One "BANG" too many

A third grader sat in the school gym transfixed by what he was seeing on television. He was young but somehow he sensed, he knew, that he was watching the world change. There was a "BANG" in reality as well as a "BANG" in history and a tower tumbled. Everything was hazy. Nobody was thinking clearly. Certainly nobody had a handle on how the events of this day would effect the future. For days nobody could tear their eyes from the tube. Commentators commented. Analysts analyzed. Wise men and women spoke words of wisdom. And yet a real "Humpty Dumpty" had fallen and we were all pretty certain that he could never be put back together again.

The following years proved those thoughts to be true. At the moment of the BANG it seemed as though every American was united. We linked arms and faced the future as one. But all to quickly that fell apart. Unity gave way to ugly. Bravery turned to bickering. It continues to this day.

I remember that third grader all to well because he ... was me. My "BANG" was a bullet. It tore from the sixth floor of a school book depository building in Dallas Texas, and penetrated my "tower," the brain of the President of the United States, and left him dead in the back seat of a bullet proof car that, ironically, had its top down leaving him open to the wind ... and to the wicked. I watched my teachers cry. I watched my parents sit in shock, mourning the murder of a man whom they had never met and yet trusted. He had recently, with steely eyed resolve, faced down the hated Soviet Union in what has become known as "The Cuban Missile Crises." We had walked to the edge of the annihilation of the human race and this man had led us back. He got us off the brink. And then he was murdered and then his brother was murdered and we learned never to trust again. Oh, and don't forget to hate. Hate those who don't think like you do because they are probably hating you and planning your demise.

There is a fading freshness in our country these days. In a few hours we will experience the anniversary of another "BANG." Other third graders sat in class rooms staring at televisions and thinking the same things that I thought. And by now the memory fades. Somebody emailed me a massive amount of 9/11 pictures today, shots of the Twin Towers as they collided with their fate. I admit that I was shocked all over again. I have not spent the past eight years staring at the helpless bodies of men and women leaping to their death from 100 stories in the air to avoid the torch of jet fuel and office supplies. Since that horrible day I have walked the side walks around that site. My feet have trod land that was, not too long ago, coated with dust and ash and metal. And body parts. Just like the back seat of a limousine on November 22, 1963.

For me it has been 45 years and 8 years, depending on the "BANG." I remember them both as though they were yesterday. And I mourn what happened to those people. And I mourn what has became the unfortunate and possibly inevitable results to our country. Many, many people will hurt tomorrow. Oddly, I want to be one of them. Because if I hurt it means that I remember. And I don't want to forget. I cannot afford to forget. On a day when we are torn apart by debates over health care, two wars where close friends of mine came oh so close to death, a mega-recession, and countless other things that divide us, I want to remember why it matters.

Why does it matter? It matters because, no matter what you might have been indoctrinated to believe, the United States has for many, many years been the world leader in .... goodness. Yes, goodness. We don't generally blow-up other peoples stuff unless they have already blown-up our stuff ... or seriously threatened to. Complain all you want about a "first strike" mentality. I wish we had blown the living tar out of Japan before they ever got close to Pearl Harbor. And if you have a brain you do too. Then my dad could have stayed home with his future bride and not traveled in uniform to Europe causing him to (in his own words) "go to bed every night remembering the eyes of the men I killed so that they wouldn't kill me." I hate that my dad had to live his life that way. But I'm grateful that he was willing to. We are the country that sends our soldiers to protect and liberate people that we don't even know. We send food, clothing, and medicine to take care of citizens of countries that can't take care of themselves. That is, to me, a strong definition of "goodness."

Okay, so that's how I feel on this night before 9/11/09. About a week after 9/11 I asked my family to please write down their memories of that day. I wanted to be able to read it myself and give it back to them years down the road. We tend to forget how we felt ... really truly felt ... after the passing of time. One of them actually took the time and wrote the mini-essay. I came across it after we moved. It shocked me. I realized there was pure fear in those comments. And I wonder if that fear is still there. Or has it simply been relegated into the hearts of those who visit National Cemeteries and stand over the graves of their families soldiers who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and wound up giving everything to keep us from another 9/11. I can't answer that question.

I can only hope we can find a way to stop the bickering and fighting and return to simply being good. Because honestly, I feel it slipping. And that scares me more than 11/22/63 or 9/11/01.

Bill ... The Man ... The Myth ... The Legend. Sideways.

Okay, I know he's side ways. But I'm not spending the $39 for the software to turn him around. Get over it! Bill York is THE MAN at any angle!

Paisley Rae

I watched my new granddaughter sleep today. She sleeps the sleep of the blessed. No twitching, squirming, dreaming, no kicking, twisting, or any of those other oddities that seem to disrupt the sleep of the more "mature." She simply ... slept. She was all nestled in safely to her little seat. She could not fall out, be stepped on, accidentally smacked or other less than delightful occurrence. Her mom and dad take great care to make certain that she is safe and protected from a rough and rowdy world. (And a rough and rowdy family!)

I've been Paisley's grandpa now for a few weeks. I have not written on this space about her at all, though she graces the pages of my private journal at length. It's not that I don't love Paisley. It's not that I don't care about her. It's just that she's an unknown quantity wrapped in flesh. This is a good thing! I find myself staring at her and wondering what her voice will sound like. What her eye color will wind up being. Will her hair be curly? What color will it be when it is fully grown? And her smile. Will it be all toothy and child like or will she fast forward to a more adult smile before her time? Hey, it happens. And we just don't know.

One day this week our family had gathered for lunch at a restaurant near her home. As we came out Paisley was strapped into her car seat which was then buckled tightly into her car. Everybody was standing a bit away from the open door. She was completely safe. I wandered over in that direction and stuck my head in and looked at her. Her eyes were closed. Her eyes at this age are most always closed. Suddenly, without warning or provocation, she began to cry. It was one of those real cries that start in the gut, explodes through the throat and then begins to quiver as her lungs run out of air. I leaned in closer to her. I brushed her forehead with my cheek and gently whispered, "Shhhhhhh. It's alright. Shhhhhh. Grandpa doesn't know what's wrong but he loves you and he is here. Shhhhh." And. Well. She stopped crying. I stopped whispering but I continued to brush my cheek against her forehead. When I finally stopped she began crying again. We went back and forth that way three times. Her lovely mama came over and I stepped back. I'm sure she addressed the real issue and Paisley once again slipped into her deep sleep.

I've thought a lot about those three moments today. I saw her again over lunch. We didn't speak. You guessed it, she was sound asleep. Babies need a lot of sleep. She will certainly be a strong young lady if getting her fill of snoozing is any indication. But as I ate my lunch and looked at my granddaughter I found myself dreaming about afternoons pushing her on a swing. Morning's at McDonalds eating that kids breakfast Happy Meal. Evenings singing to her, "You are my (nickname to yet be decided) my only (nickname yet to be decided.) You make me happy, when skies are gray. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my (nickname to be decided) away!" I sang that song to all three of my kids when they were small. And I'll sing it to all of my grandchildren. Why? Just because I can. Not because I sing well. I don't. Not because the song is creative. It isn't. But simply because it says what I want Paisley to know. I want her to know "I love you." If that requires this croaking old voice to sing, then sing it shall.

Paisley. I love you. Thanks for making me smile today. I can't wait to REALLY meet you. Until then, well, if you need somebody to run their cheek over your forehead and whisper, "Shhhhh" you just let me know, I'm here for you, baby girl.

SLAP '09

So it seems that this guy was walking through a Wal-Mart in Stone Mountain, Georgia when he happened across a 2 year old who was making noise. That's what 2 year olds do. They make noise. They also make snot, poop, and a general mess out of everything they touch. But noise is way high on the "things to make" list for 2 year old kids. Our friend didn't like the noise and so he warned the mom to shut the kid up or he would shut the kid up for her. Mom didn't get the job done. So the man slapped the kid 4 times. Then the kid really started screaming. Ya see, that's the other thing that is wrong with 2 year olds. There ISN'T a volume button. Still, this guy is deep in the aforementioned poop. I'm thinking he's seen his last Wal-Mart for a while. That's not an entirely bad thing for him.

But it all got me thinking. There are people I would like to slap the snot out of. If perchance I run across them strapped into a shopping cart at my local Wal-Mart I just might take a shot. It would be selfish of me to keep their identities to myself. And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present you with my "Most Slappable People" list as of 09-13-09. Pray you are not on it.

In no particular order ...

-Whitney Houston. She should have either quit singing after filming "The Body Guard" or she should have hung out with a higher class of husband.


-Shaq. He's 0 for 3 in "Shaq VS" having lost to everybody he's taken on. I think next week he has a "nursing contest" against the ob/gyn ward at Barnes Hospital.


-Ben & Jerry. They changed the name of their amazing "Chubby Hubby" to "Hubby Hubby" to celebrate the state of Vermont granting same sex marriage licenses. No more "Chunky Monkey" for me. I'm not boycotting. I'm just afraid they'll allow people to start marrying monkeys and I can't stand the thought of losing that banana goodness in the name of all that is politically correct.


-Miyuki Hatoyama. She's married to Japanese Prime Minister Elect, Yukio Hatoyama. She also says she was abducted by aliens, traveled to Venus on a UFO while asleep, and Knew Tom Cruise in a former life. Well, at least 2 out of 3 were potentially fun.


-Katie Voitek. She's my niece and she ISN'T coming to visit me this weekend with her parents. Excuses, excuses, Katie! NO VANILLA FOR YOU!


-Doctor ButtFeel. No explanation needed. Just follow the
link -----> Link

-The entire 2009 Chicago Cubs. For rolling over, dying, and ruining the perfect fall I had planned.


Consider yourselves all slapped.

There. I feel better already.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #40

Chocolate Covered Bacon. It's about time.

My brother-in-law's blog

My brother-in-law Jim has created the ultimate blog post. I can't beat it. So I'm simply posting it here for my little part of the world to enjoy. (Jim video blogs on Sunday's. His bride, Alisha, has been in the hospital for over a week, though she is home now. So that's enough explanation. Enjoy!)

Stupid Picture Chronicles #39

There are just so many things wrong with this statement that I don't even know where to begin.

I love my sister-in-law's guts

I love my sister-in-law's guts. And here they are. Just a little snap shot the doctor took this week as she's been spending all day and all night in the hospital. Cool, huh?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #38

For the reading impaired?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #37

I can't really think of anything to add to this. Stupid speaks for stupid.

What happens at St. Johns STAYS at St. Johns (or on "You Tube")

Doctor Buttfeel

I had every possible reason not to go to the doctor today. Yes, my knees have been torturing me since my glowing victory on the softball field a few weeks ago. They are all swollen and yell at me when I bend. And I had to have a check-up before he would refill my addictions ... er ... medications. So off I went to see Dr. Butterfield. This is my least favorite day of the year. (And I REALLY hate October 14th.)

I could have stayed home. I could have turned back. There was plenty of opportunities. Like ...

A street sweeper or a sign from God? You decide.

EVERY light was red! An omen of things to come!

Every truck had been called into action. An almost-successful blockade was put in place. I trudged on.

Obstacles were placed along the way ...

Dire warnings of men without knees and elbows waving and holding boxed lunches out to drivers made me want to slow down and accept one ... but I was told to report to the doctor while fasting. He is a very religious man.

I was woozy and not seeing clearly due to my hunger. It was so bad that I began to hallucinate that an orange man next to a stooped over orange gorilla was creeping toward my moving car.

I sped up to get away from them.

Then Tiger Woods showed up to cheer me on so I kept going even faster! That really helped! Thanks, Tiger!

The flora and fauna caught my attention and I was tempted to stop. Fortunately, a sign was posted nearby reminding me of my important mission. Dr. Butterfield was waiting!

The city of Alton sent dancing deer to welcome me! So kind!

And then I got to the doctors office at St. Anthony's Hospital in Alton. And I made a mistake. I called Dr. Butterfield ... Dr. Buttfeel. Oh yes I did. Seriously. The nurses laughed at him. They wiped their eyes. I felt badly. But not badly enough, I guess. Because the doctor hurt me. He stuck needles in me. I watched my life's blood being drained from my body. He told me to tighten the muscle in my upper arm and then he stabbed it with another needle. Yes. He did that. Then he told me it was going to swell up and hurt but that I should be a man and not whimper or cry. He said that if I hurt myself and bleed anytime in the next ten years it won't hurt me for long because he put stuff inside of me to keep my jaw from locking up and other horrible stuff from happening. He gave the nurses dirty looks as if to say, "Don't you dare tell him the truth." I don't really know what was in that needle. My arm hurts. This may be my last blog. Ever.


One nice nurse felt badly for me and she bandaged up one of the holes in my body. This one only hurts a little bit. But I lost a lot of blood through it. It was really hard to text and drive on the way home. I was woozy.

I rewarded myself with liquid heaven. Hit-N-Run Vanilla Coke. I thought about drinking two but thought I felt my throat swelling up and closing off from the fake shot.

That's when I noticed that I had hurt myself. Somehow I had poked a hole in my thumb. Maybe ... maybe the doctor was right. Maybe the shot will make me not lock-up and die. Maybe.

Probably not though. I don't trust Dr. Buttfeel.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #36

I dunno. There's just something wrong with the location of your local hospitals "crash cart" being pointed out by a bulletin board designed by Mrs. Sweeneys 3rd grade class. Is that today's lunch menu down in the bottom corner?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #35

Oddly enough the town of the next name is "Beulah."

Stupid Picture Chronicles #34

I don't want to live in a place where you actually have to point out the inappropriateness of this act.

Temporarily Final

For the past couple of days Scott and I have been hiding. You know. From life. All of it. Every now and then it's just the only appropriate response to reality. HIDE. And so he took the train down from Chicago, we hopped into Emma the Mustang, pointed ourselves west on I-44 and eventually drifted into Mtn. Home, Arkansas.

Mtn. Home is the town where my parents retired in 1982. My father passed away and was buried there in June of 2000. Mom passed away here in Illinois and we took her back there for her burial in September of 2004. I had not been to their graves since that day.

It was surreal.

I was really grateful that Scott was with me. It would have been equally gratifying to have had Kelli, Christopher, or Debbie there but they all had jobs and commitments that wouldn't allow them to get away. And, like I said, Scott and I needed to hide for a couple of days.

It's an odd thing to stand over your parents graves for the first time. To look upon their grave stones. To read the names etched into bronze that use to be printed neatly on a Christmas present or perhaps a check helping you find your way through college. The only way I have been able to describe it to myself is that it is "temporarily final." I know that makes no sense. They are dead to the ways and means of this world. They are dead to my eyes, ears, and conversation. And yet they live on with their creator and, as King David said in referring to his son who had passed away, "He (they) will not come to me but I will go to him (them.)" Dad loved McDonalds coffee. Mom loved Sprite. Before I went to their grave site I stopped and purchased a cup of each. I held them up in silent toast. And I poured the contents into the earth that covers their mortal remains. It was cheaper than plastic flowers and far more meaningful.



It occurs to me that I'm on the next rung of the ladder. When you are born the ladder is high. Your grandparents, or if you are lucky, your great grandparents are on that top rung. They will be the next to step off of the ladder and into the presence of God. Then your parents. Aunts and Uncles. Relatives that you have never met. You watch them all "go over the top." And one day you realize that they are pretty much all gone. You may be relatively young but any family members older than you are, are cousins. They are on a lateral rung on the ladder next to you.

You are next. (If the proper scheduling holds up. And I certainly pray that it does.)

And so you drive away and you shrug it off. "Home" sounds better and better every day. Not the one you hang your hat in. The one you deeply believe awaits you after your final gasp of earthly air. It doesn't sound scary, menacing, or foreboding. It sounds precious, welcoming, restful. You look in the mirror and you don't mind the gray hair. Your knees scowl at you when you climb stairs or squat to help a little one. Your insurance premium goes through the roof. People that you use to teach, people that looked up to you, seem a bit impatient these days. They are looking up the ladder. But they are so close to the bottom of it that they have no idea how heady the view is from higher up. And they don't at all understand that you just don't care as much about some of the things that use to seem so captivating. They think you are just ... silly. Or forgetful. Or slipping. In truth your perception of reality has shifted. You have lost enough battles to not take life so seriously any more. You have given up on the idea of single handedly changing the world. You realize that the morning will probably dawn and it will look much like yesterdays morning. They seldom change in any drastic way. You become impatient with their impatience. You become frustrated by their frustration. But you don't argue with them because you clearly remember being on their rung of the ladder and you know arguing or explaining won't make any difference. It didn't when others argued with you. And it wont' if you argue now.

Somewhere out there "temporary finality" awaits you. You are young enough that it is probably decades away. Or the front of a bus could have your name on it tomorrow morning. You can't know. So you don't worry.

You enjoy the view.

I Promise...

Well, this should be the week of the birth of Paisley Rae, my 2nd granddaughter. I cannot wait! Debbie and I will be babysitting The Amazing Elle tomorrow night and Friday it's "baby by appointment" time! But our job is Elle. And as such I realize that my daughter might be a bit nervous. I mean, she needs to concentrate on squeezing a new urchin from her loins. She shouldn't have to worry about Elle. Therefore, in order to relieve her potential stress ...

I PROMISE ...

-to remember that, with Elle, one of us is expected to be the responsible adult. I am that one.
-to not teach her phrases or songs that I learned while working my way through college in factories. ("I love to go swimmin with bow legged women" was a poor choice and I am very sorry.)
-to not write "Hi Mom!" on her butt with a sharpie after changing her diaper just before returning her to her parents. (Besides, this has already been done. I forget who did it though.)
-"PG-13" MEANS "PG-13!" This is not subject to interpretation.
-Reciprocating saws are only to be used by responsible adults. I am the responsible adult.
-Ding-Dongs are not for breakfast and are NEVER to be allowed in bed.
-Just because a child fits in a drawer does not mean she should be allowed in a drawer. Even if she asks nicely. I am the responsible adult


-Bed time stories are not to include the words, "intestinal," "mucus," "doo doo," "magic toaster," or any word found on "urbandictionary.com." There are no exceptions.
-"Woodstock Revisited" is not appropriate children's programming. Especially in Blue Ray.
-Under no circumstances is she allowed more than 3 Milky Bones per day. Oh, wait. That's Adam Page's dog. I'm babysitting him too. Never mind.
-Grapes are not acceptable replacements for a foosball.
-One of us is expected to be the responsible adult. I am that one.

I wonder if Elle can moon-walk yet ...

Pujols ... eat your heart out

"What doesn't hurt doesn't work." I suspect that will be my mantra in the morning.

Tonight, out of the kindness of my heart, I came to the rescue of the Towerview Baptist Church softball team. Summer vacations have hit them hard and tonight they needed players. They stooped low to find them. Really low. Like ... down to the stratus of subterranean softball that I dwell in.

Before tonight it had been 27 years since my last softball game. It use to be my passion. I played it for fun. One year, while playing for FBC Clarendon Hills, we went to the championship game for Southern Baptist Churches in Chicago. Sure, we lost but we played. We only had one pitcher and he only had one thumb. Unfortunately, it was not on his pitching hand. We were winning by 3 or 4 runs until the bottom of the 7th when he sealed our fate for all of history by walking the bases loaded and then walking in the winning runs. He turned up missing shortly afterward. They take their softball seriously in Chicago.

I ditched the spikes shortly after that. But tonight I borrowed a glove, threw on some clothes that looked remotely appropriate for the game, a Cubs cap, and took to the field. "Da Coach" decided that I would be a worthy catcher. Some might find that degrading. But I figure it makes me a part of EVERY defensive play when we are on the field. So I choose to believe that the team viewed me as indispensable.

Shaddup.

I made this deal with "Da Coach." I play softball, placing undue stress on this aging body, and he, in turn, has to preach if I bat .500 or greater. Da Coach seemed comfortable with that arrangement. I think he felt pretty secure after my first at bat. For some reason I have always batted left handed. It's the only thing in my life that works that way. I usually can't even wave hello with my left hand. But since I was a kid batting left handed has just felt right. Natural. So the first time up I hit the ball fairly well and like a good base runner I didn't watch where the ball went. Hey, it was in the air. If they catch it, they catch it. If they don't I'd rather watch it fall from first base.

It wasn't to be. They did catch the ball. And IT watched ME fall. Yeah. That's right. The first time I hit a ball in a game situation in 27 years and I fall on my face on the way to first base. As if that wasn't bad enough, as I struggle to get up I did it again. I bit the dust not once, but twice. On the same trip down the baseline.

Ugh.

And naturally about 30 or 40 people from Towerview showed up to cheer on their team. (One of the opposing players told me ... I talked to all of them ... did I mention that I was the catcher? ... that the crowd cheering for us made them sound like the visiting team which they were not. Tough noogies, baby!) And naturally one of them had a camera.

Ugh.

And then it was as though God remembered my prayer. Oh yes, I had most certainly prayed about this moment today. I didn't pray to win. I didn't pray to hit a home run. I should have prayed not to fall down but it didn't occur to me. I prayed ... to bat .500. We lost so badly that in a 7 inning game I only had to ... I mean got to ... bat twice. But this second at bat was a solid base hit to right center field. Yes, sports fans, it fell cleanly between the infielders and the outfielders. And I didn't fall down. I, a 54 year old FORMER softball player, ran safely to first base. And I pulled "A Zambrano." I pointed up, putting the credit where it belongs. And then I looked across the infield into the dugout at Da Coach. The poor, in shock coach. I suppose he's sitting at home tonight, behind a keyboard, writing his first sermon. How sweet it is. I did what Pujols has never done. I batted .500 for the season.

Oh yeah, and after the first game of this double header I had to leave. It seems that there was a death in the church family and I needed to go and visit the grieving family. It's what I do. I'm a pastor. A pastor ... with a free Sunday coming ...

God's Laughter and The Man Cave

*This blog is dedicated to a certain couple that mentioned tonight that I have been neglecting writing. You know who you are. ;)

God doesn't hate me. Actually, He loves me tremendously. He just likes to laugh at me. And I actually think He gains great pleasure in laughter. Even at my expense. Perhaps ESPECIALLY at my expense. Hmmmm.

It seems that I've been working on my new office in my basement lately. She's turning into quite a beauty. A true work of art. It started off as a little girls bedroom under the decorating skills of the previous owners of our "love hovel." It previously had three white walls, one blue (or green depending on who is making the call) wall, honey pine wooden floors and white trimmed baseboards. It also had a lovely light fixture descending from the ceiling that was created from pink beads hung on wires reaching about a foot from their point of origin. It was really nice if you are 6 years old and into fuzzy things.

Now? Now it has beautiful white wainscot topped by dark slate blue walls. I've purchased a dark mahogany table/desk with hand pounded marks on it's surface placed their by an Indian tribe in the far reaches of the Amazon. (Would I kid about something this serious? I think not.)

I'm pretty much aware of what my "skill sets" are. Carpentry isn't among 'em. I can speak. I can write. I can hold my own in a rousing game of Uno, Apples to Apples, or Trivial Pursuit. I can pound a nail but seldom do my thumbs come away unscathed. And the floor on my new "Man Cave" isn't perfect. I mean, the concrete of the basement floor isn't quite flat. There's a slight roll to it. That threw the wainscot off a bit. Which threw the chair rail off a bit. Which threw me off a bit. It's not all finished but it's getting there. When it's done it will be a first class hide-away! It's got a closet. It has no windows. It's going to have cool lighting which I haven't selected yet. And we all know that lighting is EVERYTHING.

Did I mention that I never ever try to do mitre corners? I did once and it cost me a fortune in ruined wood.

So tonight Debbie and I found ourselves at dinner with a really wonderful young couple that has been visiting our church. We had a great evening just talking about life, church, God, families, and ... unfortunately ... my Man Cave. That's when it came out that the young man, the husband (who shall remain unnamed lest he hunt me down) ... is a cabinet maker. A professional cabinet maker.

That means he works with wood.

That means he works with wood very successfully.

That means Debbie made SURE to tell him about my most recent creative exploits in trying to build a perfect room in a less than square environment.

Let's see. How can I best say this. Oh, here's the word. "GEEZ!"

Did I mention that I moved the electrical outlets without shutting off the electricity? I didn't blow anything up or burn anything down. (Notice how I didn't do anything UP or DOWN? I was on an even keel the entire time.) It probably was not my best decision. I never even thought about turning the power off until I was on the fourth and final outlet. Once the smoke cleared it all looked really good.

Okay, laugh if you must. But when you see my Man Cave in all of its completed glory (did I mention that it's all about lighting?) you will probably ask me to come and redo a room for you at your house. And I will smugly reply, "no." Each man must decorate his own Man Cave. It's a personal thing. And besides, now that I know a professional I have decided to retire. I don't want to cut in to his work load.

You can thank me later. (Again ... you know who you are!)

I'm Toast

I have always had a unique home. Except for when I was growing up. That was a fairly normal time. Then I got married and Debbie and I began our journey of weirdness. We have been married 31 years and we have moved 21 times. Some moves were very long distances. Some were just down the hall.

Our first home was a studio apartment in Tinley Park, Illinois. As I lay in bed I could access the television, the refrigerator, the air conditioner and, if I reached really far, the sink. Our dresser was in the closet.

Weirdness.

We lived in a rented house once when our kids were small. Our church youth group loved to stage gorilla attacks on it. They saran wrapped our van to the front porch.

Weirdness.

We lived in a church parsonage for seven years. It seemed like twenty-seven. Once the air conditioner (in the attic) broke and water leaked from it, through the ceiling, and pooled in the light fixture above the kitchen table. It dripped onto the table, warping and ruining it. The church trustees told us it was no big deal. "Nah. Don't worry about the electric light filled with water. It won't hurt ya."

Weirdness.

We rented another house and lived in it for a year. The youth group attacked it with forks. They planted them in the front yard topped with pickles. Sliced pickles. I went into the crawl space of this house once and found slugs as big as my fist.

Weirdness.

Finally we purchased our own home. We absolutely loved it. It was just made for the years of finishing up raising our kids. Of course there was the chimney fire. And the lime green fiberglass garage door. And the trees that kept getting knocked over by storms and punching holes into the roof. And the unkillable holly bush.

Weirdness.

Of course we followed that up with our mega-apartment building in Cleveland. That's the place where I found the grad students throwing their laundry down the garbage chute (one of them would be downstairs catching it before it hit the compacter. Then they'd haul it to the laundry room.) This was the place where I froze to the patio door on the 9th floor during a winter storm. I lived alone and didn't have any furniture. So I sat in the dark leaning against it blogging ... kind of like now. When I finished writing and tried to stand up my sweat shirt had frozen to the door.

Weirdness.

Well, now the kids have grown and abandoned home sweet home. I assumed things would calm down. Finally there would be normalcy. Nah. It's just beginning. I'm not sure how weird this place will be. We really, REALLY like it. But weird has already begun. I wanted a bagel last week. A nice toasted Cinnamon Crunch bagel. So I sliced it open and popped it into the toaster. I only turned away for a few seconds. Just long enough to grab some veggie creme cheese out of the fridge. When I turned back ... flames were leaping out of the toaster. You know. Like... fire. My bagel and my toaster was on fire. Not only is the toaster dead but so was the wall socket. (Yes, it has since been tweaked and is doing well.

Weirdness.

I mentioned "The Great Toaster Debacle" on facebook last week. Tonight when I arrived at church for Wednesday evening Bible study there was a plastic bag hanging from my door knob. Inside? A new toaster. A really NICE new toaster! I have no idea who put it there. (If it was you ... thanks! You rock!) But perhaps the weirdness is waning? Perhaps this new toaster is a sign that goodness is fighting back? Then again, my next door neighbor has a weed growing in her yard as tall as my second floor deck and my dish washer turns itself on.

Weirdness.

The Top 10 Days I'd Live Over And Why (just off the top of my head)

10 - My wedding day. Because it was a truly fantastic day that started with a brown sugar cinnamon pop-tart and ended with ham. Oh yeah. Other stuff happened too.

9 - The first day I skied Colorado. I was all alone and it was REALLY COLD and REALLY WINDY and REALLY SNOWING and totally worth driving 1,000 miles for.

8 - The days my kids were born. Because ... wow ... I had no idea that could really happen like that. And it didn't even hurt!

7 - The day I ate my first REAL (aka: non-frozen) pizza. It was at a place called "Veneuzio's" in Tinley Park, Illinois. My taste buds are still thanking me.

6 - The day I hiked Mt. St. Helens. Because it was amazing and started spewing stuff when I got about half way to it from the visitors center. And when I got back my wife bought me cobbler. Or maybe I ate hers. Either way.

5 - The day I first sat in a jacuzzi. Just because.

4 - The day my dad and I sat all alone in the upper deck in the right field at Old Comiskey Park and watched the White Sox beat the A's twice. Nobody was within 20 yards of us. Because, well because it was just one of the best days of my life.

3 - The day my bride and I celebrated out 10th wedding anniversary and I gave her a ring with 9 diamonds. Because she cried in a good way and I knew she loved me as much as she always tells me she loves me.

2 - The day she and I sat on a boat dock on Lake Superior and watched the northern lights. Because ... it was a moment.

1 - The day I asked Jesus to forgive and save me. Because I would love to feel that clean and fresh and unjaded again.

Now Here's The Way To Kick-Off A Wedding!

Candy coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize ...

Today I helped my son and his bride of 9 months move into a new apartment in St. Peters. It's a much nice, much safer place than they have been living in. It was actually fun to help them move their stuff and see them light up at the prospect of life in their new "joint."

But the coolest part of the day came before the moving began. I met my brother-in-law, Jim, at their old apartment and they had not yet arrived from picking-up their key at the new place. So we did something all red blooded American men do. We went to ... THE BATTING CAGES!

Okay, it's been about ten years since I was THAT red blooded. But I got my tokens, my complimentary helmet, loaner bat, and headed to the baseball "medium pitch" batting cage. Debbie and Jim stood outside as I took a few practice swings, deposited the fake coin into the slot, and stepped into the batters box.

You know. Ten years is a long time. This particular cage was suppose to clock out at 60 MPH. That might not be much to Albert Pujols but it's about the speed of a bus on the highway to me. The light came on at the machine. I dimly saw a baseball drop into a rocket like contraption. And then, "Holy moley, what was that?" Zing! Swing! Whop. The ball came. I pulled the trigger on the bat just about the time the catcher would have been throwing it back to the pitcher. Zing! Swing! Whop. I slapped at the first three swings as a right handed batter without so much as a foul ball. I looked and felt sadly pathetic swinging wildly. Zing! Swing! Whop. And then the strangeness kicked in. The very first time I picked up a bat as a little kid I started swinging from the left side of the plate. I have no idea why. I don't do anything else left handed. I golf from the right side. I write right handed. I pet doggies and tickle "The Amazing Elle" right handed. But batting left handed just always felt natural to me. So I moved over.

Suddenly the aluminum bat began meeting the horsehide ball. That's when I remembered the purpose for batting gloves. I mean like,... ouch! Still, it felt so sweet to hit a baseball for the first time in this millennium. I didn't set the baseball world on fire. And I didn't dare step into the 80 MPH batting cage.

Yet.

It felt good. Right up to the moment when my elbow popped and I remembered that I'm not in high school anymore. So I hung up the bat and helmet one more time. I'll be back. I'll have more tokens. And once again I'll make the cubs wonder why they didn't sign me earlier. (I'm holding out for a last minute contract just in time to propel me into the upcoming World Series.)

Ahhhh. Eyes on the ball. The swing of the bat. The sweet vision of the ball rocketing toward left field KNOWING it would most certainly evade the grasp of all outfielders.

Can you smell it? Can you? That's the smell of .... Cracker Jacks. Candy coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize. You. Are. All. Mine.

I take it back

I wrote a blog post last night. I reread it this morning and read the comment posted below. After thinking about it and especially after praying about it I have decided to remove the post. I do not know if my anonymous friend who left a comment is correct or not. If he or she is correct ... and that just might be the case ... then I threw a "spiritual torpedo" in the water at a church and that was wrong. If my friend is wrong and my original thinking is correct, well, the world will carry on quite well without this piddly little post.

I try to live what I believe. And I believe that it is wrong to do harm to those trying to do good. And so to my friends in the church I referred to, I apologize. Even though you probably didn't even know this blog exists much less that you appeared in it. That's not the point. I bless you and ask that you exalt the name of Jesus.

Ron

How Not To Take A Nap

The Amazing Elle Catching A Well Deserved Nap

I have this lunatic friend...

I have this lunatic friend who is totally A.D.H.D. No, I mean really. His doctor gave him the test today. It's a done deal. No room for doubt. He's a nice guy and all but he has the attention span of a gnat. I don't know what to do with him. Suggestions are welcome.

He once closed out a bank account because he did such a lousy job of balancing his checkbook that he just gave up. He stopped writing checks until he knew for sure what the balance was. Then he withdrew his money and opened a new account at a different bank. Nobody ever knew.

He did premarital counseling recently and for the entire hour he twirled a pair of sharpened scissors on his index fingers and never once thought it odd. He could have killed somebody. My friend was blown away when it was pointed out to him.

He spoke to hundreds of church staff members a few years ago on how to survive ministry while being A.D.H.D. About a quarter of the way through the 90 minute meeting a late-arriver walked in with a suit case in tow. He paused his entire presentation and told her that she had really nice luggage. Every staff member with A.D.H.D. turned to look. Their spouses buried their faces in their hands. I saw it myself. I know it really happened.

He confessed to me one time that sometimes in the middle of an illustration when he is speaking he will totally forget what the point of the illustration is. After he panics for a second he laser focuses until he remembers where he was going or he fakes it. He's learned to stick more closely to his notes and that's a really good thing. I'm proud of him for that.

He was told by several Junior High School students once that he makes them tired. How does that happen?

He could not sleep one night when he was living alone. He said that his mind would not be quiet. And so he took three Tylenol PM's. He woke up at 3:30 AM with an entire gallon of milk in one hand and freshly made chocolate chip cookies in the other. Yes, his mouth was full.

I could go on. I mean I have a TON of illustrations about this guy. But honestly, this is getting boring and there's something shiny over there in the corner and I think I need to go see what it is.

Later.

After Kicking The Tires ...

After "kicking the tires" of the claims I mentioned a few days ago, what do you think?

1. I am deeply loved of God.
2. I am fully pleasing to God.
3. I am totally accepted by God.

Do you buy into that? Are you skeptical about God's love for you? Do you feel like a failure? Is there a deep and abiding sense within you that you are constantly letting God down and, thus, He is holding you at arms length?

Consider.

The Apostle Paul was a man who made it his passion and calling to kill as many Christian's as possible. Oh, he believed in God. He just didn't buy the "Jesus stuff." He actually thought "Christians" were working contrary to the God of the Old Testament. And so he took it upon himself to stop those propagating this nonsense. And then God interrupted Paul. He stepped in one day, knocked Paul off of his horse as he was on his way to kill more Christ-followers, He blinded him and sent him on into the city to chill a while. And then God gave him the incredible privilege of spreading the gospel of Jesus to the Gentiles (all of the "non-Jews.) God chose Paul against all common sense and all odds.

Later on Paul penned the following words...

"I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen." (Ephesians 3: 16 - 21)

"Love that surpasses knowledge." Hmm. And yet Paul said he wants us to be able to comprehend how wide, long, high and deep God's love is. Paul understood because he was guilty of murdering God's kids and God loves him anyway. If God loves Paul so completely ... do you really think He doesn't love you?

Paul said he prays that God will strengthen us out of His (God's) glorious riches with power through His Spirit in our inner being. He wants us to be strong and He wants to use is to do good in this world. God has a vast army of angels. God has believers that have stood the test of time. God has been known to speak through a donkey (Numbers 22: 21 - 31.) So if God can use anybody and anything He chooses and He has so much to choose from ... why would He use you? The answer is simple. He is pleased with you. No, you are not pleasing to God because you are so good or have never failed Him. Give me a break. We all know better than that. You are pleasing to God because (and IF) you have trusted His Son as your Savior. You see, it actually was God's will to crush His Son and set you free. Incomprehensible, but true. (Isaiah 53: 10) Your mess ups are all on Jesus. Your "junk" was transferred from your account to the account of Jesus Christ. God purchased you back from sin with the blood of His Son. And since He owns you He can feel any way He wants to about you. And He chooses to be pleased with you. Believe it or not. I Peter 2: 9 - 10 says it rather well. "But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy." Rather than arguing with God you might consider looking upward and saying "Thank You."

Paul said that God is able to do immeasurably more in us that we could ever imagine to ask Him to do because of His power at work within us. God's power ... at work ... in ... you. You. He accepts you as worthy. I have no idea why. I only know that His Word says He does.

Loved by God. Pleasing to God. Accepted by God. It's true.

Kick the tires as hard as you want. You can't break them. They are paid for. And so are you.

It's True...

Some years ago a guy named Robert McGee wrote a book called "Search For Significance." It was quite ground breaking. They turned it into an entire study. (Don't they always? And who ARE "they" anyway?) The whole thing was good but God reminded me today of three facts taught in "Search" that will change your life if you buy into them. And if you don't? Well, you life will turn into a spiritual train wreck.

So it would be not so nice of me to withhold them from you. Here they are. Simple but life giving.

1. I am deeply loved of God.
2. I am fully pleasing to God.
3. I am totally accepted by God.

Give that some thought. Kick the tires on it for a while. Do you buy it?

Tomorrow ... we'll talk.

Un-In-Spired

Writing is more than a pass time or a hobby. It's like life to me. When I write it often takes on human form in my head. I'm not sure how that works.

But it's like this.

When I was a youth pastor I took something like 50 week long trips with teens. That's nearly a year on the road. There were mission trips, Centrifuge trips, choir trips, all sorts of trips. And every one of them, in my brain, took on a life of their own. For some reason, to me, those trips were not static events that simply took place in life. They actually feel like living breathing things that are out there someplace. Lives were changed. Eternity was changed. Only God Himself knows how deeply and how far reaching those changes are. But to me, the trips themselves took on life.

And that's what writing is. To me.

I've been about this blogging thing since my son-in-law, Joe, introduced me to the concept way back around 2002. This is like nearly the 600th post. (Thanks, Joe!) I just love to write. And it too takes on life. You are reading this blog and that means that in some weird way my writing reaches beyond myself and touches someone else. You. And approximately 70 other souls per day. Thanks for dropping by.

Rarely, but every now and then, I seem to lose the ability to formulate anything inspiring in my brain. All things that matter go on sabbatical. Even humor goes AWOL. This is one of those times. I've been trying to figure out why. I think it's a bunch of things that all clumped together. The thrill (sic) of moving 4 times in 20 months tends to dilute the humor in life. It's nice not to be living out of Tupperware anymore but my garage is full of unopened boxes. So it's a trade off. Even more seriously, the deaths of 3 close friends this year as rather taken the wind out of my sails. I find myself thinking about the brevity of life a lot lately. Not the fear of death. Not even the fear of the process of dying. My thoughts just seem to gravitate to the reality that all of this ... THIS ... can end without even a moments notice. I don't like that thought. It isn't so much my own departure from this earthly soil that has my attention but ... yours. People that I know and love. I didn't get an opportunity to say good-bye to any of my 3 friends and they were just ... gone. That stinks. And I wonder when it ends. Then I realize that it doesn't. I've been contemplating going to visit my parents graves sometimes soon. I have not been there since my mom died in 2004. Five years. And it's a six hour drive. I keep putting it off because, quite honestly, I don't want to go. It doesn't seem prudent at the moment. So I wait.

Anyway, I say all of that just to say this. I am currently a really terrible blogger. Sorry about that. Thanks for sticking with me and checking back here every now and then. I'll get my act together soon. Maybe even tomorrow. But in the meantime I just really stink at writing.

As a friend of mine use to say ... sucks to be me. :)

John And Kate Plus Five

Okay, I know this is warped. But I saw it when it aired on Conan and I've been watching it on their web site ever since and every time I do I start ... like ... laughing and rolling and crying and falling out of my chair. This is not an editorial on divorce or child abandonment. It's just humor. Oh, and if there is a booze commercial before the video I'm not in favor of that either. SO DON'T SEND ME MEAN EMAILS! :)

The Hand of God

It has been said that God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. I'm a believer. I have written a few times over the last weeks about the death of our friend, Lynda. It's tough to lose a friend. It hurts when God calls a long time "pal" home. We all know that we are suppose to celebrate for them. And we want to. We really do. But sometimes the pain is so real that we forget to be happy for the one who no longer has any pain. Sure, it's selfish. But it's also true, honest, and real.

When Lynda passed away her husband Dave, who is my equally good friend, asked me to not only conduct but to totally PLAN her funeral service. The friendship that the four of us shared was always a little warped. In a good way. We always knew that with Dave and Lynda we could laugh at the misfortunes of life. Humor was abundant. Along with chocolate. And steaks. It's just that kind of friendship. And the loss of 1/4th of this equation makes it all the more difficult to fathom the fact that things will never be quite the same.

Oh, that and the fact that she stiffed me for Debbie's birthday present. She decided to have Debbie's bible rebound for her as it was falling apart. Ephesians was literally taking a plunge to the floor. So I got it to a re-binder, paid for it, and Lynda was going to pay me back. But God called her on home and she skipped out on me. (Please know that I'm saying this with a HUGE smile on my face knowing that in at least one way she got the last laugh on me! I'm honored to be a part of this process between her and Debbie. And when I arrive in heaven ... you betcha ... she owes me!)

But God did a couple of really weird things to drive home the point to Dave, Debbie and I that HE was the one sending for Lynda. She did not die by accident, chance, or fate. God dialed her up. He sent for her. And as He so often does He left His fingerprints all over this event for us to see and learn from.

For instance ...

Since I planned the entire service I determined that all music would be from prerecorded CD. No live music. Lynda loved contemporary Christian music. And so I chose two songs. (Dave later added a third.) The songs I chose were "I Will Rise" a very new song by Chris Tomlin and a very old hymn, "Come Ye Sinners," performed by Jami Smith. I had never heard either song performed live by anybody. Yet I felt strongly that they were the songs to be sung at my friends funeral service.

And then God's Hand left their fingerprints.

The day after her funeral, at our church, a young man who had just returned from college in Alabama picked-up his guitar and sang a solo just before I spoke. The song? "I Will Rise." I talked to him later. He had just found out the day before that he was singing and he just selected that song on that morning. He didn't know the music and had never played it before. He just felt that it was what God wanted him to sing. Yeah ... I'd say so.

That was the day Dave flew back to his home near Fort Worth. He didn't get to attend church until the following Sunday. He emailed me the next day and mentioned that at their service they celebrated "The Lord's Supper." As the elements were being served several men stood up and performed an acoustic version of "Come Ye Sinners." Dave said he chocked back tears and then "smiled at Lynda" knowing that she was getting a kick out of it. That was the first time Dave had heard the song since his wife's funeral and the first time he had heard it performed at church ever.

So what do you think? Two songs that we had never heard performed live but that I chose for my friends memorial service are suddenly "front and center" at the very next worship services that the three of us attend? In two different churches in two different states 600 miles apart. Chance? Coincidence? The Hand of God? I can't think of a third option. As for me I believe my Father, "Abba," was wrapping His Holy Hands around the hearts of three hurting people and, in so doing, was reminding us that "precious in the eyes of the Lord are the death of His saints." (Psalm 116: 15)

The Peace Train (VBS Style)

I guess there was too much beef on the peace train.

Too pooped to write

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

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

And here's the deal.

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

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

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

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

MOOOOO-ving

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

What's with that?

Curve Ball Shy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus. You're up.

Free Floating Thoughts

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

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

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

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

How Fragile We Are

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

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

Fred Winters.

Woody Foreman.

Lynda Edelen.

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

When I think of Lynda I think of ...

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

-Dad gummit!

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

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

-Hoppin mad!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lynda being "pick pocketed" by The Amazing Elle