Too pooped to write

Yeah. I don't mean to complain so don't take it that way. But it seems that moving is serious work. And it's seriously hot. And I'm totally ready to have it all over with. ONE. MORE. DAY.

And I was just thinking. Crunching some numbers. Just for curiosities sake. It doesn't really matter. But I just finished living 593 days in apartments. Hey, I wasn't living in a refrigerator box under a bridge. I had the refrigerator ... not the box. I had balconies. I had flushing toilets and nice showers. Two of the apartments had absolutely killer views. There is absolutely no hardship in any of that.

And here's the deal.

About 80% of everything I own has been stored away during those 593 days. I thought all of that stuff was important. Sometimes I've missed an item or two. But over all I've realized that life has continued on quite splendidly without it all. I mean there's some nice stuff there. A leather sofa. A huge heavy wooden entertainment center. Gigantic wooden dressers that my clothes usually go in. I've been living out of tupperware for 593 days and it really hasn't hurt me at all. All of my baseball memorabilia has been in storage. And honestly, it's been okay.

Yesterday I set-up our bed and a few other items into our new house and we've been living there. Tonight is our second night in the new place. The amazing 47 inch LCD flat screen that my wonderful friends at Towerview Baptist gave us for my birthday (can you believe that? WOW. I am totally humbled by their love. And I totally do NOT deserve it.) is up and running. I haven't connect the blue ray player yet just because I haven't had time. But we've been living in a rather sparsely furnished home since yesterday. And can I tell you ... no big deal. I could, I have, done without the stuff. And it hasn't hurt me at all.

I owe God an apology. And I'll gladly make it in a public setting like the world wide web. God, I'm sorry I have placed such value on my things. Thank you for the lessons that you have taught me in 593 unique days. I don't understand all of them. Some of the greatest frustrations have come because I have wanted to make absolutely certain that I'm learning the lesson You are teaching. Please don't let me miss it. My heart realizes in a new way that there is a new home waiting for me and I'll never have to pack another box or store another item. You are the Decorator. The Designer. Please put it together any way that brings you pleasure. And in the meantime, thank you for reminding me that You, my precious Father, are enough.

If you want me to live in a tent, I will live in a tent. I just want to live close to You.

MOOOOO-ving

Today we began our move from apartment living into home ownership again. So I'm just wondering. I've moved five times in the last twenty months. Each time it has been either over 95 degrees or below zero.

What's with that?

Curve Ball Shy

I was 15 year old and playing sandlot ball. My next door neighbor came home early. He was a steel worker, walking the sky high beams of the growing Sears Tower in Chicago's loop. He watched for a few minutes and then offered to pitch for both teams. Jack was a big guy in his mid-thirties. I'm sure he went gentle on us concerning speed. I'm sure he made certain not to hit any of us. But when I came up to bat I fouled off a couple of pitches. He never threw anything but strikes. The next pitch was moving a little and I was able (for probably the first and last time in my life) to time my swing just right, sending the ball soaring to dead center field. I watched my own fly ball as it left the ball park, crossed the street and landed ... on the fly ... in the back yard of some guys house. I remember floating around the bases knowing that this one swing would lift me into the baseball hall of fame in our little neighborhood of guys. I also knew that my days playing here had probably ended. I was getting too old, too big, to keep playing in our neighborhood ballpark.

The next time up Jack struck me out on three pitches.

But the reward of the day came later that evening when I saw my neighbor sitting on his front doorstep. I walked over and sat down next to him, silently hoping he wasn't going to kill me. Instead he said the nicest thing anybody ever said about any athletic ability I ever had (which was not much.) He looked straight at me and said, "You killed the most wicked curveball I ever threw."

Honestly, I had no idea. I never really noticed a wicked curve. I just saw a ball coming and I did my best to put my bat where I thought the ball would go. In reality I probably put the bat where I never meant to put it and just got very lucky. Dead serious about that.

I've faced a thousand curve balls since that day. None of them came in the form of a baseball. They have all come in the form of the incidents of life that I never expected. A suicide. An accident. An argument. A moral failure on the part of a person I trust. A murder. A job change. A confession. A run away. An offer. A rejection. A death. Ad nauseam.

I've been thinking about curve balls this week. You know what makes them so wicked? The fast balls that precede them. If you always expect a curve you will be ready for it when it comes. But when you see fast ball after fast ball after fast ball, well, a curve ball catches you off balance and you swing like a drunk with a thousand pound bat. Fast balls are nice. They are predictable. You know where they come from and where they are going. You know what to do with them.

Then comes the curve. You swing so hard that you look positively cartoonish as you corkscrew yourself into the ground. You end up laying in the dust, wondering where the ball went. Then the catcher pulls it out of his mitt, laughs at you, spits in the dirt, and throws it back to the pitcher. And it's time to get ready for the next pitch. There is always another pitch. And you must always be ready.

We are still trying to brush the dust off this week. It's been a long 2009 when it comes to curve balls. There have been plenty of fast balls too. And we've turned on them pretty well, planting a few across the street behind the houses. But we've yet to truly connect on a curve ball. Honestly, the thought of another one leaves me queazy. I'm a little "curve ball shy." Wondering when it's going to come and from where it will originate.

I am not use to playing in the dust. I can't say as how I like it. I know the final score of the game even though we are still playing. I think I need a pinch hitter.

Jesus. You're up.

Free Floating Thoughts

It's been such an insane weekend. I've tried to turn my brain off with minimal success. One of my greatest downfalls is that I think too much. So I talked to God for a while today. Actually, I talked to God for a long while today. And I decided to tell Him what brings me great joy in life. It came as no surprise to me that each and every "thing" ... was a person. Unexpected death will make you think. It will keep you up late nights. It will wake you up early mornings. Honestly, I am getting tired of sleeping four hours per night. And there isn't a switch to it that I've been able to find. So if you have to think, I figure you would be wise to think about the joys. Otherwise the sadness will overwhelm you and send you tumbling into a dark and seemingly bottomless hole.

So. The list I gave to God was very long. I'm going to share the top 10 with you in no particular order. And my one rule? No sentences. Just a name followed by solitary words that, to me, defines that person. You will notice that this list is a family list. If you are not on it ... no worries. You were very likely on the list I gave to God. And one other thing ... each person could have twenty more things on their list. These are just the top ones that I can remember sitting here in the darkness of a late night living room.

Debbie - Solid. Dependable. Dedicated. Passionate. Wise. Loving. Emotional. Trustworthy. Mine.
Kelli - Stable. Committed. Caring. Focused. Overwhelmed. Capable. Intuitive. Charming.
Joe - Talented. Funny. Inspired. Able. Happy. Carefree.
Elle - Hugs. Arms. Whispers. Laughter. Smiles. Joy.
Scott - Energetic. Mature. Visionary. Trustworthy. Loyal. Creative. Reliable.
Amanda - Sweetness. Able. Strong. Friend. Focused. Athletic.
Christopher - Amazing. Mature. Growing. Hilarious. Fresh. Unsuspecting.
Laura - Real. Brilliant. Caring. Sacrificial. Honest. Thinker.
Jim - Smart. Brother. Independent. Creative. Seeking. Survivor. Fun. Fun. Fun.
Alisha - Caring. Committed. Loyal. Capable. Deep. Creative.

Family ... I love you. This past week has reminded me to tell you that more often. So if you see me staring off into space a bit more frequently over the next few weeks I trust you will understand. If I call you or text you more than usual it's because I want you to know that you are my life. Next to my relationship with my God you are the reasons that I want to continue to walk the planet.

How Fragile We Are

Sometimes, no matter what you say, your words just sound stupid in your own ears. Raw emotions leave you feeling like a frayed rope that has been torn from its anchor. Fragments of memories spin through your mind like falling leaves in a summer storm.

We lost another friend this week. Thus far 2009 has been "The Year of Loss."

Fred Winters.

Woody Foreman.

Lynda Edelen.

Our friend of a quarter of a century succumbed early this morning to complications following cancer surgery. How do I tell you about this friend? I think ... by stories. Glimpses of a life lived with gusto and passion.

When I think of Lynda I think of ...

-A ski trip to Wisconsin. Convinced by her husband, Dave, to attempt one of the more difficult trails with him, she climbed on the lift. Debbie and I waved goodbye and headed to our van, too chicken to attempt the descent with them. In about 10 minutes Dave skied up ... alone. We looked at him. His glance held no hint of humor. He quietly said, "Not a word." We looked up the mini-mountain to see Lynda walking down the slope carrying her skis. It was a moment. It was also a silent trip back to the hotel!

-Dad gummit!

-Driving all day with our kids for a round trip White Sox/Rangers double header in Chicago during the last year of Old Comiskey Park. Being glad that Dave loved to drive and Lynda loved to keep him awake.

-Ten consecutive 4th of July celebrations at their home. Launching highly illegal bottle rockets into the sky to impress our kids only to have one sail into the neighbors roof. Oddly enough, they purchased that house and moved into it a few years later. I think it was a "guilt purchase."

-Hoppin mad!

-Another ski trip to another mini-midwestern mountain. Sharing a bed and breakfast with them and sitting in their room watching the winter olympics. Lynda had back pains and Dave used a little massager on her as she lay on the floor. I fell off the couch laughing as she gasped, "If I knew it was going to feel this good I would have started moaning sooner!" That became a running joke for years.

-Teaching teenagers to "foot wrestle" during "JPL" in the late 1980's ... and losing to her. (You grab each others hands and try to stomp on each others feet while dancing out of the way of their feet trying to do the same to yours.)

=Sitting in a lawn chair and watching Lynda and Debbie dig two feet of snow out of their driveway while I nursed my broken arm in a sling. An arm I broke ... you got it ... skiing with them.

-Watching her host my son Scott's (approximately) 4th birthday party in our home because Debbie was sick in bed with mono. That's what friends do.

-Listening to Lynda and Debbie talk on the phone every Sunday for the last few years. Each conversation lasted about two hours and ended as I heard my wife say, "I love you, Lynda."

-Conspiring with her every Christmas and birthday as she worked to find Debbie the perfect present.

-Emails that always included a minimum of three "Ha!'s" as she laughed at the events that life was throwing her way. Even the events that start with a "C" and rhyme with "Lancer." She never complained about it. Never showed fear of it. Always treated it like a side light to be dealt with but not mastered by.

The stories do not stop there. There are so many more. I did her grandmothers funeral. I did the funerals of her in-laws. At her request I did the funeral for a 10 year old little girl named "Anna" that lived next door to her and died way too young. And now on Saturday I will do her funeral. Honestly, I do not know what to say. Like every good pastor I have a well stocked and often used file of funeral sermons. But they will stay in their digital file cabinet this weekend. You see, I have to talk about my friend. And someway, somehow, I have to help my other dear friend, her husband Dave, find hope in the midst of pain. I cannot for the life of me figure out how to do that. When his future consists of coming home after work to their dream home, decorated by his bride, with food in the cabinets that she purchased. How do you get through that? For that matter, how do you help someone else get through that?

Lynda lived life with passion. Joy was her friend. She knew her cancer was very serious and very dangerous and yet she seldom spoke of it. It was, for her, an obstacle to be navigated around. It turns out it was an iceberg to be sailed into. Which reminds me that in our last email we talked about a cruise that she, Dave, Debbie and I had talked about taking in 2010. But there will be no ship. No ocean. No cruise.

In one of the last emails she sent me she said, " I don't feel happy right now. Hate that. I like to live my life in my happy place but can't seem to find it these days. Have you seen it??????????????? Not on the GPS currently. " Tonight I know that Lynda has found her happy place. She is home. How do I know that with confidence?

Two nights ago, when we believed that all was well and she would be home by the weekend, Debbie and I went to bed. In the middle of the night she had a dream. She was in her class room with her students. Lynda walked in. She invaded Debbie's dream. Debbie was surprised in the dream to see her. Even in the dream she knew she was out of place. She said, "Lynda!" And Lynda said, "I'm okay. I'm in the arms of Jesus." Debbie told me the story the next morning. I assured her that Lynda was fine, the doctors said the danger was passed and it was just her own brain playing out its fear. Two hours later Dave called me with the horrible news. The unexpected truth ... that had occurred in the middle of the night. Just about the time Debbie was having her dream.

A gift from God. A last visit by a dear sister who just stopped by on her way to heaven. I don't really have any answers about how that works. But I believe it. So does Debbie. So does Dave. Don't bother trying to tell us otherwise. It will be fruitless.

Tonight she is okay. She is in the arms of Jesus.

But I'm not at all sure that the rest of us are doing that well. How fragile we are.

Lynda being "pick pocketed" by The Amazing Elle

Everybody Deserves To Be Loved

What is it about being at 30,000 + feet that makes me want to write?

Debbie and I are on the final leg of a journey that took us from our “love hovel” in the St. Louis ‘burbs to visit her dad and step-mother-in-law in the Richmond ‘burbs. We are truly “burben.” It’s been a great trip. One of the memorable ones. The weather was good three out of four days. Debbie’s step-mom is winning a battle with breast cancer. She was tired but doing well. Hey, if ever you have a right to tiredness it’s after a round of chemo therapy.

But that’s not really the point.

Somewhere along the way in the last few years I’ve begun to question “love.” I don’t doubt its existence or that I have experienced it frequently on my earthly journey. Still, I seem to have traversed a period where things in general have been ... harsh. There has been plenty of frustration. A fair amount of angry people. And over-all I’ve just seen a lot of things that I don’t really want to see. Ever. Not again. “Good” can turn “mean” in an instant. “Trusting” can turn “accusing.” Friendship can fade. What you once believed to be solid can prove itself sponge. I’ve found my motives called into question so many times that I’ve begun to question them myself. The Hand of God has been frequently visible but His voice has often been quiet. Less than a whisper. More like a memory. A very desired memory.

If you are reading this and thinking I am talking about you the odds are tremendously high that I am not. So relax. Read or don’t. My job is to write.

The point of this trip we are wrapping up is love. Hopefully it has been love in a pure form. I hope we have given it freely though it has come at a cost. Nothing is free in the world of commerce. Still, if I have learned anything over these trying episodes it is to always err on the side of love. Even if nobody believes that is what you are doing. Love anyway. Even if they attack your motivations. Love anyway. And so when weighing financial considerations against the desire to love without reservation ... indeed without “counting the cost” ... we voted on love. My in-laws are probably reading this and I wish they were not but I have to write it anyway.

Everybody deserves to feel loved. I do not know where I was sitting or what I was doing when it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I (we) needed to show them that they are a loved and cherished part of our family. They have been to my home multiple times since I have been to theirs. I am ashamed to admit that. But I do admit it. I have not done a good job of showing love. Honestly, what better time to show someone that you care deeply for them than when they are sick? What better time to break your habitual absence than when they might just be in need of a hug? There is an answer to that question. It is not rhetorical. The appropriate answer is “at every opportunity.”

When it comes to love, I fear that I have not been very opportunistic. I have no plea but guilt. No excuse but ignorance. I have made an art form out of speaking before I think, acting before I consider, and living to draw attention to the wrong thing. I have forgotten that humor can coexist with gentleness, fun with kindness, and that I most often receive when I am focused on giving.

And for the fact that it took chemo therapy to remind me of that, I do nothing but repent.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #32

Today I ...

-Woke up at 9:15 (EDT). Sweet!
-Realized I was in Richmond, Virginia and had a sudden craving for tobacco. Odd. I've never used any in my entire life. I resisted. I won. (Thanks to "The Patch.")
-Got a wasp stuck up the sleeve of my t-shirt and got stung 4 times resulting in numb fingers and a shoulder playing the "1812 Overture."
-Mowed my father-in-law's HUGE yard (we are talking acres here) with his nifty zero-turn-radius mower. Had a blast.
-Found a concrete slab with the hand print and initials of my son and my brother-in-law left there when my son was about ... 10 years old. I had "A Moment."
-Found out that Lama's really do spit. No joke. They do.
-Had another encounter with a wasp as I was putting the mower away. He got me twice on the leg before I even knew he was there. Today's score? Wasps - 6. Ron - 0. Not acceptable. I have numb toes and a swollen calf. (Not the animal kind. The leg kind.)
-Ate steak and 8 deviled eggs. Marveled at how "ate" and "8" sound the same and yet have totally different meanings.
-Talked to my real estate agent in Illinois who told me that I sounded oddly relaxed and that I must be having a nice vacation. Suddenly realized that I was.
-Drove 2 kids that I don't know around my father-in-laws property on a golf cart. I found that ball I lost back in 1987. Not really.
-Drove Bud The Dog around the grounds on the golf cart until he fell off. He looked at me like I had pushed him. I had not.
-Taught same two unknown children to salute the flag.
-Watched 15 minutes of Nascar and craved tobacco again. Currently looking for another "patch."
-Missed Costco.
-Threw a steak to "Bud the Dog" which never even came close to hitting the ground. Bud is "a dogs dog." If only he could kill wasps.
-Vacuumed a gazebo.
-Sat with my brother-in-law and made fun of our wives without their ever knowing. Until they read this blog. (If I do not blog again in a couple of days ... print this and take it to the Hanover County, Virginia Sheriffs Police.)
-Sweat.
-Prayed.
-Thought about how much I will miss Towerview Baptist Church tomorrow.
-Left in my rental car for an hour and no once noticed. I was pleased.
-Blogged.
-Said "good night, planet earth."

My brother-in-law fishes for bass

My brother-in-law fishes for bass. BIG bass.

That is all.

Stealing Sky Malls and Lusting After Waffles

I like to blog from way up in the air. Yeah, they just told me that my laptop is hovering 39,000 feet above … uh … well, they didn’t tell me where. Must be close to Indiana by now. The clouds are thin but the world is invisible. How many places can you go where the world is invisible? Last night I lay in my bed toying with the idea of sleep. I was in that sweet spot where the tension of the day had faded into the “who gives a darn” of the night. I thought about closing my eyes when a huge gust of wind hit my outside wall , coinciding with a clap of thunder that would make applauding angels jealous. We are talking loud here. But that puny little 70 mph gust can’t compare with the 500 + mph with which my current vehicle is rushing across the continent. We left St. Louis 45 minutes late but not to worry. We’ll land on time. The nice man in the big chair with the blue suit and plastic wings on his chest says so. I believe him. When I boarded I almost asked him if this was the plane that lands in the Hudson or the Chesapeake. I thought better of it. Sounds rather terroristic to me. Some things are best left unsaid.

It took me 53 years to learn that truth.

A young lady who lives far away from where she will sleep tonight just handed me .75 oz. of peanuts. HONEY ROASTED peanuts. This is what separates us from the rest of the world. Some dream of peanuts on the ground and ask “why?” I eat them in the air and ask “Why not?”

I have also pilfered three copes of Sky Mall” from the seat backs in front of me. The little sticker on them says it’s appropriate to take one and they will replace it. I read the sticker three times, which entitles me to three magazines. One for Topher. One for Scott. One for Jim. They will thank me. But they will not really order anything. That’s because they are married. When you are married you are allowed to read Sky Mall but you are not allowed to purchase anything in it. It’s a shame really. They have truly good stuff. Like real motorized “bumper boats” for your pool. No matter that they don’t have pools. Just owning your own bumper boat would be a great reward in itself. It’s alright if you don’t understand. But if you don’t … I’m betting you are a girl.

Baltimore is calling. Enterprise is waiting. Washington D.C. is in the way. Richmond is open late. I wonder if they have a Waffle House?

My Stuff

I was just crunching numbers in my head and realized that I've spent the last 19 months living in 3 different apartments. That's not a really big deal. Then it occurred to me, I have not lived on the ground in 19 months. That gave me an entirely new perspective on the issue. I've lived on the 9Th floor facing a huge lake. I've lived on the 3rd floor facing a huge lake. And I now live on the 3rd floor facing what will eventually be a corn field. I've noticed some coyote's prowling about in that field lately. Thank God they aren't dingo's. Lot's of kids in the neighborhood. I wonder if the lack of altitude will affect me. Maybe the nose bleeds will stop and the heart palpitations. Okay, I'm kidding about all of that. Calm down.

If God were to say to me, "Hey Ron! I want you to live in an apartment for the rest of your life!" I could easily say, "Okie dokie. No problem, God!" I mean, I don't live in a grass hut, a mud and cardboard shack, or a tenement slum. All of my apartments have been nice. No complaints. Well, there were some amazing snow storms coming in off that big old lake but you've already heard those stories. Did I mention that it got down to -14 degrees on that lake shore this past winter? I did? Never mind then.

Then I remember "my stuff." Throughout these months most of my "stuff" has been in the house it took me a year to sell or in the basement of some of my bestest friends, Bob and Cindy. And occasionally, when reaching for my undies or socks in my Tupperware type dresser, I remember my real dresser. It's all wood and shiny and really, really heavy. And I go, "Hey! I miss my stuff!" Then I feel a little bit guilty. I think about my hammock and they way it feels when it's tied between two trees and I go, "Hey! I miss my stuff!" And I feel even guiltier. I miss my bricks. I don't expect you to understand that but I have these bricks that are really important, memory-filled bricks. One is from Old Comiskey Park where the White Sox use to play. My dad use to take me to ball games behind that brick. We walked under it together but we didn't know it at the time. One is from the outfield wall at Wrigley Field. One is my "paver brick" that's got my name on it and the date of the first time I took my kids to Wrigley Field. It's a replica of the real one that's on a patio there at the ball park. My kids bought it for me. Very cool. There's just lots of "stuff" and I think when I open the boxes again in a few weeks it will be a little bit like Christmas morning. I'm sure I've got "stuff" that I've even forgotten that I own.

Which brings me to the fact that I bought a house. Did I mention that? I did. It's a "Villa" which means I share a wall with a neighbor. She is a solider in the United States Air Force. She has a 2 year old little boy. I think he and I are going to be best friends. She has a gun so I'll probably be very polite around them. Anyway, It's like a condo only I have to mow my own lawn and shovel my own driveway. I really, really like it. From the outside it looks rather small but when you open the front door and go in, it's like ... WHAM! It opens up really quickly. It's actually bigger than the house that we raised our kids in. I have no idea why we bought a house so large except that the price was right and we prayed and God kept pointing at it like He was saying, "Hey, buy this one! I saved it for you!" In reality I actually believe that He did exactly that. More about that in a later blog. The house has one of my favorite things ... a wood burning fire place. And a finished basement. And a special hidden away room with no windows that I'm going to turn into a secret office that nobody knows about. Not even Debbie. I mean, she'll know I'm in there doing who knows what but it will be SO off-limits to her. It's going to be my "Man Cave." Pictures will never be published so don't wait around.

So that's my confession for the day. I miss my stuff. I can live without it. But it will be neat to have it again. After living a little sparsely for nearly 2 years most of it might wind up on e-bay. Bid high. I'll have a mortgage soon.

The Guggenheim for (nearly) 3 year olds

My Friend Mike

I have a friend named Mike. We've been buds for a very long time. Maybe like, oh, 30 years. When we met I was a youth pastor in Clarendon Hills, IL. Mike worked for the Illinois Baptist State Association. He worked for the part of that organization that helped youth pastors be better at what they do. And I am sure he did a great job of it. Yet I don't recall anything that Mike ever taught me about youth pastoring. We just didn't talk about it much. In retrospect I realize that his agenda was higher than the one he was paid to carry out. Mike did something much more important than teaching me strategies and procedures.

Mike loved me.

I hold this odd distinction in the wonderful world of ministry. I've been a pastor of one sort or another all of my adult life. I actually began this journey of servant hood at the not-so-ripe age of 19. The first pastor I "worked for" got mad at me when I quit. He thought it was a personal insult. But the reason I quit was because, well, he was nuts. I think the poor guy was way over-medicated on something. At times we would be the only people in the building and he wouldn't speak to me. Then he started accusing me of saying things very controversial about him at meetings I was not even at. So it was time to leave. After I left, the church fired him. He refused to leave their "parsonage." As a matter-of-fact, he started a new mission in it. I call that "loony." They had to get a court order to make him vacate.

My next pastor ... well, my next pastor got caught with his secretary. (That wouldn't happen these days because somewhere along the way they began calling them "Administrative Assistants." So it's impossible to get caught with your "secretary.") The guy who took his place got mad at me when I resigned a few years later. (That made two out of three pastors who became angry at me when I quit. No biggie. Later on I found out that sometimes they actually encourage you to quit. It's a weird phenomenon but one I learned to live with.) He became so angry that he went and got the latest copy of the church history and then he got a sharpie and then he crossed my name out every where it appeared. I served there for four years and today they have no record that I ever existed. This man had a PhD. For stupid people like me that means he had a doctorate. He was brilliant and I was stupid. Yet he "got even with me" by striking my name from all historical records. I thought that was rather immature but what do I know? (These days I sit "in the big chair" in our church. I like my youth pastor. My Administrative Assistant is safe. I don't keep sharpies in my desk. All is well.)

But I think you are picking up a pattern here, are you not? I have a history of relationships with people I do ministry with becoming a bit dysfunctional. And that's why it meant so much to me that Mike decided to love me. We did a lot of things together. He, five other youth pastors, and I pulled a cross once from Marion, Illinois to Springfield, Illinois. We did it to draw attention to the fact that Jesus loves people. Each evening we stopped at a church or a school and held youth oriented services, complete with a band and a speaker. Lots of kids showed up. It was March and I remember it being very, very cold outside. But inside the deeper parts of me it was tremendously warm. There's just nothing like serving with brothers. Some years later Mike resigned his position and he asked me to take over the leadership of our state associations huge two day youth event held between Christmas and New Years. I asked him why in the world he would want ME to do that. Plenty of other people had better qualifications. His answer left me humbled with a dry mouth and a spinning head. Mike said, "I'm asking you to do it because I know you don't want to. Everybody else wants to. I want somebody who has the sole motivation of serving Jesus." I had to say "yes" after that. I will never forget that twenty-six kids got saved at that event.

After that Mike and I kept in touch as often as possible. Sometimes we could meet in person, sometimes merely by telephone. But we never lost touch. He came to town last week and called me up to ask me to meet him for lunch. I would have walked the twenty miles to that restaurant if necessary. I knew what Mike's motivation for wanting to meet with me was. He wanted to check on me. He wanted to love me. No way I was missing that lunch date.

Mike is a full fledged Jew. He wears the little beanie on his head but these days it's covered by an Australian bush hat. With Mike there is no reason to ask why. You just accept it as it is and laugh. You see, Mike is a renegade. He's unique. Only he hears the drums that ring in his hears. He has been that way as long as I've known him and I'm pretty certain he will never change. I surely hope not. He spent several years as the Rabbi of a Messianic Jewish synagogue. When we talk about those days his eyes light up with passion. And today Mike lives a life of wonderful retirement. He and his wife own a place just southwest of Colorado Springs. His gaze became distant as he told me how his living room window is a perfect frame for "Pikes Peak." In his free time he rides his mountain bike and climbs 14,000 foot mountains. Did I mention that he's 71 years old? He's got me by 18 years and I have to stop and catch my breath when I climb a mere 14 feet to my apartment perch on the third floor.

It's nice to be loved. It's even better when you know that the person loving you doesn't have to. He's doing it simply because he's a rabbi with a passionate heart for Jesus and Jesus kids. I could write stories about Mike all night but I think I'll just say this. He's my friend and I'm very glad.

Elle Sings The Oldies

Running To God Means Running Away From "Why"

Life gets busy. Life gets crazy. Sometimes you get overwhelmed with questions and the search for the "why's" of life. That's the way I've been feeling lately. Kind of like I want to sometimes chase God into a corner and say, "I'm not letting you go until you tell me WHY." A guy named Jacob did that once. He wrestled all night. It didn't turn out all that well for him. He limped around the planet for the rest of his days.

I went on a two day mini-sabbath this week. I decided only to ask God for one thing. I eliminated all questions that have confused and frustrated me. I figure it's not the important thing anymore. I have long felt that if God would just allow me to "touch Him" again the questions would resolve themselves by becoming meaningless. All things pale in His light. And so I asked simply to be allowed the grace to be held. By Him. To know that He is still here and that He still cares. That I have not been kicked out of the family or orphaned for some sin that I cannot for the life of me remember. I'm betting that you know exactly what I mean.

After settling in to "The Mercy Center" I put on a rain jacket and decided to walk the labyrinth. I've only done that 3 times previously in my life and each time was profound. I tucked my ipod in my pocket, put the headphones on and put the 4,000 plus songs on "shuffle." As I left the building I uttered a plea for God to program anything He wanted to pour into my head. And if I wound up listening to some rock-n-roll version of "Johnny Played With One Hammer" I'd know that He had decided not to work that way in me this time. His call. As I stepped out the door music started playing. A raindrop splashed directly between my glasses and my eyeball. Immediately the words of Sarah Groves melted into my soul with "Call it what you will ... I call it rain ... when trouble come and pat against my soul. Go in if you like, I will remain, and let the washing waters make me whole." For the next 90 minutes I walked over 5 miles, including the labyrinth. God programmed every song. The next day I drove to the "Lincoln Memorial Gardens" in Springfield. I asked God for the same thing and He granted it. He was tangible. He was interactive.

I realized some things. When I think about entering God's presence I fully expect to feel dirty. Shameful. Disgusted with myself and disgusting to God. And yet each time I find that I feel clean. Washed. Worthy. Loved. Held. And I believe that is the way He intends for it to be. I realized that the "where" of my bodily location is not nearly as important to Him as I thought. Where He wants me to be is simply seeking Him. He is the pure place. And He will work where ever I find myself if I am in the pure place of His Heart. At one point the "shuffle" led me into a 2 1/2 minute introduction to a Willow Creek podcast. I thought God had dropped the ball for sure. The introduction was to teaching about being "in it for the long haul." It concluded with those words ... "no matter what, be in it for the long haul." The ipod shifted immediately into the old rock/folk song, "The long and winding road" which begins, "the long and winding road, that leads to your door, will never disappear. I've seen that road before. It always leads me here. Lead me to your door." Perfect. And you know who was singing it? Wellll .. I have this old album burned onto my ipod that is "daffy duck and friends sing the Beatles." Yes, God was teaching me and loving me through Daffy Duck.

Take that Billy Graham.

I could go on. And on. And on. Over 40 songs throughout 2 days covering 10 miles. And every-single-one ... was a clear and on-target gift from the Father's heart to mine. I could tell you stories about how they ministered to wounds and bruises that I've been carrying for way too long. But it isn't for the consumption of the world. Some things are just to ... personal.

I feel like I got to touch Him again. I sat in the chapel of the "monastery" all alone Monday night in the dark from 11pm until midnight. (I do not recommend this unless God sends you. Scary!) I didn't speak a word. Neither did He. But He was there. I felt Him. It was like breathing again after holding your breath for way too long. I recalled an old axiom that I learned some years ago while taking a mini-sabbath in the Minnesota back woods. "In the calm of Jesus, what matters?"

I think that God likes it when we intentionally hide from the world and go out seeking His presence. I think He enjoys honoring that. I think He realizes that it is a very counter cultural thing to do and it brings Him pleasure. And yet sometimes I have gone off for a couple of days only to come home with nothing to show for it. That only means you cannot program or predict God.

And that's one of the things I really love about Him. You see, I NEED Him to be in charge. Because I don't do a very good job of it myself.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #31

Sometimes you need to fix your sign or unplug it altogether.

Twenty-Four Years And Counting ... A Salute To One Of My Best Friends

Twenty-four years ago I encountered a stress inducing day. However, my stress was not the only thing that was induced. My wife was induced as well. She was nine months pregnant and scheduled to give birth to our third ... and last ... child. He was pre-named Christopher Tyler and the birth was a cake walk. I don't remember any of the pain whatsoever. It was a little messy though. And gross. But he was worth it.

Christopher put us through some interesting days. He was that wonderful flavor in life that you can't quite identify but you know it when it's missing. I could expose you to a long litany of things that he did that brought him close to going home to heaven earlier than planned but .... Oh what the heck ...

There was the time he got detention for telling his teacher to "put a sock in it."

Or the time he got in trouble in school and the principal made him draw a picture of himself saying "I'm sorry" and then take it home to get his mom to sign it and bring it back to him the next day. So Chris promptly went home, got in trouble and was grounded to his room. While there he faked drawing an "I'm sorry" picture for his mom. He presented it to her, totally melting her heart. He ... in his infinite wisdom ... asked her to autograph it for memories sake. She did with tears of grateful joy running down her cheeks. The next day he turned the signed picture in to the principal. He got away with it for several day until the principal, a friend of mine, mentioned "The Incident" to me. I had been out of town and was fairly sure I would have heard about this story. So I asked Debbie about it. Lights began flashing in her eyes and sirens began going off in her ears. He paid a dear price for that one.

How about the time he had his friends duck tape him to a stop sign to see what drivers would do when they came by? The first car? Yep. The police.

Or the time he and a friend made a cardboard cat with tin foil eyes and tied a string to it, leaving it laying in the middle of the street in front of our house. When the first car came by they pulled the string, jerking the cat to attention as the car came to a screeching and panicked halt. That car? Yep. A squad car.

Did I mention the time he went to work at a local golf course and ran over the golf pro with a golf cart? He informed us of the incident rather casually that evening. The golf pro was taken to the hospital after golfers lifted the cart off of him. He spent at least one night in the hospital. I'm not certain but I think he went into vinyl repair shortly thereafter.

I could go on but I think you get the drift.

Now let me tell you the most remarkable part of the story. God was working in Christopher's life from day one. Chris never puts up with "boring." He has a desire to blaze trails and do things his own way. (Did I tell you about the time he and his friends went "stag" to their high school homecoming ... in the back of a dump truck?) Today this twenty-four year old man is one of the most talented, creative, gifted, passionate people that I know. He is deeply in love with his "cutting edge" church and is learning more and more every day about his "cutting edge" God. And His Lord has honored that. Christopher is simply living out life the very same way that God built life into him. You see, God took all of these stories (as John said about Jesus at the end of his gospel, "Were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contains the books that would be written.") and molded him into one of my best and most trusted friends. I love the spark in his eyes, the fire in his belly, the laughter that echoes from his mouth to my ears. We do things differently sometimes but that's because I've gotten old and crotchety and, honestly, his ways are almost always more fun. Chris use to learn from me. I think that, these days, more often than not I learn from him.

Christopher, you aren't the kind of person to read many blogs. But should you stumble across this one I just want to say, "Thank you for bringing great joy to your father's heart. I love you, son. ...Dad"

My Eye Is On The Sparrow

Today was a day of great experimentation. I joined friends after church for a nice lunch of Vietnamese food. I read the menu and understood nothing. NOTHING. I could not pronounce a word. Fortunately, each entree had a number next to it and a list of the items in the dish. Even more fortunately, Connie, my Administrative Assistant had already ordered, received her food, and it looked edible. she was still sitting upright in her chair. I do take these things into consideration when placing my order. So I joined Connie and ordered #41.

It arrived quite a few minutes later. (They flew to Vietnam to get it.) It looked ... wrong. The first clue was that it was in a bowl and Connie's meal was in a dish. The second clue was that it had long clear noodles in it that looked like "tape worms." I guess that's okay. You eat it and it should be able to eat you back. The first bite told me something was severely wrong. It tasted like ... napalm. Fire. My tongue turned a lovely hue of blistered. (Yes, blistered is now officially a color.) They asked me if I liked it and I smiled and nodded a "yes" through tear filled eyes. I ate for about 5 minutes and then the manager came out with a plate, took my bowl, and told me they had given me the wrong meal.

Oh.

This meal didn't look like Connie's either. There weren't any tape worms in it but I'm pretty sure I saw various parts of a sparrow. Like, oh, the claw? The beak? They tell me I'm wrong but I know a sparrow when I see it. God's not the only one who has His eye on them. And the meat had the distinct taste of bird. Don't ask me how I know this. I've lived a long full 53 years on this planet. This was a sparrow. And I ate my share. They offered to box up the rest but I knew I'd be compelled to bury it out in the yard someplace and so I just said a polite "no thank you," paid my bill and left.

Tonight some wonderful college students invited Debbie and I to supper after church. We went to a place called "White Cottage." That sounds so homey after eating lunch in Vietnam. I ordered the biggest, juiciest bacon cheeseburger I could find. I never ever eat bacon. But I wanted the pigs of the planet to know that I was not forsaking them in favor of fowl. I had them throw in an order of waffle fries for good measure. The conversation was great (i.e. insane.) The food had no beaks or claws. Just cow parts and fried vegetables grown underground. You know. American food.

My tummy is happy tonight. And a happy tummy makes for a happy me.

Do you suppose...

Do you suppose Jesus ever wished He had been born 2,000 years later? LIke maybe for the pizza?
Do you suppose the name "American Idol" bothers God?
Do you suppose Moses would wet himself if I could take him for a ride in my Mustang "top down?"
Do you suppose Noah had to put fish on board too?
Do you suppose my new book on "Facebook Evangelism" will make any money?
Do you suppose God ever messes with our heads "just 'cause He can?" (I would if I were Him.)
Do you suppose Uriah kicked David's butt when they met up in heaven? And if so, who did Bathsheeba cheer for?
Do you suppose God snickered when He thought up circumcision? 'Cause, honestly, it's not all that funny.
Do you suppose God made the world "middle aged" just to throw us off track with built in fossils?
Do you suppose I'd get more sleep if I'd stop getting up to blog after Debbie dozes off?

Elle gets her pie

I Am Barabbas - by Mark Batterson

I am reprinting some words penned by author Mark Batterson in his blog yesterday. I could not possibly say it any better than he does.

This thought keeps going through my mind today: I am Barabbas.

Imagine what that Friday must have been like for him. He was sitting in a jail cell awaiting his execution. He knew it was the last day of his life. It was the end. There was no hope. Then he hears the crowd chanting his name and the next thing he knows he's a free man. The charges are dropped. His life that was almost over starts over. And a sinless man named Jesus literally takes his place. He expected to die. He deserved to die. But his execution, in the sovereign plan of God, was scheduled on the same day Jesus was arrested.

If ever there was a picture of II Corinthians 5:21 this is it: "God made him who knew no sin to become sin for us."

I am Barabbas.

Why Good Friday is so very good

"Good Friday." What a strange name for the day that witnessed the execution of the Son of God. The beatings. The whipping. The mockery. The cross. The nails. The hammer. The spear. The tomb. The tears. The screaming. The horror. The clouds. The earthquake. And it goes on and on and on and on.

Evil seeming to win. Holiness seeming to face ultimate defeat. Joy nowhere to be found. Utter loss.

And then ... and then Sunday. Sunrise. Gleaming brightness of the resurrected Lord. Victory. Life. Eternity. Promise. Joy ever lasting.

Today you might be experiencing a "not so good Friday." Your life might be characterized by darkness these days. Pain might be your driving motivation. You might think that your future is to bleak to contemplate. Read these next words and allow them to penetrate deeply into your heart ...

IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE THAT WAY! JESUS WINS! DEATH LOSES! BE PATIENT! VICTORY IS SURE! THE SNAKE IS DEAD ... BUT HIS TAIL STILL SWISHES! And today, if you know Jesus but seem to be facing more than you can bear let me assure you ... it's just the swishing of the snakes tail.

We win. Because of Good Friday. Because of Jesus. We win. We really do.

We really, really do.

Top 10 Subdivisions You Don't Want To Live In

Since we have begun our home search in earnest I have noticed that all of the subdivisions in our area (meaning in America) have certain things in common. Cool and trendy names. They all want to be called "Hunter Glenn," "Cambridge Estates," or perhaps, "Providence Commons." Who wouldn't want to live there?

All of that started me thinking. That's what I do. I think. it's a common thread that runs through the course of my life. And as I thought I realized why nobody ever asks me to name their neighborhoods. It is probably because I believe in truth in advertising. And so, with that thought in mind, I give you the top 10 subdivision names you probably don't want to move into.

10 - Foundations Crack

9 - Septic Runnoff

8 - Cellar Mold

7 - Stagnant Waters

6 - Rats Landing

5 - Mine Subsidence

4 - Sinkhole Estates (sister subdivision to Mine Subsidence)

3 - Cesspool Commons

2 - Crackhouse Courts

And the number 1 subdivision you certainly don't want to live in ...

1 - Squatters Rights

What's The Deal With That?

For the last year I've been following the adventures of a pastor's son who has been sailing around the world on a 29 foot sailboat. I have been living vicariously through him. Together we have caught tuna, fought off renegade waves, and met the natives on various Pacific islands. We've never met but we've had a blast together!

Then today I mentioned to my son that this particular guy was in Bermuda at the moment before finishing his global circumnavigation. He's taking a well deserved rest and then will sail on home. That's when my son said, "Huh. That's odd. I know him. And I just saw him here at church about an hour ago."

Huh? What's the deal with that?

Why I Miss Ohio

Yep. You heard me say it. There is something that I definitely miss about the Buckeye state. The land we call "Ohio." The only state so friendly that it says "hi" in the middle. See if you can follow me on this.

It started before I moved there. Debbie and I were driving with a real estate agent, looking for the house we never purchased. He pulled up to a stop sign. I looked at the house on the corner. Nice place. I especially liked the trees. Then I looked at the base of the tree. And I found ... CREATIVITY! I am not much of a botanical kind of guy but even I know that good flowers require good dirt. Evidently the guys dirt wasn't too good. So he imported "the right stuff." But gosh, you know how much work it is to move dirt around. And so the homeowner simply carried bags of good black dirt to the base of the tree, lay them down, split them open, and planted the flowers directly in the bag. it worked. The flowers were still growing there when I moved away 14 months later.

Then there was the Hicks family. I really love them! They are a tremendous couple and have great kids. And when I visited their home I found ... CREATIVITY! They have a tombstone in their garage. It was there when they bought the house, a little concrete cross stuck in a neatly hidden little closet door in their garage. Nobody was quite sure who was buried where and so they did the logical thing. They left it there. I can't argue with that logic. Besides, it makes them rather unique. Tom and Patty are the best! (Hi guys!)

Oh, and there were these two guys that had an apartment next to mine on the 9th floor. They were graduate students working on an internship at a local corporation. I came home from work one day, stepped off the elevator and found one of them throwing their clothes down the garbage chute. I just watched for a second. And then it hit me. I had found ... CREATIVITY! The guys roommate was downstairs catching the laundry and hauling it into the complexes laundromat. I didn't ask how they were going to get it all back upstairs. I was afraid it might have something to do with rocket propellent or trebuchets. (I so want my own trebuchet....)

But after all of that I do believe that this wins the award. I came across it tonight while surfing the news on the web. It seems that a gentlemen in the town of Newark, Ohio, about 100 miles south of where I lived, decided that he needed new transportation. He could not afford a new car. But it was important to him that he be able to access the local watering holes and it was too far to walk. And as I read about his plight I found ... CREATIVITY! I mean, who else would think of taking a bar stool and attaching a briggs and stratton engine to it? Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you ... the world first motorized bar stool!

Unfortunately our friend was driving his stool AFTER drinking. And he wrecked it. And in the process he hurt himself. And so ... he called 911. The operator asked him what his emergency was and he said, "I wrecked my bar stool." The police went to the scene. You guessed it. He was treated for his injuries and arrested for drinking and driving as well as driving without a license. And the bar stool? It will go up to 40 mph. The police didn't impound it. Perhaps that's the weirdest part of all.

You gotta love creativity.

Kissin The Horse

There is nothing in the world quite like the smell of a good horse barn in the spring! The horse hair ... the saddle leather ... the hay ... the ... well, you know. That other stuff. Mmmmmmm. Tonight I feel a little bit like Roy Rogers. I don't really have anything important to say but I'd like to encourage you to get out there and kiss the horse of your choice! This beauty belongs to the Hancock family. We only shared a few precious moments and yet ... it was as though our souls blended. We whinnied together!

Watching my son's youth group serve the poor in the inner city. Hockey on the glass. My daughter-in-law's birthday. Supper with The Amazing Elle and her mommy. Falling asleep every night next to my bride. Loving and serving God's people. Kissin the horse. A week doesn't get any better than this my friend ...

How A Day Works

Today was a day. I thought I'd tell you about it. But I decided to show you instead. So. Here it is ...



It began at this little quick mart. It's not the one I usually use on the way to the office but it served the purpose today. Caffeine was needed!


So I drove on to church all super charged with sugary syrupy goodness! I decided NOT to drive through this mans field.


The next stop was the building that holds the part of the body of Christ in Belleville called "Towerview." It's a pretty cool place!


When I arrived I came across the awesome maintenance worker we call "Caroline." We call her that because it's her name. She's the best!


Then came Connie and Mike. Connie is "Administrative Assistant Extraordinaire!" She also bears watching as she is quite capable of getting not only even but ahead anytime you try to trick her. Mike is the best youth pastor in Belleville. No doubt. Hands down. He loves his kids and they love him!


Then I went to Belleville Memorial Hospital to visit somebody who wasn't there. Brain cramp on my part. She wasn't checking in until tomorrow. Surgery on Tuesday. Oh well. I tried.


So I got back into "Emma The Mustang" and drove about 35 miles to visit a couple of my friends who have not been well. But first ... Walgreens. Because I had a head ache and they had Tylenol. I took its picture but, come on. You know what Walgreens looks like.




Then it was on to the Browns home where I spent some time catching up with Chris and Ashley. As you may know Ashley has been battling Leukemia for the second time. She's kicking it's butt. I am amazed by this woman. She's going to turn 20 soon and has been through more than most 80 year olds. And Chris? Two months ago he had a car accident and spent weeks in a coma. Well, as you can see ... he's doing very well. This is one amazing family. They are precious to me and I love 'em!


On the way home I was still fighting that head ache and so more caffeine was in order. This time it was from the #1 vanilla coke joint on the planet ... "Hit 'N Run. Ahhhhh .. It worked!



So I dropped Emma's top and drove home with the breeze in my face. I couldn't resist reaching over the window with my camera and taking my own picture through the windshield. At 65 mph. Upside down. I'm such an amazing driver/photographer.


Before climbing the stairs to the "love hovel" I share with my bride I had to take a picture of our new lake. It's not exactly Lake Erie. But it does mark the spot we currently call "home."


And then? Getting ready to watch a little "24" by warming up with the news, sports and weather. They tell me I'm the last person watching "24." That's okay. When I grow up ... I'm gonna BE Jack Bauer.

So there ya go. That was Monday. It wasn't a home run. But it wasn't a strike-out either. And there was more than I can really tell you about. I don't talk about meetings with people without their permission. So some of it just stays between us and Jesus. But I got to love people. I got to try my best to be Jesus with skin on. All in all ... it was a day ...

prayer and PRAYER

How often do you pray? That's a tough question because there is prayer and then there is PRAYER. You know the difference. Prayer is that undercurrent of conversation with God that you probably engage in on and off all day long. It is definite in its direction. I mean you know your utterances are directed upward. PRAYER is when you put everything else aside and direct all of your energies into talking to (or hopefully, "with") God.

If you are like me you pray all of the time. And once or twice each day you PRAY. Okay, I admit it. Sometimes a day goes by and I don't PRAY at all. It's rare but it happens.

Maybe the real issue isn't how often you PRAY. Maybe the real issue is how often you pray. Don't misunderstand, I believe in getting into a private place and being alone with God. But sometimes I wonder if the frequent quiet and subdued conversation uttered heavenward isn't more indicative of the condition of my heart than my intentional and planned time totally separated from the world and alone with God. I'm almost never really and truly alone and separated from the world. My cell phone isn't turned off. Text messages, emails, and phone calls can almost always get through. That's a shame but I'm just getting real and being honest.

I know that when it comes to my kids it was really important to me recently when, during a day of personal grief and crises they made specific time in their day to get in touch and make sure I was alright. I deeply appreciated that and it was huge in helping me get through that event. All three of them did that. One of them even got in the car and made the long drive out to spend some face time with me. Huge. Absolutely huge. But on most days a simple quick text message, email, note on facebook, or phone call reminds me of the depth of our relationship.

And honestly ... I just love that.

I'm not God but I am a dad. And I am passionate about my kids. And the touches mean everything. And I am God's kid and for some reason he is passionate about me. For some reason my "touches" seem to mean everything to Him. I guess I'm just trying to figure some prayer things out lately. I want to give God what He needs from me. Actually, I find it astounding that God would "need" anything from me. But somehow He seems to. I seem to feel His pleasure when I stay in touch. Sometimes for sixty seconds. Sometimes for sixty minutes. And I love it when He derives pleasure from something I do. It's ... beyond description.

I admit it. I'm a sucker for my Father.

Never Google Yourself

I googled my name tonight and found out that I (or perhaps those who share my name?) ...

Sell racing products. I'm too old for puppy love but I have a 20 year old girlfriend while cavorting with an 18 year old waitress. I offer legal services in criminal defense as a Texas attorney. I'm an expert at architectural glass products, music, and art. I am a securities litigations expert in L.A. I pitched and fielded for Detroit, both New York teams, as well as Montreal. I seem to have an alcohol addiction and I also dabble in crack.

And I died in Iraq. The trail goes cold after that.

I offer a sincere salute and thank you to the last Ronald Woods on the list.

A Word From Cindy Winters

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Strength Personified As Only God Can Give

http://www.kmov.com/video/topvideo-index.html?nvid=341567&shu=1

13 RaNdoM THoUghtS aND wOrdS tHAt coMe tO MInD tONiGht

- +25 degrees in a St. Louis March feels colder than -14 did in a Cleveland January.
- Hazy
- Worth it?
- 2.8 year olds should sleep later.
- 2.8 year olds should let their grandfather sleep later.
- Soul sad
- Chocolate chips are meaningful in the redemption of joy process.
- Twitter makes no sense.
- Listless
- MAD, MAD, MAD
- I just learned that Sears Tower no longer exists. It is about to become "The Willis Tower." My childhood was wasted.
- I do not want tomorrow to come. Let us fast forward directly to Saturday.
- Next week I hit "reset" on life.

A time machine would be nice

If I had a time machine I would be a hero. There is so much I would do. I remember the entire "Back To The Future" dilemma about whether or not you should go back in time and change any events ... if you could ... because it would have profound effects on everything that happens afterward. Kind of like the old, "If a butterfly flaps its wings in Europe the movement of air, slight as it may be, will eventually have an effect on the weather in America." Yeah, well. I suppose that might be true. And changing an event that happened 200 years ago just might somehow mean that things would be different now. Like ... maybe I would never be born. I can live with that. (Joke intended ... wait for it ... wait for it ...) But I've never been one to think everything through before I take the plunge on something. That's one of my fatal flaws. I try to adhere to the biblical admonition to "count the cost" and I know it's always the right thing to do. But I still eat fudge, drink sugary drinks, fail to faithfully work-out, skip meals, over-indulge in subsequent meals, and I occasionally run with scissors just because I can.

My wife would say that I'm slightly impulsive though not as much as I use to be. And she would also say that I'm totally distracted, living life in rhythm with the glittery things that crowd in on my peripheral vision.

Guilty as charged.

What would I change? Well, off the top of my head Hitler would trip and fall into a blast furnace at a not-so-ripe young age. Scratch one holocaust. Michael Jackson would stay 10 years old forever because ... well, just because. The Cubs would have won the World Series in 1969, 1983 and most certainly 2008. I'm not being greedy but I could be because it's my time machine. Oh heck, throw in 2005 too. Sorry White Sox. I love you but I'm feeling the power and I have my allegiances. The first "Gulf War" would have been enough. 9/11 would have been thwarted when the box cutters turned out to be toys purchased at the Dollar General Store and the terrorists would have been turned over to the whatever union airplane pilots join. I'm not trying to be funny here. I think that would be just and fair.

But I think that one of the first buttons I would push would change the events of last Sunday morning at 1st Baptist Church, Maryville. FBC never has its choir remain on the platform after the music is over but I think I would have had chairs up on that platform. It would have been filled with a men's choir. And the men ... the men would have been known as "The Over Caffeinated Men Of The Illinois State Police Tactical Unit." I know it's a long name. I don't mind that. And honestly, I believe in a sovereign God. I believe that God called Pastor Fred home. And I believe the shooters gun jammed because Fred was the only one that God was calling at that time and place. But I'm just dreaming. And I have a time machine. And it has a button.

And yeah ... I would push it.

A time to cry

What do you say when you don't even have words to speak in the solitude of your own mind? What do you do when you know you should be able to fix something that is broken and yet reality says that it just cannot be fixed? Not by you. Not by me. What then?

A friend of mine died today. Okay, that is not really accurate. A friend of mine was murdered today. He was guilty of standing in a pulpit and telling people about the love and forgiveness of God. That's something that I do twice every Sunday. He was not walking down an alley or hanging in the shadows of high rise slums. He was in a middle class church in a middle class suburb talking to middle class people.

And a man shot him to death with a .45 caliber hand gun. The first bullet blew his bible into confetti like rubble. One of the next two took his life. And now a lovely young woman has no husband. Two charming and beautiful daughters have no father. A vibrant and growing church has no pastor. And the world is a much poorer place.

Why?

Because evil exists. Because it knows no boundaries. Actually, I think it knows the boundaries, it just delights in crossing them. A mad man in a state of rage trying to create a nuclear weapon to annihilate a city. A lunatic in a high school executing kids in random fashion. The face of evil in a place of worship attacking something that it can never be ... holy.

Evil.

The last time I spoke to my friend was when I called him with a difficult problem. I had to make a decision on whether to remain in the ministry I was serving in or move to the church I now serve. I sat alone by the lake in my car and asked God to bring a name to my mind. Somebody that I could call and find the voice of wisdom. My Father instantly brought my friends name to mind. I dialed his number and reached his Administrative Assistant. I told her who I was and what I needed. She told me that my friend was in a meeting but to hold on for a few seconds. In less than a minute he was on the line, interrupting his schedule, putting his meeting on hold, and giving me as much time as I needed to present my dilemma and ask my questions. And then he gave me stellar, Spirit - led advice. Time has proven that he was right. I told him that I owed him lunch. I never got the opportunity to pay up.

Evil got in the way. I know that we win. Someday. By the might of God as His own Son bled out at the cross.

But tonight ... tonight is a time to cry.

(late night addition .. a friend reminded me that I wrote this post <--(Click there ... the link works but won't change colors) about FBCM when I joined it. It seems like an eternity ago...

Thanks, Denise!

My friend, Denise, read the last blog post and created this awesome "wordle" on http://www.wordle.net/ for me. Thanks, Neeser!

Vanilla Fudge

I am in no mood to blog but there are some words I just want to say without having to put a sentence around them ...

-Vanilla fudge
-Chalice
-Carnie
-Epistemological
-Sabbath
-Dogs of corn
-over it
-slippery slope
-not legally binding
-puppy dumpings

They all fit together into one story but it isn't ready to be told just yet.

Wait for it ... wait for it ....

What a man won't do for rubber pants

Well, faithful readers, you remember the sad saga of the waders that had a blow-out a few weeks back? Since that chilly and damp day my inclinations have been to prevent a further similar incident. And tomorrow there is a young man who desires to follow Jesus in biblical baptism. YIPPEE!!! Seriously. I absolutely love baptizing God's new kids.

But this time I would like to do so without wetting myself.

Debbie and I have been providing room and board to The Amazing Elle for the last few days. Kelli has been ill. And while I am very sorry about Kelli's tummy troubles I certainly enjoyed my granddaughter. Well, today was the day to take her home. And they live just a few miles from the world famous .... please, maestro, my I have a drum roll ... THE BASS PRO SHOP!

I've heard about this place for years. Never had much of a hankerin (entering my red neck mode) to go there. I use to fish a bit with my dad when I was a kid. He would take my brother and I and we would camp out on the stinky shores of the Illinois River at Starved Rock State Park in northern Illinois. I think dad did it because, well, a dad is suppose to do that. And we went because a kid is suppose to. We'd catch carp and throw them back or give them to people along the river bank that eyed our catch with a weirdly fascinating hunger for bottom-feeding fish. That's pretty much been my exposure to fishing. I hated putting the worm on the hook and I prayed that no fish would bite because I didn't want to have to take them off the line ... and re bait. Ugh. But I know a lot of people that fish and hunt and buy guns and generally have love affairs with aluminum (canoe's) and canvas (tents.) Me? No thanks.

And then I went to the Bass Pro Shop. And I have only one thing to say about that.

IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY AND RIGHTEOUS PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME EVER GO BACK!!!!!

Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to announce that the recession is officially over. I could barely find a place to park outside this Disney World for Bambi-Killers. Debbie ran ahead while The Amazing Elle and I pushed our way through the very cold wind toward the front door. That's when trouble first hit. Free handfuls of kettle corn. We grabbed some and ran before they changed their minds. And then ... this is hard ... then they had this huge swimming pool kind of thing set up. And there were bass in it. Big bass. And all around the pool were little fishing poles. Kid sized fishing poles. It was an opportunity for kids to learn the art of de-bassing our planet at the place whose name throws fear into all bass world wide. Al Gore, where are you?

And guess who wanted to fish. Yup.

I delayed her as we went into the store in search of the sacred waders. Are you aware that you can actually spend in excess of FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS for rubber pants? I'm dead serious! I stared in wonder ... pants sticker shock ... swearing that my next stop would be Wal-Mart for a pair of speedo's. That's when a nice teenage girl asked if she could help me. I told her that I needed some waders that would not require that I sell my churches property in order to pay for them because all I wanted to do was stay dry while I baptize people. She immediately pointed to a table with large boxes of rubber waders ... a mere $39.99. She told me that they sell a lot of those for baptisms. SOLD!

Debbie, Elle and I then weaved our way d-i-r-e-c-t-l-y to the check-out line. And when I say "weaved" that's exactly what I mean. There were more people per square foot in there than in a homeless shelter for bankers. That's when Elle reminded me about "fishen." I pointed out the stuffed twelve foot tall grizzly bear at the front door. No matter. It's time for fishen. Grandpa promised.

Oh geez.

Okay, so I asked Debbie to pay for the waders while Elle and I went "fishen." We walked outside with zipped up coats and freezing fingers. It was free day for kids. This was good. So we picked up a pole and made our way to the pool of frenzied Bass. Odd. There was no bait on the hook. They weren't even real hooks. Just bent ... wires or something. But I remembered that Debbie told me when she was a kid she caught a fish once on a paper clip with no bait. Hey, I'm gullible. Whatever. We threw our hook into the pool along with about twenty other kids and their parents.

Poor Elle. Not even a nibble. And yet people kept pulling out these HUGE Bass. What the ... How in the ... I couldn't figure it out. We froze for about 20 minutes when I noticed Debbie standing next to us. Ahhhh ... my excuse! My asthmatic wife cannot be allowed to stand in the cold. I explained to Elle that sometimes you catch the fish and sometimes the fish catches you. She gave me a puzzled look and propped her pole up against the wall. We returned to the wonderful heater of our Trail Blazer.

It was not until tonight that Debbie mentioned that Bass that they had tied to that one line.

What?

Yeah. You know, the one they kept catching. The one that they kept on a pole that they were passing around from kid to kid and then pulling out with a net. That fish.

Uhhhh. I knew that. Really I did. I just didn't want to spoil things for Elle. It's all about the illusion. You know. Pretending to ... uh ... catch fish.

I'm never going back to the Bass Pro Shop again for all eternity.

Ms. Elle

My granddaughter, Elle Parker, is visiting us this weekend while her daddy tours with his band (The Fundamental Elements) and her mommy fights a bout of the "turning tummy syndrome." I'm having the time of my life with her. I could write a gazillion stories or I could just sum up a busy day by saying that it ended like this ...