviving another bout with stupidity."
We 12 had decided to try out the pits. Of course with young males, braggadocio is a constant. Puffing out our chests we boasted who would jump the highest and the farthest; who would scream the most and who would not utter a sound. We laughed and joked until our chests hurt, but all the while a gnawing sense of anxiety permeated our large automobiles.
As we arrived, Tim's LTD doors screamed in protest as we pushed them open. The ticking of the engine provided a backdrop for us young roosters crowing and clucking out of the cars. We journeyed briefly through a patch of trees to the edge of the water and across the pond we saw the cliff. "That doesn't look that big!" Curtis exclaimed. Everything looks smaller from a distance, I think: mountains, buildings, problems. We took off our shirts as we swam to the other side of the pond. The water was freezing - perhaps it wasn't that cold but my blood was not pumping as well because of an increase in nervousness. The closer we swam, the bigger the cliff got. At the base, where the footpath led up to the ledge, 10 young men treaded water while two convinced the treaders that everything would be all right.
Shaking our heads, up farther and farther we climbed until I stopped them at the place we had jumped last - about thirty feet above the water. My brother Ryan shook his head, "Anybody can do this - come on, girls - let's go to the next level." In reality, there was no next level but higher my brother took us - no one wanted to be the one to say stop; no one wanted to be the one labeled as a chicken.
At forty-five feet above the water, my brother stopped at a very small out cropping and said, "Here is where the rubber hits the road, Boys!" In my own mind I thought, "Here's where my brain has taken a vacation." "Well," Ryan said, "Who's first?" Surprisingly, no one raised their hand.
Ryan looked over the edge, took a deep breath. I wanted to shout, "Stop! This is ridiculous!" But isn't it funny, how at some of the most important moments of life you can only move in slow motions, almost as if you are living in a dream? Ryan's body hurtled, plunged off the side of the cliff hitting the water forty-five feet below. A tremendous splash attempted to reach us as the rest of us carefully peered over the ledge hoping to find a young man swimming and not lay broken on the rocks below. For a few moments, nothing, and then Ryan's head came bobbing up to the surface, his first yell, "Yaaaaaaa!" His second, "Oh man, that stings!" A sense of relief huddled over us; the sense of foreboding left us -palpable sighs of joy. Tim said, "All right, who's next?"
None of us should have gone next. Just because one person made it doesn't mean the other 11 of us would have the same luck. But, one by one, we took the leap. Like lemmings, we followed a leader off the side of the cliff to the sparkling greenish-blue water below. I was the last one to jump. I'm not sure whether from personal fear or I wanted to make sure everyone was safe first. Leaping without knowing the resolution is a difficult thing. It's one thing to know the consequences; it's another thing to know the consequences and still jump.
I took three steps back, the gravel crunched under my tennis shoes. Quickly taking breaths in and out I ran forward and jumped into open space as far as I could. At first, there was a feeling of being suspended, perhaps somewhat like a puppet on a string, a kite flying, a dandelion seed finding a new home. But then the plummet. I'm not sure that I actually hit terminal velocity but I was going plenty fast. The whole trip took maybe two seconds at most but the water rushed up at me like a runaway train. There was no stopping this trip. The water and I met quite hard. I had been leaning back a little bit and the slap of the water on the skin of my back echoed in the pit. My brain registered the pain milliseconds after impact. I was underwater, trying to take a breath and scream at the same time; when I came up, my friends were all standing on the shore holding their hair and laughing. I wanted to scream but all the air had been knocked out of me. After being under water for a brief time, it was almost like coming out reborn.
Water is a funny thing - it's crucial for life and it can kill. Its chill is a salve for warm skin. Hit hard enough it can burn. When water is in us, we have life; in it we can die.
It was a baptismal like day. My life truly changed that afternoon. My friends and I experienced a transformation. Into the water, braving death, we went - scared and afraid. Out of the water we came, confident of life.
I'll let all of you finish the analogy in your own lives.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Wouldn't It Be Shocking?
Our minibus pulled up in front of a small white house. The dilapidated porch seemed as inviting as a warm soda on a hot day. The final rays of light were sneaking behind the house illuminating only the tops of the trees. I looked at my bandmates, Jason and Aaron. Aaron put his head down and began to shake it slowly. Taking a deep breath, Jason pulled the door handle towards him and we disembarked to the cracked, cement sidewalk.
We'd been on the road for months. By this point of our tour, I knew Jason and Aaron very well. As part of a Youth Encounter band, we did not stay in hotels and almost always we, the men of the group, stayed with the same host families. Sometimes the houses were big and we'd have a bit of space to spread out the clothes that we'd been wearing for all these months. Many times the houses were owned by people who simply enjoyed having others stay with them. Their generosity was astounding and humbling at the same time. We were attempting to live out the command of Jesus to enter a town with nothing (we did have a few extra-clothes) and live on the gracious hospitality of others. Most days Aaron, Jason and I would pick up the women in our group and drive multiple hours to the next location where we would play music, interact with youth and peddle our t-shirts, cd's and other curios.
This town was like almost any other non-descript towns that we had encountered on our journey. Somewhere in the northeast (the exact location has escaped through the barn door of my memory) we alit onto the sidewalk and cross the crinkled grass avoiding hardened landmines of dog excrement. Small poop. Small dog. That was good. We had encountered many canines whose heads were larger than mine. One family had two great Danes running through their house. When Desley, who was a smidge over 5 feet tall sat down, she disappeared behind the horse-like beast. Jason pulled his suitcase up over the side walk to the house while Aaron and I took in the surroundings. The house was small; likely at least two of us would be sleeping in the same bed tonight. After spending so much time together, comfort of sleeping in bed was much more of a need than fear offending our own hetero-tendencies. Jason rang the doorbell, a lonely sound, much like one hears in the movies when doomsday is about to spring up from the backdrop. Not a millisecond after the first ring, a shrill noise assaulted our tympanic membranes. Dogs - plural - little ones. The door opened and the little Cujos attacked our feet. Three chihuahuas - a regular Taco Bell commercial. Not only were we greeted by dogs but also by a billowing, roiling cloud of cigarette smoke. My own pyrophobic self prepared to stop, drop and roll. A heavyset woman in a nightgown greeted us.
"Hello," she said. The sound of her voice was more like the sound of heavy machinery clearing snow off roads than human. "You must be the boys."
And a genius to boot.
Jason extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Jason, this is Aaron, and Reid." Aaron began to make his way to the threshold when the guard dogs stopped him with their menacing fangs and roaring, growling voices. Aaron held up his hands as if the dogs were trying to put him under arrest rather than repel an intruder.
The woman reached down and grabbed all three dogs by their collars and nuzzled her nose into the midst of the wriggling mass. "Be quiet little babies." She was talking baby talk to them. "They are just nice little yummy wummy boys. You let them come inside. Yes, oh, yes, little ones." Jason had to stand in front of me to keep me from running away screaming. The woman tried to extend her hand, failed once, and then placed one of the dogs under her meaty arm. "I'm Gladys. This is Carlos. This, Jose. And this one," she squeezed her arm a bit, "is Pete." Aaron said, "Shouldn't his name be Pedro?" Gladys tilted her head to the side like a dog trying to understand a human. "You know, they are chihuahuas, from Mexico - the other two have Mexican names - shouldn't it... be... Pedro, Peter, get it?" Gladys didn't get it thereby losing her genius status.
"Come in," she said glancing sideways at Aaron. "Make yourselves at home. I'll show you to your room."
Jason looked at me. I, too, caught the singularity of her word - room. Not plural, thus it would be a cosy night for the Watermark boys. She took us down the hallway to the farthest room. I wanted to crawl along the floor where the fresh(er) air was. It was like walking with one's head in the clouds - literally. She left us to peer around our (cell) room. She stayed in the hallway like a jailer preparing to shut the barred doors. I almost touched Jose, I think, but Jose reared back and prepared to gnaw the skin off my finger.
Gladys pulled her dog back. "He doesn't like strangers."
"Stranger danger," I said lamely.
Gladys stared at me as if I had green horns growing from my temples.
"Right, I'll just go into our room."
After depositing our bags, we three kings went back to the living room to find Gladys on her sofa petting her pooches. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, I asked about the oversized dog-collars.
"I'm training the boys. I just had an invisible fence installed. I don't want them going out into the road. See, what happens is," Aaron held up his hands. "We know what an invisible fence is." Gladys ignored him. "the wires underground are set to give a small electric shock through these collars when they try to cross. After a while they will know exactly where the fence is and I can take the collars off. I don't want any unsightly fence surrounding my property." As apart from the beautiful dog doodoo strewn throughout the yard. I didn't say that out loud. Fortunately my internal monologue filter was turned on.
Jason said, "I hope that turns out well for you."
"So do I," Gladys said.
About 11:00 p.m., I was startled awake. At first I thought that Jason had elbowed me in his sleep or Aaron had kicked my leg - yes, all three of us were in the same bed. A noise had come from the front area. My light sleeping habits had done me in again. The front door had opened and shut. At first I thought it was an intruder but then realized that if an intruder had, in fact, entered the premises, the three trusty attack dogs would make quick work of his ankles. Slowly I fluffed my pillow and attempted to flag down the Sandman again. Then, a noise. From outside, the noise sounded like a crow being strangled. Then, it happened again. This time, like the sound a balloon makes when you pull the opening tight. A high pitched squeal. I opened the slats and peered outside. There were Peter, Jose and Carlos finding the invisible fence. Not just once, but over and over they walked tentatively around the yard finding the jolts of electricity that would send them flying head over heels. Yip. Yapyap. I snapped the blinds back shut. Dumb dogs. Don't the realize they just have to stay away from that area of the yard. You'd think after they got shocked once, it would sink in to stay away from...
I am often times a chihuahua. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that underneath much of life is an electric fence. But time and again I keep testing the boundaries and cursing myself when I feel the pain. I am shocked - I should have learned my lessen the last time. Irresistibly I am drawn to the apparent freedom of the world outside the fence -but death awaits on that road. I curse the fence sometimes; I explode in outrage that something is outside of my will. Yip yapyap. If only life came with a visible fence. If only my life came with my very own angel standing at each dangerous intersection pointing me out of the way saying, "There is danger here! Turn round and flee-eth." But should I really need an angel like the one guarding the garden of Eden? Should I not already know what danger awaits?
Perhaps, but I am drawn still to sin like a moth to street lights. And each time I stumble, I am shocked - physically pained, yes, but shocked that I can fall into the same habits. I think the Holy Spirit is that electric fence undergirding my life and I the jolt I receive from sin is a benefit to me so that I will not receive the ultimate punishment for my revolt against God. Freedom is within the fence. The Spirit keeps me safe even though it hurts at times.
This is a precursor to my college years and perhaps a few of you can relate to a young man, after leaving home, discovers there are no visible boundaries. A young man who learned from trial and error - usually by error.
We'd been on the road for months. By this point of our tour, I knew Jason and Aaron very well. As part of a Youth Encounter band, we did not stay in hotels and almost always we, the men of the group, stayed with the same host families. Sometimes the houses were big and we'd have a bit of space to spread out the clothes that we'd been wearing for all these months. Many times the houses were owned by people who simply enjoyed having others stay with them. Their generosity was astounding and humbling at the same time. We were attempting to live out the command of Jesus to enter a town with nothing (we did have a few extra-clothes) and live on the gracious hospitality of others. Most days Aaron, Jason and I would pick up the women in our group and drive multiple hours to the next location where we would play music, interact with youth and peddle our t-shirts, cd's and other curios.
This town was like almost any other non-descript towns that we had encountered on our journey. Somewhere in the northeast (the exact location has escaped through the barn door of my memory) we alit onto the sidewalk and cross the crinkled grass avoiding hardened landmines of dog excrement. Small poop. Small dog. That was good. We had encountered many canines whose heads were larger than mine. One family had two great Danes running through their house. When Desley, who was a smidge over 5 feet tall sat down, she disappeared behind the horse-like beast. Jason pulled his suitcase up over the side walk to the house while Aaron and I took in the surroundings. The house was small; likely at least two of us would be sleeping in the same bed tonight. After spending so much time together, comfort of sleeping in bed was much more of a need than fear offending our own hetero-tendencies. Jason rang the doorbell, a lonely sound, much like one hears in the movies when doomsday is about to spring up from the backdrop. Not a millisecond after the first ring, a shrill noise assaulted our tympanic membranes. Dogs - plural - little ones. The door opened and the little Cujos attacked our feet. Three chihuahuas - a regular Taco Bell commercial. Not only were we greeted by dogs but also by a billowing, roiling cloud of cigarette smoke. My own pyrophobic self prepared to stop, drop and roll. A heavyset woman in a nightgown greeted us.
"Hello," she said. The sound of her voice was more like the sound of heavy machinery clearing snow off roads than human. "You must be the boys."
And a genius to boot.
Jason extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Jason, this is Aaron, and Reid." Aaron began to make his way to the threshold when the guard dogs stopped him with their menacing fangs and roaring, growling voices. Aaron held up his hands as if the dogs were trying to put him under arrest rather than repel an intruder.
The woman reached down and grabbed all three dogs by their collars and nuzzled her nose into the midst of the wriggling mass. "Be quiet little babies." She was talking baby talk to them. "They are just nice little yummy wummy boys. You let them come inside. Yes, oh, yes, little ones." Jason had to stand in front of me to keep me from running away screaming. The woman tried to extend her hand, failed once, and then placed one of the dogs under her meaty arm. "I'm Gladys. This is Carlos. This, Jose. And this one," she squeezed her arm a bit, "is Pete." Aaron said, "Shouldn't his name be Pedro?" Gladys tilted her head to the side like a dog trying to understand a human. "You know, they are chihuahuas, from Mexico - the other two have Mexican names - shouldn't it... be... Pedro, Peter, get it?" Gladys didn't get it thereby losing her genius status.
"Come in," she said glancing sideways at Aaron. "Make yourselves at home. I'll show you to your room."
Jason looked at me. I, too, caught the singularity of her word - room. Not plural, thus it would be a cosy night for the Watermark boys. She took us down the hallway to the farthest room. I wanted to crawl along the floor where the fresh(er) air was. It was like walking with one's head in the clouds - literally. She left us to peer around our (cell) room. She stayed in the hallway like a jailer preparing to shut the barred doors. I almost touched Jose, I think, but Jose reared back and prepared to gnaw the skin off my finger.
Gladys pulled her dog back. "He doesn't like strangers."
"Stranger danger," I said lamely.
Gladys stared at me as if I had green horns growing from my temples.
"Right, I'll just go into our room."
After depositing our bags, we three kings went back to the living room to find Gladys on her sofa petting her pooches. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, I asked about the oversized dog-collars.
"I'm training the boys. I just had an invisible fence installed. I don't want them going out into the road. See, what happens is," Aaron held up his hands. "We know what an invisible fence is." Gladys ignored him. "the wires underground are set to give a small electric shock through these collars when they try to cross. After a while they will know exactly where the fence is and I can take the collars off. I don't want any unsightly fence surrounding my property." As apart from the beautiful dog doodoo strewn throughout the yard. I didn't say that out loud. Fortunately my internal monologue filter was turned on.
Jason said, "I hope that turns out well for you."
"So do I," Gladys said.
About 11:00 p.m., I was startled awake. At first I thought that Jason had elbowed me in his sleep or Aaron had kicked my leg - yes, all three of us were in the same bed. A noise had come from the front area. My light sleeping habits had done me in again. The front door had opened and shut. At first I thought it was an intruder but then realized that if an intruder had, in fact, entered the premises, the three trusty attack dogs would make quick work of his ankles. Slowly I fluffed my pillow and attempted to flag down the Sandman again. Then, a noise. From outside, the noise sounded like a crow being strangled. Then, it happened again. This time, like the sound a balloon makes when you pull the opening tight. A high pitched squeal. I opened the slats and peered outside. There were Peter, Jose and Carlos finding the invisible fence. Not just once, but over and over they walked tentatively around the yard finding the jolts of electricity that would send them flying head over heels. Yip. Yapyap. I snapped the blinds back shut. Dumb dogs. Don't the realize they just have to stay away from that area of the yard. You'd think after they got shocked once, it would sink in to stay away from...
I am often times a chihuahua. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that underneath much of life is an electric fence. But time and again I keep testing the boundaries and cursing myself when I feel the pain. I am shocked - I should have learned my lessen the last time. Irresistibly I am drawn to the apparent freedom of the world outside the fence -but death awaits on that road. I curse the fence sometimes; I explode in outrage that something is outside of my will. Yip yapyap. If only life came with a visible fence. If only my life came with my very own angel standing at each dangerous intersection pointing me out of the way saying, "There is danger here! Turn round and flee-eth." But should I really need an angel like the one guarding the garden of Eden? Should I not already know what danger awaits?
Perhaps, but I am drawn still to sin like a moth to street lights. And each time I stumble, I am shocked - physically pained, yes, but shocked that I can fall into the same habits. I think the Holy Spirit is that electric fence undergirding my life and I the jolt I receive from sin is a benefit to me so that I will not receive the ultimate punishment for my revolt against God. Freedom is within the fence. The Spirit keeps me safe even though it hurts at times.
This is a precursor to my college years and perhaps a few of you can relate to a young man, after leaving home, discovers there are no visible boundaries. A young man who learned from trial and error - usually by error.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Molto Bene Music
There is something deeply fascinating about music. Permit me to be Captain Obvious for a moment, but not everyone on this earth likes the same kind of music - but it is hard to find people that don't like any kind of music. The older a person gets, the more that person dislikes the current popular form of rhythm and melody. In the '50s, parents were upset with the 'devil' music called rock-and-roll. When you hear the oldies from that time period now, how in the wide world of sports did my grandparents think that was music from the devil. It all sounds the same - kind of happy and bouncy. Then, along with the accouterments of Vietnam war time rabble rousing, the Hippie years of music occurred. Sex, drugs and rock-and-roll. Music took on an edgy, overtly rebellious tone. Parents of Baby-boomers hated that. My parents, if I read them correctly, had no real love for '80s music, or even worse, the mosh-pit filled grunge of the '90s. Today, as my children grow up, I find myself closing my ears to hip-hop and country music, not because I find them offensive, but I am a lyric driven listener. Country music, in my very limited knowledge, offers limited themes of abandonment by women, dogs and pick-up trucks, and I can only listen to short bursts of how many times I will be "sexed up, baby." I'm beginning to become the same older man I only dreamed about.
I don't know what it is about music that moves people. I can define what I don't like but it is similarly hard to describe what I do like. The genre of music is less important than what the melody and lyrical rhythm is. Music done well is much better than music well done. Just like steak done well tickles my taste buds, music well done - overcooked or smothered with too much sauce or marinade, makes my mouth revolt. Music done well is simple but sounds complicated. Music well done is overbearing, overpowering to my ears. I can't separate the instruments; I am unable to detect the lilts of the voice.
Another thing about music that fascinates me is that there is an infinite number of songs that can be written using exactly the same 12 notes. Because rhythm, melody and lyric can be changed and interchanged, songs are never the same twice - No two people can play the same song the same way. You can always tell when there is an impostor.
In high school (well, not really limited to high school) my brother and I enjoyed the opportunity to switch places at times. As identical twins, we often confused teachers and administrators. Friends and classmates had no problems telling us apart; my brother had a mole on one of his ears for years and, of course, I was the better looking one. Frequently we would fool those who didn't know us all that well including: people at church who ceased to attempt to tell us apart just calling us Reidryan and double dates. I won't get into the full description of that story at this point but the the ending of that missive ends with Ryan staring at me in disbelief and Ryan's girlfriend slapping me across the face. I digress.
One beautiful spring, April 1, if I remember, of 1991 - our senior year of high school, my brother and I thought it prudent to switch seats in all classes to see if the administration could tell the difference. Actually we switched in all classes except one class, my dad's business class. I'm pretty sure that he could tell us apart. But, our mischief included band class. This one time, in band class... My brother played trombone and I, saxophone. Because we each had our instruments at home to practice once per year, we often picked up the other's instrument and tried them out. Gradually we learned the notes, but I was truly not much of a trombonists. But, on this fated April Fool's day, we entered the band room full of spit and vinegar hoping to add Ms. Tuecke to our list of "fools". I went to the cupboard and grabbed my brother's trombone; he found my saxophone. Adding to the pressure of the day, my brother was first trombone and I first saxophone meaning we each played the hardest parts respective to our instruments. Warming up was no problem. There were a few giggles in the trombone section. They of course could tell us apart. Ms. Tuecke shushed us wanting to practice - so far so good. We began to play but I was only playing half the notes and they weren't really sounding that good. I was faking it really well, so I thought. After the first song was finished, Ms. Tuecke announced that we would be doing a new song that we hadn't practiced yet. It was a song that had a trombone solo and, you already know where this is going, the solo was promised to the first trombonist. Grabbing the bull by the horns, we plodded forward and when the solo arrived I did my best but the band, knowing something was up, laughed uproariously and I noticed that my brother's neck had turned a nice shade of tomato red.
This analogy can go multiple different ways but I choose this way. Even though my brother and I looked alike - even though we act in similarly ways - even though by first inspection we can pass for the other, we cannot fool people by the music that we produce. I could no more fool Ms. Tuecke than I could myself. The master of music knows.
You've already guessed where I'm going but I push forward as Captain Obvious. We can fake being Christ-like for only so long. We can look like other Christians, we can watch and imitate, but what song comes forth is telling. Romans 7:20 Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me. So I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. I know what it is that I want to do, but my actions - the very music of my life speaks otherwise and the master of music can see right through me. I can only fake my Christian life for so long. I can only look like a Christian because my sinful self dwells within my flesh.
It is at this point when I turn again to my Savior Jesus Christ the rescuer and perfecter of my faith. Galatians 2 19,20: For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who lives, but it is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God. Even though my sinful self comes out time and time again and unleashes great unfaithfulness, I am chained in death to Christ Jesus. The law that condemns gives birth to the grace that forgives and as I move about in my own song of life, it is Christ who moves me.
Grace and peace this week. Next week a move toward college years.
I don't know what it is about music that moves people. I can define what I don't like but it is similarly hard to describe what I do like. The genre of music is less important than what the melody and lyrical rhythm is. Music done well is much better than music well done. Just like steak done well tickles my taste buds, music well done - overcooked or smothered with too much sauce or marinade, makes my mouth revolt. Music done well is simple but sounds complicated. Music well done is overbearing, overpowering to my ears. I can't separate the instruments; I am unable to detect the lilts of the voice.
Another thing about music that fascinates me is that there is an infinite number of songs that can be written using exactly the same 12 notes. Because rhythm, melody and lyric can be changed and interchanged, songs are never the same twice - No two people can play the same song the same way. You can always tell when there is an impostor.
In high school (well, not really limited to high school) my brother and I enjoyed the opportunity to switch places at times. As identical twins, we often confused teachers and administrators. Friends and classmates had no problems telling us apart; my brother had a mole on one of his ears for years and, of course, I was the better looking one. Frequently we would fool those who didn't know us all that well including: people at church who ceased to attempt to tell us apart just calling us Reidryan and double dates. I won't get into the full description of that story at this point but the the ending of that missive ends with Ryan staring at me in disbelief and Ryan's girlfriend slapping me across the face. I digress.
One beautiful spring, April 1, if I remember, of 1991 - our senior year of high school, my brother and I thought it prudent to switch seats in all classes to see if the administration could tell the difference. Actually we switched in all classes except one class, my dad's business class. I'm pretty sure that he could tell us apart. But, our mischief included band class. This one time, in band class... My brother played trombone and I, saxophone. Because we each had our instruments at home to practice once per year, we often picked up the other's instrument and tried them out. Gradually we learned the notes, but I was truly not much of a trombonists. But, on this fated April Fool's day, we entered the band room full of spit and vinegar hoping to add Ms. Tuecke to our list of "fools". I went to the cupboard and grabbed my brother's trombone; he found my saxophone. Adding to the pressure of the day, my brother was first trombone and I first saxophone meaning we each played the hardest parts respective to our instruments. Warming up was no problem. There were a few giggles in the trombone section. They of course could tell us apart. Ms. Tuecke shushed us wanting to practice - so far so good. We began to play but I was only playing half the notes and they weren't really sounding that good. I was faking it really well, so I thought. After the first song was finished, Ms. Tuecke announced that we would be doing a new song that we hadn't practiced yet. It was a song that had a trombone solo and, you already know where this is going, the solo was promised to the first trombonist. Grabbing the bull by the horns, we plodded forward and when the solo arrived I did my best but the band, knowing something was up, laughed uproariously and I noticed that my brother's neck had turned a nice shade of tomato red.
This analogy can go multiple different ways but I choose this way. Even though my brother and I looked alike - even though we act in similarly ways - even though by first inspection we can pass for the other, we cannot fool people by the music that we produce. I could no more fool Ms. Tuecke than I could myself. The master of music knows.
You've already guessed where I'm going but I push forward as Captain Obvious. We can fake being Christ-like for only so long. We can look like other Christians, we can watch and imitate, but what song comes forth is telling. Romans 7:20 Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me. So I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self, but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. I know what it is that I want to do, but my actions - the very music of my life speaks otherwise and the master of music can see right through me. I can only fake my Christian life for so long. I can only look like a Christian because my sinful self dwells within my flesh.
It is at this point when I turn again to my Savior Jesus Christ the rescuer and perfecter of my faith. Galatians 2 19,20: For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who lives, but it is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God. Even though my sinful self comes out time and time again and unleashes great unfaithfulness, I am chained in death to Christ Jesus. The law that condemns gives birth to the grace that forgives and as I move about in my own song of life, it is Christ who moves me.
Grace and peace this week. Next week a move toward college years.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Blunder Years
I was an awkward middle-schooler. My parents bought for me my first pair of glasses when I was in fourth grade. They were big for my face, brown, plastic - perhaps you remember the '80's spectacles that extended not only over your eyes but covered eyebrows and cheekbones also. I had brown wavy hair that never really stayed in the middle part. I wanted to have hair like Sam Malone from Cheers; my favorite actor was Burt Reynolds a.k.a. Bandit from Smokey and the Bandit. It wasn't until my early twenties when I realized that both Sam and Bandit wore hairpieces. I was well acquainted with acne pads. My face broke out when I just looked at girls. Hormones are a strange thing and awkward young lads all look forward to the day when their voices stop cracking and they stopped worrying about hair in the armpits.
In the midst of trying to understand what my body was doing to me, I tried to comprehend what God had in store for me. It was at this point in my life when I attended Bible Camp for the first time. There was an excitement traveling that hour and fifteen minutes to Okoboji Lutheran Bible Camp. This first time (of course my brother and sister went with me), I was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. What would the kids be like? Would they be nerds like me? Would we sit around praying the whole time? Would there be all sorts of bugs flying around the cabins?
As it turned out, all of those were true to a certain extent. I think in some aspects, Jr. high kids are supposed to be nerds - in the very lovable sense of the word. Jr. high kids are all struggling to find their place in life. They are looking for acceptance. They are looking for stability in a shifting world. They are looking simply for someone to love them as they are rather than who they are about to become. The kids that attended Okoboji with me were all in the same boat. Most of them had parents who wanted to get away from their kids off for a week. Most of them were struggling with self-image. Most of them were nervous about the Bible - something read to them every week on Sundays, but still somewhat of a mystery as to why it made any difference in a world full of stampeding hormones. We did pray, but what was absolutely fascinating to me was that the counselors believed that prayer was important; we prayed, it seemed, fifty times a day and it wasn't the ordinary prayer "God's neat, let's eat." No, no. They were five minute prayers that called on the "Lord" fifteen times and asked God to "just" do it. We called them "Lord just" prayers. But the prayers never seemed forced; they "just" leaked out from counselors, former nerds themselves who had turned into devout college students. They were cool even to the point where emulating them seemed more important than Ted Danson or Burt Reynolds.
There were bugs, not the cockroachy kind that made my skin crawl, or the hand sized centipedes from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom that gave me nightmares until I was 31. Now I have a whole new set of nightmares that include eight legged pseudo-insects and onions. My friends, in high school, dared me to attend the movie "Arachnophobia" and I have been scarred since. I digress. No, mostly the bugs were the kind that made high pitched screaming noises at night and bit my arms and legs. As I look back now, mosquitoes really didn't bother me that much. I was too fascinated with Amy.
Amy was my first kiss. And that, my friends, is really what Bible camp is all about. Of course I'm joking, but when the parents are away, the children will play. I'm not even sure I should even share my first kiss story, perhaps she might even read this someday and not even remember. But first kisses are something I hope everyone remembers. I remember the first kiss I had with Christine but I'm not going to write about that here. This blog is full if digressions.
Talk about awkward. I'd known Amy all of three days but the end of the camp week was drawing near. We knew that we liked each other. I mean, we had talked for at least two hours a day and had sat across the table and meal time. I'm pretty sure my counselor and her counselor knew what was going on but for some reason they didn't say anything. They just kind of smirked at each other once in a while. Now that I think about it, I wonder if there was something going on between them? It was all so innocent. After day two, we had held hands - in the dark of course - we did not want everyone to see us and certainly we did not want the typical childish chant "Reid and Amy sittin' in a tree" hanging around us all the time. It was a natural progression and everyone needs a first kiss, although I'm perfectly willing for my own daughters to wait until college. At the campfire on the third night, around 9:14, on the back bench, I leaned over simply to whisper in Amy's ear something to make her giggle, when she suddenly turned to me and our noses knocked together and our lips accidentally brushed. She had braces, I did not. But I think I hit her lips hard enough that the braces cut in. She was embarrassed, I think. I forgot what I was supposed to whisper and she turned her face back to the fire. I sat backed and looked at the canopy of leaves over the fire in new wonder. Now I was a man. Even though she was a 7th grader, I had kissed my first woman .
Amy didn't talk to me the rest of the week.
But it was a new world for me. My eyes were opened like Adam and Eve - not in a 'let's be like God' kind of way - but new knowledge meant that I could not go back to the way I was before. My brain and heart were being stretched in all directions at Bible camp. Not only did I experience my first kiss but I experienced my first brush with God also. There was something completely exciting about encountering God on a daily basis. During the chapel sessions I could feel his breath. During mealtimes I could hear his laughter everywhere. During my Bible reading I could almost see his finger underlining the words as I began to read. It was completely the opposite of my Confirmation experience (which I'll explain in detail next week). God was becoming real to me. God was putting on a semblance of flesh - Jesus was someone I could relate to - he was someone that seemed prepared to interact with an awkward young boy like me. Jesus was someone who was prepared to stand up for me and all the other nerds in 7th grade. I felt a camaraderie with counselors who were showing us a living God.
And I couldn't turn back to the ignorance of my youth. No longer could I just pretend that God was an irrelevance. No longer could I ignore the movement of the Spirit in the world. No longer could I turn my back on a Savior who wanted to speak with me. The world was "just" different. And so I stood at a crossroads of life. Boyhood and Adulthood - not physically or mentally but spiritually. I had encountered God and there was no going back.
In the midst of trying to understand what my body was doing to me, I tried to comprehend what God had in store for me. It was at this point in my life when I attended Bible Camp for the first time. There was an excitement traveling that hour and fifteen minutes to Okoboji Lutheran Bible Camp. This first time (of course my brother and sister went with me), I was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. What would the kids be like? Would they be nerds like me? Would we sit around praying the whole time? Would there be all sorts of bugs flying around the cabins?
As it turned out, all of those were true to a certain extent. I think in some aspects, Jr. high kids are supposed to be nerds - in the very lovable sense of the word. Jr. high kids are all struggling to find their place in life. They are looking for acceptance. They are looking for stability in a shifting world. They are looking simply for someone to love them as they are rather than who they are about to become. The kids that attended Okoboji with me were all in the same boat. Most of them had parents who wanted to get away from their kids off for a week. Most of them were struggling with self-image. Most of them were nervous about the Bible - something read to them every week on Sundays, but still somewhat of a mystery as to why it made any difference in a world full of stampeding hormones. We did pray, but what was absolutely fascinating to me was that the counselors believed that prayer was important; we prayed, it seemed, fifty times a day and it wasn't the ordinary prayer "God's neat, let's eat." No, no. They were five minute prayers that called on the "Lord" fifteen times and asked God to "just" do it. We called them "Lord just" prayers. But the prayers never seemed forced; they "just" leaked out from counselors, former nerds themselves who had turned into devout college students. They were cool even to the point where emulating them seemed more important than Ted Danson or Burt Reynolds.
There were bugs, not the cockroachy kind that made my skin crawl, or the hand sized centipedes from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom that gave me nightmares until I was 31. Now I have a whole new set of nightmares that include eight legged pseudo-insects and onions. My friends, in high school, dared me to attend the movie "Arachnophobia" and I have been scarred since. I digress. No, mostly the bugs were the kind that made high pitched screaming noises at night and bit my arms and legs. As I look back now, mosquitoes really didn't bother me that much. I was too fascinated with Amy.
Amy was my first kiss. And that, my friends, is really what Bible camp is all about. Of course I'm joking, but when the parents are away, the children will play. I'm not even sure I should even share my first kiss story, perhaps she might even read this someday and not even remember. But first kisses are something I hope everyone remembers. I remember the first kiss I had with Christine but I'm not going to write about that here. This blog is full if digressions.
Talk about awkward. I'd known Amy all of three days but the end of the camp week was drawing near. We knew that we liked each other. I mean, we had talked for at least two hours a day and had sat across the table and meal time. I'm pretty sure my counselor and her counselor knew what was going on but for some reason they didn't say anything. They just kind of smirked at each other once in a while. Now that I think about it, I wonder if there was something going on between them? It was all so innocent. After day two, we had held hands - in the dark of course - we did not want everyone to see us and certainly we did not want the typical childish chant "Reid and Amy sittin' in a tree" hanging around us all the time. It was a natural progression and everyone needs a first kiss, although I'm perfectly willing for my own daughters to wait until college. At the campfire on the third night, around 9:14, on the back bench, I leaned over simply to whisper in Amy's ear something to make her giggle, when she suddenly turned to me and our noses knocked together and our lips accidentally brushed. She had braces, I did not. But I think I hit her lips hard enough that the braces cut in. She was embarrassed, I think. I forgot what I was supposed to whisper and she turned her face back to the fire. I sat backed and looked at the canopy of leaves over the fire in new wonder. Now I was a man. Even though she was a 7th grader, I had kissed my first woman .
Amy didn't talk to me the rest of the week.
But it was a new world for me. My eyes were opened like Adam and Eve - not in a 'let's be like God' kind of way - but new knowledge meant that I could not go back to the way I was before. My brain and heart were being stretched in all directions at Bible camp. Not only did I experience my first kiss but I experienced my first brush with God also. There was something completely exciting about encountering God on a daily basis. During the chapel sessions I could feel his breath. During mealtimes I could hear his laughter everywhere. During my Bible reading I could almost see his finger underlining the words as I began to read. It was completely the opposite of my Confirmation experience (which I'll explain in detail next week). God was becoming real to me. God was putting on a semblance of flesh - Jesus was someone I could relate to - he was someone that seemed prepared to interact with an awkward young boy like me. Jesus was someone who was prepared to stand up for me and all the other nerds in 7th grade. I felt a camaraderie with counselors who were showing us a living God.
And I couldn't turn back to the ignorance of my youth. No longer could I just pretend that God was an irrelevance. No longer could I ignore the movement of the Spirit in the world. No longer could I turn my back on a Savior who wanted to speak with me. The world was "just" different. And so I stood at a crossroads of life. Boyhood and Adulthood - not physically or mentally but spiritually. I had encountered God and there was no going back.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The Big Mystery
I was nervous.
For weeks my 1st communion class had been studying the Lutheran understanding of the sacrament of communion. As a fifth grader, I had little knowledge of big words in general, but throw in 'communion', 'Eucharist', 'sacrament', and 'Lutheran', and it's a wonder my head didn't start to spontaneously bleed. My parents were fulfilling their baptismal duties (another word that stymied me) by bringing the three of us to learn how the Lord's Supper offered something special to all who ate it. Any time the Pastor said the words "The Lord's Supper," I kept imaging that Charlton Heston would come out from behind the altar with a couple of tablets - it was that serious.
I think the rest of the class - the twelve others, a nice holy number - was feeling the same way. To me, it looked like we were just eating a small white piece of cardboard and a sip of (gasp!) wine, the same stuff we were supposed to avoid like the plague at home. The Pastor (I capitalize the name because we never would call the Pastor by his first name. For years I thought the church could only hire men with the same first name - Pastor.) would speak some words over the bread and the wine and voila! bread and wine turns into body and blood. Magic.
For some reason, when kids are brought up in church, it's easier to explain Jesus in a way that is more magical than miraculous. The stories that are told most often are the miracles but they are told in a way that leaves kids scratching their heads. "Was this guy like David Copperfield? I've seen David Copperfield make the Eiffel Tower disappear, surely Jesus could do that, right?" So, Jesus can walk on water - it must be magic. So, Jesus can turn five loaves of bread and two fish into a valid meal for thousands of people - it must be magic. So, Jesus can curse a tree right in front of the disciples eyes - it must be magic. There is no other possible explanation.
With any hypothesis, which a learned in school (after I learned what that big word meant), it must be tested. The hypothesis was, "Jesus was an excellent magician." So, to test it, I tried to replicate what Jesus did. I soon became drenched by failing to transnavigate the ducks' watering pond made of our old, used plastic swimming pool. I borrowed a loaf of bread and a frozen fish from the freezer in the basement (when my parents were preoccupied with something else, of course) and attempted to have them replicate. I could save my parents a whole lot of grocery money throughout the year if I could just figure out how he did it. Then, of course, I spent an entire afternoon picking out the right tree in the backyard to curse. I didn't use any really nasty words: I didn't think my parents would have approved of that. And, I'm pretty sure the tree didn't die because I was a bit squeamish about actually cursing something so beautiful to death. That one at least I could explain why it didn't work.
But then again, I couldn't explain the mystery of communion either. That is the word the Pastor kept referring to over and over - mystery. It is a mystery how the word added to the elements changes anything. The bread and wine still look the same even after the Pastor raises his hands and says the words. It had to be magic, then. I wasn't prepared to test this hypothesis because it would have been difficult to get my hands on the little wafer things and a nice bottle of burgundy.
I was nervous.
Our first communion Sunday; we were dressed to the nineteens. Slowly our classes was paraded to the front - some excited, some hesitant. The communion servers were very serious. Frowns were plastered on to their faces - very serious - we couldn't mess this up. This wasn't the Olympics - there was no semi-final round. We had already been told that if we didn't take communion seriously, soul-threatening consequences would follow. (I don't really remember that but it sure seemed like it was implied.) The Bread Server came to me and I raised my outstretched hands for the first time to receive the Body of Jesus Christ. I took the small, beige colored wafer in my small fingers and placed it on my tongue. Aghast, I realized that the wafer was stuck to my tongue. With horror, I tried to scrape the wafer off against the roof of my mouth when, lo and behold, the wafer became lodged into the very upper recesses of my mouth. I looked around and noticed that most of my classmates to were experiencing the same problem. Brian Elwood was digging around with his fingers trying to free the wafer. The thought then came to my head, "Jesus is stuck to the roof of my mouth and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it." The Wine Server came next. I looked right and saw that Brian had successfully freed Jesus' body from his upper palate with his finger and was relishing every last drop of wine - in fact, he was slurping the last excesses from the cup as the Cup Catcher was walking by and trying to take the little cup from his hands.
The wine came to me. With shaking hands I received the cup and then, unfortunately, my mind made the assessment, "Jesus' body is stuck to the roof of my mouth and now I'm going to flush it down my throat with his blood." Closing my eyes, I raised the small cup to my mouth, and first tasted the warm wine on my tongue. It's strange tangy sweetness made me shiver but as I swallowed it, I realized that Jesus' body remained steadfastly clinging right behind my teeth. I tried to pry it down with my tongue, but my tongue felt numb from the wine. There was nothing that I could do but return to my seat and hope that the body of Jesus would soon find it's way from the top of my mouth to the bottom of my stomach.
What I learned from my first communion experience was that Jesus was hard to swallow - body and blood - physically in communion. But as I grow older, I realize that Jesus' whole existence is hard to swallow. C. S. Lewis rights in his book 'Mere Christianity,' "We are faced, then, with a frightening alternative. This man we are talking about either was (and is) just what he said or else a lunatic, or something worse." A lunatic or a magician. Jesus is hard to swallow for me, as a ten year old, and me, as a thirty-five year old pastor. How (and why) would God care enough about me, an insignificant cog in the large machinery of life, to preserve me, and everyone else, through one saving act of all time?
I've come to believe that it's a mystery. Faith isn't a sensory input. I am glad that the bread and wine don't actually begin to look like muscles and blood. I am content to physically taste bread and wine but spiritually be uplifted by God's grace-filled sacrifice. I am content to explore the physical mysteries of the universe, how a caterpillar goes in and a winged insect comes out. Science may be able to tell me how all that happens but the mystery is, why it does that happen? And I think that comes from God's love for the entire world and for God's love of mystery. I need some mystery in my life - it keeps things interesting. Mystery inspires people - it sends us out to do extraordinary things. Mystery reminds us that we are not the only thing on God's mind. Mystery allows us to live in expectation of something next. If there was no mystery, there would be no hope or faith. If there was no mystery, life would not be near so interesting.
This week, I am writing down a listen of things that confounds me, causes me to sit up and dream a while. Then, I'm trying to ask the questions "Why?" and "How?" did God do this. By asking these questions, whether I answer them or not, allows me to seek out God's hand in a mysterious world.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The Beginning of the Story
A few weeks ago, one of my parents (who I won't name, but she probably wouldn't like that I'm telling this story) told me for the first time where I, well, perhaps I have to say we, were conceived. My whole emotional and psychological being screamed "TOO MUCH INFORMATION." I completely understand the relationship between sexual congress and conception, but for children, the spark of life is truly unreal until the parents drop that little tidbit into your lap. I'm can't even remember how we came to be speaking about how we came to be, but even speaking about it with my mother tells me how much life changes when you become an adult. Adults talk about adult things; we even laugh about the most important episodes of our lives.
My life began roughly nine months before February 27, 1973 in a place called...
I'm sorry, you'll have to ask my mother.
I shared spent my gestational months with two other people. Most fetuses have the luxury of introspectional time with their mothers during pregnancy. Mother's sing to their babies; they rub their bellies imagining where the head is; the father hopefully takes an interest in the mother's ever increasingly distended belly and tries to impart wisdom through the epidermal barrier. Not so during my time in the womb. I can only imagine that when my mother would sing, each one of the three of us would attempt to press our ears to the outer surface - perhaps near the bellybutton - straining to hear the songs of the 70's. Perhaps my mother was singing great classics like "Shake your Booty" or "Baby Don't Get Hooked on Me" by Mac Davis. I'm sure there was a tussle, a swinging of fists and Vikki would probably always have won since she didn't have to share the same placenta as Ryan and I.
I'm sure life was altogether different on the inside. For fetuses, that's all they know - they know 98.6 degrees, which at this point in my life is a little too warm. They know they are fed through a tube connected in their belly and the most satisfying part of the day is to suck on one's toes. How life changes; now I can't even touch my toes much less put them in my mouth. Supposedly my mother didn't know that she was going to have triplets until a week before we were born. Try to draw that fresco in your imagination - twenty-four year old mother, teacher, married less than two years, living in the frozen tundra of north central Iowa. In the last weeks of pregnancy, my mother went to live with friends in the town where the hospital was - my parents house was half an hour away from the delivery room. Imagine sitting in the doctor's office and he saying, "Mrs. Matthias, perhaps it's best if you sat down for a minute." For a woman having triplets, I think the most appropriate position is always sitting down. "Diane, we think there is another baby in there." Technology has certainly changed over the years. My mother knew twins were on the way but, Hello, how about finding another crib. The local newspaper, the Rake Register would declare, "RAKE POPULATION SWELLS BY 2 PERCENT: TRIPLETS BORN".
Every time I tell people that I was born as one in a set of triplets, inevitably - and I truly mean this, almost every person I have ever met has said, "Oooh, your poor mother." I, of course, cannot imagine carrying fifteen pounds of bouncing babies in my gut, nevermind suffering through hiccups and twelve appendages prodding all sorts of viscera that were never meant to be prodded. I cannot truly imagine going to the bathroom every seventy-five seconds because the bladder eventually shrunk to the size of a raisin. I can't imagine these things - but my mom had one thing going for her: instead of having a fifteen pound baby, she could break up the delivery into thirds; one baby girl 6 1/2 pounds - two boys, 4 1/2 pounds. So, mid-morning February 27, 1973, probably during the song "He Ain't Heavy; He's My Brother" the three of us witnessed our first day of life outside - Vikki first, then me thirty minutes later, and my brother taking his time five minutes after my arrival.
Linda Ronstadt wrote a song in 1978 called "Ooh Baby, Baby." For us she would have need to add an extra 'baby.'
People didn't feel as sorry for my dad but they should have. To this day, my dad has a phobia of strange smells and certain body functions. He gags when he sees baby poop. He scrunches up his face when a baby passes gas. He sticks his tongue out in distaste at spit-up. This is all so surprising because my dad was/is a doting father/grandfather. He loves kids and both my parents were exceptionally good at providing enough love to spread around that little triplet sandwich that they had brought into the world.
I'm not sure how much detail I should go into my first day on planet earth. Needless to say, and you will find out as I continue to write, I have difficulty writing in the first person singular. Rarely has there ever been an "I" almost always a "we" or "our". "We" had our birthday. "We" got Christmas presents. As Ryan and I are identical twins, I didn't receive my first individual gift that was different than my brother until I was married, I think. Perhaps I exaggerate a little, but I do remember racing to open presents on Christmas and birthdays because my aggregate set of presents was identical to my brother's. Whoever opened his present fastest was actually surprised - the other one was left to the ignominy of being the slower opener and unsurprised one.
Each story needs a beginning - an introduction to life, if you will, and so I have attempted to put our beginning into the open. (Notice, I wrote "our beginning" - it still remains.) In telling a testimony it's important to see where the roots are, just like looking at a tree or any other plant, if one can see the beginnings, sometimes it is evident what fruit will come forth.
My life began roughly nine months before February 27, 1973 in a place called...
I'm sorry, you'll have to ask my mother.
I shared spent my gestational months with two other people. Most fetuses have the luxury of introspectional time with their mothers during pregnancy. Mother's sing to their babies; they rub their bellies imagining where the head is; the father hopefully takes an interest in the mother's ever increasingly distended belly and tries to impart wisdom through the epidermal barrier. Not so during my time in the womb. I can only imagine that when my mother would sing, each one of the three of us would attempt to press our ears to the outer surface - perhaps near the bellybutton - straining to hear the songs of the 70's. Perhaps my mother was singing great classics like "Shake your Booty" or "Baby Don't Get Hooked on Me" by Mac Davis. I'm sure there was a tussle, a swinging of fists and Vikki would probably always have won since she didn't have to share the same placenta as Ryan and I.
I'm sure life was altogether different on the inside. For fetuses, that's all they know - they know 98.6 degrees, which at this point in my life is a little too warm. They know they are fed through a tube connected in their belly and the most satisfying part of the day is to suck on one's toes. How life changes; now I can't even touch my toes much less put them in my mouth. Supposedly my mother didn't know that she was going to have triplets until a week before we were born. Try to draw that fresco in your imagination - twenty-four year old mother, teacher, married less than two years, living in the frozen tundra of north central Iowa. In the last weeks of pregnancy, my mother went to live with friends in the town where the hospital was - my parents house was half an hour away from the delivery room. Imagine sitting in the doctor's office and he saying, "Mrs. Matthias, perhaps it's best if you sat down for a minute." For a woman having triplets, I think the most appropriate position is always sitting down. "Diane, we think there is another baby in there." Technology has certainly changed over the years. My mother knew twins were on the way but, Hello, how about finding another crib. The local newspaper, the Rake Register would declare, "RAKE POPULATION SWELLS BY 2 PERCENT: TRIPLETS BORN".
Every time I tell people that I was born as one in a set of triplets, inevitably - and I truly mean this, almost every person I have ever met has said, "Oooh, your poor mother." I, of course, cannot imagine carrying fifteen pounds of bouncing babies in my gut, nevermind suffering through hiccups and twelve appendages prodding all sorts of viscera that were never meant to be prodded. I cannot truly imagine going to the bathroom every seventy-five seconds because the bladder eventually shrunk to the size of a raisin. I can't imagine these things - but my mom had one thing going for her: instead of having a fifteen pound baby, she could break up the delivery into thirds; one baby girl 6 1/2 pounds - two boys, 4 1/2 pounds. So, mid-morning February 27, 1973, probably during the song "He Ain't Heavy; He's My Brother" the three of us witnessed our first day of life outside - Vikki first, then me thirty minutes later, and my brother taking his time five minutes after my arrival.
Linda Ronstadt wrote a song in 1978 called "Ooh Baby, Baby." For us she would have need to add an extra 'baby.'
People didn't feel as sorry for my dad but they should have. To this day, my dad has a phobia of strange smells and certain body functions. He gags when he sees baby poop. He scrunches up his face when a baby passes gas. He sticks his tongue out in distaste at spit-up. This is all so surprising because my dad was/is a doting father/grandfather. He loves kids and both my parents were exceptionally good at providing enough love to spread around that little triplet sandwich that they had brought into the world.
I'm not sure how much detail I should go into my first day on planet earth. Needless to say, and you will find out as I continue to write, I have difficulty writing in the first person singular. Rarely has there ever been an "I" almost always a "we" or "our". "We" had our birthday. "We" got Christmas presents. As Ryan and I are identical twins, I didn't receive my first individual gift that was different than my brother until I was married, I think. Perhaps I exaggerate a little, but I do remember racing to open presents on Christmas and birthdays because my aggregate set of presents was identical to my brother's. Whoever opened his present fastest was actually surprised - the other one was left to the ignominy of being the slower opener and unsurprised one.
Each story needs a beginning - an introduction to life, if you will, and so I have attempted to put our beginning into the open. (Notice, I wrote "our beginning" - it still remains.) In telling a testimony it's important to see where the roots are, just like looking at a tree or any other plant, if one can see the beginnings, sometimes it is evident what fruit will come forth.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Little Things
"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things"
Some of you may recognize the lyrics. From one of the most beloved musicals of all time, "The Sound of Music," this song epitomizes finding the good things in life. As the nun in training, Maria, tries to the soothe the children during a thunderstorm, the words ring out to tense ears. "Finally, beloved, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you." (Philippians 4:8,9) Think about these things.
Christine and I have just returned from a holiday to the great Pacific Northwest. Spending time in Seattle and surrounding areas was an amazing experience. The grandeur of the crushing oceans, the grace of the orca whales, the magnificence of the volcanic mountains overloaded my senses to the point of glorious meltdown. If only it was possible to describe majesty.
Life, without reflection, feels somewhat meaningless, as if the very moments that pass in front of our eyes are simply stimuli to force us to breathe in and out. Reflection is the very essence of the human mind - you've heard it before "I think, therefore, I am." Think about these things, Paul says, in his epistle to the church in Philippi. I began to think about my vacation from the perspective of that which was pure and pleasing and commendable. Full of praise, I marvel at the very magnificence of the creation of God.
Two of our friends, Ben and Kendra (which, at times we have shortened their names to Bendra much to their chagrin, I think) drove us into the Cascade mountains for a hike. The vistas surrounding the drive were gorgeous. We bounded through forests, drove past lakes and watched the clouds separate the sky into fluffy quadrants. We passed one of the spectacular falls, Snoqualmie, to journey farther on. Nearer to our destination, Twin Falls, we once again gazed on the guardian of Seattle - Mt. Ranier. What makes Mt. Ranier so spectacular is it's singularity. As part of the ring of fire, the line of volcanoes that dot the NW coast of the U.S. like (excuse my vulgarity) pimples, Mt. Ranier stands like a silent, white headed sentinel. From miles away I could see the immensity of this rock. I'm absolutely positive that I was not the first one to glimpse Ranier, but when looking at the volcano, I felt as if I was the only one at that time.
We turned onto a gravel road, the tires and shocks making a rasping sound, as if the road wanted us to turn back. We wound our way to the trailhead and after visiting the local unloading place, the outhouse, we ventured towards the river to the falls beyond. Sometimes the knowing one's destination takes such overwhelming precedence that the path to get there becomes ignored. In my pressure to reach the beauty of the falls, I failed to notice many of the delicacies of creation. I will not, at this point, journey into the pithy and overused 'stop and smell the roses' writing, but to some extent I missed out on quite a bit of the hike simply because my eyes were hungry for the impressive. At some points it seemed as if we were running, stumbling, to the goal. We didn't have a lot of time so Bendra and we were hurrying towards the falls. In one interlude, a rest, we happened upon a wooden bench that gave us our first glimpse of the lower falls. At this altitude we could hear the roar of the beating water and it was mesmerizing to watch the mist float up and through the trees.
Stopping only to catch our breaths, we pressed on. Soon the roar was deafening and all talk stopped. The only communication was between creation and our senses. Then, suddenly, we were there. A bridge spanned the falls and we walked over to watch the water course through rocks and plunge fifty feet below. The rising mist cooled our bodies; the sun warmed them again instantly. It was all spectacular. These large falls were impressive - impressed upon my mind was the image of a never ending spectacle. The water had been falling for centuries, I would guess, and hopefully will be falling for centuries more. How long had those rocks been stranded on the precipice of the falls? How long had it taken for the stones at the bottom pool to be smoothed? How many days of sunshine had bathed this particular place?
As I continued to gaze across the dizzying falls, a flicker of movement scurried across my vision. A chickadee, or some other small bird (I confess that I am not an ornithologist) had alit on the branch of a nearby tree. Its little feet grasped a small branch avoiding the sharpened pine needles. And then it hit me: I had seen thousands of birds like this; I had spied thousands of pine trees; I have seen blue skies in my life - but how often do I notice the very details of creation that give it its spice? How often do I notice the little things?
Humans are notorious for wanting the biggest things. Commonly it's a status symbol. Christine and I often laugh about how everything is big in America. We've got big animals.. We've got big rivers. We've got big buildings. When we build houses, we don't build them for the amount of people that are going to live in them, we build them big enough to house how many people we can think about. There are more world records for being big than small. Just in case you wanted to know, the world's largest ball of popcorn is in Sac City, Iowa. It weighs 2,225 pounds.
12,000 people came to look at it in one state fair.
In 2006, the Clinton Station Diner in New Jersey created the world's larges hamburger. It was twenty-eight feet across and eleven inches thick. It weighed 105 pounds.
I could delve into the largest of everything, but it goes without saying that we have a fascination with big. But what I would like to suggest is, how would it be if we were fascinated with the medium to small. In the midst of a flock of eagles (if that is what it is called), does one ever notice the crow? In the midst of the redwood forests (need I even state that these are the world's tallest trees?) does anyone notice the little pine trees shooting up only a mere 100 feet? I am not suggesting that big is bad, but smaller is important also and as I stood and looked at the chickadee on its perch I began to notice the little things. We walked down to the pool, and as we stood in the water, I noticed small, brightly colored pebbles reflecting in the sun. As we walked back to the car, raspberries began to stand out against the canvas of green ferns. Moss on the trees offered a great amount of fascination. I began to walk much more slowly. I began to breathe a little deeper. I began to find the different scents of the woods - not just the big ones from the pine trees but the smaller ones like the smell of the mist and the moss. It was not so overwhelming.
As I have returned home, I am taking more notice of the medium and smaller things in life. I am walking slower even tthough life is going faster. I notice that Josephine has freckles on her nose now. I notice that Elsa's eyes are more of a golden color in the summer. I notice that Greta, my almost five year old, is stronger than I am. I noticed that there are more scratches on my car than I ever noticed before. And, I noticed that Christine is becoming more lovely by the day. (For those who don't want gush, I'm sorry, but it's our anniversary in two weeks and I'm trying to get in good.)
So, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence whether big, small or medium, think on these things and in the midst of your walk, slow down and the God of peace will be with you.
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things"
Some of you may recognize the lyrics. From one of the most beloved musicals of all time, "The Sound of Music," this song epitomizes finding the good things in life. As the nun in training, Maria, tries to the soothe the children during a thunderstorm, the words ring out to tense ears. "Finally, beloved, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you." (Philippians 4:8,9) Think about these things.
Christine and I have just returned from a holiday to the great Pacific Northwest. Spending time in Seattle and surrounding areas was an amazing experience. The grandeur of the crushing oceans, the grace of the orca whales, the magnificence of the volcanic mountains overloaded my senses to the point of glorious meltdown. If only it was possible to describe majesty.
Life, without reflection, feels somewhat meaningless, as if the very moments that pass in front of our eyes are simply stimuli to force us to breathe in and out. Reflection is the very essence of the human mind - you've heard it before "I think, therefore, I am." Think about these things, Paul says, in his epistle to the church in Philippi. I began to think about my vacation from the perspective of that which was pure and pleasing and commendable. Full of praise, I marvel at the very magnificence of the creation of God.
Two of our friends, Ben and Kendra (which, at times we have shortened their names to Bendra much to their chagrin, I think) drove us into the Cascade mountains for a hike. The vistas surrounding the drive were gorgeous. We bounded through forests, drove past lakes and watched the clouds separate the sky into fluffy quadrants. We passed one of the spectacular falls, Snoqualmie, to journey farther on. Nearer to our destination, Twin Falls, we once again gazed on the guardian of Seattle - Mt. Ranier. What makes Mt. Ranier so spectacular is it's singularity. As part of the ring of fire, the line of volcanoes that dot the NW coast of the U.S. like (excuse my vulgarity) pimples, Mt. Ranier stands like a silent, white headed sentinel. From miles away I could see the immensity of this rock. I'm absolutely positive that I was not the first one to glimpse Ranier, but when looking at the volcano, I felt as if I was the only one at that time.
We turned onto a gravel road, the tires and shocks making a rasping sound, as if the road wanted us to turn back. We wound our way to the trailhead and after visiting the local unloading place, the outhouse, we ventured towards the river to the falls beyond. Sometimes the knowing one's destination takes such overwhelming precedence that the path to get there becomes ignored. In my pressure to reach the beauty of the falls, I failed to notice many of the delicacies of creation. I will not, at this point, journey into the pithy and overused 'stop and smell the roses' writing, but to some extent I missed out on quite a bit of the hike simply because my eyes were hungry for the impressive. At some points it seemed as if we were running, stumbling, to the goal. We didn't have a lot of time so Bendra and we were hurrying towards the falls. In one interlude, a rest, we happened upon a wooden bench that gave us our first glimpse of the lower falls. At this altitude we could hear the roar of the beating water and it was mesmerizing to watch the mist float up and through the trees.
Stopping only to catch our breaths, we pressed on. Soon the roar was deafening and all talk stopped. The only communication was between creation and our senses. Then, suddenly, we were there. A bridge spanned the falls and we walked over to watch the water course through rocks and plunge fifty feet below. The rising mist cooled our bodies; the sun warmed them again instantly. It was all spectacular. These large falls were impressive - impressed upon my mind was the image of a never ending spectacle. The water had been falling for centuries, I would guess, and hopefully will be falling for centuries more. How long had those rocks been stranded on the precipice of the falls? How long had it taken for the stones at the bottom pool to be smoothed? How many days of sunshine had bathed this particular place?
As I continued to gaze across the dizzying falls, a flicker of movement scurried across my vision. A chickadee, or some other small bird (I confess that I am not an ornithologist) had alit on the branch of a nearby tree. Its little feet grasped a small branch avoiding the sharpened pine needles. And then it hit me: I had seen thousands of birds like this; I had spied thousands of pine trees; I have seen blue skies in my life - but how often do I notice the very details of creation that give it its spice? How often do I notice the little things?
Humans are notorious for wanting the biggest things. Commonly it's a status symbol. Christine and I often laugh about how everything is big in America. We've got big animals.. We've got big rivers. We've got big buildings. When we build houses, we don't build them for the amount of people that are going to live in them, we build them big enough to house how many people we can think about. There are more world records for being big than small. Just in case you wanted to know, the world's largest ball of popcorn is in Sac City, Iowa. It weighs 2,225 pounds.
12,000 people came to look at it in one state fair.
In 2006, the Clinton Station Diner in New Jersey created the world's larges hamburger. It was twenty-eight feet across and eleven inches thick. It weighed 105 pounds.
I could delve into the largest of everything, but it goes without saying that we have a fascination with big. But what I would like to suggest is, how would it be if we were fascinated with the medium to small. In the midst of a flock of eagles (if that is what it is called), does one ever notice the crow? In the midst of the redwood forests (need I even state that these are the world's tallest trees?) does anyone notice the little pine trees shooting up only a mere 100 feet? I am not suggesting that big is bad, but smaller is important also and as I stood and looked at the chickadee on its perch I began to notice the little things. We walked down to the pool, and as we stood in the water, I noticed small, brightly colored pebbles reflecting in the sun. As we walked back to the car, raspberries began to stand out against the canvas of green ferns. Moss on the trees offered a great amount of fascination. I began to walk much more slowly. I began to breathe a little deeper. I began to find the different scents of the woods - not just the big ones from the pine trees but the smaller ones like the smell of the mist and the moss. It was not so overwhelming.
As I have returned home, I am taking more notice of the medium and smaller things in life. I am walking slower even tthough life is going faster. I notice that Josephine has freckles on her nose now. I notice that Elsa's eyes are more of a golden color in the summer. I notice that Greta, my almost five year old, is stronger than I am. I noticed that there are more scratches on my car than I ever noticed before. And, I noticed that Christine is becoming more lovely by the day. (For those who don't want gush, I'm sorry, but it's our anniversary in two weeks and I'm trying to get in good.)
So, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence whether big, small or medium, think on these things and in the midst of your walk, slow down and the God of peace will be with you.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Root of All...
Mowing my lawn has become somewhat of a fascination for me lately. I've never had my own lawn before. When Christine and I lived in Arizona, our lawn (and most of our neighbors') was made of colored gravel. Sure, when I lived with my parents, I spent part of every Saturday riding on a lawn mower around their two acre homestead. While listening to my Walk-man, Michael Jackson or Wham blasting through my padded headphones, I trimmed the grass, circled trees (as best as I could) and defied death trying to mow the ditches. For the most part, it was simply routine but I must confess, I wasn't really that worried about how straight my lines were or whether there was a little extra grass standing by the lilac bushes.
But now that I have my own lawn, I am a bit more meticulous. I must clarify. When I say a bit, I'm not confessing to murdering every strand of grass that grows against the fence, but I have been known to even mow the grass on a diagonal. In my own head I keep thinking that someone from the local baseball affiliate will come and ask me to mow their outfield. Talk about a great job. High stress, but great job.
In the last two weeks, though, I have let Elsa, my oldest daughter do some of the trimming in the front yard. My next door neighbor gave us his self-propelled lawn mower which makes it easier for her. But, it does tend to pull her forward like a dog on a leash waiting to find the next hydrant. She does a relatively good job except that the portion of the lawn that I have given her is full of roots from our maple trees. Over the years, the roots themselves still pass under the blades without being hacked into submission, but when the tires run over the roots, they cause the mower to go astray. Because I am a bit stronger than Elsa, I can keep the mower relatively straight. Elsa, being eight years of age, does not have the muscle to attack the roots. So, when she runs over them, they toss her and the mower to the side. Elsa's mowing rows look like waves on an ocean or some sort of pattern left by space aliens in a cornfield. I really don't mind the lawn pattern; I just like to watch her grow up.
But those roots intrigue me. From my little knowledge of horticulture, I always thought that tree roots should grow downwards. It seems as if every tree in our neighborhood has sent its hard tendrils onto the top of my lawn. Why won't they go down deep? Why don't they sink in to the water below?
I found the answer that question the hard way. Christine asked if I would dig a pit for the compost. No problem, I answered, but as my spade separated the grass and the topsoil, I noticed six inches down was gravel and hard clay. Flustered, frustrated and quite sweaty, I worked my way down a bit further. I gave up. It was too hard to penetrate deeper. I think my trees do the same thing. It's much easier for the roots to stay on the surface. Rain water is easier to collect on the top. The problem for the trees is, I think, that the reserves of water are deeper and when it is dry, the tree doesn't grow as fast.
This week a friend gave a newspaper article to me (and I have seen a few articles throughout the country in the last few weeks) regarding salvation and faith in the United States. It seems that throughout many of our denominations (and non-denominations) 70% of the people believe that there is more than one way to salvation, Jesus Christ just being one of them. Of course the statistics are based on a small minority of people interviewed but still frightening none-the-less. When I recall my Sunday School lessons from early on right up until today, I don't remember Jesus saying "I am the way, the truth and the life - for some of you" or "I am a way, a truth and perhaps the life for a small minority." But in our fast-food like culture, we want religion fast and easy. "C'mon, Pastor," some might say, "Just tell me what I need to get in to heaven and let me choose from whatever other spirituality to help me cope with my life." It's like a religious buffet: I'll take a bit of what I like from this religion, a dash of that, a healthy helping of grace and call it a meal.
It's all quite shallow, isn't it?
Seeking to send out spiritual roots, many of us (and I'll include myself at times) believe it's easier to stay shallow than to be changed. When things are going well, it's easier to to not dig through our tough clay-like hearts. It's easier to allow someone else to carry my cross. It's easier to drink quickly from the blessings than to dig deep and be sustained through the storms and dry seasons. We are a hard hearted animal, we humans. Constantly I pray that I can be taken deeper with God no matter the difficulty of breaking up my patterns of behavior or methods of thought. We, as Christians, need to struggle with the Word and what is says for our life. Will this be easy - I should think not - but the reward is what hopefully most of us crave for - an intense relationship with the living God, a flowing river into which we can sink our roots and be sustained.
May God grant you deep spiritual fulfilment this week.
But now that I have my own lawn, I am a bit more meticulous. I must clarify. When I say a bit, I'm not confessing to murdering every strand of grass that grows against the fence, but I have been known to even mow the grass on a diagonal. In my own head I keep thinking that someone from the local baseball affiliate will come and ask me to mow their outfield. Talk about a great job. High stress, but great job.
In the last two weeks, though, I have let Elsa, my oldest daughter do some of the trimming in the front yard. My next door neighbor gave us his self-propelled lawn mower which makes it easier for her. But, it does tend to pull her forward like a dog on a leash waiting to find the next hydrant. She does a relatively good job except that the portion of the lawn that I have given her is full of roots from our maple trees. Over the years, the roots themselves still pass under the blades without being hacked into submission, but when the tires run over the roots, they cause the mower to go astray. Because I am a bit stronger than Elsa, I can keep the mower relatively straight. Elsa, being eight years of age, does not have the muscle to attack the roots. So, when she runs over them, they toss her and the mower to the side. Elsa's mowing rows look like waves on an ocean or some sort of pattern left by space aliens in a cornfield. I really don't mind the lawn pattern; I just like to watch her grow up.
But those roots intrigue me. From my little knowledge of horticulture, I always thought that tree roots should grow downwards. It seems as if every tree in our neighborhood has sent its hard tendrils onto the top of my lawn. Why won't they go down deep? Why don't they sink in to the water below?
I found the answer that question the hard way. Christine asked if I would dig a pit for the compost. No problem, I answered, but as my spade separated the grass and the topsoil, I noticed six inches down was gravel and hard clay. Flustered, frustrated and quite sweaty, I worked my way down a bit further. I gave up. It was too hard to penetrate deeper. I think my trees do the same thing. It's much easier for the roots to stay on the surface. Rain water is easier to collect on the top. The problem for the trees is, I think, that the reserves of water are deeper and when it is dry, the tree doesn't grow as fast.
This week a friend gave a newspaper article to me (and I have seen a few articles throughout the country in the last few weeks) regarding salvation and faith in the United States. It seems that throughout many of our denominations (and non-denominations) 70% of the people believe that there is more than one way to salvation, Jesus Christ just being one of them. Of course the statistics are based on a small minority of people interviewed but still frightening none-the-less. When I recall my Sunday School lessons from early on right up until today, I don't remember Jesus saying "I am the way, the truth and the life - for some of you" or "I am a way, a truth and perhaps the life for a small minority." But in our fast-food like culture, we want religion fast and easy. "C'mon, Pastor," some might say, "Just tell me what I need to get in to heaven and let me choose from whatever other spirituality to help me cope with my life." It's like a religious buffet: I'll take a bit of what I like from this religion, a dash of that, a healthy helping of grace and call it a meal.
It's all quite shallow, isn't it?
Seeking to send out spiritual roots, many of us (and I'll include myself at times) believe it's easier to stay shallow than to be changed. When things are going well, it's easier to to not dig through our tough clay-like hearts. It's easier to allow someone else to carry my cross. It's easier to drink quickly from the blessings than to dig deep and be sustained through the storms and dry seasons. We are a hard hearted animal, we humans. Constantly I pray that I can be taken deeper with God no matter the difficulty of breaking up my patterns of behavior or methods of thought. We, as Christians, need to struggle with the Word and what is says for our life. Will this be easy - I should think not - but the reward is what hopefully most of us crave for - an intense relationship with the living God, a flowing river into which we can sink our roots and be sustained.
May God grant you deep spiritual fulfilment this week.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Are You Dead Yet?
Unless you are 10 years of age or younger, a nap is a beautiful thing. Truly, there is nothing like falling asleep on my favorite sofa. Perhaps a nice comfortable spot on the floor, in the sunshine spread eagle as if to absorb every last moment of peace that a nap can bring. Some people collect memories of mountaintop experiences: climbing Everest, Bungee jumping a New Zealand Gorge, finishing a novel; I collect these things (not those exact things) but I also have a sorting house in my head of my favorite places that I have taken naps. Usually, I recall beaches or grass patches in front of a famous building (I know, I'm a bit of a dullard at times). One of my favorite naps I ever took caused me to wake up laughing. I was laughing, not because the dream was funny, but how I awoke.
Christine, the girls and I lived in Fort Smith, Arkansas for a year. The residence provided for my internship was large, airy and full of windows. The bedroom Christine an I shared was wood paneled and dark - perfect for night sleeping. But, my favorite room to nap in, though, was called the cloud room. Across the ceiling, a previous resident had painted it blue with cottonball-like clouds scattered across. Two whole sides of the room were panes of glass and as I would settle down for a nap, like a dog trying to find a comfortable spot, I felt like I was preparing to sleep outdoors.
Time doesn't exist during naps, but as I was swirling to the top to awake, I felt a tugging at my hand. I don't normally sleep on my back, but on this occasion not only was I on my back but one of my arms was hanging off the side of the bed. At first I thought I was dreaming - perhaps my arm had fallen asleep and was beginning to twitch. But, the longer I swam to the surface of reality, I realized this was no twitch but a constant pressure. Just before I opened my eyes I felt two little hands pressed on my face and a little push of air in my ear.
Then a voice, "Daddy, are you dead yet?"
I grabbed Greta, who was then two years of age, and began to tickle her. Not only was I awake, but when I tickle the girls, I feel and remember that I am alive. Greta, although perhaps she wondered if I truly had perished in the middle of a blissful dream, was simply asking me if I was ready to play - to be alive with her.
There are many who walk through life as if asleep. Sometimes I am one of those - days take on a monotony; hours lull me into passivity. At certain times, I am simply unaware of what just happened. Startled out of a strange reverie, I have blinked and the whole world has changed. I open my eyes and I am married and have three children. I own my own house (kind of). My children continue to stretch inches every day, it seems. I spend minutes, hours and days at work and sometimes I wonder if I will ever get close to catching up (in some ways, I hope not). I am no longer an impetuous child, a boisterous teen, a rebellious twenty-something or whatever I was a few years ago. I have those memories; I import them everyday to help me function with the world, I mix them with the dreams of the future but now, now! I must live - in the present. I am not dead yet. I am alive! Have you ever stood on the bank of lake and screamed at the top of your lungs "I AM ALIVE!"?
Yeah, me neither - but it's about time I do that.
Question for you - are you dead yet? When you open your eyes tomorrow morning or after a pleasant nap, how will your life have changed? Is there a piece open for rejuvenation in your family life? Is there a spot to meditate on what God is doing in your life - how the Holy Spirit will help shape your decision making to allow you move. Life is about movement - not just physical but emotional and spiritual also. Is there a place where you can be happy in yourself?
Question: Are you dead yet? Not yet. Not yet.
Move.
Christine, the girls and I lived in Fort Smith, Arkansas for a year. The residence provided for my internship was large, airy and full of windows. The bedroom Christine an I shared was wood paneled and dark - perfect for night sleeping. But, my favorite room to nap in, though, was called the cloud room. Across the ceiling, a previous resident had painted it blue with cottonball-like clouds scattered across. Two whole sides of the room were panes of glass and as I would settle down for a nap, like a dog trying to find a comfortable spot, I felt like I was preparing to sleep outdoors.
Time doesn't exist during naps, but as I was swirling to the top to awake, I felt a tugging at my hand. I don't normally sleep on my back, but on this occasion not only was I on my back but one of my arms was hanging off the side of the bed. At first I thought I was dreaming - perhaps my arm had fallen asleep and was beginning to twitch. But, the longer I swam to the surface of reality, I realized this was no twitch but a constant pressure. Just before I opened my eyes I felt two little hands pressed on my face and a little push of air in my ear.
Then a voice, "Daddy, are you dead yet?"
I grabbed Greta, who was then two years of age, and began to tickle her. Not only was I awake, but when I tickle the girls, I feel and remember that I am alive. Greta, although perhaps she wondered if I truly had perished in the middle of a blissful dream, was simply asking me if I was ready to play - to be alive with her.
There are many who walk through life as if asleep. Sometimes I am one of those - days take on a monotony; hours lull me into passivity. At certain times, I am simply unaware of what just happened. Startled out of a strange reverie, I have blinked and the whole world has changed. I open my eyes and I am married and have three children. I own my own house (kind of). My children continue to stretch inches every day, it seems. I spend minutes, hours and days at work and sometimes I wonder if I will ever get close to catching up (in some ways, I hope not). I am no longer an impetuous child, a boisterous teen, a rebellious twenty-something or whatever I was a few years ago. I have those memories; I import them everyday to help me function with the world, I mix them with the dreams of the future but now, now! I must live - in the present. I am not dead yet. I am alive! Have you ever stood on the bank of lake and screamed at the top of your lungs "I AM ALIVE!"?
Yeah, me neither - but it's about time I do that.
Question for you - are you dead yet? When you open your eyes tomorrow morning or after a pleasant nap, how will your life have changed? Is there a piece open for rejuvenation in your family life? Is there a spot to meditate on what God is doing in your life - how the Holy Spirit will help shape your decision making to allow you move. Life is about movement - not just physical but emotional and spiritual also. Is there a place where you can be happy in yourself?
Question: Are you dead yet? Not yet. Not yet.
Move.
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