Weird Happens

Weird happens. It is built into life. You can't run from it, hide from it, or control it. I have already confessed that the last time I flew (before this trip) was 3 days before the horror's of 9-11. Since then I had been earth bound. I drive. I ride my "hardly." I occasionally walk. I even skipped once when no one was looking. But I had not flown again until August 16th. It all went great. St. Louis to Phoenix. Phoenix to Seattle. Piece of cake. And then my bride and I drove around a little bit. Spent a couple of days just enjoying ourselves. I checked e-mail before going to bed on the third day of our journey and I noticed a small headline on foxnews.com. I was tired and did not pay much attention to it. But the next morning when I woke up the news was pretty much all under one headline. Terrorism. It seems that some bad people were being arrested in Britian for plotting to blow up many airplanes headed for the United States. I realized right away that we had flown three days ago.

Hmmmm.

Three days. Three days before. Three days after. I see a trend.

And then they announced that the day the new terror event was planned to have occured was August 16. That is the day I held tickets for to return home. Like I said ... weird happens.

I kind of feel guilty. Like if I stopped flying all of this would stop happening. Ok, not really. I mean, I know better. But you have to admit that it IS kind of strange. For the record I would like to point out that I didn't fly anywhere near the time that "shoe bomber" guy tried to light up his Adidas. Can't hang that one on me.

So this morning I dutifully took off my shoes for the guy behind the x-ray machine, emptied my pockets and disposed of my bottled water before arriving at the gate. My toothpaste and shampoo are in my checked luggage in the belly of the plane. Not only that but I kept all of my electronic equipment off until the nice lady up in front said it was ok. And even then I kept my ipod turned down low. Right now I am typing at 41,000 feet above New Mexico, or so the Captain tells me. I have my seat belt on, I am smiling a lot at the flight attendents and I am watching my wife play "Go Fish" with a little girl flying alone from Seattle to St. Louis. She's a pretty special woman, my wife. So, you see, I am really trying. Today I am doing it all right. Playing by the rules.

Anyway, I think maybe I'll just stop flying again. I don't have any tickets pending. Since I stole the northwest corner of the country on this trip (see previous blog) I kind of thought I might go for the northeast next summer. You know, start a collection of the farthest rocks stuck to the farthest corners of each part of our country. Florida would have been robbed in 2008. San Diego would have lost their rock in 2009. And in 2010 I would have sold them all on e-bay for a tidy profit allowing me to retire early and enjoy life on some mountain. Hey, it was a plan. But I guess it's just not happening. For the sake of national security and the airline industry I suppose I should hang-up my wings.

So here I go, one last time. Everybody singing ... "OFF I GO, INTO THE WILD BLUE YONDER..." Tomorrow I'll just drop the top on my 'Stang and cruise the asphalt. The world will be better for it.

I have to see the crater...

I have to go again.

After flying 2,300 miles, driving 135 miles and walking maybe a mile or two I got to see a really cool cloud. Oh sure, it was covering the most active volcano in the history of the United States but it was still a cloud. It was only shrouding the actual crater of the volcano. The destoyed north side of the mountain was clearly visable. But I did not come here to see a cloud. I came here to see a crater.

When Mt. St. Helen's erupted on May 18, 1980 it was a bright and sunny Sunday in Chicago. My wife and I were at church. I was the youth pastor. On the front of the program that was handed out on that day was a picture of the nearly perfect Mt. St. Helen's in southwest Washington. How odd. We did not know it until we got home but while we were at worship, holding our little program in our hands, that very mountain was exploding. It lost its entire north face. It blew down trees like twigs. It pushed Spirit Lake so far up the side of a mountain that when the water returned it brought all of the trees and soil with it. It killed the entire lake and everything in it. Over fifty people died. The devastation is still overtly evident today, 26 years later. Oh, and that was also my wife's twenty second birthday. What a candle.

And so today we walked through the "blast zone" and found out exactly why it is called that. I think of words like "amazing," "awesome," "powerful," and even "unbelievable." None of those words explain what it looks like. As President Jimmy Carter said, "the moon looks like a golf course compared to this." I am certain it looks much better today than it did when he said that. But still ...

So today the cloud lifted. It is not supposed to return over the next few days. Therefore, I am going back. I do not know what it is. Something draws you to that place. Especially for those who remember the eruption in their own personal history. I plan on returning to the "Johnston Observatory" and striking out on one of the trails into the valley that touches the base of the volcano. I will leave my precious asthmatic bride at the visitor's center for maybe an hour. Maybe two. I cannot hike to the very rim of the crater because I have neither the permit nor the energy. But I want to get close enough to KNOW what the raw power of God feels like in a very small way.

I read an advertisement recently for a children's ministry program. Their motto is, "Experience God at full force." How dumb. Nobody could live through that. Nobody could survive a nano-second experiencing God at full force. My God is the God who can blow the top and side off of a mountain with less than a sneeze. But I do want to get close to that mountain. As close as I can. I think I am looking for my own personal "burning bush." I know that there are no bushes out there. Only ash and pumice. But God and I have been having this situation lately. I keep forgetting about Him having me in the crater of His Holy Hand. I have been getting distracted by perceived threats and the saber rattling of the enemy. The mindless chatter of silly voices that don't know how to keep quiet rings in my ears all too often.

So I am going back to the mountain. Monday. Tuesday at the latest. I am going to stand as close to it as I can get. And I ama going to remember the God who made it ... and the God who took it out. And I am going to see what happens when He sneezes. I am going to let my bush of doubt and fear burn to the ground. I am going to ask Him to blow the top and sides out of my mountain of insecurities and questions about the future. I am going to expose the tall trees of "self" and trust Him to break them like insignificant toothpicks. I will allow Him to turn my jeans and t-shirt to sack cloth and ashes if He so desires.

I want my cloud to lift. I want to see the crater. And I want to remember who my God is.

The Corner of the Country

Location, location, location. Those are famous words in the world of real estate. They are also famous words in the world of vacation. As I mentioned previously I chose Seattle as our get-away spot for 2006 because it was the farthest we could get from our home without leaving the "lower 48." I was wrong. I realized it on our first evening here. The farthest point from our little cottage on Sanders Street is ... Neah Bay, Washington. I knew immediately that I must go there. I checked mapquest.com. I punched it into my gps. I grabbed my bride and we slid into our rented Jeep Liberty and headed west. I navigated the city of Seattle with little diffficulty. "Sophie" the gps queen guided my turns. We boarded the Edmonds/Kingston ferry and crossed Puget Sound. As our wheels found pavement again we began our journey in earnest.

Little did we know.

It is only 167 miles from our hotel in Renton, Washington to the spot know as "Cape Flattery Viewpoint." Back in Illinois that would take about 2.5 hours to traverse. But this is Washington. And that is the Olympic Pennisula. Those are the Olympic Mountains. That, my friend, changes everything. How does 4 hours and 25 minutes sound? Unless ... you have to wait for the ferry. And of course we did. Our little jaunt to the corner of the country yesterday took something over 12 hours. That included a quick lunch in Sequim. The rest was driving. Up, over, around, switching back and crossing over. It was a stunningly beautiful ride that my bottom side will never forget. And when we arrived at Neah Bay on the reservation of the Makah Indian nation we were already intoxicated by the views.

And then came the walk. Nothing major. Only about 3/4 of a mile. Down. Through a rain forest. A wet rain forest. The Mukah's trained some carpenter's and they made some boardwalks over the wettest places. One woman walking behind me slid on a wet and exposed tree root. She laughed and pulled herself up, her husband worrying over her. I made sure to stop and point out all of the slippery spots to her as I passed over them. Debbie and I eventually out ran them and arrived at the very north western tip of our country all alone.

Wow. I had never seen the Pacific Ocean. It looks like the Atlantic only backward. And there are these HUGE rocks jutting up out of the sea. The best I can tell their only job is to stand there and be breath taking. The water roared in from the west. To the northwest you could see the mountains towering on Canada's Vancouver Island. It is August and they are still snow capped. We stood and stared at the view. There is actually this wooden viewing deck but it didn't look like fun because there was about 10 feet of open ground between the deck and the edge of the cliff that was the actual tip of America. So we did what any self respecting American would do. We skipped the deck. I went straight to the edge. Heights have never bothered me. Depth do. When I got to the edge I realized that my cavalier attitude toward heights revealed my terror of depths because straight down about 100 feet below were mammoth waves crashing against the cliff we stood on. You can actually FEEL the cliff shudder occasionally due to the sea caves located below. I retreated a couple of feet. And then I had a craving.

I wanted to take the corner of America home with me. I got down on my knees. I stretched. I reached. I did everything but lay down and finally I wrapped my hand over the edge of America and I grabbed the last stone that hung out over the ocean. It is only about 1/8th of an inch by 1/8th of an inch. But I got it. I got it! And now I own it! And It's coming back to mid-America with me! It will be on display in my office in a couple of weeks. Stop by and see what I risked my life for!

Our return drive was long but satisfying. We got back to the ferry across Puget Sound 55 minutes before it was to leave. Debbie sat in the Jeep while I walked back a few blocks and found an open late night bakery where I purchased 2 cinnamon rolls just before they closed. A fitting end to a magnificant day.

The top left edge of the country. I got it.

Score!

Character References...

Ahhhhh. Seattle. Who would have thought it? I assumed it was about scenery. Mountains. Water. And I guess it is. But so far it is mainly about characters. People. Like just today …

He’s a big dude and young. His name is Danny. I thought he just waited tables at XXX Rootbeer Stand. (In the 1970’s the place was one of 79 franchises. It’s the only one left. If it isn’t a gold mine somebody mismanaging it.) Turns out his dad owns it. He looks Hispanic but sounds like a typical north-westerner. He recommended the foot long hot dog over the mega-burger. And he was right. The dog was named the “Dual Exhaust.” They call it that for a reason. He knows everything there is to know about this area. And he has fun sharing his information with you. You go east? You’ll get hot in about one hundred miles. You go west? The coast. Anyplace on the coast is a good place. Danny loves it here. But only if the temperature is between 75 and 82 degrees. Any less and he needs a jacket. Any more and he sweats.

And then there was everybody we met in downtown Seattle. Nobody was normal. NO BODY. Maybe we went too late in the day. Not sure. But you could sense a story in every person. And then when you come across the park … the one with the big totem pole … people get really, truly weird. They are scary. And some of them fight. We saw that a couple of times and decided it was a good opportunity to walk the other way. As we did we happened across another guy walking toward us. I think he was big enough to handle himself. He smiled at us and said, “Sounds like they’ve had too much fire-water.” We saw him later across the street from the park. I guess he survived. The girl at the candy store looked like she could not afford her own caramel apples. She suggested a sea food restaurant down past Pike Place and near the crazy park. We glanced at the menu and noticed that the meals started at $45 a plate. We weren’t that hungry. Maybe she makes more selling peppermint sticks than we realize.

Finally there was our waitress at “The Outback” tonight. It took about five minutes to discover that she moved here eleven months ago from Chicago. Lincoln Park to be exact. And she’s trying to have a baby. I mean she and her female “partner” are trying to become parents. They have selected a donor. They purchased four doses of … of … some kind of donation. If you know what I mean. Each dose costs $250. The first one didn’t take. They have three more chances. Did I really need to know all of this? All I wanted was a steak and maybe a baked potato. But she did tell us to stay away from the Totem Pole park after about 3pm. Where was she two hours ago when we needed her? Oh, and she really liked Debbie’s complexion. And she smiled at me and put her hand on my shoulder when she talked about the $250 per dose issue. Yes, I squirmed. She misses Chicago because her daddy is there. I think there is a piece of this story we have not heard.

Hey, maybe we are characters too? Maybe Debbie is a mysteriously well-complexioned exotic woman and she’s hanging out with me, a chili dog lovin, dual exhaustin, fight avoiding, straight, jeep renting kind of guy? It doesn’t make for a very good story. But at least it’s true. And if we pay $250 for something … you darn well better be able to sit on it, watch it, or at least listen to it.

I am sooooo small

I am the very last person in the country to get on a jet in the post 9/11 era. Yesterday I actually got around to going to the airport and boarding a plane. My last flight was on 9/08/2001 and was from Phoenix to St. Louis. Oddly this flight was from St. Louis to Phoenix. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could reverse all that has happened in our world as easily as I retraced my steps? It isn't happening. I have not been avoiding flying. I just haven't had anywhere that I needed to be. Well, no place that required jet engines and altimeter's. And now I am sitting with my bride in the suburbs of Seattle, Wa. I've barely looked out the hotel window. I think it's partly sunny. And it's going to be 72 degrees today. Max. That's why I chose this place. That and because it is the farthest I could get us from our home and remain in the lower 48. I'm not sure why I wanted to remain in the states. I'm just a state-side kind of guy I guess. Anyway ...

Here are some things that I learned or remembered while "slipping the surly bonds of earth" yesterday...

-I am small. Very small. Sometimes I get caught in the trap of believing that all of life, all of the world, revolves around me and my issues. If I am upset then the world must be off kilter. Spinning off its axis. And it is not. Those jet engines just kept gobbling up real estate and the more they gobbled the more there was to gobble. And all of those people down there? Not one of them knew I was up in the sky. I am sure none of them even cared unless I fell on their heads. Which I did not. We are all better off for this. (On the other hand falling out of the sky unexpectedly is probably the only way I will ever get on CNN.)

-Clouds are strikingly beautiful from above. There is little of the flat, gray sameness to them. They bubble and they billow and the go in anyway the please. If clouds looked from below like they look from above they would scare all of us to death. God keeps the best view of the clouds for Himself and for those who fly jets.

-Lightening at night is REALLY cool from above. You cannot describe it. it is just ... raw power.

-Phoenix is hot. Really. I am not kidding.

-Professional glass blowers are fun to talk to. Master professional glass blowers are even more fun. For about thirty minutes. At that point they have nothing new to say and yet they never finish saying it. Put a little liquer in them and they begin to say nothing with gusto.

-Gray haired ladies in their seventies have every right to insist on only reading the King James Version of the bible if they want to. I do not have the heart to argue with them. It brings them a sense of security and peace and that is just fine with me.

-I do not agree with laws legalizing prostitution. But there is one place where, if you are going to legalize it, you might want to start. Nevada. And actually sex for money is legal in much of that state. After spending a great amount of time flying over it yesterday I must say that there is probably nothing else to do down there. I do not think that God is going to "look the other way" but if He ever did that might be where He would do it.

-I am absolutely drawn to bathrooms on airplanes. The ceiling curves severely over your head. One foot above that curve you would be dead. One foot below that curve you can pee in peace. Somehow (though I am not sure how) that seems to be a fitting metaphor for life. I must work on that. I'll get back to you.

That is it for now. I have to go pick-up a rental car so that I can peek into a volcano and look for some whales. No, really. That's what I am going to do. Ok, not in the same place. But that is on the agenda. Along with some extended time in a hot tub.

Later.

back?

I've been away from blog-dom for a bit. I needed a break. My kids, as you know, were gone. The dog was peeing on the carpet supposedly because she was missing them. Seperation anxiety. Yeah, right. My wife was driving back and forth to West County many days to baby sit for Elle. And so life has been odd.

It hasn't, however, been peaceful. No. Not peaceful. I do not want to go in to all of that here. If you know me you also know the drill. Let's just leave it at that.

But my heart, which I thought would be full, has been empty. Kind of rocked back on its heels. (If a heart has heels.) It has been a hot and tiring summer. Lots of time with teens which is good. Great actually. But also lots of time to think. And right now thinking is making my head hurt. I am really ready to think about new things. I am weary of thinking about old things. Some old things just need to die out and go away. Maybe they will. Maybe they will.

God says He makes all things new. New is good. I am ready for new. Next week I am taking my bride to Seattle. I have never been there and I have always wondered what it is like. It just has a...

Ok, before I could finish that sentence my youngest son called me sounding distressed. I drove to meet him at our home. It seems he was coming back from registering at college. As he crossed the Chain of Rocks bridge over the Mississippi River a truck kicked up a tire that was laying on the road. He had no "swerve room." It nailed his front bumper and tore it up then ran down the drivers door of the car and scratched it pretty badly. He was mad. I understand that, having been in similar situations myself. But I tried to remind him that this happened on a bridge that rises about 50 feet above one of the longest and widest rivers in the country. He could have hit it and been thrown through the guard rail. That would have been quite a bit worse. "Bad" is usually relative.

I got to pray with five 4th graders to receive Christ tonight. I got to teach bible study to 9 middle schoolers. I got to visit and pray with a dying man this morning. I got to deliver school supplies to a Christian activities center in a very impovrished East St. Louis after that. And then I got to spend time reading to and praying with a women who has ALS. She cannot talk. She types me letters with a special mouse that she moves with the one remaining toe she has that still works.

So my son survived a near disaster and I got to do some cool eternal things. I should be pumped. I should be up. Way up. But I am tired. To the bone. I am ready for a break in the great northwest. I am ready to be away from the air of home for a while. I want to look at mountains and stare at the ocean while it swallows the sun. I want to gaze into an active volcano. I want to go to a fish market and watch them throw fresh sea food at each other. (They tell me they do that there.) I want to watch my bride smile and hear her breathing come easily for a change. The air is clean there. Tell me that the air is clean there. Please? I want to forget about agenda's and deficits. I want to forget about people who are a more than a little mean and yet pretend to be a friend. I want to go to church and not have anybody ask me something or tell me what is wrong. I want to worship in a pure and unadulterated way. That is, after all, the only kind of worship.

Ok, rant over. Sorry for not being more upbeat. I'll do better next time. After the plumber fixes my faucet and the insurance adjuster writes my storm-damage check and my jet is wheels up over a state that doesn't touch mine ...

The View From The Nest

There comes a time when life, which had been a whirlwind of activity, suddenly down shifts into slow motion. It never stays there for long so when it happens it is best to pay attention. Something important is probably going on.

Tonight I held my granddaughter. Elle is two weeks old today. She is not as big as my head and weighs far less. This was the first time she has come to my home. I think she liked it. At least she seemed to as I cradled her little body in my arms. I feel like a giant when I am holding her. I hope she thinks I am a good giant. The kind she can count on if things take a turn for the worse. As I held her I looked at my daughter. She looks just like she did before she told me she was pregnant. She has the same beautiful smile. The same pure and innocent laugh. But in her eyes I see a wisdom that she did not have before the birth of Elle. Somehow parents gain it at the birth of their first child. At least good ones do. My son-in-law has the same look. It is a look that says that they understand something about the universe that had not occured to them before. I think that this knowledge runs deep. It rings of life and obligation and responsibility. But it is more than that. It is about sacrifice and a total commitment to make something happen. Something good. Something good in and for their child. I think they might understand something now that I have wanted them to understand for a long time. We have always had a great relationship but I think it would have been even better had she understood it when she was living under my roof. But life does not work that way.

This afternoon I talked to my youngest son. He called me from North Greenville College in South Carolina. He is willingly taking on the role of a super-man this summer as he serves God by serving young people. Christopher is on staff at "Centrifuge," an incredible camp for teens held across the country. He is helping these kids in ways that they will not understand until much later. He is doing his best to introduce them to Christ. He is watching out for kids at risk, kids who are abused, kids who need a word of encouragement from an adult. That is what he is now. And adult. He still has a bedroom that he will spend more time in two doors down from mine. But he's spending less and less time there as days go by. It's all a part of the process. Christopher does not need to be a permanent fixture in my home. It would be detrimental to him. He has found his wings and he needs to exercise them. I think he flies rather well. And he is only going to get better. I don't think he has any idea how proud of him I am. And I don't think that I have the ability to tell him in a way that he will understand. Maybe ... maybe when he has his first child.

In thirty six hours my oldest son will climb into his jeep and point it north. The most crucial of his belongings will be in it. Clothes. His television. His laptop. His mountian bike will be strapped to the back. He will be back and forth quite a bit over the next year. But he will be more "forth" than "back." That too, is a good thing. He's twenty three and, other than my wife and I, has been the most consistent resident of my home over the past few decades. Now God has called his number and he's moving to the suburb of Chicago where he will be working as an intern at one of the largest churches in the United States. I fully approve of this relocation. But it does hurt. The hurt is tempered by the pride. The pride is enriched by the joy. The joy is a gift from the Father we both share. The eternal Abba. Scott is going to learn a lot during these next twelve months. He will probably come home a better youth pastor than I have ever dreamed of being. This is as it should be. I would like to know that I have not only reproduced myself but that I have improved upon myself in the reproduction.

You know. Come to think of it I believe I have done that three times.

My wife is staying home with me. She and Bailey the Killer Beagle will now join me as the sole occupants of our four bedroom house. It will be much quieter than it has ever been before. The pictures of three infants turned children turned adults will be looked at more closely and more often. There are no regrets. Not one. We have gone "three for three." God has given us far more than He owed us. That is one reason why we have taken that fourth bedroom and converted it into a prayer room. Our house has been a place of service as we have raised our children. Now it becomes a place of prayer as we launch them from the nest and into a world that might not welcome them but most certainly will not be able to ignore them.

If I were a betting man my money would be on the three of them to do a lot of "damage" for the Kingdom. It should be a delight to behold.

Perfect Innocence

To hold her in your arms is to experience absolute trust. There is no guile in her intent. There is no fear in her eyes. There is no malice in her cry. She believes all will be well. She believes that she can count on you. She believes. She is the picture of innocence. The epitome of trust.

Elle Parker McGill entered a world littered with much ugliness. Greed. Envy. Hatred. War. Lust. Murder. Lies. Deceit. The list goes on. And yet she knows nothing of any of that. Her needs are simple and yet complex. She needs sleep. Lot's of sleep. She needs milk that only her mother can produce. She needs to be kept warm and finds herself wrapped in a sleeper, blankets, and topped off with her first sock hat. She needs to be touched. Held. People are lining up to provide for those needs. She needs love. She has found an abundance.

Why is Elle different from most children born on planet earth? Well, first of all she was born in the wealthiest and arguably the best nation every to grace the surface of our planet. The United States of America is her home. It is not a perfect place but nobody can say that it does not try. With all of it's faults there are still none better. Were it not for the United States of America the world would be at best communist and at worst nazi. The options would not be good. Elle has been placed in the best possible place to be born. She was given to a mother and father who would quickly exchange their lives for hers if the need arose. Her grandparents would do the same as would a host of great grandparents, aunts and uncles. Her parents can provide for her in a fashion that most children will never know. Elle lives in a home that will go to great lengths to educate her and she will have every opportunity to cash in on outstanding possibilities. Elle is loved. She has done nothing to deserve it yet. She cannot do the dishes or wash the laundry. She cannot walk the dog. She cannot clean her room.

Elle can trust. That is about all she can do. The difference between most people and Elle is that Elle is quite aware that others are providing for her. I do not think it has entered her little mind yet that it could possibly be any other way. Me? I try to stand on my own two feet and meet my own needs. And in some worldy ways I am able to do that. But the major things are a gift for me just as they are for Elle.

I cannot buy love. I cannot earn the air that I breath. I cannot make my own water to drink. I canot create myself, sustain myself, or save myself. I am dependent upon another.

Lord, thank you for Elle. She is not even 48 hours old and yet she has taught me much ... reminded me of much. Life is not about me. It is about those I can serve. And it is about the one that served me and provided for me when I was unable to do so myself. If is about you, Lord. Food comes from you. Air comes from you. Water comes from you. Love ... well love comes from you. Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. Jesus told me that. Elle just reminded me.

Welcome to the world, my precious granddaughter. I am so glad you are here.
Grandpa Ron
P.S. People keep asking me what I want you to call me. It really does not matter to me, Elle. I'm just honored to be a part of your life. Welcome to our family. Welcome to our world.

A Night of Sabbath With God

When I arrived at my hiding place of Sabbath last night it was late for "convent life." (Yes, I'm hidden in a combination convent/retreat center. Who would have guessed?) Nobody was up and I had only the code access number for the front door. After entering it into the keypad I found the small office to the left and there was the promised envelope with my name in it. It gave me my room number, 212. I went back to my car and grabbed my stuff and came back into the building, found an elevator and punched the second floor. The door closed and reopened into a long hallway with subdued lighting. Numbers on the wall indicated that room 212 was to the right. As I walked along, pulling my luggage behind me, I could not see the room numbers in the dim light. Every now and then I approached a door to check the number. It was becoming a long walk to my room. The hallway made an abrupt right turn and, as it did, I began hearing a distant "beep." I checked a door number. Not yet. I walked on. The beeping increased in intensity and the numbers slowly decreased in altitude. I reached 215 and the beeping was nearly on me. After passing one more room on my right and one on my left I assumed I was now at the entrance of room 212. I glanced at the door and had my suspicion confirmed. The door, like most of them along the hallway, was open because they were unoccupied. The room I looked into was dark with only a pulsating red light emanating from the dresser to call for my attention. I entered, turning the wall light on, and discovered that the throbbing light was my alarm clock. It was pulsating because it was "alarming." It seems that the beeping sound that I had heard was the clock in my own room calling me home! I accepted this as a warm welcome not only from the Mercy Center, room 212, but the Holy Spirit. God has a sense of humor. He knew I would arrive late at night, enter a huge building that I had zero knowledge of and look for one particular room among many and so he set the clock for me. The flashing time read "4:40." I have no idea why it was about six hours off. You might think all of this simple coincidence but you will never convince me. I've walked with this God of ours for too long to think that chance rears its ugly head when one goes seeking Him.

My journey since that time has been a good one. I quickly settled in and asked God to select a scripture to lead me through this time with Him. I did the old "open a page and see what it says" routine. I don't generally recommend this method. As Steve Brown told me in an e-mail, sometimes God uses it ... but so does Satan. This time God did.

I have been living in Psalm 19: 7 - 14. Allow me to quote it here.

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple; the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart; the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes; the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever; the rules of the Lord are true, and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and drippings from the honeycomb. Moreover, by them is your servant warned; in keeping them there is great reward. Who can discern His errors? Declare me innocent from hidden faults. Keep back your servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me! Then I shall be blameless, and innocent of great transgression. Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer."

This portion of scripture is so very significant to me. Oh how welcome it is. I am still mining its depths. Simply moving beyond the first verse has proven difficult. I am in great need of having my soul revived. How to explain the difficulties life throws in the direction of any given individual? I will not even try. Suffice it to say that my soul is sometimes flat. Bland. Tasteless. All of the enthusiasm has been beaten out of me. Time does that. Life does that. Life is lived at a cost. We are instructed over and over again in scripture to be sure to count the cost. I have counted. It has occasionally been enormously steep. Yet I think it not as steep as the cost of disobedience. And that is why I am on Sabbath. A flat soul beckons me here to seek an audience with the Savior. I cannot afford to live this way. Too many people depend upon me to hear what the Spirit says. And, quite honestly, that is the way I want to live my life. I want to have a "hearing life."

"The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul..." The paraphrase according to Ron says, "God's way, decisions, and direction is perfect and will revive the flat soul..." May it be so. I have not yet figured out how that works. I suppose I am just asking for His working in me to produce the revived soul. Quite simply, I am asking for His miracle. He is God. That is not asking for too much.

"...the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple..." God can be counted on. There is no need to get a second opinion after God speaks. And I love this thought, though I be simple all I must do is hear and obey the direction of the Holy Spirit. I do not have to understand it. I do not have to figure anything out. All I must do is hear and obey. And if I will do that I will always come out on top, looking wise, leaving the doubters and nay sayers in the dust. How beautiful is that? How wonderful the thought! My Father will look out for me if I will turn to Him in simplicity, listening to His voice and doing what He says. It does not get any better!

"...the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart..." God shows me the way to go by the statutes He has put in place. His precepts ... statutes ... never change. If I follow them I will move through life with great joy because the guide posts have been placed perfectly. Not one is out of place, out dated, or missing. Learn the precepts and live in joy!

"...the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes..." Because God tells me which way to go, moment by moment, and because His directions are pure of ill motivations or evil gain, I will find delight along the path. That delight will display itself through "enlightening the eyes." In other words, knowing and following God's pure and holy commands will give me shining eyes! Oh how I love that thought! Oh how I love to serve beside people with shining eyes! One place I find shining eyes these days is in the youth ministry. I love looking into their eyes and seeing the boundless passion for life. Satan is evil and will do his best to extinguish that all too soon. And I fear that in many of them he will have his way. But he won't manage it without a fight from me first. I want my eyes to shine again. I have lost track of His commands. They have been misplaced under mountains of policies, procedures, and heart ache. I am here at the Mercy center looking for my shining eyes. Today I have been battling to reintroduce myself to His commands. I will be leaving the center tomorrow but I will fight on, if necessary, to obtain those eyes again. God help me.

"...the fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever..." I stand in awe of my God. And yes, I stand in fear of Him. Not just awed fear. I stand in old fashioned, knees knocking, teeth chattering, fear. I have seen Him at work, tearing apart what displeases Him. I have seen His mighty power as made manifest through what we call "nature." Nature can do nothing without it being a part of His plan or permissive will. Have you ever seen the devastation brought on by a tornado? I have. Up close and first hand. No cloud has ever spawned a tornado without my God's permission. And it is an awesome, fearful thing to behold. And because I know Him to be a fearsome God I also see His strength. And His strength works to my advantage because He loves me. It is as simple as that. Will a tornado tear up my stuff someday? Maybe. But not without His permission and not without His reason. Even if He does not tell me His reason He still has one. And I can trust forever that His reason is right, pure, and I can count on it for good.

"...the rules of the Lord are true, and righteous all together..." God always decides correctly. His placement of every grain of sand, every kernel of wheat, every cloud in the sky is flawless. Every day. Every where. To the most minute detail. He is all together correct in everything He does.

This is the God I worship. My short time here at the Mercy Center has reminded me of that. I had hoped to stay longer but a magnificent occurrence of life is calling me home. My own precious daughter, Kelli, will be making me a grandfather for the first time very soon. Most likely within the next 48 hours. I want to be with my family when this wondrous event occurs. And so I depart from here sooner than expected. But it is ok. I remember now what I had forgotten. Life, faith, joy, shining eyes, the future. They are not about what any human says or what any policy imposes. They have nothing to do with a calendar of activities or a long range plan. Life, faith, joy, shining eyes, the future. They have everything to do with remembering Psalm 19: 7 - 14. They have everything to do with Him. Day by day, moment by moment. It is His faithfulness that makes me free. It is His enduring love that breaks my chains. It is His smile that enraptures my soul. It is His voice that captivates my heart.

He has reminded me of that today. He did it without my setting a foot on the labyrinth, without bending a knee in the chapel, without the wise counsel of a spiritual director. I simply found a quiet place. I asked Him to lead me. I opened His Word. I read. I sat in silence and meditated. And now that it is nearly all said and done, I have found that the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart has been acceptable in the sight of my Rock and my Redeemer.

how i will go out...

Your Famous Last Words Will Be:

"I can pass this guy."

What Will Your Famous Last Words Be?

Questions

I've been kicking around some questions lately. Questions that I have not found the answer to. Those are the worst kind of questions.

I read a book recently by a guy who is the senior pastor of a church that averages greater than 20,000 each weekend in attendance. That's a lot of human livestock. His father is a famous pastor as well and they both serve deep in the bible belt. The younger pastor, the son, started his church within the last ten years. I suspect that some, perhaps many, of his congregation came from his father's church. They had a bit of a falling-out. They've mended the fences now and they minister if in radically different ways. This son is younger than I am by at least a decade I think. I'm really not sure. Anyway, as I read this book I found myself hearing him make some claims that I do not agree with. I mean, I do not even come close to agreeing with him. We are on totally different pages. Our disagreements are not on the major elements of the faith. We both believe in salvation through the shed blood of Jesus Christ and all of the basic trimmings that go along with traditional Christian doctrine. Yet there are some finer points of the faith that we do not see eye to eye on. Some thoughts on how the scriptures indicate we should "do church." We disagree on church management and basically the way it should all be put together. Here's where I get worried. He's pastoring a church of 20,000 and saying things that I consider dumb. I am a youth pastor of maybe 75 kids and totally agree with myself. (Of course.) Is it not obvious that HE is right and I am wrong? Does success equal correctness in methods and motivations? I do not know what to do about that.

I keep asking God for permission to do something and He keeps telling me "no." He tells me "no" repeatedly and clearly. And yet I am miserable not doing what I am asking Him for permission to do. Not just a little miserable. Major league miserable. I am not one of those that believes the way to tell if you are in God's will is by whether or not you have peace. Jesus did not seem to have much peace in the Garden of Gethsemane. I mean, He sweat blood. Yet it was His Father's will that He continue on in a very difficult path. A path that was about to prove extremely costly. I thought that God was telling me to do this thing. Everything within me said that He was and my passion for doing it was increasing. And then He told me to stop trying to do it. Just stop. Why would He do that? Again ... I do not know what to do about that.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog I keep dreaming about my dad. It is pretty much a nightly occurance. They are not ugly dreams. They are just dreams. He has been gone for nearly 6 years now. It took me 5 1/2 years to start dreaming about him and now I cannot stop. Tomorrow is mother's day. My mom died about 1 1/2 years ago. I doubt that I will dream about her tonight. I just know that dad is going to show up again. I hope I remember to tell him in my dream that I would like him to wish mom a happy mother's day for me. i have a young friend. She is 17 years old. 2 years ago she found out that the man she always thought was her father is not. Her father is a man who impregnated her mother, married her, and left after just a couple of months. So not only has she never met her real dad but now her pretend dad has walked out on the family. My friend feels like she lost her real dad and her pretend dad all at the same time. She is asking me if I understand what she feels. She is asking me what to do because she wants to find her real dad and ask him some hard questions. I will help her in every way that I can. I will be there for her. But these dreams ... I do not know what to do about that.

Sometimes there are just too many questions and too few answers. When that happens I begin to feel driven to go away. I want to find a quiet place. I want to turn the world off and sit very quietly looking for God to come and give me some direction or speak some words of wisdom. Or at least to sit with me and, in so doing, remind me that He is the only answer that I really need. I find myself listening easily to my phone ringing without any inclination to pick it up. I find myself smiling at people who expect more of me than anyone has a right to expect. I find myself thinking about how they have no idea how silly and self-serving they are. I find myself watching murder mysteries on television and wishing life's real issues could, just this once, be resolved in sixty minutes. I find myself looking at my young adult children, loving them passionately, being amazed at how they really believe that I am rather slow of thought, backward in method, and totally without comprehension of that which makes life delicious. And I try to keep my smile on the inside because there is absolutely no way I can explain to them what it is that life is going to do to them in the next few decades and how they will one day find themselves sitting off in a corner, exactly as I am now, and realizing that with so many questions bombarding them from every conceivable direction, there is only one answer. The answer is a person. How can a person also be an answer? I do not know how. He just is. And I know that if I try to tell them what that answer is they will smile condescendingly and be totally convinced in their hearts and minds that they totally "get it" so quickly after attaining puberty. They think they know the answers ... and they have yet to even hear the questions. And I will not have enough energy or heart to laugh at them. Much less argue. It would not do them or I any good.

At the end of the day, after over 3 years of constant intense spiritual warfare, the suffering of more emotional and spiritual woundings that I can even begin to remember, and a total lack of desire to record any more of it in my most private of journals because I just become physically nauseaus every time I think about it all ... at the end of the day I am simply shocked that there are so many, many questions. And only one Jesus. And He often does not tell me the answers. He just comes and sits. Sometimes He speaks and sometimes He does not. But when He comes ... the questions ... the questions do not matter anymore. And I think that makes Him the answer. I have no idea how that works.

But I cannot say I wasn't given fair warning.

The Coolest Day Of The Week ... So Far

Yes indeed, today was the coolest day of the week so far. Grant it, it is only Sunday. Day one. But it will be tough to beat this one.

My day began with an accidental suicide attempt that fortunately I botched. I was taking a shower. It was, ohhh, around 8AM. I do not know if most men do this or not but I have a habit of shaving in the shower. The water is hot and the air is humid and that makes skin soft and pliable. Hair seems to nearly volunteer to jump off of my cheeks and chin when faced with my triple bladed, super sharp, razor of doom. The truth is that I barely have any whiskers. My dad said he was 25% Indian and that makes me 12.5% Indian. He told me that was why I am not a hairy guy. I do not know if that is all true or not. I hope it is because I do not want to think I am just a hormoneless stud wannabe. (Or, perhaps Tony Campolo is right when he says, "Every man only gets so many hormones and if you want to waste yours growing hair, you go right ahead.") Anyway, I do not have much to shave. Maybe that is why my hand decided to shave my lip. Literally. I felt the razor slice into my upper lip and before I could stop I had managed to effectively remove part of myself. Not a lot. You probably will not even notice it by the end of the week. But you sure could notice it this morning. I bled. Ok, I didn't just bleed, I let loose of this torrent of blood. I knew I was in trouble immediately. I finished showering and dried off, managed to dress in a coat and tie without turning anything red, and got myself off to church. I walked in a back door and made my way to my office unnoticed. I looked in the mirror. My lip looked like Bailey the Killer Beagle had taken a chunk out of me. I had already gone through several dozen paper towels and the bleeding was not even slowing down. Realizing that I could not hide forever I sucked it up and went downstairs to meet with the youth group. I felt like the elephant man or something as I walked down the halls with people gasping in semi-mock horror. My wife was near the kitchen and she kind of screamed in that way that wives do when they think they might be collecting on your life insurance policy. It was a half hearted scream which makes me wonder if perhaps she was already mentally cashing the check. Several friends gathered around and gave their best advice. This amounted to "gosh that looks really bad and I bet you'll lose consciousness from lack of blood soon." Great. I lisped through the youth announcement time and retreated to the safety of my office. On the way there I came across a friend who is a Vietnam vet. I asked him what he would have done had he found himself in battle with a cut lip like this and needed it to stop so that he could continue popping the bad guys. That was probably an insensitive thing to ask but I figured a soldier might have a quick cure for something like this. I was wrong. I will forego relaying what he suggested I do with my wound. Debbie showed up in my office and we tried everything. Nothing worked. I even let her pour salt into the cut in hopes of stemming the tide. Great idea. No go. Finally she went home to get a wonder product called "Liquid Band-Aid." Whoever invented this stuff ... thank you. I had been applying pressure to my own face while she made the trip. The Liquid Band-Aid whipped me right into shape. I had been bleeding for ninety minutes. Had this stuff not worked my next attempt would have been tying a tournequet around my own neck. Tonight I threw away my razor and tomorrow I'm retreating to my previously stored away electric shaver. I figure with a long enough extension cord I can still shave in the shower...

None of the above is what made today great. Here, in chronological order, is what did the trick.

A) I got to interview our graduates and I only screwed up one. Unfortunately, that one is a good friend and he did not stay mad at me. I managed to forget his name and then, in front of hundreds of people, said that I simply mistook his name for his brother. He used my microphone to let everybody know that he does not have a brother. I pleaded loss of blood and dizziness. I moved on to the next graduate.

B) I got to stand in the pulpit and tell everybody how to "be with Jesus." That was a pretty cool half hour for me. I get off on talking about Jesus.

C) One of my favorite couples re-joined our church. It will be temporary because God will most certainly assign them to a new ministry location but I am going to enjoy them while they are here.

D) I got to meet a 17 year old young woman at the altar. She and I had shared lunch last week. (I took her home on my motorcycle. She did not like this but she didn't cry. I was glad because crying females make me feel horrible.) We talked about her spiritual condition over salads. She came to realize that she was baptized AFTER she was saved. She wanted to fix that. She accepted Jesus as her Lord last summer and now she wanted to make that public before her church family and soon she will be baptized. How cool is that?

E) On the way out of the auditorium I came across a young lady who is about 14. You will see her picture at the top of this blog. What an adorable person! I knew that she had never asked Christ into her heart. I asked her if she had a couple of minutes and she did. So we went to my office and got honest with each other. After about 10 minutes she prayed and asked Jesus to forgive her of her sins and to be her Savior! Then I prayed for her and mentioned to God about how all of the angels are partying right now while the demons are gnashing their teeth and moaning over having lost their grip on another one. She laughed! I love it when kids have Jesus in their hearts and they laugh! I have also noticed that adults seldom laugh over cheating the devil out of their eternity by trusting Christ. This is one reason why I love teenagers so much. They are totally refreshing to my increasingly jaded soul. I really DO want to be the first 80 year old youth pastor!

F) I got to celebrate with a portion of our high schools senior class by leading a special worship service for them in the high school auditorium. It was amazing. Their life and their energy is simply overwhelming.

G) My kids, my son-in-law, my oldest son's very significant other, my wife, and a few assorted friends came over and I bought them all supper. We sat for hours, told stories, jokes, and enjoyed the moments. (Q: What do you call a dog who has no legs? A: It does not matter. He is not coming anyway...) The people, the pizza, the evening ... all were perfect. I sat quietly in a corner for a few minutes and simply stared at my daughter. She is just a few weeks from not being pregnant anymore. And so I am just a few weeks from being a grandfather. As I watched her I saw the expectancy and joy in her eyes. Next to leading that young lady to Jesus this moment was the highlight of my day.

H) And now I am propped up in my own bed, pounding on the keys of Tess the Laptop. My wife is breathing deeply and quietly next to me. One of my sons (who will be moving out of our home in one month) is asleep by now in his own room. My other son is at his girlfriends and will be in eventually. When he gets home he will turn off the single light I left on in the living room as a signal that he has returned safely. This son too will be leaving in two weeks and will be gone until August. Then he will make his way back to live in our home on a part time basis as he continues his college education. In the meantime my nest will be empty and I plan on enjoying the life my bride and I abandoned on September 9, 1980. We are going to play with our granddaughter, take a couple of youth trips, and then go all by ourselves to Seattle for 10 days. (I went to mapquest.com and looked to find out what place is the farthest we can get from breathing Bethalto air without leaving the continental 48 states. Seattle won. So I bought the tickets and reserved the hotel. We are going to climb a mountain, stare down a volcano, wade in the pacific ocean, eat whatever they serve locally, visit Canada and maybe catch a Mariners game. All while not thinking about B-town over 2,000 miles away.)

So what could be better? Today I ignored the annoying people and I spent my time with those that I think Jesus would have spent His time with had He been here in the flesh.

And it was good.

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.