At least I didn't blow up

I decided to stop taking crap from my motorcycle. So today I drug it out of its secure location and propped it up in the garage. I am a human being. It is a piece of machinery. And darn it, I'm smarter than it is. I encircled it with wrenches, screwdrivers, and sockets so that it could not escape. I tore the entire e-stinken thing apart to get to that pesky leaking carburetor one more time. And when I got there I cleaned the living daylights out of it. Then I began putting it back together.

I dropped a screw. As screws go this was a rather important one. It is one of four that hold the carburetor together. Gotta have it. Unfortunately it fell somewhere down into the guts of the machine and hid among things that, as far as I know, have no name. This was not acceptable. I pulled the bike to the right, almost laying it on its side. The screw didn't slide out of its snare onto the floor. I pulled the bike to the left. Nothing.



There was only one thing to do. I removed another screw that does the same thing that the missing screw does. Then I climbed into my very hot (and still running) Mustang for a quick run to an auto parts store and a replacement screw. As I backed out of the driveway I heard a crunch but thought little of it. Probably just one of those sweet gum balls that fall out of my tree every 3.6 seconds. I went and bought my screw. It cost me forty-six cents, tax included. When I got back home I found a very expensive and very smashed screwdriver in my driveway. My crunch was not a sweet gum ball. It was a ratchet screwdriver. It sells for something around thirty dollars.

And I destroyed it for a forty-six cent screw.

I spit on it and let it lie there and suffer.

In about half an hour the bike was done, reassembled and ready for its test run. And guess what!

It leaks worse than ever.

And I don't have a ratchet screwdriver anymore. And I hate my motorcycle. And I hate tools. And I hate my high school shop teacher who is probably dead by now anyway. This is all his fault.

I'm going to sit my fat butt on my mega-chair and watch cartoons and remember the days when tools were foreign objects to me. Like ... today.

The best parts of life always seem to end with a truck

This is what it looks like. I always wondered. My oldest son is one of my best friends. I am really blessed that way. My youngest son is one of my best friends too. So is my daughter. But my oldest son is the one that moved away yesterday. Well, actually he moved away eleven months ago when he became a volunteer intern at Willow Creek Community Church near Chicago. The key word in that sentence is "volunteer." Because volunteers eventually come home. Everybody has to earn a living and so you can only donate your time for so long.

But what happens if you do such a good job donating your time that they decide they want you to stay and they decide to pay you to do so? Well. Then you see a truck drive away from your house much like the one in the picture above.

You know, I raised him for this. Same thing with his siblings. This was the purpose. There is a picture hanging in my hallway that has been stationed by my kids bedroom doors for over two decades. It portrays a dad, freshly home from work and still sporting his button down shirt and loosened tie. He is kneeling beside his childs bed and he is praying. I am that dad. I have done that more times than I can count. The tie does not apply though because most of my bedside praying took place during the middle of the night. I would wake up and do the dad thing ... making the rounds of the house, assuring that all is well. And then I would creep into three bedrooms and pray over the little bodies in the beds.

It worked. They all turned out great. No complaints. Their ages range from twenty-six to twenty-two. The fresh "mover" is twenty-four. It was time for him to go. He is taking a bride in July. As a pastor I get to perform the ceremony. That'll be an honor ... a hard one but an honor.

So tonight I was home alone and I walked into the freshly emptied room. A few odds and ends (things that didn't make the cut) still remain on his floor and in his closet. I looked them over. They have him all over them. Nothing in there is just "stuff." It's all things that he loved once upon a time. But I found something else in his room. It was a perfect portrayal of the way I feel tonight. I found our family dog, Bailey the Killer Beagle, all curled up on the floor ... right where his bed used to be. That is where Bailey would often sleep during the day when Scott was away at Willow. And today when she went in there ... his stuff was gone. She did the only thing she knew to do. She curled up where she has curled up so many times before and she tried her best to feel at home there. I can't help but wonder what she was dreaming.

Please do not misunderstand. I am so very glad it has all worked out this way. He is off serving God in the place where he was "called" to serve. And that is where I want him. Still, it does not make that room any less empty. Bailey? She only knows he is gone. The rest of us know where and why. And it makes all of the difference in the world.



So if you are out there reading this, son, know that your dad is glad you are right where you are. The empty bedroom will be filled with other things soon enough. But I will never forget the times I knelt quietly beside your bed and asked God to do in you exactly what He has done. I didn't realize then that it would leave an empty hole in my heart. But I look at it this way. We have eternity to spend together. So I guess I can accept and even find joy in the fact that you are off in the world serving King Jesus for a few decades. Expect to have some great days. Expect to get beat up a few times too. I know that you understand exactly what I mean. But never forget ... NEVER ... that those prayers are constantly being heard by your Father that is bigger than I. They ring in His ears. They echo in His heart. And He promises to complete in you the work He has begun.

Bailey? She will be fine. So will your mom and dad. Topher will be off soon to Centrifuge. Kelli has made a wonderful life for herself, her husband, and her baby girl. On top of that she serves on staff at another great church. Your mom and I went "three for three" when it comes to our kids. What more could we ask for? All of you leave holes when you are gone that no person or no thing can fill. Ever. But I would not have it any other way.

I love you. I am proud of you. The three of you validate the time I have spent on this planet. If it ends tomorrow ... it was well worth it. The title of this blog? "I wasted time and now doth time waste me?" It is a lie. William Shakespeare said it and it fit well in his play. But for me? No time has been wasted. Not one minute.

You are proof of that.

Praying for Taylor

God has organized life in such a way that I once again find myself in touch with a child that has leukemia. I have never actually had the pleasure of meeting Taylor. She is only nine years old and is in third grade. She lives in northern Illinois. It seems that Taylor's schoolteacher is a friend of a friend. The friend on my end (Marcie) e-mailed me Taylor's story. I then told her of my friendship with a teenage girl in my last youth group that fought ... and defeated ... leukemia. Well, that e-mail found its way to Taylor's mom. She, in turn, e-mailed me tonight. Her letter ripped my heart out. Would you like to know why? Read this...

"I read your email and I cried so hard because I feel so lost, and so scared, and so afraid. Yet I stay so strong in front of Taylor. This is a 9-year-old girl who loves God, and people, so much. The most unselfish little girl I have ever met in my entire life. The same little girl who sat at Children's Memorial yesterday and told me she's beginning to wonder about God!!!!!I never thought I would hear that from her ever. I told her it's ok to question God, and wonder why...She started losing all of her hair yesterday and fought the tears so nobody could see her cry. I have been through so much in my life, and nothing can compare or come close to this watching your kid suffer, and there is nothing you can do about it but feel helpless, feel doubtful, feel weak. I'm lost I will be honest, I have prayed my heart out, I have cried, I have felt every emotion you could feel, and now all I have to hold on to is still faith, prayers, and strength. Please continue to pray for Taylor as we start our second round of 10 day in patient chemo some time next week. We will be at Children's Memorial about four months out of the next six months."

See what I mean? I called Taylor's mom after reading her e-mail. She was cautious at first because she had no idea who she was talking to. As I explained that I was the guy she had e-mailed she relaxed a bit. We talked and prayed and spent some time just wondering about it all. I had to tell her the truth ... there are no guarantees. God promises to love us and to be present in and through our pain. He does not promise to heal us in this world. But I am praying that He does decide to in Taylor's case. Nine years old and already she has engaged in a battle fiercer than all of the battles I have fought combined. Nine years old and wondering if she will ever see ten. Nine years old and she lost enough hair this week to fill a bathroom trashcan. Nine years old and her trademark pigtails are lying with the used Kleenex and q-tips.

I do not understand. I promised Taylor's mom that I would call her again tomorrow. And I vowed to pray for Taylor often. I am going to be in her area soon and I am wondering if it would be right for me to meet her. I cannot fix this little girl. But I do know something about loving kids. And for some reason when they hurt ... it makes me want to connect with them and share that hurt.

Would you do me a favor? Would you pray for Taylor too? She is a real person. And tonight she is trying to sleep through the pain and confusion. She is trying to sort out the whole "God vs. Leukemia" thing.

And she is only nine years old.

(If you would like to leave a word of encouragement or prayer for Taylor or her mom I promise to send them on to her. Please do...)

Fourteen things I have tried so hard to understand but have yet to figure out ...

A SIGN FULL OF TRUTH FOUND AT THE ST LOUIS ZOO


(Once again we approach the unapproachable. I finally realized that for the first time in my life nobody can fire me. And so I decided to just put things out there. Here is what is on my mind. You can like it or you can hate it but at least I am thinking and my brain has not *yet* turned to mush. Tonight you get "a bakers dozen" plus three.)

1. Why is it that we cheer for one church over another when that is like cheering for a teams left fielder over their short stop?
2. Why is it that the most gifted people seem to lose interest in their gifts more quickly than less gifted people?
3. Why is it that the more you say "God, do what it takes to make me the man you want me to be" the more difficult He makes life?
4. Why is it that God is our "Abba Father" and yet sometimes He decides not to speak to us for a while?
5. Why is it that people get mad at you when you tell them that God does speak today and not only through the bible?
6. Why is it that my spirit craves God's voice and then when He speaks everything inside of me insists that it was a coincidence?
7. Why is it that churches say they want to grow and then throw away God's biblical methods in favor of denominational programs?
8. Why is it that spiritual gifts are treated in the church as an optional luxury when God gave them to point you to your life's job description?
9. Why is it that in practicality gifts mean less than being personally connected and yet in reality being personally connected is ultimately doomed to failure without gifts?
10. Why is it that leaders hesitate to turn over responsibility for areas they are not gifted in to people who are gifted in them?
11. Why is it that churches expect their pastor's to have all of the spiritual gifts and act like he is being lazy when he does not?
12.Why is it that the more spiritually ignorant a person is the louder he speaks and the louder he speaks the more people listen?
13. Why is it that even when I am deeply angry with people I cannot help loving them when I see them?
14. Why is it that I can forgive and forget your wrong doings but I keep rehashing my own and drag them up every opportunity I get?
15. Why is it that I am unemployed and yet I have to go to work in the morning?

Ten Things I Have Learned About Churches In The Last Twelve Months (and two bonus observations)

(Warning: Gross generalizations ahead. Read with extreme caution. Disagreement with any or all points only means that I am probably wrong. I can live with that.)

1. Steeples and "The Tower of Babel" have more in common than I ever dreamed.
2. Despite their disclaimers the vast majority of churches are the most competitive "industry" in town. Often the only non-jealous church in town is the largest church in town and that is only because they have no one to be jealous of.
3. Roughly 90% of the people in a typical church will love you to death if you will let them.
4. Roughly 10% of the people in a typical church will put you to death by means other than love.
5. The majority of the people in a typical church have absolutely no idea how a church runs or who does the running.
6. If you want to get loved on at church find a good small group. That is where it all starts.
7. The majority of the people in a typical church do not attend a good small group and thus are missing out on where the love happens.
8. Almost all churches with changeable signs advertise the next sermon title or a cute slogan when the only thing that will truly cause godly transformation in a heart is the Word of God. I do not know of one church that consistently puts scripture on their sign.
9. The most evangelistic ministry in a church is the youth ministry. The most under funded ministry in a church is the youth ministry. The most griped at / complained about ministry in a church is the youth ministry. Do you see a problem here or is it just me?
10. Jesus loves the church anyway and He does it without reservation or hesitation. Therefore I have to love her like that too. Even when she makes it difficult.
11. A church that doesn't burst into celebration every time a person is baptized simply does not understand what they just witnessed.
12. Show me a truly wise and godly man or woman in a church and I will show you a man or a woman who does not realize that they are particularly wise and godly.

Hug me and shut up

Today I learned a lesson and I want to tell you about it. It is a lesson I have learned many times before and yet I keep forgetting it. First the story. Then the lesson.

I have not been riding my motorcycle much this spring. There is a very good reason for that. It leaks gasoline. Yes, gas is expensive and I don't like to drip it along the highway as I do my "easy rider" thing. But that is not my greater concern. You see I have this thing about blowing up. The carburetor is dirty or something and so it leaks fuel from the over flow hose. The bike really does not care if it is turned on or turned off. It leaks unless you shut the valve, which kills fuel to the engine. I do not have a difficult time imagining this leaking petroleum dripping on the ultra-hot exhaust and sending me to an early meeting with Jesus.

I did not get called to teach today and so I decided to fix this little problem. I watched a friend do it last year and it did not look too terribly difficult. I took my digital camera outside and took pictures as I disassembled the bike step by step. I removed the back seat. I removed the front seat. I was so proud. Tools were e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e! I removed the gas tank and drained it in a very legal and responsible manner.

Now it was serious carb repair time. I took pictures of every hose and where it was connected. Every screw and where it came out. I took twenty-seven pictures. That way, if I got lost while reassembling the bike the pictures would show me where everything goes.



You have to admit, that was pretty brilliant.



When I got the carburetor off I cleaned it with the finest cleaner and a very stiff toothbrush. I cleaned and I cleaned and I cleaned! I smelled like a real mechanic! People who drove down my street looked at me and I know what they were thinking. They were thinking, "Look at that talented guy working on his motorcycle. Boy, I wish I was like him." When I was finished I had the cleanest carb on the block, nay, the town. Maybe all of Illinois!

And then I reassembled the bike. First the tedious job of putting the fuel stuff back together and reattaching it to the frame. The gas tank. The front seat and the rear seat were next.

TA-DA!

I put fresh gasoline in the tank. I climbed on the bike. I turned the key, revved the throttle and listened in amazement as the engine roared to life. I did it!

I climbed off the bike. She purred like a kitten with a fresh saucer of milk. I backed up to admire my job from a distance. That is when I noticed the gasoline flowing ... not dripping like it was before I "fixed" it ... flowing out of the overflow tubing and onto my driveway.

I killed the ignition. I put my tools away. I hosed off my driveway. I pushed my bike as far to the back of my property as I could get it and left it to sit there and just think about what it had done for a while.

It is still there. It can rust there for all I care.

Well, that is the story. Here is the lesson.

I have no business getting into small (or large) engine repair. I know NOTHING about engines. In high school I took "shop" and had to tear down and rebuild a lawn mower engine. We had a shortage of engines and so we did it with a partner. Your grade was based on how well the engine ran when you were done. I was sick the last day of class ... the day my partner finished our project. Seems he had some left over bolts and so he did what any good mechanic would do. He put them in the cylinder. Yes, the cylinder. The next day school was over and grades were sent out. We got a "B." I've often wondered what happened when the teacher started that lawn mower engine. I hope he's ok. He was not a good-looking guy and a bolt buried between his eyebrows would not do much to improve him. I have worse horror stories about my efforts at REAL engine repair ... like on our big blue van. This weird thing that I had never heard of (a "harmonic" something-or-other) fell off of it at my mother-in-law's house. Boom. It just fell off. Not good. She lives in Milwaukee and we don't. I needed to get home. This thing that I can't remember the name of holds the big belt in place that makes the things on the engine work which, in turn, makes the wheels go round and round. And it just fell out on her driveway as we were leaving for our four hundred mile drive home. I did what any good dad/husband/mechanic would do. I went to the hardware store with one of the bolts and asked for six more. Then I climbed under the van, held that piece in place and bolted it back on. Then we drove home with absolutely no problems whatsoever. The next day a friend who really does understand things like engines checked it out for me. I remember him screaming when he slid under the van. It seems that the old bolts had simply broken off inside their little holes. So when I screwed the new bolts in they only went about three threads deep and then were stopped by the old broken and buried pieces. I drove four hundred miles with my family like that. My friend told me that this was impossible and that only angels held those new bolts in and got us home safely.

Hey, if I have to choose between my mechanical abilities and the help of the Heavenly Host ... I'm going with the angels every time.

To repeat, engine repair is not my thing. I am not only bad at it ... I am dangerous. Wickedly dangerous. You know what I do? I do people. The local quick mart/gas station calls me their chaplain. Hmmm. I'll bet I'm the only one of those in the world. I like to talk to people. Anybody will do. My family hates me for that. So do the people behind me in the fast food drive through. Their burgers are chillen while I'm making friends with the dude or dudette taking my cash.

Again, I'm good with this. You know why? Because life is about relationships. Did you get that? It's important so write it down. "Life is about RELATIONSHIPS." Life is not about engine repair (though I thank God for those who can do this incredible feat and my hat is off to them!) But I suspect that God is never going to ask me how many engines I repaired. No, He will probably ask me how I treated people. Not only that but when one of my engines die I just get a new one. Sure I spit and cuss first. But eventually I give in and replace it. It's a thing. Life is not about things. It's about people. Relationships.

So here's what I want to leave you with tonight. How are your relationships? No, not with the guy at the fast food counter or the bank teller. That's important but I'm talking about your relationships with the people in your life that matter to you. Your family. Your friends. The one's you call when you need stabilizing. The one's you hang out with when you get to choose. Are you loving on them? Are you letting them know just how valuable they are to you? Or are you damaging those relationships with your less than perfect patience or your irritability at the end of a long day at work? Life has cost me a lot of friends over the past few years. You know what? I still love 'em. I can't help it. I do not see them anymore but I love them. I lost some friends over decisions that mattered. Important things. But not things that should destroy friendships. Not things that should damage ... much less end ... relationships. Because they are what life is about.

And life is short. And precious. And not to be taken for granted or trifled with. I can go the rest of my life without riding a motorcycle again. But without you ... I can't make it. So you be patient with me when I'm annoying and I'll be patient with you when you are annoying (oh yes you are) and we'll be fine.

Now hug me and shut up.

Death From Above!

I tell ya, we coulda DIED! And all for the love of biscuits and gravy. (mmmmmmm!) One of my favorite "you're-dead-if-you-eat-too-many-of-these-meals" is found "down on the farm." Yup. Bob Evans biscuits and gravy. I eat this meal fully aware of the risks. Heart disease. Coronary artery disease. Choking on the huge chunks of sausage floating in the oh so lovely white gravy. It could happen. Probably will someday.

But never in a garzillion years would I have guessed that my insatiable craving for this southern delicacy could cause the demise of my wife and I like ... death from above. I am so naive.

I had downed my last biscuit. Sucked the last of the gravy from the bowl with a straw. Made friends and actually shared my faith in Jesus Christ with the husband of the couple sitting across the aisle from us. (Hey, if I'm going out I'm going to be on extraordinary terms with God when it happens.) We had watched the rain falling as we sat at our window-side seat. It had subsided when we paid the check and left the parking lot in "Emma" the Mustang. A couple of quick turns got us northbound on I-255. It is a short fifteen miles or so between the restaurant and our home. About half way through our trip we came across two Illinois State Police cars in the median strip with a wrecked black Mustang between them.

Odd. The road was dry. No other vehicles were even nearby. Why did this guy drive off into the ditch?

Within the next two or three miles we counted over twenty cars, trucks, and even a motor home stopped along the side of the expressway in both directions. A helicopter flew directly overhead. Other traffic flowed along with us, their drivers probably wondering what we were wondering. "What the ....????" We looked in every direction and saw nothing. It was cloudy. Ugly cloudy. Steam was rising from the refinery in Wood River but that's not exactly a traffic stopper. It occurred to me that the only time I had ever seen cars stopped randomly like this was years earlier when I was bringing a youth group home from a mission trip in Marshfield, Wisconsin. We drove through a really bad rainstorm. As we emerged from the other side there were cars on the entrance ramps and alongside the expressway. Many of them had cameras out taking pictures of the storm we had just driven through. I started playing with the electric mirrors outside the van and spotted a tornado tearing through the fields behind us. I quickly radioed my drivers in the other vans and they watched it with me. Most of the teens were asleep and never knew of their near brush with flying cows or houses heading off to Kansas. But today we looked and didn't see anything.

So, we made a few stops on the way home. When we got there I walked into the living room and picked up Tess the laptop to check my email. I clicked on a bookmark for KSDK, one of the television stations in St. Louis and, well, here is what I saw ...



As it turns out there were three tornadoes. One was in front of us. One was behind us. One was to the right of us. Nobody got hurt. Only farmers fields got torn up. Debbie and I both looked in every direction. Neither of us saw anything. Nuttin. The whole county was taking pictures. "News Chopper 5" was flying over us (in between the storm cells) and showing the twisters live on St. Louis television. And we ... we were oblivious.



Ok, so. Lessons learned.

1. God is good. Everybody was safe.
2. Debbie and I are effectively blind when it comes to seeing objects of imminent danger to our mortal bodies.
3. People in black Mustangs are obviously bigger weenies than other drivers who somehow managed not to wet themselves or drive off the road when surrounded by tornadoes.
4. If the biscuits and gravy don't kill you ... the trip to get them might.

I is smarter than I new I was

Teaching in the public school system is something I never ever thought I would do. Come to think of it, teaching in the public school system is something I never ever WANTED to do. School gives me a rash. I break out in bad grades. But, being the mercenary that I am, I am giving it a spin. Poor me. Poor kids. I am not sure whom I feel the most sorry for.

When I was a mere lad myself I was quite the student. Well, actually my grades stunk. I was one of those kids who consistently did not "live up to his potential." I would like to tell you that, like Albert Einstein, I was just bored with my classes because I was too smart to be bothered with the trivial lessons the were throwing at me. But nope. I was just lazy and relatively stupid. Some things never change, huh? On the plus side I never got a "pink slip" (Lincoln-Way High Schools way of saying you are late for class,) a "green sheet" (Lincoln-Way's dreaded detention,) or anything even close to suspension. Room 109 was the detention room and I never even saw the inside of it. Rumor has it there were chains on the walls and big bald guards with whips in each corner. My brother told me so.

You know what I am learning when I teach these days? EVERYTHING. Seriously. I am. On Monday I taught art. ART! Do you realize what that does to my comfort zone? It violates it in every possible fashion! I can barely draw a breath much less a picture. But my assignment was to teach the kids about "pointillism." You don't know what that is, do you? Well, neither did I. So I picked up the teachers book and found out that it is a style of painting in which small distinct points of primary colors create the impression of a wide selection of secondary colors. Wanna see a picture? Ok!

That is a little number from Seurat's "La Parade" done in 1889. See? Stick with me and you will learn things.

Last week I was teaching 5th grade math. Man, I am almost too embarrassed to tell you this. I gave the kids a work sheet and they started raising their hands to ask for help with problems. Uh-oh. But I sat down with them and you know what? I FIGURED IT OUT! I did it! I actually understand 5th grade math!!!! This is so ginormous that it makes my head hurt. The same thing happened later in the day when I taught English. Did you know that an "adverb" is a word or a phrase that modifies or qualifies an adjective, verb, or other adverb? I should probably have known that. And I probably did once upon a time. I use adverbs every day without even realizing it. Come to think of it, now that I know I'm using them it probably won't change a thing. Still, it's kind of cool.

I've taught language arts, computer science, physical education, math, English, reading, and science. And I've learned something in every class. Amazingly enough, my favorite class is still recess. I hope that you will treat me with a new found respect and reverence the next time you see me. No need to bow. We can keep this on the down-low. Just between you and me. I don't need the blowing trumpets or the billowing banners. But if I should correct something you say ... don't argue with me. I know these things. And I would hate to make you stay after class.

Wanted: Busted up and broken believers ... apply through prayer

The first time I bought my own used car I wrecked it on night one. That is correct. Yes, I collaborated with my dad (he paid for the car and I paid him back.) We lived in Tinley Park, Illinois on beautiful 177th St. The car was a 1970 Ford Galaxy. It was a lovely turd brown. It was an ugly Monday night and I got in it to go to the store and then drive to a youth group bible study at my church. That's right. My first trip in my first personally owned car was to church. And I wrecked the car before I could even get there. It was raining and I was not used to the brakes so when a pick-up truck stopped in front of me I slid into his tailgate. It cost my dad $200 to buy him a new one. Me? I was left to pay monthly payments for several years on a car that I never got fixed because my insurance deductable was too high. And do you know what the worst part was? The accident slid the left front quarter panel (the sheet metal part in front of the drivers door that goes all the way to the front of the car) backward about half an inch. That was just enough to make the door and the quarter panel overlap so that everytime I would open my door it sounded as if a shot gun was going off. Everytime I opened the door to get in or out ... I remembered the accident. The mistake. The wreck. I never escaped it until I finally sold the car several years later to a police woman. (Two weeks later the transmission fell out. I drove very carefully when she was on duty.)

Busted stuff has a way of teaching important but painful lessons. I have come to believe that it is supposed to be that way.

It has come to my attention that God gets great delight in allowing that same lesson to be learned by His children. This is going to sound crazy but trust me, it is true. God loves to use busted up and broken people. Actually, He seems to be able to use them much more effectively than He can use trophy Christians who give shining testimonies before large audiences that listen in wonderous awe. I don't have anything against Christian athletes or Christian movie stars or Christian singers or any Christian that has had their years easy and never gotten knocked around by life for insisting on turning the light on in the darkness. I just think they have a handicap. They are all spiffy and shiny. Trophy Christian's are my brothers and sisters. They are (in theory) squeaky clean and great examples of what God can do through a yielded soul. There is just one problem.

I do not trust them.

When the heat gets turned up they just may turn back on you and double cross you. They may shoot at you and say that they are doing it "in Jesus name." You know what I say to that? I'll water my terminology down for family consumption. I say poppycock. Believers in Jesus Christ do not shoot at believers in Jesus Christ. Ever. E-V-E-R. They take the bullet themselves. Who was it that said, "Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." Answer? Jesus. The Son of God said that. So let me just tell you a little secret. If you have drawn a target on a brother or sister in Christ ... shame on you. I do not give a rip what your reasons are. Your are wrong, wrong, wrong. Children of God do what Jesus did. They take the hit themselves and they do not complain about it.

Give me a busted up and broken believer anyday. One who has walked the miles and has the blisters on his feet to prove it. One who has been attacked by the world, ambushed by his "friends," whooped-up on by Satan and come out the other side bloodied, broken and bruised with the scars that tell stories of the battles fought. These are the believers you can count on. They know the sound of the enemies drum beat. They have seen the pointed end of his fiery darts blazing in their direction. They are my sisters and my brothers that have stood in the face of the heat without melting. They are my sisters and my brothers who have invaded the enemy camp in the dead of night just when the enemy was about to claim victory. And when they got to the camp ... they danced. Oh, they danced in pain but the most assuredly did dance. It was a victory dance. And the enemy looked foolish. Because, you see, you cannot stop a busted up and broken believer. He has laid it all on the line before and he is willing to do it again. He has already learned to consider himself "dead" to the goodies of the world. And you just cannot kill a dead man.

It is always nice to have trophy Christian's around. They make great diversions. They give the world and the enemy some body to admire while the scarred warriors slip around their flank and share the good news of freedom behind enemy lines. It is the busted up and broken believers that do damage for (and not TO) the family of God. When God wants to run a major play He doesn't call on the trophies. He calls on the warriors. The trophy Christians get out the book ... no, not "THAT" book ... the book of tradition. It's called the "Programs and Policies To Win The World To Christ" book. "THAT" book ... the bible ... is theory to them. If you take it too literally you will mess up your corporate policy. Your church IS incorporated, isn't it? Good luck winning the world with a corporation strategy. It ain't happening.

So shut up and put your dog tags on. Get in the battle or go polish your trophy stand, crawl up on it and wait for the applause that will surely come. As for me and my house ... get the bandages and first aid kits ready. I'm watching my kids and I'm watching my wife and they are living behind enemy lines. King Jesus has issued some of us orders. It is official that Scott is a permanent "on staff" fixture at Willow Creek now. (He may hang me for writing that here. But dad's have a right to be proud of their kids and I am. Not so much because of where he's serving but simply because he is serving.) Christopher leaves in less than a month for another long and hot summer on staff at Centrifuge. (He is my Mega-Relay hero. And I have reason to believe that kids will get saved through his leadership this summer. His dad ... me ... always dreamed of working at 'Fuge and he is doing it.) Kelli and Joe are both still on the front lines of serving in West County at a large, Christ honoring church. They amaze me with their passion!) I cannot wait to see all of them fight the good fight. All three of my kids are living out my dreams ... doing great damage to the enemies efforts on planet earth. And while that only leaves two of us we will be back in the game soon. Got a few cuts and bruises that are still healing. But it won't be long. I hear the drumbeat in the enemy camp. My blood begins to stir. And I can't wait ... as John Wesley said, "Some people want to live within the sound of chapel bells, but I want to run a mission a yard from the gates of hell."

Been there before. It's familiar territory. Getting ready to go again. You have not fully served until you have gotten close enough to the gates to smell the sulfar ...

"God" is not short for "Google"

Fully half of the kids had their hands up. Some were waving them wildly, hoping to get my attention so that I would call on them. I was teaching a 5th grade math class this afternoon. I was very glad to see those hands go up when I asked for the answer to "number three" because, well, I don't do math. Oh, I had the answer. It was written in red in my teachers book. But I had no idea how to GET the answer. And I had a plethora of students anxious to explain to the others why the answer WAS the answer.

You see, there is a difference between HAVING the answer and knowing how to GET the answer. Sometimes you have the answer but you don't know how you got it. Other times you know how (or where) to get the answer but you don't know what the answer is.

Case in point.

I was driving home from the mall tonight. Actually I was in the front passanger seat. Debbie was driving because we left home before sundown and I had taken my prescription sun glasses with me and had forgotten my regular glasses. I don't drive without being able to see. It just seems like a good policy to me. So tonight I was the passanger.

The top was down on the car. It was a beautiful evening. The sky was clear. The temps were warm. I reclined in my seat because Debbie was on the phone with her mother and I was not engaged in a conversation. I just looked up at the sky. Somewhere up there ... is God's house. I don't know where. But it's there.

I've been wanting to ask God some questions lately. Some personal things that I do not understand have begun to bother me. it is not important to this story for you to understand what those questions are. All that matters is that I have questions and He has answers and I am wondering if He would share them with me.

That is when I remembered today's math class. Sometimes hands would go up when a student wanted to give the answer to a problem. Occasionally a hand would go up when a student had a question that he needed an answer to. I always call on the students with the questions. That is my job. Answer their questions and, in so doing, teach them.

Hmmm.

I raised my hand. I felt the wind press against my cupped palm but I held it there as I stared off into the distant heavens. I whispered, "Excuse me, Sir. I have some questions and I was wondering if you would mind if I asked them." Silence. "And would you be willing to answer my questions?" Silence.

That is when the bug smashed into the palm of my hand and died there. It hurt and I jerked my hand down. I brushed the bug off and glanced back toward the sky. I kept my hand in my lap.

"Ok. Maybe later. Thanks anyway."

God speaks when He wants to speak. God says what He wants to say. He is not a cosmic form of "Google" where you punch in your question and the answer comes racing to your screen. He is God. Oh yes, He certainly does love me. He loves you too. But life is lived on His terms. Never on our own.

Yes, I rather wish He had been willing to answer my questions tonight. But it could have been much worse.

Just ask the bug.

All in all...

All in all I thought that went pretty well. Didn't you? There were a couple of grammatical errors but it was certainly understandable.

Ron .... OUT

This ... is a test ...

This is a test of the "I wasted time and now doth time waste me" blog network.

It is 8:48 AM. Traditionally my brain does not function before 11ish. Substitute teaching has forced me to begin my thought processes as early as 5:30 AM. A-w-k-w-a-r-d. However, since I have a little time before leaving for today's assignment I thought I would run a test blog to see if I am now capable of not only rational thinking but creative thinking in the morning. And so I am going to tell you the story of my run-in on Metro-Link yesterday. I will read this test blog when I return home this afternoon to determine the success or failure of this test.

I am now shifting from "rational thinking" to "creative thinking." Here goes ...

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(This has been a test of the "I wasted time and now doth time waste me" blog network. Had this been an actual blog you would have been instructed in blog safety and proper use of bloggage. This is only a test!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until today.

Because today ... I got the whistle.

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

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

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

Walk.

Take them outside and ... walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Snot Express Is Leaving The Station

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

Well thank you for the warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Legally binding disclaimer

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

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

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

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

I won ... but I'm tiiiiired

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

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

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

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

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

"Teaching."

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

"Do what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say what?

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

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

But tonight? I'm tiiiiiired.

BREAKING NEWS ...

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

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

I lived

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

This cannot be good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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