I hate telephones. I love telemarketers. Those should be mutually exclusive statements but I find that they are not. Telephones interrupt me and seldom in a pleasant way. (If you are reading this and you call me frequently, please understand that I am not talking about you. I am talking about everyone else that calls me. You are special. You are my favorite. I thank God every day that you have my phone number. Really I do.)

I have a talking "Caller ID." It is the coolest thing that I own. I keep the volume turned all of the way up so that I can hear it all throughout the house. When my phone rings I automatically sigh. And then I listen. After the first ring a lovely female computer-voice announces the phone number that is calling. Or, if you are in the top 20 people that call me, it actually announces your name. By the third ring she has finished reciting your number. By the fifth ring I have figured out who you are. By the sixth ring I have decided not to answer. You'll call back. Or you'll catch me in person later. Or if I'm really lucky you will simply email me. Take how much I hate telephones and reverse it and that is how much I love email. I can read it when I want to. I can delete it if it annoys me. I can pretend I never received it. I can claim that I mistook it for junk mail and blew it away. Or, most likely, I will read it and respond in a timely fashion. You see, email does not waste time. That's because most people don't want to spend time typing. So they get to the point and then click "send." Email is effecient! But with telephone calls you have to go through that entire thing where you are thinking, "all I really want to do is fall into my mega-cushy-chair for a few minutes and watch The Weather Channel but this person wants to chat. I don't want to chat. I want to start a fire on the stove so I can have an excuse to hang up." It isn't the people that I don't like. It's the act of talking into a wire. It's the interruption. Why do I have to jump up and answer the phone just because a bleeping noise started emitting from it? Do I really have to be that closely at the worlds fingertips? I feel like Pavlov's dog only I never get the milky bone. The phone bleeps it's 21st century tone at me. I immediately stop doing what I want to be doing and go to respond to ... who knows what? Sometimes the call is for someone else and I can smile and return to my own little world. Sometimes, though rarely, it is a wrong number and I can laugh with a stranger about the absurdity of making an accidental acquaintance. But usually it is somebody that just wants to talk whether I want to or not. And then what do you do? Courtesy demands that you be polite and pretend to want to talk as much as they do. In the meantime you have missed "local on the 8's" five or ten consecutive times. It is just not right.

But there is one phone call that I jump to answer. Several times each day my talking caller ID lady will say, "Caller Unknown." Allllll right! This is one I want! You see, telemarketers think that it is a stroke of brillance to block their number so that when you look at (or listen to) your caller ID you won't know who they are. And they know that you are sooooo curious to find out who is calling you that you will grab that receiver right up to your ear and give them a big old "howdy!" Then they'll talk at 90mph so that you can't interrupt. They assume that you are too polite to cut in and as long as they keep talking they you won't beg off and tell them "no thank you." At my house, at least, this is where they are wrong. You see, telemarketers make their living by assuming that they have you at their mercy. They know you are a nice person and you'll either listen to them or you'll hang-up. They don't mind hang-ups. Hang-ups don't take up any of their time. They move right along to the next lucky caller. But there is one thing telemarketers cannot stand! There is one thing that drives them crazy! They totally go beserk... they totally freeze up and don't know what to do... when you feign interest and ask questions so stupid that you really have to streeeeeeeeeeeeetch your intelligence to come up with.

For instance, I had one call me recenlty from AT&T. He explained that this initial stood for "American Telephone and Telegraph." He wanted to set me right up with a home security system. You see, the president of their company had been on my very block that week and had noticed that not many people had their companies burglar alarm installed on their home and if I would just allow them to put up a sign stating that I had their system... well... they'd install one for free!!!!

Now I've done my share of stupid things in life. But I'd like to think that my bucket of gullibility doesn't go that deep. Besides, as I pointed out to the kind salesman... "Isn't it difficult to take time to tap out a message to the police when someone is breaking into your house?" My comment met with silence. And then a "What?" I explained that having a telegraph as my burglar alarm might not be the way to go. If somebody is breaking into my home and making off with the family jewels it is much quicker to use the telephone to call 911 than it would be to learn Morse Code and tap out S.O.S. on the American Telephone and TELEGRAPH gadget they were wanting to install. The nice man with the foriegn accent spent the next minutes explaining how I had misunderstood the meaning of "telegraph." Of course I never heard him. As soon as I was sure he was suitably frustrated and tied into knots, I lay the phone down on the table (quietly, of course) and made my way back to channel 45 to watch Misch Michaels talk about the next cold front coming in from the upper plaines. It was a solid ten minutes before I heard the loud "beepbeepbeep" noise coming from my receiver in the next room signaling that my friend had discovered my absence and had hung up. Gosh, I hope he had a nice day.

I understand that the state of Illinois is about to put together a "Do Not Call List" for telemarketers. It will cost you $5.00 to get on the list. If you are on the list and they call you they can get in big, big, trouble. Like they will probably lose their phone books for a week or something. I haven't decided whether or not I'll pay the five bucks. I'll really miss the little guys if I turn them off. And besides, my phone will keep right on ringing. It always rings. That's because it hates me. And from now on when it rings I'll KNOW I don't want to answer it because it will be somebody that I'll know and have to see face to face soon. And if I answer it... I'll miss "Local on the 8's." Life is full of hard choices. So if you call my house, and the phone just rings and rings and rings... I'm out. Really I am. There is nobody home. And you can't leave a message because I don't have an answering machine. But... you can always email me.

(Special Note: After re-reading this blog I realize that it could appear insulting to my nearest and dearest friends. I urge you to realize that I LOVE YOU! This blog has nothing to do with you... it has everything to do with telephones. Come to my house... let's sit and drink vanilla cokes and shoot the breeze. Feel free to drop by! Let's climb in the car and go grab a pizza. I love spending time with my friends. You are the spice of life! It's just this wire that comes into my house... it keeps ringing... and talking on a wire isn't a nice as sharing a pizza. Know what I mean?)

Here it is just moments before 9-11-02 and I'm thinking we need to smile briefly before tomorrow hits. 'Cause it is gonna hit and it is gonna be long and the television is going to make us even more sober and reflective than we already are. I almost feel obligated to be depressed tomorrow. But I'm going to fight it because God is just too good. Not only that but I just finished reading Lisa Beamer's book, "Let's Roll" and her words were such an incredible testimony to God's love, mercy, and grace, that I have to KNOW that He is in charge and that 9-11 was and is working to his glory. Take that, Mr. Bin Laden, you evil foot note in history. What you meant for evil my God thumbed His nose at and used for good. "Why" is beyond my comprehension but He will still save you if you'll bow your knee and confess that Jesus is Lord. Barring that unlikely event... I hope you have enjoyed being used by Satan himself because very soon you will be meeting him... if you have not already done so.

There. I feel better already.

So, Ok. Here's the best I've got for you tonight. I've been saving it until we needed it. I think we need it now.

My personal list of the dumbest words I have ever heard strung together...1. Debbie Woods while asking my help in filling out insurance papers recently- "How old was I when I was 8?"
2. Brandy Buatte, a former teenager in my youth group while on mission trip in Wisconsin - "What day is it at home?"
3. A deacon that shall remain unnamed during a deacons meeting in the early 1990's- "I don't care what the Bible says I believe...." (does it matter how the sentence ends?)
4. Me as a pre-teen when asked by my Sunday School teacher what version of the bible I had just read out of - "The King Kong Version." (She immediately left the class, went to the pastor's office and resigned. Soon after she left the church.) I left her alone after that.
5. My brother as a teenager after coming home from work as a stock boy at K-Mart and handing me several 12 inch long rubber bands - "Here. Hold these for a second."

My Personal List Of The Smartest People I've Ever Known And Why
1. My dad. He went to heaven and left me to finish raising my mom just as her warranty expired.
2. My brother. He bought a condo with 5 steps leading to the front door and 5 more leading to the living room shortly before my dad went to heaven. This was no accident.
3. Jack Cobb. He was my grown up neighbor when I was a little kid. He moved to Chicago from Alabama, "walked the high steel" as an iron worker building Sears Tower, and rode a Harley. That didn't make him smart. He was smart because made sure his gun was unloaded before he tried to commit suicide. His wife made him pie everyday for a month. Jack dumped me upside down in a garbage can once for annoying him. I left him alone after that.
4. Howard Thacker. Howard was a carpenter that should have been a youth pastor. I annoyed him when he was building a new addition onto my childhood home one chilly fall day. He picked me up, pulled my hood over my head, and nailed the tip of it to the wall so that my feet dangled about 3 inches off of the floor. I left him alone after that.
5. Hoss Pollard. Hoss (his real name) flew L-1011's for TWA. He lived in my Chicago suburb but flew out of JFK airport in New York, so he had to fly TO work in order to fly AT work. Hoss flew intercontinental. He loved to wear long leather coats, carry swagger sticks, wear monicles, and fly to Germany. He was one of my youth volunteer staff. He was smart because he knew not to take life too seriously. Once he flew from New York to Kansas City. Upon landing in KC he climbed out the cock-pit window into the jetway where he proceeded to beat on the airplane entrance until the flight attendant opened it. At that time, gasping for breath and dropping to one knee, he breathed, "Where have you been? I've been chasing you since Pittsburgh..." Ya gotta love a guy like that.
6. Reda Iskarous. He knows a lot about a little and a little about a lot.
7. Ron Travis. Now here was a smart guy. Ron was on my volunteer youth staff at my first church. That was back when I was in charge but I was really just a volunteer myself. He loved to go on youth group camp out with us. Ron would start the shaving cream fights and then back off and watch the fire works. Smart. In the real world Ron was an FBI agent. Unlike Todd Ballard, he would not let me play with his gun. This is one reason he was so smart. Ron liked to do cool things that the rest of us just dream about. Like he would go away for weeks on end and not tell anybody where he was going. That sounds like fun to me. Unfortunately he took it a little too far and sometimes came home with long, stringy, hair and tattoo's. That part almost cost him is marriage and his kids. But he got promoted and slid into a cushy job outside of the Chicago field office and into a resident office in a nifty white collar suburb where he probably lived out his career chasing down crooked caddie's at the local country club.
8. Cheryl (Edmonds) Dingledein. Another one of my ex-kids. She became famous to me personally when she took me up on my offer to try to pick a dime up off of the floor of the fellowship hall with her lips. The catch... no part of her body except for her feet could touch the floor. No leaning. No head stands. Just pure and simple flexibility. It wasn't even a challenge for her. I don't remember what she won but she earned my respect. When she became a college student we played racquetball regularly. I beat her once and I never played her again, thus keeping my streak intact. Cheryl is one of the smartest people I know because she married a guy that loves to stay home, raise the kid, and keep house. You see, doing that would drive Cheryl crazy. And you don't want somebody who is flexible enough to pick a dime up off of the floor with her lips to be crazy now do you? I thought not.
9. Jay Webb. The first time I ever went to Centrifuge was July, 1982. I only took 8 kids and Jay was one of them. We were going to Ridgecrest Baptist Conference Center in North Carolina. It was night #1 and we were spending the night near Louisville in a Days Inn Motel. Carol McMahon (my sole female sponsor) and I had all of the kids at the pool. Jay decided to go to his room for something. He climbed out of the pool and ran through what appeared to be an opening into the hotel lobby. The opening turned out to be a very clean picture window. Jay was relatively unhurt. The window had a jr. high sized hole in it. Rather than being angry at Jay the motel was scared to death that he would sue and so they treated him like a king. In addition every female in the youth group babied him and showered him with attention for the next eight days. I hope Jay knows Jesus and gets to heaven. But if he does not... at least he can say he has been there once.
10. My Dog Bear. While Bear doesn't really qualify as a "people" I am granting him special status as a "homo-sapien emeritus." (This is my blog and I can do that.) I have looked and looked and looked and I just cannot find anybody smarter than Bear. He knows when to bark and he knows when to hide under his table. He knows where I am at all times (at least when I am at home and I think maybe when I am out someplace else too.) He knows when it is raining that he should not drink water because there is no way he is going out there in the backyard to "do his business." He opens the door to his "dog run" with his nose or his right paw. Her runs a lap around the backyard before going to the bathroom because he knows I'll be mad if I have to stand at the door waiting for his jog after relieving himself. Bear knows the difference between "Old Roy Doggie Biscuits" and every other kind. "Old Roy" is the best. He'll settle for peanut flavored but her prefers regular. He knows his chances of getting a milky bone improve dramatically if he brings me dirty laundry off of the kids floor when I am in the laundry room. At his best I have counted 3 bath towels, a pair of socks, and one shoe in his mouth at once. That alone makes him the smartest person I know. Most of the rest of us can only fit our own foot in our mouth. And then we wind up paying for it forever.

Well... I hope you feel better. I do. 9-11 does have to happen but it doesn't have to be horrible this time around. We commerate the good while grieving the bad. Oh... and one piece of advice... God doesn't call the qualified. He qualifies the called. That's you, my friend. So do something today to make it worth your while to breath. Who knows... maybe you can make my list of smartest people next time. Nah.

Yesterday she was little and she was getting plastic tubes put in her ears. For some reason her little Eustachian tubes retained fluid and it messed with her ability to hear properly. It gave her earaches. Little girls with earaches are very unhappy little girls. They are also very tearful little girls. The doctors were going to have to put her to sleep and that made it “surgery.” I don’t think she was even five. Five year olds should not have to have surgery. I remember holding her in the rocking chair and telling her all about what the doctor was going to do and what it would be like. She was a little bit afraid but not too much. She seemed to be at peace because she knew that I knew what was going to happen. And if it was ok with me then it was ok with her. We sat there that night and read, “Curious George Goes To The Hospital.” Old George sure got us through a lot of tight spots back in those days. I’m indebted to that little monkey.

I wonder if they have a book named, “Curious George Gets Left At Home While His Fiancée Goes To Martha’s Vineyard To Study For Three Months.” I am thinking that they probably do not. But if they did I would put her on my lap tonight and stoke her hair while I read it to her. I doubt that it would carry the same magical powers that it did so many years ago. But I would try. Oh how I would try.

In August of 1983 I got on a big bus and left with teenagers for Washington D.C. She was sad to see me go. And she was worried about me. I packed my bags and got on the bus and left her tearfully watching from her mother’s arms. That evening I opened my suitcase to find something to sleep in. Instead I found a small stuffed animal. It was her favorite one. She knew that I would be gone for a long, long, time as kid clocks go. It was important to her that I have something to love me while I was away. It worked. That little bear wasn’t more than a few feet away from me all week.

Now she is 21 years old. I am not at all sure how that happened seeing as how it’s only been a couple of years since that trip. But I lay the calendar next to her birth certificate and sure enough it’s been 18 years. Life is funny. Funny strange, not funny ha-ha.

Another man holds the keys to her heart tonight. I do not feel badly about that. He’s quite a guy. I’m in the middle of writing a marriage ceremony that I will speak over them in just 4 months and 5 days. When I give the word they will become a real life married couple. He will make her smile on that day. But today he is making her sad. And that makes me sad. The sun has always been a little brighter when she smiles. When she cries I too have seen the clouds and felt the storm. He is packing his bags and he is going away for a little while. A long, long, time as lovers clocks go. I would not be at all surprised if he finds a bear in his luggage when he arrives on the island. He might not understand but I’ll be happy to explain it to him.

What is a father to do when the kids move out of the reach of Curious George? What do you do when a surgeon cannot fix her ache? I think that in a case like that a father takes the next afternoon and evening off. I think that he forgets about work and responsibilities. It would be a little ridiculous to pick her up and rock her and read her stories. Instead he takes her to dinner and he talks to her like the adult she has become. He tells her that he is proud of her and of all that she is becoming. He tells her that it is a wonderful thing to slide into second place behind this new young man. But that is the only lie he tells her. He is speaking the truth when he tells her that his heart is filled with joy to see how happy she is. He is being honest when he talks about her future with this new gentleman and how bright it is. And he has zero regrets. You see, this is the day he has raised her for. He is seeing his dream come true. He does not want to turn time back. He does not want her to remain single and in his home. Life is too good and God’s gift of a mate is to enjoyable for her to miss!

And yet still… there is a strange sadness. A hole has developed in the father's heart and it is as empty as her room is about to become. Those walls are covered with posters and pictures, the emblem of a teenager turned adult. The walls of the hole are plastered with silent memories of gleeful moments gone by. A smart father will take the hole and make it bigger. He will stretch it and pull on it and tug it wide open. A smart father will make that hole wide enough for two people to fit into. It will hurt a bit at first. Stretching and pulling most always hurt. But when it is all done... when the stretching and pulling and tugging are enough... his little girl and her husband will both fit quite comfortable inside it. And then the pain will become the fullness of joy.

Hey, it’s called life and it happens. You do life or it does you. Good things often taste bitter-sweet. I have a small poster I purchased and stuck on my refrigerator door. It is a quote from John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester. John lived from 1647 until 1680. My math tells me he died at 33 years old. Three children will do that to a man. Anyway, the poster says, "Before I was married I had three theories about raising children. Now I have three children and no theories." Truth is often poetic.

Speaking of poetry, how is this one. For 3 months she will say goodnight to her Romeo over the phone. She will learn the secret of how precious love is and how important it is to savor every moment of your lover’s presence. He will learn the same things. And he will also learn that there isn’t another woman on the face of the planet that can hold a candle to the one God has given him. The tubes? They fell out. Curious George? He got stuffed into a box in the back of the closet. They were just construction materials I used in the creation of a work of art that would leave Rembrandt awestruck. She is the painting. This new young man… he is the frame. And together they will decorate the hall of my soul.

Debbie. Tammy. Reda. Butch. Judy. We did good.

I got mad today. Not just the kind of mad that makes you slam your fist on a table and then it passes. This was mad like... like I want to get in the face of the person that I was mad at and say things that ought not be said. I came very close to doing that. I went so far as to check the parking garage to see if his car was in its spot or if he had left. I am happy to report that he had. Otherwise I'd be confessing more tonight than anger un-acted upon. My "internal monologue" has already been reported missing and I'm 100% certain I would have unloaded on him. This particular "somebody" is a doctor. He is a young doctor. He is arrogant. He is cocky. For some reason I think we both know that we feel antagonistic toward each other. Neither of us have ever mentioned it verbally. But when he looks at me it is a condescending look. When he looks at my wife he looks at her like a patient. When he looks at me he looks like he wants to make sure that I know that he is better than I am. And you know what... I don't respond very well to that. He likes to tell me that he has an inordinate amount of pastors coming to him for treatment. I play psychologist with that bit of information and wonder if he believes that HE has to fix God's people because... well, because God can't or won't. Or maybe because God isn't there to fix anything. Grant it, I'm projecting those thoughts upon him but it sure looks accurate from this vantage point. However, this bit of writing is not about the doctor. I cannot fix his problems though I believe them to be quite deeply rooted. You see, he is a specialist in the human body. I am a specialist in the human soul. I know when I am physically sick and... until recently... I went to him for help. But what happens when your soul is sick and you don't know it? Like an untreated body it becomes sicker and sicker until eventually it is beyond help. It begins dying a slow death. You cannot live long with an increasingly sick body. You can linger for decades with an increasingly sick soul. The odd thing is, many people are dying a slow death of the soul without even knowing that they HAVE a soul. Go figure.

But here is the deal. I know I have a soul. I know I AM a soul. I go to great lengths to take care of it and to nurture it. I feed my soul on the Word of God. I cultivate my soul by interacting with God through the practice of prayer. I try to keep my soul healthy by not allowing it to stagnate. This is done by making sure I am pouring good things out of my soul as well as taking good things in to my soul. That is called "service" or "ministry." I don't know how many words I speak to God during the typical day but I am quite sure that I speak more to Him than I do to any single, living, breathing, human person. Me and God. We talk. And yet... my soul gets sick. I let a smirking doctor get under my skin and I lose my cool. I think thoughts I should not think. I leave the doctors office on my "Hardley" and I say things into the helmet that I would be embarrased for anybody else to hear. (By the way, did you know that inside of my helmet with the face mask down, I am quite the singer? No joke. I have heard myself do everything from Louie Armstrong to The Beatles to George Beverly Shea. I don't know why other people don't notice. Maybe you should consider sitting in front of me next Sunday during our worship time and just listening.) Here I am, a doctor of the soul, and I am ill myself. This, to me, proves something. The world is a sick, sick, place. Evil is real, strong, and present. I am infected with it. I do not like it but it is true. So what am I to do? The bible says that when my heart condemns me that I should remember that God is greater than my heart. (I John 3: 20.) So I suppose I am sick. Very sick indeed. But God's antidote... grace... is stronger than my sickness.

Recently I went to see this doctor because I had a sore throat and other weird symptoms. I had left him last year when I was REALLY sick because he was only making me worse. I went hunting and found an awesome medical man in West St. Louis county. He's helped me survive some really tough times. But I have occasionally gone to "Dr. Disdain" for simple things because he is close. He didn't do any test or check beyond using a tongue depressor and a stethescope. He decided that was enough to diagnose strep thoat and pneumonia. I took his anti-biotics like a good little trooper. After two rounds of pills I was cured. I "used" him. I knew he would give me "The Look" but I decided that was better than driving 100 miles round-trip. I'm going to be driving from now on.

What is the lesson here? The lesson is that we both lose. I lose because "Dr. Disgust" is probably a good doctor who just gets rubbed the wrong way by me for some reason. Conflicting personalities. But I can always find a new doctor. And I have. "Dr. Disturbed" loses because I really, really, love people. And I would have been delighted to do for him what he did for me. I would have loved to introduce him to the medicine for His soul. My loss will cost me about a half a day when I have to see a doctor. His loss.... well, it scares me to thnk of what his loss could cost him. The business of the soul is a very, very, serious business. I pray that one of his other pastor-patients will have the spiritual stamina to do what I could not/did not do. Jesus came not to heal the well. They do not have need of healing. He came to heal the sick. How can you seek healing if you don't know you are sick? This one is bigger than I am. God is going to have to be God today. I struck out at the plate.

My eyes had not fully opened this morning when I reached for the remote control. It rests quietly in the headboard of my bed each night while I snooze away my fatigue. There are three remotes to be found there. My fingers tell me that the small one is for the VCR. The long, thin one is for the stereo. The medium sized one with the fluted edges is the television. I seized it and pushed the big button on the top left. That is the power button. As usual channel 4 appeared first. That is because David Letterman is the last thing I watch before shutting down at night. I could hear... and dimly see... some lady giving the mornings traffic report. I don't care about traffic. There are 4 stop signs between my driveway and my office parking lot. They don't usually back-up with vehicles even in the fiercest of rush hours. I occasionally have to wait for a young mother getting her exercise and pushing a stroller to clear the intersection before I proceed. Once in a long while there will be a garbage truck making its rounds or a street sweeper cleaning up the gutters to slow my progress. But even on the worst of days it's a 53 second drive. Yes, I have timed it. I can do it in less on my motorcycle but only because I cut through my neighbors front yard. Tough to do that in my car.

But back to the point. My fingers silently make a tour of the channels in the morning. Without looking I punch in 02. If Glen Zimmerman is giving the weather I might open my eyes. I do not do mornings well. If I strain I can understand as he is telling me what the sky and temperature will be like today. But it is best if I do not try to audibly comprehend anything. Instead I squint at the screen and wait until he puts up that little graphic. Sometimes it has lightening shooting out of a cloud. On those days I move a little more slowly getting out of bed. Sometimes it shows flat, gray clouds. On those days I barely move at all. And if the numbers next to the picture exceed 100 I have been known to fall back into a coma. But if the graphic shows a big, blazing sun... oh baby! I'm going to open BOTH eyes. You see, I'm a visual person. I understand pictures before I understand words. The big blazing sun means that there is hope for the day! I would rather have a sunny day at 105 than a cloudy day at 72. I would rather have a sunny day at -20 than a cloudy day at 32. No joke. I really would. I am solar powered.

I have strayed from my point again. Glen Zimmerman was not on at the moment. There was a house fire somewhere and somebody was tragically dead. I sniffed the air. No hint of smoke. Ok, I'm not the dead guy. My fingers move on and punch in 05. If Katie Couric is speaking I automatically move the pillow out of the way and focus on the screen. Today it was that Matt Lauer fellow. I moved on to the next set of digits.

This is where the trouble began. I punched in 31. The Weather channel. MY weather channel. It was not there. I'm not sure but I think it was an infomercial or something. It just kept going and going and going. The moment when "weather on the 8's" should have been came and went twice with no sunny graphics.

I punched in 38. It was not a talking head. It was not FOX news. 29 was not CNN.

Uh oh. They did it again. It quickly became obvious that the e-stinken cable company had messed with all of the channels one more time. Everything was moved. I hate it when they do that. As I slid my weather-ignorant body out of bed I made a mental note to fire off an angry email to somebody somewhere. Who makes the decisons on these things anyway? It's not bad enough that I am going to have to re-learn all of their numbers and locations. Oh no, that is not the half of it. I am going to have to teach my MOM all of the new numbers and locations. This does not bode well for a holiday weekend.

Proof came later in the morning. The headlines screamed, "Charter Realigns Cable Networks." Man, how can they toy with my life like that? And what is worse... they don't even do it well! I mean, The Weather Channel is now on 45. What does 45 have to do with weather? I'll tell you what it has to do with weather... NOTHING. Anybody with a brain knows The Weather Channel should be on 32. That is the temperature at which you begin to worry about the roads. That is the temperature at which you wonder about school closings. The Weather Channel was designed with 32 in mind. But Charter can't figure that out. And now they have added Weatherscan Local on channel 99? Is this a mutiny? Do my hero's down at the Weather Channel know about this? I know there is a web site that is called "The Naked News." Naked people stand there and read you the news, weather, and sports. I really don't think anybody is listening. Looking... yes. Listening... no. I also don't think Dan Rather will be transferring over there. As distasteful as I find The Naked News, at least I understand it. I would tell you what channel it should be on but this is a "G" rated blog. Figure it out for yourself. Kid's, ask your mother. But I do not understand the need for two weather channels. Are we now having weather in stereo?

And how about The Food Network? Somebody tell me where it is now? I'll tell you where it should be. Common sense dictates that The Food Network should be on channel 8. Think about it, people! "Are you hungry?" you ask. "No. I am not hungry. I already 8." Isn't this a given?

And then there is ESPN. It's out there somewhere. It was on channel 33, I think. I don't know where in the world it landed on this day, August 29, 2002. But it should be on number 666. Or if there is not a 666, at least put it on 66. This time of the year ESPN is about baseball. Major League Baseball to be specific. And tomorrow Major League Baseball is going to go on strike. They are evil. They get channel 666, hands down.

How about Court TV? My mother is addicted to Court TV. Even she knows it should be on channel 11. Think about it. Drive over to the Madison County Jail. Look at the windows. What do you see? You see llllllllllllll. Those are bars. Big thick steel bars. Put two of them side by side and you have ll. There you have it. Channel 11.

There are other examples. Why in the world isn't The Golf Channel on channel 4? The Hallmark Channel should have the number posted in reverse as though it were on the back of the screen. Duh. Why is ABC-30 on channel 12? Don't they believe the network? I think I might consider putting the Trinity Network on channel 3. That might be where somebody would go looking for it. Here is a tough one... where does Nickelodeon belong? In my humble opinion the Women's Entertainment channel should be on 28 but I'll let you figure out why.

I could go on but I think you get my point. I do not think very well in the morning. I consume a small, 20oz. Vanilla Coke every day before 10am. At that moment my brain comes on. I'm not sure if it is the caffiene or the vanilla bean. It doesn't matter. It works. But before that I need my input to be simple. I need it to be clear. I need it to make sense. If you want to discuss the deeper issues of theology with me grab me between 10pm and 1am. I'm thinking my clearest at those hours. I am a youth pastor. This is the way God designed me. And Charter Cable is not helping. This must displease The Almighty greatly. I would certainly not want to be in their shoes after I have my quiet time and bring this to God's attention later tonight.

Ten Books That Changed My Life (The Bible Doesn't Count... It's A Given)
1-When Being Good Isn't Good Enough - Steve Brown
2-Adrenaline And Stress - Dr. Archibald Hart
3-Abba's Child - Brennan Manning
4-One Minute After You Die - Erwin Lutzer
5-The Serpant Of Paradise - Erwin Lutzer
6-Evidence That Demands A Verdict - Josh McDowell
7-Approaching God - Steve Brown
8-The Wounded Healer - Henri Nouwen
9-Christianity 101 - Dr. Gilbert Belezikian
10-Ruthless Trust - Brennan Manning
11-(a special added bonus) Rediscovering Church - Bill and lynn Hybles

Ten Things I Hate ...
1-Humidity/haze/clouds without rain
2-Mold
3-Flies in the room especially in the early morning
4-Paying for cable and still having to watch commercials
5-Peas (it makes me angry just seeing them on the table)
6-Sales tax
7-Throwing up
8-Lines
9-Stop lights
10-Underwear that shows on purpose

Ten Simple Things I Love To Do...
1-Mowing lawns on the riding mower I inherited from my dad. I feel him there.
2-Propping up on my bed with Tess (my laptop... short for "testosterone") and surfing/writing/reading
3-Watching Jeff Hicks eat Mexican
4-Seeing Bear show up in the laundry room with dirty clothes in his mouth because he knows I'm there and he wants to make a trade for a Milky Bone
5-Walking down the street alone in a strange city and realizing that no human being knows where I am at that moment
6-Play the same song over and over and over until I'm SURE I understand every little part of it
7-Talk to strangers and have them talk back... pleasantly
8-Go to Chicago and drive south on Lake Shore Drive from the Wrigley Field neighborhood to Soldier Field while playing "Running South On Lake Shore Drive" by "Aleuota, Haines, and Jeremiah"
9-Be at home.
10-Sit in silence and listen to Steve Browns "fog horn voice" tell me that everything is ok and that God still loves me no matter what

Ten Things I Really Want To Do Before I Die But I'm Afraid They Would Kill Me...

1-Ski the complete "Olympic Men's Downhill Run" at Snowbasin Utah (I've only done the bottom half) while keeping up with Mike Babcock
2-Sky dive into a stadium full of paramedics and er doctors
3-Drive a tractor trailer from coast to coast
4-Climb to the top of Sears Tower using the stairs
5-Build a tree house
6-Sleep in a "haunted house"
7-Have my own radio show
8-Learn to Tango
9-Shoot an M-16 and throw a hand grenade at an invisable enemy from behind a really big tree
10-Receive a letter from Adrain Rogers saying, "Great sermon Sunday. Mind if I use it?"

The trashcans grated across the concrete as I drug them down my driveway last Monday night. They had wheels on one side but it was dark and I obviously was pulling on the wrong handles. No matter. In just a few more feet I would have them resting on the grass and all ready for tomorrow mornings trash pick-up. The cans were full to overflowing. A variety of pizza carryout boxes tipped my neighbors off to my new “sausage and pepperoni diet.” The Rubber Maid cans had no lids. Early on in their careers the 6:00am remover of fine refuse decided that the lids had no business on his route. He evidently threw them into the back of his truck. They are beginning their 2,000-year process of decomposing and returning to mother earth in a landfill somewhere tonight. I have often wondered what possessed that guy to throw my lids out. A few years ago I tried to throw an entire garbage can away. It was nearly impossible. I left it empty next to the full cans hoping they would get the hint. They did not. The next week I spray painted “garbage” in big red letters on the can and left it at the curb again. Evidently it was not clear enough and the can remained on the lawn when I returned home at the end of the day. I waited another week. I spray painted the words “take this” before the word “garbage” and “can” after it. That ought to do it. Uh uh. The can stood its ground. I thought about sitting outside on the curb in a lawn chair the next week when the guru of garbage showed up but I wasn’t yet ready to sacrifice a couple of hours of sleep just to accomplish my purposes. I tried stomping on the can and leaving it for dead next to the good cans. Nothing doing. After about a month I gave up. I ushered the can to the church dumpster when I unceremoniously sent it to trash can heaven. For some reason perfectly good lids are garbage truck worthy but old trash cans must live forever. Must be a local ordinance.

My dog Bear, (better known as “The King of Canines, The Prince of Puppies, The Duke of Dogs”) walked with me on my bi-weekly excursion to the curb. Bear is my best friend. He behaves better than anybody I know. If obedience would get you into heaven, Bear would be the first one in the door. We started our walk back up the driveway together when I noticed that the front passenger window was open on our little green Neon. I opened the door. The dome light did not come on. As the owner of three (count ‘em… 3) Neon’s, I have learned a few things. Neon’s do whatever they want to do. They need neither rhyme nor reason. On this particular occasion the car just decided it was not worth the effort to light itself up for me. No matter. I reached down and began turning the crank. The window inched its way up. Bear sulked in disappointment. When I reached for the car door he immediately concluded we were going for a ride. Bear lives for car rides. He loves to stick his head out the window. He keeps his mouth closed but the wind rushes up his nose, fills his cheeks, and eventually his lips pop open to allow the air to escape. This happens once about every 10 seconds and every time it does, drool runs down the window. Bear doesn’t take many car rides anymore. As I looked through the darkness into the car I noticed that the drivers window was down too. Darn kids. So Bear and I walked around the car. I opened the driver’s door. Again, the car decided I would work in the dark and the dome light stayed dark. But this time, as I reached for the window crank, something hissed at me. Something dark… shadow-like… swiped at my hand, narrowly missing me. I pulled back quickly. Bear took my place. He shot into the open car door like the defender of the family that he is. I pay him perfectly good Milky Bones everyday of his life for moments like this one. I heard another hiss and then a thud as the shadowy object slammed against the far window. Bear lunged again and threw his head to the right. As he did another thud echoed from the rear window. Something inside was taking a serious licking at the jaws of my 79-pound puppy. As Bear began the climb over the seat toward the back window I suddenly got this image of the mess I was going to have to clean up if I let him finish the job. My heart was still pounding, wondering what demonic entity he was fighting. If it had blood coursing through its veins I would be scrubbing upholstery for weeks. I yelled at the top of my voice, “BEAR!” He froze. (I pay him Milky Bones to freeze too.) He looked at me and slowly backed out the door. I could tell he was not happy. As he got all four paws back on the pavement he gave me that, “Oh please, can I kill it” look. I decided quickly that my decision would depend upon that blasted dome light. I reached back and opened the back door of the car. Finally the car cooperated and it’s interior lit up, revealing a relatively small gray kitty cat. A very, haggard looking, small gray kitty cat. I left the doors open and Bear and I walked toward the house. I let him in and handed him two bonus Milky Bones, scratched him behind the ears, and pledged my undying love. By the time I got back outside the cat was gone and probably halfway to Litchfield.

I am certain there is a moral to this story. Probably several. “Don’t cheap out on Milky Bones” comes to mind. So does “keep your car windows closed when you are not in it.” And then there is the ever important, “The only good dome light is a working dome light.” All of those work. But here is the one I decided on. “If you want to live a happy, safe life… find a good dog. The bigger the better.” You know you have a good one when he looks at you like you single handedly are responsible for all of the joy in his world. Bear got sick recently and had to go to the doctor. My kids took him. On the way home they took him into PetCo and let him pick out his own rawhide chew. It is 3 feet long. No lie. The first time he walked through a doorway in our house with it in his mouth he hit the wall on both sides. So get yourself a dog that absolutely worships you. And make sure he goes with you when you take the trash out.

Ok, I could give you a deeper meaning, a theological lesson, for this little event. Call me up if you feel like you need one. But sometimes the simple is better than the profound. For Bear, life is about Milky Bones and me. For me, life is about relationships. And they don't come any better than ours.

She was blonde and she was beautiful and we sat together at Burger King 25 years ago today. She reached into her purse. The new diamond on her left hand ring finger caught the light and dazzled me once again. From her purse she pulled a small "card type" calender. The year was 1977. I was 22 years old and a full time theology student at Trinity Christian College. I also worked full time at Panduit Corporation near my home. I was a hated "inspector" on the evening shift. If I felt the product, nylon straps used to hold wires together on many objects including the space shuttle, was not up to par I had the authority to trash them. That invariably made the man running the machine angry because his pay was determined by his production. As you can imagine I didn't have many friends at Panduit. The beautiful blonde worked at a day care and was an education student at Prairie State Community College. She was way to pretty to hang out with me but she chose to anyway. As a matter-of-fact this beautiful blonde only had one flaw.... bad taste in men. You see, the reason she pulled that calender from her purse was so that we could choose a date for our wedding. We ate Whoppers and fries. We consumed Cokes. We made a decision that would alter the course of our lives forever. Three more months... November 19. We set the date.

She is still a beautiful blonde. She still has bad taste in men. She still loves Whoppers with extra ketchup. I hit a home run that day. She didn't do so great. But all in all... I would not change a thing.

I've got this buddy. He lives in suburban Denver. One of the nicest guys I've ever known. Smart. Good looking. He has a family that, by all appearances, could have fallen out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Two beautiful daughters and a wife that I call "Betty Crocker" for her cooking prowess, live in his house. Top it off with a yellow labrador retriever and it's a real "Hello, Ward. When will the Beaver be home?" atmosphere. He and I don't get to hang-out often enough. There is 900 miles of Kansas and it's cousins between his front porch and mine. But still we keep in touch. We email once or twice each week and occasionally I'll ring his phone up and see what's happening. It use to be, when we lived closer together, that our conversations would revolve around important things like.... golf. Jobs. Going out to dinner with our wives. But now that we have aged a bit and we have tasted of the frailty of life our discussions, whether e-d, phoned, or in person, have taken on a new hue. We have become more concerned with pleasing God and honoring Him with our actions and words. It is not like we were heathens and did not love God and desire to honor Him before, but it is different now. It is like we have given up on chasing the things that we previously thought might be worth chasing. Somehow we have realized that nothing temporary counts. At all. The lesson has been painful for both of us but I have confidence it will serve us well in the long run.

My friend revealed to me in an email this morning that his oldest daughter left for her sophomore year at college yesterday. Betty Crocker drove her down. He is left at home with their youngest, attending to her needs and keeping a major American corporation happy. There was a sadness in his brief email. It is a sadness that I understand. We are both watching cars drive away more and more often these days. Late summer and early fall are the worst. Oh man. I use to love this time of year. The kids get new notebooks and pencils and we get our lives back. It's all different now though. Instead of buying them rulers and erasers we buy them computers and meal tickets. When school starts we use to send them to bed earlier. Now we send them to places like Waco, Greenville, or West St. Louis County. I feel my friends pain. Everything has changed and we have to find our joy in the new seasons of life. I think that is why guys like us sometimes discover a renewed passion for knowing God. We've begun to realize how short life is and that when this "sneeze in eternity" is over... what else is there? I'm putting ALL of my eggs in God's basket, and I know that my friend is as well. I'm going by faith on the claims that it's a pretty cool basket to be in. I preach it and teach it but i can't see it. And then 12+ hour days make me into someone i don't want to be and if you string many of those together just call we "Saskwatch" and point me to the forests. But I'm rambling. It is Monday and I'm just going to sit and stare at the Weather Channel for a couple of hours. it's all the excitement i can take. but i'm praying for my friend from my side of the great prairie. I am praying for ours kids that are increasingly venturing out from the "home bases" that we have built around them. I'm praying for Betty Crocker and her long, lonely drive home. We need her safe. The future of Italian Beef is at stake. And I'm praying for that cold front moving in from the upper mid-west.

A great American Icon died yesterday. In the words of Reuters News Agency;

"SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters) - "Steady" Ed Headrick, the California inventor who figured out a way to make the Frisbee fly fast and straight, has died at the age of 78. His family said his ashes will be made into Frisbees. Headrick died in his sleep early Monday at his home in La Selva Beach, California, his son Ken told the Santa Cruz Sentinel on Tuesday. While no services are now planned, Headrick's ashes will be molded into a limited number of "memorial flying discs" that will be distributed to family and friends, and sold to help fund a future Frisbee/disc golf history and memorabilia museum, his son, Ken Headrick, said."

How cool is that? I absolutely LOVE this idea! Good old "Steady Ed" gave his life figuring out how to make Frisbee's fly fast and straight. And, by golly, he got the job done. And because of his exuberant efforts children, youth, and adults the world over have enjoyed countless hours of flipping the disc back and forth across green summer lawns. What better way to be remembered than by actually becoming that which you spent your life inventing and perfecting!

Hmmm. Wait a second. Now THAT is a thought. Let us run with that idea for a moment. I have a friend who is a pipe fitter. I wonder if, upon his passing, he would like to be fashioned into an 8 foot length of 3/4 inch plastic pvc-person laced piping? We could screw him onto Lock and Dam #26 when they need a replacement part. He tells me his wife calls him "That dam Mark." Why not make it official? And then I have this other buddy, Bill, who works in an auto parts store. I have always thought that he looks a little bit like a tail pipe. Now he can BE one! I have a friend who co-owns a paint factory. They paint bridges and other industrial sites. Let's mix old Kenny into a few 5 gallon cans and let him really paint the town!

And then there is me. I think I know what I want to be. I'm a youth pastor. I'm a children's pastor. I'm an associate pastor. I would never be so presumptious as to be shaped into a bible. I suppose I could have myself cast into a pulpit maybe. That way I could continue to "take a stand." I think it would be cool to be an offering plate or a Lord's Supper cup. I considered becoming an "exit" sign. People always seem in a hurry to get the service over with and leave so I figure I'd be popular in my new job. Actually any of those things would work. But I think I have it beat. I want to be cremated when I die and I want to become a pew. That way I don't have to get up when anyone comes in. I can hold up the service for as long as I want. And if I can be a front row pew I won't have to put up with... well... pew. You know. People will only come to me when they want to know Jesus or get closer to Him. The other pews get all of the riff-raff and fakers. I can finally leave the "wannabee's" behind me. (catch the word picture.) So there ya, go. A pew it is. Front and center. The one the clock is stuck to. The one the pastor spits on. Ahhh.... pastor spit. Some things just never get out of your blood.

"M-T." When I was in college those letters meant that a particular class met on Monday's and Thursday's. On a map, if you remove the dash, it stands for "Montana." If you are driving across America it means "mountain time." But today those letters represent what I feel like at the end of a Wednesday. Good old "hump day." It has 24 hours, just like every other day. One sunrise. One high noon. One sunset. It is just that there is so much more packed between them. Sometimes I wonder why God doesn't provide some kind of exemption for fatigue when you pooped out trying to do right. In the mid to late 1970's I worked in a couple of factories. It put bread on my newly wed table and paid the rent and tuition. Anybody who does that kind of work knows what you have to put up with to do it. They can be hot beds of rude and crude conversation. Some days I would go home feeling more dirty from what I had heard and seen than from what I had done. But I knew I had earned the fatigue. My last semester of college I took 18 hours of classes. I wanted to get done. That's a tough load. I also worked full time as a youth minister. On top of that I drove a school bus morning and evening. Oh, did I mention that Debbie was also pregnant with Scott that fall? At the end of each day I was tired and I knew why. But somehow, as I have gotten older, as my job descriptions have changed, I don't really understand how I get so tired. I never loved college. I pretty much hated factory work. But I knew that I had to do those things if I would ever be able to do what I do today... minister to people in the name of Jesus in an "all day/full time" kind of way. And I knew that God had told me that was what He wanted me to do. So I did it. And now I do what I love. I spend the day either sharing God's love with people, planning how I am going to share God's love with people, or brainstorming about how my church can do a better job of sharing God's love with people. All in all it is pretty fulfilling. So why in the world am I so tired at the end of a Wednesday? Why do I feel so M-T after Sunday comes to a conclusion? Hey, I'm not whining. This is how I WANT to spend my life. I just don't understand. Last year was pretty tough. It's less tough this year but still, sometimes, I get that old taste of 2001 in my mouth. And I don't like it one bit. God and I both know I am a long way from perfect. We both see plenty of room for improvement. Anybody who watches me (or worse yet, LISTENS to me,) for just a few minutes knows I have a long way to go to really "be Jesus" to other people. But I am trying. Really I am. I just somehow have this thought in my head that at the end of a day like this one I should feel good. I should feel satisfaction. But more and more often I think about all that still needs to be done and I feel M-T. How is it that you can feel the presence of God without feeling the filling of God? How can you feel His smile and still feel drained? I can't answer that one. If I ever figure it out I promise not to write a book about it. I think I would feel guilty charging for information that important. I'll just email it too everybody on my list. Those who ruthlessly delete it.... serves 'em right.

I plopped down in my new mega-chair, allowing my bones to sink gently into its depths. I kicked my shoes and socks off and allowed my new "fuzzy buddy" to caress my weary feet. Ahhhhh… nothing like it after a long day at work. The air conditioners have been humming but nothing has yet cooled the air in my helmet as I "roar" the 4 blocks back and forth to work on my huge Honda. My hand flops over the side of the chair and, oddly enough, comes to rest on the remote control. Hmm. Must be a sign from God. As I press the "Power" button ESPN comes into view. Talking heads are telling me about last night's baseball games. What they are not telling me is why I should care. I gave up on baseball after Bud Selig declared the All-Star game a tie. Not enough pitchers. "You paid $175 for a ticket? Too bad. You got 11 innings and you should be happy." This is the same mentality that says "Go to Tony's and order up a full-scale Pepper-Loin. Cut it with your fork. Place it tenderly in your mouth. Chew it slowly and savor its flavor… its juices… the cutting edge of the pepper… and then spit it into your napkin. Hey, you got your taste. You now know what the steak is all about. Swallowing… well, that just isn't necessary." Sorry, Bud. I declare the season a tie. Everybody finishes in last place. I do not care anymore. Maybe next year. We'll see.

But back to our story. My fingers go on "remote" themselves and press in those peaceful digits… "31." Ahhh… channel 31. Here is a place my brain can rest. Here is information at my fingertips. With a simple "31" keyed into my remote control I can have instant peace. Here I will find a neatly dressed young adult telling me that it is now 106 in Phoenix. It is raining in Seattle. The water temperature in Lake Superior off the beaches of Duluth is… well, it's way too chilly to go swimming. You see, channel 31, better known as "The Weather Channel", tells me that all is right with the world. It is summer in St. Louis and everyone is whining about the heat. These are the same people that whined about the cold last January. There is no pleasing them. Come on, people. Choose. As for me, I take winter. Give me a good sweat shirt over a tank top any day. I don't want to wear sandals. Why expose my toes to the world when I can wear my Timberland STOMPING boots? Summer means sweat. Winter means cuddling. 'Nuff said.

Did you know that the hail in Montana yesterday was the size of marbles? Though that is decent sized hail it would not impress the woman that I met during a thunderstorm in the Missouri bootheel a couple of years ago. I had been driving behind her as the rain began. The clouds ... ugly green clouds... swirled eerily in the sky above us. The rain came in sheets and then the "ping" of hail began beating against my van windows. After a mile or so the car in front of me swerved crazily and darted down an entrance ramp into a conveniently placed rest area. No other cars were around and I had noticed as she passed me earlier that the driver was a lone female. I made the split second decision to follow her onto the ramp. She didn't bother pulling into a designated parking area. Instead she pulled to the side of the ramp. I pulled around her and stopped in front of her car. I didn't want to frighten her by appearing to sneak up from behind. The storm was blowing furiously as she got out and ran to her trunk. She opened it and disappeared from my view. I got out to see if she was ok and saw quickly what the problem was. There was a hole in her windshield bigger than a baseball. I asked her if she was ok. For a second I thought she was crying but I decided it was probably just the rain, which still pounded down upon us. She said yes as she grabbed a cloth and ran to her front seat. I watched her try to plug the hole in a vain effort to keep the rain out. That was when I saw it. The hailstone sat in the middle of her front seat. Wow. After she did the temporary repair job as best she could I waited with her inside the rest area until the storm passed. A cleaning attendant said that a tornado had been reported in the area and we felt fortunate to be off of the road. After the rain eased I left, knowing that a repair truck was on its way. So I guess that there is a lesson here. When it comes to hail, size matters. Little hail... like marbles... is no big deal. Big hail... like baseballs... big deal.

I remembered that event today as I read the story of Jesus talking to His disciples about faith. He was trying to get across to them that they really didn't need much faith. A little would do. As a matter-of-fact, if they only had faith the size of a mustard seed they could move mountains. I don't see many mustard seeds laying around in my neighborhood. I'm not even sure how one goes about growing a mustard plant. Or is it a mustard vine? Or maybe a mustard tree? But I did come across a mustard seed once and it's not much to see. My girlfriend turned wife wore one as a part of a necklace when we were dating. Pretty plain necklace. Pretty unimpressive. I think that was the point. When it comes to most things in life... size matters. But when it comes to faith... size just doesn't come in to play. Faith simply has to exist to be potent. Faith is like the little pill that I take every morning to make my blood pressure behave. It's smaller than an asprin and yet it saves my life on a regular basis.

And now I feel kind of bad about myself. If it only takes a pinch of faith to move a mountain... why do I continue to travel around them? Why don't I whip out my mustard seed and put it to work? Why should I have to move? Shouldn't it be the mountain that moves? Oh, don't get me wrong... I've sent some foothills packing. And once or twice I've slipped and actually gathered up enough faith to actually make a decent sized mountain step aside. But MOVE completely out of the way? Never. Not once.

So anyway, I think I am cursed. I come home tired, turn on the weather channel, and wind-up dealing with the issue of faith. How unfair is that? That's the thing about God. No matter what you do... He's there. And He usually wants a word with you. Oh wait... I think that means I'm blessed. And how pathetic am I when I often can't tell whether I'm blessed or cursed? Pretty pathetic, I would imagine. Fortunately God doesn't think so. He's just waiting... patiently waiting... seeding the clouds of my faith. Man... I sure would love to give him a hunk of faith the size of a baseball.

Tonight I wrote the most beautiful blog. It even brought my dog, Bear, to tears. I was near to posting and publishing it... just some finishing touches to be done. I noticed my wife drifting off to sleep and so I put my laptop (the lovely Tess) down in order to pray with her. It seemed like the right thing to do. While I was praying... somebody picked up the phone. I was immediately booted off-line. 45 minutes of work vanished in some fiber-optic cable somewhere under an unknown street near the east coast. I wonder if this ever happened to Rembrandt.

They were a middle aged couple when I spotted them this afternoon. They were older than I am but younger than I will be in 15 years. They were going up the escalator and I was going down. They were entering Barnes Jewish Hospital and I was leaving. They could have been anybody. As a matter-of-fact, they WERE anybody. I would not recognize them now if they walked into my living room. And yet there was something different about them. She was on the step above him and she talked on the cell phone. I imagined she was talking to a close friend that was a nurse or a medical expert of some sort. I think she needed advice. She looked straight ahead but her body was turned toward the left. And he, a step below, leaned into her chest. His eyes were closed, his head buried into her. Standing on a lower step allowed a minimum of hunkering down on his part in order to fit perfectly into this place of comfort.

You know how escalators are. You go up. They go down. They go up. You go down. You see people across from you for a moment and never again. But this couple remained in my mind as I walked through the parking garage. It was easily in excess of 100 degrees down there. You could taste the air. It was dark and heavy. But all of those feelings and sensations escaped me as the scene on the moving stairs played itself out in my brain again and again. He was sick. She was well. She was bringing him to a specialist at this world renown hospital. He was tired of fighting. She was resolved to get him help. All of his senses were geared toward just getting there and sitting down. All of hers were geared, laser-like, toward getting her husband back. He was not giving up but he was clinging to her for direction and she had become his hope.

Maybe I am wrong about all of that. I don't think so. But this much I know. I was looking at a picture of love. Love is something that is tough to define. But when you see it... you know it. It was not in their walk because they were not walking. It was not in their speech because they were not talking to each other. It was in their posture. It was in their faces... one resolved... one resigned. One defending... one depending. But mainly I felt it. It's waves rippled out from this couple like the sound of a gentle murmer spoken in hushed tones. It was the sound of a crises shared and a solution sought. I had no place in their world. I will never know how their appointment went. I will always wonder what news they received. But I learned from them today. They taught me two lessons. Lean. Support. And of course they taught me a third.... love. no matter what.

Thank you for stopping by my blog. You are very nice to have shown up. I am suppose to write something profound now but I am not feeling profound. But I do my best work under pressure so show up tomorrow and I am certain I'll find a way to rock your world.

In the meantime did I mention that I not only rode my motor cycle tonight but I rode it at 55 mph? It isn't the biggest bike in the world and it was really screaming. (So was I but that's an entirely different blog.) This is a very big deal to me. I can't even roller blade and yet I stayed upright even while going uphill. Vaughn Hill to be specific. You see, this is proof that their is a God. This is proof that He loves me. I learned that oncoming cars don't bother me as much as cars behind me do. I also learned that pot holes bother me more than both of the aforementioned hazards. I understand now that pot holes are more evil than I realized back when I had 4 wheels. When you have 4 wheels you can pretty much afford for one to go bonkers for a few seconds. It's like when a 747 loses one of it's 4 engines. No big deal. 3 left. But when you only have 2 wheels and one suddenly goes south on you... well... let's just say it's proof of God's love, provision, and power over vertigo. Last of all allow me to mention that June bugs hurt. I don't know what they are doing out in August anyway. Mainly I think they are dying on my helmets face mask. And don't let anyone tell you a face mask is not important when riding a motor cycle. There is no thrill like riding down a pitch black farm road and seeing a monster bug heading directly for you because you are the only light he can see (Spiritual moment... even bugs are drawn to the light) and he doesn't turn and you can't duck and suddenly... SPLAT... he comes to an abrupt halt 12 centimeters in front of your left eyeball. Anyway, face masks pay for themselves in the long run. I talk for a living and so I figure I best protect my tool of the trade. That being.... my mouth.

Joe! You are a miracle worker! I now have my personal portal to the world... to right the wrongs that afflict society... to point out ignorance for what it is... TO CALL STUPID BY ITS FIRST NAME!!! Please... as my thanks for creating this site for me... I want you to take my maiden daughter as your very own wife. I will not take "no" for an answer.

Ron, I know how everyone loves to get your emails and how funny your stories are, so I thought I would set up this site as a way that you can share your stories with the world.

Enjoy
-Joe