P.E. Revenge (or "how I made up for the lost years")

I am physically educated. Oh yes I am. Today I was the teacher of a physical education class at a local jr. high school. You know what that means? I GOT THE WHISTLE! Can you believe that? Obviously the school district did nothing to check out my previous experience in the world of "physical education." If they had, here is what they would have learned.

In elementary school they made us climb a rope from the floor of the gym to the rafters on the ceiling. I swore to get even someday. I hated that cursed rope. I pulled, tugged, jerked and used every other maneuver I could think of and still just b-a-r-e-l-y managed to get there. It was ugly. Some kids seemed to just ... float to the top. They did not get the "gravity memo." When it was my turn to climb the rope people went to lunch or took a nap. They checked back in on me every now and then to see if I was still up there. I dreamed at night about ways to tie that rope into effective knots around their necks.

Todays school ... no rope. No revenge. (Insert reflective sigh here)

In junior high we had to play basketball. It is a well-documented fact that nobody in my gene pool has ever made a lay-up. Never. Ever. Not one of us. And yet gym teachers continue to make our families children take the round ball in their grip, dribble up court and stumble their way toward the net only to FAKE a jumping leap that usually lands them on their bottom side and the ball in the bleachers rather than either achieving its intended flight path. Silly.

And then there was high school. Oh, how I hated high school physical education classes. Our school was big enough to have multiple teachers. I seemed to always get Mr. Farko. (His name has been changed because he impregnated a cheerleader the year after I graduated and I don't want to get him mad IF he is out of prison. He is probably 80 years old but this guy would hunt me down, slit my juggler and gut me like a deer in the forest, load me onto the back of his truck and mount my head over his fire place.) Coach Farko was the most sadistic individual I have ever met. He was an officer in the marine reserves and he thought we were his new recruits. I remember the year I had P.E. during first hour. That's about 8:00 AM. We would change into our gym clothes and gather in the gym under a basketball net. The coach would show up much like Rambo. You never knew where or how he would enter the gym. He simply materialized. Darndest thing I ever saw. When Coach Farko blew his whistle we lined up against the wall. The next time he blew the whistle we ran to the nearest free throw line, touched it and ran back to the wall. Then we ran to center court, touched it and ran back to the wall. We repeated this procedure at the far free throw line and the wall at the opposite end of the gymnasium. The rules were simple. When somebody puked we could stop running. Pretty clear cut, concise, to the point. No puke? You run. Puke? Everybody stops running. Our moving on to actual physical education had to be paid for in vomit.

I have been out of high school for thirty-four years and I still do not understand the point. I would, however, like to point out that I NEVER ONCE WAS THE GUY THAT PUKED. It's the only point of pride I ever got out of P.E.

Until today.

Because today ... I got the whistle.

I was given this assignment yesterday. I dreamed last night about what I was going to do to the pooooor kids that were about to fall under my iron fisted control. I woke up drooling. Ok, I often wake up drooling. But this was different. I was drooling with anticipation.

I arrived at the gym at the designated time. The kids came in ten minutes later. The kids. The victims. MY victims. I took attendance. I lined them up. I looked them in the eyes ... knowing what was about to happen.

And I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. Dang. I tried. I REALLY tried. Darn it, I wanted puke. I was OWED puke! Somebody needed to throw up! But it wasn't in me. You know why? It seems that the other coach that works at the jr. high took the kids that wanted to play softball out with him. He left me the kids that did not want to play. I looked at the notes I had been left by the sick teacher I was replacing. She asked me to walk with them.

Walk.

Take them outside and ... walk.

I felt sorry for them. If you lined them up there wouldn't be one rope climber. No lay-ups or slam-dunks through the hoop. These were the kids that couldn't.

So I decided then and there to make them the kids that could. Oh, I couldn't teach them to be athletes. But I could teach them to shine. I could help them make the soft ball playing jocks look weak. Before we left the gym for our walk I lined them up, two by two, into a line that stretched about fifteen pairs long. I stood beside them much like a drill instructor stands beside his new recruits. I made them be quiet and listen to me. I told them that today ... today WE would rule. Today WE would rock the Physical Education world! And, while we marched in place, I taught them this Marine Corp style marching chant that they repeated after me...

We're the kids from Lewis and Clark (we're the kids from Lewis and Clark)
He's making us walk until it's dark (he's making us walk until it's dark)
We just wanna go to the gym (we just wanna go to the gym)
Beat the life outta him (beat the life outta him)
SOUND OFF (one! two!)
SOUND OFF (three! four!)
SOUND OFF (one two three four, one two ... THREE FOUR!)

I looked at my recruits ... uh ... I mean kids. They were smiling. Their faces were shining. They looked happy. Like the actually WANTED to go outside and walk today! I blew the whistle and we marched out of the gym, through the doors and directly toward the softball field, chanting all the way. We marched and chanted our way all of the way around the field and off into the distance. I told them to stop chanting and we walked a mile or so. As we did I made my way up and down the line of kids. We talked. I learned their names (which I promptly forgot.) I asked about their hobbies and what they were going to do with their summer. We laughed. And they felt good about themselves. A half hour later as we made our return approach to the school we fell back into line, back into cadence, and back into our chant. We marched around the softball players one more time and made our way into the gym for them to change clothes before the ball guys and girls came inside. I learned that they didn't like to have to change clothes with the ball players. And I understood. So we "accidentally" got back about five minutes early. I repeated my routine four times with four different classes. Each time the kids acted like I had taken them on a field trip to the moon.

Later in the day I found myself in the teacher's lounge. The only other person there was the soft ball playing coach. He was eating his lunch and reading the newspaper. He had not spoken to me all day (though he did grunt once when I asked him a question.) I bought a bottle of water, said hello to him, and walked to the door not expecting a response.

"Hey." I looked at the coach. Was he speaking to me? Indeed. He was gazing at me over his paper. "I like what you did with the kids today."

"Thanks. We had fun." I left the room.

I walked into the hall. A kid was coming down the stairs. I don't know him. I don't recall his name. I guess he was in one of my P.E. classes. He shouted out, "Hey, Mr. Woods! You are my favorite sub ever!" I smiled and told him he was my favorite kid ever. My legs were tired, my voice gravely, my arms sunburned.

All in all ... it was a very good day.

The Snot Express Is Leaving The Station

How much snot can the human body POSSIBLY manufacture? I seem to have picked-up on a well known "teacher syndrome." They tell me that new teachers often get sick because they are exposed to the germ-riddled world of the common kid.

Well thank you for the warning.

There are 10,000 bees stinging my throat. The top of my head feels like Mt. St. Helen's. And, perhaps worst of all, I am leaking like a "High Ranking White House Source" in an off the record press conference.

Drip. Drip. SNEEZE. Drip. Drip. SNEEZE. Drip. Drip. Drip. SNEEZE. (Sometimes the sequence throws you off a bit.)

Sometime around 5:45 this morning I woke up with my wife climbing all over me. I admit it. My first thought was ... "SCORE!" Then I realized my cell phone was ringing. I had not noticed it because my ears had been ringing all night. She answered my phone to hear one of the local school districts ask if I would be available to substitute teach today. She looked at me. "Uhhhh ... I don't think so." She hung up. The next thing I remember it was after 9AM and I was alone in bed. My phone was not ringing anymore but my ears still were.

Bailey the Killer Beagle does not have any experience with my sneezing potential. This is the first truly bad cold I have had since she came to live in our home. (I bought her for thirty-five bucks out of a shopping cart. I want my money back.) She has seen Debbie and the kids sneeze. No big deal. They are minor league sneezers. Ladies and gentlemen, I am in the major's. When I am really sick I can put out fires and knock birds out of trees. One of my best sneezes would serve admirably as a tornado siren in our little suburb. Unfortunately, I cannot sneeze on command. But when I sneeze today Bailey runs for cover. She likes to cuddle up next to me on our infamous "date chair" (named such because our kids like to cuddle with their dates in our big fuzzy buddy.) She gets good and close. And then I sneeze. The first few times the poor dog nearly left her fur on the chair as she dove out of the way. By her bedtime she simply looked at me like I was a pile of C-4 explosives and ran off to her cage. She's a sissy.

I have never heard of anyone dying from the common cold. Tonight I may make history. All symptoms seem to be coming together for my demise. It is very possible that during the dark of night I will sneeze, cough, hack, and wheeze all at the same instant. I do not believe that this tired old body could take that. In the morning they will find me. CSI experts will be called in. They will check the room for prints, test me for Rigor mortis to determine time of death, and slice me open to do a thorough autopsy. No need. If you hear of my death please ask the coroner to simply read this blog. If he is worth his pay he will immediately realize that I expired by turning myself inside out expelling bodily fluids.

Please. Keep the casket closed. Cremate the remains. Scatter my ashes over any Colorado or Utah ski resort. Remember me the way I was before I blew up. Oh, and if possible ... toast my memory with a good hard nose blow into a fresh Kleenex.

Mind boggling, gut wrenching, heart breaking ... grief

Today was a horrible day in the life of our country. Indeed, in the life of the entire planet. Thirty-three lives snuffed out on a university campus in a couple of hours time. Virginia Tech is a huge and highely respected campus with students from all over the world. As I write this there must be countless parents in the United States and many other places waiting ... hoping ... praying for a phone call letting them know that their kid is alright. Such agony does not register in my brain.

As we watch the news channels and the networks show the video footage over and over and over we would do well to remember a few things. Things that seem to slip our minds during the ordinary mundane days.

First, life is precious. It can be gone as quickly as the trigger of a hand gun can be pulled. Once it is gone it is not coming back. There are a lot of people that I am remembering tonight that I need to hug more often.

Second, evil is real. You cannot totally avoid it while residing on planet earth. It will find you and those you love. True, it will find each of us in varying degrees. But it will find you. On this day, while thirty-three lives were ended abruptly at the ugly end of a gun barrel, a little five year old girl was killed in Ferndale, Michigan. She was on her schools playground with about twenty students and her teacher when strong winds pushed the schools flag pole down, hitting and killing her. Her life ended in full sight of her kindergarten class. A little girl. A play ground. A flag pole. Three innocent items. Three items that make us smile and bring us laughter and joy. Mix them together and add a gust of wind and what do you get? Tragedy. The parents of that little girl are just as sad, just as shocked, as the parents of the young adults who were murdered in Virginia. It happens. You cannot predict it and you cannot stop it.

Third, God is the only one capable of making sense of it all. How can He do that? I have no idea. The wounds are too fresh. The blood is still wet. Not all of the next of kin has been notified. How can we even pretend to have an answer yet? How can we begin to guess how God will bring good out of tragedy? No way. Not yet.

You see, right now is not the time to preach. It is not the time to point fingers and blame names. Now is the time to cry. Mourn. Weep. Tonight there is no rhyme and no reason. There is only loss. Do not attempt to force God's answers before He reveals them. Do not declare His intentions before He declares them. Do not put words in God's mouth. You will wind up looking stupid. And you will hurt people.

Hug those you love. Call those you miss. Touch those who are nearest and dearest to you. REALLY touch them. Tonight is a night that we all need to be touched by another. A hand on the shoulder, a hug around the neck, the caress of a cheek. Those things speak volumes on nights like these.

Weeping comes for a night. But joy ... joy comes in the morning. It is still night. Let us weep. And most of all ... let us pray.

Legally binding disclaimer

I just thought it might be worth it to mention that ...

"No children were injured or abused in the creation of this weeks blogs. No children were mocked or laughed at ... to their knowledge. No childen were denied the right to use the restroom, wash their hands, eat their lunch, or sharpen their pencil. No children were photographed, touched, interrogated, emotionally tortured or handcuffed. Only the substitute teacher was harmed and he's tough enough to take it."

It is now 11:01pm and I have 3 ... count 'em THREE ... Tylenol PM's coursing through my bloodstream. I expect to be in a legally drugged stupor until at least 10:00am tomorrow. (Don't even think about calling me.) I plan on dreaming of white sand beaches and puffy white clouds floating across cobalt blue skies. In reality I'll probably wake up around 3:00am and stare at the ceiling fan because I ate enough enchilada's and tamale's tonight to keep Mexico City happy for a week. It was my edible victory dance.

Ethyl, put your hat on ... this one's comin in! (That's for you, Scotty.)

I won ... but I'm tiiiiired

I'm tiiiiiired tonight. The rug rats tried their best but I lived. I just don't know whhhhy. Did I mention I'm tiiiiired?

I stepped up to the plate today. Took control of the room in a radical way. Laid down the law. Didn't write my name on the board. Just told it to them and mentioned that if they wanted recess they had best remember it. They did.

Then there was the P.E. teacher. I think that stands for "physical education." This particular P.E. teacher also came to my class to tutor a couple of kids in reading before she took them to the gym and ran their butts off. I didn't know she was the P.E. teacher. Actually I thought she was like a high school senior earning extra credit or something.

Then she showed up to take the kids to the gym. I started getting the kids lined up and, while they were putting their books away, I walked over to her and asked how she managed to survive doing this for a living.

"Doing what for a living?" she asked dumbly.

"Teaching."

"How did you do it?" she asked still more dumbly.

"Do what?"

"I thought you probably retired from teaching and now just subbed occasionally,” she said at the zenith of her dumbery.

I looked at her. Closely. "Retired? You think I'm retired?"

"Well, I didn't know” she said as she passed from dumb straight into insane.

"I'm not retired and I never taught. I was a pastor but I seem to have gotten past it." I replied cleverly with a twist of sarcasm.

She left with the kids. None too soon. Retired. Bah! She must pay.

After thirty minutes she returned with my beloved cast of criminal wannabee's. She was the first one in the door with the kids following behind. I waited until we locked eyes.

"Well, if it isn't the thirteen year old pop-tart." It was a shining moment ... even if she didn't get it. She left the room. I had a 2nd grader use a disinfectant cleaner where she had walked.

And the kids? One dumped his desk over. It was an acccccident. Sure it was. One had managed to get himself grounded from recess and had to sit with his head on his desk, which means I got to sit and watch him do it. Fun. If I had made the call he would have sat with his desk on his head instead of his head on his desk. There was actually a plus side. My first assignment was to read to them for 25 minutes out of some book about kids living in a boxcar. (Strange.) At that point EVERY BODY began raising their hands. You know why? They all wanted to be the one to scratch my back while I read the story.

Say what?

Yep. It seems that the teacher lets kids scratch her back everyday while she reads. It took me about 3 nanoseconds to agree and select today's "scratchers." This is a tradition I can live with.

Tomorrow? It's back to middle school semi-messed up kids. I can handle that. Easily. Nobody is more semi-messed up than I am. It's like going home.

But tonight? I'm tiiiiiired.

BREAKING NEWS ...

It is 1:45PM. The children are at PE. Thank God for whoever invented physical education class.

BREAKING NEWS: The danger may not be the 2nd graders after all. I have reasonable cause to believe there may be a TEACHER CONSPIRACY. Yes, traders within the ranks. Film at 10.

I lived

Morning dawned. The cock crowed. The dew dried. The 2nd graders are waiting.

This cannot be good.

Maybe I'll get lucky and die in my sleep tonight

HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THAT IS PURE, GOOD AND RIGHT. WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT? I HAVE BEEN OVER RUN BY ANKLE BITERS! I HAVE BEEN ASSAULTED BY RUG RATS! I HAVE DONE BATTLE WITH THE EVIL LEGIONS OF THE NETHER WORLD! AND THEY ARE ONLY 7 YEARS OLD! WHO KNEW?

Today I was a substitute teacher. In the morning I was with these 6th and 7th graders that are ... less than cooperative. I don't know exactly what they call them but they are not considered behavioral disorder kids. They are some where in between. You know what that means? It means we get along just fine. Really. Some are obnoxious and I can be too. Some are really nice and I can be too. So we pretty much click. They frown, I snarl. They snarl, I growl. They growl, I snap. They snap, I call the office. Shaddup. It works.

Then at 11:30 the teacher came back from wherever she was and I was sent down to the 2nd graders. They let me go to lunch and then I showed up at their room. The teacher, who is a friend of mine, gave me a quick briefing of the afternoon and then she was gone. I was cool. I was in charge. I'm the teacher.

WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL THE 2ND GRADERS THAT?????

Those kids are dangerous! They don't mean to be ... but that does not make it any less true. They just want your attention. They like it when the teacher likes them. But there is this thing about 2nd graders. THEY DO NOT KNOW WHAT "SIT DOWN" MEANS. THEY DO NOT UNDERSTAND "BE QUIET." If you yell, "SHADDUP!" they cry. They get up and walk around the room just because the room is there. (They are two year olds in Nike's!) They raise their hands to answer the questions I ask even though they don't know the answer just because they want me to look at them. They tell you what the "real" teacher would do if she were there. That's when I point out ... "she ain't here so we are going to do it my way!" Who knew that 2nd graders would know that "ain't" ain't a real word. Oh, but they alllll told me. One at a freaken time.

And you know what I was supposed to teach these terrorists? Math. I don't know anything about math. I own 7 calculators! They called it "arithmetic" when I was in 2nd grade. Arithmetic I can do. Math? No way. Ok, we were only doing the "2 times" stuff, but still. I know how to do the "2 times" stuff but I've never tried to explain it to a 2nd grader before. You know what? THEY DON'T GET IT. It took me ten minutes to explain why 2 X 0 = 0. TEN MINUTES! I have explained the book of Revelations in ten minutes. Ok, not really. But close. Then I started them doing a work sheet the teacher had left. And guess what? I totally screwed it up. No, the 2nd graders didn't screw it up. The teacher didn't give bad instructions and screw it up. I screwed it up. The substitute teacher. The one with the degree. I mumbled something about our being out of time and told them to please file their papers in the big round can on the way out the door for recess. Some wise guy told me that the round can was only for garbage. I told her that maybe Mrs. Orr uses it for garbage but I am the teacher today and I am collecting their homework in it. She cried.. Can you say "touchy?" So I got them all lined up for recess when another teacher walking by in the hall mentioned that it was raining and that Mrs. Orr had recess duty today and that since she wasn't there ... I had recess duty in her place. Oh. Ok. I vaguely remember that she might have mentioned that to me. She offered to go get a tv/vcr for us. I thanked her, sent the kids to go potty (after they left I realized I had no idea where the bathrooms were or how many kids were in my class ... I'm still not sure there aren't some still in there) and waited for the arrival of the equipment. It arrived on time. Guess what? Wouldn't you think there would be a movie or documentary or SOMETHING in the VCR? A Shakespeare play would have been fine. Wouldn't you think the teacher would BRING SOMETHING WITH HER? Sure you would. But nope. Nada. I now had three classes of 2nd graders in front of me and no e-stinken movie to watch. This is where you groan in group sympathy for me. (Alright, to be honest they finally found a mini-movie and we watched part of it. But they nearly rioted when I turned it off so we could continue with ... math.)

Ok, so we survived. And I swore at that moment that I would never, NEVER, never sub for 2nd graders again. And then when I got home I checked my email and found out I had already been assigned the same class ... tomorrow. AAARRRGGGHHH. Different teacher ... same age. That means all new kids. Kids I have not scared yet. Oh my.

I would rather be drug by mad dogs around the course of the Boston Marathon than sub for 2nd graders. I would rather play goalie for the Blue's .... without pads ... than sub for 2nd graders. I would rather be covered with peanut butter ... and OH how I hate peanut butter ... and licked clean by coyote's than sub for 2nd graders. I would rather sub for a behavioral disorder class all day than sub for 2nd graders for one hour. I DON'T WANT TO SUB FOR 2ND GRADERS ANY MORE!

Are you picking up my point here? Are you getting my drift?

Ok. I can do this. It's just me and 25 of them. No problem. I have had worse odds in deacon's meetings. I only have them for the afternoon. Piece of cake.

Who am I kidding? I have not said this in years, but … I DON’T WANNA GO TO SCHOOL TOMORROW!!!!

(PS to Jenny ... remember ... I love ya. This is all "tongue in cheek." Maybe.)

As I was saying before I interruped myself ...

So, as I was saying before I interrupted myself and went in a TOTALLY different direction yesterday than the direction I intended to go in ...

I write (blog) because it sorts out my thoughts and helps me to see meaning in my life. I mean, come on. You've noticed that life today is lived at supersonic speeds. You barely finish one task before beginning the next one. And when you get some of that coveted free time you use it by "resting" in front of television or going to the mall. That is not rest. That is diversion. It is a simple switching of activities from one you do not want to do to one you do want to do. Diversion is fine as long as it does not replace rest, reflection or turning inward to give careful scrutiny to your own soul. Sometimes my soul is a very serious place to hang out. Sometimes my soul is laughing and watching the parade of life go by while I sit on the curb of time and decide not to chase after it. That, by the way, is a learned skill. It does not come naturally. Not in our country and not in this season of time.

When I write I look at what is going on around me and I try to sort it out. And it surely does need sorting. Taken bit-by-bit life seldom makes sense. And sometimes it does not make sense even when you kick back for a minute and take in the big picture. It is not my job ... not your job ... to force life into a form that is pleasing and understandable to our/your mind. Life reminds me of taking a flight on a jet at high altitudes. You know you are gobbling up ground at an unbelievable rate of speed but when you look out the window, casting your gaze on the ground below, it seems totally benign. You lose all concept of speed. You find yourself thinking, "If this jet were to go down it wouldn't hurt anything ... we would simply bounce off one of those buildings down there." You may be going 550 mph but all of your senses say you are doing maybe 10 mph. Can you say, "Skewed?" Your vision is tricked by altitude. You do not feel the wind in your face (thank you for that, God) and feel the terror you would if strapped to one of the jets wings. Speed and altitude makes the "what you perceive" far different from the "what is real."

Another word for "altitude" in our parable is "distance." Not distance from the ground below. Distance from our homeland. As a believer in Jesus Christ I recognize my homeland to be anywhere He is. Jesus is my homeland. If I am by His side, listening to His Words, experiencing His pleasure, life suddenly takes on a new form. That new form makes sense. It makes sense in a way that nothing else in life does or can. I come to understand that this life is "the mission." It is "the training ground." It is "the test." Reality? Jesus is reality. Everything else is the boot camp I go through to make me into the man He wants me to be. And I am the last person capable of making decisions about what I should go through to become Christ-like. Being with Jesus makes me "in the world but not of the world." Away from Jesus and my vision of reality is skewed. With Jesus everything comes into pinpoint sharp focus. When I write I slow down, look inward to the presence of Jesus within (the Holy Spirit) and get my vision renewed.

So what does that mean? It means that all of the hits life delivers are for His divine purposes and I not only don't understand them ... I don't have to understand them. Actually I can't understand them. Not perfectly. It also means that the joys life delivers are gifts from the One who loves me so much that He died in my place. But stupid me ... I assume that the hits are punishment for times I've screwed up and the joys are gifts for having done well. This reduces me to the status of Bailey the Killer Beagle and God to the status of me. I do well and I get the coveted milky bone. I pee on the rug and I not only can I kiss the milky bones goodbye but I just might get a boot in the butt.

Do you really think God acts that way? I assure you that He does not.

Here is the truth. We live for God's pleasure. He directs our paths and our days. If you want to wander off of the paths you do so at your own peril. (Yes, he can "restore the day the locust has eaten" so it's not necessarily a total loss. We'll have to wait and see.) But the meat of life ... the joy of realizing the purpose for which you have been created ... is revealed when you slow down (stop!) on His path, place your heart and your thoughts in His Hands, accept whatever He shows you as "truth", and then walk on in pursuit of the truth as it has been revealed in Him. I mean, stop worrying about tomorrow and just live your life. Live it with His purposes and His pleasure in mind. All of that is a very God-like concept. It's even in the bible. Sermon on the mount. Matthew 5, 6 and 7. Read it for yourself.

So maybe I have explained myself and maybe I have not. But for me writing is all a part of the slowing down. The stopping. The reflecting. I do not mean to be rude but I do not write for you. I write for me. It is in writing that I tear the shrink-wrapped packaging off of my "just add water life" and examine the nitty gritty. I feel the individual parts one at a time. I see how they make up me. I laugh at myself. I wonder about my sanity. I get angry at my failures and myself. But I also pray and ask God to tip His Hand through my thoughts and the way they transpose themselves onto this pixilated page. He often does. And in those sacred moments I feel as though I have touched Him with my own fingers. I feel like I have connected with His purposes for me. I think I understand a little better who I am and why I am that way. And I like feeling that.

Orrrrr. I could be wrong. I could be just scratching out words onto a page. Electronic fodder for like-minded fools. But I really do not think so. Because when I walk away from Tess and her keyboard I feel as though I have given birth to a living, breathing entity. It transcends who I am and what I can understand.

And only He can do that.

A blog about nothing and everything

What is it about writing that flips switches in me that nothing else flips? That is the question of my hour. Like you, I have multiple conversations throughout any given day. It's all normal and good. Usually it is even enjoyable. (OK, there are those of you who are not enjoyable to talk to. You know who you are. And on the exceptionally slim chance that you are reading this ... leave me alone!) Still, there is something about sitting down with Tess on my lap and doing the sacred dance with her keyboard that triggers something within me. Writing takes me to an altered state. Internal walls come down. I am talking to thousand and thousands of pixels on my screen and they never talk back, pass judgment on my opinions or otherwise make me feel less than human. Of course I am not so stupid as to think that there are no people on the other end of the networks and modems that ARE talking back, ARE passing judgment, ARE thinking I am less than human. The little google analytics tool I've hooked to this web site tells me that, on average, between twenty and forty people read what I write on any given day. I get an average of 212 "hits" every seven days. So while this is not exactly Readers Digest it makes me happy. Few people leave comments. That is fine with me though it is the silent ones I worry about.

Sometimes people ask me how I come up with things to write about. I just tell them the truth. I do not know. Throughout the course of any given day things happen. Ordinary things. Yet when you look closely the ordinary often becomes exceptional. It is all about point of view. If you want your day to be ordinary ... if you are satisfied with that ... it will probably cooperate. But it does not have to be that way. When I look at the day that I just spent (the passage of time is, after all, a transaction. An expenditure.) there really is not much that stands out. I cleaned a little bit of the house. I put some finishing touches on the bedroom that Scott and I repainted while Debbie is out of town. I watched the Cubs play baseball. I did not leave my immediate surroundings until I got hungry around 5PM. Then I went to Bob Evans (down on the farm) and ate my fill of biscuits, gravy and hash browns. Washed it down with water. I'm still bloated four hours later. (Side note: My dear friend Bob Dude taught me about Bob Evans biscuits and gravy. If they kill me ... torture him.) I returned home to a full house, which emptied out in a few minutes. That's when Bailey the Killer Beagle and I sat down and watched the ball game. And now here we are.

Pretty ordinary day, huh?

Not on your life. I woke up at 8:30AM and didn't know where I was because the walls were the wrong color and I was totally discombobulated on the bed. (It's empty except for me and so I feel obligated to use all of it. I don't wake up where I went to sleep. Weird but true.) I had to clear the cobwebs just to figure out that I was not in a hotel somewhere. Christopher was going to work and instructed me concerning what parts of his left over garbage from last night I could throw out and what needed to stay. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. There is an entire book there, not just a blog. A friend called me and told me he had just lost his government job. He wants to do lunch. I agreed on a day next week but all I really want to tell him is to avoid "church work." I saw a former teenager that was in my youth group about ten years ago. Until yesterday I had not seen him in probably five years and now I've seen him two days in a row. Last New Years Eve he was on foot cutting through a neighbor's back yard and the guy shot him three times. He's still alive and he sticks to the sidewalks now. I drove about fifteen miles each way for supper. That comes out to ten miles per biscuit. The gravy was a perk. It was worth it.

So really, when you think about it, when you take the time to break the day down into little pieces it was anything but ordinary.

I even talked to God today. You know the one. The BIG ONE. The Bible guy. He listened to me trash talk some situations and people for a few minutes while I was driving. Then I started thinking about how boring it is to eat alone and I slid my hand onto the back seat of my car and pulled out a book. Score. I love to read. I was on chapter two but had not read any of it in about a month. You know what chapter two was about? In a nutshell it said, "Chill. God loves you. Unconditionally. Why would you bother yourself with other peoples opinions or offensive actions when He's there waiting for you every minute of every day. Those other people? Leave them to God. Oh, and while you are at it ... forget the rules. You know ... the ones you try to live life by. Yeah, those. You can't get them straight so give it up and just spend your time loving The Big Him."

Pretty good advice I'd say.

So there you go. This blog was about nothing. This blog was about everything. It is up to you. You can read a lot into it. You can chalk it up as a waste of time. Your call. Me? I have enjoyed every minute of the blog ... and of the day. I like reading. I like writing. I like living.

And I do love me some God.

Put Me In Coach!

Am I too picky or is God just taking His good sweet time? I have thoughts about that.

A) God can take all of the time He wants to. After all, time belongs to Him. He made it. He owns it. He controls it. So who am I to tell Him what to do with it?

B) If I am too picky it is for a reason. I've said it before but allow me to remind you just in case you missed it. It is not enough (in my humble opinion) to be in God's will. It is not enough to be in the center of God's will. I want to be in the center of the center of His will. If God's will is a dart board it will not suffice to simply hit the cork. It is not enough to land inside the little steel ring at the center known as the "bulls-eye." No, I will not stop until I hit DEAD CENTER in the middle of the bulls eye. Just eeking inside of that steel ring won't do it.

Tomorrow morning I have a phone call to make. You see, last Thursday night I met with the pastor search committee of another church. I say "another" because this is not exactly the first pastor search committee I have met with over the past three years. I really have not counted. The committee was staffed with very nice people and I am quite certain that they are from a very nice church in a very nice town. They asked good questions and they gave sufficient answers to the questions that I asked. That all sounds good. And it is. There is just one problem. Tonight they called me and asked if I was willing to continue on to the next step toward becoming their pastor. I rather thought that question was coming. And so I have been praying about how to respond to it when it did come. Debbie has been praying too. So they called and asked the question and I promised them a phone call in the morning giving them my answer. I first needed to call Debbie (she is at Mayo Clinic with our sister-in-law, Alisha, this week. Pray for Alisha!) I did call Debbie. We quickly agreed upon our response.

There is absolutely no sense within either of us that God is calling us to that church.

Do you know how much I hate making a phone call like that? It is a high and holy privilege to be asked to pastor a church. I believe (though I have not really been counting) that I have been asked to pastor four churches and become a staff member at another church since early 2005. I have given each one the same answer. "No, but thank you for asking." I have such a great deal of respect for these committees. Their job is terribly diffficult and I do not want to make it any more so. But I cannot lie to them. To say yes and to go to their church would be to miss the center of the center of the bullseye of God's will for my life.

Not good enough.

So I will tell them no. But thank you so much for asking.

The last time I was "in the game" I got injured. It happens to most everybody sooner or later. I pulled something or broke something or got hit upside the head by a fastball. Honestly, it happened in such a rapid fire fashion that I am not even certain how it all came down. I was running with all I had and suddenly my feet were up and my head was down and when the play was over all I tasted was dirt. Everything hurt, was bruised, busted up, exhausted. As I limped off of the field I really had no idea how bad it was. And it was bad. It took weeks in God's ICU ... months in a "step down" room, and another month or so in rehabilitation. I cannot get over the fact that I did not know how badly I needed it. And now I look back and I ask myself, "How was I even walking? What was keeping me going?" The only answer I can find is singular ... grace.

And here's the thing. After just over four months of resting, praying, resting, seeking God, resting, healing, worshiping and resting ... I feel a little like many baseball players must have felt over the past few days. Everything inside of me is screaming ... "PUT ME IN COACH!" Everywhere I turn I see a sermon waiting to be written. Every scripture I read literally bursts open with truth begging to be told. And for the first time in a long time ... a very long time ... longer than I can even begin to tell you ... I am feeling God smile. And that is making me smile. And I am rediscovering this deep, deep well of inner peace and joy that I had totally forgotten about. Well, I actually had not forgotten about it. But I thought it was just a dream I had once upon a time and that it probably was not true. But it was true! And God has taken me back to it! I feel like that lucky woman who was at the well when Jesus showed up. He asked her just the right questions and when she got real with Him her life was forever changed.

It took me at least six weeks just to realize that I was at the well and Jesus was asking question. It took several more weeks to walk out of the fog far enough to formulate the answer to His questions. And now I am busy soaking in the wonder of HIS response to MY response.

And it's all good news. Every bit of it is better than I ever had a right to expect. And it is from HIm. And it is free. Free. Free is a very good word.

You know what I am looking for? I am looking for a church that wants to be happy. I am looking for a church that wants to be as free as Jesus died to make us. I am looking for a church that is as tired of the worn out old ways of doing things as I am and is willing to walk with me on a journey of finding Jesus and follow Him in His new ways. He is singing a "new song" and I won't be happy doing anything other than singing along.

Father, this part of the blog is to You. Other's may read it but it is directed to You. Put me in, Coach! I'm ready to play. Today. I do not know what city I am to play in or what league, but I want to play. I've got my glove (my bible) my bat (Your Spirit) and my spikes (all you have taught me and the fire you have built within.) Please, Sir. When you are ready. Put me in ...

Until then, Father, I'll sit on the steps of the dugout and wait. I'll listen. I'll watch. And when you call my number ... I'll do all I can to make you proud. Because I love you for loving me. And I love you for seeing how messed up I was. And I love you for taking me out of the game, giving me time and place to rest, and putting the right people and a gazillion other things in my path just when I needed them. That last play I ran, Father? You called it. And as John Wesley said, it took me about a yard from the gates of hell. Thank you for trusting me that much. I will never forget it. And I'll never forget that you pulled me back from danger when I went down.

Father ... you are the best. And I love you.

Gollywoggles Vs. Grandpa ... it wasn't even close

How can you not be afraid? I was afraid. Sometimes I still am. When the lights are turned off. When it is very quiet. When no one else is at home. And I am trying to sleep. And I cannot. Because I just do not know.

What really IS under the bed?

Oh, in the day time it is safe to look. They do not come out until night time. They? Yes, they.

Gollywoggles.

They exist. You know it. I know it. You probably are afraid to admit it. I am too. But I force myself.

Worst of all ... she knows it. She cannot talk yet. She cannot protect herself. Still, she knows she needs protecting. It is an innate knowledge. I am not certain if we are born with it or if we learn it the hard way when we are very, very small. Like ten months old. Elle knows they are under her crib and that is why she cries when her mom and dad put her to bed every night. The gollywoggles do not come out until they close the door. And they quickly leave the moment before the door opens. Nobody sees them but her.

I remember them. They played in my closet after my parents tucked me in and gave me that final drink of water. I could hear the coat hangers jingling against each other. I actually convinced my mother to come and look once. But of course they were back under my bed by then. Maybe I am a strange man. Maybe I am the only one with this recall. I remember them. I remember what they looked like, sounded like, and how they smelled. Once you encounter a gollywoggle you tend to block it from your mind and convince yourself they really do not exist. By the time you are a teenager you have hidden the truth from your own soul. I was never able to block them. And so I remember.

Now you know why. Why when she comes to my house little baby Elle does not have to sleep alone. I put her between me and the wall. She cries for a minute and then she realizes that I am staying with her. She is safe. Gollywoggles do not come out when adults are present. And so I protect her.

Me and baby Elle. We've got a thing going on. We are pal's. We are buddies. We share her pacifier. Yesterday she fed me one of her coveted raisins right off of her high chair tray. She's my granddaughter. I am one of her grandfather's. And she is very safe sleeping at my house.

Don't Let Their Death's Be In Vain!

Some days just go down in the annals of history as unbeatable. Unmatchable. Without peer. This ... March 28, 2007 ... is one of those days.

I drove to my wife's school where she teaches in a behavorial disorder classroom. I was taking her a gift. A mid-morning diet Dr. Pepper with Cherry. It is her favorite beverage. I was only three blocks from the school when the approach of my car, an emerald green Mustang, scared a bird into flight. It was a Cardinal. A red bird. I watched as it flew safely in front of my car only to double back (What? Did it forget it's purse?) and WHACK into my windshield. It bounced over my car and landed on the road behind me. The operative phrase here is "stone cold dead." While I was sad for the little winged creature it was totally not my fault. HE (She? We will never know.) flew into ME.

I delivered the goods to a mildly grateful wife.

Returning to my car I examined the windshield to make sure there was no damage. Those things are expensive, don't ya know. All was well with my glass and so I slipped myself behind the wheel, started the engine and began retracing my route home.

That is when the unthinkable happened.

Within a block of the site of the previous ... incident ... I spied two red birds on the road ahead of me. They were about 4 or 5 feet apart and directly in my path. Now, at this point I must honestly tell you that in my previous experience birds usually notice an oncoming car and take flight. They may be birds but they seem to instinctively understand the weight/speed ratio and have no problem issuing an immediate evacuation order. And so I do not worry too much. I have actually hit birds because I swerved into what turned out to be their escape flight path. That made me feel rather badly. And so when faced with a situation like this I have instituted a policy of ignoring the birds and let them do the fleeing. I do not think that I am over stating things when I say that an "Active Fleeing Declaration" is in order for birds dealing with these circumstances.

Obviously these two red birds did not get the memo.

I kept driving and they kept pecking at whatever was the object of their attention on the road. As I drove over the spot they were standing I assumed they had flown safely out of the way. And yet I did not seem them do so. And I did not see them hop their little bodies toward the adjacent curbing. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I heard nothing.

And then I looked in the rear view mirror.

Two objects were lying in the road. I remember thinking, "no way." I stopped, put the car into reverse (hey, I am by nature, a kind hearted guy and I was ready to CPR the little fellows back to health) and backed up within about 10 feet of the objects. I put my car in park. I had my convertable top down and so I unbuckled my seat belt, twisted my body and got up on my knees in the seat. Clearly visable from this perch (pun intended) were two dead Cardinals. Two very flat dead Cardinals. They had been perfectly positioned so that each of my front wheels erased one bird.

I felt badly for them. They are just birds. God says he counts the birds and not one hits the ground without His knowing it and crossing them off His list. I figure that if hitting the ground gets noticed by God, pulverizing them into the ground would probably not escape His attention. I had single handedly caused God to use his eraser three times within ten minutes on three identical birds.

I drove away feeling quite melancholy. Then it hit me. It's our year. It's an omen. IT'S OUR YEAR! I consider myself the premiere Cub fan in the region and I had just terminated 3 red birds! During spring training! Within twenty miles of Busch Stadium! What are the odds of that? I'll tell you what they are. They are unbelievably A-S-T-R-O-F-R-E-A-K-E-N-O-M-I-C-A-L!

My friends. It is only March. I urge you, nay, I plead with you ... recognize this incident for what it is. 99 yeas ago the Cubs won the World Series. That was the last time. But it is very clear that the drought is ending. And I am declaring it right here. Perhaps William Shakespeare said it correctly, "I wasted time and now doth time waste me," but THIS is not a time for YOU to waste! I am declaring amnesty for all pagan cardinal lovers living on the Illinois side of St. Louis. It is time to come home. Not just any home. Sweet Home Chicago. Friends, like it or not, it is your city. YOUR city. You pay taxes to support it's parks, roads, and yes, ball parks! Amnesty is your for the taking.

From NOW until the first shout of "PLAY BALL" echoes from behind home plate on Monday, April 9, 2007 at 1:20 PM, in the beautiful confines of Wrigley Field you can come home to YOUR Chicago Cubs! This is a limited time offer and will not be repeated. There is no time to waste. Three dead red birds spilled their life blood today to get your attention. Did they die in vain?

That, my friend, is up to you.

Alfred Had It Right

It is time for a confession. When I was a kid ... I did not exactly set the world of "little league baseball" on fire. I was the first baseman for the team. As such it fell upon me to catch any ball hit my way or thrown my way. If it was thrown to me I knew there must be a guy running in my direction down the first base line. If I caught the ball and tagged the base before he ran over it he was out. If he got there first he was safe. That's a pretty important job. And this one guy always stood near me. He was known as "The Umpire." His job was to decide who got to the base first so that he could call the batter "safe" or "out." He also watched to make certain that the runner stayed in the base line during his run. If he stepped out of the prescribed area he was automatically out. So the base line was important. If you want to win you have to stay in the base line.

There is another kind of base line that is important as well. I go to my doctor for a check-up every year. He pokes me. He prods me. He puts his fingers where God never intended fingers to be put. He looks up my nose, in my ears, and deep into my eyes. He takes my temperature, checks my pulse and knocks me on the knee with a nasty little rubber mallet. He makes me pee in a cup. And then he asks me if I have eaten yet today and if I have not he sticks a needle into my arm and takes some blood. I suppose he checks the blood to make sure it's still red and wet. Or maybe he's looking for a rare disease. Probably he checks my cholesterol and stuff like that. The reason he wants to be sure I have not eaten is because food would throw off the results. You see, when you have not eaten your blood evidently assumes its natural level of ... of ... of whatever it is in your blood that levels off. And that is what is also called your baseline.

With this kind of baseline you find out what the normal level of a given situation is. That way if you check the levels later (of what ever you are checking) and it deviates from the baseline you know you have a problem.

This is where it gets good. Sit down and shut up for a minute. Turn the TV off. Maybe you will learn something. If not, just remember this web site is free. So get over it 'cause it didn't cost you anything.

Ever wonder what your baseline is with God?

They tell me I am a.d.d. That stands for "attention deficit disorder." It means I have trouble sticking with a project, focusing for long periods of time, sitting still. Geez, I don't need a special set of initials to tell me that. I've been living in this skin for a long time know. Sometimes with God I just.... don't spend as much time with Him as I should. I am an expert at having a "Power Quiet Time." You know what I mean. I can spend an hour alone with God in twelve minutes. Except that it really does not work very well. I know it. God knows it. And those who know me well can tell when I'm spending really quality time with God and when I'm cheating.

I used to be a "type a" personality. That means I was a "driven" kind of guy. I never stopped. To be awake was to be busy. To have a job was to always work. Sleep was something you could do after you die. Well that life style didn't work too well for me and I transformed myself into a solid "type b" personality. Actually I did it with the help of a nasty illness. But if you read this blog often you already know that. I'm much more laid back now. I wouldn't say I'm actually the relaxed type but I'm much closer to it than I used to be.

We all have things in our lives that are working on us. You have a certain temperament. You have passions. You have things you disdain. All of these things help to determine what your life actually "looks like." It makes you ... you. It determines your baseline.

But what about the God factor? What is your base line with God?

Much of my time serving God is spent dealing with schedules, deadlines, instructions, rules and ... guilt. Guilt because I don't always keep the schedule, meet the deadline, follow the instruction and abide by the rules. Are you with me? Can I get an "amen?"

But is that really your God baseline?

I remember a day in May 2002. I was in Minnesota to attend a "Sabbath for Youth Pastor's." I arrived early and checked into the part convent/part retreat center that it was being held at. I was one of the first to show up and there were hours before I had to be anywhere. It was a Monday. I had left home on Friday and had driven to Minneapolis to rest before the Sabbath began. I wanted to spend time with God before I was scheduled to. Turns out this was a very good idea. He honored my efforts and came and loved on me in that little hotel room. After I registered at the retreat center and moved my bags into my room I got back into my rented convertible Sebring and drove a few miles down the road. I parked on an overlook that had a panoramic view of the upper Mississippi River. Trees and water surrounded me. A sailboat was anchored in the middle of the river. The sky was the bluest of blues. The only noise came from rustling leaves and singing birds. The top of the car was down and I sat on the driver’s door with my feet dangling over the edge. Do you know why I remember that moment? Because it was the most relaxed moment I remember experiencing since becoming a full-fledged adult. God showed up on that wide spot in the road. I felt Him. It was as though His hand was on my shoulder, His heart in my chest, His Spirit sharing a special communion with mine. And I realized that I had no worries, no fears, nothing to rush to. My attention was all His. And with that realization came peace. It was the peace that the bible speaks of when it mentions the "peace that passeth all understanding." I do not think I had ever experience that before. Not in this incredibly deep form. I have, blessedly, experienced it several times since. And you know what I think?

That is my baseline with God.

The usual daily stress? The constant battle to be "good enough to please Him?" The war with sin that I too often lose? Those are things similar to the sugar or fat or caffeine that I dump into my body. They give false readings. They mess up who I am supposed to be. They are NOT my baseline. They are deceivers. Their job is to trick me into believing that I am NOT who I really AM.

I am God's kid. He takes an insane amount of joy in me. Because of that I do not have a worry in the world. He counts my hairs, guides my steps, lights my path, watches my back and ordains my days.

Because of Him I can join that old philosopher Alfred E. Neumann...

What? Me worry?

Under My Roof

I flew over my house one time. I was in an American Airlines 727 coming from Chicago and preparing to land in St. Louis. It was nighttime. As such it was much too dark to pick my house out of the thousands of lights down below. But I know I was over it because I found the Burger King about a mile away. And the street layout was clearly my neighborhood. I suppose if you were to look at my house from the air during a sunny day there would not be much to make it stand out from any other house in the neighborhood. I have brown shingles. I have a chimney and several other assorted vents protruding upward from the roof. There are gutters on every side. That is about all you can say about it. It's just a roof.

It is what is under my roof that makes this little plot of ground unique. My roof has kept my family dry for nearly fourteen years now. When we moved under it my children were nine, eleven and thirteen. I was thirty-eight. My wife was even younger than that. The nine year old is now about to turn twenty-two. He still lives here and I am so glad that he does. I know that he would rather live on his university campus or in his own apartment but he has accepted the fact that these things will come with time. This wonderful young man stays busy and yet loves to sleep. Sounds like a twenty-two year old, doesn't it? I love the sound of my garage door going up at night because it means that he is home. The house brightens when he walks in the door. Just seeing him makes me smile. The eleven year old is now twenty-four. He lives in Crystal Lake, Illinois and serves God in the middle school ministry of a very large church. On July 6th he will give me my very first daughter-in-law. She is one of the sweetest girls on the planet and I would do anything for her. My thirteen year old is now twenty-six. She lives with her husband and baby daughter in another suburb of our city. I watched her hold her baby girl tonight and I got chills, remembering how I used to hold her the same way and feeling awestruck that my baby girl now had one of her own. She is one of the best mom's I know.

Which brings me to my roof. Things were very busy under it this past week.

First my father-in-law showed up. He flew in and spent the week with us. I have one of the best father's-in-law every. He raised a tremendous daughter and then he simply GAVE her to me. No charge. And he treats me like his real son and not his son-in-law. I am proud to be in his family. Next came Scott. Scott is the twenty-four year old that I mentioned a few paragraphs back. He flew in on Thursday. He is a lot of things but about the best thing I can think of to say about him is that he is one of my best friends. I am not at all certain why a twenty-four year old with everything going for him and the world at his fingertips would bother being close friends with his fifty-one year old father but I am so glad that he does. He will never know how much I love him, enjoy him, and revel in the time we spend together. Actually, I think that I bug him more than I should. I call him everyday and text message him whenever the urge hits. He handles it with patience and love but I know he has more important things to do. Still, he loves me and allows me this grace ... to be an interactive dad. Anyway, the next to show up was my grandbaby, Elle and her dog Rigby. Elle's mom was going to Nashville overnight to listen to her husband’s band. Yes, Joe is in a band that actually tours. I suggest you go to itunes and run a power search for the "Fundamental Elements." You'll love their music and the four young husbands that make up this indie band could use the financial support. Remember what it is like to be young and have a family? Me too. And then my brother-in-law and sister-in-law (I hate to have to add the "in-law" part to their names. I consider them my brother and my sister) came by and stayed for a few hours and we got to talk about serious issues for a few minutes. Health issues that we ask God to be working on for my sister (in-law.) She leaves tomorrow for two weeks at Mayo Clinic. My wife will go and spend the better part of one of those weeks with her so that she will not have to be alone. You see, that is what family does. And nobody should have to be sick alone.

So we had a busy, crazy, loving, caring, wonderful time under our roof for the past week. We ate together. We sat and simply talked. We watched favorite TV programs. We went places together. We took turns playing with Baby Elle. What a great week it was! It will go down in my personal history books as one of my favorites ever!

And then early this morning my father-in-law's jet left for Richmond. Late this afternoon Scott's jet left for Chicago. Late tonight my daughter came and took Elle and Rigby the dog home. My awesome son who lives down the hall from me went out with some friends to enjoy a Saturday night. I know better than to wait up.

And now? Now my wife is asleep. Bailey the Killer Beagle is asleep. And I just finished walking through a darkened house, stopping in every room and remembering the joy, the noise and the love of the last week. I thanked my Father ... the one in heaven ... the one that created us all ... for allowing me the honor of living out the past seven days. The walls still echo with the laughter and the wise cracks. The carpet needs vacuuming because of the eating and walking and playing that took place on it. Several sets of sheets could use a washing machines attention. No major damage was done to anything and yet everywhere I look are the blessed "scars" of the time we spent together. You know how your kitchen table, the one you eat your meals together on every night, begins to show wear after a few years. A mark where a knife was dropped. A dent in the wood where somebody slammed down a game piece while playing some noisy, rowdy family game. The usual signs of life lived around a shared table. You know what I mean, right? Well, my entire house shows those marks tonight. And I do not want them ever to be repaired. Several times during the past week I just stepped back from the scene and took in the moment. I reminded myself to memorize it all because it would not last forever. And now every mark, every dirty dish, every damp towel has a meaning. Add them up and they equal the priceless gift of family.

My roof is blessed. It is solid on top and blessed underneath. I cannot ask for more than that.

And it was good ...

December 1982. It was cold and it was snowy. I clearly remember the day. I walked into the dispatcher’s office at DuPage Motor Coach, the great leaser of school buses in the western suburbs of Chicago. They handed me my paycheck and I walked out the door knowing that I did not have to crank up another bright yellow monster until after the Christmas break. What I did not know was that I would not bother going back to work at that part time job because by then I would be pretty certain that God was moving my little family and I out of the Chicagoland area. (I believe that south side Catholics such as lived in Mayor Daley's neighborhood considered it a mortal sin to leave the windy city for any reason other than to help friends in other places move to Chicago. But I was going to risk it.) And I was correct. On March 26, 1983 we finished packing up and drove the nearly 300 miles to Bethalto. And here we sit this very day. But that paycheck they handed me way back in 1982 was the last paycheck I would receive from a non-church related vocation for a long time.

The next time I worked one single hour for someone other than the church or one of its related organizations (i.e. Youth Specialties or the Illinois Baptist State Association) would be ... today. March 22, 2007. That is 25 years and change. A long time.

I remembered some things today. I remembered what early morning looks like because my phone rang at about 5AM asking me if I would be willing to substitute at Lewis & Clark Jr High. I must have been really sleepy because I said "yes." And you know what? I had a GREAT time. I spent the day with 6th and 7th graders. I guided them through language arts, science, math, reading and something else but it escapes me at the moment. It was so cool to see those bright eyes again. I had never met any of the kids in any of my classes but that isn't important. They were kids. And I'm passionate about them. God just put that in my heart and I don't suspect I'll ever get over it.

You know what was really hard? I had to be "The Teacher." And that means I could not tell them about Jesus. So sad. So truly and deeply sad. And at one point late in the afternoon somebody came on the intercom and told all of the students to please stand and recite the ... and I lost her voice in the noise created by dropping books, shuffling feet and moving chairs. I immediately put my hand over my heart and began reciting the pledge of allegiance. (What happened to the pledge of allegiance? That's what we used to say when I was in school! Hey, the mascot of Lewis & Clark Jr. High is "The Patriots." Shouldn't they be saying the pledge just by default?) Unfortunately the students were repeating some kind of pledge of loyalty to good old Lewis & Clark Jr High. Even more unfortunately an aid was standing next to me and heard what I said. She couldn't finish the recitation because she was doubled over in laughter while staring at me like I was a Martian... which I might as well have been. And then I started laughing at her because she's about five months pregnant and she just didn't have what it takes to double over for ANYTHING, much less laughter. But we got through it. And you know what? All day people called me, "Mr. Woods." Because that is my name. Yes, I love being a pastor and it's most certainly the direction I am heading in. But in 25 years I do not think anybody had called me "Mr. Woods." Hmmm. I would rather they call me simply Ron but evidently that shows a lack of respect so I have to stick with Mr. No problem. I can do that.

And then I went home. And it's the oddest thing ... my phone did not ring. Nobody wanted a question answered, a door unlocked, a phone number, an address, an announcement scribbled down for Sunday, a special appearance at a meeting .... nothing. I went home and I was off. OFF! I forgot that is how many people live. No, not all of them. Many people have jobs that follow them home. I am certain that the teacher I replaced has a desk or a table totally lined with notes, lesson plans and schedules.

But I don't.

And God saw it. And I believe He said.... "And it was good."

Harpo Marx ... I Am He

My personal definition of "Insane" ...

"Ad-Jec-tive. One who decides to send out a personal resume for the purpose of securing a position as Sr. Pastor of a church. Adjectives are often added to a verb to show action such as, "The man was GROWING progressively more insane with the reciept of every letter inquiring about his resume."

I must be seriously mentally ill. If I am not ... I will be by this time next month.

Being a pastor generally means that you believe in a "Higher Being." This Higher Being is most often referred to as "God." I believe that He sent His Son, Jesus, to hang on a horrible cross of execution to offer a sacrifice for the sins of people like me. God is large and in charge. It is also my personal belief that God often gets the giggles. I think it happens everytime He watches me try to figure out precisely what He wants me to do. Three weeks ago I asked God for a favor. I asked Him to please tell me by the NEXT week one of three things.

A) Where do you want me relocate to on my next ministry assignment.

B) Do you want me to forget ministry for a while, maybe a year, and just take some time doing something else. ANYTHING ELSE. Things that don't make me want to beat my head against brick walls several times each week. Things that require little skill and even less thought.

C) Give me peace knowing that I am doing exactly what you want me to do right now ... rest. The last few years have been long ones and the rest has been very healing. I mean, VERY HEALING. And maybe I am supposed to just keep doing that for a while longer.

I woke up the following Monday and, lo and behold ( <--- two biblical terms for the price of one!) I quickly realized that God had granted me my request. C! I had no stress, no anxiety, no sweat. God placed His Hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Chill." Or the theological equivelent of that. "C" stands for "chill."

All of that week He and I sat quietly just about every day. We spent time NOT talking. Just, you know ... being. I wondered things but decided not to ask them. He made His presence real. Tangible. But in a quiet way. My phone was quiet. My email box was quiet. Very little was going on.

And then came last week. To say that things changed would be cheating the week of its full glory. Everyday brought a new phone call, email or letter from a church that is looking for a pastor and wants to talk. Another one was added today. They say that war can be defined as long stretches of great boredom punctuated by bursts of sheer terror. That's another good definition for a "church search." Please do not misinterpret this and think I am complaining. No way! I am excited as I watch God play out his objectives for my life. It's just that we went from ... zero to 120 ... in about a day! In my experience God often works that way. Cool. His way is better than mine.

Who was the silent and semi-crazy guy that was one of the Marx Brothers? I think .... Harpo. Yeah, Harpo Marx. He never spoke and he played the harp. That is me. I am the Harpo Marx of the Christian church. I am spending a lot of time looking skyward, silently, reflectively, objectively. But I am not asking a lot of questions. I am just watching in patient awe as God works. I sit strumming the "harp" of my curiosity hoping that the tune of my heart brings Him joy. I am not bugging Him ... not harassing Him. He has given me peace. He really has. And yet He has my head spinning. I am mentally juggling a lot of places right now. Some near. Some not. A huge part of me cheers for near because my incredibly precious kids and granddaughter live close by. Only God is more important to me than they are. A smaller part of me cheers for far because ... well, let's just leave it at "because." That way nobody gets any arrows to shoot at anybody else. But sometimes far looks really good. Really good.

Still, it does not matter because I know that I don't get to choose. I only get to watch, wait, wonder ... and cheer. I figure that either way I win. Because winning (to me) means being in God's perfect will. Nothing less will do.

Harpo. That's me. You can learn a lot when you are silent.

Anything to get that hug...

Since assuming my current position of "kept man and my wife's boy toy" I've been doing a lot of those things that I've wanted to do for years.

Oh. Wait a second. No I haven't. That was supposed to be in my fantasy blog. Drat. Allow me to start over.

Since quitting my 162 hour per week job (yes I know that there are only 162 hours in a week ... that's called "sarcasm") I've been trying to reassimilate myself back into reality. I now know that we are at war in Iraq, Boston won a World Series and gas is priced over a dollar a gallon. What? It is over two dollars a gallon? Sheesh. And it hit three dollars a gallon last year? And it probably will again this summer? Can we go back to the fantasy blog now? Anyway, I met my neighbors. Walmart is bigger than Walgreens. Who would - a thunk it? They no longer make Dutch Apple Pop Tarts (the demise off which should be considered a crime against humanity.) It is aMAZing what you learn when you actually stop and look around. When did Standard become Amoco become BP? (Does BP really stand for "bad petroleum?")

I have also been making great gains on a few goals I set. I do the laundry. I wash the dishes. Well, the dish washer and I do. I write a lot and I let you read a little of it. I eat less. Unfortunately, I also eat less healthy. (Who knew that nearly all fast food drive-throughs are open 24/7?) And one goal was to read the bible front to back ... cover to cover ... approaching each of the sixty-six books in no particular order. I'm really tearing that one up. Hey, it's been fifteen weeks but it's a long book. Back off and give me a break, would ya?

And the more I read the more I sit and think. And the more I sit and think the more I find my mouth hanging open as all of my brain cells bail out of the muscle control business in a vain effort at coming to grips with what I am reading. Some of what I read amazes me. God is bigger than I ever remember acting like He is. My behavior is more appalling that I ever remember realizing that it is. Especially the behavior that never gets past my hard to find "internal monologue," making it into my speech or actions. In other words sometimes my thought patterns el-stinketh.

But there is some other stuff in God's best seller that just flat out makes my head hurt. Like ... I do NOT understand. Want a prime example? I knew you would. So here goes. In the New Testament Jesus tells us that adultery is wrong, wrong, wrong. Don't do it. As a matter-of-fact, don't even DWELL on the possibility of doing it. You can read Matthew 5: 27 - 28 if you need a refresher course. Or, if you REALLY need a refresher course have your spouse read it to you. That might make a difference. Ok, and then I happen upon the book of Genesis. Things were pretty hairy back then. God had just finished making the world and the dust had settled leaving Adam and Eve in it's wake. (Play on words intended.) Fast forward a couple of generations. Suddenly you come across this .... unusual phenomenon. Abraham and Isaac both employ odd tactics in that they have married what must have been astonishingly beautiful brides (Sarah and Rebekah, respectively.) You might flip over to Genesis 26: 6 through whatever if you want an example of the Isaac and Rebekah deal. You know what these guys did? Their wives were sooooo lovely that when they entered a foriegn place they told these thoroughbreds of lovliness to pretend that they were their SISTERS rather than their wives, thus saving their own hides if the King wanted to get all cozy with the little woman. (Please interpret "cozy" in the most erotic of definitions.) Both guys did this and both guys got busted for it. And here's the crazy part ... the didn't get busted by God. They didn't get busted by their wives. They got busted by the foriegn king who caught on to their kinky ways and realized that they came within a hair of committing adultery and ticking off Abraham and Isaac's God. You know the one. The BIG God. The REAL God. And so what do these kings do? They give them their "sisters" (aka: wives) back along with lots of neat stuff. I mean if you count sheep and oxen as neat stuff. And then ... then ... (this is where my head starts to hurt) ... then God blesses Abraham and Isaac. In Isaac's case God did not just bless him ... He blessed him one hundred fold. ONE HUNDRED FOLD. That is a lot of folding.

Can somebody please 'splain that to me? I mean, if I mess up by accident at the local grocery store I feel guilty for a week! Of course, I have a vast army of friends that just love to feed that guilt. (You know who you are and I know where you sleep ...) We live under the wonderful grace of a great and loving God. His boundless care and provision absolutely leaves me breathless sometimes. No joke. So don't you even think of assuming that this is a tirade against God. What? Do you think I am stupid? God has His reasons and His ways. He will be gracious to whom He will be gracious and He will show mercy to whom He will show mercy. (That one is in Exodus 33: 19.) God seldom ... ok, never ... asks my permission to do anything. This is a good thing because I would really screw the world up. And I'd probably come after you first. But you see, those guys lived "under the law." Not grace. And they pretty much offered their wives up to commit adultery. And, as you know, adultery is one of "The Top Ten No- No's." Yet they wind up getting their socks blessed off.

This is just one of those things that makes me go "hmmmmm." As a matter-of-fact the more I read the more I go hmmmmmm. Because when I am in the attitude of going "hmmmmmm" I am realizing that God is much bigger than I am. He stretches out long before I arrived on the scene and will be around long after I am gone. And when He decides to do something He really does not consider what my thoughts on the subject are going to be. He just ... does it. And I find out about it later. And I roll it around in my head. And then I cozy up next to Him and say, "God, I really don't get that one. But you be God and I'll be Ron and I know everything will be ok." And He hugs me.

And everything is ok. Cause I will do anything to get that hug.

I Wonder ... (Caution: the following article contains the answer for global warming)

Today nothing happened. Well, nothing of note. That means I have nothing to write about. Have you ever known that to stop me?

I wonder who put the big pickle sized jar at the end of my driveway last week. I wonder what is in it. It is clear and the label says "Dill Spears" which leads me to conclude that once upon a time it actually did hold pickles. Now it is about half full of a brown putrid liquid. I have not touched it. It just appeared there one morning. Coincidently three beer cans (crushed, not squashed) turned up on my front lawn the same day. I threw the beer cans away. But I ain't touching that bottle. Neither are my neighbors. It has just been sitting there for many days and many nights. At what point should I call the department of homeland security?

I wonder if Tom Cruise really is going to be the reincarnation of Jesus as good scientologists claim he (soon to be "He" is?) If he is I think there will be a line of people volunteering to be Judas.

I wonder what my dog thinks about. I know she thinks because she has spastic reactions to certain stimuli. Like people walking down my street. She concludes that they need to die at the end of her razor sharp Beagle fangs. And like when I say, "Milky Bones" she salivates and gets tremors. So what does she think about in moments like these when her chin is resting on my leg? Is she daydreaming? Is she thinking about quantum physics? Is she plotting her next escape? Is she wondering if Christopher will come home and watch the Simpson's with her? I wonder.

I wonder if our furnaces affect the alleged global warming we are experiencing. Why does no one ask this question? I understand the claims about automobile emissions and such. But what about the fact that we actually turn on these big coffin sized devices created for the sole purpose of pumping heat into the atmosphere. And you KNOW it sneaks out of your house. Of course it does. Otherwise it would only have to run once each winter and you would be all set. Same thing with ovens. Isn't that more suspect than car flatulence? How about we test a theory together. Saturday night at 10pm CDT let's all turn our air conditioners on high and open all of our doors and windows. Let them run until about, ohhhhh, 6am. Put fans up so that the cold air will blow outside. Can't you just see Sunday morning’s news programs? All of the anchor people announcing with breathless wonder that global warming just ... disappeared. Over night. It's just ... gone. Al Gore will sleep better that's for sure.

I wonder why churches feel compelled to compete and to be cool? They do you know. They might deny it but I was once behind the curtain. Every church wants to be the biggest in town. Every church wants to attract the young people. I have to be careful here because I've got a whale of a lot of youth ministry in my past. I know a church that put up a billboard on a local expressway with a picture of four TOTALLY looking cool early twenty-something’s on it. The wording says, "A Church For Today's Generation." Which generation is "Today's Generation?" Hello ... I'm alive. I don't think they mean me but here I am. "Yesterday's Generation" checked-out and left us for greener pastures. "Tomorrow's Generation" hasn't been born yet. If you are alive and breathing you are today's generation. So does this church mean that if I/we don't look like a cool twenty-something we should just keep driving? Maybe down the street somewhere you will find a church for "Today's Generation That Is Old Or Tired Or Ugly." I think that church is the one I would want to go to. And it most assuredly is the one I would want to pastor. (As a side note I have noticed that most tithers are old, ugly, tired or probably all three. That means without us the cool church of "Today's Generation" will be meeting in a field and carrying umbrella's to church soon. God help them if the tornado sirens go off.)

Ok, that will do it. I was just wondering.

I See ... Part deux

I admit it. I was wrong about the eye guy. Remember I told you how much I hate going to see him and how bad it is? Well. IT WAS TEN TIMES WORSE THAN I REMEMBERED! Who gives these people license to practice? Attila The Hun School of Optometry?

The doctor was the last one in the room and he was nuttin compared to the winch that he sent in ahead of him. She does his dirty work. All he did was shine some bright lights in my eyes that have the approximate candlepower of the sun X 10. And then he asked me to read an eye chart. Eye chart? All I could see was the fiery pits of hell. So he let me wait a minute. How kind. And then he told me not to worry about all of the horrible things the lady that works for him told me ... things that she thought were going on in my head even now. She was "probably" wrong.

What a real sweet heart she was. When she came in I thought, "Great! I got a nice one! She looks happy and appears to like working here." The she opened her little pouch of utensils, which included multiple hot pokers, pruning shears, a blender and a car battery. But those were simply a diversion. Her secret weapon was her first tool. It looked for all the world like a permanent marking pen with a round glass tip. She began moving it sslloowwllyy toward my right eye and told me "DON'T YOU BLINK EVEN ONCE" and 'IT'S GOING TO LOOK LIKE WATER IS SPLASHING IN YOUR EYE." Where in the name of all that is pure and good did she get that idea? She put that thing on my eye and I blinked. She told me to stop it. She put it on my eye again. I blinked again. So she went for the drops that some textbook once upon a time told her would deaden my eyes sense of touch. HAHAHAHAHAwrong. She handed me a Kleenex and told me to wipe my eyes. I was crying yellow. YELLOW! For all I know I was actually peeing out my eyeballs. Then she put her magic marker back in my eye and began rolling it around. (Note: Yellow eye drops do nothing to ease the sense of touch. Lies. All lies.) She rolled it around for about thirty of the longest seconds of my life. And she yelled if I even blinked my other eye. Holy smokes, woman! She said, "blinking one puts pressure on the other." Well, yeah Einstein. So she does the right eye again. I was silently threatening my eyes with a marathon of "Oprah" reruns if they blinked even once. Then she takes her pent-up rage out on my left eye. Guess what! The little pen from H-E-double hockey sticks beeped before five seconds had passed. (It beeps when it has figured out how much pressure is in your eye. My right eye had taken over thirty seconds.) She said, "no way." So she tried it again. BEEP! Attempt number three. Same thing. She put her pen down and scowled at me telling me that the pressure in my left eye was really high.

Oh. I'm sorry. Next time I promise to unscrew the cap on the valve and let some of the steam off before I come in. I didn't mean to ruin her day. She stood up and actually looked disappointed that she couldn't think of anything else to do to me. So she said the doctor would be in any minute (translation: before the new moon rises in the eastern sky) and that I should just relax.

Relax. Great plan. I tried to shove a chair under door handle but it was on wheels. I was in the process of building a barricade with office furniture when "The Big Guy" came in.

Well, the doctor told me my vision was screwed up in my left eye and charged me my co-pay, handed me my prescription for a new left lens in my glasses and told me to come back in a year. I stopped him. I told him that when I close my eyes late in the afternoon or evening and then open them (like after a short nap) that everything is like ... pale. Like the color has gone to never never land. I told him that my vision is nearly normal until mid-afternoon and that as I start to get tired it deteriorates. He looked me in the eye (the right one) and said, "I don't know of anything that would cause that. Have you been checked for diabetes?

Diabetes? In my eye? I eat sugar. I don't eat sugar. Either way. No difference. MY EYE IS SCREWY. It's my EYE MY EYE MY EYE. The one crying yellow! AAARRRGGGHHH.

Aww, never mind. I went to Lens Crafters and gave them something over $250 and they told me my two new lenses (one for my regular glasses and one for my ultra-cool prescription "look at me because I'm together and totally what's happening" sun glasses) would be ready in around a week. Huh? When did their advertising campaign begin saying, "Lens Crafters! New glasses in about a week??????"

Ok, I'm done. Nothing more about opthowhatevers. My head hurts. My eyes burn. The laptop screen is waving good night. I'm waving back.

Good night, Tess.

Good night, Ron.

I See ...

Tomorrow I am doing the one thing I hate worse than going to the dentist. Wait. I hate throwing up worse than going to the dentist too. So that's two things. And then there is kayaking. (Except for on snow. I love to kayak down snow covered hills. Preferably backward. No, I'm not kidding.) Oh, and trying to explain to my cell phone company why I refuse to pay their stupid "activation fee" when I already have six of their stinken cell phones and a contract that doesn't end until Rudy Giuliani kisses and makes up with HIllary. Aren't I "activated" enough for cryin out loud? Yes, I won the argument. Thank you for asking.

I think I maybe should just start over.

Tomorrow I have to go to the eye doctor. Actually he's an optho ... optho ... ok, sound it out with me because I can't spell it OR find it in the dictionary. (How are you supposed to find the correct spelling of a word by using a dictionary which REQUIRES that you know how to spell the word in order to look it up??? I hate that worse than the dentist too...) Tomorrow I have to go to the OP - THO - MALL - A - JUST. He's more expensive than a simple OP -TOM - A - TRUST. So he must know more. And tomorrow at 3pm central daylight time (in case you want to be praying) I have to go sit in his chair. That part is just fine. But then I know what he's going to want to do.

HE'S GOING TO WANT TO TOUCH MY EYE!

This is way high on my list of no-no's. Nobody touches my eye. Not my right. Not my left. If you want me to look in a cool little scope and tell you which way the "E" is pointing, fine. I can do that. If you want to put eye drops in my eyes we can make that happen too. I'll just close my eyes and you squeeze your miracle drops into the corner of my eyes and then I'll open them and your stuff will get in my eyes. Deal? They always say, "no deal." Then they make the OP - THO - ASSIST - A - MALL - A - JUST sit on my feet until I stop kicking while the doctor uses one arm to get me in a half nelson and hold me down and the other hand to pry my eye open and stick his potion directly onto my cornea. And if that is not bad enough his drop of stuff makes my already over sized pupils open up like my son Christopher's mouth when I bake Chicago deep dish pizza. And that is HUGE. And then I can't see. (After the eye drops, not after the pizza. I can see just fine after the pizza.) I mean isn't the eye doctor guy supposed to make you see better? Then how come I go to see him and I drive myself to his office but when I leave my wife has to drive me home? Hmm? Isn't there something wrong with that logic? And for his final act he puts this thing about 1/1,000,000,000th of an inch from my eye and hits a button that shoots air that would make a jet engine jealous right into it. AND I DON'T LIKE THAT. And then ... (excuse me, I'm getting queasy) ... because he doesn't trust that test enough, he actually ROLLS SOME LITTLE WHEEL ACROSS MY EYE!!!!! All in the name of making certain that I don't have glucoma. Geez! A couple of years ago I went to see Dr. Dufus when I was sick, sick, sick and his test showed that I was one precious point below the beginning level of glucoma. That scared him which in turn scared me. So now I have to go to his torture chamber once a year even though he admitted last year that I was no longer that close to GLU - COMB - A. "Why," you ask? Beeeecause heee saaaaysss sssoooo.

And tonight I got a phone call from a church that wants to consider me as their future pastor. I do not know how many people go to their church but I believe the population of their community has been hovering around 12 for the last decade. That sounds like a very biblical number to me. So how about I skip my appointment tomorrow and go there as their first blind pastor? They can do the Jesus thing and spit in the dirt and make mud and rub it on my CLOSED eye lids. We can make it a yearly event. You've got Christmas, you've got Good Friday, you've got Easter, and now you've got Spit In Ron's Closed Eyes Day. Sounds like a deal I'd make.

But something tells me Debbie's going to make me go to the optho ...optho ... awwwforgetaboutit. Don't send your white canes with postage due...