Friday, November 6, 2015
Monday, April 13, 2015
Just a Leg....
Done. After two heart-wrenching years in a grad skool unlike any other, I am officially 1.5 years into the program. That three-year degree is just 2-2.5 years away.
What have I learned so far? Wow. Not sure my words will do it all justice… O.K. We'll give it a shot.
What have I learned so far? Wow. Not sure my words will do it all justice… O.K. We'll give it a shot.
- All those times I thought my dog was able to read my mind…? Well. Se very well might have been able to, after all.
- I am greater than the sum of all of the trauma I experienced as a child. It actually left a physiological mark upon me that no one can actually see, but now knowing about it allows me to reclaim my innocence….
- You know who you are. You may very well be reading this right now. You sacrificed your children for your own desire. By the way… You were a victim as well. I've just moved closer to severing the chain. You decided to add another link.
- Working on your life/faith/marriage/children/legacy begins in one place: Your own heart. If you're broken, there isn't a scrap of cosmetic work you can do to convince anyone that you are actually fixed.
- I don't deserve anything I have.
- My dad was a walking miracle. By all accounts, he should have been classified as a whack-job for all that he saw and went through.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Best Dream Ever
You know those dreams that seem so real, bit while they are going on, a little part of your brain tells you,“This is a dream. Enjoy this dream. Let yourself get lost in this dream, because you are really going to have fun!”? Yeah. Had one of those last night.
Synopsis:
Candace and I are at a state fair/theme park/some venue of sorts with the Little Ones (who, although they are the only ones with us, are actually little, like when Aidan & Michaela were in 7th & 8th grade). Everyone lis heading into an arena to watch some “presentation”, and Candace goes in with Saryn (reminder: Little Saryn, as in, being carried by mom little Saryn), but Ror seems to have become separated from the others. I ask a security dude if he has seen my boy. He is too busy enjoying the fly-bys from these unmarked aircraft to say anything of value except, “Dude! Are you seeing this!” Explosions begin occurring directly in front of us. I press him for the whereabouts of my son, and he provides a vague answer; either my son is in a place of relative safety, or he has just moved to the place of doom in front of us. Then, a suspicious humvee-like vehicle pulls up, and tries to force its way through the crowd, going in the (potential) direction of my missing son. I try to talk to the driver, but immediately sense that this is not a good guy to whom I am speaking. In fact, something is now terribly, obviously wrong with this driver and his vehicle (It’s a dream... work with me on this!). I pick up a sledge hammer, which just so happens to be conveniently leaning against the security post building, and pond its head through the rear window of the humvee. The driver looks up at me through the rear view mirror, and draws a side arm from its holster and begins shooting at me. Stray shots kill the security guard, and I manage to evade being in the direct line of fire.
And then it happened...
I extend my hands in that certain-sort-of-way, and ping-ping-ping!!! I have the forearms and gloves of an Iron Man suit on, and the repulser rays are charged and engaged. BAM! I blow a hole though the humvee and incapacitate the driver. More aircraft fly overhead, explosions detonate around us, people are now screaming, fully aware that this is not a part of the day’s entertainment. “I need the rest of it, NOW!” I announce to no one in particular (implying that the rest of the suit needs to be attaching itself to me ASAP).
“Do you have any cash in your wallet?” What? This is not part of the dream! This is my wife talking to me, as she readies to leave the house to run a 10k. “uh, yeah... check my wallet,” I respond groggily. Try as can, I am unable to return to the dream.
I didn’t even get to fly.
Synopsis:
Candace and I are at a state fair/theme park/some venue of sorts with the Little Ones (who, although they are the only ones with us, are actually little, like when Aidan & Michaela were in 7th & 8th grade). Everyone lis heading into an arena to watch some “presentation”, and Candace goes in with Saryn (reminder: Little Saryn, as in, being carried by mom little Saryn), but Ror seems to have become separated from the others. I ask a security dude if he has seen my boy. He is too busy enjoying the fly-bys from these unmarked aircraft to say anything of value except, “Dude! Are you seeing this!” Explosions begin occurring directly in front of us. I press him for the whereabouts of my son, and he provides a vague answer; either my son is in a place of relative safety, or he has just moved to the place of doom in front of us. Then, a suspicious humvee-like vehicle pulls up, and tries to force its way through the crowd, going in the (potential) direction of my missing son. I try to talk to the driver, but immediately sense that this is not a good guy to whom I am speaking. In fact, something is now terribly, obviously wrong with this driver and his vehicle (It’s a dream... work with me on this!). I pick up a sledge hammer, which just so happens to be conveniently leaning against the security post building, and pond its head through the rear window of the humvee. The driver looks up at me through the rear view mirror, and draws a side arm from its holster and begins shooting at me. Stray shots kill the security guard, and I manage to evade being in the direct line of fire.
And then it happened...
I extend my hands in that certain-sort-of-way, and ping-ping-ping!!! I have the forearms and gloves of an Iron Man suit on, and the repulser rays are charged and engaged. BAM! I blow a hole though the humvee and incapacitate the driver. More aircraft fly overhead, explosions detonate around us, people are now screaming, fully aware that this is not a part of the day’s entertainment. “I need the rest of it, NOW!” I announce to no one in particular (implying that the rest of the suit needs to be attaching itself to me ASAP).
“Do you have any cash in your wallet?” What? This is not part of the dream! This is my wife talking to me, as she readies to leave the house to run a 10k. “uh, yeah... check my wallet,” I respond groggily. Try as can, I am unable to return to the dream.
I didn’t even get to fly.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Don't Know Where You're Going, Only Know Just Where You've Been...
Wow.
Wedding in Chicago. Camp in Auburn. Mission trip to Puerto Rico.
Come home to make ready for another year of grad skool, and the beginning of all the ministries in the Fall, plus begin planning camp for next year, my in-law's 50th anniversary celebration, and (hopefully) a 30th year class reunion.
I'm wiped. We leave Tuesday.
Wedding in Chicago. Camp in Auburn. Mission trip to Puerto Rico.
Come home to make ready for another year of grad skool, and the beginning of all the ministries in the Fall, plus begin planning camp for next year, my in-law's 50th anniversary celebration, and (hopefully) a 30th year class reunion.
I'm wiped. We leave Tuesday.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Blog Crashes
I don't really know what happened to my blog. It vanished from the server I use, and took all of the beautiful comments from all of you with it.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Best Dream Ever...
You know those dreams that seem so real, bit while they are going on, a little part of your brain tells you,“This is a dream. Enjoy this dream. Let yourself get lost in this dream, because you are really going to have fun!”? Yeah. Had one of those last night.
Synopsis:
Candace and I are at a state fair/theme park/some venue of sorts with the Little Ones (who, although they are the only ones with us, are actually little, like when Aidan & Michaela were in 7th & 8th grade). Everyone lis heading into an arena to watch some “presentation”, and Candace goes in with Saryn (reminder: Little Saryn, as in, being carried by mom little Saryn), but Ror seems to have become separated from the others. I ask a security dude if he has seen my boy. He is too busy enjoying the fly-bys from these unmarked aircraft to say anything of value except, “Dude! Are you seeing this!” Explosions begin occurring directly in front of us. I press him for the whereabouts of my son, and he provides a vague answer; either my son is in a place of relative safety, or he has just moved to the place of doom in front of us. Then, a suspicious humvee-like vehicle pulls up, and tries to force its way through the crowd, going in the (potential) direction of my missing son. I try to talk to the driver, but immediately sense that this is not a good guy to whom I am speaking. In fact, something is now terribly, obviously wrong with this driver and his vehicle (It’s a dream... work with me on this!). I pick up a sledge hammer, which just so happens to be conveniently leaning against the security post building, and pond its head through the rear window of the humvee. The driver looks up at me through the rear view mirror, and draws a side arm from its holster and begins shooting at me. Stray shots kill the security guard, and I manage to evade being in the direct line of fire.
And then it happened...
I extend my hands in that certain-sort-of-way, and ping-ping-ping!!! I have the forearm and gloves of an Iron Man suit on, and the repulser rays are charged and engaged. BAM! I blow a hole though the humvee and incapacitate the driver. More aircraft fly overhead, explosions detonate around us, people are now screaming, fully aware that this is not a part of the day’s entertainment. “I need the rest of it, NOW!” I announce to no one in particular (implying that the rest of the suit needs to be attaching itself to me ASAP).
“Do you have any cash in your wallet?” What? This is not part of the dream! This is my wife talking to me, as she readies to leave the house to run a 10k. “uh, yeah... check my wallet,” I respond groggily. Try as can, I am unable to return to the dream.
I didn’t even get to fly.
Synopsis:
Candace and I are at a state fair/theme park/some venue of sorts with the Little Ones (who, although they are the only ones with us, are actually little, like when Aidan & Michaela were in 7th & 8th grade). Everyone lis heading into an arena to watch some “presentation”, and Candace goes in with Saryn (reminder: Little Saryn, as in, being carried by mom little Saryn), but Ror seems to have become separated from the others. I ask a security dude if he has seen my boy. He is too busy enjoying the fly-bys from these unmarked aircraft to say anything of value except, “Dude! Are you seeing this!” Explosions begin occurring directly in front of us. I press him for the whereabouts of my son, and he provides a vague answer; either my son is in a place of relative safety, or he has just moved to the place of doom in front of us. Then, a suspicious humvee-like vehicle pulls up, and tries to force its way through the crowd, going in the (potential) direction of my missing son. I try to talk to the driver, but immediately sense that this is not a good guy to whom I am speaking. In fact, something is now terribly, obviously wrong with this driver and his vehicle (It’s a dream... work with me on this!). I pick up a sledge hammer, which just so happens to be conveniently leaning against the security post building, and pond its head through the rear window of the humvee. The driver looks up at me through the rear view mirror, and draws a side arm from its holster and begins shooting at me. Stray shots kill the security guard, and I manage to evade being in the direct line of fire.
And then it happened...
I extend my hands in that certain-sort-of-way, and ping-ping-ping!!! I have the forearm and gloves of an Iron Man suit on, and the repulser rays are charged and engaged. BAM! I blow a hole though the humvee and incapacitate the driver. More aircraft fly overhead, explosions detonate around us, people are now screaming, fully aware that this is not a part of the day’s entertainment. “I need the rest of it, NOW!” I announce to no one in particular (implying that the rest of the suit needs to be attaching itself to me ASAP).
“Do you have any cash in your wallet?” What? This is not part of the dream! This is my wife talking to me, as she readies to leave the house to run a 10k. “uh, yeah... check my wallet,” I respond groggily. Try as can, I am unable to return to the dream.
I didn’t even get to fly.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Juxtaposition...
What a week. That says it all, and says nothing. So much to say, so many inadequate words to use.
Highlights:
Looking forward to pictures of the Bride and Groom. I'll share when I get any.
Highlights:
- I got to dance with a Brown-Eyed Girl.
- I watched my beautiful Bride dance with her oldest. It conjured up memories of watching them dance together in our apartment in Elk Rapids when he was an infant, and she looked as young then as she does now. She led the dance back then. It was good to see him lead his mother, my Beloved, at his wedding. The look in his eyes was all that I needed to see. She taught you how to love a woman, son. I hope your Bride appreciates that.
- I saw my son lose his breath and weep with joy at the entrance of his own Bride. She was beautiful, beautiful INDEED! I saw the same look in his eyes that is in my own, each time I see his mother. I taught you that, son. I hope your Bride appreciates that.... Wait. It was The Lord who taught us that, son. She will appreciate that. Always.
- I experienced watching my youngest represent his brother and his family well... Very well, indeed!
- I danced with my wife... twice. We need to do this more often. We need to do this like we believe that dancing is a celebration of this beautiful life that we have been gifted with. The praxis and the axiology need to be in alignment.
- That was some amazing food at the reception! Really, really good.
Looking forward to pictures of the Bride and Groom. I'll share when I get any.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
One More for the Journey...
She taught you how to dance before you could even walk. She would take you up in her arms and hum a soft tune for only your ears and hers to hear, and cheek to cheek you would both sway to the beat of each other’s hearts. For nine whole months she carried you in her womb as you learned her rhythm; the gift from God to two kids scared out of their minds with the task before them. The warmth of the household…
I taught you to laugh. It was clearly in you from the beginning, just waiting for an opportunity to burst forth. When it did, it sounded like a symphony of joy played in two strings. I will never forget the sound of your infant laughter. I will never forget how you used to run to me when I came home, your little feet padding away on the hardwood floor, while you urged the walker forward, oblivious to whatever obstacle that might be between us. When I would take you up in my arms, there was still plenty of dance left in you. We danced, too, you and me. The warmth of the household…
We were both there for your first steps, your first word, your first meal where you fed yourself. We have watched you grow in wisdom and in stature, and have been a part of almost every aspect of your life. We fueled your interest in music as we kept the cd player on in almost constant loop. When your interests turned to sports, we provided the opportunities and shared in the experience. When you encountered frustration, and were tempted to quit, we rallied around you and encouraged you to push through, preserver, and overcome the obstacle; it would make you a better man. The warmth of the household…
When you boarded the plane for Chicago to begin the quest for finding the college of your choice, we sent you out with a mix of pride and trepidation. We were proud that you were forging out with big plans to a big city all on your own. Our trepidation was for the same reasons that people thought we were crazy in allowing you to go by yourself.
Many times I wondered if I was doing it right, this parenting thing. You, like every other child ever born, did not come with an instruction book. But like most, I did the best I could. My mistakes were often quite obvious, and some of them have consequences still. For every time I said too much, there is a time I said too little. That delicate balance between instructing and micromanaging.
Now you have reached the time where I feel your heart has decided that you don’t need me anymore. I know this is just another stage in the parenting thing; but it is possibly the most difficult stage I have faced yet. Letting go of you, and realizing that you aren't coming back anytime soon. It brings me to tears every time I think about it.
We were both there for your first steps, your first word, your first meal where you fed yourself. We have watched you grow in wisdom and in stature, and have been a part of almost every aspect of your life. We fueled your interest in music as we kept the cd player on in almost constant loop. When your interests turned to sports, we provided the opportunities and shared in the experience. When you encountered frustration, and were tempted to quit, we rallied around you and encouraged you to push through, preserver, and overcome the obstacle; it would make you a better man. The warmth of the household…
When you boarded the plane for Chicago to begin the quest for finding the college of your choice, we sent you out with a mix of pride and trepidation. We were proud that you were forging out with big plans to a big city all on your own. Our trepidation was for the same reasons that people thought we were crazy in allowing you to go by yourself.
Many times I wondered if I was doing it right, this parenting thing. You, like every other child ever born, did not come with an instruction book. But like most, I did the best I could. My mistakes were often quite obvious, and some of them have consequences still. For every time I said too much, there is a time I said too little. That delicate balance between instructing and micromanaging.
Now you have reached the time where I feel your heart has decided that you don’t need me anymore. I know this is just another stage in the parenting thing; but it is possibly the most difficult stage I have faced yet. Letting go of you, and realizing that you aren't coming back anytime soon. It brings me to tears every time I think about it.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Working it Out...
Over last summer, my daughter was home from the university she attends in Chicago. It was the end of her freshman year, and it was exciting to talk with her about her different experiences, what she was learning, and the new opportunities she was engaged in while away from home. One such new opportunity was to be on the school's rowing team. Candace and I were pleasantly surprised. Aside from trying out the rowing machine (or, ergometer) at the local gym a few times before she left home for her freshman year, Michaela had never been involved in this type of activity before.
One afternoon, I asked my daughter if we could go to the gym together. My thoughts were that she could join me on the weight machines to get stronger for rowing, and I could join her on the rowing machine to learn how to use the ergometer. As an added blessing, I would grow closer to Michaela in our relationship, as we shared an experience that had become such a joyful part of her life. When we arrived at the gym, I was disappointed that she decided to forego the weights to spend forty minutes "erg-ing." At the conclusion of my weight lifting session, I sat down next to Michaela on the available ergometer and said, "Let's row!" After leading me through the basics on how the machine works and how to use it, we began a slow-paced workout together. Our pace quickened, with Michaela leading the way. This is easy! I thought, as I watched the numbers on the digital display climb, showing my calculated distance so far, my calories burned, and my strokes per minute. Matching Michaela's pace, I thought I was doing pretty well…
"Wanna race?" I asked. This was not a wise suggestion on my part.
"Sure," she said, with a slight cock of her eyebrow which indicated her amusement with the suggestion, as well as a mix of incredulousness.
She didn't even wait for me to say GO! The explosion of speed and power next to me was truly amazing. I found myself immediately behind, completely outclassed, and absolutely over my head. After two minutes, she was over fifty meters ahead. At the 4-minute mark, I was well over 100 meters behind. Five minutes found me seeing stars, through which I stubbornly pressed on for one more minute. At that point, I knew I needed to stop before I passed out or threw up… or both. Michaela continued to row on for another ten minutes, with a wisp of a smile on her face.
"Not too bad for a novice, Dad", she said, with, "... and an old man" finishing off her victory trash talk.
I didn't expect to win in my race with Michaela, but I didn't expect to perform so poorly, either. After I had physically recovered from my loss, I asked her why I had not done even a little better in the race. The answer, it seems, had little to do with the amount of work I was able to perform, and more about my posture. How I position myself on the machine and how I move my body affects my breathing, and it affects the quality of my output. If my posture is not right, then I can exert more energy and more time, and not really get anywhere. With poor posture, I run the risk of being present in the gym, but only going through the motions of a workout.
After we worked together to improve my posture, I found that I was able to accomplish more, have greater stamina, and enjoy the "work" aspect of the workout much more. And that got me thinking about my spiritual workout...
"Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose." (Philippians 2:13-13)
I was pleasantly surprised to find that the word used to name the rowing machine--the ergometer-- was the same root word in verse twelve of "working out." Michaela had coached me to understand that having proper posture was the key to my physical workout. As I continued with my rowing under her watchful eye, I could feel myself tending to a posture that was more within my body's comfort zone, and away from the posture that produced the kinds of results one should look for in rowing. Keeping good posture, it would seem, is difficult work in its own right.
There is spiritual truth to this concept as well. Those of us in full-time ministry understand that the ministry itself can be a lot of work. Certainly, ministry contains many rewards and joyful opportunities! But there are those times when our posture is not what it ought to be. We find ourselves busy in ministry, and not postured correctly. Busyness, sometimes, is our comfort zone. Helping others becomes our spiritual workout, and we neglect our own conditioning.
Rowing is a team sport. So is ministry. Our own spiritual posture before God is as important as the physical posture one must have on an ergometer, and on the open water as well. When we neglect our own workout… when we ignore our own posture… we adversely affect our ability to pull together with the team God has given us. When ministry is about "us", it ceases to be about HIM, and our posture is all out of whack.
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart as working for the Lord, not for men…" (Colossians 3:23). Yep. There's that word again. Don't forget to spend time present in the spiritual gym, and erg-out with all of your heart.
One afternoon, I asked my daughter if we could go to the gym together. My thoughts were that she could join me on the weight machines to get stronger for rowing, and I could join her on the rowing machine to learn how to use the ergometer. As an added blessing, I would grow closer to Michaela in our relationship, as we shared an experience that had become such a joyful part of her life. When we arrived at the gym, I was disappointed that she decided to forego the weights to spend forty minutes "erg-ing." At the conclusion of my weight lifting session, I sat down next to Michaela on the available ergometer and said, "Let's row!" After leading me through the basics on how the machine works and how to use it, we began a slow-paced workout together. Our pace quickened, with Michaela leading the way. This is easy! I thought, as I watched the numbers on the digital display climb, showing my calculated distance so far, my calories burned, and my strokes per minute. Matching Michaela's pace, I thought I was doing pretty well…
"Wanna race?" I asked. This was not a wise suggestion on my part.
"Sure," she said, with a slight cock of her eyebrow which indicated her amusement with the suggestion, as well as a mix of incredulousness.
She didn't even wait for me to say GO! The explosion of speed and power next to me was truly amazing. I found myself immediately behind, completely outclassed, and absolutely over my head. After two minutes, she was over fifty meters ahead. At the 4-minute mark, I was well over 100 meters behind. Five minutes found me seeing stars, through which I stubbornly pressed on for one more minute. At that point, I knew I needed to stop before I passed out or threw up… or both. Michaela continued to row on for another ten minutes, with a wisp of a smile on her face.
"Not too bad for a novice, Dad", she said, with, "... and an old man" finishing off her victory trash talk.
I didn't expect to win in my race with Michaela, but I didn't expect to perform so poorly, either. After I had physically recovered from my loss, I asked her why I had not done even a little better in the race. The answer, it seems, had little to do with the amount of work I was able to perform, and more about my posture. How I position myself on the machine and how I move my body affects my breathing, and it affects the quality of my output. If my posture is not right, then I can exert more energy and more time, and not really get anywhere. With poor posture, I run the risk of being present in the gym, but only going through the motions of a workout.
After we worked together to improve my posture, I found that I was able to accomplish more, have greater stamina, and enjoy the "work" aspect of the workout much more. And that got me thinking about my spiritual workout...
"Therefore, my dear friends, as you have always obeyed—not only in my presence, but now much more in my absence—continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose." (Philippians 2:13-13)
I was pleasantly surprised to find that the word used to name the rowing machine--the ergometer-- was the same root word in verse twelve of "working out." Michaela had coached me to understand that having proper posture was the key to my physical workout. As I continued with my rowing under her watchful eye, I could feel myself tending to a posture that was more within my body's comfort zone, and away from the posture that produced the kinds of results one should look for in rowing. Keeping good posture, it would seem, is difficult work in its own right.
There is spiritual truth to this concept as well. Those of us in full-time ministry understand that the ministry itself can be a lot of work. Certainly, ministry contains many rewards and joyful opportunities! But there are those times when our posture is not what it ought to be. We find ourselves busy in ministry, and not postured correctly. Busyness, sometimes, is our comfort zone. Helping others becomes our spiritual workout, and we neglect our own conditioning.
Rowing is a team sport. So is ministry. Our own spiritual posture before God is as important as the physical posture one must have on an ergometer, and on the open water as well. When we neglect our own workout… when we ignore our own posture… we adversely affect our ability to pull together with the team God has given us. When ministry is about "us", it ceases to be about HIM, and our posture is all out of whack.
"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart as working for the Lord, not for men…" (Colossians 3:23). Yep. There's that word again. Don't forget to spend time present in the spiritual gym, and erg-out with all of your heart.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Naked Three Year Olds...
On one summer evening almost 19 years ago, Candace and I sat on the floor of our bathroom watching our then two and three year old daughter and son engage in their evening bath. Although the day had been filled with joyful play, both of them found reason to celebrate another opportunity to laugh and squeal and enjoy the beauty of God’s creation. Aidan took the lead by teaching his sister how to propel her body back and forth along the length of the bathtub as though it was a great waterside, all the while forcing waves of water to cascade over the top of the tub and to the floor. Michaela followed suit, eyes wide, with her giggles grunting out of her with all the beauty of a young Lady Godiva.
Other games followed, more water was splashed, more squeals of laughter commenced, and more life was lived out in front of the eyes of my children’s parents. Candace and I smiled and rejoiced at the beauty before us, and the blessing of seeing two beautiful, unique individuals who came through us enjoying life unabashedly the way it was intended to be enjoyed... with joy.
As the prune-like wrinkles formed more deeply upon the fingertips of my children, we knew it was time to drain the tub and move toward the next step of the nightly ritual... Pajamas. As I opened the drain to the tub, our little ones savored each last drop of water and of time, slipping and sliding, this way and that, capitalizing upon each sud as though it might be the last the world would ever know. Splish! Splash! Squeal!
When the last drop of usable water was squeezed out of bath time fun, I lived Aidan out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel before placing him next to me to dry. I reached in for Michaela and turned to place her next to her brother, but he was no longer there. In his place, there was only an empty towel. I put Michaela down and stepped out of the bathroom just in time to see a glimpse of my son’s naked backside streaking down the hallway and out the front door to the yard, whooping and yelling in joyful triumph. As I gave chase, Michaela once again followed her brother’s lead, heading out the door behind me squealing and giggling her delight. Candace came out to the lawn to see the frolicking spectacle continue to unfold; her babies celebrating their nakedness without shame, without judgement, and with joyful innocence.
After we corralled them back into the house and cleaned them up once again, we completed the pre-bedtime rituals of pajamas and teeth, with giggles and mirth interlaced with the nightly routine. Because they shared a bedroom, Candace and I were able to tuck them in at the same time. A beautiful experience for a family to have together...
Afterward, Candace and I sat in the living room to watch some mindless television. We shared a few words about how fun the earlier events were to witness, and then Candace said something that would impact my relationship with God and my interpretation of certain passages of Scripture to this day, and for the rest of my life, to be sure.
Stay tuned....
Other games followed, more water was splashed, more squeals of laughter commenced, and more life was lived out in front of the eyes of my children’s parents. Candace and I smiled and rejoiced at the beauty before us, and the blessing of seeing two beautiful, unique individuals who came through us enjoying life unabashedly the way it was intended to be enjoyed... with joy.
As the prune-like wrinkles formed more deeply upon the fingertips of my children, we knew it was time to drain the tub and move toward the next step of the nightly ritual... Pajamas. As I opened the drain to the tub, our little ones savored each last drop of water and of time, slipping and sliding, this way and that, capitalizing upon each sud as though it might be the last the world would ever know. Splish! Splash! Squeal!
When the last drop of usable water was squeezed out of bath time fun, I lived Aidan out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel before placing him next to me to dry. I reached in for Michaela and turned to place her next to her brother, but he was no longer there. In his place, there was only an empty towel. I put Michaela down and stepped out of the bathroom just in time to see a glimpse of my son’s naked backside streaking down the hallway and out the front door to the yard, whooping and yelling in joyful triumph. As I gave chase, Michaela once again followed her brother’s lead, heading out the door behind me squealing and giggling her delight. Candace came out to the lawn to see the frolicking spectacle continue to unfold; her babies celebrating their nakedness without shame, without judgement, and with joyful innocence.
After we corralled them back into the house and cleaned them up once again, we completed the pre-bedtime rituals of pajamas and teeth, with giggles and mirth interlaced with the nightly routine. Because they shared a bedroom, Candace and I were able to tuck them in at the same time. A beautiful experience for a family to have together...
Afterward, Candace and I sat in the living room to watch some mindless television. We shared a few words about how fun the earlier events were to witness, and then Candace said something that would impact my relationship with God and my interpretation of certain passages of Scripture to this day, and for the rest of my life, to be sure.
Stay tuned....
Friday, January 18, 2013
The Dog Days of Winter
I do not know what secrets were shared between my oldest daughter and our mongrel chocolate lab on the morning Michaela packed up and headed back to college, but it is clear to those of us who remain in Seattle that an understanding, of sorts, has been reached.
During the winter break, Breve has enjoyed having her girl home from afar... When Michaela was gone from the house, our faithful friend would sit by the front door, watching for her return. At night, she would camp outside of Michaela's bedroom until the morning sun rose behind the gray clouds, and then she would venture into the carpeted forbidden zone to coax and call Michaela to rise and play. The young puppy seemed to return, and with her came all her toys, which she would get out and place in front of my daughter's door. The dog-universe seemed to be back in order.
As I said at the beginning, I do not know the words the two exchanged, but they certainly took root. When Michaela went away last Fall, Breve slunk down into a mini-depression of sorts. She moped this way and that, only coming alive when her dish was rattled or a chance squirrel or neighborhood cat wandered into the yard. The two of them fit each other like a hand in a well-worn glove; warm and comfortable. After this goodbye, it seems she is content with the knowledge her girl has gone away for a few more months to chase her dreams and take her classes before they reunite again in the Spring, and Michaela returns to tell her stories of adventure in the heartland.
In the mean time, it seems I am Breve’s surrogate buddy. Her gentle brown eyes sparkle as she runs off to her pile of toys to select a game we can both play together. Today, she begged a tagalong ride as I delivered my younger daughter to ballet class. Window down, ears flapping, nose a’sniffing, she appeared to be in olfactory heaven. Upon returning home, she wagged her way to the front door and back to her rug; mission accomplished.
I wish I could communicate with Breve on a deeper level, and have words and ideas to go with her gentle expressions. Maybe we’d talk about another brown-eyed girl, and how much we love her...
During the winter break, Breve has enjoyed having her girl home from afar... When Michaela was gone from the house, our faithful friend would sit by the front door, watching for her return. At night, she would camp outside of Michaela's bedroom until the morning sun rose behind the gray clouds, and then she would venture into the carpeted forbidden zone to coax and call Michaela to rise and play. The young puppy seemed to return, and with her came all her toys, which she would get out and place in front of my daughter's door. The dog-universe seemed to be back in order.
As I said at the beginning, I do not know the words the two exchanged, but they certainly took root. When Michaela went away last Fall, Breve slunk down into a mini-depression of sorts. She moped this way and that, only coming alive when her dish was rattled or a chance squirrel or neighborhood cat wandered into the yard. The two of them fit each other like a hand in a well-worn glove; warm and comfortable. After this goodbye, it seems she is content with the knowledge her girl has gone away for a few more months to chase her dreams and take her classes before they reunite again in the Spring, and Michaela returns to tell her stories of adventure in the heartland.
In the mean time, it seems I am Breve’s surrogate buddy. Her gentle brown eyes sparkle as she runs off to her pile of toys to select a game we can both play together. Today, she begged a tagalong ride as I delivered my younger daughter to ballet class. Window down, ears flapping, nose a’sniffing, she appeared to be in olfactory heaven. Upon returning home, she wagged her way to the front door and back to her rug; mission accomplished.
I wish I could communicate with Breve on a deeper level, and have words and ideas to go with her gentle expressions. Maybe we’d talk about another brown-eyed girl, and how much we love her...
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
The Earth is the Lord's (Pt. 2)
The Apostle Paul (about 1000 years after David) spoke to the Roman Christians about the general consequences of the theological Fall of mankind. “For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. 22 Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools 23 and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles.
Therefore God gave them over in the sinful desires of their hearts to sexual impurity for the degrading of their bodies with one another. 25 They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator—who is forever praised. Amen.” ~Romans 1:21-25
In short, in our rejection of God, we embraced everything else but God. Even our good deeds can become all about us or the good feelings we have when we help others, instead of being rooted in and centered around God, His goodness, His love, and our response ability. And yes, I believe we all have a response-ability wired into us... an ability to embrace or reject, to glorify God or ourselves...
Therefore God gave them over in the sinful desires of their hearts to sexual impurity for the degrading of their bodies with one another. 25 They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator—who is forever praised. Amen.” ~Romans 1:21-25
In short, in our rejection of God, we embraced everything else but God. Even our good deeds can become all about us or the good feelings we have when we help others, instead of being rooted in and centered around God, His goodness, His love, and our response ability. And yes, I believe we all have a response-ability wired into us... an ability to embrace or reject, to glorify God or ourselves...
Saturday, October 20, 2012
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...
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.
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.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
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).
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).
Thursday, March 29, 2012
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.
“
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.
“
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Do Whales Eat People?
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.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, February 6, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
...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.
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