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.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Sunday, August 3, 2014
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
...take a look at THIS!!!
...Take a Look at THIS!!!
There’s this show on the internet called “Portlandia.” It is a comedy based on the stereotypes in the city of Portland, OR (for all my midwest friends, the correct way to pronounce Oregon is somewhere in between “OR-ragun” and “Orgun," and NOT “ORE-ra-GON”). Candace and I have watched a couple episodes and have just died laughing. The humor of the show stands alone on it own, but what really caps it for us is that they just nail the idiosyncrasies of not just the people of Portland, but of the Pacific Northwest in general.
Seattle and Portland have an interesting relationship. Portland is like the city that time forgot, and Seattle is like the city that thinks it is ahead of the curve, but is actually 10-years behind... Seattle is a big small town, and Portland is its weird cousin from the South. But that is a different story...
Where was I? Ah, yes....
At last, Candace and I could hear each other talk! It was wonderful! We sipped our drinks and crunched our chips and salsa and enjoyed each other’s company. We discussed her night at work, my day at the office, our kids, our summer plans, Aidan going off to college... It was refreshing!
We also spent time discussing what we had just witnessed, and as we did so, our feelings went from irritation to compassion, mostly for Wonder Twin #2 who appeared to be thinking she had it all going on with Wonder Twin #1, but he was, in fact, a loser who was ready to go behind her back with her best friend (Third Wheel) the moment an opportunity arose (or when she was in the bathroom, as the case presented itself to be). We had compassion for Third Wheel, who seemed desperate the whole night to have someone... ANYone... pay attention to her. The need to be loved and appreciated runs in us all deeply, and often we grab the counterfeit to fill the spot that only the genuine can fill. We had a harder time having compassion for Wonder Twin #1, but we knew that he was just as broken and in need of repair as the rest of us.
Our conversation was cut short when the hostess brought another couple to the table next to us (I told you this was anything but over!). They looked like a combination of Portland and two of the Muppets characters: She was shaped like Professor Honeydew, with bleached-white hair and jet black roots, piercings in her lips, nose, ears and eyebrows, wearing all black and Doc Martin boots. She was about 5’6”, and could easily take me in a sumo-esque fashion. Beaker, on the other hand was about 5’10”, and most likely tipped the scales at no more than 140-pounds, which included the weight of the large leather wallet and dog collar chain that held it fast to his belt. In typical Portland style, he wore a skin tight, short sleeved plaid shirt with skinny jeans. The mutton-chop sideburns were accented by gauge-pierced ears, horn-rimmed glasses, and in lieu of the traditional trucker hat, our new neighbor wore a Detroit Tigers ball cap. Hold on kids... this one is going to be a wild ride.
Silence. Not a word. They both just sat there, staring blankly at each other, expressionless... as though their favorite free trade coffee company had gone corporate on the S&P 500. It was spooky. The kind of spooky that only Rod Serling could create. The highlight of our night’s people watching seemed to be over, because Honeydew and Beaker weren’t providing any more entertainment eating chips and salsa than a pair of mice nibbling cheese. Was it a first date? Perhaps a blind date? There appeared to be intimacy issues, to say the least. Candace and I finished our food and drink and conversation without any further interruption
As our waitress collected our bill and payment, I turned to our neighbors and told them how much we appreciated sharing space with them, and how pleasant they were as our dining companions. “Plus,” I said, referring to Beaker’s ball cap, “you guys are Tigers fans.” Historically speaking, the only greater sleeping tiger ever awakened was done so on an Infamous Day back in 1941. Nuclear detonators hold back less energy than what was now unleashed.
Honeydew exploded with joyful exuberance, nearly knocking the chips and salsa into the next dining room. “YOU GUYS ARE TIGERS FANS?!?!?! NOOOO WAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!”
My single friendly comment sparked a firestorm of conversation and knuckle-bumping around the table that is most often reserved for when your team wins the pennant, or in the Pacific Northwest, you successfully navigate your smart car out of a 2-inch snow drift. Candace once again was staring wide-eyed at the occupants of the table immediately to her left, but this time, the corners of her mouth were turned upwards in an astonished smile as her jaw hung wide and agape. Getting caught up in this new level of excitement, I announced that I was born in Detroit, which was received with even greater enthusiasm and a double round of knuckle-bumping. The volume continued to escalate as Honeydew excitedly shared her love for baseball, the Tigers, the city of Detroit, and eventually, her astonishment for how we knew they were Tigers fans. She was overwhelmed with the mystical ability I must have conjured from within my deep and powerful spirit to sense the presence of other like-minded individuals. “TELL ME HOW YOU KNEW WE WERE TIGERS FANS TOO?!?!” she demanded.
I quickly surmised that a sarcastic remark or a deceptive jest would have the power to hurt these two. I saw them, then, through different eyes... They were gregarious to be loved and accepted, and in community with someone other than themselves, and were seeking fellowship and unity and koinonia. To mess with them, even for an innocent laugh, might place a stumbling block before them. Who was I to shut them down and invite a tit-for-tat retaliation that might bring further woes to our already sordid evening? “Uh, actually, I just guessed because of your hat,” I said, pointing now to the big embroidered D on Beaker’s forehead. “That’s how I knew you were Tigers fans.”
Nothing in my 44 years of walking this earth could have prepared me for what came next. Nothing.
A light of recognition and understanding lit within Honeydew’s eyes as she spoke.
“IF YOU THINK THAT’S SOMETHING...”
And with all the power of David Copperfield, she drew our eyes like a great conjurer to follow her hands, which moved as lightning to raise her shirt and expose her more than ample bosom.
“...TAKE A LOOK AT THIS!!!”
Plastered to the side of her right breast, in 360-point, Detroit Tigers Old English font was the famous “Big D.” Time stood still. The restaurant went silent. Eyes as big as pie-plates, Candace and I stared in shock at the wares displayed before us, unable to speak, move, or react. I finally broke free of the spell and offered up a weak “woo hoo!!! detroit!!!” before the last round of knuckle-bumping commenced. Candace and I offered a couple more for good measure, and to keep Honeydew’s hands busy from committing any other surprise pronouncements.
During the next few minutes, we were submerged in a stream of words as the story of her inking unfolded. Frankly, I do not remember a word of it. I was in a state of semi-shock. Candace and I gently extricated ourselves from the conversation before we were invited into a deeper level of intimacy, and walked briskly to the front door. As soon as we crossed the threshold and were on the sidewalk, we both exploded with laughter. I have not laughed that hard in a very long time. We laughed all the way to the car, and during the 15-minute car ride home as well. We laughed for probably an additional 30 minutes.
Seattle is home to humanity, in all its beauty and all of its brokeness. And even though we are 2346 miles away from Comerica Park, we are never really that far away from The Big D.
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.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
If You Think THAT'S Something... (Part 1)
Thursday night. May 5, 2011. Cinco de Mayo.
After I finally found a parking space in the Greenlake community (it is easier to find a Republican in this liberal community than it is to find a parking space), I found my bride close to the front of the long line of party revelers entering our favorite local watering hole. The music was loud, the margaritas were obviously being poured in record numbers by the mood of the cliental, and the smell of the food rolled out into the street in front of the shop. This place was anything but quiet.
We decided to go in and people watch. I had a couple beers with the nachos, Candace had a natural margarita, and we both got an eyeful that evening, in the people watching department. The fun began in the last category the moment we first sat down. Immediately to my right was a trio of celebrants who had, by all visible account, gotten an early start on the evening. One guy and two ladies swapped conversational anecdotes laden with profanities, obscenities, and an occasional blasphemy thrown in for good measure. I just looked across the table at Candace and smiled at our “good fortune”. She wasn’t looking at me, however. Her attention was captured by the behavior of our three neighbors, all of whom were about our age.
While the man and his (quite obvious) um... partner were all over each other, the third wheel friend shouted across the small cocktail table to her love-struck and intoxicated partners in crime (alright, their behavior was not criminal, but it certainly would have garnered them a ticket if done in a public park). The entire time they sat talking, the language was loud, crude, and interrupted only by outbreaks of physical passion, or possibly, inebriated flirtation. As the drinks continued to arrive, so, too, did the eventual restroom break. As the feminine half of the power-passion Wonder Twins excused herself from the table with one last tonsillectomy of her be-lusted, Candace stared with eyes wide and mouth agape.
It gets better.
Wonder Twin #2 isn’t gone from the table more than thirty seconds before Third Wheel springs into action, and Wonder twin #1 reciprocates. I think I have done a fine enough job detailing the private actions that were displayed for the public at a table that is just 3 feet away from us, so I will highlight the less carnal behaviors of our neighbors.
When Wonder Twin #2 returned to the table, everything had cooled down at ground zero, but the party was anything but over. These three made more noise than almost everybody else in the whole place combined. This is not close to an exaggeration, either, because when they were gone (after stumbling out of their seats, sitting on our table, falling all over each other and us), the whole place was quiet. No more harpy-cackling or drunken, “Oh yeah, baby!” being shouted every dos minutos.
That whole episode lasted about 25 minutes, by the way. Maybe 35. Seemed like a couple days, but it was definitely less than an hour.
But wait. It gets better. Stick around for Part 2.
If You Think THAT'S Something...
Back in May, Candace called me from work to suggest a quiet date-night for us. She works next door to a great Mexican restaurant that is known for its nachos and margaritas. I was a bit skeptical that we would have a “quiet” night, but she insisted that because it was a Thursday night, the neighborhood was relatively quiet. It would be good to go out and blow off some stream together.
Thursday night. May 5, 2011. Cinco de Mayo.
After I finally found a parking space in the Greenlake community (it is easier to find a Republican in this liberal community than it is to find a parking space), I found my bride close to the front of the long line of party revelers entering our favorite local watering hole. The music was loud, the margaritas were obviously being poured in record numbers by the mood of the cliental, and the smell of the food rolled out into the street in front of the shop. This place was anything but quiet.
We decided to go in and people watch. I had a couple beers with the nachos, Candace had a natural margarita, and we both got an eyeful that evening, in the people watching department. The fun began in the last category the moment we first sat down. Immediately to my right was a trio of celebrants who had, by all visible account, gotten an early start on the evening. One guy and two ladies swapped conversational anecdotes laden with profanities, obscenities, and an occasional blasphemy thrown in for good measure. I just looked across the table at Candace and smiled at our “good fortune”. She wasn’t looking at me, however. Her attention was captured by the behavior of our three neighbors, all of whom were about our age.
While the man and his (quite obvious) um... partner were all over each other, the third wheel friend shouted across the small cocktail table to her love-struck and intoxicated partners in crime (alright, their behavior was not criminal, but it certainly would have garnered them a ticket if done in a public park). The entire time they sat talking, the language was loud, crude, and interrupted only by outbreaks of physical passion, or possibly, inebriated flirtation. As the drinks continued to arrive, so, too, did the eventual restroom break. As the feminine half of the power-passion Wonder Twins excused herself from the table with one last tonsillectomy of her be-lusted, Candace stared with eyes wide and mouth agape.
It gets better.
Wonder Twin #2 isn’t gone from the table more than thirty seconds before Third Wheel springs into action, and Wonder twin #1 reciprocates. I think I have done a fine enough job detailing the private actions that were displayed for the public at a table that is just 3 feet away from us, so I will highlight the less carnal behaviors of our neighbors.
When Wonder Twin #2 returned to the table, everything had cooled down at ground zero, but the party was anything but over. These three made more noise than almost everybody else in the whole place combined. This is not close to an exaggeration, either, because when they were gone (after stumbling out of their seats, sitting on our table, falling all over each other and us), the whole place was quiet. No more harpy-cackling or drunken, “Oh yeah, baby!” being shouted every dos minutos.
That whole episode lasted about 25 minutes, by the way. Maybe 35. Seemed like a couple days, but it was definitely less than an hour.
But wait. It gets better. Stick around for Part 2.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Boys of Summer
Ever since I was a little kid, I have loved playing the game of baseball. I think I got this love from my dad. I wish someone could have counted the number of pitches he threw to me, the number of grounders and fly balls he at me, and the endless hours of catch we played while I was growing up. I admire my dad’s dedication to us kids, but I know how much he loved the game.
Whatever it is he is doing, it works! He is allowed to pitch two innings maximum, and during his stint, he is usually good for 4 or 5 strikeouts. He then is moved to either third base, shortstop or catcher. I think the kids has a pretty decent arm.
I should tell you about his game-winning 3 RBI’s sometime...
Monday, April 26, 2010
Not Tonight, Dear...
I had grand plans tonight. I intended to take Candace out for dinner at our favorite little italian bistro. They have great food, a killer wine list and an ambience that screams passionate romance. It is a good place to take the woman of my dreams. We didn’t go. My hurried, rushed, plate-spinning life appeared seamless and smooth, but I was neglecting the important fine china. Instead of a night out, it was a night in... kids doing school work, fire in the hearth, a bottle of Zin breathing in the bottle and glasses...
All the great stuff out there is really not much to speak of when we really look at it. Most of those plates deserve to crash to the ground. Everything I have ever wanted is in this very room. We laughed, we cried, we listened to beautiful music from our children’s fingertips.
How is that for some scattered thoughts?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Running on Empty
I have been waking up a lot during the night hours. Sometimes I have nightmares that are straight out of a horror movie... real slasher films... and other times I just sit bolt-upright without anything to distract me or cause me to wake. I usually get up and grab a bowl of Cheerios and have a cup of chamomile tea while I read from my Bible. The calm of the night is the best time to read, I find. Odd how I find comfort and disturbance in the same place and time.
I suspect the feeling of being out of breath, the nightmares and the times of sleeplessness have something in common.
I’m looking forward to July.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Kevie Needs a Holiday
Seriously... The brain has not been working all that well lately. Too much going on Too many tasks, appointments, meetings...
I need a holiday. I am a fried egg.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Would Like to Know Where It All Went
Well, it has been two weeks since the diet shifted. I have gotten on the bike about four times, 20-30 minutes at a pop (almost been run over three times, too! But that’s for a different blog posting...).
Thus far, with minimal exercise and really, REALLY good food (albeit, “healthy”), I have dropped twelve pounds. TWELVE!
One of the key things has been drinking a ton of water every day. A ton is the equivalent of about a gallon and a half each day. I kid you not.
Looking forward to getting back to the gym.
Friday, December 18, 2009
I saw Jesus Tonight...
...and just so that you all understand that I am not off my rocker, I didn’t have a religious experience involving a piece of moldy bread, or a vision from above telling me to raise a holy jihad. I haven’t lost my marbles... yet.
I saw Jesus tonight at the Wal-Mart in Lynwood, Washington. He was shopping for a Spiderman winter hat. My life will never be the same.
I went in to buy an accessory component to the big family gift that Candace and I bought for the kids. I figured that 10:15 at night would be a safe time to do my shopping quick; to get in and get out while the shelves were being stocked and the lines would be short. Boy was I wrong. The place was absolute pandemonium: People were arguing over who was next in line, tensions were high and tempers were short.
Because I only had one item to purchase, I slid into the ten items or less line that was already getting packed-out behind me. I was #3 in line, and considered myself fortunate that the wait would not be so bad. Behind me and around me, the bustle and grumble was continuing, and I was looking forward to getting out of the store and heading home. I’m not doing this again, I told myself.
Then we hit a snag. The guy in front of me started to become visibly agitated with the goings on in our line, so I peered over him on my tip-toes to see what might be the matter. Our cashier was taking a customer to task for bringing too many items into the ten items or less line. He had eleven. You would have thought this man was guilty of a capital offense by the way the cashier was going off on him. She spent more time chastising him for his error than she would have if she had just rung up the item and collected his money.
And since this is the season of “goodwill toward men”, the sentiments of those in line behind me echoed those of the cashier. Everybody went off on this guy. At one point, the man in front of me re-opened the whole discussion (and stopped the process of check-out) by berating the man again. The cashier, encouraged by Customer-In-Line #2, halted the checkout process to continue chewing out Mr. Eleven Items.
I told myself to stay out of this. I’m headstrong enough as it is, and I don’t need to get directly involved. I am not embellishing here: This was one of the closest times I have come to a situation of all-out mob rule, aside from my time working as a bouncer in a bar in T.C., and I found myself standing in the center of ground zero. Reading the crowd, I determined they only needed any semblance of an excuse to go for blood.... So, I bit my tongue.
It was then that Mr. Eleven Items turned to the crowd, and in a soft voice filled with sincerity, apologized to the crowd for his error. His voice was gentle, and was thick with the accent of India or Pakistan. He was truly sorry, and asked forgiveness. This only fueled the flames, and the crowd became more unruly.
That’s when I saw Jesus....
He couldn’t have been more than 8 years-old in age. He and his mom were trying to decide which hat they should buy; the blue one, or the Spiderman one that obviously was going to cost more. He and his mother came up to Mr. Eleven Items to hand him the hat so he could make the purchase.... the one more item that would have turned the crowd loose, and the sale had already been made complete.
Man, woman and child stood there guilty of buying too many pairs of boys underwear and pajamas in the ten items or less aisle. The crowd was poised, the man looked visibly afraid, and the little boy was truly beautiful in his joyful innocence... Spiderman hat in hand.
My heart actually began to beat faster...
I am guessing from the tilaka the woman had, and from the intricate henna painting on her hands, that she and her husband were not Christians. I would deduce that the little boy was not as well. So how did I see Jesus?
The Gospel of Luke tells us...
“He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”
~Luke 2:5-7
I saw Jesus when I saw how this crowd had no room for these people in the 10-items only line at Wal-wart. They didn’t belong, so the crowd wanted them to move along, get out, be gone... GET LOST!
I find this incredible. Since moving to the Seattle metropolitan area about 6 years ago, my family and I have been immersed in cultural diversity from day one. Not a single day goes by... not a single one... that I do not hear someone speaking Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, French, Spanish, German, Italian, or any other dialect of so many different languages. This area is a melting pot where violent crime is a rarity. To see the display I was witnessing in Wal-Mart was even more shocking to me because, well... it is so out of the ordinary here.
The Prophet Isaiah says...
“He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.”
~Isaiah 53:2-3
I saw Jesus when I saw the hatred and malice directed toward this family, and I had a glimpse of the dark side of the human spirit that was directed at Jesus as he went to the cross at Calvary.
Once, I posed the following question on my question on my FaceBook wall: “What do you get when you cross a german shepherd with a chihuahua?” The answers were creative and often funny, but they all illustrated the point that I wished to make that deep down inside of each of us, we are wired for racism.
The real answer is: You get a dog. The same goes for a child born of any ethnic combination or genetic mutation or abnormality: You get a human.
In Psalm 139, David says...
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”
~Psalm 139:13-16
The Prophet Samuel told us...
“But the LORD said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”
~1 Samuel 16:7
I saw Jesus and his compassion when I looked into the eyes of the Mr. Eleven Items and saw the look of fear he had as he stood as a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by white America... His wife, barely able to speak english and his son seeing first-hand the darker side of growing up in the land of equality and equal opportunity for all.
I saw Jesus in this persecuted family as I understood the persecution of another family 2000 years ago, who fled their homeland to protect the life of their newborn son from the swords of Herod’s hatchet men.
Mr.Eleven Items bravely walked his wife and child to the back of the enormous line to purchase the Spiderman hat for little “Jesus”, while the crowd enveloped them and growled and eyed them with malice.
Every fiber of my being wanted to scream out and lecture those around me for their ignorance and intolerance.... but how would that make me any different from them?
I had to do something.
*********************************************************************************
It is at this point of the story that I want to make sure that I am clear on a few things:
Jesus is an actual person, born over 2000 years ago as the Bible tells us in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke.
Jesus was fully God, born in the flesh to a virgin girl named Mary, to make His dwelling place among men, to show the way to God the Father in Heaven, as the Gospels of John and Mark tell us.
Jesus willingly went to and died on a Roman cross to pay for the individual sins of each and every one of us. After three days in the tomb, He rose again, ascended into Heaven, as all four Gospels tell us.
He is coming back, as the rest of the New Testament writers affirm.
Jesus is real.
So, how do I reconcile these last few points with my earlier statement of seeing Jesus in Wal-Mart? Because I believe Jesus, when he said to the crowds in the Gospel of Matthew:
“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’
~Matthew 25:34-40
*********************************************************************************
“Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Eleven Items.
The crowd of 50-70 or so people literally became silent. It was eerie. Two lines of people and two cashiers literally froze and turned to look at me. Mr. Eleven Items slowly turned to face me, the look of dread already on his face before he looked me in the eye. A few people chuckled. I think they were expecting a different response from me.
“Are you buying that hat?” I asked. He nodded the affirmative. “I have one item that I am purchasing. Bring it to me.”
Slowly, he guided his wife and his son back to their unguarded cart and before handing me the hat, explained, “I have no cash.”
“That’s all right,” I replied. He handed me the hat, and I handed it to the cashier.
“What the hell are you doing,” the cashier asked me.
“I’m buying a Spiderman hat,” I said. “Is there a problem?”
With the guy in line in front of me already on his way, I purchased my two items and walked over to Jesus. I went down on one knee so we could look each other in the eye. I held the opened the bag out to him and said, “Here you go, my man!”
He plunged his hand in and lifted out his prize. He gave it a hug before wrapping his arms around his mother’s leg. I stood up and offered my hand to Mr. Eleven Items. He shook it with reluctance --or perhaps it was caution-- before saying, “You did not need to do that.”
“I know,” I said, completely at a loss for words. “Goodbye.”
I went out to the car and wept silently as I drove home. All I could think about was how I, too, at some point in my life, have been one of the mob that I had just left behind. How many times have I neglected my neighbor or abused the love of my Savior?
I have no righteousness of my own. What I have has been given to me at a cost I could never pay. It is the real gift that keeps on giving. It requires nothing, but seeks a response. Grace is, by definition, an unmerited gift.
And, as a final reminder from another who bent his knee to the One and Only Savior:
“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart as working for the Lord, not men.”
~Colossians 3:23
Merry Christmas, all.
I saw Jesus tonight at the Wal-Mart in Lynwood, Washington. He was shopping for a Spiderman winter hat. My life will never be the same.
I went in to buy an accessory component to the big family gift that Candace and I bought for the kids. I figured that 10:15 at night would be a safe time to do my shopping quick; to get in and get out while the shelves were being stocked and the lines would be short. Boy was I wrong. The place was absolute pandemonium: People were arguing over who was next in line, tensions were high and tempers were short.
Because I only had one item to purchase, I slid into the ten items or less line that was already getting packed-out behind me. I was #3 in line, and considered myself fortunate that the wait would not be so bad. Behind me and around me, the bustle and grumble was continuing, and I was looking forward to getting out of the store and heading home. I’m not doing this again, I told myself.
Then we hit a snag. The guy in front of me started to become visibly agitated with the goings on in our line, so I peered over him on my tip-toes to see what might be the matter. Our cashier was taking a customer to task for bringing too many items into the ten items or less line. He had eleven. You would have thought this man was guilty of a capital offense by the way the cashier was going off on him. She spent more time chastising him for his error than she would have if she had just rung up the item and collected his money.
And since this is the season of “goodwill toward men”, the sentiments of those in line behind me echoed those of the cashier. Everybody went off on this guy. At one point, the man in front of me re-opened the whole discussion (and stopped the process of check-out) by berating the man again. The cashier, encouraged by Customer-In-Line #2, halted the checkout process to continue chewing out Mr. Eleven Items.
I told myself to stay out of this. I’m headstrong enough as it is, and I don’t need to get directly involved. I am not embellishing here: This was one of the closest times I have come to a situation of all-out mob rule, aside from my time working as a bouncer in a bar in T.C., and I found myself standing in the center of ground zero. Reading the crowd, I determined they only needed any semblance of an excuse to go for blood.... So, I bit my tongue.
It was then that Mr. Eleven Items turned to the crowd, and in a soft voice filled with sincerity, apologized to the crowd for his error. His voice was gentle, and was thick with the accent of India or Pakistan. He was truly sorry, and asked forgiveness. This only fueled the flames, and the crowd became more unruly.
That’s when I saw Jesus....
He couldn’t have been more than 8 years-old in age. He and his mom were trying to decide which hat they should buy; the blue one, or the Spiderman one that obviously was going to cost more. He and his mother came up to Mr. Eleven Items to hand him the hat so he could make the purchase.... the one more item that would have turned the crowd loose, and the sale had already been made complete.
Man, woman and child stood there guilty of buying too many pairs of boys underwear and pajamas in the ten items or less aisle. The crowd was poised, the man looked visibly afraid, and the little boy was truly beautiful in his joyful innocence... Spiderman hat in hand.
My heart actually began to beat faster...
I am guessing from the tilaka the woman had, and from the intricate henna painting on her hands, that she and her husband were not Christians. I would deduce that the little boy was not as well. So how did I see Jesus?
The Gospel of Luke tells us...
“He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”
~Luke 2:5-7
I saw Jesus when I saw how this crowd had no room for these people in the 10-items only line at Wal-wart. They didn’t belong, so the crowd wanted them to move along, get out, be gone... GET LOST!
I find this incredible. Since moving to the Seattle metropolitan area about 6 years ago, my family and I have been immersed in cultural diversity from day one. Not a single day goes by... not a single one... that I do not hear someone speaking Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, French, Spanish, German, Italian, or any other dialect of so many different languages. This area is a melting pot where violent crime is a rarity. To see the display I was witnessing in Wal-Mart was even more shocking to me because, well... it is so out of the ordinary here.
The Prophet Isaiah says...
“He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.”
~Isaiah 53:2-3
I saw Jesus when I saw the hatred and malice directed toward this family, and I had a glimpse of the dark side of the human spirit that was directed at Jesus as he went to the cross at Calvary.
Once, I posed the following question on my question on my FaceBook wall: “What do you get when you cross a german shepherd with a chihuahua?” The answers were creative and often funny, but they all illustrated the point that I wished to make that deep down inside of each of us, we are wired for racism.
The real answer is: You get a dog. The same goes for a child born of any ethnic combination or genetic mutation or abnormality: You get a human.
In Psalm 139, David says...
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”
~Psalm 139:13-16
The Prophet Samuel told us...
“But the LORD said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”
~1 Samuel 16:7
I saw Jesus and his compassion when I looked into the eyes of the Mr. Eleven Items and saw the look of fear he had as he stood as a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by white America... His wife, barely able to speak english and his son seeing first-hand the darker side of growing up in the land of equality and equal opportunity for all.
I saw Jesus in this persecuted family as I understood the persecution of another family 2000 years ago, who fled their homeland to protect the life of their newborn son from the swords of Herod’s hatchet men.
Mr.Eleven Items bravely walked his wife and child to the back of the enormous line to purchase the Spiderman hat for little “Jesus”, while the crowd enveloped them and growled and eyed them with malice.
Every fiber of my being wanted to scream out and lecture those around me for their ignorance and intolerance.... but how would that make me any different from them?
I had to do something.
*********************************************************************************
It is at this point of the story that I want to make sure that I am clear on a few things:
Jesus is an actual person, born over 2000 years ago as the Bible tells us in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke.
Jesus was fully God, born in the flesh to a virgin girl named Mary, to make His dwelling place among men, to show the way to God the Father in Heaven, as the Gospels of John and Mark tell us.
Jesus willingly went to and died on a Roman cross to pay for the individual sins of each and every one of us. After three days in the tomb, He rose again, ascended into Heaven, as all four Gospels tell us.
He is coming back, as the rest of the New Testament writers affirm.
Jesus is real.
So, how do I reconcile these last few points with my earlier statement of seeing Jesus in Wal-Mart? Because I believe Jesus, when he said to the crowds in the Gospel of Matthew:
“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’
“The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’
~Matthew 25:34-40
*********************************************************************************
“Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Eleven Items.
The crowd of 50-70 or so people literally became silent. It was eerie. Two lines of people and two cashiers literally froze and turned to look at me. Mr. Eleven Items slowly turned to face me, the look of dread already on his face before he looked me in the eye. A few people chuckled. I think they were expecting a different response from me.
“Are you buying that hat?” I asked. He nodded the affirmative. “I have one item that I am purchasing. Bring it to me.”
Slowly, he guided his wife and his son back to their unguarded cart and before handing me the hat, explained, “I have no cash.”
“That’s all right,” I replied. He handed me the hat, and I handed it to the cashier.
“What the hell are you doing,” the cashier asked me.
“I’m buying a Spiderman hat,” I said. “Is there a problem?”
With the guy in line in front of me already on his way, I purchased my two items and walked over to Jesus. I went down on one knee so we could look each other in the eye. I held the opened the bag out to him and said, “Here you go, my man!”
He plunged his hand in and lifted out his prize. He gave it a hug before wrapping his arms around his mother’s leg. I stood up and offered my hand to Mr. Eleven Items. He shook it with reluctance --or perhaps it was caution-- before saying, “You did not need to do that.”
“I know,” I said, completely at a loss for words. “Goodbye.”
I went out to the car and wept silently as I drove home. All I could think about was how I, too, at some point in my life, have been one of the mob that I had just left behind. How many times have I neglected my neighbor or abused the love of my Savior?
I have no righteousness of my own. What I have has been given to me at a cost I could never pay. It is the real gift that keeps on giving. It requires nothing, but seeks a response. Grace is, by definition, an unmerited gift.
And, as a final reminder from another who bent his knee to the One and Only Savior:
“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart as working for the Lord, not men.”
~Colossians 3:23
Merry Christmas, all.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
It's The End of the World as We Know It...
Well Guys...
Thanks for the quick response from you all. I really am not sure what I intended this blog to be. I have most of yours, and have been encouraged and amused with seeing where your lives are right now and what kinds of things you are going through. So many times I would read about, say, Geoff’s rock-climbing adventures or Kevin & Tina’s adventures in parenthood and get a good dose of the warm fuzzies and reflect on how much I miss you all.
So, I really did not know what exactly I was supposed to use this for. It is open-ended. It might be deep, it might be shallow. I’m sure it may even be boring to you at times. I’ll try not to make it dull.
That said, I received a phone call this morning that pretty much gave me my first topic. My sister called to tell me (against my father’s wishes) that hospice care has been called to assist with my dad’s last days. Apparently the cancer has come back, and spread, and taken its toll. I say apparently because my dad and I don’t have much of a relationship. Actually, we don’t have any. I am not going to go into the nitty and the gritty, or toss accusations or defense-statements about why this is so. It just “is” the situation. And, to keep this short and avoid a misrepresentation of both my father and my own perspectives on both our distance and the silence between us, I will leave it this: I won’t be going back for any final last words or visits. This is not out of spite, nor any ill-will. It just is.
So. If you consider yourself a person of prayer, please drop a few for my mom and dad.
Sorry for the delay in posting my first “official” blog entry. As you can imagine, I’ve had a few things to sort through on the emotional level.
I guess I succeeded in avoiding dull for my first ever blog. But then that might be a matter of perspective.
~KL
Thanks for the quick response from you all. I really am not sure what I intended this blog to be. I have most of yours, and have been encouraged and amused with seeing where your lives are right now and what kinds of things you are going through. So many times I would read about, say, Geoff’s rock-climbing adventures or Kevin & Tina’s adventures in parenthood and get a good dose of the warm fuzzies and reflect on how much I miss you all.
So, I really did not know what exactly I was supposed to use this for. It is open-ended. It might be deep, it might be shallow. I’m sure it may even be boring to you at times. I’ll try not to make it dull.
That said, I received a phone call this morning that pretty much gave me my first topic. My sister called to tell me (against my father’s wishes) that hospice care has been called to assist with my dad’s last days. Apparently the cancer has come back, and spread, and taken its toll. I say apparently because my dad and I don’t have much of a relationship. Actually, we don’t have any. I am not going to go into the nitty and the gritty, or toss accusations or defense-statements about why this is so. It just “is” the situation. And, to keep this short and avoid a misrepresentation of both my father and my own perspectives on both our distance and the silence between us, I will leave it this: I won’t be going back for any final last words or visits. This is not out of spite, nor any ill-will. It just is.
So. If you consider yourself a person of prayer, please drop a few for my mom and dad.
Sorry for the delay in posting my first “official” blog entry. As you can imagine, I’ve had a few things to sort through on the emotional level.
I guess I succeeded in avoiding dull for my first ever blog. But then that might be a matter of perspective.
~KL
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