It would appear that I am the unofficial chaplain of "Hit 'N Run." I would like to thank my mom who gave birth to me, my dad for his invaluable assist, the Coca-Cola bottling company, whoever discovered caffeine, and my co-workers who tolerate my running out everyday around 10AM-ish to fulfill my morning craving. Vanilla Coke. Fountain style. Served in a Styrofoam cup at Bethalto's Hit 'N Run convenience store. Yes, these and many others have been vital in my attaining this high and holy position.

It seems that I was making my daily dash through my "caffeination station" early this week when one of the car hop type ladies stopped me and asked the question. "Aren't you a preacher?" (Side note: Do you have any idea how much I hate being called "preacher?" When I was a kid growing up in the Chicago-land suburbs my parents had "preacher" for lunch every Sunday afternoon. I do not mean that they invited him over and fed him. I mean they verbally ATE him. I grew up believing that all "preachers" were good for, as I recall my dad saying, only one thing ... preaching. That meant that they were not "real" men. They mooched off of others. Mom and dad had no clue that both of their sons would grow up to become lunch on other people's tables. To this day I recoil at the thought of being a "preacher." I can handle "pastor, minister, youth pastor, etc. But "preacher" drives me up the wall. In the year she died my mom told me that one time they held a meeting in our home to talk about how to "get rid of the preacher." I was/am apalled. I don't know the man. I was too young. Maybe he was a lousy preacher ... or maybe he was standing alone ... very alone ... against evil in the church. Whoever he is I will be looking him up in heaven and apologizing for what my family helped to do to him. He did not last long after that meeting. When I asked her why she had done that she had no real answer. It was just ... time for a change. God forgive my family.)

Anyway, this little lady meant no harm. She just wanted to know if I was the guy she was looking for. I told her that yes indeed, I am a "preacher." She smiled and said that was good. It seems that one of Hit 'N Run's finest had a heart attack of sorts the night before. This little lady in my face had gone to see her in the hospital. The lady with the sick heart told her that there was this guy who comes in every morning. He drives a green sports car (ahhhh... the car turned me in...) and he's a preacher. She asked her friend to see if I would give her my business card. Honestly, I'm not in a business as such so I am not sure why I have business cards. Shouldn't I have "Preacher Cards" indicating that all I can do is hold people up on their quest for a hot lunch?

I gave her the card.

The next day the hospitalized car hop was in my voice mail asking if I would come to the hospital and visit her. I would and I did. And it was such a cool visit! I showed up in her room and she was about 85% loopy from medication. In all fairness I was probably about 60% loopy myself because I was on my motorcycle that day and unable to caffeinate myself. So we were conversing on fairly even terms.

You know what my friend wanted? Nothing. I mean she didn't want anything concrete. She just wanted somebody to care about her. I inquired about many things in her life. I learned that she grew up Presbyterian ... or maybe pedestrian ... I always get those two confused. She said that she had recieved Jesus as her Lord many years ago but had trouble living it out. I can understand that. I have trouble myself. Again, we are on equal footing. She told me about her home life and her heart attack and how she almost died. We talked and then I prayed. She asked me if I would come back again. I assured her that I would. What a delightful hour.

Tonight I went into Hit 'N Run to grab some late evening bubbly poisen. The car hop that originally asked for my card was working. She looked very surprised as she thanked me for going to see her friend. She told me that the lady told her that "her little preacher man" had come by and that she had seemed really happy. And that made me happy.

You know, life is wierd. I only know this ladies name because we traded hello's everyday as I filled a cup and she took my ninety-nine cent. She knew that I occasionally came in wearing a suit because I was burying some dead person ... therefore I was a preacher. And I drive a green sports car. She had a crises and for some reason my presence in her hospital room made her feel better. That is where the story loses me. I don't get why my presence would make her happy. She barely knows me. She has never been to the church were I "preacher" at. Geez, people go out of their way to remind me that I'm not actually a REAL preacher anyway. I'm a youth preacher. (And for the record, I am VERY happy to be one...)

Ok, this is my blog so I'm going to be brutally honest. I'm warning you in advance so if you can't take it you'd best go read the news or surf over to Ebay or something. Run. I am not targeting anyone in particular with these comments so don't even think about trying to find "hidden meanings." If I was tempted to start shooting at someone I'd just forget about it and say nothing. I already have a house account at a local florist because I spend so much time apologizing for saying uncool things. The following are my feelings and thoughts. They are not accusations.

Why ... why is it that often when I am around people who are supposed to actually like "preachers" I feel very un-liked? I feel in the way and un-trusted. (I'm making up new words left and right here. Get over it.) But when I'm out walking through a place where the pagan-factor is approaching 100% I actually feel needed? All I did for my heart-sick friend was show up, talk with her about her life, pray with her, and probably smile alot. And she was so incredibly grateful. I walked away knowing that God had shown up in our time together. But when I walk among "the flock" I find myself ducking my head and wishing I could just melt into the carpet. I feel like apologizing for my existence. People like to point out that I probably only work about thirty hours each week because I generally arrive at the office at 9AM while most of the staff arrives at 8AM. They never stop to think about the fact that I cannot minister to their students at 8AM. I have to be there for kids after school and in the evenings. If I do that and still show up at 8AM every morning I will manage to rush headlong back into a not-forgotten sickness that I have no intention of rushing back into. Preachers are human. At least this one is. God has not put a special "Non-Exhaustion Clause" in our contract. Heck, we don't even have a contract. Just a commitment to serve because of who we ARE and not simply what we DO. And yes, there is a huge difference. All I really want is to feel once again like my brothers and sisters love and trust me as much as the heathen's do. They might not believe me but I really haven't done anything to compromise thier trust. But you can only prove that by turning back the clock and showing them and I haven't learned to do that yet.

Ok, I've said enough. I've said too much. I really, REALLY, love people. And I really love strangers. Put me in a room with people that I don't know and I thrive. I want to thrive with people that I know too. I'm tired of not getting it. Not understanding what my crime was. I live for walking across a room and talking to someone who needs talking to. Sharing the love of God with a non-Christ-follower energizes me for a week. You know, I loved my parents and I miss them. But I realized about fifteen years ago that I did not want them to belong to my church. I would have had to convince them that "preachers" are not generally moochers. Most of us really do work. A lot. More than anybody will ever know. Not complaining here. I don't need or ask anybody to pat me on the back or even verbally agree. I just miss being trusted.

12:14AM. I hope I remember to read this in the morning and delete it. If not please just do me a simple favor. Buy a Coke today, look toward Alton Memorial Hospital, and raise your cup in a silent toast to my wounded car-hop buddy. I'd appreciate it.

My last semester of college was the fall of 1982. That sounds so long ago. Until the last few years it seemed like yesterday. Not anymore. Now it feels like an eternity ago. I suppose that has to do with the life events of the last couple of years. I recall thinking at the turn of the millinimum I felt like I was about thirty years old when, in reality, I was forty-four. That was six years ago. Now I am fifty and I feel seventy. It is amazing what a mere six years can do.

But that is not the point.

After nine years of college (4 majors and countless minor's) I was finishing up with a flourish. I was within days of being done. I felt like I was finishing a marathon. I suppose I was in a sense. That was when the head of the psychology department sought me out and asked me if I would return for what was called the "Jam Term." That is a two week class where you receive full credits because you attend all day, five days each week. He wanted me to take a new class he was going to teach on "The Interpretation of Dreams." I did not have much tact in those days. I laughed. I hope it was not a disrecpectful laugh. I just found it hilarious that anyone would suggest that I spend one more day in a classroom after all of those days at Trinity. Not to mention all of those checks representing all of those dollars. I pretty much paid my own way through college. I worked full time in factories or stores. Whatever it took to be able to pay tuition. And I was married with a two year old little girl. No way I was sticking around one more day or writing one more check.

Now I kind of wish that I had.

It's just that I keep having these dreams. I cannot call it a re-occuring dream because it is always different. The "star" is always the same though. My dad. He's always very real and very involved in these dreams. He is just like he was in the good years before he passed away in June of 2000. Sometimes in the dream I realize that he is dead and should not be here and yet I am never really surprised. Sometimes I don't realize that he died and so it isn't that odd to see him. But always he looks just like he did in his older but healthier days. He is wearing his infamous red flannel shirt and blue jeans. He is tanned because he spent most of his time out doors on his boat or washing his car or cutting firewood for the coming winter. These dreams don't have any real common denominator other than his presence. There isn't any pent-up anger dying to get out or any huge confession. No tears or inordinate amounts of laughter. He is just ... there.

So I kind of wish that I had taken that class. I don't think I am a stupid guy. There is not a day that goes by that somebody does not ask my opinion about a subject or for counsel in a situation. So I must not be too dense. But I really don't get why I went over five years with virtually no dreams and then all of the sudden ... BAM. Dad is everywhere. I mean my mom has only been gone since September of 2004 and I am not dreaming about her. Sure, I miss her. But I had some great years to love on her before God called her number. Maybe that is what it is. Maybe I never got those years with my dad and I'm trying to subconsciously create them now. Hmmm. I really don't know. But here it is, about midnight, and time to stop writing and go to sleep. Tomorrow is Saturday. I have a wedding to perform for a wonderful friend. She is in her mid-sixties and has lost two husbands. And she is as giddy about marrying her third as any twenty year old is about marrying her first. I just love that. There is life in her. Wait. Let me retype that. There is LIFE in her. Sometimes all "caps" are called for.

I hope dad doesn't show up tonight. It is not that I don't love him or miss him. I do. Very much. I just haven't figured it out and I'm finding myself spending too much time on things that remind me of him. I was in a military surplus store this week. While there I stumbled upon their display of pins and patches. Several struck me immediately as things my father had saved. Relics from his time served in the army during WWII. I bought them. One is a "C.I.B." or "combat infantry badge." The other two are symbolic of the second armored division "Hell on Wheels" in which he served. I have one of his original dog-tags. My brother has the other. We did not seperate them from the same chain until dad finally died. That's the way it works for a soldier. Dog tags only get seperated at death. I've been wearing his lately. He sweat on that piece of steel while in Africa, Europe, and even in Germany itself. It pressed against his chest. Now it presses against mine. His warfare was of a physical nature. Mine is of a spiritual nature. Lot's of similarities. Little time to dwell on them.

I wonder if my dad is in my "great cloud of witnesses." If he is I hope he's wondering if maybe he can have one of my dog tags someday. The ones that identify me as a combatant in "the church militant." Right now he could have anything he wants. I am proud of him. And the missing of him intensifies with time rather than fades. I did not think it worked that way. But then ... I didn't take the class.

Tonight I scored one for the "visiting team." And the "visiting team" was not even the team that was visiting. Allow me to explain.

I am a genius. Yes, an evil genius. But a genius none the less.

I attended my first ball game tonight at the new Busch Stadium in St. Louis. The hometeam, the team I hate second most in life (after the M-M-M-Mets. Sorry. I have trouble even saying their name.) the St. Louis Cardinals, were playing the Pittsburgh Pirates. I could care less about the Pirates. But they were, after all, playing the Cardinals. I had to cheer for them by default. I was obligated. Still, my hate for the Cardinals is a relatively good natured hate. I don't want their plane to crash or their players to contract diseases. I just want them to lose baseball games. I want them to live happy lives. Most of them seem, from a spectator's viewpoint, to be good guys. I wish them no ill will. Most of my very best friends cheer for them. And I generally want my friends to be happy. I just ... well ... I just want their baseball team to lose. And I want it really badly.

On the other hand I want my baseball team to win. My first team is the Chicago Cubs. My other team is the Chicago White Sox. It has always been that way for me. Until recently I could cheer for them both with equal fervor. Nobody challanged my right to do so and nobody cared. But now that we have inter-league play they battle each other every year. And so I had to make a decision. It was an easy one. I am, first and foremost, without apology or exception ... a Chicago Cubs fan. If the Cubs and the Sox play each other I wear blue. At all other times I love them both with passion. I grew up attending baseball games at old Comiskey Park. My dad would not even consider driving to Wrigley Field. It was/is on the "other" side of the city. The north side. And as every south sider knows, the north side streets are virtually unnavigable. So when dad took me to a ballgame it was to see the White Sox. They are the very first team I ever saw in person. But the Cubs were on TV and I absolutely fell in love with them. I can still tell you the entire batting order and uniform numbers from the 1969 Cubs. That was a particularly painful year.

I don't want to talk about it.

And then last year happened. I predicted it in April. My honest friends will tell you that is true. The White Sox won the World Series. They did it in amazing fashion. I was delirious. I still am. Cardinal fans think I cheated because I cheered for the Sox rather than crying for the Cubs. Coming from a cow-town they have no idea what it's like to have two teams to cheer for. So their opinions, well, their opinions don't count. They are uninformed. Still, they are my friends. I love them and I am obligated to torment them.

That brings us to tonight. I was sitting in my seat with one of my best friends next to me. Our wives were present. As we all sat and chatted on this cold April night I noticed something that was new to me. One of the electronic scoreboards in this new stadium was flashing personal messages. And then it flashed the news that if I dialed a particular number on my cell phone I could type in a text message and it would appear on this board for a mere $2.99 at which time about 35,000 Cardinal fans would see it. And I knew that I had many Cardinal fan friends in the stadium. I knew what I must do. It was one of those things that just sings it's way into your head. It was a given. I excused myself to go to the hot dog stand or the rest room ... can't remember which because I did both. But what I really did was brilliant. We geniuses do brillant things that usually go unnoticed. But this time I struck gold. I sent a text message to that electronic board that said, "Go White Sox!" My bank account shrunk by $2.99. It was possibly the best $2.99 I have ever spent. I made my way back to my seat. It took about thirty minutes and then there it was. In all of its glory. I stayed quiet. About the third time it rotated through either my wife or my friends saw it and called my attention to it. I laughed. I cheered. I admitted nothing. And then my phone started ringing. Three sets of friends all called me from other locations in the stadium accusing me of doing this dastardly deed. I stuck with my time tested motto... "deny, deny, deny." They all bought it. Hook line and sinker. It was not until my wife and I were getting into our Explorer to drive home that I confessed. First I admitted my act of baseball terrorism to her and then to my friends by phone. Oh my! I could actually hear them gnash their teeth across the cell towers and through our skinny little antenna's. It was wonderful! My only regret is that the game ended before I could send my next text message. It was simply going to say, "October. White Sox VS. Cardinals. Sox in 4." As a famous St. Louis sportscaster used to say, "Ya gotta love it!"

Oh, if you happen to look at the pictures at the top of this blog you'll see my sign waaaay across the stadium. You can't read it due to the distance but trust me ... it was perfect! You'll also see the pin I wore on my chest tonight. It is my own personal Cardinal's logo for 2006. And can you believe that I actually bought it in the Cardinal's gift shop!? Like I said ... Ya gotta love it!

God won't let me get away with anything these days.

I came home from work this morning to let Bailey the Killer Beagle out for a few minutes. She probably needed to do her duty. (doody?) While she was leashed in the backyard I decided to extend my quiet time a few minutes and get some more "face time" with God. It was not a long time. Maybe fifteen minutes. I got up and went to let Bailey in. She was not there. The end of her 25 foot leash was in the grass minus the dog. Oh sure, the collar was still on it but she had run at it so hard that the plastic "catch" had snapped. Leash and collar? Present. Dog? Absent.

You see, Bailey the Killer Beagle is an inside dog. In reality the only thing she kills is time. But she is a Beagle and she is fast. And she is a great tracker. She'll track anything and everything right into the path of an oncoming SUV if you let her. I walked to the front yard and, just as I thought, she was sniffing her way up and down the street. She didn't mean any harm. She was just busy being a Beagle. She is also smart enough to know that if (when) I catch her I'll take away her freedom and bring her home. She cannot get SUV'd in my living room.

We went up and down the block for thirty minutes. The mailman tried to snag her. I yelled at him to mace her for me and I'd just stroll over and pick her up. He looked at me like I was crazy. He knew Bailey wouldn't hurt him. The same thing was repeated fifteen minutes later with the gas meter reader. Now I was chasing her by car. The plan was to let her trap herself in a fenced in corner and then I'd grab her. She did that twice. I'm still dealing with the aftermath of a broken toe and I couldn't catch a hairball blowing across my carpet these days.

I gave up and went home. So did Bailey. She strolled into my back yard and through the open gate into the yard of the neighbor behind me. The totally fenced in yard of the neighbor behind me. I closed the gate. Mission accomplished. I made a few half hearted stabs at catching her but there was really no rush. She couldn't go anywhere. That is when my neighbor who lives next to the house where Bailey had caged herself showed up. This guy has a reputation for being mean. My other neighbors have warned me about him. I've only met him a few times because he doesn't like people. And he doesn't like dogs. And he doesn't like people owning dogs. Particularly people living near him.

I smiled at my neighbor and said hello. You know what he was busy doing on this spring day? Building a fence. A big, tall, solid, wooden fence. I don't really care. My yard and his yard only touch for about the width of a needle at my northwest corner. Yet it is somehow poetic that he is building this fence. Anyway, he returned my greeting with a grunt, cigerette dangling from his lips. He was ... actually is ... wearing a really filthy t-shirt and ripped up, cut-off jeans. This guy is NOT Wilson from Home Improvement. I told him that my dog had caged herself in and that I was going to let her wear herself out in our joint-neighbors yard. He went back to his fence building. I went inside of my own house to drink about a gallon of water.

That is when I looked out my back door. Bailey was sprinting across my yard to freedom. Mr. Fence-it was standing at the open gate.

What I felt at that moment redefines the word "seething." Had I been in the middle east I could have fixed the entire military/religious/political problem in just a couple of minutes. I would have won. The land would have been mine. East Bank/West Bank/Temple Mount, it makes no difference. I would have owned it all and all warring parties would have been darned glad to have signed it over just to get me off of their ... case.

I opened my door and approached my neighbor. His cigerette fell out of his mouth. Seriously. As he picked it up I said, "did she manage to squeeze through that gate?" He lied, assuring me that she did. "That's one small opening! She sure managed to get really little, didn't she?" He listened to my obvious sarcasm and turned back to his work. I got in my car and followed this little brown beagle butt for about four blocks. She trapped herself in another back yard. I have no idea who lives there and I was praying they were not at home as I clicked their gate behind me.

This time it was war. Broken toe or no broken toe. Fury trumps pain everytime. In less than sixty-seconds Bailey was in my car, cowering on the floorboard. In ninety-seconds she was with me in the back yard, trembling in my arms. I approached my neighbor. He mentioned how I sure had managed to find her fast. That's when I lied to him. And that's when I ran aground against the Truth that has set me free. You know who I mean.

I told my neighbor, "Yeah, and it's a good thing. My wife really wants a Great Dane." I gestured with my free arm to show that the dog would stand pretty close to my own six foot height. He stopped what he was doing and looked at me now. He asked if I was kidding. I told him that I was not. I said that my wife had always wanted a Great Dane and that I had promised her one when Bailey was gone. I told him that if I hadn't found her I would have bought one tonight. He told me that if I got one I had better fence in my whole back yard. I told him that a fence wouldn't help. The dog she has her heart set on would just step over it anyway. I turned and walked back to my house leaving him feeling whatever he was feeling.

I settled the score with Bailey. I took her inside and put her in the cage she sleeps in. It's a cushy arrangement with comforters, blankets, and every amenity short of plumbing and cable. Then I picked up the entire cage ... and her with it ... and set it out in the middle of my back yard. She barked. My neighbor looked up. I smiled at him. I told him to have a nice day. Bailey kept barking. I went in the house. I watched through the window as Mr. Fence-it threw down his tools and went into his own house.

I was mad. Still mad. Not at the dog but at the neighbor. This guy deserved to be slapped around. He deserves a Great Dane keeping him up nights and stepping over his fence like it was nothing more than a blade of grass. Christopher called from college and I told him what had happened. He never talks long but I think he made this one shorter than usual. Rage isn't hard to read. I walked into my living room. There was my quiet-time stuff. Still open on the chair. I sat down next to it and immediately began to tell God how angry I was and how my neighbor deserved a little vengence to come his way. Perhaps some locusts in his garden or blood red water out of his faucets. You know, a little Old Testament wrath!

I did not get through the first paragraph of my ranting before I heard Him speak. The Holy Spirit asked me a simple question. "Does Mr. Fence-it know Jesus?" I stopped dead in my verbal tracks. "How do you expect him to behave when he's obviously lost in his sin with absolutely nothing to look forward to?"

Geez. Double geez. I hate it when God does that.

Within a minute I was back in my shoes and walking toward the fence. Nobody was there. He was still inside. I went through "The Gate of Guilt" and walked around to the front of his house. His car trunk was open but nobody was around. I made my way back to my own yard. I told God, "Look, I'm trying to do what you want me to do here. I want to obey you. I need to fix this. And I could use a little heavenly help." That's when his back door opened. He looked at me and walked behind his shed. Too bad. I followed him. He had to look up at that point. I asked if he had a minute. He strolled over to the fence, obviously not at all sure what I was about to do or say.

"Look. I'm not going to get a Great Dane. My wife doesn't really want one. I was just mad because my dog got out. I was hot and tired from chasing her. You have made yourself a really nice backyard and I don't want to do anything to keep you from enjoying it. My family likes dogs and so I bought a really small one and she is only outside long enough to do what dogs have to do and then she stays in. I'm trying to keep her from bothering you. And I'm sorry I lied. I was mad about ... (I almost told him I knew what he had done at the gate but that was not my God-assigned-mission and I didn't want to have to come back and apologize again so I shut-up about it) ... I was just mad. I hope you will forgive me."

He took his cigerette out of his mouth again. "Yeah, that's ok. She's a cute dog." He turned away before stopping, looking up one more time and saying, "You've been a good neighbor too." Then he went back to his fence building.

Me? I came in and apologized again. To God. He has every right to expect better of me than that. I try so very hard to be Jesus-with-skin-on to people at church. Sometimes that doesn't work out so well either. Not everybody appreciates it. But that's not my fault and it's not my problem. My job ... my calling ... my passion ... is to "Love God and Love People." That is my personal mission statement for life. You've probably heard me say it before. I hope to live it out more and more everyday.

I didn't get to tell my neighbor today that there is a better way to "do life." Maybe I will someday soon. I don't mind walking across the back yard to engage in a conversation if it will change some person's eternal destiny. Anyway, no kudo's to me on this one. I blew it. But I did learn the lesson and I did make it right. Better late than never, I suppose.

I even let Bailey out of her cage.

I mowed a bird last week. Yes, that is what I said. (The picture, from the scene of the crime, was taken a week or so earlier. I don't mow snow.)

It seems that I came home from church on Wednesday night a little later than planned. The sun had set but there was still some light. The grass in my front lawn was taller than it should be. So I pulled my riding lawn mower out of the garage. It is not in very good shape. I inherited it from my father. He purchased it in 1994 so it is rather old too. But its condition has steadily deteriorated since coming under my care. Guilty.

The headlights do not work. I have never changed the oil. The blade is dull. The front left tire consistently leaks. The muffler is held on by one bolt. And ... the bolts holding the motor down ... don't. Dad would be upset. Really upset. But he's not here and unless that "great cloud of witnesses" is bored enough to watch me cut grass I think I'm safe. Besides, it still works and I keep promising myself that I am going to fix it. Get it all spiffed up. Make dad proud. I'm going to do it too. As soon as I fix my motorcycles carburetor this Saturday. Yep, the lawn mower is most certainly next.

Anyway, back to my confession. I started the mower up, put my ipod headphones on, and pointed toward the front yard as best I could find it in the late evening light. I lowered the blade all of the way, put it in 4th gear (I had to hurry as it was now getting seriously dark.) I took off. The mowing was completed in record time. I put the contraption away. (It blew a bright orange flame through the muffler when I turned it off in the garage. You could still smell it the next morning!)

Speaking of the next morning, that's when I noticed it. The bird formerly called "Sparrow" was in my front yard. He was really in my front yard. He was near the road. He was near the house. He was under both trees. He was snuggled up next to the bushes. The Sparrow was everywhere. The Sparrow was nowhere. Mainly there were feathers. Was he alive when I ambushed him with the red monster? Was he pulling a worm from the damp evening grass and failed to hear me coming? Was he already dead and waiting for some squirrel to claim him as supper? Was he just flying low when fate caused us to intersect? I do not know. I will never know. Unless maybe God shows me His "Sparrow Log Book" when I get to heaven. He keeps track of these things, ya know. I don't think I'm in trouble ... but I could be. Oh geez, I could be.

I got to thank somebody today and it was really cool. His name is Mark Yaconelli. He lives in San Diego and I had never met him before. However I had met his father, Mike Yaconelli. Mike was one of the co-founders of "Youth Specialties", an organization that is the best in existence at helping youth pastor's do their jobs. But that is not why I thanked him.

Mark headed up a little study called the "Youth Ministry Spirituality Project." It was co-sponsored by Youth Specialties and the San Francisco Theological Seminary. I got on board with what they were doing back in May, 2002. I had just completed a really lousy year, better known as 2001. That was a year I have considered crossing off of my own personal calendar. I have thought about declaring a "do-over." That would make me only 49 instead of my official 50. (I know all of my friends would whine and complain, calling "FOUL!" and so I haven't bothered trying.) If you know me you understand that 2001 was the year that I pretty much drove myself over the edge of the planet. It was like I had not gotten the message that the earth is round and so I just ... drove over the edge. In reality I drove myself into the ground. Somehow I had gotten the notion that it was my job to fix the world's problems. So I tried to heal my brother after he suffered a stroke while preaching one Sunday morning, I buried my father after cancer claimed him, sold my parents retirement home in Arkansas and moved my mother to my hometown and took care of her while she had no less than two life threatening surgeries and then became addicted to prescription pain medications and muscle relaxants. Not a bad year's work, huh? Once we got through all of that (and a heavy dose of church ministry concerns as well) I hit the wall. I looked over the edge of the planet and decided to leap. The rest of that year was spent trying to figure out which way was up, how to walk a straight line, and decide whether or not everything I do is still worth doing. I decided that it is.

Then in 2002 God placed a prompting in my heart. I had pretty much recovered from my bout of adrenaline exhaustion and was seeking the next step in my journey of faith. I noticed that the "Youth Ministry Spirituality Project" would be conducting "Youth Pastor's Sabbath's" around the country. Holy Spirit made it very clear that I should go and so I signed-up to attend in Frontenac, Mn. It was a five day experience that changed my life. I learned how to pray. I learned how to be still. I learned how to be quiet. I learned how to find God. Ok, forget that last one. I learned that God had already found me and that I needed to rearrange my life to allow Him to do what He wanted to do. The story is much longer than that but you get the point. I went back to "Youth Pastor's Sabbath" in 2003 and God worked me over again. This time I took a youth pastor friend with me. He's still trying to recover from being ambushed by God too.

So today I met Mark, the guy largely responsible for the event used by God to turn me from being a complete ADHD type personality ... into a semi-contemplative ADHD type personality. (No, I've never been diagnosed as ADHD but I have a signed certificate from my wife testifying to the fact. That's much more reliable that a doctor's note.) I told him that I only wanted sixty seconds of his time. I quickly thanked him and then I told him what I was thanking him for. He turned my sixty seconds into about five minutes by asking me questions. But I needed to tell him thank you. I am not certain I would still be a youth pastor if it were not for him. I think I just might be in vinyl repair or something.

And here is the really crazy thing. I got to know a woman named Beth who works for Youth Specialties at the first Youth Pastor's Sabbath that I attended. It is the only time we have met but we have stayed in touch by e-mail and the occasional phone call. She has been a never ending source of wisdom and direction for me. She is, by profession, a "spiritual director" dedicated to helping youth pastor's remain sane. She does her job well. Anyway, Beth was in my voice-mail about a month ago. She wanted to ask me if I would consider coming to the "National Youth Workers Convention" next November and leading a "small group spirituality session" titled "Being ADHD and Practicing the Contemplative Lifestyle." Hmmm. I am honored. I am insulted. I am also smart enough to realize that I qualify. I move much too quickly through life. My brain is always thinking three steps ahead and thus I miss the moment. Which means I seldom remember where I parked my car. Even at church I find myself asking the custiodians if they have any idea which side of the building I have parked on. They kindly take me by the hand and walk me to my vehicle. Sadly, I am only slightly exaggerating. I could tell you more stories about how my brain is usually somewhere else ... but if you know me you already have enough dirt on me. I'm not giving you anymore.

Two things felt good today. Ok, actually three. First, I got to spend the day with one of my youth pastor son's. I got to watch him sit and listen to teaching that has already changed my life. He doesn't know it yet but he will need that teaching someday. Second, Mark Yaconelli actually said OUT LOUD that good youth pastor's are not the type of people that get up early in the morning, have their quiet time, and are in the office by 8:00AM. (That is so totally me. I get ragged on constantly because I'm a solid 30 - 60 minutes behind the rest of the staff. But as you'll notice if you check the time stamp on this blog I'm still going at it at 11:30PM. That is what it takes to work with kids. They don't need you in the morning. They need you in the evening. So God was smart enough to wire youth pastor's like that.) I feel completely validated!

And finally ... the Cubs beat the Cardinal's for the second straight day. Tomorrow they could complete a sweep. That in itself makes for a great day.

Memory is a good thing ... if you learn from it.

I recall being a little kid living on the edge of the Chicago suburbs. Our town was (and still is) called Tinley Park. There was a big huge field bordering my backyard. In the middle of the field stood (and still stands) the transmitting tower for WLS radio. WLS, better known in those days as “The Rock of Chicago” was a powerhouse station that played your basic household rock ‘n roll music. It was a “clear channel” station, which, as I understand it, means that no other station anywhere broadcasts on their frequency. That allowed them to be heard far and wide across these rolling acres called America, particularly at night. (It was so powerful ... and we were so close ... that we actually would pick the station up through our heating ducts on occasion. This also explains my proclivity to occasionally burst out spontaneously into a musical chorus of "WLS in ChiiiCaaaGooo..." I understand it has to do with electrical impulses and brain waves.) I listened to it from my grandparent’s house in Arkansas during our summer vacations. I disliked Arkansas and the music was soothing to my homesick heart. Over the years my brother and I would stand at our bedroom window and watch in awe as lightening would strike that tower repeatedly during a typical spring or summer storm. You could see the sparks dance down the wires that grounded the tower. For us it was like watching the 4th of July fireworks in the rain.



I also recall a man in our neighborhood. I do not know his name. He was probably in his 50’s. He would walk around our block all day long. Every day. He looked straight ahead, never turning his head, never talking, never giving any indication that he had any mission in life other than to walk the block. My dad said the man had served in WWII and was “shell shocked.” I don’t really know what his story was. I suppose my dad knew things that I did not. I just knew enough to stay away from the silent stranger.

And then I recall spending strained moments under our house in the 4-foot "crawl space" one night waiting for the world to end. A tornado was ravaging our neighborhood and my 9-year-old brain really didn’t understand what was going on. I only knew that my parents woke me up at 2AM and pulled me down a small set of stairs to this graveled place where I didn’t want to be. When the roar stopped and only the pounding of the rain remained to be heard we made our way upstairs and looked out the windows, surveying the damage left behind in the glare of the lightening flash. The next morning my friends and I made the rounds on our bikes while our parents began putting homes back in order. The things we found in ditches and fields for the next months was most amazing as the tornado deposited whatever it happened to grab haphazardly across the area.

I remember the days following the storm. One house had exploded. An entire end was simply blown apart. Nobody lived in it at the time. That was a good thing. My best friend lost his roof. We had a huge awning over our patio that my brother and I found wrapped around a picnic table blocks away. And then there was the silent stranger. The day after the storm he was still there, making his rounds. He was completely oblivious to the carnage that was all around him. He did not even notice a storm had passed through. He certainly never noticed the treasures we were finding in the fields. Perhaps he was not mentally capable and I mean no disrespect ... but he certainly did not learn anything from the storm.

I am trying to sort out what I am learning lately. God is busy. He is working all around me and sometimes even through me. Occasionally the learning comes hard, like in the rubble-strewn trail behind a tornado. It usually is not a cloud tornado that teaches me. Most often it is a tornado of another sort. Perhaps a relationship gone sour. A toe broken against the unbending wood of a bedroom dresser. (Don’t ask.) An unkind word heard or spoken that, either way, must be dealt with. Proverbs 119: 71 tosses a piece of wisdom my way when it says, “It was good for me to be afflicted so that I might learn your decrees.” That means … learn from the pain lest you have to go through it again.

So I get to be like a kid on a bike, sorting through the aftermath of one of life’s tornados. Seeking treasures in the midst of chaos. Or I get to be like the silent stranger going around the same block over and over and over. Never learning anything. Ever seeing … never understanding.


Memory is a good thing … if you learn from it

You know, I really don't understand it. I was tired all day today. It's been a long week. We've had youth events 4 out of the last 7 nights. They have been really great. First we did our "True Love Waits" retreat. I don't know, there was somewhere around 50 there. Thirty-three signed commitment cards to remain sexually abstinent until marriage. (Maybe the others will remain sexually obstinate?) And then on Sunday night we went out together and ate pizza at Imo's until all I could dream of was cheese that night. Last night we had bible study and a lady from our church (who also works at the "Arms of Love Crises Pregnancy Center") came and talked about her experiences ministering in that arena.

And then tonight. Like I said, I was already tired. On top of the youth stuff I've been to some hospital's, visited some very sick people both there and at homes, worked on summer plans, and basically tried to stay out of trouble at the office. And at 7:00PM tonight JPL started. I went without much energy or desire. I had purchased supplies to run 7 games, knowing we would not get to them all. I just hate "down time" where I have to stall or kill time until bible study begins at 8:30. So I had the stuff all ready in the kitchen along with "bomb pops" and assorted flavors of soda. Music was playing on the stereo. The lights were up, the bull horns had fresh batteries, and Scott and I were as ready as we could be. But ... as I said ... tired.

Then the kids started arriving. First it was a trickle. Groups of 2 or 3 would enter and mill around the big empty room waiting for something to happen. Then some of the crazier ones came in and things would start popping. By now I had a couple of spare adults around to watch out for problems. College students actually. Their help is VERY appreciated. We were in the kitchen making final preparations and you could hear the growing roar on the other side of the door. 7:00 came and we stepped into the room, bull horns hanging from our shoulders, music blaring on the stereo ... and we cranked it up a notch. Let the fun begin! And did it ever.

It almost always happens. At that point I forget that I am tired. I suppose it's adrenaline that kicks in. Something does. And its a 2 hour roller coaster of fun mixed with work mixed with policing a ready to explode crowd of teenage energy. These are great kids. Many of them already know and love Jesus. Some have just begun on their journey. Others have made commitments and have not even had the chance to make them public in church yet. 4 of them are waiting for the baptistry heater to be repaired so that they can be baptized. How can a career youth pastor NOT get buzzed about that?

We closed out the evening with a rather odd bible study. I had a copy of some weird grocery store tabloid newspaper. The National Enquirer or something. I would read a bizarre article claiming to be true. One was about how a human virus had now mutated and was affecting computers. Riiiiiight. And then Scott would read a story from the words of Jesus taken out of Matthew's account of the sermon on the mount. I would read a story from the rag. Scott would read a story from the bible. It went back and forth like this for about 10 minutes. Then we told them about how there really is a "right" and a "wrong" in life. Situational ethics don't work. God's Word is true and ever lasting. And you know what? For the first (and only) time this night ... they listened. They were quiet. They paid attention. I told them that anytime they hear somebody tell them that they don't matter ... that they are no good ... that they are worthless ... it is just like the trash written in the tabloids. It is a lie. God made them, He loves them, and their lives have a plan and a purpose. It was not hard to see the wheels turning in some of their heads. Not all of them hear this at home. God, forgive us, but it's true. Some of these kids are pretty beaten down and live under a constant berating.

And so it's not really all that hard to come to JPL on Thursday nights. All you have to do is to stick 700 Q-Tips into a kids head (photo's available upon request!) and then they will listen to you tell them about Christ. I will never understand how those things connect. But they do. I've been doing it for quite a while now. How can I stop when they keep listening? It's a strange trade-off. But it is oh so worth it ...

It was just me and the mountain. One on one. Just the way it is supposed to be. I stood overlooking the steep, snow covered slope and felt it sneer at me. Daring me to take it on. I clicked into my rented Solomon ski's and pointed their tips over the edge of the slope. As I dug my poles into the snow I thought about "crossing myself" and remembered that I wasn't catholic. So I pushed off and felt the wind begin to rush by my nearly frostbitten cheeks.

It had been five years since I had skied. Sixty months of solid ground under my feet. The last time I had been on the boards I was in Colorado. I knew that i was not well but I did not realize just how sick I was. I had finished up a difficult month but could not have guessed that I had eight more ahead of me before I felt anything even approaching normal. After four runs down various slopes on that day I coasted off a lift that dropped me several hundred feet below the ridge of the continental divide. I love to ski. In the winters I have lived for it since I learned at the late age of thirty. On that March day I began my descent from above 12,000 feet. A quarter of the way down I had to stop short. I was still above the tree line and snow was blowing over the divide and skimming along above the pack making it nearly impossible to see what terrain was coming. Several hundred feet lower I had to stop again. And yet again as I entered the tree line. I was suffering vertigo. My head was spinning and I could not catch my breath. I looked below at Interstate 70 where it enters the Eisenhower Tunnel. It looked like it was a mile away. I limped the rest of the way down the mountain, clicked out of my ski's and turned them back in at the rental hut. After a mere five runs I realized that if I kept on skiing I would probably get hurt before the day was out. I felt sad and yet relieved. Sad to be unable to enjoy my favorite hobby. Relieved to be able to walk away without the help of a stretcher or a crutch.

And now the five years have gone their way. I have stayed healthy most of the time but the last two years have been very stress filled and I've got a relapse or two under my belt. The doctor calls it "adrenaline exhaustion." I call it "hell." But on that March day ... I skied again.

Where was I before I interrupted myself? Oh yeah.

My legs were not very stable. It's tough to do anything that really prepares you to make the quick turns and absorb the rough bounces of downhill skiing. You just have to get your legs back. So I was pointed down my first black diamond run for the first time in a long time. True, it was just cheese laden Wisconsin but it was vertical and snow covered so it counts.

Everything went fine for the first couple of turns. I struggled a bit through a dip that resulted in a short but very steep pitch. I told my skis to turn right. They caught an edge in a rut that went to the left. I didn't go right or left. I went forward. Over the tips of my own skis. I felt them fly away and then I was on my back looking up at the beautiful cobalt blue sky. I realized my poles were no longer in my hands. I was still going downhill but I was doing it head first and face-up. I probably only slid twenty feet but it felt like two hundred. When I coasted to a stop ... I smiled. Nothing hurt. I looked up the way I had come and my equipment was scattered across the mini-mountain in a way that resembled a yard sale. My sons skied up and gave me a very pathetic look. I am the guy that taught them to ski. Now they make me look like the old man that I often feel I am. and you know what? It's all right. I have done my job. I taught myself to ski on a small hill in suburban St. Louis, managing to put a hairline crack in my shoulder the first day on the bunny hill. A few years later I went to Colorado all alone and skied the highest (though not the steepest) peak that the state offered before I even told my family I was going to try it. And then I came home, taught them to ski on the same suburban hill, and took them to Colorado with me. Now they make me look silly at every turn. That is a dad's job. Learn yourself and then teach your kids to be better than you are. I did ... and they are. Mission accomplished.

The next day I felt like I had been run over by a Hummer. My sons felt great and did most of the driving home. And I did not mind at all.

Life ... is good.

God is really amazing.  I like hanging out with Him.  For some reason He seems to like hanging out with me too.  This is a good thing.  But the really surprising thing is that He chooses to keep blessing the work of my hands.  I mean, come on.  I've been a youth pastor since I was 19 years old.  I walked straight out of being in the youth group into leading the youth group.  That's a little odd.  Since then I have spent exactly one month not pastoring teenagers.  That comes to 31 years.

The big question seems to be why would teenagers allow ... and even encourage ... an old man who is turning gray and no longer "gets" their music ... to hang out with them and even choose to follow him?  I am not at all sure that I would, were I them.  But they do.  And I am honored.

It's gotten really interesting lately.  It is like God has decided to go hyper-active in our kids.  As of the first Sunday in March I have baptized 6 teens this year.  I have 4 more that are now waiting to be baptized.  After that is done the teens will be leading every other age group in our church COMBINED by a 5 - 1 ratio.  Wow.

Which brings me to todays story.  Last Sunday I was to baptize two young men, Casey and Kyle.  These two guys are really incredible.  they are high school students and they have fallen in love with God. No, they don't "get it" all yet. But they are moving in that direction. And they are both football player big. Prime beef kind of guys. I love them to death, along with about 50 or so of their closest friends.

So they show up Sunday morning and I have to break the news to them. The baptistry heater didn't work the night before and the water is cold I mean COLD. I've checked and water comes out of the ground at a consistent 54 degrees. That, my friend, is quite chilly. And that is what it checked in at in our church baptistry. So I told them of the situation and told them it would be fine if they wanted to wait. They laughed at me. Our heater has been breaking a lot lately and I don't think either of them was surprised. Kyle told me he had recently gone swimming in a very cold pool of water and he wasn't concerned. Hey, I wasn't concerned either. I wear these big rubberized fishing waders so that I don't have to change clothes before returning to the auditorium. When the heater fails I can feel the cold through them but it's not a big deal. However, it IS a VERY big deal to the one being baptized.

The time came and, with hundreds watching, I waded into the water, looked up at Casey, and gave him the nod. He hesitated. Then he stepped into the water. One toe at a time. This big guy literally creeped, gasping, down into the pool and stood in front of me. His teeth chattered. No joke. I asked him the usual questions about what decision he had made recently that had brought us to this point. He spoke involuntary words ... "It's so cold!" And then he caught himself and told us that he had asked Jesus Christ into his life to be his Savior. Then I dunked him. He went down fast and came up faster. But if you really want to see fast you should have seen him climb those stairs out of the big tub!

Now that left Kyle standing there looking down at me. He's a tough guy. No doubt. He is a football player and does not intimidate easily. I watched him steel himself and wade down into the water with me. He clinched his teeth. I asked the questions and he answered them appropriately. When i went to lean him back ... he helped me out in a big way. He literally threw himself backward! When he did his feet slipped out from under him and I was the only thing keeping him from sinking to the floor of the baptistry. I mean, he went WAY down. Deeper than anybody I've ever baptized. So deep that the entire right half of my body went under with him in order to bring him back up. So deep that the water began flowing into my waders. Did I mention that it was cold? Now I knew just how cold! As I pulled Kyle back to the surface the water was still going up from his going down. It didn't just get me. It got part of the choir that was sitting immediately in front of us! And when I finally got Kyle to the surface he "pulled a dog" on me. I mean he SHOOK just like a Golden Retriever after a bath. Water went everywhere. All over me. All over the choir. People were actually diving out of their chairs to get away from the splash! It was one of the greatest moments of my life! I loved it! I didn't know it at the time but the water had flowed so far into the waders I was wearing that the microphone box to my wireless lapel mike got wet. This is not good.

Kyle and I both managed to get out of the water. We shivered our way downstairs to the changing rooms. I did not bring a change of clothes with me because I didn't expect to need them and so I had to go home to change. When I got back and the worship service ended I went and found both of my friends and we laughed and hugged and had an awesome time celebrating the wonderfully unique experience they had in following Jesus.

So right now we are just sittng here waiting for a new heater to arrive so that we can baptize 4 more kids that are waiting. All four of them are middle school girls and I would not even consider baptizing them in unheated water. No way. And get this. They tell me that in the process of trying to find out what was wrong with the heater they made a discovery. It seems that the box that holds the plug that the heater plugs in to ... is above and behind the baptistry ... and has never ... NEVER ... been bolted to the wall. It has just been hanging there. I have been dunking kids and adults here for 23 years. And it has never been bolted down.

This is just one more reason why I believe in God.

After even greater deliberation here is a comprehensive list of my 10 Most Enjoyable Things In The World As Of Today Though I Reserve The Right To Change It At Any Moment Without Prior Notice And Without The Express Written Consent Of Major League Baseball(not counting things like relationships, hugging family, being ... ahem ... alone with my bride, worshipping God, etc. This is a blog not a political philosophy or theological/doctrinal statement!)

10. (It's a tie) Gym shoes that fit perfectly (it's a fetish) //// Opposable thumbs (try brushing your teeth without them tonight)
9. Remote control anything (sooooo lazy)
8. The first hour after a good work-out (they say it's chemical)
7. Music ("... it's the best thing I have ever found..." Rich Mullins R.I.P.)
6. An Ipod, a helmet, a motorcycle ... and no cars
5. Sunny days, Green Mustang, top down ... nuff said
4. White Sox Tickets, downstairs near Jermaine Dye after an hour at the Grandstand (35th Street just west of "The Cell")
3. Cubs tickets, bleachers on the vines (Night ... day ... doesn't matter)
2. Bailey crashing next to me in my big huge brown fuzzy mega-chair (She is form fitting)
1. Crashing in my big huge brown fuzzy mega-chair (You have to be there to get it)

After great deliberation here is a comprehensive list of my 10 Most Irritating Things In The World As Of Today Though I Reserve The Right To Change It At Any Moment Without Prior Notice And Without The Express Written Consent Of Major League Baseball(not counting things like war, disease, famine, etc. This is a blog not a political philosophy or theological/doctrinal statement!)

10. Camping (or anything having to do with being required to shower and/or sleep out doors)
9. Weddings (sorry. I feel badly about this one but it is true)
8. In coming phone calls from phone numbers that caller id doesn't recognize (forget it ... I won't answer)
7. The Cardinals (every day in every way)
6. Staying when I don't want to stay
5. Going when I don't want to go
4. Daytime television (a waste land)
3. Anything involving numbers or math (I don't do numbers)
2. Meetings (necessary evils)
1. Peanut Butter (it is inherently evil)

Have you ever saved somebody’s life? Have you ever had your life saved by someone else? I have experienced both. The former is by far better than the latter. I will not tell you about two of the former because that would be bragging. Both times it was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. But I can think of three times in my life when, had I not been where I was or had I not done what I did, somebody would have died. Forget the first two. But the third one you just have to hear.

It was Tuesday of this week and I was driving to St Johns Mercy Hospital in West St. Louis County. The weather was nice, the stereo was turned up, and I was ahead of schedule. (That alone qualifies this as a miracle.) I exited from southbound I-270 onto the Ladue Road exit. I was planning on turning left on Ladue Road. This particular exit has two lanes and I was in the right one. (Meaning the one on the right … not meaning the correct one.) I was about one third of the way up the ramp when I saw a car make a right turn off of Ladue Road onto the exit ramp I was on. (Teachable moment #1. Exit ramps should never be used as entrance ramps. It defies the very nature of safe driving. Make a note of it.) At first I thought, “no way.” Like I am not seeing what I think I am seeing. Then he got close enough for me to realize that he was in a Mini-Cooper. (Teachable moment #2. If you are going to be so foolish as to go the wrong way on an expressway you might want to drive something more substantial than a Mini-Cooper.) I hit the button to lower my window. I began braking and waving both of my arms out the window at the oncoming car. I flashed my headlights. I waved again. The Mini-Cooper began slowing about thirty feet in front of me. The driver was looking at me like I was insane and he was afraid. You know the look. I began coasting up to him and he lowered his window half way. I took this opportunity to inform him that he was driving on the expressway EXIT ramp. He did not say anything. He raised his window, drove past me, executed a u-turn, passed me, turned right on Ladue Road, and drove on out of sight. No “Hey, Thanks!” No, “Whoa! That was close! I’m so sorry!” Nothing. As he drove away he was still looking at me like I was the one who was crazy.

My state trooper friend tells me that a driver going the wrong way on an expressway is the worst possible traffic scenario. He says that it always ends up with fatalities. So I figure that I have it from an expert that I saved this guys life and probably the lives of countless people on I-270. He could have hit a school bus. Or a family van. Or your car. Seriously.

The point is not that he didn’t pause to thank me. (Though that would have been nice.) The point is that it is NEVER right to go the wrong way. Never. Somebody always gets hurt. Don’t believe me? I can prove it. Proverbs 14: 12 says, “There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.” You can’t get much clearer than that. Which way are you heading today? Are you going in your own direction or are you following the directions found in God’s Word? Might I suggest that you see what God has to say about your method of reaching your destination? It might change your entire life. Or even your entire eternity.

Consider yourself flagged down.

They are not kidding. You really can fix anything with Duct Tape. (Or is it "Duck Tape?" I've never been certain.) I have used it to repair the turn signals on my motorcycle. I've repaired the seat on an old car I use to have with it. I taped my wounded exhaust pipe up with it on a VERY temporary basis. (Note to self: Duct tape melts.) I've used it to hold a multiplicity of things up. You know what I mean. "Up" means where ever something is supposed to be but is not. I use it as a part of youth group games on a very regular basis. Which brings us to tonight's story.

She came to me with a pathetic look on her face. She's just a young kid. A teenager. Full of life, energy, and a generous helping of bull. If you know what I mean. But this time she wasn't kidding. She was wearing one of those pairs of jeans that you are pretty sure "The Gap" pulled out of a trash bin someplace and hung on a rack with a $59.99 price tag on it. They had holes everywhere. And yet she had managed to add one more hole in a place where holes do not belong. She ripped one where she sits. And, as I said, she looked pathetic. She asked if I happened to have a safety pin. Well, I didn't exactly examine this hole in her jeans. When she pointed to its location I decided that this was a situation best left to herself and a girlfriend. I told her I would see what I could come up with.

The best I could do was ... a stapler. She gave me "that look." But she also took the stapler and went into the ladies room with her friend. She came out with a renewed look of disgust. The stapler had failed. Somebody happened by at just about that moment and tossed her a roll of Duct Tape. Good old silver Duct Tape.

My young friend broke into a smile and trotted off to the ladies room again. The next time I saw her, about 5 minutes later, she had an even bigger smile. And she was walking rather stiffly. She had transformed her renegade tear into a mark of glory. She was a testimony to good old American ingenuity. I'd rather not try to explain. Just take a look at her picture.

You know, I really have to hand it to her. Not only did she fix her jeans but she became instantly popular with every kid in the room. Fifty of them. It would appear that Duct Tape is cool. Hey, it works for me. It has to be better than stapling your jeans to your butt.

How Bad is it?

-I sneezed this evening and my right eyeball fell into my lap.
-I used excess snot to refill my lava lamp.
-My ears are ringing so loudly I answered the phone 27 times today and it only rang twice.
-Bailey the Killer Beagle asked me to stop coughing because the squirrels can't hear her bark.
-The siesmology department of Washington University called and asked me to please jump into the air when I cough because I'm causing false earth quake reports.
-The meth dealers asked me to stop buying up all of the Pseudoephedrine.
-The Kleenex Corporation is naming their new multi-pack box after me.
-I had to squeegee my laptop screen repeatedly.
-The Weather Channel clocked my sneeze-gusts in Pittsburgh.
-FEMA has a trailer in my driveway.

There are things in the universe that make sense, there are things in the universe that don't make sense. I am dealing with a couple of those items right now. I hope you don't mind if I elaborate. Because I am going to. It's my blog.

Why is it that science can cure horrible diseases like polio and small pox but they can't put a dent in the common cold? The entire world seems to be sniffling and sneezing right now. Well, most of the world. I watched some wild eyed maniac's in another country tonight chanting on the evening news about how they want to kill me and everybody who looks and acts like I do. I've never met any of them and I am not sure why they want me dead. But none of them seemed to have a snot problem. Come to think of it, have you ever heard of a wild eyed maniac getting sick? I went to high school with a girl whose father was a prison guard in Stateville penitentiary near Joliet. Part of his assignment was to watch the mass murderer, Richard Speck. She told me about how he spent his time making incredible works of art. He not only killed people but he painted in his spare time. She never mentioned him being sick. Do convicts get Kleenex? Is that one of their civil rights? What if you were strapped to the gurney awaiting lethal injection and you had to sneeze? Would they unstrap you so that you could wipe your nose or would it just be tough noogies for you? Dying is bad enough. Dying with snot hanging from your nose might just be cruel and unusual.

But back to the sane people.

Why do they call it a "bad" cold? Have you ever had a "good" cold? Do you know anybody who has? I think not. So that "bad" part is superfluous, don't you think? Wasted syllables. I suppose that we have plenty of spare syllables though so never mind.

Can you die from a "bad" cold? If it gets really, really bad? If you read my last blog you will know that my father-in-law had brain surgery two days ago. He's doing remarkably well. He left ICU today and is in a regular room. I talked to him on the phone. He's bald now. My wife e-mailed me a picture and he looks like Colonel Klink from Hogan's Hero's. Scary. But how weird would it be if my wife flew all of the way to Richmond, Virginia to watch after her father who was having his head drilled on and meanwhile, back at home, I died of a "bad" cold. What do you suppose that would do to her psyche? I would really like to worry about that for her sake but I can't because I seem to be out of Kleenex. I have resorted to using toilet paper to blow my nose. My nose finds that repulsive. It knows what part of the body toilet paper is made for and I do believe that it feels insulted to have reduced to that level.

Ok, well I'm over it now. Not the cold. I still have that. I'm just over having to talk about it. I am off work tomorrow so I plan on doping myself up with ibuprofin and some tylenol pm minus the tylenol. They have a name for it but I'm not sure what it is. If I take enough I won't have to get up in the middle of the night for more toilet paper masquarading as Kleenex. You know, sometimes whining to a computer screen really does help. I feel oddly better. Not good enough to proclaim myself healed but still.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Today my father-in-law had brain surgery. That is pretty serious stuff. I could crack jokes about how they will probably only charge him half price. Or about how they went in, looked around, and didn't find anything. Jokes like that are kind of funny AFTER the surgery. When you are joking with the guy who actually went through it and now he's got his eyes open and he's laughing with you because everything is ok. But until then ... it's really not very funny at all.

I have a really wonderful father-in-law. There has been a time or two when I think he's forgotten about the "in-law" part. Times when he's treated me like a real flesh and blood son. That is the kind of guy he is. I mean he's not perfect or anything. That is one of the reasons why I like him so much.

I remember when I was just dating his daughter. He owned an elevator company with his brother in Chicago. He got a call to go downtown one night for a "shut down." All I knew for certain was that this meant some poor guy's elevator had quit working and that my father-in-law was the guy to go fix it. He asked his daughter and I to accompany him on the journay. I figure, what the heck? Worst that can happen is that I spend a couple of hours on top of some high rise with this beautiful blonde while he fixes the thing. So I went.

I almost died that night. One of my father-in-laws (nearly) fatal flaws is that he's basically a horrible driver. I really don't know how he has lived to be 73. My memory says it was about 9PM. It was definately after dark. We were in this place where the Dan Ryan Expressway merges with the Stevenson Expressway and cuts over to Lake Shore Drive. Very busy. Very inner city. You have to be careful here. So as my father-in-law merges from the right there is this big tractor-trailer to his left. He figured the trailer was in his way. He couldn't move it so he did the next best thing. He let it go by. Now when I let a tractor trailer go by I generally allow it to finish passing before I pull in behind it. My father-in-law never really believes in doing things the ordinary way. He let about 7/8ths of the trailer go by and then went ahead and pulled over behind it. Well, actually ... under it. I am not kidding. I am not exaggerating. The hood of our car was UNDER the back of the trailer. That, my friends, is a merge.

He told me before he went into surgery (they were about to drill four holes into his cranium and pump out some blood and crud that had gathered there, threating to give him a stroke) that his anxiety level was a one. That's on a scale of one to ten. Ten being high. He wasn't too worried. I suppose when you live under the tail end of a tractor trailer at 65mph a little thing like a drill to the head doesn't really intimidate you.

He came through the surgery just fine though it took about twice as long as it was supposed to take. I don't know why. He might well have been sharpening their drill bit for them before they started. That would not surprise me in the least. When he woke up his first question was if he was in South Carolina. He was in Richmond, Virginia. I suppose he got the continent right which is more than I would have done.

My father-in-law really loves Jesus. I have learned a lot about the Savior by watching his life. Like I've learned how to get forgiven. My father-in-law is the kind of guy that seems to need to get forgiven a lot. I don't say that in a mean way. I simply mean that he is human. And when he blows it he is smart enough to repent. Jesus liked that in a man. So do I. I blow it a lot too. More than you want to know about. But I do know what to do about it.

I repent. And I stay out from under tractor trailers. See, I've learned two very important things from my father-in-law. And he let me keep the beautiful blonde as a bonus.

Life is good.

Bright eyes. You know them when you see them. Bright eyes mean something. They reperesent a soul that is joyful, open, and full of light. They are often found in a person who is friends with God.

A wise man once said that the eyes are the window to the soul. He was right. Unfortunately, bright eyes are not the only type off eyes you will see.

You will see critical eyes. Look through them and you will see a soul that has no room in it. It is closed off to the world. You cannot put another thing in it because it is full of itself. It elevates itself by putting others down. It is the embodiment of hate and distrust. These eyes make you feel judged and guilty.

You will see condemning eyes. Look through them and you will see a soul that feels so condemned itself that it maskes it by transferring it to others. These eyes make you feel worthless and vile.

You will see self-righteous eyes. Look through them and you will see a soul that is crammed full of empty achievements and meaningless accomplishments. Trophies for the pointless. These eyes make you feel repulsed.

But when you see bright eyes your soul soars with hope. Have you ever been in a tunnel? I have driven through the Eisenhower Tunnel in Colorado many times. It cuts right through the heart of a mountain under the Continental Divide. it is narrow and feels confining. You drive with your headlights on and you don't dare change lanes. And then you see a little dot down the road. it is a dot of brightness. As you near it you realize that it is the end of the tunnel. Suddenly you fly through that little bright dot and the entire world explodes before you. The view is stunning as you look down from the top of this 13,000 foot mountain into the valley below. All around you is space. After being in that tiny tunnel you feel oddly free. There is air! You can breath! That is what it feels like to look through bright eyes. Hope abounds. Your soal takes wings. All boundries melt away into the vastness of the huge world we live in. This is life the way God designed it to be experienced.

God, give me bright eyes. Eyes that see the hope of Christ at every turn. In every moment. In every event. Let me burst out of the constraints of the sadly faithless and into the joy of seeing Your Hand in everything. Don't let me doubt you. Don't let me be mean, critical, condemning, or self-righteous.

I need this, God. I must have bright eyes or my soul will die. It is feeling sickly lately, Father. Please. Brighten my eyes once again.

God is good. So good. He never fails, He never let's His people down, He never ever loses. When it looks like He is not good ... He is still Good. You just have to trust that The Truth is good. When it looks like He is failing ... He is still winning. You just have to trust that the end game is all about Him. When it looks like you are being let down ... He is still going to come through for you. You just have to wait. When it looks like He is losing ... get ready for the victory. It is surely coming. Maybe not until you are dead ... but it is coming. (By the way, you are not ever really dead. Not if you are a Christ follower.)

Those are unshakable, unalterable truths. They are part of my "core values." I count on them and stake everything on them. I have learned much through my journeys on this planet. Most of what I have learned are mere details. Details, while important, in some cases are the composition of a fact so huge, so over-riding, that you cannot see it all at once.

And I think that is where so many people get lost. People with spiritual tunnel vision cannot grasp the fact of God. Not really. They say they can. And they really believe they can. But experience has shown that they are wrong. What they are really grasping is a tiny portion of truth that fits their fancy. They find it to be comfortable because it supports their desires and agenda. They are looking at a detail and missing the vision.

Let me give you an example. A person decides that he wants his church to be a certain way. He wants it to be a place that feels comfortable to him. He wants it to look just so, sound just so, and work just so. Because that makes him happy. And he read in the bible that God wants to give you the desires of your heart. Translation: God wants to make you happy. And so it is easy to extrapolate that out to seem to mean you can manipulate your church to be what you want it to be. And because that will make you happy, God will be happy too. This is a person who has looked at one detail in the bible and grasped it (incorrectly) and that is as far as he ever gets. Because he is busy killing a church. And all the while he truly believes that his actions (based on his own opinions) are God given.

Do you realize how dangerous that way of thinking is?

Nobody can completely grasp God. That is a silly notion. He will not be understood or grasped. But I believe that spiritual visionaries have an insight that allows them to see past the details of life and come to some sort of understanding of a big picture. He thinks like this ...

He reads where God says in His Word that he wants to give you the desires of your heart. And he does not stop there. He keeps on reading. He reads where God says He is entirely pleased with His Son and wants us to follow Him. And he keeps on reading. He reads where God allows His Son to be nailed to a cross, He turns His back on Him, and His Son dies. Dead. Stone cold dead. Real flesh bleeding out onto the dirt dead. He reads where God's Son is pried loose from the cross, planted in a borrowed, closed, sealed tomb. He reads where God raises His Son from the dead three days later, gives Him some more truths to teach, and then takes Him back to sit down at His right Hand. And this person wonders, "If God is pleased with His Son and yet allows Him to go through this humiliating agony ... if God allows His own Son to experience the greatest example in history of delayed gratification ... why would I think that He would treat me any differently?"

And that person has discovered a remarkable truth. God does love us and want us to have the desires of our heart. He also knows (because He read the whole book) that God already tried to give us non-delayed gratification. That happened at a place named "Eden." It did not work out so well. We screwed it up. It was our fault, not God's. God gave us everything and we wanted more. (The couple in Eden were looking at a detail ... the serpents lies ... and not the bigger picture ... God's truth.) And this person knows that God wanted to give us the desires of our hearts so badly that He didn't give up there. He kicked in what appears to us to be "plan b" but was really "plan a" all along. I mean, God knew that the Garden of Eden thing was going to go south quickly. It did not come as a surprise to Him. He knew that if He was going to create man and stick with this dubious project it was going to cost Him the ultimate price. And He went with it anyway. God knew the big picture before there was a day-one.

Let me wrap this up for you. A spiritual visionary understands something that a tunnel vision guy cannot get. We do not call the shots. EVER. When we try to we screw it up every time. Go ahead. Read the book. Find me one example of a time when we called the shots and it all worked out alright. Good luck. Plan on taking some time off for your search. You are going to need it. Come in real close to the screen ... closer ... I want to tell you something. It-is-not-in-there. Is that print to small? Here ... IT-IS-NOT-IN-THERE.

Do you think that your precious vote means anything in God's economy? Do you really think the church is a democracy? Do you think that you know best? Do you scoff at those who say "I have prayed and God told me ..."? Do you think nobody can be trusted because everybody has their own agenda? Do you waffle back and forth, wringing your hands, wondering what we should do? Listen closely one more time ...

God is laughing. Not with you. At you.

Stop staring at the details. How much? How long? Where? Why? Give it up. Tunnel vision only gives everybody around you a head ache. Get the big picture ... the huge, over-riding FACT ... or get out of the way.

I'm writing tonight just for the sake of writing so don't take any of the following too seriously:

I like late night. It is quiet. Even Bailey the Killer Beagle hides under blankets or afghans. She doesn't want to be messed with after 10PM. It is like she can tell time. I think she would get up for a Milky Bone but I'm not sure. She'd much rather I deliver it. That's not happening.

What is it about the darkness that attracts me? I think it is because my life tends to be so public that anytime I can hide I just naturally take advantage of it. I like to go to the car wash here in our little burb. It's the kind you put money into and this machine goes round and round soaping, rinsing, waxing, and rinsing once again. It promises not to touch your car... only wash it. Right. Like that is possible. Anyway, at one point, if you pay for the ultra good job, it goes around you two times (a bonus round!) squirting you with multi-colored foam. Each color is supposed to do something different. I don't know what because I seldom bother to read the fine print on anything. And truthfully, I doubt that it works anyway. I pay the extra because I get to sit in my cool Mustang and hide. Nobody can see through the foam. Well, I can't see out so I assume nobody can see in. Their is a flaw in my logic at this point. When I purchased my Mustang I chose one that is "electric green" with a khaki convertible top. To the best of my knowledge it is the only one in town. Therefore, if I want to hide ... my car is not the best place to do it. Everybody in my church knows who owns that car. Every teenager in my youth group knows who owns that car. Every cop in town knows who owns that car. And I am pretty sure that they all know the car is not capable of driving to the car wash on its own ... so they know I'm in the thing. See what I mean? Bad logic. But I don't care. I feel hidden. Kind of like a small child who thinks you cannot see him if he is under the covers. Maybe this is all a sad commentary on my life and the way I live it. I don't really care. Maybe I cannot truly hide but if I can convince myself that I can, well that is almost as good.

You know what I hate? I have this place that I go to at least once each day. They sell my favorite caffiene there. I fill the 32 oz. cup knowing that I will never finish it. I seldom do. The ice melts long before the cup is 2/3rd empty. I should by the smaller 20 oz. cup but when I do they give me pennies in change and I don't want pennies. The 32 oz. cup costs .99 with tax and I always throw the left over penny in the "give a penny/take a penny" tray. It's just easier to hand them a dollar and walk. But it doesn't quite work that way. I know most of the people that work there by sight. I don't "know" them... I just know them. Know what I mean? We speak every day and never really say anything. It's one of those "comfort" things where you feel like you know somebody because they are a part of your morning (or evening) scenery. But there isn't really a connection of any depth or quality. I'm fifty years old. Most of them are in their twenties. What I hate is when I see one of them and they say something like, "Hi, hun." Or, "Hello, dear." They don't know my name. They don't know where I live. They do know what I do for a living but only because I come in occasionally in a suit and they get curious and ask. But the point is that they really don't have the right to call me hun or dear. Maybe I'm silly but that is a right reserved for somebody who I am really a "dear" to. Or a "honey" to. The honey part is pretty much the sole domain of my wife and I don't really like anybody else tromping on it. She might not call me honey very often but it's there for her if she wants to use it. There are multiple people that can call me "dear" without bothering me. That's slightly more generic. I would hope that one or two friends would find our relationship dear to them. Their is a deep intimacy attached to "honey" in my mind. A lesser intimacy (but still an intimacy) is attached to "dear." Am I being too picky? Maybe. But this is my blog and if you bother to read it I don't charge you anything. You are probably somebody that could call me "dear" without bothering me. Give it a try and then winke once ... I'll know the signal and I'll tell you if you are in my "dear club" or not.

Ok, it's late and tomorrow is getting closer. I'm trying to train myself to start the process of going to sleep before 11PM. It isn't easy for me. Like I said, I love the dark. And the quiet. It's nice. I feel good at night. It is a shame to ruin it with the unconsiousness of sleep. But such is the nature of life. There is not going to be any night in heaven. It says so in the book of Revelation. I know that heaven is lit by the presence of God Himself and that will make up for any missing of the night time I might experience. But down here .... it's my time.

It's 11:02 and I didn't quite make it. But I'm going to try ... starting .... NOW!

Ok, it was here and now it's about to leave. "It" being Christmas, of course. This is a confession blog. If you are not in the mood to read confessions then vamoose. Scram.

I warned ya.

Christmas is not my favorite time of the year. I know, I sound like a pagan or a communist or something for saying that. I've spent 50 years denying it but it's time to 'fess up. Let me make a few things very clear first.

A) I love Jesus. Actually, I love the whole Trinity. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. And I totally do not mean to be flippant or disrespectful in my phraseology. I am not merely a Jesus fan ... He is my Savior. I owe Him everything. He is my best friend. I would rather spend time alone with Him than anyone. I take joy in worshipping Him. So my lack of passion for Christmas is not a lack of passion for the birthday Boy. Not even close.

B) I love the church. She is the Bride of Christ. I am a part of her. I do not disrespect her, feel cynical about her, or in anyway mean to trash talk her. Never trash talk Jesus bride. That would, I suspect, be a very dangerous thing to do.

C) I love my family and my friends. Both my local family and my long-distance family. I would do anything for them. My local friends and my long-distance friends. Again, they are on my short list of things (people) I would die for. So I don't mean any of this as a slam against them. For that matter, I don't mean it as a slam against anybody.

So now that we have that out of the way, here we go.

The Christmas season leaves me cold. It is all of the usual things that people complain about when they analyze Christmas and it is more. Crass commercialism? Yes, of course. I detest the way that the media insists on a day by day dissection of whether or not we are going to spend as much money on each other as we did last year. How despicable is that? While Santa reigns in center court of every mall, Jesus sits outside somewhere beyond the parking lot. And we do not even try to hide it. "We" being the church. We fall for the same thing pagan's fall for. The only possible difference is that we spend our money in "Christian" bookstores ... of course they are owned by conglomerates that have nothing to do with anything remotely Christian. On the other hand I am well aware that I should not expect anything better out of the world. I mean, at least we are giving each other gifts. We are generally not killing each other. We are, for once, being nice and thinking of people other than ourselves. So I suppose that there is a plus side. It's just a smaller plus side than I would like.

I confess to being bugged by eight foot tall glowing Santa's, snowmen, and this years latest addition, huge inflatable water filled snow globes. I have to admit that this latest edition is at least creative. The first time I saw one I knew how an ant must feel crawling across an end table where the usual mini-snow globes sit. Do I even have to mention my thoughts on 200 watt manger scenes?

And then there is "The Little Drummer Boy." Have you ever really listened to that song? It's about some guy playing a drum solo for baby Jesus and getting a smile in return. Isn't that just a little bit goofy? There are twenty-one "rum pum pum pum's." This lyrical masterpiece has one hundred and sixty eight words. Ninety eight of those words are either pa, rum, or pum. That leaves seventy words for substance and story line. Do I really need to say more?

Fudge. I love fudge. Vanilla is my favorite but nobody makes it so I settle for chocolate. It is usually polluted by nuts of some sort. All nuts are evil so it doesn't really matter. I suck the fudge off of them and spit them out. Why do people only make fudge at Christmas? Have you ever seen fudge at an Independence Day celebration? Memorial Day? Have you ever seen green fudge on St. Patricks day? Face it, if it is not Christmas your only hope for getting fudge is to go to some tourist spot and pay $7.99 per pound. Not even fudge is worth $7.99 per pound. Carrot Cake is another evil thing that seems to dominate Christmas. People ... vegetables do not belong in cake. Ever. Make a note of it.

Now that I am fifty years old the gifts that I receive at Christmas tend to be designed to encourage me to do things that will not hurt me. You know. Things that point me to my favorite easy chair rather than participation in a wild eyed sporting event or even a minor league work-out. I suppose that I should make that concession to Christmas. I can't get hurt watching a dvd in my new sweater. Well, I can. But I have to work at it.

And here is the real problem. Who has the time during December to really sit down and contemplate what Christmas means? Can you honestly say that at any time during the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas day you are able to simply reflect on the magnitude of what this holiday means? I'm not really all that bugged by the shopping and the culinary gorging and such. I'm just irritated that the entire season slips by and I feel so pressured to "do the Christmas thing" that I never connect with Christ Himself. And you know who's fault that is? Mine. You don't run my schedule. Nobody runs my schedule but me. So it's my fault. Not yours. Certainly not God's. The gavel crashes down on nobody but yours truly.

I could go on but what's the point? I am always more tired when Christmas is over than I was when it began. I just wish that we (the church) could find some way to love Jesus out loud without having to fake it. And that is what Christmas so often seems to be. Faking it. Convincing ourselves that we are really loving and caring and self-sacrificing when we know that we are not. Not in any big scale way at least. I think that it would be really cool if, for instance, someone would just forget about the fudge and instead call me up or drop by my office and say something like, "How are you, Ron? Tell me the truth. What is on the front burner of your brain these days? Let me in on it so that I can pray for you or simply encourage you. Because I care and I don't need to spend a penny to prove it." How refreshing that would be!

Ok, enough. This is probably a really bummer/detestable blog. I apologize if I drug you down with my thoughts. That was not my goal. Honest. But every now and then I have to just say, "Hey, this is MY blog spot and so I'm just going to write what is on my mind." And that is all that this has been. It's what is on my mind. It may or may not be close to the truth. It may or may not apply to you, the reader. I haven't a clue. It's just where my brain is. I'll probably wake up at about 3AM, burp, and be over it. So sleep tight and puh-lease don't let these mini-ranting make a dent in your tomorrow.

God is good. He can take it when I'm feeling less than exhilarted. I hope you can too...

Peace. it is a gift given by God. I have looked around a bit and have come to the conclusion that it really cannot be found anyplace else. You can be in the fiercest battle of your life and have peace if the Spirit of God reigns within you. You can be laying on the beach in Cancun and experience inner turmoil if the Spirit of God does not reign within you. It is that simple.

True, sometimes God reigns within and you still feel anything but peace. Many have said that you will know the will of God if you have peace about a situation. I have to take issue with that. There has been an abundane of times that God has directed me to do something and I have felt anything but peace. I have felt pain, grief, sadness, and a variety of other emotions. The picture the scripture paints of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane on the eve of His execution is anything but peaceful. He sweat drops of blood. That does not sound peaceful to me. Yet He went through with His assignment and came out on top. Way on top. This teaches me that God calls me to do the difficult thing at times. Peace is not always the hallmark "check point" for being in the will of God.

And yet outside of the will of God any peace you experience is a mere counterfiet. Life is odd. It is seldom pleasing in a geometric sort of way. It is about hard corners, difficult angels, and wicked curve balls thrown your way. But if you trust ... the Lord is always with you. Always.

And it is enough.

I'm not on fire anymore. I wish I were. Fire I can understand. This ... this I cannot figure out at all.

This is going to sound stupid. I feel like a gray haired grandpa (never mind that I am a gray haired grandpa) moaning about his lumbago or his rutabaga or something. I kind of ran into something last week. I did it with my right foot. I didn't have shoes or socks on. When I did, I tore the toe nail on my big toe. Really badly. I tore it in such a fashion that it ripped the edge off of it. You know what I mean ... the very corner. The result is that as the toe nail has started to grow back it is growing INTO my toe. This is what the call (in medical circles) an "ingrown toe nail." Who is the genius that names this stuff? It really hurts. I'm playing with it every day trying to turn it back into an "outgrown toe nail." It will eventually work but it's going to take some time.

That's where things get wierd.

I was on my hands and knees a couple of evenings ago poking around at the hot coals in my wood burning stove. I love seeing how long I can keep the same fire going. My record was set two winters ago when I kept the same fire going for twenty three days. I was sooooo proud! I haven't really gotten with it yet this winter. But I will when it gets really cold. It's just "toying with us" cold right now. I'm being patient. It will get here. Anyway, I was on my hands and knees going at it with the fireplace poker when I noticed ... I noticed that I could not feel my big toe. The one on my left foot. The one that doesn't have an ingrown toe nail. I sat back on the floor and looked at the toe. It looks normal. I touched the tip of the toe. Nothing. I poked it harder. Nothing. I took the relatively hot poker and touched the end of my toe. (Ok, this was not smart. I know. You don't have to tell me.) Nothing. No pain. No feeling whatsoever. Nada. Nyet. Nothing.

Is this not a little too odd to be chance? One toe is in great pain. The matching toe on the other foot feels nothing at all. What are the odds? And more importantly, does it mean anything? I told Debbie that it is probably the precursor of a stroke. She did not smile. I said, "watch!" And I closed my eyes, extended my hands, and tried to bring my index fingers together in front of me so that they touched on the tips. I missed by about 8 inches ... on purpose. I tried it again and almost poked both of my eyes out. I thought it was really funny! She did not. Something about not thinking it was hilarious to consider finishing up raising Christopher all by herself. (He's twenty. We are done. She just hasn't admitted it yet. And Debbie, I know you are reading this. I'M KIDDING.)

There is probably a spiritual application here. Like ... oh ... when one part of the body hurts other parts compensate by numbing out. Now understand, that is not at all a positive spiritual application. Yet I have found it to be true time after time after time. If you don't agree just talk to anybody after a typical baptist business meeting. Those that are not angry are numb. This is a lousy application. I'll have to work on a better one.

Well, there is nothing to do about this situation but wait. The bad toe nail will be good again someday. The numb toe ... well, I don't know what's going to happen with it. It doesn't really bother me physically. But it drives me bonkers mentally! Things on my body are supposed to respond when being touched! I mean .... today it's a big toe. Tomorrow? I shudder to think.

As Forest Gump said so eloquently ... that's all I have to say about that.