Excuse me, but do you mind if I whine for a moment? I mean, this IS my little corner of the world wide web, right? You don't have to read any further if you don't want to. You have my permission (not that you need it) to go to the kitchen and whip up a ham sandwich or something. Maybe you would be better off surfing over to www.drudgerport.com.. You know, catch up on the news. But if you stick around, just understand... it's about to get ugly.

You see, it's not like I've got nothing to do. I've been receiving a phone call from an individual for 4 straight days. This individual is only available to talk at certain hours. He goes to bed early. But he has no job. He has no responsibilities of any sort that I can see. He's not totally healthy but he's certainly not at deaths door. So this person has been calling me and wanting me to come by and see him. He gave no reason when he spoke with my secretary, my wife, and my son, all at different times. I tried to go see him Wednesday. It was nearly 10pm. I had not been home yet. I was logging my 13th hour of work for the day. Yet it seemed important enough to go and see him. I mean he had called FOUR TIMES. But when I arrived he was already asleep. I had tried to call him twice earlier and he was unavailable or could not be found. Same difference.

Sunday through Thursday were all long days for me this week. I'm not griping. That isn't a complaint. It is just a fact. I am a pastor which means that I really should show up in the office in the mornings. But I am also a youth pastor which means I really should be available when kids get out of school. And so 3 out of 7 nights each week I am with teens until at least 8pm and often until 9 or 10pm. So if I show up at the office at 9am and work until 9pm, that is your basic 12 hour day. It happens in every industry and in every office at times. But when you do it 52 weeks a year it can begin to wear. God help me if somebody should call a meeting on another night. And I can't seem to come home from being with kids and go straight to sleep. I use to but not anymore. That's why I'm blogging at 12:30 in the morning. Hey, I'm 47 years old. It's tougher than it use to be! I use to actually participate in foot races with teens. I would occasionally even win. Now I just try to wear shoes that they don't laugh at. It's a compromise at best.

On Thursday afternoon at about 3:30 I decided to put everything down and go see this man. I had a desk full of things to do. But 4 days is a long time to be calling your pastor. So I went. When I showed up at his place of residence he was surrounded by 6 women. Six. They were in an animated conversation and obviously enjoying themselves. The last time I was surrounded by six women my sleeve was rolled up. One was taking blood (mine), one was filling out forms, one was "tsk, tsk, tsking" over my blood pressure, one was sitting behind a desk waiting for me to write a check, and two were sitting in the waiting room wishing I'd hurry up. Life is not always fair. But my friend here was the smiling center of attention.

He saw me and said, "Where have you been?" I explained that I had been quite busy. I apologized that it had taken me so long to make an appearance. I asked him how he was. He said, "Let's go outside." So we did. I sat down on a rocking chair. He was already sitting. He began talking about his day. Somebody had come by and brought him a basket of fresh fruit. An Assembly of God pastor had happened across him. They talked for awhile and then my friend got prayed for. He had a great lunch and told me what they had served. I noticed the rumbling in my stomach and realized I had not eaten since the night before. No, wait. The night before was Wednesday and I had missed the "Family Fellowship Meal" at church because I had been at a hospital in St. Louis visiting a very, very, ill person. I missed supper altogether. I quickly calculated that it had been about 27 hours since I had eaten a real meal. And that was a lunch that doubled as a meeting. (Note to self: eat occasionally.)

It was at this point that I decided to cut to the chase. I asked, "So how can I help you? What do you need?"

It was his reply that pushed me over the edge. He spoke very casually as he looked out across the street at some squirrels running across a lawn and up a tree. The words are branded in my mind. He said... and I quote... "I don't need nothing. I was just bored." He kept talking but I have no idea what he said. He rattled on for about 2 minutes. I did not hear a word. I know he was talking because his mouth was moving. I however, was listening to a different voice. It was a voice in my head. The voice said.... "Kill him." Then the voice said, "Make it hurt." Finally the voice said, "You are too weak. You have not eaten. Go eat and then come back and kill him."

I compromised with the voice. I stood up, interrupting him in mid-sentence. I vividly remember what I said. I would like to share it with you. I said, "You have fresh fruit. You had a nice lunch. You are talking to nice ladies. You have been prayed with. I have a 13 year old in the hospital with leukemia. I have teenagers coming to church tonight and I'm not ready for them. I have a children's anti-halloween party to plan for Saturday. I have to speak to 400 people Sunday morning and I don't yet know what I am going to say. I have not eaten in 27 hours. I do NOT have time for bored." And I walked away. I left him sitting there. I had ridden my motorcycle. I took the helmet off of the right handle bar and slipped it over my head. I closed the face mask. Passing traffic did not need to hear what I was about to say. I started the engine. I revved it up. Loudly. I drove off leaving as much noise in my wake as I could. I made my way to Arby's and as I did I talked to God. I will not tell you what I said. It was not intended for human ears. But God understood. I don't think that God has time for bored either. Somehow I cannot picture Jesus being approached by a centurian, asking what he wanted, and hearing the centurian reply, "Nothing. I was just bored." It didn't happen. But it does now.

And so I am declaring a "State of Emergency." It is for all of the bored people in America. I wish to point out that boredom is dumb. Oh, there are occasional exceptions. I got a letter from my little friend with Leukemia this week. She told me she was writing from "my boring bed." That, my friends, is a different story. Boredom has been forced upon her by a disease that threatens to rob her of breath and heartbeat at a very early age. But to all of you who are bored because things are good and you can't find anything worth doing I just want to leave you a little message. Here it is....

Get a life.

At long last we have an intelligent response to the question of how to deal with drivers who dart ahead of the crowd at construction zones rather than merging along with everyone else. This email comes from Judy in Bethalto, Illinois...

"Well, I read your Blog and this is really one of my BIGGEST PET PEEVES. I encounter this usually on I55 going to Pawnee or Springfield since there is always construction traffic jams. You stay in the right lane when you have had the warning countless times about One Lane Ahead, and people buzz right by you thinking they know more than the people obeying the signs, then when they finally get to the end of their lane, they expect the generosity of the "rule compliers" to let them in. This is one place my christian attitude suffers because these people make me sick, and usually I wont give them the opportunity to get in the right lane, let them sit there, yeah let them grow a beard in the wrong lane, let them catch up on reading, or balance their check book.....yeah!!! Okay I feel better, here is my solution to this problem. Hang out at a truck stop and follow the burrliest, haryiest, scariest trucker you can find and get in front of him, because sooner or later he is going to make the sacrifice for all of us and stop all that buzzing past us by getting in the wrong lane. Yeah why didnt I think about this sooner, gotta go because I want to scope out the best truck stop, see ya.
Judy"

Ya gotta love that kind of logic! Judy, congratulations! You have cut through the crap and have gotten right to the heart of the issue. The truck drivers are our hero's. The line jumpers are traffic terrorists. We must align ourselves with the good guys by getting in front of them and allowing them to do their job. Hey, these truckers spend a lot of time out there tearing up the roads with their big-rigs. They crack the pavement and cause pot holes. They often drive too fast and tailgate my little Dodge Neon. And when they get an opportunity to actually HELP me for a change... I say they should go for it! I'm certainly not going to stop them!

Wondering in Waukesha... why couldn't you come up with something like this. I hope you are paying attention...

Well... obviously America is not as smart as I thought it was. Idea's and observations have been very few. Let me show you one. Let us hear from a curious young lad...

"What if the construction is in right lane? Wouldn't the right lane drivers be the ones merging. Is it ok to jump ahead of the people in the left lane, just because you are a right lane driver?

-Wondering in Waukesha"
Don't you have anything better to do up there in Waukesha than to re-establish the outer limits of "dumbness", Wondering? I mean, who is to say if this is a left lane vs. right lane issue? Put down your cheese for a second and think about it. Who is to say this is not an east/west/north/south issue? How can you be wrong if you are right? If everybody else is doing it right... doesn't that mean you alone are left? Actually, Wondering, I don't give a rip what lane you are in. I could care less what lane they are working on. JUST STAY BEHIND ME WHERE YOU BELONG AND LEAVE ME ALONE! I know truck drivers, Wondering. And I know your license plate number. You want I should fix your problem once and for all?

I think I have finally figured it out. It took hundreds of miles, countless gallons of gas, and more money than I knew I had… but I’ve GOT IT!

You see, we Homo sapiens like to categorize things… especially people. Life works better for us if we have a handle on each other. Let’s see. There are African-Americans, Caucasians, Hispanics, Jews, blue-collar workers, white-collar workers, Yankees, Rebels, Catholics, Protestants, athletes, couch potato’s, soldiers, men, women, teenagers, adults, Cub fans, and everybody else. Categories. Hundreds and thousands of categories. And all of them are dead WRONG. Totally illegitimate. Vain efforts to understand the nearly un-understandable.

There are only two legitimate categories to put people in. Yep. Two. The light came on in my brain last Monday as I was driving home from Minneapolis. Debbie and I had spent the night in De Forest, Wisconsin. Our hotel was right across the street from “The Cheese Chalet.” This is a landmark location in my life. Over the years I have consumed more cheese from The Cheese Chalet than all of the vast hordes of invading mice in my laundry room have ever dreamed of. Swiss Cheese, American cheese, Colby-Jack Cheese, Smoked Cheddar Cheese, and now the squeaky Cheese Curds. This is the wonderful stuff scraped right from the tip of the cheese when it floats up during the cheese making process. It is the cheesiest cheese of all. It is so cheesy that it squeaks against your teeth when you eat it. I bought the white Cheese Curds. They had yellow Cheese Curds but us cheese experts know that ALL cheese is really white. They just add the yellow coloring to trick you. I don’t like to be tricked. Who knows what they put in that stuff to make it yellow. Think about it. No! Don’t! Just trust me and buy the white Cheese Curds. You’ll be better off.

Where was I? Oh yeah. I was driving home. It was chilly so the top was up on the Sebring. Somebody or other was singing about Jesus on the stereo. That’s a rule in our cars. Somebody always has to be singing about Jesus. It isn’t that we would forget about Him or something if nobody sang. It’s just that one day I realized the ramifications of hurtling down a concrete ribbon at 75mph in a thin steel cocoon with other thin steel cocoon’s hurtling AT you doing approximately the same speed. At that point singing about Jesus seemed appropriate. The cruise control was on and we were talking about things that married people talk about when they still love each other after 25 years. Suddenly, taillights appeared up ahead. I kicked off the cruise and coasted up behind the car that had previously been at the end of the line. That job was now mine. I was the default anchor man. I was not too happy to have the position. Fortunately, it did not last long as some poor soul stopped behind me… and then somebody behind him… and then somebody behind him… and then somebody behind him… you get the idea.

At some point it occurred to us that it really was nice out and if we were not going to have to deal with a 70+mph wind chill factor we might as well pop to top on the car. Down it went. We sat for awhile. Didn’t move an inch. Then we would slowly glide forward for a few yards only to stop again. That brings up an interesting question. When everybody has been stopped for 10 minutes… and then you all move forward 15 feet… where did those 15 feet come from? Did a car suddenly evaporate? Was the stress too much for someone and they drove off into the ditch? Are there people out there with propellers in their cars causing them to double as helicopters and they just aren’t telling the rest of us? Why 15 available feet all of the sudden?

So anyway, there we are, stopped dead still on I-94 southbound just below Madison. Suddenly the left lane begins to move. Naturally I am in the right lane. They are soon cruising along at about 8mph which looks supersonic when you’ve been in “park” for 10 minutes. Then we begin to move too. We get up to 3mph. Suddenly big orange signs appear ahead of us. These signs say what we hoped they would say. They said, “Road Construction Ahead.” We hoped they would say that because, even though that means the construction is still at least a mile away, at least we won’t have to look at sheets covering somebody’s cold carcass fresh from 150mph (closing speed) head on collision. Come to think of it you could probably use a handkerchief for that. The next sign one mile and 20 minutes later said, “Left lane closed ½ mile.) Is this good or is this bad? I’m not sure. It means that we are not the “merger’s” but the “mergee’s.”

And then it happens. Most cars in the left lane immediately put on their right turn signal and wait for a decent human being that will allow them to enter out lane. Most of us do so willingly. You know, “Do unto others” and all of that. But as the left lane begins to empty out something become compellingly obvious. There are a few cars that have no desire to merge. They wait until the mergers are all gone and then they stomp on the gas and fly ahead of all of us, rushing up to the place where they finally have no choice but to slide into our lane. And some guy way up there ALWAYS lets him in. Now I don’t know about you, but I think I am mad at two people here. I am mad at the guy that took advantage of the situation and jetted ahead of me, and I’m mad at the guy that whimped out and let him in our line. What’s the deal with that?

And then some trucker finally takes matters into his own hands. He’s a right lane trucker. He’s seen what’s going on. He’s had enough of it. And so this courageous right lane trucker stands up for all of us little right lane car drivers. He eases his big rig over into the left lane and blocks the steady stream of out-law line cutters. I suspect that he has organized this feat with his truck driving brothers via CB radio. In my rented convertible I stand up and applaud him! He is my latest hero! He has stemmed the tied of this hideous highway criminal element. Only a truck driver can get away with this. He’s up too high to make obscene gestures at. He has too many truck driver buddies to shoot at him. And chances are very good that the weapon he is packing is bigger and more broken-in than yours. So he cuts off the bad guys and once again peace reigns on the nations highways. Thank God for the teamsters!

But here is what it all means. Forget black and white, male and female, protestant and catholic. There are only two categories of human beings in this land we call America in this season we call “construction ahead.” There are those of us who merge to the right and wait out turn … and there are those that blast ahead and try to cheat us and take advantage of our gullible kindness. These people are not nice. But they are also your neighbors. They share a pew with you on Sunday at church. They work in your office. You invite their children to your children’s birthday parties. In other words they have infiltrated our ranks. And I am none to happy about it.

So what do we do? This scourge upon the face of our national highway system must stop! Well, I have had nearly a week to think about this event. It is fortunate for you that I have noticed this trend and that I have directed my brain cells toward formulating a fix for this situation. However… it is possible… improbable, but possible… that you have a better plan than I do. So I am not going to tell you what my plan is just yet. Instead I am going to invite you to send me your plans… your thoughts… maybe just vent your anger in a positive way… by email instead of Road Rage. My email address, set up specifically for this purpose is RightLaneDriversUnite@hotmail.com. I’m out here for you, America. Don’t keep me waiting. You don’t even want to think about what would happen if I became a left-lane-driver…

BREAKING NEWS.... Mouse #3 has been caught killed in action. The laundry room remains under intense attack. THE GREAT BATTLE OF THE LAUNDRY ROOM will take longer than our mousekateer analyst (Debbie Woods) projected. Originally thought to be an attack by a rogue rodent it appears increasingly obvious that we have stumbled upon a hot bed of vermin activity. The most recent attack was launched by a mere mouse child. He was apprehended before any damage could be done. More traps are being loaded and rushed to the site at this moment.

Stay tuned for updates.

BREAKING NEWS.... In my absence (vacationing in Minneapolis... sunny and 70 today. snow and 30's tomorrow. convertible top down today... walk the Mall of America tomorrow.) it would appear that another mouse attack has been repelled in THE GREAT BATTLE OF THE LAUNDRY ROOM. Early reports indicate that mouse #2 was found dead this afternoon behind my gym bag. Christopher removed the corpse from the deadly trap and, I trust, performed necessary procedures. More to follow and details become available....

Hi Katie! Your favorite uncle loves ya!!!!

MORNING 7 OF THE GREAT BATTLE OF THE LAUNDRY ROOM

This morning dawned with muted light. A layer of mist clouded my little portion of the planet. The sun came up on time. Glen Zimmerman just told me so. I didn't see it. I was up late last night, sitting quietly in my laundry room... indian style on top of the washing machine. Listening. Listening. Dozing. Dozing. Snoring. Snoring. I finally had to admit that my very presence might delay the attack of the renegade rodent. I cleared my throat loudly, jumped off of the washer, stretched, and said in a loud voice, "Well, that's about it for me. I'm off to bed. I won't be back down here until after the sun comes up." And I tromped down the hall, a final confirmation to my little furry friend that he, once again, owned the night. I slept deeply, secure in the belief that my traps were more than able to handle the attack without me. Even field Generals must sleep.

And then it was morning. I rolled over in bed, reaching once again for the remote control, cursing myself for having stayed up too late yet again. And I froze. The battle. The rodent. The trap. I felt the beloved surge of adrenaline as I rolled over the edge of the bed and began working my way from "all fours" up to a standing position. I staggered down the hall, gazing ahead toward the battle ground. I delayed for a glass of orange juice served up cold and tasty in my favorite cheap, Wrigley Field plastic cup. Mmmmmmm. I moved into the short hallway leading from the Kitchen into the laundry room. Half way between the two is a bathroom. Just as field Generals must sleep they must also occasionally take a whiz. Some things will not wait. I took care of business and step anxiously into the hallway once again. As I entered the laundry room I glanced to the left. The trap by the garbage can was undisturbed. This is one smart mouse. I peered behind my gym bag only to find the same loaded trap that I placed there last night. What kind of beast is this? I might be dealing with a Harvard graduate here. At the very least he has attended "Mouse-Queda" training camps in the fields beyond the city limits.

I walked toward the corner containing the shoe rack, leaning to gaze over assorted items blocking my view. The trap had been sprung! At first I saw nothing. And then... I saw it. I saw HIM. He was upside down and I almost missed him. His white underbelly blended well with the pale, laundry room tile. But there was no denying those 4 little feet pointed stiffly sky-ward. His three inch tail told me that this was no amatuer. His entire length exceeds 6 inches. I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Bear glancing down the hall. I think he already knew. There was no smile on his golden face. Warriors take no delight in the killing. Life is precious. The moment calls for an aura of gravity. This mouse had not killed. He had not attacked human flesh. Oh yes, he had damaged my equipment and eaten my cheese but he was no killer. Still... he had to be stopped. For the sake of all that is holy and right... he had to be stopped. He was a thief... a raider. He struck without warning in the night. One of my children could have wandered into the laundry room in the dead of night searching for pajama's and he could have bitten a toe. He could have (and indeed, may have) pooped in Bears bowl. I have not told him... but I have reason to believe... And so while there is no joy... there is relief. There is a sense that justice has been done. The floors are safe for bare feet again.

I am currently processing the crime scene. Photo's are being taken. The chalk outline is being drawn. Prints are being taken. Dental records are being checked. Soldiers fight and soldiers die. It is a tragic fact of life. But he had a family and they need to know. In moments I will don my thick rubber gloves, my black motorcycle helmet with the face shield down, and I will remove the corpse. There will be no buriel... no memorial service. I will draw close to the garbage can next to my garage and I will flip his cold, lifeless body through the air and toward the can. He will fly end over end and smack into the side of the Rubber Maid container before sliding down with the rest of the garbage where he belongs. Justice has prevailed. Justice always prevails.

Case closed.

NIGHT 6 OF THE GREAT BATTLE OF THE LAUNDRY ROOM.

Many people are sad tonight that the Cardinals lost game one against the San Francisco Giants. We tie our lives up in petty issues to easily. A ball wrapped in cow hide. A bat carved from hard wood. Strapping young men throwing the ball. Other strapping young men trying to hit the ball with the bat. We would like to believe that these are the great wars of our times. But we cannot afford to live lives lost in the luxuries of the niave. There is a great war. It is being played out as I type. It has raged on into this... the sixth night.

The war revolves around my clothes dryer. It would appear to be the bunker for at least one mouse. This mouse is not from Florida. He is from a field. He is not here to make children laugh. He is here to chew through our wires, eat our food scraps, and scare our women. I hear him under the dryer. He is plotting. He is planning. For five nights he has raided my laundry room traps. These are the best traps that money can buy. They have big, tightly wound springs anchored to sanded pine. They sit behind the waste can that holds our rejected lint, behind my gym bag holding its smelly socks, and under the shoe rack. Each evening when I go to bed the traps are fully loaded with only the best Kraft Swiss Cheese. By morning they are empty. And not one trap has been sprung. The score going into tonight is Mouse 6 - Ron 0.

Tonight that all changes. The cheese is molded around the traps trigger. There is no way to remove the cheese tonight withough setting off the trap. The mouse sees the cheese. The cheese calls to the mouse. "It was safe last night. It was safe the night before that. I should be safe tonight too." But it is not safe. It is a highly dangerous, innocent looking, mouse killing, instrument of war.

I plan on winning tonight. In the morning I will get up to find a little mouse head nearly seperated from a little mouse body. At least one. maybe more. There will be sadness in the mouse house tomorrow morning. But there will be joy in my laundry room. My dog will be able to eat his Milky Bones in peace again. My wife can do laundry without fearing her fuzzy faced friend. I will take crime scene photographs. I will draw a chalk outline where his little mouse-body lay. There will be no warriors buriel for my rodent nemesis. There is only a trash dumpster with his name on it.

Tonight is the night. Gosh, I love the smell of swiss cheese in the morning.

And awaaaaay we go! Thursday evening at this time my little bride and I will be holed up in a Holiday-Inn Express in Eden Prairie, Mn. It has been almost 25 years since she signed on as my side-kick on this wild ride we call "life." At least that's what I want to believe. As it turns out, reality shows that I am her side-kick. It's a pretty awesome thing when your wife is the most Godly person you know. It use to be that whenever I would lose something, she would know where it was. I have never seen anything like it. You see, I am one of those people whose brains have gotten full a little early on in life. I am now storing all new knowledge in my toes. It takes longer to retrieve it there. But Debbie knows everything. I use to do what I always do... come into the house... take off my glasses... set them down... and walk away. Within five minutes I was trying to figure out where they were. I would ask Debbie. She would always know. The amazing thing is that usually she had not even been in the room where I had left them. Still... she would most always be right. I finally wised up and bought a spare pair of glasses to I can usually trip over one by sheer accident. That means I don't have to ask her where they are nearly so often. But if I were a betting man my money would be on her.

I have been married one out of every nine days that the United States has existed as a nation. Say what? Yup. Do the math. I think this whole experiment in democracy began in 1776? That is convenient when you are dividing by 25's. Four quarters in the 1800's. Four quarters in the 1900's. One quarter in the 1700's. Two years to spare in the 2,000's. So I'm more or less correct. I find that positively shocking.


And what does the little woman get for putting up with me for this long? Well. She gets a rented Sebring convertible for a few days. She gets to ride up north where the leaves are already peaking in their race to their doom. She gets a tour of the biggest mall in America though she isn't much of a shopper. (By the way, I really didn't take that into consideration when marrying her. It has worked to my advantage though.) She gets to eat wherever she wants for five days and she doesn't have to wash one dish. She gets showered with love and affection. She gets my undivided attention. She gets to sit beside the clean part of the mighty, muddy, Mississippi River. And then she gets to race the water that she sees home so that she can see it pass by again. It doesn't really seem like much for giving me three children and twenty-five years. I ought to be able to come up with something better. It's just that, well, how do you thank somebody for sharing their life with you? How do you say thanks for being your partner, washing your dirty socks, and expecting so little in return?

Last year, 2001, was a pretty tough year at our house. It was mainly my fault. I was sick a lot last year. It wasn't fun but it was educational. I learned that when you treat life like it is long... by savoring the moments rather than packing all you can into them... life seems longer. I learned that as important as my work is my personal relationships are more important. That is especially true about my personal relationship with God. But that's a Sunday School thing to say so please over look it for now. Human relationships are more important than my work too. But then, human relationships are my work. Look, I don't want to talk about work right now so forget that I said that too. Life is about relationships. Lot's of people loved on me last year and a few of them paid big bucks for the privilege. I owe them a debt I cannot repay because they helped me to get well. But this wife of mine, this woman that sleeps next to me every night... wow. When I hurt... she held me. When I couldn't work... she did my job for me. When I couldn't see straight to drive... she drove me. When I needed to rest... she lay down next to me. When I couldn't pray... she prayed for me. When I couldn't find words... she spoke for me. My wife knows what it means to be a wife. She is an expert at it. She could teach a college level course in wifeship. Unfortunately, nobody is going to ask her to. That's a shame because wives to be, and young wives, need to know what she knows. Her knowledge could save a lot of marriages.

I can't repay Debbie for the wife she has been for twenty-five years. Certainly a trip to Minnesota to see the leaves change isn't gonig to even us up. I don't know what to do to possibly tell her what I'm thinking and how I'm feeling. I owe a debt I cannot pay. But the really strange thing is this... she doesn't seem tired of me yet. She does not mind when I forget where my glasses are. She lets me pile all of these wires by my side of the bed so that I can sit here and Blog while she sleeps next to me. I suspect that most wives would use the scissors on them. She doesn't usually laugh at my jokes but that's because they usually are not funny and she is, if anything, honest. I am not sure but I think she's signing on with me for another twenty-five years. That's the only thing I can think of that makes me wonder if she really isn't as smart as I have believed. What it all comes down to is this... the woman has one flaw that I can find... she has bad taste in men. And you know what? I"m really, really, glad.

Top Ten Reasons Not To Go To Work Today

1. Hey, even Jesus went to the mountains to pray.
2. Let's celebrate a victory for Cardinal Nation!
3. They "oil and chipped" my road and I don't want to disturb the new gravel pattern.
4. Solidarity to my Premcor Brothers!
5. Time to show the Administrative Assistants that we trust them.
6. Mice in the M&M's!
7. My hearts just not in it until we get this economy turned around.
8. Waiting for a phone call to interview for managing the Cubs next year.
9. Resting up for the big Civic Memorial home-coming parade on Friday.
10.The Rams don't work... why should I?

My brain is blocked. I’m not certain what has happened. I was coasting along just fine, running through life like a warm V-8 engine on a cold winters night. Sure the elements knock against it when you crank it but by the time you round the corner she’s purring like a kitten and pouring heat onto your frostbitten feet. Ok, that made very little sense. Truly a dumb sentence. See what I mean? My brain is blocked.

I guess I know what to attribute it to. Could be too much caffeine. I don’t think so. Might be a pending wedding building up steam in the back of my brain. I doubt it. It isn’t illness and it isn’t insomnia. It’s Ashley.

Ashley Brown. 13 years old. Pretty. Smart. Quiet. Long brown hair to match her long legs. Fast fingers on the keyboard. 8th grader. Cheerleader. Loves Centrifuge. Loves life. Has Leukemia.

How is that for a horrible ending to a fine paragraph? 28 years as a youth pastor and you think you’ve seen it all. Kids who love church. Kids who hate church. Kids who wreck their cars and live. Kids who wreck their cars and die. Kids who get scholarships. Kids who join the army. Kids who get married and make babies. Kids who don’t get married and make babies anyway. Kids who have sex change operations. Kids who have to act like adults. Kids who don’t seem to ever stop being kids. Kids who go into ministry. Kids who join cults. Kids who become detectives. Kids who go to work for Arthur Anderson and wish they hadn’t. Kids who throw up in multi-million dollar auditoriums. Kids who run through plate glass windows. Kids who fall into the fountain at “Six Flags” and come out blue. Kids who overdose on Tylenol and live. Kids who hang themselves and don’t. Kids who have too many toes. Kids who lose an arm. Kids that get a try out for a major league ball club. Kids in wheel chairs. That’s just a sampling of what I’ve seen in 28 years of trying to be Jesus to kids. But this is the first time I’ve ever had a kid with Leukemia.

It’s not that I don’t know what to do for the kid. I know how to help Ashley. That’s simple. You love her. You love her loud. You love her long. You love her when she’s feeling well. You love her when she’s feeling crappy. You love her when she’s in the hospital. You love her when she’s at home. You love her in email. You love her on the telephone. Most of all you love her in person. Because love makes you show up wherever she is. Love makes you take her an animated mooing stuffed cow. Love makes you send her flowers or balloons. Love makes you help her hook up a laptop to talk to friends from the hospital. Love makes you blow up a surgical rubber glove, tie it to a chair, and write “Hi Ashley” on it. Love makes you turn your back when she needs to get out of bed to go to the bathroom because she’s wearing “one of those gowns.” Love makes you turn and face her when you really want to stare out the window because you aren’t sure if she’ll notice your eyes are kind of wet. Love makes you get out the oil, pray over her and anoint her.

I understand that we live in a world where reality is seldom fair. God sends the rain on the just and the unjust. Even when they are only 13. My problem is not philosophical. My problem is not theological. My problem is not medical. My problem is not what to say to those who ask “why?” I can answer others questions. I can satisfy them. But I do have a problem. A practical problem.

My problem is what to do if ASHLEY asks me “why?” You see, if Jesus were here… in the flesh… right now… what would He do? He would smile at her the way you can only smile when you are in total control. It would be the smile of a parent on Christmas morning. A parent who is holding that special present behind their back…the one the child has asked for and is wanting so badly. Jesus would smile the smile that would be smiled for the 5 seconds before the present was handed to the child. The smile of great anticipation. Great anticipation comes when you know something really, really, good is about to happen. And His smile would turn to exuberance and utter joy as Ashley saw His present to her. Jesus would heal Ashley. Is there really any doubt in anybody’s mind that Jesus would heal Ashley?

And my stated purpose in life is to be Jesus to teenagers. So what do I do if Ashley asks me someday soon “why?” My brain is blocked. And I think I know why.

So I'm cruising down highway 140 this evening shortly before sunset. My lovely wife is in the passanger seat. The new Sara Groves CD is in the player and I had just announced that the current song reminds me of her (side note: always look for ways to score extra points when with the little woman... you'll need them someday) when I noticed the pick-up truck in front of me. It was a late model, silver, step side. Very nice. And very dangerous. We were going to a funeral home in North Alton to sit with a friend who had just lost her last uncle and was quite distraught about it. There was only an hour left before the visitation ended. And then this truck showed up. We came across it east of Powder Mill Road. She was in front of us and in our lane. Then she was on the shoulder of the road. Then she was in the left lane. Then she was on the left shoulder. Then she decided to straddle the white line down the middle of the busy 4 lane highway. I slowed down to stay behind her because passing seemed to be a really dumb idea. Suddenly she was only doing 25mph. The speed limit is 55. Several vehicles didn't know what was going on and shot around us only to put the death stomp on the brakes when they encountered this truck driver from hell. (no swear word... fact.) Then they would get bold and dart around her when she swerved to the right. I decided, after consulting my bride, to stay behind her and call 911. The operator connected me with the Alton Police Department. The dispatcher said that they were rather busy and wanted to know what was wrong. I told him. He was not terribly interested because the truck signaled to turn onto Fosterburg Road. It was about to be not his problem. He said she was entering the counties district and their officers were scattered all over the place. Except that she was just kidding about the turn signal. She went straight. She ran the stop lights at Homer Adams Parkway and in front of the Holiday-Inn. The she stopped in the middle of the road for no reason. Debbie suggested that she was making up for past sins. When she drove her right wheels onto the grass near the watchful eye of Robert Wadlow Debbie let out a mini-scream. We now had the dispatchers attention. (I silently hoped she'd run over a few dental students from the school across the street... that would have pleased me to no end.) He asked us if we minded staying behind her and on the line. Duh. What had I been doing for the last 5 miles? So, like good tax payers, we stayed behind her and watched her careen from shoulder to shoulder, narrowly missing many cars and more than one street sign. The dispatcher told me he had located an available unit and we kept up a running conversation of our location. And then she pulled into the long, tree lined, driveway of Alton Memorial Hospital. I told the dispatcher that maybe she was injured and trying to get to an emergency room. I heard him pass this information on to the officer cruising in our direction. She missed one of the two stop signs at the top of the hill by the hospital and then turned into the parking lot of the professional building. Huh? The professional building is closed at 7pm. The emergency room is another 100 yards down the road. The truck driver chose a spot in the nearly empty lot. I told the dispatcher that I was parking about 50 feet from her and watching to see what would happen. Nothing did. Her foot was on the brake because her brake lights were on. Then they went off. I looked to the right and an Alton Police car was pulling into the lot. For a second I was concerned for the officer. It was obvious that this driver was intoxicated or high on chemicals. We had no idea what we were about to witness but it occured to me that I wish my wife was at home watching TV or at Garden Ridge shopping. The world is a weird, dangerous place. I watched the officer warily approach the drivers door. His right hand was in its customary position, near the butt of his pistol. He knocked on the trucks window. The door opened. It became obvious that the driver was a little gray haired elderly woman. Their dialogue took about 5 minutes. And then another police car pulled into the lot. Back-up in case this "Bonnie-minus-her-Clyde" should turn evil. The first officer closed the little woman back into her truck and turned to the approaching second officer. And now curiousity had me. No way I was leaving without knowing what evil lurked in the heart of my first official "bust." Was she Al-Queda? Iraqi? A home grown terrorist perchance? I got out of my car and walked across the parking lot to the pair of Alton's finest. I introduced myself as the man who had followed the human pin-ball. As we talked I looked around. Surely John Walsh from "America's Most Wanted" was hiding behind a bush someplace. At the very least I expected to see a camara man from COPS. No such luck. And so I inquired as to exactly which substance was flowing through grannys bloodstream causing this traffic debacle. And the officer said... "She's asleep." Huh? "She was asleep when I knocked on her window. She said she's having trouble staying awake and this is where she goes to the doctor so she came here to sleep until she could drive herself home." Batman and Robin were laughing. They didn't know what to do with her. She had broken numerous laws but they had not observed any of them and at the moment her greatest crime was "Malicious Snoring." I asked if they thought they could handle it from here. They allowed as how they figured they could. I thanked them for keeping our streets sleep-free and returned to my car.

Debbie said her heart was pounding. Women. Personally I was terribly disappointed. I wanted a DUI. I hoped for a brick of "premium s###" on the seat next to one seriously doped up dealer. I would have settled for a deranged escapee from the Alton Mental Health Centers criminally insane unit. Instead I got a geriatic Rip-Van-Winkle. You know, this law enforcement stuff isn't all it's cracked up to be. I did a ride-along with Mike Hogan, a close buddy who is an Illinois State Trooper. We patrolled the interstates through East St. Louis on the midnight shift. I wore the vest but nobody shot at me. I held the flashlight while he did a "field sobriety test." (We ran that sucker in. That'll teach him.) I helped him search an abandoned truck on the side of the road. We scanned the tree lined center of an expressway clover leaf intersection looking for bad guys who were suppose to be hiding out in it. Nothing. The most dangerous thing we did all night was eat "lunch" at 4am in a horrible truck stop. That was the only time that I felt like our lives were on the line.

When I was just a lad I had visions of a life in law enforcement. I thought I'd start off cruising the interstates like Mike. Then I'd move up the the FBI and prove my metal by nailing the big fish. I'd finish up a well rounded career by taking down some bad agents that had gone dirty while working in the Hoover Building. The rest of my life would be spent on the speaking and writing circuit, making the big bucks by telling my crime-fighting stories.

And it all comes down to this. A sunny, cool, autumn evening. A chance meeting with a hardened criminal on the cruel city streets. We match wits. One on one...like it ought to be. And as the dust settles... as the cold metal door clangs shut... I am the one walking away... satisfied that, thanks to my quick reflex actions, the highways are once again safe. And granny is asleep in the front seat where she belongs.

Sleep well America.

(Note: If you are not in the mood for serious... move along. Read yesterday's blog. Watch The Weather Channel. Find a Sienfield rerun. But don't read this blog. Fair warning.)

His name was Zac and I didn't meet him until he was dead. That is way too late if you are a youth pastor. I know his sister. She went to Centrifuge with us last summer. i know his aunt, his uncle, and his cousins. They are all still alive and doing quite well, thank you. They are members of my church. But somehow it slipped past my attention that Zac even existed. He was not quiet. he did not keep to himself. We just failed to cross paths. Last year he got into trouble at school. He had a substance that he was not suppose to have. So when they found it they threw him out of school. His parents, in a rage of wisdom, enrolled him into a very small Christian high school. I am sure they were very angry at him for getting in trouble. Most likely they wanted to kill him themselves! And I really doubt that Zac wanted to go to this new school. All of his friends were back at Civic Memorial But he stepped up to the plate and served his sentence. And something extremely wonderful happened to Zac at this new school. Zac met Jesus. He was ambushed by the Son of God when he least expected it. Evidently Zac knew a deal when he saw it because he jumped at the chance to pray and ask Jesus into his heart. This year Zac continued on at that small, Christian high school. By all indications he was quite happy there. He retained his friends from Civic Memorial High School. Life was good for Zac.

And then came Tuesday. It was raining in the afternoon. Zac was at home but he told his mom that he had to go out for a minute but he would be right back. His mom did what most mom's would do... she said, "ok." Five minutes later Zac's mom got the word. Zac was dead. His car evidently hydro-planed. He hit a utility pole. The pole snapped. It landed on his car. It landed on Zac. A 16 year old life ended immediately.

Zac's death makes no sense. And to make matters worse, he is the third teenager to die in our community in the last three months. The police are in shock. The hospital emergency room workers and talking about it. The story has transcended our local Alton Telegraph newspaper and has been told by the more prestigious St. Louis Post Dispatch. It has been called "a horrible coincidence," a "shocking turn of evvents," and even "fathomless." But strong adjectives don't breath life back into a young mans dead body.

How odd that the very thing that seemed so bad... Zac being tossed out of public school... would wind up being the singular thing that was responsible for bringing him to Jesus. I told that to his parents today standing over his casket. I reminded them that, because they loved him enough to discipline him, he was doing much better in every area... except for his driving. I pointed out that what looked like evil turned out to be good. We talked of eternity and of Zac enjoying life far more now than he did a mere 3 days ago. They smiled through their grief and said that they had not thought of that. There is pain in the Crews family tonight. I did not know Zac and yet I share that pain. I felt it as I entered the viewing room with the family. I felt it as I clasped his father by the shoulders and felt this big blue collar worker tremble. I felt it as I hugged his little sister and brother and prayed with them. I felt it as grandma thanked me for coming and as she told me to pray for her family because not all of them know Jesus. And pray I did. I prayed the prayer of a lifeime.. And I quoted scripture about Jesus defeating death. I held them as they leaned over the casket and stroked Zac's hair and touched his cheek.

So there you go. That's what it is like to be a pastor. We live for the moment of crises. That is when we get to do our job and people actually listen. But man, a 16 year old boy that should be doing math homework tonight is laying in a casket in a funeral home instead. What do you do with that? And you know what? Zac is the boy that dated my sons girlfriend right before he started dating her. And you know what else? Five weeks ago my son was stopped for speeding on the same road ... at the same place... where Zac died two days ago. What do you do with that?

You pray. You sneak into his room late at night after he has finally fallen asleep on this stressful evening and you pray. You thank God for protecting him. And you ask Him to keep on protecting him because he has a lifetime of driving ahead of him... and you want it to be a long lifetime. And you stay up really late blogging because you can't get the picture of Zac, all dressed up and laid out in his coffin, out of your head. You feel his mothers tears drip onto your hand again as you remember leaning over the casket with her and whispering to her that her son is not here... that this is a tent that has been taken down... and that he now lives in a new home. One not made with human hands. And you pray for the many teenagers that are sitting up right now... wondering about death... and about God. They are unable to sleep because they have a funeral to go to tomorrow and teenagers are not suppose to go to funerals. They re suppose to laugh and eat and go to parties. And it occurs to you that, though life is not fair, and though it has no discernable rhyme nor reason, it is worth it. But only because of one name. Jesus.

I rolled over in my bed this morning and, as usual, reached for the elusive remote control. Eyes closed (see earlier blog) I punched the power button and keyed in 02. The weather was of utmost importance to me. My super-high-sensitive-atmospheric-condition-sensors indicated clouds above my roof. It also indicated clouds outside my window. I thought I could feel clouds even creeping in under my garage door. I would not have been at all surprised to find clouds in my bathroom and maybe even the refrigerator. Internal alarms were going of THAT loudly.

I was in luck. Glen Zimmerman was on right now, preparing the 2.5 million St. Louis people for the day. I remember thinking, "You go, Glen. Give me the latest, dude. I can handle the truth." Oddly enough, Glen was rather upbeat. He warned of thick fog this morning, particularly in the river valleys. But he assured me that it was no big deal because it was... and I quote... "sunny outside. We have blue skies. We just have to burn this fog off." Selah. (Pause and reflect.)

Huh? It is sunny outside? We have blue skies? We just have to BURN THIS FOG OFF? Might I ask a question? I didn't go to meteorological school. One of my former teenagers actually MARRIED a TV weather man. That is as close as I have ever come to meteor-anything. Oh wait, Debbie and I had lunch once at the "California Pizza Kitchen" at the Galleria. Paul Goodloe was there eating with his significant other. We didn't talk to him. Geez, he's a big guy. Shoulders like an aircraft carrier. Maybe that is a closer connection than knowing somebody who married a weather man. Nah, probably not. I think I even did the wedding and that means that I actually know a TV weatherman myself. He was in St. Louis but now he's in Peoria. Whatever. The really cool part is that Paul Goodloe now works for The Weather Channel! Now THAT, my friends, is the big time. I ate lunch in the presence of greatness. Grant it, it isn't quite like knowing somebody on "The Naked News" but I think you get my point.

What was my point... Oh yes. My point was... isn't fog a cloud? Sure it is. That was "Lesson A" in Science 101 back at Lincoln-Way High School in 1970. Fog is a cloud with an attitude. Fog is a cloud on steroids. Fog is a cloud that descends to earth, grabs you around the throat, and won't let go. Other clouds just kind of float around up there. Sometimes they make rain (word picture intended) on you, and sometimes they just float. But fog, my friends, is most certainly a cloud.

So. Who is Glen Zimmerman trying to fool? Does he really think he can get by with this kind of fraudulent forcasting? It is now 3:18 in the afternoon. I just looked outside my office window. Guess what. It's still foggy. Only now the fog is at about... oh.... 2,000 feet. In other words it's foggy way up high. Down here it's just dreary and depressing. Oh, but don't worry... it's still a sunny day! The sky is still blue! You only have to go about 3/4 of a mile to see it... straight up.

Glen. You disappoint me. St. Louis weather has never been the same since The Dual Whammy. For you new folks I'm referring to Bob Richards on channel 5 committing "suicide by airplane" a few years ago. And more recently the departure of Trish (moment of respectful silence please) Brown from channel 4. Bob did himself in because it was discovered (by his wife) that he was having an affair. Trish moved to Lincoln, Nebraska ... which come to think of it, is kind of like committing suicide... because she was making babies. Have you noticed that, in one way or the other, all good weather people leave the business because of sex? Kind of makes you wonder about all of those "warm fronts" they keep talking about.

Well, that's about all I have to say about that. I just noticed that I have an itching bump about 3 inches above my right wrist on the inside of my arm. It has all the marks of... a mosquito bite. Drat. It's even shaped like a pyramid. I think we all know what this means. I'm doomed. I should have been a weather man.

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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.