Reality In The Sand (with apologies in advance)

Once upon a time I dreamed I was walking along the beach with Jesus.
Many moments from my life darted through my mind.
In each moment I noticed footprints in the sand.
Usually there were two sets of footprints,
other moments there was a single set of footprints.
"That's weird," I thought in my dream.

And this troubled me greatly (not to mention hacking me off) because I noticed
that during the hardest moments of my life,
when I was despairing due to
pain, sadness or spiritual warfare,
I could see merely the single set of footprints.

So I said to Jesus,
"Whoa. Hold on just one Damascus Road minute. You promised me Jesus,
that if I stayed with you,
you would stick around all of the time.
And yet I have observed that during
the most trying difficult, painful, horrible times of my life
there has consistently been one
single pair of footprints on the beach.
And behind those footprints I noticed a smoothly graded place.
I mean isn't that a little weird. Kind of like I was being followed by a slithering monster.
Was that a demon chasing me Jesus while you went off to hang out with Billy Graham?
Why in the world, when I really, really needed you,
did you run away and leave me on this stinken beach all alone?
Come on! What gives?"

That is when I am pretty sure
I heard Jesus quietly reply in His still, small, voice,
"You know those times when you only saw your own footprints
with the demon chasing after you?
Oh, my child. Those were not your footprints. They were mine.
And there was no demon chasing you, my son. You read too many weird books.
That smooth place is where I drug you kicking and screaming behind me
Way to go. This would have been a lot easier if we had done it my way."

To which I replied to my Lord, " .... Oh. Never mind."

32 Reasons (in no particular order) Why I Love My Valentine Of 32 Years

(My "on-line" Valentines Day Card. Take THAT Hallmark ....)

32. Home made Pazookies
31. She falls asleep in 30 seconds and then I can listen to anything I want on the ipod.
30. Speaking of sleeping ... she goes deep and doesn't surface even if I do that trampoline thing on my side. No worries mate.
29. She actually drives better than I do but she doesn't rub it in.
28. She understands when I HAVE to have mexican.
27. Kelli
26. Scott
25. Chris
24. She won't let me have a dog. (Yes, that's a good thing. I tend to lose them.)
23. She knocks before coming into my man cave if the door is closed even though she knows I won't be mad if she doesn't.
22. She is addicted to the same TV shows that I'm addicted to.
21. I don't fold clothes well and she doesn't yell at me for it.
20. Home made Chicken Enchiladas. 'Nuff said.
19. She knows I talk too much and to too many people and she's okay with it.
18. She doesn't pretend to like baseball. (Nothing worse than a faker.)
17. She reminds me to take my "old man medicines."
16. She waits to watch "House" until I'm other-wise-occupied.
15. She ALWAYS knows where I left my glasses.
14. She actually BOUGHT me my motorcycle. (Better yet ... as a surprise!)
13. She keeps cookie dough in the refrigerator at all times.
12. She thinks Ernie Banks is FDIC insured and doesn't pretend to understand why he's not.
11. She loves her dad. Never fall in love with a woman that doesn't love her dad.
10. She leaves the seat up. (Not really but nobody is perfect.)
09. I am the only man I know allowed to eat potato chips in bed.
08. She took care of my elderly mom when I could not.
07. She remembers what I forgot and forgot what I remember. (Resulting in a remarkable decrease in arguments.)
06. She gets dressed very quietly in the morning because she leaves before I do. (She's a "morning person" but I love her anyway.)
05. She knows just the right times to "come share my chair." (I have a truly large chair.)
04. She doesn't think I've ever preached a bad sermon.
03. She went out of her comfort zone and learned to ski with me.
02. She knows where "her place" is on my shoulder and loves to bury her head in it.
01. She loves God with all of her heart, mind, soul, and strength. And she loves me ... her neighbor ... like she loves herself.

Happy Valentines Day, Debbie. I love you.

Long Live Eutychus ... Again!

Eutychus. It's a name that, to the best of my knowledge, has only been used once. (Take note Chris and Laura. It's under used and available.) It seems that he was this guy written about in the book of Acts. Chapter 20. Verses 7 - 12. Paul was preaching (not so unusual) up in this 3rd floor room. The lamps were lit. The windows were open. The place was full of people. I guess it got warm and Eutyhcus sought fresh air from a perch on a window sill. Problem is, Paul kept on preaching. Midnight came and midnight went. He preached on. In his deep slumber poor Eutychus lost his balance and fell out of the window. As fate would have it he fell "out" rather than "in." Three floors down.

Splat.

Paul ran downstairs and found him dead on the sidewalk. Vegas odds would have it that Paul would have said, "Serves you right." and gone back to his preaching. It seems to me that he stepped out of character when he stretched himself out on the corpse, hugged him, and then called the life back into that increasingly cold lump of clay. Then they all went back upstairs to celebrate the resurrection of Eutychus with communion and, you guessed it, more sermonizing from Paul. He spoke about the great acts of faith until after dawn. Paul might have been full of compassion, he might have exercised grace, but he didn't learn his lesson.

I spoke on the story of Eutychus at Towerview last Sunday. The sermon was aptly titled, "Boring You To Death." And I just can't get him out of my mind. Several people seem to have the same problem. But they have thrown an odd slant onto it by sending a link to a newspaper article to me. I'll give the credit to a friend, Brant Dixon, because he was first. Here is a brief summary of the article as copied from Yahoo.com...

"Melbourne, Feb 8 (ANI): Boredom can actually kill you, a new study has revealed.

To reach the conclusion, researchers at University College London looked at data from 7524 civil servants, aged between 35 and 55, interviewed between 1985 and 1988 about their levels of boredom. They then found out whether they had died by April last year. Those who reported feeling a great deal of boredom were 37 per cent more likely to have died by the end of the study, the researchers found."

There's more but I think you get the drift. So what is the moral of the story? Well, I think those of us who stand up to teach God's Word have an obligation to NOT bore people with it. Grant it, Eutychus was probably in an oxygen deprived room and it was after midnight. But still. When God instructed me to speak on this subject He brought the phrase to mind, "Let my people go!" I have been a little long winded lately.

I'm reforming.

So for all of you Eutychus wannabees out there, that's good news. But let's not forget the obvious. Only YOU can make certain that you are living in the flow of the Spirit in a way that brings life and energy to your daily routine ... much less to your Sunday worship experience. We haven't heard the last of Eutychus around Towerview. Pastor's don't preach on his story very often. But he's captured my attention and my imagination. Fortunately we have sealed windows and they are only three feet off of the ground. But it is still wise for those who spend much of our lives "doing church" to remember ...

boredom kills.

So let's get it right.

Friends

In the beginning there was Dave. All of the friends that came before Dave really did not count. I was too young, as were they. We did not know what friendship was about. Dave lived 4 houses to my right as I was navigating the first part of my teenage years. He looked more like me than my brother did and so everybody assumed that we were brothers. We kind of were. Brothers of the heart. We would play catch for hours and never get tired. When my real brother would beat me up (which was not an infrequent occurance) Dave would run home and hide. He said he was afraid that my brother would mistake the two of us and beat him up instead of me. That made sense at the time and I never held it against him. Dave was in my wedding years later. The last time I saw him was when he came by my apartment to introduce me to his fiancee. There was no way on the planet that Dave should have been marrying this girl. He was either in to her for big money or it was going to be a "sympathy marriage." I never saw or heard from him again.

Next came Kling. Kling was short for "Klingensmith" which was his last name. His first name was John but I don't remember anybody ever calling him that. Kling and I went to college together. He was about 5 years older than I and served as a helicopter mechanic in Vietnam. Together we went to Trinity Christian College. Our team mascot was the "Trolls." If you picture a troll in your head and add 50 pounds to him you will know exactly what Kling looked like. Beard and all. He liked to have fun. His on-campus job was in the maintenance department. That gave him keys to everything students are not supposed to have keys to. One chilly morning the campus woke up to the smell of a nice fire in the chapel fireplace. That was not unusual. What WAS unusual was that the smoke was billowing from a toilet which had been cemented to the chimney of the administration building. I remember knowing instantly who had done it. Everybody suspected but nobody could confirm anything. Kling and I went to a local restaurant one day to grab a bite before evening classes. He chose the New Brunswick Stew. One thing about Kling is that he had cornered the market on Oshkosh over-alls. It was pretty much all he ever wore. Well, Kling did not finish his stew on this particular evening and I watched as he poured the remainder of it into his bib pocket. I was not shocked. I knew Kling. I figure he wanted it for a late night dorm snack. I WAS shocked when we went to pay for our meal. He stood at the glass counter with the cash register on it ... and began heaving the big deep heaves of a man about to regurgitate. He leaned down until his head almost touched the glass and made unmistakable "hurling" noises... while he unbuttoned his bib pocket and allowed the remaining stew to flow out. The he stood up, wiped his mouth, dropped a five on the counter and strolled out the door. Kling was in my wedding too. That was the last time I saw him. I heard he lives in Utah someplace.

I have a history of making interesting friends.

Most of them come, stay for a while, and then go.

Grace was a dainty woman in her sixties and she made chainsaws. Hoss was a TWA pilot who could not stand on a chair to change a light bulb because of his fear of heights. Mike was a messianic jew who swore at 5,000 teenages because one of them threw a light bulb into the street from the window of a hotel room on the 20th floor. He was not sure which one did it so he swore at them all.

I think you get the picture.

My favorite friends are the ones that stick around. For years. Many years. Oh, they might move a thousand miles away but they are still around in that surprise phone call one evening kind of way. They manage to find their way by my house every now and then and they always have a spare bedroom available when I am in their town. Some of them live nearby. We try not to take each other for granted but I know that we do. Otherwise we would hug more often and linger a little longer across the table from each other. It is part of life to do that. We don't mean to. It's just that our busy lives are constantly hounding us to get up and get something done. If you are reading this you are probably one of those friends or maybe a stranger that just dropped in to see what is going on. (Not much.) And if you are one of those friends ... you know it. I am tempted here to start listing names but if I did I would miss somebody very important to me for sure. And I do not want to do that. Never.

There are at least two tests of real friendship. One is found in what you do today. The other is found in whether or not you will still be around tomorrow. It works both ways and so I am equally responsible. I am not listing those tests in hopes that you will measure yourself. I am listing them so that I can remember to do well in grading the guy I call "me." It hurts when a friend lets me down. It hurts much worse when I let a friend down. I can forgive the friend much more easily than I can forgive myself.

And by the way, if you are a current friend and you do something really weird ... I already know it. I just didn't mention it because ... well ... a real friend wouldn't tell on you. But if you dump me ... you are toast in my next blog.

Paisley Rae

I was watching her tonight. She is so little. Not as little as she was. But still. Little. Her name is Paisley and she is my daughter's daughter. She cannot talk yet but if she could ... and when she does ... she will call me "grandpa." And I will glow a bit brighter on the inside.

Her eyes shine. Perhaps "sparkle" is a better word. They are deep and they are blue and they radiate life. When she smiles the angels tap their feet because they hear the music of God. I do believe that. She has these perfect cheeks. Not too chubby and not too skinny. Perfect. And so her smiles are perfect as well.

I don't think she knows who I am. Not yet. I am anxious for her to figure it out. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know who she is either. If she is looking away from me and I call her name she does not respond. So she has yet to learn that she is Paisley. What goes on in that little mind? I know that she is thinking about more than food, drink, sleep, or mommy and daddy. (Though those certainly take up a large share of her mental RAM.) Perhaps I am early but I think she is just waiting in there. Observing. Taking the temperature of the world around her. She is figuring out who is who and how we all fit together. She'll get it. There is no rush. The gears are turning and the spark plugs are firing and it will all come together in it's time.

I take much into consideration when gazing upon this little girl. Paisley is very young. I am rapidly approaching old. Her skin is silky smooth. I have to use a razor to keep mine manageable. Her hair will last longer than mine and will be lovely and thick and perhaps have a curl or two. Mine ... not so much. She is full of energy and will only get more with the passing of time. I find myself considering a second career as a mall walker. Paisley has never done anything wrong on purpose. I have not been able to say that for a very long time. On the other hand I have dry pants and do not drool (much.) Still, I think she wins the majority of these contests hands-down.

There is much speculation but for now I know this. I love that little girl. Perhaps she is not yet use to me holding her. I don't think we have found our particular "niche" yet. I forgot just how tiny a human being can be and so she intimidates me a bit. She feels that. And I remind her just how big a human being can get and how we can accidentally crunch something without meaning to and so I just may intimidate her as well. But there is a wonderful middle ground that we keep tripping over. It is in that smile that I told you about. Oh, how I love that smile. She is my Paisley and in her the world swirls and spins and the colors of the rainbow play in the centrifugal forces and they bring her very name into being ... into motion. She is Paisley.

And I love her so very, very much.

My Son Is Going To Be A Dad

Oh the stories I could (and do) tell. His name is Christopher and he was the last child born to my wife and I. We never planned on ... never anticipated ... having three children. Three means you are out numbered. You are in a hole always playing catch-up.

But one day it occurred to us that something in our little world was just not right. We were a happy family of four. But as we sat around the dinner table it was as though someone was not home yet. I know that makes no sense. But it is the honest truth. Kelli and Scott were, and continue to be, the joy of our lives. But when Christopher showed up I felt like I could close and lock the door. All was well.

Many years have transpired since that day. Twenty-four to be exact. I remember the last night I lived in our house with Christopher. He was not moving out. I was. Cleveland, Ohio was on my agenda. Christopher had considered moving with us but a job and a girl had convinced him otherwise. (Not in that order.) I woke up in the middle of the night, acutely aware that this would be the last time I would sleep with one of my kids officially residing with me under our roof. I got up, crept outside of his closed door, lay my hands upon it, and I prayed. I asked God to bless him. To keep him safe. To provide him with reason and purpose, direction and a holy filling. And then I headed to the shores of Lake Erie. By the time I moved back into the area Christopher had taken a bride and a lovely bride she is. They had moved to the far side of the city. We see each other often and I love that. But I'll never forget laying my hands on that door and praying.

And now Christopher is doing some praying of his own. We were sharing dinner as a family last Saturday evening at my daughter Kelli's house. It was casual. Clearly there was no agenda. When it was time for the food to be served Christopher asked the blessing. He thanked God for family, food, and his pregnant wife, Laura.

His pregnant wife ... Laura.

My eyes snapped open. Everybody had their eyes open except for Christopher. We stared at him. We stared at each other. Christopher said "Amen" and the hugs and tears came. My youngest son is going to be a dad. And he's going to be a great one. So many things just scream out to be said about this momentous event. They will have to wait. There is plenty of time.

For now? My son is going to be a dad. And I could not possibly be happier.

To Slam or not To Slam ... that is The Question

There is this guy who really ticked me off a while back. Don't worry. If you are reading this you are most certainly not him. I don't think he can read. But I mean he REALLY made me angry. A guy I thought was a friend who turned on me when he deemed it financially beneficial for him to do so. You know the type. Making brownie points with someone who wasn't terribly appreciative of some ministry decisions I had made. He has since learned that he was wrong. Not my problem. And he finds himself "out in the cold" so to speak. Perhaps literally.

Soooo ... today he made a connection and said some things that made it way too easy for me to ... well ... slam him. Have I mentioned that I'm taking Prednisone this week? Yeah, it's a poor choice prescription from a doctor that's try to fix my 3 month old ear/dizzy/disoriented/vertigo problem. Seems that one of the side effects of this "miracle drug" is it assists you on walking the thin line between good decisions and bad decisions. I mean like ... between being merciful and being merciless. Just call me "Ming."

I was merciless with my former friend. I slammed him ... total verbal body slams three consecutive times. I was referring to him and he kept believing I was referring to the person he was upset with. I don't even know WHO he is upset with. I have a pretty solid guess though. (Amusingly, I think he's upset with the guy who was upset with me. Ahhh ... sweet justice.) But he never even figured out that, in reality, he was the one I was talking about.

So here's the lesson learned by one pastor who has been spending too much time out on the ledge this week. If you are going to slam someone just go ahead and tell them that they are your target. At least you get the satisfaction of getting your point across. It remains to be seen if that will make you feel better or worse. (And we all know that life is about making me feel better. Right?) Or better yet, show grace and don't slam them at all. That's "the Jesus thing" to do. Seriously.

I'll sleep well tonight but I'll kick myself in the morning.

No More Dr. Buttfeel

I officially fired Dr. Buttfeel this week. It was a mercy firing. I was having mercy on myself. I replaced him with a female doctor from St. Johns. She listened to my heart. She looked up my nose and in my ears and mouth. She hit my knee. She asked me how I'm feeling and I told her my Dr. Buttfeel saga. That's when she did it.

She prescribed Prednisone. She thinks I have messed up tubes behind my ears that can become unmessed up with steroids. I don't know anything about that but I can hardly wait to get to the gym on Monday. By then with the help of steroids I should be able to throw the "bicep machine" through the wall. This will bring me joy.

But there are problems with Prednisone.

I'm going to eat my arm. I'm not even slightly sleepy. My insides are trying to crawl out through my pores.

In the meantime, of course, Debbie is sleeping like she just took a nearly lethal dose of Tylenol PM. And we are sleeping in the same room for the first night in four nights because she was wrestling with a nasty bout of food poisoning. And though I love her I didn't want to wake up to find myself fraught with vomit. (I hereby trademark that phrase. If you use it you have to send me $20.)

As I said, my new doctor is a woman. She probably hates men. She didn't like my lab numbers. That's because they are all nearly perfect. I think she wanted me to be dying of something so that she can heal me and I'll be forever in her debt. Literal debt. Maybe she'll be satisfied when I owe her for stitching my new arm back on.

Should have stuck with good old Buttfeel.

The World's Upside Down

I spent the evening quietly, my bride by my side, cruising the channels and watching the world go by. And as the night comes to a close I have to wonder which crises is bigger. The Haitian earthquake or Conan O'brien leaving "The Tonight Show."

Yes, I know. I'm not really serious. We are all very aware of what the major headline is. Albert Pujols is not sure he'll retire a Cardinal. He as much as said so on the evening news tonight. He could easily wind up in Yankee Pinstripes. Or ... Cubbie blue. Oh yeah. Oh yeah.

Again, I jest. There is no getting away from the main issue of the day. Hours upon hours have been devoted to it. It's obvious. Ted Kennedy's senate seat went to a Republican last night. Oops. That's not it either.

How can I keep forgetting? The Holiday-Inn just announced the availability of "Human Bed Warmers." No, I'm not kidding. Nothing can eclipse a story of that magnitude.

Did I mention that they had a tornado in L.A. this week?

I can't help but wonder if any broken and desperate survivor still buried under the rubble that use to be Port Au Prince is aware of the magnitude of events that they missed this week....

Stupid Picture Chronicles #44

Am I the only one who sees a problem with their corporate slogan?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #43

The couch was coughing. The table had a temperature. The lamp had a lump. So we didn't buy any living furniture. We prefer sitting on inanimate objects. Silly us.

The Katie Chronicles: The Truth Must Be Told

Well, my precious niece, Katie, has returned home to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Today I put her on a jet and she flew from St. Louis to Baltimore. That's in Maryland. From there she boarded the next flight to Milwaukee. Do not ever allow Katie to be your travel agent.

But now that she has departed the comforts of my home it is time for the truth to be told. Yes, Katie has some deep and abiding secrets that must see the light of day. Perhaps it will set her free from the inner torment of her own demons (small "d.") And so, as I promised her on the trip to the airport, I am revealing her dirty laundry to the world tonight. I hope you have the stomach for it.

-Katie is hot for John Wilkes Booth. Yes, the same John Wilkes Booth that assassinated President Lincoln. I don't know anything I can say to make that better. It is what it is.


-Katie likes to break restaurant furniture. Here she holds the back of her chair from a Qdobe on Grand Avenue in St. Louis. It's a tough neighborhood but Katie is tougher. I mean, catch that look on her face. Ruthless.


Katie tells her parents that she does not have a job. She lies. Katie is a pimp. This is how she was dressed when she got off the plane from Milwaukee last Friday. Need I say more?


Being a good Catholic, Katie believe in the sprinkling form of baptism. Here she practices on her uncle Jim.


Perhaps most disturbingly Katie has an odd attraction to paper mache sumo wrestlers. The following photo speaks for itself.


In addition, though I have no photographic verification to back these claims up, I can also tell you that a she is also hot for Alec Baldwin. She enjoys throwing the occasional tooth brush into the toilet. She is quite capable of eating 8 Krispy Kreme Donuts in one morning. Vanilla Coke is flowing through her veins. She likes to date over-the-road truck drivers. She seems to have a thing for Bosnians. She gets nervous in theaters, fantasizing that her chair is about to blow up under her. Tivo is her best friend and I'm betting it will be the name of her next dog. She is easily duped and believes that the "Hollywood" nightclub in East St. Louis is actually a bumper car emporium. Basements freak her out. And finally she is incapable of lying because she is so ruthless in her telling of the truth.

And these are just a few of the reasons why her Old Uncle Ron (better known as O.U.R.) loves her so much.

Katie, thank you for coming to visit us. I had more fun hanging out with you than I've had in a looooooong time! I know that I'm so old (in your eyes) that I'm nearly dead but thanks for letting me share the time with you, a mere punk kid, and enjoy being a kid again myself for a few days. I really needed the break. It was priceless. But for the record we really should have gone and visited "The Tree." Your loss.

Now be nice to me or I'll tell the world the one thing I promised not to tell. Yes ... that one thing. (We have a mutual annihilation pact but I'm quite willing to pull the trigger first.)

Hot Dog Goodness With A Sick Sort Of Twist

I am not a cook. I can't tell a frying pan from a crock pot. But I scored BIG tonight thanks to a meal that I ate at The Iron Barley in St. Louis recently. Yum. Here's how you do it...

Split and cook your self up some good old American hot dogs...


Next butter up some open hot dog buns and then grill 'em...


Now get an appropriate scowl from your spouse ...


Ignore her skepticism and put some sliced up swiss cheese on the fried up dogs and some strawberry jam, (yes, strawberry jam) on the buns...


Stack everything where it belongs...


Add appropriate trimmings suited to your own tastes...


Feed aforementioned skeptical wife ...


Reward yourself for a job well done...


Repeat as needed.

If I Were The "House" Version Of A Pastor ...

-I would use my cane to slap at little children and then give them the children's sermon of a lifetime. They would all repent even before they knew what sin was. Their parents would scowl at me at first and then carry me out of the church on their shoulders because now their kids would never do drugs or have sex outside of marriage.

-I would use a special "Ministry X-Ray Machine" to look into peoples brains and see what they are REALLY thinking. Then I'd crack jokes about their secret sins in Sunday morning sermons. Everybody would know who I was talking about but wouldn't say it out loud because they knew I was right and that my scorn would be directed at them next.

-I would treat my staff like morons ... they are not but I would treat them that way ... and they would thank me for it later because they spontaneously realize that I am always right and my sarcastic behavior was used only to get their attention and to make them be all that they can be.

-I would come in later in the morning than everyone else. Oh. Wait. I already do that.

-I would forsake shaving and develop that 2 day growth thing so that people would think I was tougher and manlier than they are. Which I am. If "they" are all "hers."

-I would only deal with the toughest of spiritual cases where people were sure to self-destruct if I didn't ride in to their rescue. But first I would make them feel terribly guilty for being in my office. Then, after I fixed them, I'd look 50% condescendingly and 50% kindly so that they wouldn't know If I was cocky or correct.

-I would develop a "laser look" indicative of my ability to gaze directly into a persons soul reducing them to rubbery kneed individuals desperately in need of pastoral care which I would then delegate to my Associate Pastor, much to his deep gratitude. (I know what you are thinking Mike. Shut up! ;) )

-I would put a glass door on my office but keep my feet on my desk so that people would all say "he looks like he's reading the National Enquirer but he must be working or he wouldn't have a glass door on his office."

My head hurts. I'm pretty sure it's a tumor. Or a cranial tape worm. Stay tuned.

K-K-K-Katie is C-C-C-Coming!

Katie is coming! That's right, my soon-to-be "corn rowed" niece (don't ask) is coming to town this Friday and will remain until the next Wednesday. And I am SO pumped! I love Katie because she's... she's ... insane. The last time she was in town I got her addicted to Vanilla Coke. Her life has not been the same since. Life in Milwaukee maybe a vanilla existence but it isn't generally added to Coke products and so I have promised to provide her with a vanilla IV while she's here.

Kate is a student at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. She's Debbie's sisters daughter. That explains a lot. She grew up wearing lederhausen (I tried to spell that 6 times so if it's wrong just get over it) and dancing to German tunes with her parents and her sister, The Amazing Teresa. I'm not sure why but I suppose it's because her last name is Voitek which is most certainly German.

Katie gave me a tour of her dorm room at UW a few years ago. It was shortly after that that I gave up cleaning all together. I figure if she can get away with it then so can I. We toured the Joan of Arc Chapel together on her campus and managed to wrangle a special tour out of the resident Joan of Arc Guru. Very cool. Surprisingly, Katie is much taller than Joan was. And yet Katie has never won a war. Such a waste.

(By the way, that's not Joan of Arc she's hugging. I think it's Bret Favre.)

I have no idea how we are are going to spend the time. We'll be sharing her with Jim and Alisha, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. But I'm the only one who sings to her "K-K-K-Katie! Beautiful, K-K-K-Katie! You're the only G-G-G-Girl that I adore! When the M-M-M-Moon shines ... over the C-C-C-Cow shed ... I'll be waiting at the K-K-K-Kitchen door!" So I'm absolutely certain I'm her favorite. How can you beat Vanilla Coke and cow sheds? Can't be done!

Why You Don't Turn Your Back On My Family

I am not safe all by myself

Now I remember why I got married. Debbie has been gone since Sunday. Oddly, it seems like it's only been a couple of days. God gave me this woman to keep me alive. Sane. (Sort of.) Operating like a finely oiled machine.

It's not that I don't know how to take care of myself. But when she's not around things just ... I don't know. They just happen. Maybe with her here I just don't need to pay as close attention as I do when she's away. She's the one who screams "TRUCK!" when I'm driving, singing, and playing "Slug Bug" with myself. There's true value in that.

Yesterday I decided to be the good husband and take down Christmas. All alone. That means there is nobody there to hear your screams when you are de-ornamentizing and the tree falls on you. Then I decided to clean up the mess I made while I was cleaning up. The more I clean the messier it had gotten. (How DOES that happen?) So after using a dry dust mop I squirted the polishy stuff on the floor before using the special space-age mopper head to make the hard wood all shiny. And slippery too. I decided to do my best Tom Cruise-slide-across-the-floor-singer imitation. I guess I ran too fast because I slid too far. I slid into the kitchen where the floor was not nearly as slippery. After I got up it only took a little pressure to stop the bleeding on the back of my head where I fell into the edge of the cabinet counter top. I had to take another shower to get the (wee little bit) of blood out of my hair and I decided to use the shower head that is on a hose in order to really get my hair blood free. Problem is, it hurt insanely (soap in a wound kind of hurt) causing me to drop the hosed shower head. If slipped outside of the shower curtain running full blast. So I decided to dry the floor and walls with a towel wrapped around my head. Well, I didn't actually use the towel wrapped around my head. I used a different towel. You know what I mean. That's when the door bell rang. I didn't answer it. I didn't even peek. The last time my doorbell rang was Christmas morning and it was the Jehovah's Witnesses coming to read me scripture because they don't celebrate the birth of Jesus. I find that ironic. Why do they want to read me scripture if they don't celebrate the birth of Jesus?

Today has been a pretty safe day. I drove without incident. I worked out and didn't fall off the treadmill. I brought in food rather than risking using the microwave. I built a fire this evening and it even stayed in the fireplace. Well. Most of it. I had the foresight to hook up a water hose outside and purchased a fire extinguisher for inside because chimney fires and I have history. I turned the TV off and pushed my mega chair (other wise known as "My Fuzzy Buddy") over in front of the fire. I was envisioning a really awesome fire-flickering quiet time alone with God. I woke up an hour later and God had gone on back down stairs to The Man Cave where I usually meet with Him. I would have gone down to check on Him but the stairs ... well, it was dark. And Debbie's not home. Staying upstairs just seemed prudent.

(The preceding blog contains undiluted truth and is guaranteed embellishment free. And I have an empty Tylenol bottle to prove it.)

Paisley's first Christmas gift EVER!

Silent Monks

I had nothing to do with this. A friend sent it to me. I found it quite worth sharing. Enjoy...

The 10 Best Things About Having "The Amazing Elle" Spend The Night

10 - I can act her age and get away with it.

9 - Watching her explore the ornaments on the Christmas tree.

8 - Listening to her say that she doesn't want to meet my friends only to find her in their arms 30 minutes later exposing them to "The Wisdom of Elle."

7 - Her sock hat. Only she can get away with a hat like that.

6 - Hearing her tell "local reindeer" what to tell Rudolph to tell Santa that she wants for Christmas.

5 - Telling her not to put a toy (esophagus size) bell near her mouth only to have her pretend that it's a cup and offer me a drink out of it and when I take it for the faux drink she tells me with very serious eyes that I really shouldn't put it by my mouth.

4 - Singing with her at bedtime. Only Elle can stand to hear me sing. She treats me like I'm John Mayer.

3 - Staring at her bare feet in the light of the Christmas tree. How can feet look innocent?

2 - Watching her shell peanuts at the "Texas Roadhouse" for the simple joy of throwing both shell and nut on the floor. When I asked her about it she said, "Yes! It's just like home!"

1 - "The Hug."

Ms. Elle Steals The Show

Winning The Game That Matters

Can I tell you something? I stink at writing lately. I've been "going back into time" on this little web site and reading some of the stuff that God gave me to say a few years ago. I've enjoyed reliving some of those experiences. And then I read what I write today and ... phew. Stink-o. Maybe it's a dry spell. Maybe I've just run out of words. I dunno. I'm struggling. We'll have to see what the future holds. But this little post just has to be written. It isn't very eloquent. It's clumsy and sounds full of braggadocio. I don't mean it that way. I'm sorry about that. Really I am. The words just are not flowing. But it has to be written ...

I've only played in one really BIG ball game in my life. I was on the church softball team back around 1980 and we were playing for the championship of the southern baptist churches in the Chicago area. Last game. Last inning. We were up 7 - 4 over an inner city team. Looked like the suburbs were finally going to rule.

And then our one and only pitcher totally blew apart. The poor guy only had one thumb and it wasn't on his pitching hand. When he started walking people we knew we had to do something but honestly, he's the only guy we had who had thrown a strike all season. We lost the game 8 - 4. That was nearly 30 years ago and it still hurts. It's bad enough to lose a ball game. But to lose "The Mother of All Ball Games" is far worse. We had not lost a game until the championship finals. Then we crashed and burned in a way very reminiscent of most Chicago baseball.

Oh well.

That isn't what I really want to write about anyway. Not even close. You see, that game actually wasn't that big of a deal. Not in the eternal scheme of things. And it's only the eternal things that really counts.

I was on the treadmill at the gym this week when I got a text message from my youngest son. I wasn't setting any record pace so when my cell phone lit up indicating I was being looked for I didn't hesitate to pick it up and read it. It simply read he was leaving his current job and has been hired for a ministry position at his church.

That probably means a whole lot more to me than it does to you. Even those of you who know Christopher well. I mean, I raised him from a pup. And when I got this text I realized that in an extraordinary fashion God has worked a wonder in our family that I not only never dreamed he would work ... but that never even occurred to me that He might want to work. It seems that all three of our kids are now serving in a "career fashion" in ministry. I lost my balance and nearly fell off the tread mill. It isn't pride. It has nothing to do with that. It's ... shock. Brokenness. A deep sense of humble thankfulness. How did this happen? How did God reach in to our little home and move through all of the mistakes that were made by the parents and work this incredible work in the lives of our kids? I mean, all three of them were great infants/preschoolers/kids/teenagers/young adults. But ... all we did was give Him our home and try to stay out of His way. Yes, we prayed for them every day. Usually multiple times each day. We did our best to point them to Jesus and to show them integrity and faithfulness in our spiritual walk. But we just did not do that good a job.

And then the light kicked on in my brain. We really had nothing to do with it. It's God. My parents were good parents but they did not go to great lengths to make certain my brother and I were in church or taking it all too seriously. And yet we both grew up to be youth pastors and then pastors. My mom and dad would be the first to tell you that it was just "a God thing." And now I understand that. It's a God thing.

And yet it brings tears of gratefulness to my eyes. Serving God has been the greatest experience and joy of my life. I am humbled to be able to say that a lot of young men and women that walked through the youth groups God allowed me to lead are in ministry around the country these days. And that means more to me than I can possibly say.

But this. This is just off the charts. This just takes my breath away. I can't over state it. In the "ball games of life" this was the seventh game of the World Series. This was the Super Bowl. And because of God's decision, God's faithfulness, God's kindness .... we won. It's quite odd but I think that I can say if I screw up the rest of life (which I have no intention of doing) I'll be able to live with myself because ... we won our kids. They "get it." Life is about serving. Serving God by serving others. It is about loving your neighbor as you love yourself. It is about loving God with all of your heart, mind, soul, and strength.

Honestly, all I can do is kneel before my Maker and say, "Thank you." Because we truly did nothing worthy of causing this. But we'll take the win. This was the game that matters

All Question Marks and a Period

Why do you think God designed the sky to be blue? Do you suppose it was to match the ocean which He intended to be deep and pure and cleansing? Could it be that God wants us to experience His depth, purity, and cleansing every time we look up or down?

Why do you suppose God made electricity? Do you suppose it is to define "Power" by splitting the sky with lightening, filling our homes with warmth, and propelling our machinery with energy? Is it possible that God wants to teach us of His strength by splitting our sky, warming our souls, and propelling us to serve Him by serving others?

Why do you suppose God created the sneeze? Do you suppose it was to cleanse our systems of impurities, quicken our pulse rates, and alert us to the dangerous of unbreathable air? What if God wants to remind us to clean our hearts of sinful desires, cause our hearts to pound as we grow to be more like Him, and become hyper-alert to the things in our environment that make us less than Christ-like?

All of life is an illustration used by God to bring us closer to Him.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #42

If I were this guys Yorkie I might be a wondering what happens when he runs out of Sushi...

Do Not Fear

"Do Not Fear" is mentioned in the bible 365 times. Could it be that God knew every day of the year we would be afrai..... nah.

Dad

I can still smell him. To me he smelled like his job. He owned his own company, a storm door and window venture based in the suburbs of Chicago. He was a simple man by nature but complex by experience. He took his 4th grade education and turned it into a self guided career that allowed him to retire on his savings and social security at the age of 62. He had a retirement house built halfway between two ozark lakes in north central Arkansas. He purchased a speed boat and thrilled his grand children by ushering them around those huge lakes filled with cobalt blue waters. He loved to work for himself using his hands and the tools he accumulated over the years. He built things that he had no right to know how to build. I have no idea how he learned to do those things. He just did.

He was a good dad. I did not realize at the time just how good he was. It was not until I became a dad myself that I realized how hard he worked to take care of and provide for his family. I can remember him going to work, always an outdoors event for my dad, when I was a small child on mornings when it was -20 degrees. He just bundled up and went. Somedays he worked 7 day a week. Whatever it took, he did.

Because he worked on the installation of storm doors and windows he smelled like caulking, lumber, aluminum, gasoline, and in the summer, sweat. He wore tall leather boots, pinstriped overalls, and sometimes a ball cap. He never complained about how hard he worked but he never hid it either. When he needed rest we all knew it because his laughter faded to crankiness. In my younger days I remember him laughing more. He loved country music including goofy ozark style "hee haw" tunes. I hated them but it always cracked me up to see him enjoy them. He bought a huge stereo cabinet complete with turntable and radio. It was about 6 feet long and made of some sort of dark hardwood. He loved that stereo. I sometimes wonder what he would think of todays Ipod culture. I think he would miss the dressiness of the wood, the beauty of the cabinetry.

My earliest memories of my dad include sitting on his lap on Sunday mornings in Detroit while he read the cartoons to me. I'm sure I bugged him until he gave in became my reader. Dad loved to drive and had impeccable taste in cars. The first one I remember was his pink and white 1957 Chevy. He eventually traded that in for a white 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport. He had a knack for choosing a classic.

Dad was far from perfect. He seldom said, "I love you" first. But you never doubted his love. He seldom grabbed you and hugged you but if you hugged him he always hugged you back. He took me to many White Sox games at Old Comiskey Park but never one at Wrigley Field. He just didn't do the north side. I watched dad race from his garage one day to defend a friend of mine from the neighborhood bully as the bullies father screamed for him to "scratch his eyes out." Dad stood toe to toe with the man and told him that he was going to do to him whatever his boy did to my friend. And I know that he would have had the man not pulled his son away and retreated homeward with their tails between their legs. I was never prouder of my dad than I was at that moment.

I could write forever about my dad. He has been gone nearly 10 years now. I miss him more every day. I think, perhaps, that is a thing that God has planned out in order to prepare us for the coming reunion. Today I have worn his wedding ring all day long. It is all I have left of him. Except for my memories. The memories are far more valuable than the ring.

And today he would have been 90 years old. That is unfathomable. Unbelievable. And yet true. Somehow I think that he would be more of a man at 90 than I could possibly be at any age.

Size Matters

Several of us were looking at a jigsaw puzzle of the world tonight after church. It's 32 inches wide. I made some smart remark about wondering what the "scale" was between the puzzle and the real planet earth.

Teachable moment: never wonder aloud about something like that in the presence of a proud member of The United States Air Force (AKA: Adam Page.) I received the following mathematical equation on my facebook page about an hour later.

Puzzle Diameter = 32 inches
Earths Diameter at the equator 7,926.28 miles
First convert miles to feet 7926.28 X 5280 = 41,850,758.4
Then feet to inches 41850758.4 X 12 = 502,209,100.8 is earth’s diameter in inches at the equator
So the scale of the puzzle is 32/502209100.8 OR 1/15,694,034.4ths approximately

I present this to you simply because the world needs to know it ain't no big deal.

Gratitude - An Open Letter To God

I own too much stuff. My closet is stuffed, my drawers are over full, my "toys" remain uncounted. And all of this is true after selling a house which required filling a huge dumpster to over flowing and moving four times in two years. I've donated to the trash man, the Good Will store, and numerous anonymous "dump your used clothes here" boxes on street corners.

And I still have too much stuff.

Those things have very little to do with my gratitude. They don''t even come into play when I think about what matters to me the most.

But I am the leper that often forgets to come back to You, The Healer, and say "Thank You." I am the dead guy that You brought back to life and I spend so much time dancing in joy that I forget to utter the all important words that You must long to hear...

I think that the simple words "thank you" mean a lot. They need to be said. Yet they roll off of my tongue almost without thought. They are mere courtesy designed to dismiss my debt.

Let me cut in front on you in traffic when I turn my blinker on and I wave "thank you."

Ring me up at the "Quick Mart" and toss a penny in from the "give a penny/take a penny" tray so that I don't get a pocket full of jingling change and I say "thank you."

Hold the door for me because I have my hands full of food or drinks from some fast food establishment and I say "thank you."

So how can it be that leaving the wonders of Heaven and dying in my place to save my eternal soul from ever lasting separation from You and never ending punishment is worthy of the same "thank you?" How is that not more important than letting me cut in, tossing me a nearly meaningless piece of change, or holding the door for me?

Whips. Thorns. Spit. Nails. Hammers. Wooden beams. Blood shed. And all I can come up with is "thank you?"

I owe you everything and I give you so little. The only thing deeper than my shame is my gratitude.

Habenero Shots

Ever wonder what would happen if you should stroll into Q-dobe just before closing, order up a "Naked Burrito" and then dare the two young adults to down a "shot" of Habanero salsa? (Habanero peppers are believed to be the second hottest pepper in the world and the hottest in the Americas.) I decided to find out. So after ordering up my dinner I asked them innocently what their hottest salsa was. They pointed out this bubbling cauldron of awful looking lumpy liquid. I told them that any Q-dobe employee worth cooking up my burrito would surely be able to chug a small cup full. They strolled up to the condiment area and told me, "No problem-o" And the popped the shots. The results are in the faces...


It was a VERY good night.

I got it at Jarod!

About 8 years ago I was propped up in bed late one night messing around on e-bay. I came across a Ferguson Jenkins autographed jersey. Fergie was one of my childhood heroes in the years when he pitched for the Cubs. I accidentally purchased it for $95.00. Yes, accidentally. Don't ask. Debbie didn't leave any lasting marks in my beating the next day. These small things in life matter. The old Cubs uniform top showed up a few days later commemorating Fergie's strike-out totals, career wins, and year elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame. All in his own handwriting.

The jersey occupied a lowly place in a dresser drawer for years. And then I met Jarod. He's a buddy of mine, goes to my church, and loves people. He, his wife Caitlin (pronounced "CaitLINN." She likes it when you emphasis the last syllable. Really she does.) and daughter, Lyla, have become great friends very quickly. Well I mentioned my jersey to Jarod a couple of weeks ago. He took it home with him. The guy is a total genius when it comes to woodworking. I mean G-E-N-I-U-S. And tonight he showed up at my house with this ....

Wow. I mean ... WOW. I have the coolest man-cave ever. And best of all? I got it at Jarod!

Oh, and I have to include this picture of Jarod and Adam Page. I'm pretty sure they were debating whether or not I'd notice if they hung it upside down. I tell you, I don't get no respect.


***********************************************
And now a word from our non-sponsor. If you are in need of cabinet making or wood working this guy is way good. His prices are way reasonable (but remember, he does have to feed his family!) Let me know if you want him and I'll connect you.

America's Most Wanted ... Elle

Having been listed featured on "America's Most Wanted" she asked me to send her response to the authorities.

Nuts

Cause sometimes you feel like a nut ...


And sometimes you don't ...

Skiing skill is not as important as skiing fashion

My son, Christopher, and his charming bride, Laura, are blowing off the family Thanksgiving celebration this year. They have chosen to totally disregard all family tradition and loyalty in exchange for snow. Colorado snow. At about 10,000 feet. Can you believe that?

I can. And I would totally blow them off too if I had the same opportunity that they have. It's just the way our family rolls.

Tonight I was instant messaging with Laura. She mentioned that she was wearing her ski outfit, even her goggles, while we were talking. (I assume she did not have the gloves on.) I immediately responded with, "PICTURES! PICTURES!" I never thought she would comply.

Brave girl, that Laura. This arrived in my email box moments later.


If fashion carries the day Breckenridge, Colorado is in for a major shock...

Hold Me!

So I was sitting around and talking with God Monday morning before I went to the office. I told him that I felt like a "Duraflame." You know what a Duraflame is. It's one of those fake logs. A log wannabe. You put it in your fireplace and light the wrapper and it burns for about three hours all by itself. No other logs needed. You can't do that with a regular log. Regular logs need other logs. You light some kindling and then put other logs loosely around the top of the kindling and the logs catch fire and burn together. But a single log all alone? It might catch fire briefly but it won't keep burning. It needs other logs. Duraflames have wood in them but they also have waxy stuff that allows them to burn on their own. But when they burn out it's pretty ugly. They just turn to a bunch of smoldering and scorched dust on the bottom of your fireplace.

Christians are like logs. We have to burn together if we really want to burn for the glory of God. If we try to be Duraflames we will last a while. We might even make a nice flame that all those who look on will admire. But sooner or later you'll burn out. And it will be ugly.

Lately I've been a Duraflame, trying to burn all by myself. I told God that I recognized that and that I needed help finding the right logs to lean up against. Guys to be real with and burn with. About an hour later I got a call at my office. It was from a long time friend in a far away state. Actually, my friend didn't call me. His Administrative Assistant did. It seems he was wanting to set up a regularly scheduled conference call with me because he wants to be a log and not a Duraflame. Okay, she didn't phrase it that way but that's what it meant. We talked for about half an hour today. I have one log now and that's a start.

Then I was driving to a hospital today to visit and on impulse I dialed another friend up on my phone. He was driving between assignments on his job. I told him I am a Duraflame and that I want to be a log. I asked him to be a log with me. He told me that God had said the same thing to him on Monday of this week. Hmmm. God had a busy Monday. I have two logs now and that's more than a start.

And then after I finished working out at the gym today I was listening to the television above my head as I dressed. Some ESPN type guy was talking about Andre Agassi and how he has just confessed to using crystal meth and performance enhancing drugs in his tennis playing days. He retired in 2006. The ESPN type guy said that the problem in professional sports these days is that there is a difference between "Image" and "Reputation."

Now he had my attention. I sat on the bench and actually paid close attention to what he was saying. He pointed out that "image" is what people think you are. It is what you represent yourself as. It usually is not realistic when you look beneath the skin of "The Real You." On the other hand, "reputation" is who you really are. It is what you have with people who know you. People who have watched your life play out and understand your credibility ... or lack of it. He said that Andre Agassi had plenty of image and no real reputation.

I thought about being a Duraflame. "Human Duraflames" might start well but they finish lousy. They have plenty of image. They are beautiful, brightly colored, and fun to watch. Then they show their true colors and fall apart. I don't want to fall apart. Do you? I want to be a log among logs. You see, one log holds another log accountable for it's fire. For it's heat. Put several logs together, light them, and you have a mighty fine fire.

Accountability is so very important.

So I want my "log friends" to hold me. I want them to hold me accountable. I've burned out before and I don't ever want to do it again.

Andre, sorry you became the bad example. You made that choice. But perhaps something good will come of it if men ... people ... start saying to one another, "Hold me. Hold me accountable."

Just a little thing God's been reminding me about this week and thought you might like to know.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #41

Nobody wants to go to live in a nursing home. But if you HAVE to ... why not move into one that helps you pump up your biceps with daily work-outs? This is a nursing home I can live with! (And since when did "daily" come to mean "6 days a week?")

Now

It has been 20 years since the Berlin Wall came down. Twenty years. How is that possible? My kids were 9, 6, and 4? They probably do not even remember it? To me it was yesterday. Okay, maybe it seems like 10 years ago. But 20? No way.

I was playing with that number today and I realized that time is messing with my head. I think it's intentional but how can you be sure? Time is, in theory, passive. It is the passing of seconds but who can hold a second in his hand in order to show you what it is? So let's switch that up a bit. Time is moments. Individual moments. A dictionary has called it "The indefinite continued passing of events in the past, present and future regarded as a whole."

What does THAT mean? It sounds to me that time is defined not as an entity in and of itself. Time is, well it is what transpires. You cannot hold time. You can "hold" or at least "observe" the passing of events. So I suppose I am good with that.

I was born in 1955. June, to be exact. That makes me 54 years old. When I was born my father had been back from World War 2 for 10 years. I was probably 5 years old before I was seriously understanding that there was a history and a future. To me history consisted of the last chocolate bar I had eaten. The future consisted of the next chocolate bar I would eat. I didn't do much thinking about WWII. But when I finally became cognizant of the fact that it existed in history, in time and space, I was sure it was an eternity ago. After all, it had been 10 years. And now it has been 20 years since that big wall came down that separated East and West Germany. 20 years since President Reagan boldly stood at the Brandenberg Gate and challenged Mr. Gorbachev to "Tear down this wall."

And now it occurs to me, when I was born my father must have still felt the helmet on his head. The boots on his feet. The rifle in his hand. I know for certain that he still dreamed of the horrors he had witnessed. I don't suppose I expect anybody else to understand this, but it blows me away to realize how true this is.

I think this is all coming to mind because my dad has been gone for nearly 10 years. And I have been thinking about him a lot lately. In about 29 minutes it will be Veterans Day. My dad didn't talk much about his army years. His war years. He didn't begin to open the veil that obstructed the view of his curious sons until just before he died. Once the veil began to lift I understood why. There were horrors behind it. Bloody, evil, horrors. And he wanted to forget them. And he didn't want to infect our minds with them.

And now I find myself struggling with the concept of time. Who knows where that came from? I suppose it snuck up on me due to a variety of circumstances. All of my struggles have produced only a limited number of recognizable thoughts.

Time really does fly. Time really does not wait for any man. Individual moments seem to last for eternity while, at the same time, the whole seems to rocket by.

The meaning of all of this? I think that the meaning is that only one part of time counts. It isn't yesterday and it isn't tomorrow. It is now. What will I do with now? Because yesterday my current now was tomorrow. Tomorrow my current now will become yesterday. But even then, all I will have is ... now.

I am not sure what you can do with that. I'm even less sure that it will help you. And I am totally uncertain that you will understand where I am coming from or where I am going with all I have said. I only know that it has infected my consciousness and my heart and so I have to deal with it.

As that great theologian, Steve Miller, once said ...
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future

I want to fly like an eagle
To the sea
Fly like an eagle
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like an eagle
Till I'm free
Oh, Lord, through the revolution

Feed the babies
Who don't have enough to eat
Shoe the children
With no shoes on their feet
House the people
Livin' in the street
Oh, oh, there's a solution

Maybe time is to feed the babies, shoe the children, and house the people? Maybe somebody got something right in the '70s after all. Who knew?

Scott Saves Matts LIfe!

There are still heroes among us...

The True Measure of a Successful Day

Step #1 - Stop at "The Cozy Dog"


Step #2 - Prepare your Cozy Dog


Step #3 - Consume your Cozy Dog


Step #4 - Repeat as necessary

Full Moon Monday

Today is not just a Monday. It is a full moon Monday. It was one of those days that leaves you scratching your head. Kind of like you got hit by a bus. You KNOW you got hit by a bus. But as it drives off there are no tire marks across your torso and no bruises on your body. Just makes no sense.

First I decided this was that day to honor my promise to "go extreme." Now my extreme might not be your extreme. I'm not taking up "wing walking." I'm not going to pull airplanes with my teeth. That's sissy stuff.

I joined a gym.

:)

Not just a gym. No sir. I joined Golds Gym. Big place. Lot's of flat screen TV's to watch while you sweat. It even has this big ... and I mean BIG ... dark room. It's full of all the usual cardio equipment. Only thing is, the lights are off. Why are the lights off, you ask? Because they show MOVIES! Yes, full length movies! There's a big screen on the front wall and all day long they show a a single movie over and over and over. A new movie every day. Some are oldies like "Casa Blanca." Some are straight off the new release racks at Blockbuster. Now THAT is cool! And the hot tub is the size of a mid-sized third world country. I think we are going to get along just fiiiiiine. I don't expect to turn my "2 liters" back into a "6 pack." If I'm going to waste my time on fantasies it won't involve time at the gym.

And then I got to go back to Doctor Buttfeel today. Seems that even after his prescription 17 days ago I"m still functionally deaf. I hear the Pacific Ocean in my ears. So I call him up today about 9:30AM. He has his spiffy 3rd grade educated nursing staff call me back at 2:30 and tell me to be there at 3:15. Dude. I work in Belleville. He's in Alton. That's a 45 minute drive IF I'm already in the car, all the lights are green, and there are no school buses on the roads. So I sweet talk her into an extra 10 minutes and I hit the road.

Now this should really be a no brainer. My head sloshes when I shake it. My right ear is playing "The 1812 Overture" 24/7. I get dizzy sometimes when I drive. Disequilibrium. Not fun. so prescribe something to dry me the heck out and leave me alone. But nooooooo. They want to turn on their little key chain flash lights again and stare into my head. What's a guy to do? I drive like a crazy man and get there with 7 minutes to spare. I drank caffeine all the way there which required a stop at the little boys room and finally entered the doctors inner sanctum with 2 minutes play time. I checked-in with the pretend nurse (she gets to wear scrubs but they only give her a pen and an appointment book. This is the person you have to get through before you actually get to lay eyes on the man that went to the Alfred E. Neumann School of Medicine.)

The call my name. They weigh me. Oddly, I weighed exactly what I weighed 17 days ago. They took my blood pressure. Ditto. Same thing. Temp? A repeat. Nurse Ratchet exits. Enter Dr. Buttfeel.

"What seems to be the problem?"

Are you kidding me? We just did this. I mean I haven't even got the gum off my shoes from the last time I walked through his lobby. But in an attempt to get drugs I explain the situation once again. So he looks in my head. Yep. Fluid. Bulging ear drums.

"Welllll ... let's try another prescription of Pseudofed."

"No,let's not. I can't sleep when I take that stuff."

"True. True. Okay, let's try something else. Something with an antihistamine. Take it for 3 weeks. If that doesn't work we'll send you to an "ear, nose, throat" guy and he'll probably want to put tubes in your ears."

"Okay."

I sign-out. I tell them which pharmacy I use. I leave.

Later in the evening, after ruminating on the fact that on the other end of life I actually subjected 2 of my 3 kids to "tubes in their ears" and now the infamous circle of life may be getting even, I decide to go and get my medicine. I call up the appropriate Walmart pharmacy. They don't have it. After a second call they track it down for me. The bottom line?

My dear Doctor Buttfeel sent the prescription to the wrong pharmacy.

And he prescribed the wrong medication.

And he prescribed ONE DAYS WORTH. One days worth. After he told me to take it for 3 weeks.

See what I mean? It's a full moon Monday.

Injun Joe(sophine)

You have to be verrrry careful these days when you answer a knock at your door. Especially on halloween. It could be ... AN INDIAN!

The difference between silence and a whisper is to big to measure

At Towerview Baptist Church, where God has placed me as pastor, we are in the middle of an in depth study of prayer. I feel almost silly typing that. How can you "study" a conversation with the God of the universe? It ain't easy. But we are taking our time and approaching it on three levels.

Sunday morning is "Level 101." That's where we are looking at the basics of prayer. Literally the who, what, when, where, and why of prayer. On Sunday evenings we are at "Level 201" and digging into the things we can do to prepare our hearts for prayer. Things like the practice of solitude, silence, meditating on God's Word. And on Wednesday nights we are at "Level 301" and learning some of the prayer practices of the early church. For those who choose to jump in with both feet I believe that it can be life changing.

Especially for the teacher. (That's me.)

I was speaking on Sunday morning and at one particular point we were looking at "God's silence." You have probably noticed that on occasion ... okay, most of the time ... God chooses to remain pretty quiet. He doesn't seem to speak unless He has something specific He wants to say. Of course, that is not a firm rule. God doesn't have to obey rules. He's God. He can stop the world and tell us all a joke if He wants to. He just doesn't do it very often.

So anyway, there we are talking about God's propensity for frequent silence. It seems to come at the most inopportune times. For instance, God seems to often be His quietest when you want the most to hear Him. And I managed to get myself into a position where it would appear that I was about to reveal why that is so. The problem is, I have no idea. I mean, who does? God does what He wants to do when He wants to do it. But I rather sensed that those who were still awake were waiting for me to address that issue.

And that's when He spoke. Softly. Gently. Within the depths of my own spirit He pointed out something that had never occurred to me before. As I was speaking from my notes I was actually multi-tasking. I was running through a sequence of scriptures in my mind checking to see if what I thought was God's prompting was perhaps the spicy food consumed the night before. Within about 30 seconds I was convinced it was God.

I like it when God makes me look brilliant. I mean, really. I determined to teach something that was not in my notes but was impressed upon my heart. And if I got it wrong I was going to look really, really dumb. I leaned on the acrylic pulpit and referenced the prayer that Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane on the night before He was crucified. He prayed three distinct and separate times. And the scripture makes it clear that He was asking God if He would mind changing the game plan for the next day. He was asking God if there was possibly a way to achieve His purposes without having to go to the cross.

And there is no recorded response from God. None. Zip. The Son of God asked His Father the same thing three times in the space of just a few minutes. And God said ... nothing.

Do you realize what that means?

It means it's okay to bug God. You have free reign to take the same request to Him over and over and over and over and over and ... well, you get the point. Don't be shy. Don't fear getting smacked. It's not going to happen. Jesus shows us the way.

And it means that God is often, at the moment of your greatest need ... silent. That really stinks. No, I mean really. THAT REALLY STINKS. Sometimes I just don't think I can take another breath unless God answers a particular question. Honestly? I've been asking God for an answer to something for years now. Just a simple "why" explanation would be more than enough. He has never once indicated that He was inclined to answer my prayer. I get more of a "lean not on your own understanding" feel than I do an expectancy that an answer is imminent. I just hate that. But it puts me in good company. Very good company indeed. Because once upon a time the Son of God asked His Father (whom He knew on a Face to Face basis) a question ... and His Father remained silent. Not a Word.

In an odd sort of way it makes me rather happy to read that. I mean, I don't want Jesus to have had to go through any more pain than necessary. But if God leaves His Son in the silence and He leaves me in the silence, well then I'm in the same camp as Jesus. So the company is not half bad.

Okay, the confession is that I'm not really brilliant. I just had my spirit tuned to "channel 1" (The God Channel) at that particular moment instead of "Channel 2" (the enemies channel) and God whispered what He wanted me to teach the people present in that worship center. And I have a very strong hunch that He was also communicating something to me. I'm pretty sure He was telling me not to expect an answer to my question any time soon.

Rats.