Who would have known? I mean, how COULD anyone have known? As we gathered our church family together on Sunday morning for worship God had made His message clear to me. It was one of those days when there was really no doubt about what He wanted me to say. The scripture we studied was Mark 5: 21 - 43. It is the story of Jairus and his very little, very sick daughter and it burned in my heart.

As the story goes, Jairus goes to Jesus and tells him that his twelve year old daughter is sick and asks if He would please come. Jairus is afraid that she is going to die and he recognizes that Jesus is the only chance she has for survival. Jesus begins to follow our friend. He is interrupted by a woman who has been bleeding for twelve years. She touches his garments and is healed. A brief conversation ensues and then they continue on to the home of Jairus ... where his daughter has already died. When Jesus arrives He goes to the little girls room, commands her to get up, and she returns to life. Everybody is astonished. Now THAT is the understatement of the year.

How good is God anyway? Is He good enough to show up when we hurt? Is He good enough to follow us home? Is He good enough to raise our children from the dead?

Very. Yes. Yes. Yes.

This morning, very early, death visited the home of another precious young girl. Many of us knew her. Jennifer Smith was 18 years old. Her father is Mike Smith. She lived with her mother and step father in Rosewood Heights and just finished her freshman year at SIUE. She attended the First Assembly of God in Wood River on a regular basis. She also attended our church many times. She frequented Centrifuge with our youth group. Jennifer Smith was my friend. Her smile made me smile. Her laughter made me laugh. I cannot ever remember being sad when Jennifer was in the room. Sometime during the night Jennifer stopped breathing. They believe it was a result of her diabetes. At least that was the physical cause. The real truth is something that only God's children can understand.

Jesus came to Jennifer's house last night. He went into her room. He told her to get up. And she returned to life ... but this time the life He restored was the same life that Jesus Himself enjoys. Real life. Eternal life. A life of perfection in a body of perfection. Jennifer left her father's house and went to live in her Father's house. Today was a day when heaven won one of its greatest victories.

Jennifer Smith was all set to go on a mission trip to an Indian reservation in South Dakota next week. Yesterday her dad prayed over her and anointed her with oil for her journey. He thought he was anointing her for her journey to another state. Only God knew that he was anointing his daughter for the journey to Heaven. When Jesus called the daughter of Jairus back from the dead ... back into her bedroom ... that was a miracle. But that little girl faced death again sometime later. Hopefully years later. When Jesus called Jennifer back from the dead it was a permanent calling. There is no greater miracle. There is no greater reason to worship Him.

Peace to your heart...

I remember Kevin when he was about 14 years old. He had been rushed to the hospital with his appendix in trouble. As they did surgery to remove this little organ ... it burst. This, as you know, is not good. He was a very sick young man for a long time. He scared us. You can die from a burst appendix.

Well, Kevin did not die. He got well and went on to resume his junior high and then high school career. He married a lovely young woman named Jenny. Together they have produced two great kids. Life was good.

And then the government called. He got the message 15 months ago. He did what all good soldiers do. He responded by packing up his stuff and hitting the road. Kevin is a good looking, strong young man. He is the quiet type. But that trait belies what resides deep within him. Because deep inside my friend Kevin ... he is a hero.

He is at home tonight. He is safe and sound. His children are down the hall. His wife is in his arms. And Kevin ... Kevin is not in Iraq. For the first time in a long time he is home. It was good to see him this afternoon. Good to stand in his front yard waving an American flag as he pulled into the driveway. Good to hug him and tell him that I love him and am glad he is safe. Good to put my hands on his hard shoulders and pray a prayer of thanksgiving for his safety. It was just all good.

Welcome back, Kevin. Thank you for doing the job. Thank you for laying it on the line to protect my family and I. Glad to have you home, my friend.

Justice comes in the most unexpected ways. At the most unexpected times. But it does come.

Several years have passed since that Wednesday night. I walked from the Fireside Building, across the parking lot and into the courtyard of the church. As I approached the main entrance he stopped me. A middle-aged man like me. He was drinking from a can of Sprite. I don't remember what he asked me but a question was posed. I told him that I did not know the answer but that I would try to remember to research the issue when I got home. That's when he did it. Without even pausing he took the semi-filled can of Sprite and poured it down my shirt. "There. Now when you get home that will remind you so that you don't forget." He looked at me. I can clearly remember the thoughts that flashed through my head. I am not ashamed of them. I was thinking what any sane man would think. I will not tell you. Simply use your imagination. You will most certainly be correct. On the other hand, no thoughts were going through his head. He didn't have a brain. You cannot think without a brain. He was living proof. I did not say a word. I glared. I stepped to the side and walked around him. We never spoke of the incident again. We seldom spoke again at all. I was pleased with that arrangement.

I saw him again yesterday. It has been well over a year since we had crossed paths. He has left our church. But I came across him in a combination gas statiion/convenience store. I was entering and he was exiting. We caught each others eye. He spoke first. It was a tame and suitable greeting. I returned it. He was drinking from a plastic cup from the fountain soda area. As I asked how he was doing, he turned the bottom of the cup upward to take a drink. He missed his mouth. It was only a slight miscalculation on his part. But it was enough. The soda leaked out from around his lips and ran down his shirt. He looked down with disdain.

I looked up. Beyond the ceiling. Beyond the sky. Beyond the stars. And i winked. I stepped around him and walked on.

Justice comes in the most unexpected ways. At the most unexpected times. But it does come.

I think I've said this before. It's time that I said it again. I do not vacation well. I appreciate the time off. And I know that I need it. I just ... don't know what to do with it.

Take today for instance. I got up. It was 8:15. That's not overtly late for a guy on vacation. I'll try to do better tomorrow. I showered. I fought the dog. The dog lost. I got a scratch and she got put in her cage. Score one for humans. I went and indulged in an early vanilla coke. When I arrived back home it was raining. Actually, it was RAINING. (There is a difference.) I sat in my favorite chair and had some quiet time alone with God. Best part of the day. Then I went with Scott to Missouri Baptist University and attended a class with him. This was my first college class since December of 1982. Long time coming. I enjoyed it but I also remembered why I was glad to graduate. I had supper with Scott, Kelli, and Joe. Nothing fancy. Just Jimmy Johns. I came home. I sat. I went to work out. I went to my moms and delivered hot chocolate and her meds for tomorrow. I came back home. And here I am.

That isn't a bad day. It's just ... a day. Nothing special or out of the ordinary. I guess that is what I think is wrong. There was no REASON. I've always felt like days are suppose to have a reason for existing. Somewhere I learned that. On closer examination I suppose it's stupid to feel that way. But I do.

I'll work on that and get back to you. Ok, so this was a waste of a blog. Sorry. I'm in a funk. Not sure why. I'll work on that too.

Ok, now I think I get it. Finally, I get it. The difference between being a "Youth Pastor" and a "Real Pastor." I've been wondering for years. Now I know.

A youth pastor can have weird things in his office and people love it.

A real pastor has to have an office that convinces people that he knows what he's talking about.

A youth pastor gets to eat pizza after school everyday with teenagers and people think he's doing his job.

A real pastor has to take people someplace where you don't get your own napkins out of a dispenser or order your meal at the counter.

A youth pastor enters late for worship and everybody thinks you were ministering to a kid.

A real pastor enters late for worship and everybody thinks you didn't have your sermon done yet.

A youth pastor says "I don't know" and everybody thinks he'll figure it out and then get "his own church."

A real pastor says "I don't know" and everybody wonders how he got "his own church."

A youth pastor has to care how much money is left in the years youth budget.

A real pastor has to care how much money was in the offering today.

ON THE OTHER HAND....

A youth pastor has to act his age and understand theirs.

A real pastor has to act his age and let other people understand theirs.

A youth pastor has to show up with plans for 50 or 5 because you don't know how many will be there.

A real pastor teaches the same thing to 500 or 5 because you are speaking to individuals instead of having to win the attention of a crowd.

A youth pastor takes kids to summer camp and people assume it is your vacation.

A real pastor shows up for 3 days at summer camp and people think it's great that he cared enough to go all the way down there to support the youth ministry

A youth pastor has to know when a cool word ceases to be cool and what word replaced it.

A real pastor has to know what "propitiation" means.

A youth pastor has to play games with kids.

A real pastor gets to play games with a youth pastors head.

And so, after careful consideration, I figure it's a wash. Neither is better. It's all about hearing God and doing what He says. I like it.

It is all about blood. Blood. How many slasher movies have been made since the birth of the film industry? I do not know. I do not care. They are mindless and dangerous. But this movie ... this blood ... it is different. Very different.

I watched "The Passion of the Christ" in a special preview at Willowcreek Community Church on Tuesday. It's a little project paid for, produced, and directed by Mel Gibson. Mel was actually in the house. He got interviewed by Pastor Bill Hybles. But he got shown up by Jesus.

Bloody Jesus. Beaten Jesus. Broken Jesus. It has been two days since I watched this film and I am still processing it mentally. I did not like it. I could not take my eyes off of it. I hated every minute of it. It held me spellbound. I knew how it ended before it started. I was breathless, waiting to see what would happen next. Jesus did not just die on a cross for me. He was murdered. Brutally. Laughing, gloating, bullying centurians beat him to an unrecognizable pulp. And then they didn't even have the courtesy to carry him to his death. They made him carry himself ... and his cross. He couldn't do it alone. He had to have help. God needed help. Some guy was chose, seemingly at random, and it changed his life forever. He didn't want to go near Jesus and then he fell in love with Him.

And then there was evil. It was named Satan. He is a snake. He is a person. He is hatred incarnate. I hate him more now than I did before I saw "The Passion." "Hate" really is not an adequate word. I detest him. Even that word does not do it. There is no word. He plays a minor role in the movie. Because, you see, as Jesus pointed out, no man takes His life from Him. He lays it down willingly. Satan was the pawn of Jesus. He was just too stupid to know it.

I will go to see this movie again. And probably again. And maybe one more time. I cannot get it out of my mind. It was too vivid. Too real. I needed to see this movie because I had forgotten the truth. Without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sin. It was only a movie. The real thing had to be far worse than even this. I cannot imagine. I do not want to.

I had an appointment with "my psychiatrist" this week. Yes, friends, I go to a psychiatrist. I've been doing so for neigh onto three years now, since my little 'bout with adrenaline exhaustion. He likes to keep track of me. He has to because he addicted me to medications. Oh, he denies it but it's true. He says you don't get "addicted" to this stuff. You become "dependent" on it. Oh. Thanks for clearing that up. All I know is that when I don't pop the pill the room spins and my equalibrium is ... less than equal. He says I don't really "need" it anymore. The under lying sickness is long gone. So why do I keep taking it? Good question. I keep taking it because everytime I try to STOP taking it somebody in my life (usually me) does something stupid and launches stress grenades in my direction. And when those things go off you don't want to be dizzy and disoriented, my friend. Trust me.

Anyway, about this psychiatrist. What a trip. You think I'm crazy? You should meet this guy. He's about 55 years old. He has a wall full of diploma's. He has an office full of receptionists and assistants. He has an address in a very nice neighborhood. He also has a pony-tail. And a Harley. And well over 200 frogs. In his office. Stuffed frogs, crystal frogs, plaster frogs, embroidered frogs, painted frogs. You name the frog and chances are very good that he has it.

But the frogs don't really bother me. I guess a psychiatrist can be obsessive/compulsive too, can't he? I mean, I'm a pastor and I preach against sin ... but I'm still a sinner. So why can't a psychiatrist be a little nuts? Frogs are relatively harmless in the over all scheme of things.

It's the pony tail. And the Harley. And the hint of leather in his clothing. That bothers me. He showed me his picture this week. He was in the middle between two guys who are most definately either Hells Angels or he just chipped them out of arctic ice as relics from the last onrushing glacier. They all wore funny helmets. I recognized them from my father's old WWII pictures. They are just like nazi helmets.

My psychiatrist wears a nazi helmet. His pony tail sticks out the back. He prescribes my medication. And then I go to church and hundreds of people look to me for spiritual guidance. They get out of bed way too early on Sunday morning just to hear me speak about God. Think about that for a minute. Or maybe ... don't.

I had a Christian counselor a few years ago too. He's out of the business now. These days he drives a route delivering cookies to little quick-mart type gas stations. He doesn't have a pony tail. He has a buzz cut and his eyes are crossed. Really. I saw him this week. I bought him lunch. That's when I noticed it. He has these piercing blue eyes and their gaze intersects about 8 inches out in front of his head. I do not remember them doing that when he was my counselor. I suppose it could be my fault. I am pretty hard on doctors and counselors.

My dentist does not like me. He did a root canal on me about 18 months ago. He didn't use any pain killer. Oh, he gave me a shot. But it did not work. I kept raising my hand like he told me to do if it hurt. I assumed that meant he would give me another shot. I have come to realize that it only increased his sadistic pleasures. He lives to see grown men raise their hand. He would pat me on the leg and tell me to hang on because he was almost done. Then I tried raising my head up really, really, quickly everytime he would hit a nerve ... which was constantly. Because it was, after all, root canal. Finally, I tried lifting my entire body off of the chair at once. I didn't do it on purpose. It was totally involuntary. He drilled and I flew. When he finished he told me that I was proof that he could do root canal without any pain killers. I tried to snarl but I could only manage to drool.

I am not sure what the point of any of this is. I am not stretching the truth on any of it. My regular MD is a great guy. He's about 72 years old and should have retired long ago. He could own his own beach home in Maui. He likes to help people though so he keeps working. I suppose that somehow he balances the others out. I like going to my MD. No pony tail. No nazi helmet. His eyes are straight. He doesn't hurt me. He alone gives me faith in the medical community.

Well, I just thought I needed to put those things into print. If I come up dead after a psychiatrist appointment or a dentist appointement ... call somebody. Like the International Enquirer.

I had forgotten just how cold "negative 9" is. It's pretty chilly. I had also forgotten what 7 inches of snow feels like under the tires of a rear wheel drive car. It feels pretty chilling. This is typically called, "Winter in Chicago." It has been 20 years since I lived there and you know what? I realized this year that I still miss it. There is something oddly invigorating about walking outside in the morning and hearing crusted-over snow crunch under your boots. There is an amazing feel to the unusual whine your car engine makes when it starts and it is that cold outside. Well ... IF it starts when it is that cold outside. Mine did. But I also saw a late model sedan being towed from the hotel parking lot. It was a foriegn job. I smiled in the direction of Detroit.

Chicago in the winter. I enjoyed my forays into the outside world. But I admit that I enjoyed it best as I viewed it from the glass enclosed hot-tub-by-the-pool in the rear of the hotel. Outside and across the street was a huge office building. The sign glowing from the top said, "Zurich." I don't think they were referring to the city. I believe there must be a company by that name. I'll bet they make something really neat. Something really Scandinavian. I wonder what it is. I invaded the hot tub 3 times in 4 days.

Nobody entered the hot tub/pool room any of the times I was there. I owned the place. That was good because I invited Jesus to come and sit with me in the tub. I went to Chicago simply to get away from life for a few days. Reality sometimes really does bite. Lately it has bitten more than usual. So I ran away. I used my trusty "AAA" card to get a killer rate. I made an appointment to talk to a man that is suppose to be much wiser than I am. Just to get his view of things. But mainly I spent hours upon hours in my room alone. The TV was a big "no-no." I turned it on 3 times in my days there. Never for more than 15 minutes in any one stretch. TV tends to distract one from reality. I didn't need distractions.

So it was me, my bible, my headphones with praise music attached, and ... when it pleased Him to come ... Jesus. Actually, I guess it would be more accurate to say "The Holy Spirit." But I'm claiming the "I and my Father are One" rule and I'm calling this wonderful presence "Jesus." He was kind enough to sit with me until nearly 2AM my first night there. We hashed out some really hard things. It got loud once or twice. Ok, I got loud once or twice. He listened and then responded in that still, small voice that so characterizes Him. I have learned that in our conversations, if there is a scream it is probably me. If it is a whisper it is probably Him. If there is silence it is probably for a reason. Silence is good when you are sitting with Jesus. Most people do not know that. It took me 40-something years to learn it. Silence means that He is just present and is enjoying being with you. It is good when God enjoys being with you.

On my last night in the big city I attended the mid-week worship service at Willowcreek. I have officially declared Willow my "church away from church." Every pastor needs one of those. It's a place where you can go and worship and not be expected to lead or talk or be wise. You can just sit, sing if you want, listen, pray if you want, and leave quietly without anybody caring or waiting at your office door. At Willow you can get lost among about 4,000 people and they will just assume that you belong there. You can wear jeans at any time. They don't care if you want to sit alone but they will make room for you if you want to sit with them.

That is where it got interesting for me this time around. I sat alone. I arrived about 20 minutes before the service and found a seat to the far right and about 8 rows up from the stage. I was the first person in the row so I sat on the inside aisle. After a few minutes a 30-something woman asked if the seats next to me were saved. I said, "nope." She went around, entered the row, and sat one seat removed from me. The remain seats filled quickly except for the one between us.

The praise and worship singing began. It was AWESOME. You can't beat singing along with 4,000 people. About 10 minutes into this time a man tapped my shoulder and motioned toward the empty seat. I stepped back to show that it was available and allow him access. The woman to my right slid over into that seat and he slipped past both of us and sat in the seat she had been in.

Hmmmm. I made notice of that but really didn't think anything of it. I figured the guy on the other side of her must have really smelled bad. The singing finally ended, Pastor Hybles spoke, he finished speaking, and we all stood to leave. One of us started a conversation. I don't remember who or what it was about. But we stood and talked for a few minutes. It seems that she and her husband had moved to the area over a year ago. They had lived in the Memphis area. Since coming to Barrington, (the suburb,) they had failed to find a church that was "a fit" for the two of them and their children. She mentioned that her Memphis church had been a big Baptist one. I simply said, "Bellvue?" She said yes. They had gone to the mega-Southern Baptist Church pastored by Adrian Rodgers. Cool. We talked about that for a minute then she said that her husband had come to Willow the week before and stayed home with the kids on this night so that she could try it. She said she liked it but was concerned that it might be overly charasmatic. She asked me what "we" believed.

That's when it happened. I told her that I didn't belong to Willowcreek. I told her that I was a Southern Baptist Pastor from St. Louis and I just attend Willow when I'm in town. That is when the floodgates broke. She poured out her desperation to find a church for her children to grow up in. She wanted them to learn the truth of scripture in a place that was vital, dynamic, and Christ centered. She was afraid such a place might not exist there.

I became a pastor. I explained how Willowcreek works. I told her about their smallgroups and how you become a member by attending them and eventually getting sponsored for membership by them. I told them that Baptist churches and Willowcreek agree on most everything. I said that if I lived there and was not a pastor myself it is exactly where I would join. She seemd relieved. She WAS relieved. What this dear lady needed was to have someone who shared her "SBC roots" tell her that it was ok ... even right ... to join this church. It was not too good to be true at all. I then walked her to the information booth where I introduced her to someone I did not know myself. She was a woman volunteer. She immediately took my new friend under her wing and began answering her questions. I tapped the visitor on the shoulder, extended my hand, and found it full of hers. As I shook it I told her that I was glad to have helped and that I would be praying that she and her family would settle where God wanted them. With tears still in her eyes she thanked me.

As I walked off into the night I thought I heard her ask the volunteer, "Who was that masked man?" The volunteer replied, "I don't know ... but he left this silver bullet." Ok, you have to be relatively old to get that joke. Nevermind.

I left feeling good. I felt like I had done something just because it was the right thing to do. Our own attendance and offering would not be affected one bit by my actions. I had nothing to gain. It was just ... right. It was still cold outside and the snow still crunched. But I didn't need the hot tub when I got back to the hotel. I was alread warm inside.

Maybe it's just me. Today seemed more like Christmas than Christmas did. I didn't have to cook anything. (We served Chicago style deep dish pizza for Christmas dinner this year. The kids asked for it. It felt odd ... but tasted great. I missed the stuffing though.) I didn't have to wrap anything. I didn't have to help set a nice table or worry about getting all of the used wrapping paper up off of the floor.

No, today I just was. I slept late. 9:40. That is a good way to celebrate Christmas. Do you think Jesus would sleep late on His birthday? I think He would. Then I played with "Bailey The Killer Beagle." We got in the car and I introduced her to life in a Mustang. I think it's going to be fun with her in there next summer when the top is down. I can see her long ears flopping in the breeze now. It's a match made on ... Christmas. After that we went and had lunch with an former youth group teenager who is now a youth pastor himself. I watched as he and his wife coped with their two small children and tried to eat lunch. They reminded me of my own life 15 years ago. What a gift. It felt a bit like ... Christmas. Let's see. Then we came home and did a little more of nothing. That was a gift to ourselves. A gift like you give on ... Christmas. We ate dinner. It consisted of leftover pizza from yesterday and a wonderful deli tray brought by a dear friend two days ago. It was her way of saying ... "Merry Christmas." Finally, I went to the gym and worked out while Debbie did whatever Debbie does when I am not around. At the gym I ran my 1.5 miles and did a few weight machines. I talked to a friend from church and then slid into the hot tub where a man that I don't know told me about Jesus. I listened. I let him tell me. It was the story of ... Christmas.

Yeah, I'll take today over yesterday. Yesterday I went to bed tired. Tonight I'm going to bed happy. Happy because today ... finally ... it was Christmas.

Now that I am the official "Teaching Pastor" at FBC I am learning all sorts of new things. Like for instance ... oh ... this person mentioned today that I am speaking out of Luke 2 during the month of December. They noted that they have heard many sermons out of Luke 2 previously this time of year. Yeah. Well. Is this a shocker to anybody? It is Christmas, after all. Does anybody really expect me to teach out of the book of Job to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child? I'm thinking the deacons or the leadership team might want to talk to me about that. Luke 2 it is. Deal with it.

And then there is the whole counseling thing. I'm a lousy counselor. My wife disagrees but she is wrong. I really am bad at it. It's not that I don't care about people or their problems. I do. I just think that most problems would, you know, go away if people would just pay attention. It isn't that hard. Now some people have REAL problems and they really need advice. And I wanna be there for them. If I can't help, by golly, I'll find somebody who can. But some people ... I mean, come on. Life DOES come with an instruction book, you know. That is what the Bible is. Read it, for cryin out loud. It might answer your questions. And if it doesn't ... well ... why don't you ask God about it? He's a lot bigger and smarter than I am anyway. So go ahead and ask Him first. It isn't exactly a toll call. If God chooses not to answer then you probably shouldn't expect too much out of me either. But if you think He's answering and you just can't hear Him or figure out what He's saying, maybe I'm your man. I hear pretty good. God doesn't speak that loudly but I've finally learned to shut-up and listen-up. It took me 47 years to manage that. But I finally think I have got it down pretty well. Somedays better than others, of course. But that's the key. Shut-up and listen. As a matter-of-fact, that is the key to much of life. It's right up there with "read the instructions" and "chew 15 times before swallowing." Have you noticed that most old advice is good advice? There is a reason why it has lasted so long.

Ok, well, that's about it. I stepped in Beagle doo-doo twice today. Once with each foot. It happened about 5 minutes apart. The net result is that I have clean feet, chapped hands, and the dog is in bed early. I'm learning to stare at the carpet while I walk and she is learning how to get locked-up ahead of schedule. It could be a long 15 years.

Aww, geez. (It seems that I'm using that exclaimation more and more lately.) I just noticed that it is December 18. That means one week from right now we will be celebrating ... Christmas. The birthday of our Lord and Savior. And actually I am just a little bit jealous. Seven days before His birth He didn't have to worry about gifts and ornaments and parties. All He had to do was lay there, absorb nutrients from His mother, and sleep. Can you picture that? God sleeping inside of a human tummy? (Ok, womb. Don't you dare get technical on me.)

Contrast that to the situation I am facing today. I have not entered a shopping mall since, ohhhhhh, October. October? Yeah, I think I picked up some kind of halloween trick to use on the person I share "the big bed" with. She didn't laugh. Another ten bucks down the drain.

The point is this. I haven't purchased any Christmas gifts yet. None. Zero. Santa's bag is empty. And I have one week left. And my calendar is not "shopper friendly." What ever happened to those services that you paid to go out and shop for you? Are they still out there somewhere? How do you find them in the phone book? Are they listed as "Shop for You" in the yellow pages? Or maybe, "I'll Bail Your Lazy Butt Out You Bum?" I need those people now. Still, Bethalto is not a hot bed of cutting edge societal evolution. The closest thing we have to a coffee shop is McDonalds. God help you if you want hot cider with a hit of cinnamon or carmel. Back to the point ... no gifts.

Oh, wait. I did make one purchase! I got what the kids wanted the most. (By the way, the "kids" are 18 and 21. But how do you say "I got what the mini-adults wanted?) I was tripping through Petsmart one week ago today and happened across a woman pushing a shopping cart full of ... Beagles. Baby Beagles. All of them were sold, save one. She was the runt of the litter. She looked so sad ... her face wrinkled and her tail quivering. I looked at my wife. She sighed. I bought the dog. She is now known as "Bailey the Killer Beagle." The only thing she has killed thus far would be dust mites in the carpet. She has drown her fair share of them. No, not with drool. There are other ways a puppy puts moisture in the carpet. Don't ask.

Now that the adult-kids have a dog they don't seem so anxious to claim her as a Christmas present. Ha! Like they are going to get away with that. Not happening. I'm tying a red ribbon around Bailey's little neck and hanging her from the Christmas tree on Christmas morning. I might use a "noose knot" if she doesn't stop killing the dust mites.

Well, it feels good to be blogging again. Hope somebody is still out there reading. Either way, I have to go now. The malls are opening but there is no time on my calendar for it until tonight. Maybe I'll pick-up a parakeet.

Nah.

Well, blogger fans. It has been way too long since anything has been posted here. Since October 27 (the last post) the world has changed. If you know me personally you are aware of that. I hope you won't give up on this spot and I long to begin recording history for posterity sake in this little corner of the web. Be patient. check back occasionally when the urge hits.

Can't wait for sanity to reign supreme once again...

I almost killed a nun last week. That's right. A nun. I suppose the story requires some explaination. Here's the best I can do.

I am currently on vacation. Two weeks. Actually 15 days but who's counting? (I am.) I decided that I need to get away. I felt the call to silence. The call to solitude. All I really wanted was to spend some time alone with God. Is that a bad thing? Is that asking too much? I think not. So I mounted my Mustang and drove to Villa Maria. This is a truly wonderful retreat center/convent owned by the Ursaline Sisters. In other words ... nuns. It is about an hour southeast of Minneapolis. I have been there twice before for youth pastor retreats led by Youth Specialties. This time I was going it alone. I soon learned that I was the only guest on the premises. Cool. That, my friend, is the route to silence and solitude. There are about 50 guest rooms and I mine was the only one filled. Just me and a handful of nuns. Selah.

Things got interesting as soon as I arrived. It was about 9:15PM last Tuesday, October 21. One little nun waited up late for me to arrive. You see, they usually hit the hay at 9PM. But the call to be a nun is a call to sacrifice and this wonderful little sister waited up for me to arrive. She took me to my room.

Oh my. I have always stayed in rooms on the upper floors before. Those rooms are very sparsely appointed. Each has a bed, a chair, a desk, a dresser, and a sink. The bath is down the hall. But tonight, since I was the only person there, they gave me the premium accomodations. That means I got my own potty. Sweet. But I almost choked when she led me to my room. There was only one way in. In order to get there you have to go through the sanctuary. I'm not a catholic. But I know enough to realize that they take their sanctuaries very, very seriously. They have little coin boxes at the back. As we entered the sister knelt and crossed herself. I removed my baseball cap. She stood and led me down the aisle and onto the stage. Huh? We went past the communion table, past the harp, and made a hard left at the candlestand. There we went through another doorway and into the sancricity. I'm not sure what this room was really for but it was sure scarey enough. A short walk across the sancricity brought us to three guest rooms. They were named. There was peace, hope, and faith. I got peace. I had hoped that I would. I even had faith that I would. It was peace for me. My sister friend took her leave of me and returned to her own room hidden deeply within the bowls of this castle-like structure. I went and got my luggage and made myself at home ... 50 feet from the altar.

Fast forward. Friday evening, October 24. The sun has gone down and the dark, Minnesota night has fallen hard. It's more than cool. It is totally crisp. Very fall like. Most of the leaves have faded to a deep brown and some have even taken their suicide plunge to the forest floor. I have been walking, wandering through the countryside across the maze of trails for a couple of hours. It's a great way to talk with the Creator of the Universe ... walking through it and checking out his handiwork. We had a nice walk and a nice talk. It was nearing 10PM when I arrived back at the front door of Villa Maria. I had been given the numerical code to punch into the key pad. This unlocked the front door and allowed me inside.

The nuns were well asleep by now. I owned the place. But there was not a lot to do to entertain myself. It is, after all, a convent. Only dim lights burned in the lobby. I climbed the marble steps and made my way to the entrance of the sanctuary. The wood framed glass doors were closed. I made a mental note of this oddity. I do not think I had ever seen them closed before. No big deal though. I pulled on the handle and they opened easily enough. Inside the sanctuary it was even darker than it was in the moonless night outside. At least there were a million stars out there to shed a bit of light on my path. In here there was a single candle burning steadily at the very back of the altar area. I was, in effect, blind. I felt for the first pew and found it with my left hand. From that point it was easy to find the second pew and the third and so on until I reached the front of the seating section. It was blacker than ever now. I pointed myself toward the candle and began to shuffle my feet ... moving slowly forward without lifting them off of the floor. I continued on this way until my toes found the first step. I knew that there were two steps leading to the stage platform. I took them one at a time and then I began moving to my left. I also knew that just before I reached the wall I should find a large harp. I had never actually touched a harp before. My hands found it quickly. My first thought was to see if I could rip off a few chords of "Dueling Banjo's." For once I made a right decision and resisted the temptation. I reached out again and found the wall behind the harp. Almost home free now. Just follow the wall to the right until I feel the doorway. I moved so slowly. By now I was near enough to the single glowing candle that I could actually make out vague shapes in the immediate area. The first thing I noticed was an area that was blacker than the rest of the room. I guessed correctly that this was the doorway. The fingers of my right hand reached out and curled around the door jam. I took one final step in that direction and paused, preparing to step into the darkest place I had been all evening . Remember, this is being done by a man that had just completed a walk in the woods without a flashlight in rural Minnesota. My walk had taken me through a cemetary of deceased nuns. They are buried in circles ... facing outward. I do not have the slightest idea why. But this room was about to redefine "dark." I clearly remember telling my right foot to get up and get in there ... when I glanced down. Down to my feet. Down to the floor. Down in the dimmest of light. Down at the head of a nun resting 6 inches from my Nike. DOWN AT THE HEAD OF A NUN RESTING 6 INCHES FROM MY NIKE! DOWN AT THE HEAD OF A NUN RESTING 6 INCHES FROM MY NIKE!!! I didn't think. I didn't act. I REacted. I plunged through the doorway into the pit of the sancricity. I glanced back. The sanctuary looked positively glowing in comparison. Laying between the glowing candle and my present position was the body of a nun, facedown on the floor of the stage in the sanctuary. Her nose was actually pointed into the floor. Her body formed the perfect shape of a cross. She was praying? She was sleeping? She was dead? I have no idea. I do not have any desire to know. My heart rate was breaking all of the laws of physics. It was located in my throat and it's speed was absolutely unhealthy for a 48 year old man. I trusted my memory of the room having a clear path from door to door and I relatively cannoned myself toward the next dark hole. I hit the light switch. I was in love. No, not with the decor. Certainly not with the nun behind me. I was in the room "Love." AAARRRGGGHHH. I turned the light off and moved one room to the left, pounced on the switch, closed the door and collapsed on the bed. Peace. At last. Peace.

I confess that I did not sleep well that night. I also did not leave my room until long after sun up. When I finally peeked my head out the doorway I had my luggage in my hand. I walked across a clear stage ... no sign of last nights fiasco. I passed by the nun/innkeeper's desk and dropped $100 on it. She stuttered something about my leaving a day early. I stuttered back that she should keep the change. Luggage met Mustang. Mustang met highway.

It has been 50 hours now since my run-in with the phantom nun of Villa Maria. Who was she? What was she doing there long after her bed time? Didn't she know that a poor, tired, stressed out, pastor seeking only solitude and silence would be making his way through the doorway by her head when she lay down there? Did she know that she would be the catalyst of my early departure from her convent? I do not know. I will never know.

As I turned into my driveway later, after the next moonless night had fallen, I took another walk. This one was across my neighbors front lawn. I knocked on his door. On my way home I had recieved a phone call that Chris, his wife, had died. He wanted to know if I would do her funeral. Of course I will. Bob and Chris have been my neighbors for 10 years now. I knew that Chris had not been healthy. He thought he was going to lose her several times in the past months but she always had a way of bouncing back. Not this time. My first walk began at a cemetary. My next walk will end at a cemetary. Vacations can be odd things. Some people go to the mountains. Some go to the beach. I go to convents and cemetaries. I really need to rethink the way I handle my free time.

I hate baseball. I've had days to think about it now. I didn't even have the energy to watch the Rams win today. The Cubbies just broke me. I did watch the news tonight and saw ... at the world series, in the stands ... Dusty Baker. Yup. The manager of the Cubs. He seemed happier than I feel about the past week.

So I officially hate baseball. We'll see what spring brings. But at the moment I'm thinking it's gonna be really, really, tough getting "up" for it.

I don't believe in the curse of the goat. I just believe in physics.

It's physics. Plain and simple. It's like gravity. You can fight it but it wins. It always wins. There is this place deep inside of me that knew it all along. You cannot beat it. It is just going to be that way.

The Chicago Cubs can never, ever win the pennant. Ever. Not in my lifetime. Probably not in the remaining history of the planet.

5 outs. They were 5 outs from the World Series. It was not the Florida Marlins they were battling. It was ... physics. It wasn't an exuberant fan down the left field line that grabbed a playable ball. It wasn't a botched grounder to short. It was the laws of the universe. That poor guy could no more have grabbed that ball and turned a double plan than Niagra Falls could reverse it's flow. You cannot beat the laws of physics. I know. I tried. I begged. I pleaded. I wore every piece of Cubs clothing I own. I was abolutely layered. I went out into my backyard barefoot. I looked up through my trees at the stars God has planted in the sky. I asked him ... out loud ... "Please, Sir. Just once. Just this one time. Please." I went back inside to the horror of the 8th inning. And God said, "No."

It isn't the Cubs fault. They are a very good team. They deserve better. It isn't the city. It isn't the fans. It isn't the curse of a billy goat. It's just the law. I don't know why it is that way. It just is. The sun will come up tomorrow. The snow will eventually fall. The Grand Canyon will be there. The Cubs will weave back and forth season after season. They will sometimes come close. Maybe even closer than 5 outs. But they will never win it all. Never.

Do not gloat Cardinal fans. It isn't you. It isn't that you have a better team than we do. It isn't a battle of cities. It isn't even a battle of fans. You are just observing a phenomenon. It's much like the eclipse of the sun. It's just the way it is. When you beat us you can be happy. When we beat you we can be happy. But you can expect to win the big one. We can't.

It's physics.

TOP TEN REASONS WHY I AM WORRIED

1. The Cubs. 'Nuff said.
2. I have become addicted to Taco Bell's "Zesty Chicken Bowl" ... and now it occurs to me ...Zest is soap.
3. I start 2 weeks vacation at 4PM on Friday. Something is going to screw it up.
4. I'm craving a dog again.
5. They just told me that my broken wedding ring can be fixed but it won't stay that way because of ... chlorine. Nobody told me that you shouldn't wear gold in a hot-tub or pool. Now I have to choose a new ring. I'm not very good at that.
6. For the first time since June 2000 I have felt "normal" for an entire month. No dizzyness. No extreme fatigue. No disorientation. It can't last...
7. The St. Louis Bread Company keeps running out of Cinnamon Crunch Bagels before 6PM. They aren't taking this seriously enough.
8. I take more pill every day than Ashley Brown.
9. I got "dog bit for Jesus" in July and it still hasn't healed.
10. The Cubs. 'Nuff said.

Keys are important. They open doors. They unlock locks. They allow us into an “inner sanctum” denied to all but a few. If you own one of these sacred places and you want another key, no problem. You take your original key down to the hardware store, drop a couple of bucks on the counter, and they make you a new and identical one. Sometimes they even work. But if they don’t you just keep going back and they keep re-trying until eventually they get it right. This is one of the cool things about living in America. You can get your own place and only people that you want inside can get inside. And you can get them in cheaply.

This “law of the land” has been violated. My Mustang key cost $85.00. Each. I own three. I actually had to NEGOTIATE extra keys into the price of the car. How absurd is that? I use to negotiate on air conditioning or reclining seats. Those things now come as standard features. But if you want a new key … you have to deal.

You see, they put a special computer chip in these keys. When you put your key in the ignition something with mystical, magical, powers knows that chips is there. The engine is allowed to start. If you make a key without the chip it will only cost you maybe $2.00. But that key will only open the door. No way will it start the engine. No chippie chippie … no go-ee, go-ee. It’s called a “passive theft deterrent.” I think that is a good name for them. Passive thieves will no longer steal your car. They will not be bothered wasting time busting open your window, unlocking the door by hand, and hot-wiring the car. That is to active. So I have a “passive deterrent” on my car. That’s fine … as long as I don’t need any more keys.

When I gave Debbie a key to my Mustang she lost it within a week. It was my fault. I do not know why or how. But it was ruled that way. She found her key a few months later. All was well in the house again. And then I lost one of my keys. I always carry two car keys on me. One is too easy to loose. And, true to form, one of my keys turned up missing. I looked for weeks and did not tell anyone. No reason to give them cause to laugh. They seem to find enough reason to take pot-shots at me. I don’t want to help them along.

The key I lost had a worthless little blue laser light on its key chain. I say “worthless” because I never once used it. But it looked cool when you turned it on so I popped for the $3.95 in Target one day and bought it. I had not turned it on since. So now I was actually out $88.95, this being the cumulative cost of one key and one laser light.

But sometimes God has other ideas. Sometimes He wants to teach me something. Call it a “Holy Pop Quiz” if you will. He never puts it on my schedule or asks my permission. He just does it. I know God well enough to pray and ask for help with a problem. And so I prayed about my key. I prayed about it for maybe … oh… 10 times. Then I put the thought away. If God cannot hear me in 10 attempts either He isn’t listening or He said “no.” I can live with that. I asked. He answered. Good enough for me.

And then the rain came.

It had proven to be a boring Saturday afternoon. Rain on Saturday is wrong. It should be against the laws of nature. But it is not. I believe that statistics would prove that it rains more on Saturdays than on any other day of the week. But I digress.

It was raining. It’s a fact. I was sitting on my mega-cushy-chair eating re-heated pizza. I was watching a ball game. Upon finishing the pizza I walked through the dining room toward the kitchen. I simply wanted to put my dirty dishes in the dish washer. As I was praying that the dish washer would contain dirty dishes (so that I would not have to empty it before putting mine in) I glanced outside into the front yard to see if it was still raining. It was. Hard. As I turned to walk away, something in the grass caught my attention. Something … blue. Bright blue. Electric blue. I made a mental note about the oddity of that and went on to the dishwasher. As I returned to my chair I checked again. It was still there. A bright blue, glowing, something-or-other. Hmmmm.

I went into my bedroom to get my binoculars. They were nowhere to be found. So I did the next best thing. I grabbed my rifle. It’s a mere .22 caliber semi-automatic with a 10X scope. Nothing to get excited about. I suppose in a pinch I could pick-off a squirrel a football field away but I had never wanted to. I removed it from its case, went into the dining room, stood on a chair, and took careful aim through the scope at the blue object. Sure enough. It was blue. And it was powered by something.

Debbie entered the room. Debbie does not like guns. No, wait. That isn’t strong enough. Debbie is horribly terrified of guns. She only let me buy mine because it was a family heirloom and my dad was about to unload it on an Arkansas policeman. (“Unload” as in “sell.” Not “unload” as in “Unload.”) He wanted a 9mm pistol so that he could … so that he could plug whoever came through his back door in the middle of the night. No matter that in 18 years NOBODY had tried to make an unauthorized entrance. His mind was made up. This wonderful rifle that I remember my mom giving him for Christmas 30 years earlier was going on the block. I beat the cop to the punch and bought my own family memory. Thanks a lot, dad.

Where was I… oh… Debbie entered the room. She let out a squeal much like … well, like a girl when she sees a gun. I had expected that.

I put the gun down and told her something was blue and glowing in our front yard. She pretty much didn’t care about that. She just wanted the rifle out of her dining room. That glowing blue thing could have been invading aliens from the center of the earth for all she cared. Just get RID of the stupid GUN.

So I did. And I went to the garage. I raised the door. I opened an umbrella. I ran into the grass. I looked down. I saw my car key. My $85.00 car key. It was attached to my $3.95 blue laser light. The light was on. It was pointed at my house. More specifically, it was pointed at my dining room.

It appears that several weeks ago I had dropped my key in the front yard. I mowed over it once or twice. It lay there, bothering no one. It was a dry month. There was no reason for it to be upset. And then it rained. It REALLY rained. It rained enough to penetrate the hard plastic case of the laser light. When the light fell it pointed directly at my dining room window. Or it didn’t. Maybe the lawn mower blade spun it until it pointed that way. Maybe somebody kicked it and it pointed that way. Maybe God reached down late one night and directed it Himself. Maybe He sent Michael the angel. I will never know. But it WAS pointing that way NOW. The water shorted out the wiring. The light came on. I finished my pizza. I looked out the window. I saw it. I found my key. My $85.00 key. What were the odds?

100%. It was God. Of course it was God. It is ALWAYS God. He orchestrates everything. He is in control of my life. Every event and every occurrence is sifted through His hands. There are no exceptions and no mistakes.

So why did God go to the trouble? He could have just allowed the event to teach me a lesson. “Be more careful with your keys, son.” That’s why my worldly dad would have done. Why did my Heavenly Dad go to all of the trouble?

The question isn’t that hard. He wanted me to relearn how much He loves me. He wanted to remind me that every little detail in my life is under His control. He wanted to put my mind and my heart at ease in the middle of difficult and tumultuous times.
And I think He just wanted me to smile. To not take life so seriously. You see, there are not many things I life I can fix. He planned it that way. He wants me to trust Him. Because when I trust Him I smile more And He likes it when I smile.

Isn’t God crazy? Yes, He is. He’s crazy in love with you and with me. If you’ve managed to lose your way in the current struggles of your life, don’t worry. He’ll leave the light on for you.

If you are reading this I hope you will understand what this BLOG means. Maybe you had to ... be there. You figure it out.

I woke up this morning feeling desperate. Debbie was suppose to wake me up in time for me to accompany her to her doctors appointment. She didn't. This is Monday and I'm off and I wanted to go with her. She had other plans.

Ok. It's not a big deal. She's a big girl and she'll be ok.

That is when I realized that I was desperate. I had determined not to eat today. It was a fast concerning a particular situation that I wanted to bring to God's attention. As I lay in bed I prayed for that situation. But I didn't feel particularly pressed about it. I got up and showered. As I dried off I talked to God. It was a one-way conversation. I wanted to sense His presence. I wanted to know that He was in the room by hearing Him, or feeling Him, or SOMETHING. I was hungry. No, not hungry for food. I seldom eat breakfast. I'm afraid to even write this because it is going to sound "holier than thou." Please do not take it that way. I know I am not very holy. Nobody sees my issues and problems as clearly as I do. So I hope you understand. Either way, here goes ...

I was hungry for God. I was desperate to sit with Him. It was not that I felt like I had to have the answer to a problem. I just needed Him. Here. Now. And it did not feel like He was around. As a matter-of-fact it had not felt like He was around for quite awhile.

I remember sitting on my mega-chair, pulling on my Adidas. As I did I told Him that I needed help. I needed to get on my motorcycle and "get out of Dodge" and I needed to do it before someone caught me. So I hurried. I grabbed my IPOD, put the earphones in my ears, dialed it to play songs at random (meaning it had 1,722 songs to choose from.) I do that often. When I do I ask God to program the IPOD to play what He knows I need to hear. I ask Him to minister to my spirit through the music that He chooses. Not surprisingly, He often does just that. It amazes me how He meets me inside of my burgandy helmet time after time.

This time was no different. The first some was strictly instrumental. Actually it was the theme song from the movie "Pearl Harbor." Nothing too spiritual about that. But it was restful and relaxing. I focused on the orchastra as the wind blew through my open face mask. The next few songs were a mixture of praise songs and semi-rock songs declaring the Glory of God. I listened and as I did I prayed. I knew where I was heading. I took the long way around, stopping at a Casey's gas station in the country near Fosterburg to buy a bottle of Vanilla Coke before heading on.

As I rode I prayed. "God. I need you to meet me. You know where I am going. I don't want to ask You anything. I don't have an agenda. But I feel as if I'll implode if I don't spend some time in Your presence. Please, please, please, show up. And let me KNOW that you are there."

After about 15 miles and 20 minutes I stopped in the middle of the country. The roads had been winding and patches of gravel had played havoc with my sense of security. But I arrived at the ancient "Wood Cemetary." As I dismounted I grabbed the bottle of Coke and walked out to "my spot." I had been here more than once. In the middle of this small, old, country cemetary is a bench. It is made of marble. The bench itself is a tombstone. On the left is the name of a husband. It tells me the day he was born and the day he died. On the right is the name of a wife. Her birthdate is listed. There is no date of death. I assume she is still alive. It is odd that this bench is actually a grave marker. Often when I am meditating on God I imagine myself walking down a road until I see Jesus in the distance. We always walk toward each other until we meet at a bench in the country. I began this exercise long before I found Wood Cemetary. Long before I knew that this bench existed. In my mind Jesus and I would sit and talk. I always asked and He always answered. Or sometimes we just sat quietly. Once you have been with Jesus you realize that words are superfulous. They are usually not needed. Mother Theresa was once asked what she talks about when she prays. She said she seldom says anything and that God seldom says anything either. She then said that if you don't understand that ... you have never been with God. I understand that.

I sat on our bench. I took my helmet off and tossed it onto the grass, making a mental note to check for tic's before putting it back on. I turned the IPOD off and pulled the headphones from my ears. The cemetary was not silent today. An engine of some sort ran in the distance. It might have been a lawn mower but it sounded more like an ATV. I really don't know. But mainly I heard the wind. It sprinted through the trees like a million sparrows on a cross-country journey. It was restful. I heard God in it. But was He really going to show up in a tangible way... the way I needed Him today?

I reached to my belt and pulled out my Palm. I have two seperate versions of the Bible installed on it and I chose to open the modern translation of "The Message." I felt compelled to do something I had done many times before. You see, if you tap the name of the book of the Bible that is open you will suddenly see the names of every book of the Bible appear before you. I did. Without looking I tapped the screen. The next thing to appear was blocks with numbers in them. The numbers represented each chapter in the book I had spontaeneously chosen. I closed my eyes and tapped a number. Now the screen showed the same boxes but each one had the number of a verse that appeared in the chapter I had tapped on. I blindly chose a verse. Only then did I glance down at the screen. I read what was before me. Here is what it said...

"Phillipians 2: 10 ...so that all created beings in heaven and on earth - even those long ago dead and buried - will bow in worship before this Jesus Christ, and call out in praise that he is the Master of all, to the glorious honor of God the Father."

I sat in Wood Cemetary for 90 minutes. I did not pray. I had nothing I needed to say. I didn't really hear God "speak" after reading those verses. He did not need to speak anymore. He was there. Jesus joined me on my bench and we sat together and listened to His wind play His music in His trees. I found myself raising my hands to Him much as a little child raises his hands to his Father when he wants to be held. I felt His strong, gentle, embrace. The problems, the battles, the scars, the stresses, the tensions, the angers, the disappointments, the questions, the emptiness, the guilt, the fear, the sadness ... all faded in the presence of my Jesus.

As I stood to leave my eyes fell on another tombstone a few yards away. I was looking at the back of the tombstone. Engraved in it were the words, "If you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that god raised him from the dead, you will be saved. Romans 10: 9" I walked to the front of the tombstone. The name of the deceased was prefaced with the word "Reverand." He had been dead for a long time. And he was still preaching after all of these years. May I be as faithful.

Oh, I am SO excited! My last blog that might have been worth reading was posted over two months ago. And yet you, the faithful few, continue to drop by in search of (meaningful / meaningless - select appropriate descriptive term) reading. THANK YOU! I am truly honored.

Or maybe you are just really, really, bored. Either way, glad you dropped by. But the last person that needed killen is safely ensconced in my crawl space and maybe now we can continue our drivel in peace. (Hint that Heloise won't tell you ... 3 hepa-filters nicely disguise the smell of rotting flesh wafting up through the floorboards.)

So let's see. Where were we? Oh yeah...

The CUBS. Completely Unbeatable By September. What a team. There's just one little problem. And no, it's not the Cardinals. It's the stinken Astro's. Why in the world can't ANYBODY beat these guys? I mean, come on. They won by 10 runs tonight. The destroyed the Redbirds 3 out of 3. Do you have any idea how much this TICKS ME OFF?

Two weeks ago I drove through inner-city Chicago late at night. I mean SERIOUSLY late at night. After midnight. At that time of the night in St. Louis you just assume any other car out is driven by a drunk or a cop. At that time of night in Chicago you are still likely to get stuck in a traffic jam. I don't know why. My lovely wife, my oldest son, and his lovely girl friend, and I drove around Wrigley Field. Yum. It's delicious even in the dead of night. The we drifted casusally southbound down Lake Shore Drive. The top of my electric green "Smile Machine" was in the reclining position. Debbie shivered under an afghan (the blanket not the arab.) Amanda was finding her warmth from Scott. Me? Ahhhhhh... the ball cap came off, the wind wafting in off the lake split my hair down the middle, and all was right with the world.

Surprise #1 of the night was that the downtown skyline was mainly dark. Who would have thunk it? I've never seen the Chicago skyline dark before. Come to think of it ... I still haven't. It was dark. You can't see dark. But you get my point.

And so I guided the "Roving Den Of Iniquity" (aka: Mustang) down to 35th and Shields, just off the dangerous Dan Ryan Expressway. Comiskey Park occupies the southwest corner of this intersection. It use to occupy the northwest corner. Then some loser got the brilliant idea of tearing it down and building a shopping mall of a ball park across the street. You've heard a song about it before. "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot." Ok, the song was not written about that particular event. But it surely applies.

Anyway, it was time to treat my son to something really special. I parked the car on the west side of "Bill Veeck Drive." I led him across the street into the dimlly lit parking lot. It's a vast expanse this lot. It use to house "Old Comiskey." And so it's as big as a baseball stadium. Ask me someday and I'll show you my pictures of the old ball yard. I have pictures from it's hay day and pictures of it experiencing it's death throes as they wrecking ball tore it in half. Oh, what a painful year that was for me. 1991. I'll never forget it. But I had to show Scott two things.

As I said, it was dark. VERY dark. It was now pushing 1AM. So what. We were standing on hallowed ground. The Babe himself played on this very acre. So did Dimaggio, Gherig, Mantle. You name it. I scanned the asphalt, squinting through the dim lights posted high above the ground. I had trouble finding what I was looking for. Their were lines everywhere. Parking lines. These were not the lines I looked for. And then, about 50 yards away I thought I saw it. I started jogging in that direction.

YES! Here is was! You see, when the destroyed baseball heaven they only did one thing right. Somebody took the time to set-up a surveyors scope and mark the exact spot of the old home plate. And now, 12 years later, they realized what they had done. Today home plate is back in its exact location. Now it is made of marble. The batters box and foul lines are marble slabs. They run all the way from home plate to first and third bases. At that point they turn into painted lines. Yes, the foul lines of wonderful Old Comiskey Park are now the targets where people line up their mini-vans before a White Sox home game.

I love Scott. He's a man after my own heart. As I dug in at the batters box he paced off the 60 feet 6 inches and stood tall on the mound. In my mind he was the old knuckle baller, Hoyt Wilhelm. Hoyt is in the hall of fame now. But his autographed baseball is in my office. Stop by and I'll show it to you sometime. Hoyt went into his wind-up. The ball fluttered out of his hand and danced toward the plate. No problem. I had seen this pitch a thousand times from the stands with my dad. I simply waited. Scot couldn't figure out what I was waiting for. He never saw Hoyt pitch He's never seen a ball float up to the plate like a butterfly on meth. It danced it's 30 mph dance until it touched the outer edge of the plate. And just before it dropped into the dirt ... I creamed it. High, high, higher! Far, far, Farther! The imaginary ball soared into the night sky until it smacked into the famous "exploding scoreboard" constructed by Bill Veeck himself. Wow. I've waited a lifetime to do that.

My son and I stood in silence for a moment. He had only attended one game at this old ball yard before they knocked it over. But he understood. He knew that this was a holy moment for me. I told him that I had one more thing to show him. As we walked back to the car I stopped. Scott stopped with me. I was looking up. I smiled. I pointed upward and looked at my son. "Up there. About 20 feet directly up. That's where I use to sit with my dad. We were about 10 rows behind home plate and just to the 3rd base side." You see, my dad owned his own storm door and window company. He did work for the man, Tony, who owned "Melrose Fireworks Company." As fortune would have it, Melrose was the company charged with setting off fireworks everytime one of the Sox hit a home run. And, as a thank you to my father, Tony provided killer tickets. And right there ... just to the left of the big dipper ... that's where we sat.

Scott understood. Someday he will go to Wrigley Field with his sons. He'll pay for the Cokes and the ball caps. And somewhere in the middle of the game he'll take them by the hand and they'll go for a walk. He'll point out the entrance from under the stands that spills out behind home plate. He'll tell my grandkids about how I held his hand one day in that very place. Together we walked out into the sunshine, his brother in my arms, his mother and sister following along behind. And with wide eyes he'll tell them about the first pitch he ever saw delivered in Wrigley Field. He'll tell them that Slammin Sammy Sosa deposited it into the left field bleachers. The same bleachers where he and I sat on many sun drenched afternoons waiting ... waiting ... waiting for that elusive Cubs championship.

Maybe this will be the year. Probably not. I'll probably not live to see that World Champion Flag fly above Wrigley Field. Maybe my son will. But it doesn't really matter. Cardinal fans are rabid about their team. And that's not a bad thing. They should be. They have a solid history. But they will never really understand. They think they do. But they don't. You see, to be a Cub fan and to pass that passion along from generation to generation ... well, it's a sacred trust. I have longed believed that in order to bring out the best in people you must find a way to rally them against a common enemy. Lincoln understood that as he faced down the Confederate Army. So did Churchill. against the Nazi evil. On a somewhat lesser level so did Bill Veeck, planter of the green vines climbing the brick walls of Wrigleys outfield. So did Harry Carey as he leaned out that press box window and led his army in another chorus of "Take Me Out To The Ballgame." So did Ryne Sandberg. That's why he couldn't stand to stay in retirement. Same story with former Cubs pitcher and current television announcer (for the 2nd time) Steve Stone. They came back because of their blood. It's thick with blue. They can't help it. Neither can I. Neither can Scott.

Cardinal fans have their 21 year old world championship to revel in. Cubs fans? We are encamped against the enemy. In the dead of night. We are surrounded. It's us against the world. Fathers and sons. Sometimes even mothers and daughters. And don't forget an entire world class city of steel structures stretching toward the Cubby blue skies, and mom and pop neighborhoods where kids still race to grab a hot dog and snatch a seat in the front row of the bleachers, ready to pick one out of the air or out of the basket, depending on which way the wind is blowing.

September in Chicago. And I'm homesick.

I am a lousy blogger. Sorry. I'll be back soon. Life's just been too busy. If anybody is still reading this please LET ME KNOW!

This is our year. It is in the air. The Cubs. The Chicago Cubs. And maybe even the White Sox. Cross town. You've heard of the "subways series" in New York. How about an "El-Series" in Chicago. It's in the air.

God bless you boys.

Now I know why they call it a "spoiler." When somebody rips it off of your car... it spoils everything. It spoils the way the car looks. It spoils your mood. It spoils your bank balance (can you say "deductable?")

I was only in the hospital for 45 minutes. The poor woman was not well. They had yanked out her shoulder ... ball and socket both ... and put her in a new one. If that doesn't deserve a pastoral visit, nothing does. She was a little goofy with medication but I would be too if I were her.

When I walked out of the hospital it was laying on the asphalt parking lot. If cars could bleed this one would have. The electric green wing was cracked and upside down. The top of the trunk lid was cracked. There were scratches up each side of the rear quarter panel. When I went into the hospital 2 skate boarders complimented me on my shiny Mustang. I thanked them and moved along. Did they do this dastardly deed? I dunno. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the wind. I've never seen a squirrel with this kind of lifting power. No ... it had to be a "someone." Not a "something."

Well, since buying this gas powered smile machine I have been careful to point out to myself and to others ... it's just a thing. A hunk of steel and rubber. Ok, a cool hunk of steel and rubber, but still, just a hunk. I would like to thank my Alton Memorial Hospital vandalism bandits for proving me right. I did not ruin my week. (Yes, my day was a bit shaky... but not for long.) It has not changed my opinion of God nor has it altered the values He has given me. I slept just fine last night, thank you.

I can't help but think about the words Jesus spoke while He stood there on that hill preaching to the crowd. He told them, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

He was right, you know. I'm just a normal, everyday Christian. Nothing super-powered about me. If I can figure out the truth of His statement there is truly hope for ANYBODY. Billy Graham I ain't.

The car will get fixed and it will look cool again. But everytime I look in the rear-view mirror and see that spoiler on the trunk lid I'll remember ... it's just steel and rubber.

But do you think it would be ok if I ran over just one skate boarder?

Answer: Less than 7 months.

Question: How long does it take a newlywed female to turn from a bubble gum popper to a full fledged adult woman?

How do I know: My lovely daughter, Kelli ... wife of Mr. Joseph McGill ... confided in me this week that she now listens to AM talk radio.

Issues raised: Is this genetic? Is it hormonal? Is it cultural? Is it a desperate attempt to survive the hectic pace of adulthood? It is rush hour boredom?

Conclusions: None. But you have to admit ... it is hilarious.

Do you ever feel like you just turned around for a second and God left the building? He was here just a minute ago. I looked back to see where we had been and when I turned back, He was no where to be found.

It is all preception. God is here. God is there. There is no place that God is not. Except, I suppose, in hell. That is, after all, a very good definition of hell. "The absence of God." That doesn't mean there won't be fire and brimstone too. But God IS here. Right here. He is in the room I where I am writing this and He is in the room where you are reading this. Whether or not He is "felt" is not at all the issue.

And yet it is the issue. Because I like feeling Him. I like the assurance that comes from sensing His hand on my shoulder. Guiding my decisions. Directing my life. It makes me nervous to feel that I am in charge. I do not trust me. I do not recommend that you trust me either. I have seen what happens when I follow my own advice. It is not pretty. And so when I feel Him I am more relaxed. I am more at peace. I am more confident. I like me better. I like you better too.

So what is the deal? Why is God so "feelable" at some moments and virtually "unfeelable" at others? Is it always the recent history of my actions that becomes the determining factor? Is it strictly His choice? Is it a combination of the two? Are there other mitigating factors. Things like ... oh ... my success rate at having a "quiet time" each day? Or maybe whether or not I have listened to theologically solid worship music? Could it have to do with how successful I have been at keeping my mouth shut and listening for His nearly silent whisper?

I wish I knew the answer to all of these questions. I am one of the pastor's. I am suppose to know. But the more I know the more I realize I have a very, very, small handle on the truths that matter the most. I can teach you biblical fact and I can point out heresy. I can quote more scriptures than I realize, though God help me if you require that I also remember the exact reference. I can barely remember where I parked my car at the mall. But I figure that Jesus didn't memorize the old testament chapters and verses so I'm not going to let anybody make me feel guilty if I'm not too good at it.

The real problem is that I have a hard time distinguishing what God is doing today. You want to know what He did yesterday? No problem. I can help you with that. But just ask me what He is doing now ... and I'll either lie to you and tell you ... or I'll admit that I don't really know.

And so I confess it here and now. I am right where you are. I am busy wondering about God. I am trying to understand what He is saying and what He is doing. Sometimes history proves that I got my guess correct. Sometimes history shows that I don't know any more about what He is doing than I know about nuclear fusion. Or is it nuclear fission? See. I don't know.

Here is what I do know. What He is doing is not dependent upon my understanding ... or even recognizing ... His actions. He's God. I am far less than God. I am made in His image. But somewhere along the line I forgot exactly what that means as far as how it works it's way out in my everyday life. (Note: Anybody that tells you that they have a handle on that is not telling you the truth. They are on an ego trip. They want you to think that they have it all together so that YOU will do what THEY want you to do. That is dangerous. I suspect that it also ticks God off. Though He will have to tell you for sure.)

I also know that God is ultimately going to have His way. He is going to have it with our without my cooperation. He is going to have it with or without my approval and understanding of it. He loves me (and you) very much. But if we get in His way ... He just might decide to go over us instead of around us. I am doubting the pleasantness of that experience.

And so, as for me, here is the plan. I am going to cooperate. During the times when I feel Him ... the times when I know He is present and I know what He wants me to do ... I am going to do it. And I am going to enjoy it. I have learned that when I am near to Him nothing else matters. In Jesus I find stillness. And in the stillness of Jesus ... what else matters? Answer: nothing. When I sense His nearness I relax. I find satisfaction in simply breathing. All sense of rush and hurry vanish like a vapor. When I sense His nearness I want nothing else. I just want to be with Him. I do not crave food. I do not crave drink. I do not crave action or entertainment. The moment is enough. And I want that moment. I want it now.

The second part of my plan involves those moments when I do not feel Him ... the times when I know He is present but only because He told me that He always is. In those moments I am going to do the last thing that He told me to do. I am going to do it until I get it done. And then, if possible, I am going to keep doing it anyway. If not possible, I am going to find a quiet place and listen very carefully. In hopes of hearing Him again. If I do not hear Him I am going to look for Him in the places where I have found Him before. In continued stillness. In His Word. In serving others. He will show up sooner or later. He loves me. He enjoys me. The only "fault" I can find in this God of mine is that He seems to have very poor taste in those He chooses to call His own. I am really glad about that.

I know He is here tonight. But I do not feel Him. I do not hear Him. But He isn't hiding. He isn't lost. I just live in a noisy world of my own creation. There are 11 teenagers in my living room. The air conditioner hums. Somebody has a stereo on and a DVD is playing on a television. Even the ceiling fan above my bed whooshes louder than He talks. But He is here. He left His deposit in my heart and it promises me that He will be back.

I'll just wait until He comes before I make any major decisions.

AUGUST 2001 To say that I was apprehensive as I climbed into the back of the jeep would be like saying Neil Armstrong had a bounce in his step when he climbed out onto the moon. It is an understatement of the highest order. I looked up at “the high country.” I had been higher. I had even skied higher. But I had heard enough about the roads in this area to know that this was no place for the weak of heart or the frail of body. And I was feeling pretty frail. Our “Marble experience” had been an excellent one to date. New friends, new surroundings, and a healthy dose of wise counsel had brought refreshment to the weariness that had taken up residence in my bones and in my soul. Still. “The high country” sounds so… well … high. High and untamed. I was a man with shaking hands and pounding heart. My vision had cleared but my confidence had been reduced to rubble. And now I was, of my own free will, climbing into the back of a vehicle that looked as though it had seen far worse days than I had. Our little lodge was already located at 8,500 feet. Why did I feel like I had to prove something?

Not to worry. We barely made it out of the Marble driveway when “Old Betsy” sputtered, coughed, and died. It was a sign from God! Stay home! Take a nap! Read a book! But no, it was not to be. Henry, our tour guide for the afternoon, sent one of the guys back on foot to retrieve … "the old jeep." It seems that Betsy had been the newest vehicle in the fleet. In moments I was climbing … again … into a vehicle that looked like a holdover from the dustbowl evacuation of the early 1900’s. This Land Rover looked safer because it had a roof. It turns out that roofs are over rated. I was soon to learn that the backcountry highways of Colorado … mainly dirt ruts that they call “roads” … required a man to bounce up and down. I was wearing a baseball cap. Baseball caps have little steel buttons right in the top center as an anchor to their construction. Six inches above my head was a metal roll bar. Every bounce that required me to rise 6 1/16 inches or more out of my seat brought crushing pain to my skull as the steel button punched its way deeper toward my frontal lobe.

As we proceeded up the mountain the scenery went from simply stunning to awe inspiring. Between flashes of white hot pain on top of my head and the relative calmness of those “in between gaping holes” moments I noticed that at times we were a mere foot from the edge of eternity. But what an eternity it was! The side of the “old” jeep opened up to an unlimited view of … well, of the world. Henry pointed out the sights as we drove along. Over that mountain is Aspen. And over there, those mountains are called … something. He gave us the name during one of my white-hot moments. But they were big enough to have their own identities. And here you’ll see elk or deer or God knows what. We walked back into the trees a short distance to find one of natures unspoiled waterfalls. I actually took my hand out of my pocket where I had been rolling my Xanax back and forth long enough to reach out and splash it in the frigid pool. Climbing back into the ancient Land Rover we came face to face with a nice new jeep with a dummy driver. He was going counter-clockwise in a clockwise world. The narrow ruts were not wide enough for vehicles to go in both directions at once and so local rules stated that everybody drives in the same direction. (Interesting sidelight: The loop was roughly 12 miles long. If you happen to live one mile to the left of “town” and wanted a gallon of milk to wash down your Frosted Flakes … tough luck, baby. You still had to drive 11 miles of terror-laden terrain for your drink.) But good old Henry knew just what to do in these circumstances. Only sissies and flat landers really need roads. He simply made a sharp left and drove up the side of the mountain. Once our tail end cleared the road he stopped and waited for the ignorant city slicker to drive by and then he slid back onto the “highway” and we continued on our way.

My head was bruised. I was woozy. Oh, it’s not that I was not fascinated with what I was seeing. I just was not really prepared to pay the price that was being exacted. This was a pretty rough place!

And then it became worthwhile. Suddenly the cost was not so high. We rounded a corner and the most scenic moment of my life came into view. To our left was the Crystal River and on the other side was a dilapidated old mill, long since shuttered to the world. It’s vacancy gave it a charm … a mystery … a beauty that would not have been there if it had still been cranking out whatever it use to crank out. Henry, my wife, my pastor friends, and I all got out and walked to the rivers edge. The only sound to be heard was the rushing of the cool, clear, water making its dash over the boulders.


We walked silently, each lost in our own thoughts. The world was awash in the beauty of God. Our stay at that river was far too short. For once I actually wanted a tent and a sleeping bag. I did not want to leave this place. It was a cathedral of water, mountain, and sky. I just wanted to worship here.

And yet the moment passed and it was time to go. As we climbed back into our trusty transportation to continue our beating I realized that I had just experienced one of those moments in which God defines our current reality. Life had been so hard. Those were days of illness and frustration. The pain came in flashes and then receded, allowing me to see God’s hand and presence for just a bit before the next wave washed over me. I took the remainder of the ride without so much as a thought of regret or despair. The short minutes spent at the mill had made it all worthwhile. The occasional whacks on the head or crashes into the nearest pastor didn’t bother me so much anymore. I had been in the presence of the Almighty.

And so there ya go. That is life for you. You move along and you take what comes at you without really having the opportunity to pick and choose. You do your best. Sometimes life is great and sometimes it really isn’t. But I have learned that the best views of the Father’s hand at work are seen from the roughest roads. Oh, I think He does His best to reveal Himself day after day after mundane day. But we are oblivious to it because we are too focused on the pain or the trial de-jour. And so Abba takes us off of the expressway and detours us on the backcountries mountainous roads for awhile. He allows us to get beaten and bruised. Some decide it isn’t worth it and they go back. Those who do miss the view God has in store for them.

Today I am very, very, glad that I did not go back on that August afternoon. I survived the event. I came away stronger, though bruised. I came away more appreciative of the easy, smooth highways that I travel most days. And yet I miss the view from the rutted road. I am traveling too fast to catch a view of the cathedral. If the mill were to appear on the side of the highway right now … I don’t think I’d see it. I am too entranced with the taillights ahead of me. It’s a shame, really. Sometimes the most beautiful views are seen from the roughest terrain. And you have to be willing to pay the price in order to see it. I do not think that God ever sends ... or allows ... a pain or an anguish without a reason. I think that He always sees our path out of the agony before we ever enter into it. I imagine that God will let me get beat up a few more times before He calls me home. I am sure I’ll complain and ask Him why it has to be so. I trust that in those moments He will remind me of the mill. And I hope I will be wise enough to shut up and enjoy the bruising.

There were things my momma taught me and there were things she forgot. I always thought she got all of the major bases covered. Wear clean underwear because you might be in a car accident and have to go to the hospital. Eat your vegetables. Flush and put the seat down. These things have served me well throughout my life. But just when you think you have the rhythm down reality jumps up and bites you.

It was a cool evening and I had just finished a hot meeting. I drove home and nobody was there. Perfect. I dumped the briefcase and dockers, changing into jean shorts, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I put the earphones of my IPOD mp3 player into my ears, my motorcycle helmet down over my head, tossed a fresh piece of bubble gum into my mouth, climbed onto my "Hardley" and tore off into the crystal clear night air. Sweet. There is no better way to burn stress than a late night bike ride through the winding country roads north and east of town. I hit the play button on the mini-stereo attached to my belt and the soulful voice of Sara Groves filled my cranium. Heaven. I turned my brain off. Sara sang. Occasional "thuds" interuppted her as unfortunate bugs slammed into my helmet and face shield at 50ish mph. There was no traffic to speak of, the roads were dry, the stars were out. Even the moon cooperated by beaming it's nearly full face down on me.

I snapped the gum. Sara sang "Jesus, bright as the morning star." I cracked the gum. "Jesus, how can I tell You how beautiful you are to me?" I worked the gum into a frenzy. "Jesus, song that the angels sing." I was on a curved section of Sieler Road when it happened. "Jesus, dearer to my heart than anything." I blew a bubble with my gum. It popped harmlessly and I sucked it back into my mouth. "Sweeter than springtime, purer than sunshine, ever my song will be, Jesus you're beautiful to me." I blew another one. A little bigger this time. "Jesus, bright as the morning star." I felt it touch the inside of the mouth guard on my helmet and burst. Hmm. "Jesus, how can I tell you how beautiful you are to me?" The next bubble was big. Really big. "Oh, oh, oh, You are so beautiful." I could see this bubble. It hit the chin guard and moved up toward my nose. "So beautiful. So beautiful. So beautiful." And it popped. The hole evidently developed in the bottom of the bubble. This is significant because it means that the backlash of the stretched gum rocketed upward. Upward... toward my nose... toward my eyes... toward my closed, lightly tented, face mask. "Jesus, You're beautiful to me. Beautiful. Beautiful. Jesus You're beautiful to me." It crossed my line of vision and attached itself to the cloth material on the inside of the helmet above my eyes... above the face shield. At this point I could only see... bubble gum. Stretched thin and sealing off my vision of the road ahead of me. "Sweeter than springtime. Purer than sunshine. Ever my song will be, Jesus You're beautiful to me."

The following moments are a blur in my memory banks. I ripped open the face shield. The gum held fast to its material. (Pause for a teachable moment. Do you remove your right hand to tear away the gum, leaving yourself with no throttle and no brakes? Do you remove your left hand to tear away the gum leaving your clutch unattended? Obviously that depends on the circumstances. The circumstances depends on what is ahead of you. I had no idea what was ahead of me. I was blind, remember?) It was a gamble but at 50mph in the dark in the country on narrow winding roads you have to do SOMETHING fast. My left hand deserted the clutch and tore at the gum. The onrushing wind had already pushed it into my glasses. The easiest and quickest thing to do was to remove the glasses... and the gum went with it. Yes... thank you Jesus. I held onto the gum, the glasses, and the re-discovered clutch as I shut everything down and coasted to a stop on the dark side of the road. It took a few minutes but I managed to remove the gunk and get on my way again.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the bubble gum industry for degrading its product over the last few years. As a kid the quality of the gum was much higher and a motorcyclist would have been doomed. His tombstone would have called him "Mr. Tree."

So. It would seem that mom missed one. A really big one. Boys and girls, listen to old uncle Ron. Don't chew bubble gum while riding a motorcycle. If you do perhaps God will be gracious to you and spare your wretched life. Or... maybe he will say, "I warned you through old uncle Ron." And it will be tree time for you. In the meantime I am switching to Life Savers.

Twas the dark of night. A chill was in the air. Dampness clung to the earth like a used Huggy on a 3 month old baby. The clock on the gymnasium wall told me it was 10:30PM. My instincts told me it was midnight. The opposite of "high noon." At high noon the good guys win. They come out with guns blazing and the bad guys fall face first into the dusty street. The locals and the shop keepers return to their stores and saloons to talk about the latest guy who needed killen and how he had got what was a'comin to him.

But this was my midnight. I was the bad guy. The good guy was my wife. She stood opposite me, in the huge, inflateable jousting pit. Together we hovered 4 feet off of the hardwood floor. The pit was surrounded by similarly aged adults. We were all here for one reason. It was prom night and our children were juniors. That means that we... the parents of the juniors... were in charge of "after-prom." It was going to be a safe night for all high school students involved. There would be no drunken brawls. No back seat, estrogen/testosterone charged lovers. Just fun in the gym served up with food and music in the commons. But for the moment all eyes were on Mr. and Mrs. Woods. At the prodding of other scaredy cats we had tossed our shoes and jewelry into a corner and picked-up our jousting thingys. (Not the technical name.) And here we stood... facing each other. She had a smile on her face because she knew what I knew. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I, on the other hand, had nothing to gain and everything to lose. No matter that she is a trained aid in a behavior disorder classroom. No matter that she's had hours of training and experience in taking down unruly young people. I am a man. She is a woman. I am suppose to win. She is suppose to lose.

But there was a problem. This dainty little blonde standing on her perch several feet from me was my wife. I have sworn to protect and honor her. I promised her father 25 years ago that I would do an admirable job in replacing him as the primary man in her life. And now here I stood with a padded stick in my hands... and my job description was to knock the living daylights out of her. Every man in the room cringed for me. Every woman in the room glowed with expectant anticipation.

As I thought about these things I felt the air rush by my face. I looked up to see a red padded jousting stick fly by my head. It was in the hands of "Debbie the Crusher." She didn't even slow down before a "whump" landed on my knees and I staggered slightly backward. Women cheered gleefully. Men were silent.

I remember thinking that I could not do this. I can't hit her. My children nursed at her breast. I pray with her every night before we fade off to sleep. (Ziiiiiing... another violent thrust caught my left shoulder.) I walked into her classroom one day to find her back turned toward a charging young man with pointed scissors raised above his head. He was intent on having a substitute for the next day. I took him out without even blinking an eye. He looked up at me and said, "Hey! You can't do that to me! I'm a kid!" I drooled on his face. (Swish! The bill of my hat went cock-eyed as she almost took it off my head.) She got desperately sick once with a furious case of mono. I nearly carried her into the doctors office and then nursed her back to health. I fed her Chinese carry-out that year for our wedding anniversary and then tenderly tucked her into bed. I spent the rest of the night with Moe, Larry, and Curly. (WHAM! This time it was my right shoulder.) I looked up. She was smiling at me. I could tell she smelled it... victory. Bragging rights.

Suddenly, in the theatre of my mind I watched a video. I was in my rocking chair and "Gramma Debbie" was in one next to me. She held our little grandson on her knee and told him the story of how she decimated me in front of a crowd of my peers back in our younger days. He looked at me... with disdain. He hugged his gramma. I excused myself and went to take a nap.

Across the pit she took careful aim. I let her. She swung her stick even harder than before. She missed cleanly and her momentum caused her to lean to the left. I decided to help her out. I grasped my padded stick more tightly, took careful aim, and swum from my right. My blow caught her mid-section and helped her regain her vertical stature. It also caused her to take her eyes off of me. For just a second. A short second. Just enough time to swing one more time... at her shins... hard. This swing was from the left. He upper body was still moving toward her right when my latest swing sent her lower body to her left. You don't have to be a physics major to figure out that this is contradictory movement.

What I remember most is the groan from the females in the crowd. The men didn't cheer. They didn't dare. This time they had nothing to gain and everything to lose. The crowd quickly dispersed. Nothing to see here folks. We climbed back over the edge of the pit and onto the gym floor.

Nothing more was ever said. That's ok. That's more than ok. It's a relief. You see, in the world of masculanity vs. feminity you do not have to win. You only have to not lose.