The Earth is the Lord's and Everything in It...

I want to start by stating that the following comments I am about to make are absolutely non-scientific. Although I may borrow from terminology from the realms of science, I am in no way attempting to make a scientific claim, advance a particular theory, propose a hypothesis, or prove the existence of any thing, force, or Superior Being. Further, and for the record, I readily admit that my opinions are biased, and are rooted within a belief system that influences my approach to such topics as science. To all my science-minded friends: I applaud the work that you do, I appreciate the work that you do, and I admire your commitment to the scientific method, particularly, that of letting the facts speak for themselves without approaching them from a position of bias. You have one leg up on me. I admire you for your objectivity.

No, I do not wish to make any scientific claims. I plan to speak upon a subject that falls mores under the category of the arts. Science has nothing intrinsically to do with the arts, aside from the fact that the arts cannot exist outside of the impact of science. We create within the arts, but we cannot make things manifest which do not already exist. Ideas, nuances, genres, and inspiration all come from outside us. We merely mimic, duplicate, adjust or re-discover that which was already known.

Recently, I have been directing my senior high students to approach life from the direction of David, King of Israel, who wrote the following psalm, listed as the twenty-fourth in the book that bears the title Psalms.
0    Of David. A psalm.
1    The earth is the LORD’S, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it;
2 for he founded it upon the seas
and established it upon the waters.
3    Who may ascend the hill of the LORD?
Who may stand in his holy place?
4 He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
who does not lift up his soul to an idol
or swear by what is false.
5 He will receive blessing from the LORD
and vindication from God his Savior.
6 Such is the generation of those who seek him,
who seek your face, O God of Jacob.    Selah
7    Lift up your heads, O you gates;
be lifted up, you ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
8 Who is this King of glory?
The LORD strong and mighty,
the LORD mighty in battle.
9 Lift up your heads, O you gates;
lift them up, you ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
10 Who is he, this King of glory?
The LORD Almighty—
he is the King of glory.    Selah

I’ve posted the entire psalm, so you all can keep me accountable to the text. I do not wish to take anything out of context. From this point on, I will only refer to verses 1 & 2, but you can look to the whole of what David wrote to see if my observations remain consistent.

That, quite possibly, was the longest disclaimer I have ever posted! :) On with my blog....

Tonight, I had the opportunity to cook dinner for the family. While I admit that there are times when form follows function, I generally look very forward to cooking for my family because it is an opportunity for me to co-create with the Creator of all things. It becomes an exercise in worship.... literally.

*For the sake of my brothers ands sisters out there that do not share my theological views/faith-based system of beliefs, I want you all to know that I am not taking this opportunity to wave a chicken in the air and chant incantations over the bar-b-cue.

Where was I...? Oh, yeah. The Earth is the Lord’s and everything in it. When I read everything, I take that word quite literally. For instance: The laptop upon which I am typing this blog may legally belong to the church at which I serve and am employed, but in a greater sense, it belongs to God Himself. Misusing my laptop is a sin against my employer on a lower level, and ultimately a sin against God, since He owns it all. And all this has what to do with food and cooking? Everything.

Every lip-smacking, tastebud tantalizing, olfactory arousing thing to do with God. Each ingredient belongs to God. Each and every thing in tonight’s dinner was supplied by God for my family’s sustenance and for His glory. When I make each recipe about me, I fall short of the mark of glorifying Him. When I get the attention for a particular recipe and do not acknowledge the One who first made all things (including my recipe itself), I enter the realm of egocentricity: It’s all about me and my accomplishments.

Taste is an olfactory sense for which I have limited scientific understanding. But, I grasp the idea that most things have a taste. In the culinary world, there are values placed upon freshness, region of origin, aging, the content of the soil’s nutrients, freshwater or saltwater, corn-fead, grass-fed, milk-fed, etc.... so many variables on the artist’s palate from which to choose, organize, and introduce together. And each one--each mouthwatering molecular miracle--each came by its flavor by design, and we artists do nothing more than discover the treasure from the Master Artist.

And then there is the variable of the cooking process! Fried, boiled, poached, steamed, grilled, sautéed, slow-roasted, over fire (charcoal, gas, propane, wood fire)... in cast iron, stainless, copper... on a cedar plank, or hanging in balance on a rotisserie... every seasoning, every seed bearing plant, every leaf, pod, flower, root.... each with its own fingerprint, essence and aroma, all brought together to make the food sing and dance on our tongues.

And even yet more wonder at it all! The tongue! “With it we praise our Lord and Father, and curse men who have been made in God’s likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers, this should not be” (James 3:9-10). The tongue, with its abilities to taste and savor and distinguish and categorize and memorize the different sensations and stimuli it receives during the meal. Wonder, O wonder! Did the tongue evolve to taste, or did the tastes evolve to the tongue? To do so in tandem seems to insure the destruction of one at the satisfaction of the other! Could they have been made by design... to taste that way on purpose... to the Glory of God? His gift to us, that we turned back for worship upon ourselves?

What if? What if I approached every single situation and circumstance in my life with the same ferocity as I do my time of co-creating with The Creator when I enter the grocery store produce aisle or the open the fridge? What if...

• I treated my wife like she belonged to God and was His special gift to me? Would that affect the way I loved her, took care of her, provided for her and held her?
• I treated my bosses like they were put there by God to be over me... to teach me to strive for greater things, to work hard and honest, always striving to grow in my own character (completely independent of whether my bosses earned my respect or best work)?
• I saw my children as a gift on loan, that the work and guidance I poured into them was not for my praise or feelings of worth or purpose, but because my desire was to honor God by being His hands and feet and heart, helping them to grow dependent upon no man for their worth (including themselves), but upon His value that was placed on them, knowing each hair on their heads, beautifully and wonderfully made?
• My attitude of the Earth belonging to the Lord, and everything in it took over my very being, and I began to see things the way He sees them, and not the materialistic way my culture/politics/media wishes me to see things?

Then I would become a different man, indeed... Joyful always, praying continually, giving thanks in all circumstances... perhaps that is God’s will for my life, if it is rooted in Christ Jesus.

Once there was a time, and that time is not now...

Every once in a great while, Candace and I will go out on date night. Date nights are sacred. They are few and far between. They are expensive. They are coveted, protected, and highly prized. Don’t mess with date night. Ever.

There’s a little place up the street that is a dinner-and-a-movie joint all in one. It is a fledgling national chain that has really a hit for the 21-30 year-old crowd who seem to use it as a pick-up place or dumping ground. Either way, it is sometimes hit-or-miss as far as the crowd goes, but is close enough to make it worth the while. You can sit there watching a movie, and the waiter will bring you a beer, glass of wine or cocktail, and pretty good food, too.

We went to see Prometheus. Not bad. Until the suspenseful parts started to kick in. Thats when a couple in the theater began to have a conversation the whole theater could hear. These two just kept taking away, regardless of how many times they were being politely “SHHhhhhh’d.” Candace leaned in to me and said, “Those two are driving me nuts”, which we all know is wife-speak for “go over there and do something about this.” Because of the nature of the establishment and the nature of its movie-goers after a few rounds of liquid concessions, I figure the best way to handle the situation is to ask the waiter to intervene. No sense in making trouble...

No waiter to be found for about 20 minutes. I am guessing fear. Makes me speculate the size and tattoo placement of the offender.

“I’m getting sick of this!” (Translation: You better get up right now or this is going to be a pretty lousy date night, if you know what I am saying!)

I get up, move over to the other side of my wife to cut her off from the offenders, and hopefully make enough commotion to let the couple know that the crowd moving against them.

The silence lasted about 20 seconds.

I look at Candace and say, “Let me handle this.” I decide to count to 10. Upon reaching the magic number, I plan to stand up, walk over the couple, and ask them (as politely as I can) to please hold it down, or carry out their conversation elsewhere. One. Two. Three... Four... I get to lucky number Seven when Candace takes matters into her own hands...

“Shut up!!!”

The couple begin to respond to Candace in derogatory fashion... She cuts them off.

“SHUT UP!!! Just watch the movie!!!”

The snickering and cheering behind us and around us completely bolsters the confidence of my 5-foot, 1-inch Firecracker, while I am preparing for a testosterone invasion from across the theater....

After my Firecracker of a wife reset the tone for the remainder of the evening (movie in front of me, wife to my left, antagonist to the right), the movie continued to entertain and the crowd seemed to be back on track in their focus. Roll the credits, cuz this is where it might get interesting.

At the conclusion of the film, I turned to my dear, sweet and somewhat diminutive wife and said (words to the effect), “I am going to stand up. You are going to stand up. I am going to walk to the aisle and make room for you to step into the aisle. You are going to look straight at the door, the floor or whatever else is directly in front of you. I don’t care if anyone says anything to you, is staring at you, or throws anything at you. You will keep looking forward, you will keep walking forward, and you will not say ANYTHING.”

“O.K., O.K!”, she said. I know this woman. From this point out, anything goes.

Plan A commences. I stand up... absolutely as tall as I can. Thankfully, I was wearing a couple layers so my chicken-wing arms were covered. About then, I was carrying 230 on the 6’4” frame (and not in the places that instill awe, mind you). The object here, if I remember rightly from my billy-goat mentality bouncer days, was look intimidating. Who better to channel at this moment than my father? I put the “you talking’ to me?” Mike Lane look on my face (complete with cocked eyebrows), puffed out what chest I have, and stared straight at the couple as I walked to the aisle. I was anticipating the worst...

Apparently, my channeled father is a scary guy (and I am a pretty good actor).

If You Can See This...

Back in January, I went in to get a new pair of glasses. The prescription ran out on my other pair (ba-dump-bump!).

Actually, I suffered a bit of an inconvenience a couple years back when I lost one of the lenses in my old frames. Not being Daddy Warbucks, I needed to prioritize my spending patterns. I was able to knock down some bills AND pay two years of my budgeted amount toward my kids first year of college (Read: I spent WAY more than I was able to keep the kid in school). Eventually, I arrived at the place that if I didn’t purchase new glasses now, I would go another two years squinting through life, causing people at church and the grocery store to think I was angry with them (true reactions... I’ve actually heard this!).

And so began the next saga in my life. It goes something like this:

January 25: Go in for eye exam and order new frames. Why order new frames when the old ones are perfectly fine? Because the scam, I mean “reality” is that my old frames “were just too worn out and would not work.” Red flag #1. So. I asked my lovely wife to join me and pick out a set of frames that she liked. We spent the better part of an hour looking at the small selection the local shop offered (Read: NON-CORPORATE shop), before finalizing. They were o.k. Not as nice as the last pair I had, but they’d do.

February 10: My new glasses are in! Hooray, hooray! I shall now see again with crystal clarity. I stop by the shop, saunter up to the counter, take a seat and pop the new set of exterior eyeballs upon my head and HOLY COW WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH THESE THINGS?!?!?! Red flag #2.

I immediately yank them off my face and tell the receptionist/customer service rep/coffee go-getter, “Uh, I can’t wear these. Something is really wrong.” She giggles at my obvious rapier-like sarcastic wit. “No. Seriously”, I say, “These things are not right.” She continues to giggle. “Look,” says I, wishing to get control of the situation before the giggle becomes a cackle, “I am not walking out of here with these glasses.”

She takes them from me and holds them above her head, peering through them with one eye closed. “They look all right to me.”

Red flag #3.

“Do you have the same prescription I do?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Well, it just seems a bit odd that you can tell they are all right for me just looking through them, and when I look through them, I can tell that they are wrong.” Look. I’m displaying a great deal of patience. You have to go pretty slow with people out here. They’re more interested in the experience than the results.
“

Do Whales Eat People?

Recently, a Facebook thread shared the attached picture, which generated discussion regarding the fear of being around such immense creatures, and what harm they might do to the average you-and-me kinda Joe. It was suggested that mankind not need to fear these behemoths of the deep, because they do not view us as a food source. Au contraire mon frère!

The ignorance of the comments within the post, most notably, “I think whales only eat people in make believe stories like Pinocchio or the Bible”, shows a complete lack of knowledge, and a gullibility to accept one man’s common sense over scientific proof captured on film. I warn you: The footage contained in this actual, real-live evidence is not for the faint of heart.

You have been warned.

My 25 Things (Revised)

25 Things About Me

1. Even though I spend the better part of my time around people, in front of people, leading people, teaching people, and working with people.... I am very much in favor of spending most of my time away from people and alone with my family. I have the best friend I could ever ask for in a wife, and four pretty cool and diverse kids. I wish I could be with them 24-7.

2. I am motivated to work with teenagers because of all the stupid things I did when I was younger. I’m not talking about the run of the mill kind of things that make being a teenager a glamorous time. I am talking about the kinds of things that can destroy your life or lives of those around you.

3. I have the brain of a 20 year old in the body of a 45 year-old. And, this body has a few extra miles on it. I have broken eight of my toes, one finger, one vertebrae, my nose four times, separated one shoulder, dislocated both knees and cracked six teeth.... All before the age of 27. I am not even mentioning all the stitches! In the last three years, I have dislocated the other shoulder, torn the cartilage clean off the bone, had surgery to reattach it and clean up the tears in the rotator cuff and bicep. After that, I broke the radius my other arm in four places. No surgery, but lost enough mobility to be labeled “permanently-partially disabled.” Yeesh!

4. I am not afraid of needles or sutures. Just evil clowns. Creepy!

5. I had the privilege of catching my two oldest kids as they were being born. The doctors did not show up in time when Candace was given the green light to push. Six minutes, according to Candace, is more than enough time to deliver a baby. Thwack!

6. Not a day goes by that I do not think of walking the shoreline where I grew up. If I could create a perfect world in which to live, it would involve my family living on the shore of Good Harbor Bay, with a barn back in the woods for my wife and my daughter’s arabians and a kennel for my dogs. We’d have a coffee roaster too, I guess...

7. I learned the love of words from my father. Poetry and lyrics and the crafting of words is something I admire in a person. I wish I could paint the pictures that I see in my soul with a more flair and passion and giftedness than I now possess. I have toyed with writing, but am cowed when I come across a piece that is on a topic I would choose to espouse, but is better crafted than I could present.

8. It took seven years for me to earn a 5-year degree. My Bachelor of Theology degree involves one year of study that could be considered Masters level, thus it is a real 5-year degree. My last semester took two years. Studying Hebrew is not conducive to a full-time job and a full-time marriage with full-time daddying to four full-time kids. Actually, Hebrew is not really conducive to anything except the Old Testament and living in Israel. That, and spitting like a camel.

9. Between my wife and I, it will always be me who cries first during a chick flick.

10. I once sold one of my recipes for $500 to the restaurant I was working in. My version of crab-stuffed shrimp won the day at The Cove in Leland on Mother’s Day weekend. It also won my wife over... She called her mom the day after I made it for dinner on one of our first dates to tell her she had found the man she wanted to marry. I still make it from time to time, especially around our anniversary. She didn’t have to pay the $500, by the way....

11. I can read and translate Socrates from the original Greek. O.K. So I am a bit rusty, but once upon a time, I could do it at will. Nothing to me is funnier than learning that the Philistines were big beer drinkers.... And people say that a theology degree is a waste of time!

12. I have a brown belt in Judo. I have always wanted to continue on to get my black belt (just two more to go), but the injuries are a bit difficult to overcome. Especially that back injury. I had the fortune to win the Northern Michigan Championship sometime back in the late eighties (1988, I think). Then I dropped off the face of the judo planet. I would rather play whiffle ball with my kids than beat up some Steven Segal wannabe....

13. After spending the first 23 years of my life running from God, I met His grace face to face and became His son. I had a hard time accepting the moniker “Christian”, because it held negative connotations to me. And now I am a pastor, with the title Rev. before my name if I choose to make that public. I am just as much in need of his grace today as I was the day I accepted His forgiveness. So are you, by the way....

14. I have the kind of face that draws to me animals and people with Downs syndrome. I heard a report on this once, so look it up, it is real. If we go anywhere there is a person with Downs, or if there is a dog, cat, horse or elephant, they want to come and play with me. If you want to see all of the animals at the zoo, take me with you. Everybody in the animal kingdom comes out when I am around... and Downs people. Oh. Except llamas. I almost forgot about that. My face must evoke some kind of llama-antichrist image to domestic llamas. They tend to go crazy when I am around them, threatening to tear down their corrals to attack me. Not too sure about alpacas....

15. I once took 20 of the Lost Boys from Sudan to a camp with one other guy counselor. These “kids” were in their early to mid teens, and they had already seen enough horror and tragedy in their lives to warrant them a status of adulthood and beyond. I spent the weekend being called the Big White Man, and commanded little authority until I hooked them up with an opportunity to go horseback riding. At first, they thought I was crazy, because, “only kings and princes ride horses.” When I was able to come through for them, I was suddenly on par with a world leader or Jesus himself.... Watching them ride and display the nobility of humanity made me cry. They were princes and kings that day. Weeks later, when I happened into the public school where some of them attended, I was mobbed by them and pulled in to dance one of the war dances they tried to teach me at camp. I had, I learned, been accepted as one of their tribesmen.

16. I have read The Lord of the RIngs trilogy seven times (almost). Twice as a kid (before high school) once in high school, once after high school, once to my wife while she was pregnant with our first child, once to my two oldest children, and now to my two youngest. We should finish it in the next two or three weeks. Then, I will not say “almost” any longer. We finished it about two weeks after I first posted this, and now my youngest son is now beginning a solo run through The Hobbit. The tradition continues...

17. One of the greatest things about being ordained is that I can help people celebrate their marriages. First, it was Scott and Lisa Davis. Then it was Amy (Richardson) and Ken Ellison, and most recently, Roger & Lori. I love doing weddings. I love helping the bride make her day just the way she envisioned it to be, and helping the family celebrate in such a way that that is not rote religiousness. I am convinced from Scripture that Jesus thought marriages were an awesome time, and I am committed to doing my part. Anybody out there want me to do their wedding?

18. I can spot a petoskey stone on the beach before anybody I know. Period. Wet or dry, partial or full, I will be the first to find one. It was always a fun challenge for my kids whenever we went to the beach in Michigan to find a petoskey before I could. I am still undefeated. If you want to challenge me, then buy me a plane ticket and put me up for a week. You’re toast.

19. My dad shared more of his memories with me than he ought to have. I know the horrors he saw as a Korean War vet and as a cop. I saw them second-hand as a child growing up. I am surprised that my dad was not insane after all he went through. The impact of his therapy sessions, however, paid a toll on my own lost innocence. Too much info for a boy in his pre- to early teens to know.

20. I have performed CPR on someone, but it was unsuccessful. He was a resident in the adult foster care home that Candace and I worked in together while I was attending college. During the night, he had had a grand mall seizure which killed the remainder of the brain tissue he had that kept him alive. Josh, the part-time help who was on duty at the time, found Dan warm and unconscious, and not breathing. We spent 20 minutes trying to revive him until the paramedics arrived. Josh, who was just a kid in his early 20’s, could not bring himself to doing mouth to mouth with our victim, who had vomited during his seizure, so I did all the yucky stuff. I will never forget that moment as long as I live. Dan was not just a resident to us... He was a friend, and almost a family member. When he was pronounced dead on the scene, I cleaned him up and removed the tube they had inserted in his nose and down his throat to deliver oxygen. I wanted his family’s last memories of their beloved son and brother to be ones of peace and rest, not convulsions, blood and tragedy. I cried a lot that day.

21. I love great tastes. Food, beer, wine, coffee.... You name it, I love to try it. Cooking is like painting and music and sculpture: It is an art form. I am better at appreciating art than I am at creating it, but I have my moments. I would rather eat one of my meals than go to a four-star restaurant. I am better than they are, and just conceited enough to not acknowledge when I am wrong..... :) I have cooked dinner for REO Speedwagon (when they were cool), Winton Marsailis, Bob James, Tim Kazurinski, Judas Priest, Bon Jovi, and some senior senator from Illinois... I can’t remember who else, but there have been a few other famous ones in the list.

22. I am biblically conservative and graciously liberal. I take the Bible literally, and as a whole. God wants us to have life, and to be able to live it to the full. He makes it clear that it involves having Him in our lives in all things. Too often, the good news of Christ’s love has been turned into the bad news of legalism. God’s table is big..... Pull up a chair.

23. I think that brussels sprouts are the forbidden fruit that Adam and Eve ate in the garden. It has to be. I think that is why they taste so rotten. Sure, they LOOKED good, but YUCK! The only way I can eat them is when I make this really sweet cream of brussels sprout soup with carrots and cheddar and chicken base and a little white wine; seasoned to perfection with lime pepper, basil, rosemary and..... Hmmm..... I guess it could have been lima beans. I can’t do jack with lima beans.

24. The most dangerous part of a woman’s anatomy is her eyes. Yes, all the parts together can cause a stir, but her eyes have the power to captivate and ensnare.... My wife has gorgeous eyes.... Sigh. The rest of her is pretty sweet, too.

25. Most people I know who are not Christians are shocked to learn that I am one. Double the coronary damage when they learn that I am an ordained minister. That could be a compliment, or a conviction upon me from on High. I take this seriously, so I often feel convicted that I am a poor example of a Believer. But I still love Jesus, and I know he still loves me.

In Accord with The Law

A couple mornings ago, I took my two youngest (we refer to them as “The Little Ones”, even though they both are now many inches taller than their mother) to their weekly piano lesson, I noticed there was something stuck to the hood of the car belonging to my oldest son (one of whom we refer to as “The Big Ones. Again, both of whom stand many inches taller than their mother). It had been a couple weeks since I had driven the car myself, as it is a secondary vehicle to the big Ford Expedition family car. The thing on the hood really stood out.

After dropping them off at the piano teacher’s house (a small mobile home owned by a diminutive grandmotherly type with the heart of a lion and an iron fist teaching style), I headed off to the local Barnes & Noble to get some study done for my Sunday lesson. After reaching the parking lot, I inspected the hood to determine the identity of the foreign object on the hood of the four-door go cart that resides about 28 days a month in the same footprint since its last trip to the grocery store.

At first, I thought it was a rare earth magnet. It had a ring of rust around it as though it had been there for a winter in the Rust Belt, or a week in the Pacific Northwest. I barely cloaked my irritation with whichever of my kids (Little Ones: Member #2) that put it there... until I realized that the reason I couldn’t pull it off of the hood was because it wasn’t on the hood. It was partially imbedded in the hood. It was a bullet. “Now, there’s something you don’t see every day!” I said to myself aloud...

After I got back from my kid-shuttling duties, I dropped by the Shoreline Police Department to file a report. My dad told me it was often the small tips that lead to the big arrests, and sometimes the most seemingly inconsequential piece of evidence sometimes was the key that brought a case together. Who knows? Maybe what I thought to be a late night of Cinco de Mayo afterglow was, in fact, the missing link to Al Capone’s vaults (your ability to get this is dependent upon: 1) Whether you read my blog, and 2) Your age.)

The officer who stopped by the house to fill out the report was very nice. Seattle is a great big small town, so imagine Barney Fife with a new squad car, and you will have a pretty good lead for where this is going, as well as the general theme for the story. Or is it mood? Regardless...

“You the guy whose car got shot?”

“That would be me...”

“Seriously?”

“Yep...”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure!” says I, pointing at the bullet in the hood.

“Wow. That’s pretty rude,” says Officer Fife. Crime, in Seattle, seems to be based more upon etiquette than upon actual laws... unless, of course, a salmon is involved. “Wow.” (got that the first time)

“So,” says I, trying to strike up a bit of conversation that takes us beyond three-letter exclamations, “Do you think that’s a 9mm, or a .32 caliber? It’s definitely not a .45, right?”

“Your guess is as good as mine!”

Really? Seriously? What if I guessed it as a Shoshone tomahawk* from the time of Lewis & Clark...? Would that give me a chance at a prize bigger than, “Wow!”?

*the more astute readers among you most likely jumped with immediacy upon the reference to a Shoshone tomahawk with disdain. Alright... pukamoggran, then!

“Do you mind if I take it with me?” Officer Fife asked. At this point, I wasn’t really sure if it was for himself, or for “back at the lab” where the deeper mysteries of the Shoreline Police Department were discussed. “That’s fine,” I answered.

“Got anything to get that thing out? Pair of pliers? Hammer? Vice grips?” Something was telling me about now that ballistics had no chance of seeing my hood ornament make it back to the home base. “Uh... Sure.”

After I pounded the copper projectile into an orb-like lump, Officer Fife produced a single, professional, black latex-free glove from his right breast pocket (they must be professional: The ones at Costco are blue, the ones in my physician’s office are not nearly as smooth) and gingerly took the prize from my cold, not-so-dead-hands. “Thanks!”

“I wonder how it got there?” Instead of reply with “Maybe someone used a gun?”, I suggested that a party reveler may have joyfully let loose with a skyward round, as that the bullet itself did not pass through the hood, but merely lodged in it, seemingly falling from the sky. “Got anybody who might want to hurt you?” he asked, eyes narrowing into calculating slits. Pointing at the sky, I offered a meek explanation of, “This seems to have fallen from the sky. I’m pretty sure I am safe from any malice in that department.”

“O.K.” He seemed satisfied. “We’ll be in touch if we hear anything.”

I am not planning on leaving town any time soon. One never knows. Especially now that my fingerprints are now safely locked away in somebody’s pocket... I mean, forensics lab.

Can This Thing Do Video?

...take a look at THIS!!! (Part 2)

There’s this show on the internet called “Portlandia.” It is a comedy based on the stereotypes in the city of Portland, OR (for all my midwest friends, the correct way to pronounce Oregon is somewhere in between “OR-ragun” and “Orgun," and NOT “ORE-ra-GON”). Candace and I have watched a couple episodes and have just died laughing. The humor of the show stands alone on it own, but what really caps it for us is that they just nail the idiosyncrasies of not just the people of Portland, but of the Pacific Northwest in general.

Seattle and Portland have an interesting relationship. Portland is like the city that time forgot, and Seattle is like the city that thinks it is ahead of the curve, but is actually 10-years behind... Seattle is a big small town, and Portland is its weird cousin from the South. But that is a different story...

Where was I? Ah, yes....

At last, Candace and I could hear each other talk! It was wonderful! We sipped our drinks and crunched our chips and salsa and enjoyed each other’s company. We discussed her night at work, my day at the office, our kids, our summer plans, Aidan going off to college... It was refreshing!

We also spent time discussing what we had just witnessed, and as we did so, our feelings went from irritation to compassion, mostly for Wonder Twin #2 who appeared to be thinking she had it all going on with Wonder Twin #1, but he was, in fact, a loser who was ready to go behind her back with her best friend (Third Wheel) the moment an opportunity arose (or when she was in the bathroom, as the case presented itself to be). We had compassion for Third Wheel, who seemed desperate the whole night to have someone... ANYone... pay attention to her. The need to be loved and appreciated runs in us all deeply, and often we grab the counterfeit to fill the spot that only the genuine can fill. We had a harder time having compassion for Wonder Twin #1, but we knew that he was just as broken and in need of repair as the rest of us.

Our conversation was cut short when the hostess brought another couple to the table next to us (I told you this was anything but over!). They looked like a combination of Portland and two of the Muppets characters: She was shaped like Professor Honeydew, with bleached-white hair and jet black roots, piercings in her lips, nose, ears and eyebrows, wearing all black and Doc Martin boots. She was about 5’6”, and could easily take me in a sumo-esque fashion. Beaker, on the other hand was about 5’10”, and most likely tipped the scales at no more than 140-pounds, which included the weight of the large leather wallet and dog collar chain that held it fast to his belt. In typical Portland style, he wore a skin tight, short sleeved plaid shirt with skinny jeans. The mutton-chop sideburns were accented by gauge-pierced ears, horn-rimmed glasses, and in lieu of the traditional trucker hat, our new neighbor wore a Detroit Tigers ball cap. Hold on kids... this one is going to be a wild ride.

Silence. Not a word. They both just sat there, staring blankly at each other, expressionless... as though their favorite free trade coffee company had gone corporate on the S&P 500. It was spooky. The kind of spooky that only Rod Serling could create. The highlight of our night’s people watching seemed to be over, because Honeydew and Beaker weren’t providing any more entertainment eating chips and salsa than a pair of mice nibbling cheese. Was it a first date? Perhaps a blind date? There appeared to be intimacy issues, to say the least. Candace and I finished our food and drink and conversation without any further interruption

As our waitress collected our bill and payment, I turned to our neighbors and told them how much we appreciated sharing space with them, and how pleasant they were as our dining companions. “Plus,” I said, referring to Beaker’s ball cap, “you guys are Tigers fans.” Historically speaking, the only greater sleeping tiger ever awakened was done so on an Infamous Day back in 1941. Nuclear detonators hold back less energy than what was now unleashed.

Honeydew exploded with joyful exuberance, nearly knocking the chips and salsa into the next dining room. “YOU GUYS ARE TIGERS FANS?!?!?! NOOOO WAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!”

My single friendly comment sparked a firestorm of conversation and knuckle-bumping around the table that is most often reserved for when your team wins the pennant, or in the Pacific Northwest, you successfully navigate your smart car out of a 2-inch snow drift. Candace once again was staring wide-eyed at the occupants of the table immediately to her left, but this time, the corners of her mouth were turned upwards in an astonished smile as her jaw hung wide and agape. Getting caught up in this new level of excitement, I announced that I was born in Detroit, which was received with even greater enthusiasm and a double round of knuckle-bumping. The volume continued to escalate as Honeydew excitedly shared her love for baseball, the Tigers, the city of Detroit, and eventually, her astonishment for how we knew they were Tigers fans. She was overwhelmed with the mystical ability I must have conjured from within my deep and powerful spirit to sense the presence of other like-minded individuals. “TELL ME HOW YOU KNEW WE WERE TIGERS FANS TOO?!?!” she demanded.

I quickly surmised that a sarcastic remark or a deceptive jest would have the power to hurt these two. I saw them, then, through different eyes... They were gregarious to be loved and accepted, and in community with someone other than themselves, and were seeking fellowship and unity and koinonia. To mess with them, even for an innocent laugh, might place a stumbling block before them. Who was I to shut them down and invite a tit-for-tat retaliation that might bring further woes to our already sordid evening? “Uh, actually, I just guessed because of your hat,” I said, pointing now to the big embroidered D on Beaker’s forehead. “That’s how I knew you were Tigers fans.”

Nothing in my 44 years of walking this earth could have prepared me for what came next. Nothing.

A light of recognition and understanding lit within Honeydew’s eyes as she spoke.
“IF YOU THINK THAT’S SOMETHING...”
And with all the power of David Copperfield, she drew our eyes like a great conjurer to follow her hands, which moved as lightning to raise her shirt and expose her more than ample bosom.
“...TAKE A LOOK AT THIS!!!”

Plastered to the side of her right breast, in 360-point, Detroit Tigers Old English font was the famous “Big D.” Time stood still. The restaurant went silent. Eyes as big as pie-plates, Candace and I stared in shock at the wares displayed before us, unable to speak, move, or react. I finally broke free of the spell and offered up a weak “woo hoo!!! detroit!!!” before the last round of knuckle-bumping commenced. Candace and I offered a couple more for good measure, and to keep Honeydew’s hands busy from committing any other surprise pronouncements.

During the next few minutes, we were submerged in a stream of words as the story of her inking unfolded. Frankly, I do not remember a word of it. I was in a state of semi-shock. Candace and I gently extricated ourselves from the conversation before we were invited into a deeper level of intimacy, and walked briskly to the front door. As soon as we crossed the threshold and were on the sidewalk, we both exploded with laughter. I have not laughed that hard in a very long time. We laughed all the way to the car, and during the 15-minute car ride home as well. We laughed for probably an additional 30 minutes.

Seattle is home to humanity, in all its beauty and all of its brokeness. And even though we are 2346 miles away from Comerica Park, we are never really that far away from The Big D.

...take a look at THIS!!!

...Take a Look at THIS!!!


There’s this show on the internet called “Portlandia.” It is a comedy based on the stereotypes in the city of Portland, OR (for all my midwest friends, the correct way to pronounce Oregon is somewhere in between “OR-ragun” and “Orgun," and NOT “ORE-ra-GON”). Candace and I have watched a couple episodes and have just died laughing. The humor of the show stands alone on it own, but what really caps it for us is that they just nail the idiosyncrasies of not just the people of Portland, but of the Pacific Northwest in general.

Seattle and Portland have an interesting relationship. Portland is like the city that time forgot, and Seattle is like the city that thinks it is ahead of the curve, but is actually 10-years behind... Seattle is a big small town, and Portland is its weird cousin from the South. But that is a different story...

Where was I? Ah, yes....

At last, Candace and I could hear each other talk! It was wonderful! We sipped our drinks and crunched our chips and salsa and enjoyed each other’s company. We discussed her night at work, my day at the office, our kids, our summer plans, Aidan going off to college... It was refreshing!

We also spent time discussing what we had just witnessed, and as we did so, our feelings went from irritation to compassion, mostly for Wonder Twin #2 who appeared to be thinking she had it all going on with Wonder Twin #1, but he was, in fact, a loser who was ready to go behind her back with her best friend (Third Wheel) the moment an opportunity arose (or when she was in the bathroom, as the case presented itself to be). We had compassion for Third Wheel, who seemed desperate the whole night to have someone... ANYone... pay attention to her. The need to be loved and appreciated runs in us all deeply, and often we grab the counterfeit to fill the spot that only the genuine can fill. We had a harder time having compassion for Wonder Twin #1, but we knew that he was just as broken and in need of repair as the rest of us.

Our conversation was cut short when the hostess brought another couple to the table next to us (I told you this was anything but over!). They looked like a combination of Portland and two of the Muppets characters: She was shaped like Professor Honeydew, with bleached-white hair and jet black roots, piercings in her lips, nose, ears and eyebrows, wearing all black and Doc Martin boots. She was about 5’6”, and could easily take me in a sumo-esque fashion. Beaker, on the other hand was about 5’10”, and most likely tipped the scales at no more than 140-pounds, which included the weight of the large leather wallet and dog collar chain that held it fast to his belt. In typical Portland style, he wore a skin tight, short sleeved plaid shirt with skinny jeans. The mutton-chop sideburns were accented by gauge-pierced ears, horn-rimmed glasses, and in lieu of the traditional trucker hat, our new neighbor wore a Detroit Tigers ball cap. Hold on kids... this one is going to be a wild ride.

Silence. Not a word. They both just sat there, staring blankly at each other, expressionless... as though their favorite free trade coffee company had gone corporate on the S&P 500. It was spooky. The kind of spooky that only Rod Serling could create. The highlight of our night’s people watching seemed to be over, because Honeydew and Beaker weren’t providing any more entertainment eating chips and salsa than a pair of mice nibbling cheese. Was it a first date? Perhaps a blind date? There appeared to be intimacy issues, to say the least. Candace and I finished our food and drink and conversation without any further interruption

As our waitress collected our bill and payment, I turned to our neighbors and told them how much we appreciated sharing space with them, and how pleasant they were as our dining companions. “Plus,” I said, referring to Beaker’s ball cap, “you guys are Tigers fans.” Historically speaking, the only greater sleeping tiger ever awakened was done so on an Infamous Day back in 1941. Nuclear detonators hold back less energy than what was now unleashed.

Honeydew exploded with joyful exuberance, nearly knocking the chips and salsa into the next dining room. “YOU GUYS ARE TIGERS FANS?!?!?! NOOOO WAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!”

My single friendly comment sparked a firestorm of conversation and knuckle-bumping around the table that is most often reserved for when your team wins the pennant, or in the Pacific Northwest, you successfully navigate your smart car out of a 2-inch snow drift. Candace once again was staring wide-eyed at the occupants of the table immediately to her left, but this time, the corners of her mouth were turned upwards in an astonished smile as her jaw hung wide and agape. Getting caught up in this new level of excitement, I announced that I was born in Detroit, which was received with even greater enthusiasm and a double round of knuckle-bumping. The volume continued to escalate as Honeydew excitedly shared her love for baseball, the Tigers, the city of Detroit, and eventually, her astonishment for how we knew they were Tigers fans. She was overwhelmed with the mystical ability I must have conjured from within my deep and powerful spirit to sense the presence of other like-minded individuals. “TELL ME HOW YOU KNEW WE WERE TIGERS FANS TOO?!?!” she demanded.

I quickly surmised that a sarcastic remark or a deceptive jest would have the power to hurt these two. I saw them, then, through different eyes... They were gregarious to be loved and accepted, and in community with someone other than themselves, and were seeking fellowship and unity and koinonia. To mess with them, even for an innocent laugh, might place a stumbling block before them. Who was I to shut them down and invite a tit-for-tat retaliation that might bring further woes to our already sordid evening? “Uh, actually, I just guessed because of your hat,” I said, pointing now to the big embroidered D on Beaker’s forehead. “That’s how I knew you were Tigers fans.”

Nothing in my 44 years of walking this earth could have prepared me for what came next. Nothing.

A light of recognition and understanding lit within Honeydew’s eyes as she spoke.
“IF YOU THINK THAT’S SOMETHING...”
And with all the power of David Copperfield, she drew our eyes like a great conjurer to follow her hands, which moved as lightning to raise her shirt and expose her more than ample bosom.
“...TAKE A LOOK AT THIS!!!”

Plastered to the side of her right breast, in 360-point, Detroit Tigers Old English font was the famous “Big D.” Time stood still. The restaurant went silent. Eyes as big as pie-plates, Candace and I stared in shock at the wares displayed before us, unable to speak, move, or react. I finally broke free of the spell and offered up a weak “woo hoo!!! detroit!!!” before the last round of knuckle-bumping commenced. Candace and I offered a couple more for good measure, and to keep Honeydew’s hands busy from committing any other surprise pronouncements.

During the next few minutes, we were submerged in a stream of words as the story of her inking unfolded. Frankly, I do not remember a word of it. I was in a state of semi-shock. Candace and I gently extricated ourselves from the conversation before we were invited into a deeper level of intimacy, and walked briskly to the front door. As soon as we crossed the threshold and were on the sidewalk, we both exploded with laughter. I have not laughed that hard in a very long time. We laughed all the way to the car, and during the 15-minute car ride home as well. We laughed for probably an additional 30 minutes.

Seattle is home to humanity, in all its beauty and all of its brokeness. And even though we are 2346 miles away from Comerica Park, we are never really that far away from The Big D.

If You Think THAT'S Something... (Part 1)

stream together.

Thursday night.  May 5, 2011.  Cinco de Mayo.  

After I finally found a parking space in the Greenlake community (it is easier to find a Republican in this liberal community than it is to find a parking space), I found my bride close to the front of the long line of party revelers entering our favorite local watering hole.  The music was loud, the margaritas were obviously being poured in record numbers by the mood of the cliental, and the smell of the food rolled out into the street in front of the shop.  This place was anything but quiet.

We decided to go in and people watch.  I had a couple beers with the nachos, Candace had a natural margarita, and we both got an eyeful that evening, in the people watching department.  The fun began in the last category the moment we first sat down.  Immediately to my right was a trio of celebrants who had, by all visible account, gotten an early start on the evening.  One guy and two ladies swapped conversational anecdotes laden with profanities, obscenities, and an occasional blasphemy thrown in for good measure.  I just looked across the table at Candace and smiled at our “good fortune”.  She wasn’t looking at me, however.  Her attention was captured by the behavior of our three neighbors, all of whom were about our age. 

While the man and his (quite obvious) um... partner were all over each other, the third wheel friend shouted across the small cocktail table to her love-struck and intoxicated partners in crime (alright, their behavior was not criminal, but it certainly would have garnered them a ticket if done in a public park).  The entire time they sat talking, the language was loud, crude, and interrupted only by outbreaks of physical passion, or possibly, inebriated flirtation.  As the drinks continued to arrive, so, too, did the eventual restroom break.  As the feminine half of the power-passion Wonder Twins excused herself from the table with one last tonsillectomy of her be-lusted, Candace stared with eyes wide and mouth agape.

It gets better.

Wonder Twin #2 isn’t gone from the table more than thirty seconds before Third Wheel springs into action, and Wonder twin #1 reciprocates.  I think I have done a fine enough job detailing the private actions that were displayed for the public at a table that is just 3 feet away from us, so I will highlight the less carnal behaviors of our neighbors.

When Wonder Twin #2 returned to the table, everything had cooled down at ground zero, but the party was anything but over.  These three made more noise than almost everybody else in the whole place combined.  This is not close to an exaggeration, either, because when they were gone (after stumbling out of their seats, sitting on our table, falling all over each other and us), the whole place was quiet.  No more harpy-cackling or drunken, “Oh yeah, baby!” being shouted every dos minutos.

That whole episode lasted about 25 minutes, by the way.  Maybe 35.  Seemed like a couple days, but it was definitely less than an hour.

But wait.  It gets better.  Stick around for Part 2.

If You Think THAT'S Something...

This Posting is WAAAYYYYY overdue, but I just had to share it with you all.  Maybe this will be the one that gets me back into writing.

Back in May, Candace called me from work to suggest a quiet date-night for us.  She works next door to a great Mexican restaurant that is known for its nachos and margaritas.  I was a bit skeptical that we would have a “quiet” night, but she insisted that because it was a Thursday night, the neighborhood was relatively quiet.  It would be good to go out and blow off some stream together.

Thursday night.  May 5, 2011.  Cinco de Mayo.  

After I finally found a parking space in the Greenlake community (it is easier to find a Republican in this liberal community than it is to find a parking space), I found my bride close to the front of the long line of party revelers entering our favorite local watering hole.  The music was loud, the margaritas were obviously being poured in record numbers by the mood of the cliental, and the smell of the food rolled out into the street in front of the shop.  This place was anything but quiet.

We decided to go in and people watch.  I had a couple beers with the nachos, Candace had a natural margarita, and we both got an eyeful that evening, in the people watching department.  The fun began in the last category the moment we first sat down.  Immediately to my right was a trio of celebrants who had, by all visible account, gotten an early start on the evening.  One guy and two ladies swapped conversational anecdotes laden with profanities, obscenities, and an occasional blasphemy thrown in for good measure.  I just looked across the table at Candace and smiled at our “good fortune”.  She wasn’t looking at me, however.  Her attention was captured by the behavior of our three neighbors, all of whom were about our age. 

While the man and his (quite obvious) um... partner were all over each other, the third wheel friend shouted across the small cocktail table to her love-struck and intoxicated partners in crime (alright, their behavior was not criminal, but it certainly would have garnered them a ticket if done in a public park).  The entire time they sat talking, the language was loud, crude, and interrupted only by outbreaks of physical passion, or possibly, inebriated flirtation.  As the drinks continued to arrive, so, too, did the eventual restroom break.  As the feminine half of the power-passion Wonder Twins excused herself from the table with one last tonsillectomy of her be-lusted, Candace stared with eyes wide and mouth agape.

It gets better.

Wonder Twin #2 isn’t gone from the table more than thirty seconds before Third Wheel springs into action, and Wonder twin #1 reciprocates.  I think I have done a fine enough job detailing the private actions that were displayed for the public at a table that is just 3 feet away from us, so I will highlight the less carnal behaviors of our neighbors.

When Wonder Twin #2 returned to the table, everything had cooled down at ground zero, but the party was anything but over.  These three made more noise than almost everybody else in the whole place combined.  This is not close to an exaggeration, either, because when they were gone (after stumbling out of their seats, sitting on our table, falling all over each other and us), the whole place was quiet.  No more harpy-cackling or drunken, “Oh yeah, baby!” being shouted every dos minutos.

That whole episode lasted about 25 minutes, by the way.  Maybe 35.  Seemed like a couple days, but it was definitely less than an hour.

But wait.  It gets better.  Stick around for Part 2.

Let's Try This Again...

Reboot #2 in process. We have a snow day, so I get to sit by the fire, sip on coffee and play a little bit.

Here is my January 1 sermon. Quite possibly the most disorganized mental state I have ever had when preaching. I hope it makes sense...
Wise Men & Wise Guys