I am a lousy blogger. Sorry. I'll be back soon. Life's just been too busy. If anybody is still reading this please LET ME KNOW!

This is our year. It is in the air. The Cubs. The Chicago Cubs. And maybe even the White Sox. Cross town. You've heard of the "subways series" in New York. How about an "El-Series" in Chicago. It's in the air.

God bless you boys.

Now I know why they call it a "spoiler." When somebody rips it off of your car... it spoils everything. It spoils the way the car looks. It spoils your mood. It spoils your bank balance (can you say "deductable?")

I was only in the hospital for 45 minutes. The poor woman was not well. They had yanked out her shoulder ... ball and socket both ... and put her in a new one. If that doesn't deserve a pastoral visit, nothing does. She was a little goofy with medication but I would be too if I were her.

When I walked out of the hospital it was laying on the asphalt parking lot. If cars could bleed this one would have. The electric green wing was cracked and upside down. The top of the trunk lid was cracked. There were scratches up each side of the rear quarter panel. When I went into the hospital 2 skate boarders complimented me on my shiny Mustang. I thanked them and moved along. Did they do this dastardly deed? I dunno. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the wind. I've never seen a squirrel with this kind of lifting power. No ... it had to be a "someone." Not a "something."

Well, since buying this gas powered smile machine I have been careful to point out to myself and to others ... it's just a thing. A hunk of steel and rubber. Ok, a cool hunk of steel and rubber, but still, just a hunk. I would like to thank my Alton Memorial Hospital vandalism bandits for proving me right. I did not ruin my week. (Yes, my day was a bit shaky... but not for long.) It has not changed my opinion of God nor has it altered the values He has given me. I slept just fine last night, thank you.

I can't help but think about the words Jesus spoke while He stood there on that hill preaching to the crowd. He told them, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

He was right, you know. I'm just a normal, everyday Christian. Nothing super-powered about me. If I can figure out the truth of His statement there is truly hope for ANYBODY. Billy Graham I ain't.

The car will get fixed and it will look cool again. But everytime I look in the rear-view mirror and see that spoiler on the trunk lid I'll remember ... it's just steel and rubber.

But do you think it would be ok if I ran over just one skate boarder?

Answer: Less than 7 months.

Question: How long does it take a newlywed female to turn from a bubble gum popper to a full fledged adult woman?

How do I know: My lovely daughter, Kelli ... wife of Mr. Joseph McGill ... confided in me this week that she now listens to AM talk radio.

Issues raised: Is this genetic? Is it hormonal? Is it cultural? Is it a desperate attempt to survive the hectic pace of adulthood? It is rush hour boredom?

Conclusions: None. But you have to admit ... it is hilarious.

Do you ever feel like you just turned around for a second and God left the building? He was here just a minute ago. I looked back to see where we had been and when I turned back, He was no where to be found.

It is all preception. God is here. God is there. There is no place that God is not. Except, I suppose, in hell. That is, after all, a very good definition of hell. "The absence of God." That doesn't mean there won't be fire and brimstone too. But God IS here. Right here. He is in the room I where I am writing this and He is in the room where you are reading this. Whether or not He is "felt" is not at all the issue.

And yet it is the issue. Because I like feeling Him. I like the assurance that comes from sensing His hand on my shoulder. Guiding my decisions. Directing my life. It makes me nervous to feel that I am in charge. I do not trust me. I do not recommend that you trust me either. I have seen what happens when I follow my own advice. It is not pretty. And so when I feel Him I am more relaxed. I am more at peace. I am more confident. I like me better. I like you better too.

So what is the deal? Why is God so "feelable" at some moments and virtually "unfeelable" at others? Is it always the recent history of my actions that becomes the determining factor? Is it strictly His choice? Is it a combination of the two? Are there other mitigating factors. Things like ... oh ... my success rate at having a "quiet time" each day? Or maybe whether or not I have listened to theologically solid worship music? Could it have to do with how successful I have been at keeping my mouth shut and listening for His nearly silent whisper?

I wish I knew the answer to all of these questions. I am one of the pastor's. I am suppose to know. But the more I know the more I realize I have a very, very, small handle on the truths that matter the most. I can teach you biblical fact and I can point out heresy. I can quote more scriptures than I realize, though God help me if you require that I also remember the exact reference. I can barely remember where I parked my car at the mall. But I figure that Jesus didn't memorize the old testament chapters and verses so I'm not going to let anybody make me feel guilty if I'm not too good at it.

The real problem is that I have a hard time distinguishing what God is doing today. You want to know what He did yesterday? No problem. I can help you with that. But just ask me what He is doing now ... and I'll either lie to you and tell you ... or I'll admit that I don't really know.

And so I confess it here and now. I am right where you are. I am busy wondering about God. I am trying to understand what He is saying and what He is doing. Sometimes history proves that I got my guess correct. Sometimes history shows that I don't know any more about what He is doing than I know about nuclear fusion. Or is it nuclear fission? See. I don't know.

Here is what I do know. What He is doing is not dependent upon my understanding ... or even recognizing ... His actions. He's God. I am far less than God. I am made in His image. But somewhere along the line I forgot exactly what that means as far as how it works it's way out in my everyday life. (Note: Anybody that tells you that they have a handle on that is not telling you the truth. They are on an ego trip. They want you to think that they have it all together so that YOU will do what THEY want you to do. That is dangerous. I suspect that it also ticks God off. Though He will have to tell you for sure.)

I also know that God is ultimately going to have His way. He is going to have it with our without my cooperation. He is going to have it with or without my approval and understanding of it. He loves me (and you) very much. But if we get in His way ... He just might decide to go over us instead of around us. I am doubting the pleasantness of that experience.

And so, as for me, here is the plan. I am going to cooperate. During the times when I feel Him ... the times when I know He is present and I know what He wants me to do ... I am going to do it. And I am going to enjoy it. I have learned that when I am near to Him nothing else matters. In Jesus I find stillness. And in the stillness of Jesus ... what else matters? Answer: nothing. When I sense His nearness I relax. I find satisfaction in simply breathing. All sense of rush and hurry vanish like a vapor. When I sense His nearness I want nothing else. I just want to be with Him. I do not crave food. I do not crave drink. I do not crave action or entertainment. The moment is enough. And I want that moment. I want it now.

The second part of my plan involves those moments when I do not feel Him ... the times when I know He is present but only because He told me that He always is. In those moments I am going to do the last thing that He told me to do. I am going to do it until I get it done. And then, if possible, I am going to keep doing it anyway. If not possible, I am going to find a quiet place and listen very carefully. In hopes of hearing Him again. If I do not hear Him I am going to look for Him in the places where I have found Him before. In continued stillness. In His Word. In serving others. He will show up sooner or later. He loves me. He enjoys me. The only "fault" I can find in this God of mine is that He seems to have very poor taste in those He chooses to call His own. I am really glad about that.

I know He is here tonight. But I do not feel Him. I do not hear Him. But He isn't hiding. He isn't lost. I just live in a noisy world of my own creation. There are 11 teenagers in my living room. The air conditioner hums. Somebody has a stereo on and a DVD is playing on a television. Even the ceiling fan above my bed whooshes louder than He talks. But He is here. He left His deposit in my heart and it promises me that He will be back.

I'll just wait until He comes before I make any major decisions.

AUGUST 2001 To say that I was apprehensive as I climbed into the back of the jeep would be like saying Neil Armstrong had a bounce in his step when he climbed out onto the moon. It is an understatement of the highest order. I looked up at “the high country.” I had been higher. I had even skied higher. But I had heard enough about the roads in this area to know that this was no place for the weak of heart or the frail of body. And I was feeling pretty frail. Our “Marble experience” had been an excellent one to date. New friends, new surroundings, and a healthy dose of wise counsel had brought refreshment to the weariness that had taken up residence in my bones and in my soul. Still. “The high country” sounds so… well … high. High and untamed. I was a man with shaking hands and pounding heart. My vision had cleared but my confidence had been reduced to rubble. And now I was, of my own free will, climbing into the back of a vehicle that looked as though it had seen far worse days than I had. Our little lodge was already located at 8,500 feet. Why did I feel like I had to prove something?

Not to worry. We barely made it out of the Marble driveway when “Old Betsy” sputtered, coughed, and died. It was a sign from God! Stay home! Take a nap! Read a book! But no, it was not to be. Henry, our tour guide for the afternoon, sent one of the guys back on foot to retrieve … "the old jeep." It seems that Betsy had been the newest vehicle in the fleet. In moments I was climbing … again … into a vehicle that looked like a holdover from the dustbowl evacuation of the early 1900’s. This Land Rover looked safer because it had a roof. It turns out that roofs are over rated. I was soon to learn that the backcountry highways of Colorado … mainly dirt ruts that they call “roads” … required a man to bounce up and down. I was wearing a baseball cap. Baseball caps have little steel buttons right in the top center as an anchor to their construction. Six inches above my head was a metal roll bar. Every bounce that required me to rise 6 1/16 inches or more out of my seat brought crushing pain to my skull as the steel button punched its way deeper toward my frontal lobe.

As we proceeded up the mountain the scenery went from simply stunning to awe inspiring. Between flashes of white hot pain on top of my head and the relative calmness of those “in between gaping holes” moments I noticed that at times we were a mere foot from the edge of eternity. But what an eternity it was! The side of the “old” jeep opened up to an unlimited view of … well, of the world. Henry pointed out the sights as we drove along. Over that mountain is Aspen. And over there, those mountains are called … something. He gave us the name during one of my white-hot moments. But they were big enough to have their own identities. And here you’ll see elk or deer or God knows what. We walked back into the trees a short distance to find one of natures unspoiled waterfalls. I actually took my hand out of my pocket where I had been rolling my Xanax back and forth long enough to reach out and splash it in the frigid pool. Climbing back into the ancient Land Rover we came face to face with a nice new jeep with a dummy driver. He was going counter-clockwise in a clockwise world. The narrow ruts were not wide enough for vehicles to go in both directions at once and so local rules stated that everybody drives in the same direction. (Interesting sidelight: The loop was roughly 12 miles long. If you happen to live one mile to the left of “town” and wanted a gallon of milk to wash down your Frosted Flakes … tough luck, baby. You still had to drive 11 miles of terror-laden terrain for your drink.) But good old Henry knew just what to do in these circumstances. Only sissies and flat landers really need roads. He simply made a sharp left and drove up the side of the mountain. Once our tail end cleared the road he stopped and waited for the ignorant city slicker to drive by and then he slid back onto the “highway” and we continued on our way.

My head was bruised. I was woozy. Oh, it’s not that I was not fascinated with what I was seeing. I just was not really prepared to pay the price that was being exacted. This was a pretty rough place!

And then it became worthwhile. Suddenly the cost was not so high. We rounded a corner and the most scenic moment of my life came into view. To our left was the Crystal River and on the other side was a dilapidated old mill, long since shuttered to the world. It’s vacancy gave it a charm … a mystery … a beauty that would not have been there if it had still been cranking out whatever it use to crank out. Henry, my wife, my pastor friends, and I all got out and walked to the rivers edge. The only sound to be heard was the rushing of the cool, clear, water making its dash over the boulders.


We walked silently, each lost in our own thoughts. The world was awash in the beauty of God. Our stay at that river was far too short. For once I actually wanted a tent and a sleeping bag. I did not want to leave this place. It was a cathedral of water, mountain, and sky. I just wanted to worship here.

And yet the moment passed and it was time to go. As we climbed back into our trusty transportation to continue our beating I realized that I had just experienced one of those moments in which God defines our current reality. Life had been so hard. Those were days of illness and frustration. The pain came in flashes and then receded, allowing me to see God’s hand and presence for just a bit before the next wave washed over me. I took the remainder of the ride without so much as a thought of regret or despair. The short minutes spent at the mill had made it all worthwhile. The occasional whacks on the head or crashes into the nearest pastor didn’t bother me so much anymore. I had been in the presence of the Almighty.

And so there ya go. That is life for you. You move along and you take what comes at you without really having the opportunity to pick and choose. You do your best. Sometimes life is great and sometimes it really isn’t. But I have learned that the best views of the Father’s hand at work are seen from the roughest roads. Oh, I think He does His best to reveal Himself day after day after mundane day. But we are oblivious to it because we are too focused on the pain or the trial de-jour. And so Abba takes us off of the expressway and detours us on the backcountries mountainous roads for awhile. He allows us to get beaten and bruised. Some decide it isn’t worth it and they go back. Those who do miss the view God has in store for them.

Today I am very, very, glad that I did not go back on that August afternoon. I survived the event. I came away stronger, though bruised. I came away more appreciative of the easy, smooth highways that I travel most days. And yet I miss the view from the rutted road. I am traveling too fast to catch a view of the cathedral. If the mill were to appear on the side of the highway right now … I don’t think I’d see it. I am too entranced with the taillights ahead of me. It’s a shame, really. Sometimes the most beautiful views are seen from the roughest terrain. And you have to be willing to pay the price in order to see it. I do not think that God ever sends ... or allows ... a pain or an anguish without a reason. I think that He always sees our path out of the agony before we ever enter into it. I imagine that God will let me get beat up a few more times before He calls me home. I am sure I’ll complain and ask Him why it has to be so. I trust that in those moments He will remind me of the mill. And I hope I will be wise enough to shut up and enjoy the bruising.

There were things my momma taught me and there were things she forgot. I always thought she got all of the major bases covered. Wear clean underwear because you might be in a car accident and have to go to the hospital. Eat your vegetables. Flush and put the seat down. These things have served me well throughout my life. But just when you think you have the rhythm down reality jumps up and bites you.

It was a cool evening and I had just finished a hot meeting. I drove home and nobody was there. Perfect. I dumped the briefcase and dockers, changing into jean shorts, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I put the earphones of my IPOD mp3 player into my ears, my motorcycle helmet down over my head, tossed a fresh piece of bubble gum into my mouth, climbed onto my "Hardley" and tore off into the crystal clear night air. Sweet. There is no better way to burn stress than a late night bike ride through the winding country roads north and east of town. I hit the play button on the mini-stereo attached to my belt and the soulful voice of Sara Groves filled my cranium. Heaven. I turned my brain off. Sara sang. Occasional "thuds" interuppted her as unfortunate bugs slammed into my helmet and face shield at 50ish mph. There was no traffic to speak of, the roads were dry, the stars were out. Even the moon cooperated by beaming it's nearly full face down on me.

I snapped the gum. Sara sang "Jesus, bright as the morning star." I cracked the gum. "Jesus, how can I tell You how beautiful you are to me?" I worked the gum into a frenzy. "Jesus, song that the angels sing." I was on a curved section of Sieler Road when it happened. "Jesus, dearer to my heart than anything." I blew a bubble with my gum. It popped harmlessly and I sucked it back into my mouth. "Sweeter than springtime, purer than sunshine, ever my song will be, Jesus you're beautiful to me." I blew another one. A little bigger this time. "Jesus, bright as the morning star." I felt it touch the inside of the mouth guard on my helmet and burst. Hmm. "Jesus, how can I tell you how beautiful you are to me?" The next bubble was big. Really big. "Oh, oh, oh, You are so beautiful." I could see this bubble. It hit the chin guard and moved up toward my nose. "So beautiful. So beautiful. So beautiful." And it popped. The hole evidently developed in the bottom of the bubble. This is significant because it means that the backlash of the stretched gum rocketed upward. Upward... toward my nose... toward my eyes... toward my closed, lightly tented, face mask. "Jesus, You're beautiful to me. Beautiful. Beautiful. Jesus You're beautiful to me." It crossed my line of vision and attached itself to the cloth material on the inside of the helmet above my eyes... above the face shield. At this point I could only see... bubble gum. Stretched thin and sealing off my vision of the road ahead of me. "Sweeter than springtime. Purer than sunshine. Ever my song will be, Jesus You're beautiful to me."

The following moments are a blur in my memory banks. I ripped open the face shield. The gum held fast to its material. (Pause for a teachable moment. Do you remove your right hand to tear away the gum, leaving yourself with no throttle and no brakes? Do you remove your left hand to tear away the gum leaving your clutch unattended? Obviously that depends on the circumstances. The circumstances depends on what is ahead of you. I had no idea what was ahead of me. I was blind, remember?) It was a gamble but at 50mph in the dark in the country on narrow winding roads you have to do SOMETHING fast. My left hand deserted the clutch and tore at the gum. The onrushing wind had already pushed it into my glasses. The easiest and quickest thing to do was to remove the glasses... and the gum went with it. Yes... thank you Jesus. I held onto the gum, the glasses, and the re-discovered clutch as I shut everything down and coasted to a stop on the dark side of the road. It took a few minutes but I managed to remove the gunk and get on my way again.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the bubble gum industry for degrading its product over the last few years. As a kid the quality of the gum was much higher and a motorcyclist would have been doomed. His tombstone would have called him "Mr. Tree."

So. It would seem that mom missed one. A really big one. Boys and girls, listen to old uncle Ron. Don't chew bubble gum while riding a motorcycle. If you do perhaps God will be gracious to you and spare your wretched life. Or... maybe he will say, "I warned you through old uncle Ron." And it will be tree time for you. In the meantime I am switching to Life Savers.

Twas the dark of night. A chill was in the air. Dampness clung to the earth like a used Huggy on a 3 month old baby. The clock on the gymnasium wall told me it was 10:30PM. My instincts told me it was midnight. The opposite of "high noon." At high noon the good guys win. They come out with guns blazing and the bad guys fall face first into the dusty street. The locals and the shop keepers return to their stores and saloons to talk about the latest guy who needed killen and how he had got what was a'comin to him.

But this was my midnight. I was the bad guy. The good guy was my wife. She stood opposite me, in the huge, inflateable jousting pit. Together we hovered 4 feet off of the hardwood floor. The pit was surrounded by similarly aged adults. We were all here for one reason. It was prom night and our children were juniors. That means that we... the parents of the juniors... were in charge of "after-prom." It was going to be a safe night for all high school students involved. There would be no drunken brawls. No back seat, estrogen/testosterone charged lovers. Just fun in the gym served up with food and music in the commons. But for the moment all eyes were on Mr. and Mrs. Woods. At the prodding of other scaredy cats we had tossed our shoes and jewelry into a corner and picked-up our jousting thingys. (Not the technical name.) And here we stood... facing each other. She had a smile on her face because she knew what I knew. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I, on the other hand, had nothing to gain and everything to lose. No matter that she is a trained aid in a behavior disorder classroom. No matter that she's had hours of training and experience in taking down unruly young people. I am a man. She is a woman. I am suppose to win. She is suppose to lose.

But there was a problem. This dainty little blonde standing on her perch several feet from me was my wife. I have sworn to protect and honor her. I promised her father 25 years ago that I would do an admirable job in replacing him as the primary man in her life. And now here I stood with a padded stick in my hands... and my job description was to knock the living daylights out of her. Every man in the room cringed for me. Every woman in the room glowed with expectant anticipation.

As I thought about these things I felt the air rush by my face. I looked up to see a red padded jousting stick fly by my head. It was in the hands of "Debbie the Crusher." She didn't even slow down before a "whump" landed on my knees and I staggered slightly backward. Women cheered gleefully. Men were silent.

I remember thinking that I could not do this. I can't hit her. My children nursed at her breast. I pray with her every night before we fade off to sleep. (Ziiiiiing... another violent thrust caught my left shoulder.) I walked into her classroom one day to find her back turned toward a charging young man with pointed scissors raised above his head. He was intent on having a substitute for the next day. I took him out without even blinking an eye. He looked up at me and said, "Hey! You can't do that to me! I'm a kid!" I drooled on his face. (Swish! The bill of my hat went cock-eyed as she almost took it off my head.) She got desperately sick once with a furious case of mono. I nearly carried her into the doctors office and then nursed her back to health. I fed her Chinese carry-out that year for our wedding anniversary and then tenderly tucked her into bed. I spent the rest of the night with Moe, Larry, and Curly. (WHAM! This time it was my right shoulder.) I looked up. She was smiling at me. I could tell she smelled it... victory. Bragging rights.

Suddenly, in the theatre of my mind I watched a video. I was in my rocking chair and "Gramma Debbie" was in one next to me. She held our little grandson on her knee and told him the story of how she decimated me in front of a crowd of my peers back in our younger days. He looked at me... with disdain. He hugged his gramma. I excused myself and went to take a nap.

Across the pit she took careful aim. I let her. She swung her stick even harder than before. She missed cleanly and her momentum caused her to lean to the left. I decided to help her out. I grasped my padded stick more tightly, took careful aim, and swum from my right. My blow caught her mid-section and helped her regain her vertical stature. It also caused her to take her eyes off of me. For just a second. A short second. Just enough time to swing one more time... at her shins... hard. This swing was from the left. He upper body was still moving toward her right when my latest swing sent her lower body to her left. You don't have to be a physics major to figure out that this is contradictory movement.

What I remember most is the groan from the females in the crowd. The men didn't cheer. They didn't dare. This time they had nothing to gain and everything to lose. The crowd quickly dispersed. Nothing to see here folks. We climbed back over the edge of the pit and onto the gym floor.

Nothing more was ever said. That's ok. That's more than ok. It's a relief. You see, in the world of masculanity vs. feminity you do not have to win. You only have to not lose.

I’ll always remember the very first time I saw her name in print. “Kelli Sue Woods.” It was written on the little pink card affixed to her clear bassinet at Hinsdale Hospital in Hinsdale, Illinois. She was not yet twelve hours old. Kelli was one of those kids that like to keep you up late at night. The night of her birth was the first time she pulled that trick, making her introduction at 12:08am on September 9, 1980. It was well after 3:00am before I hit the sheets. And then I was back at that little window staring into the hospital nursery just a few hours later, reading that card. “Kelli Sue Woods.” As we left the hospital a couple of day later they gave us her tiny arm bracelet with her name on it and, of course, a copy of her birth certificate came in the mail a short time later. All of them carried the same brand… “Kelli Sue Woods.”
When she was about three we took her to Central Hardware to get her fingerprinted. They were doing one of those special “don’t let your kid get stolen” emphasis. Some elderly lady sat behind a folding table, rolled her little hand on the ink pad, and pressed each finger gently onto a piece of paper. There! Now she is safe from the world and all of its evils. If somebody kidnaps her we’ll be able to show the police what her fingerprints look like. And then all we’ll have to do is check the fingerprints of every blond haired, blue eyed, kid in America to find the one that matches. Then we’ll have our Kelli back. Somehow I think they were hoping we would buy a wrench or something before we left the store.
I remember some year later as she came home from school and proudly showed me her Social Security card. Social Security? She was maybe… I don’t know… seven? But sure enough there was her name all typed neatly in and signed in ink underneath. “Kelli Sue Woods.” This little bundle of energy and cuteness was now officially backed by all of the authority and power of the United States of America! Impressive!
High school came around all too soon. With it came a driver’s license. Ugh. She and I went out in frequent spins around the neighborhood. One of those drives accidentally ended up in Jerry Edmonds front yard. That’s another story for another day. She drove and I prayed. We got through it. A short time later a crazy man at the Drivers License Bureau gave her a laminated card with her picture and name on it. “Kelli Sue Woods.” She was now an officially sanctioned driver in the state of Illinois. Who came up with this system? She was just a kid. Barely a kid! And now she was a kid driving my car.
On graduation day they called her name from the stage, formally proclaiming “Kelli Sue Woods” as a graduate of Civic Memorial High School. I was a little fogged and shocked on that day. My wallet was twitching under me… sensing something huge was about to happen. That something was called… college. Kel started out tamely and ended up like a lion. One and one half years at Lewis and Clark Community College flew by. Then came the transfer… the dreaded transfer… to Greenville College. I had nothing against Greenville. It was just that she wanted to LIVE there. This was totally unacceptable! And yet her mother took her and they moved her into a sleazy little dorm room. Every month I got a bill for the tuition of “Kelli Sue Woods.” She finished college like she finished high school, walking across an over-sized stage to receive a diploma declaring “Kelli Sue Woods” as a graduate of Greenville College with a major in education.
And then just as quickly as she came into being… she ceased to exist. It took Debbie’s mother nine months to make her. I’m not certain exactly how long she was engaged to Mr. Joseph McGill. Maybe it was nine months. Maybe it was longer. But I am absolutely sure it was on their minds for much longer than that. January 11, 2003 found her standing on a stage again. This time she was there with pen in hand, signing “Kelli Sue Woods” for the last time. When she put the pen down I uttered some magic words and turned her into Kelli Sue McGill. One second she’s Woods and the next second… POOF…she’s McGill. She probably never realized it but I was always working magic in her life. Whether it was helping her mother get her started, Loaning her the name “Kelli” (my middle name is Kelly,) letting her make her first road-kill in my car, (a former skunk and now merely a horrifying, crippling, odor,) or baptizing her into her faith and signing her certificate, I really tried my best to make Miss Kelli Sue Woods all that God wanted her to be.
About two weeks ago I finally got use to her being Mrs. Joseph McGill. It took awhile. The dainty smell of cosmetics and girly stuff in her room has been replaced by Scott’s gym socks. That will drive reality home in a heart beat. And then yesterday the most wonderful thing happened. Something good actually came out of the Alton telegraph. Yesterday I saw for what I am certain is the very last time the name “Kelli Sue Woods” in official print. Her former name was in the paper declaring her a “Greenville Scholar” because she had made the deans list at least three times.
Wow. My Kelli. She was gone for more than three months and then she dropped by, quite unexpectedly, to visit. There she is, for the entire world to see. Kelli Sue Woods is a scholar! I never doubted it.
You know how when they build a new ship the navy takes her out for a “shake down cruise?” They go out and sail around the high seas for a while, never getting too far from home, just to make sure all systems are functioning well. Then they drop back by home one more time and then it’s off to see the world. Well… that was my yesterday. Kelli Sue McGill has completed her “shake down cruise.” She dropped back by the old shipyard yesterday, appearing in the newspaper as Kelli Sue Woods, just to let us know that all is well. And then she sailed back out into the world. And hey, it’s ok! She’s ready for whatever comes her way! Because my little Kelli… she’s a scholar…

I needed gas. That is all. I didn’t need a phone call. I didn’t need a lecture. I needed gas. Why can’t a man just get what he needs anymore without having to take everything else the world has to offer along with it.

It was noonish. Yesterday. I had to be someplace. It was not far away but that little “gas pump” light was on and I’ve never seen it light up before on this particular car. So I really did not know how far I could go before the light became battery powered instead of gasoline powered. Know what I mean? So I stopped at my friendly, local Amoco dealer.

The weather was good and the top was down on the car. I slid my debit card through the “pay at the pump” slot and it told me to fill ‘er up. I let the pumping begin. I strolled around to the front of my car. It was covered with bugs and I was just checking to see if I needed to clean anything off with Mr. Friendly Service Station’s squeegee.

My cell phone rang. Actually it vibrated. I can’t hear ringing phones in my car because my stereo is too big. My stereo makes me smile. So I keep the phone on vibrate. As it did I leaned against the front of my car and answered it. (Note: The front of the car places me approximately 7 feet from the nozzle which continued feeding my thirsty gas tank.) The phone call was long distance. So what? Like it matters anymore. When you have a cell phone you can call Bangor, Maine, or you can call East Alton. Same price. This is one of the good things about cell phones.

While standing against the car, seeing the digital numbers drive me toward bankruptcy, talking to my friend on the cell phone, a pick-up truck pulled up behind me. I noticed him right away. Something did not feel right. For some reason I just didn’t think this guy was here for gas. I don’t know why that thought entered my mind… but it did.

(Teachable Moment: For those of us who consider ourselves “Born again children of the Living God,” we need to take these moments seriously. You see, God’s Spirit now resides in us. And sometimes He has a hard time keeping quiet. Sometimes He wants to tell us things. Once we learn to hear Him, if we keep in practice, it isn’t really that hard. So when you get “that feeling”… pay attention. Head’s up. Something just might be about to happen.)

So I turned toward the pick-up truck and watched a man get out. It was a black truck. Nothing fancy. Rather used and slightly beaten is the way I remember it. So was the man. He wore jeans and a “feed and seed” ball cap pulled low over his eyes. I was not even slightly surprised when he began walking toward me. Again… I do not know why. I just was not.

“You are breaken the rules.” He said. We were face to face.

I lifted the voice part of the phone away from my face and said the most brilliant thing I could think of at the time. “What?”

“You are breaken the rules,” he repeated.

I asked the man on the phone to hold on for just a second. I intentionally did not cover the mouthpiece. I wanted to make sure that if I were about to meet my Waterloo, somebody would hear it.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about.” The man stared at me. I stared back at him.

“The rules! You aren’t suppose to be atalkin on the phone while apumpin gas!” He wasn’t belligerent. He was simply insistent. And he was not happy.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.” I smiled. I turned away from him and resumed my phone conversation. My friend asked what in the world just happened. I told him that I had no idea.

My pick-em-up buddy continued to stare at me. Ok, I guess you could call it more of a glare than a stare by this time. The seconds slowly ticked away. I would suppose that probably 15 or 20 of them passed by before he turned away, walked past my gas pump, got in his truck, and drove away. He did not buy any gas. He did not go into the station. He just left.

This event requires summarization. Here is the best I can do: “While purchasing gas and talking on the cell phone a man pulled up in a truck, got out, and yelled at me three times for doing so. Then he got back in his truck, pulled onto the highway, and left.”

Yep. I just re-read it and that about covers it. I called the owner of the gas station. He happens to be a very good friend of mine. I told him the story. I think he hurt himself laughing. And really… it was funny. But I can’t help but wonder… does this kind of thing happen to everybody? What the heck was that all about? When was the last time you picked up a newspaper to read that an idiot on a cell phone blew up a gas station? You know, maybe if I was smoking a stogie while inhaling the fumes from directly above the hose I would understand. Maybe if I were wearing cotton flannel and climbing back and forth, in and out of my car with cloth seats and then running my hand along the hose of the pump I could understand. Consider this… if it were really that dangerous… don’t you think ALL terrorists would give up on exploding shoes and just start making cell phone calls from rental cars? I dunno. I mean, really. Maybe it’s time to set up security at gas stations similar to airports. You just can’t be too careful these days.

By the way, if you call me on my cell and I answer… and all you hear is a loud KA-BOOM!!!! and then nothing… forget everything I just said.

"Sometimes I sits and thinks. Sometimes I just sits." I don't know why I remember that saying engraved on a wooden plaque in a Ozark souvineer shop when I was a kid. But I do. I didn't understand. How can you "just sit"? I mean... how can you just sit without thinking? How can you do anything without thinking? To turn off your brain is an impossibility. To suspend your predisposal to be the one directing it is almost as hard.

Now, at the age of 47, I think I've got it. I have it figured out. It has taken approximately 3,650 Xanax tablets, over 100,000 milligrams of Zoloft, thousands of dollars in medical bills, and a whole world of patience. Oh, and some pain. Yeah. Pain.

But here's the deal. I was playing with my Pocket PC today. Really... not working. Just playing. And I got bored. How many games of Solitare can you play before your brain shuts off? I sat for about 5 minutes and then... BLINK... the unit turned itself off. Hmm. I don't usually sit around long enough for that to happen. I run a program, read an article, or make an appointment note, and then I turn it off. But this time I didn't and it turned itself off for me. I knew it would do that. I had read it in the instructions. But this was the first time I saw it happen while I was staring at the screen. When the Pocket PC turned off... my brain turned back on. A game of electromagnetic tag. That was a revelatory moment for me. I realized for the first time that everything is built to turn off occasionally. A car cannot run forever. You have to turn it off, gas it up, rotate the tires, maybe put in new spark plugs, and then it will run again. If you don't do those things it will die an early death. A computer has to stop and recharge its battery. It must be "de-fragged" and viruses must be rooted out. Then she's ready to recompute. Why should I be any different?

Not too long ago I "blinked off." I had done a lot of work. Things had been really, really, busy. Craziness abounded. When it all slowed down for a little bit I forgot how to recharge. I couldn't find a way... a place... to plug in and recharge. And honestly, I forgot that I was suppose to. And then one day I just... shut down. I might as well have been a 1965 Rambler in the Indy 500. I wasn't going anywhere. I HAD to sit. But I never stopped thinking. I thought too much. I struggled to understand, I wrestled in prayer, and I read and studied in order to get well. It didn't help. None of it made any difference.

And then God told me what to do. He told me to stop. Just stop. He told me to be quiet. Stop wrestling. Stop studying. Just stop. And I did. I found a place and I didn't talk. I sat. I walked. I listened. I stopped. And when I did I learned that God was there. Sometimes He spoke to me and I heard Him. Most often He did not tell me to do anything. He just revealed things to me that He wanted me to know. Those things quietly changed my life. They rearranged my understanding of what life is about. They gave me my soul back.

I'm talking too much again lately. Worse yet, I am thinking too much. I am not doing enough sitting, walking, and listening. But today God turned my Pocket PC off... and I remembered. Sometimes I sits and thinks. But I think... for awhile at least.... I'll just sits.

GIMME A V!!! GIMME AN A!!! GIMME A C!!! GIVE ME ANOTHER A!!! GIVE ME A T!!! GIVE ME AN I!!! GIVE ME AN O!!! GIVE ME AN N!!! WHAT'S THAT SPELL? VACATION!!! TELL ME AGAIN!!! VACATION!!!

One of the sweetest words in the human language... vacation. I just finished one up. Two glorious weeks with a new car and a full tank of gas. Sweeeeet. The first week it pretty much rained. No problem! I sat around, read, rested, recuperated. By Thursday though it began to get old. Sooooo... I checked out the old Weather Channel and found that just 250 miles away... in Memphis... it was gonna be sunny and in the 70's all weekend! Woo Hoo! I quickly informed Debbie that she needed to pack a bag because after she got off of work on Friday we were Tennessee bound. And so we went!

You ever been to Memphis? No? Well if you go... don't bother leaving downtown. I mean, there is Graceland. Tacky, tacky, tacky. Trust me, just stay downtown. You'll be much better off. Ok, do go to see Bellevue Baptist Church. But then run... do not walk... back downtown. And be sure to stay at "The Peabody." They have ducks there. They keep them on the roof most of the time. But at 11am each day the "Duckmaster" brings them down the elevator where they exit at the lobby and walk across a red carpet before sliding into a lovely marble fountain. At 5pm they go back home to the roof. Why, you ask? I don't know. They just do.

It rained in Memphis that weekend. All weekend. But it was ok. Even convertibles have tops. So we kept ours up. We walked Beale Street and ate pork sandwiches while watching a pseudo-Elvis serenade us with "Blue Suede Shoes." We dined at the world famous Rendevous and the ribs were supurb. Still... it rained. We went home on Sunday evening. Chris met us at the door. He said it had been sunny and in the 70's all weekend. Hmmmm. By the time we got home it was cloudy. Drizzly. Yukky.

I settled down in front of the weather channel again. It was going to keep on being ugly. But.... Chicago... was going to be nice! Sunny and in the 60's! Poor Debbie had to go back to work but I loaded my own luggage and headed north on Monday morning. It was cloudy when I left Bethalto. It was cloudy in Springfield. Same in Bloomington. Ditto for Joliet. In Chicago... I had to turn the wipers on to keep the snow off of my windshield. The next day, Tuesday was more of the same. I called home. Scott answered. I listened in dismay as he sang "Blue skies!! Nothing but blue skies do I see!" I spent the night, got in the car, drove home. Through the rain. It was still raining when I got there.

I was down to one last weekend of vacation time. Weather.com. The Weather channel. Cindy Pressler. They all agreed... it was going to be cloudy and not so warm. But Kansas City! Kansas City was going to be NICE! West was definately the way to go!

Fool me once... shame on you. Fool me twice.. shame on me. Fool me three times... just shoot me. I stayed home. Saturday I put the top down and cruised town. I fired up the motorcycle and sped up and down the highways and byways. I basked in the rays of God's own sun. Sweeeet.

When will I learn? When WILL I learn? I'll tell you when I'll learn. As soon as I figure out what the heck happened... that's when I'll learn.

It's official. I'm having my mid-life crises. Woo Hoo! I've waited for this for so very long! And the cool part is... I'm not miserable! It doesn't hurt! If this is a mid-life crises I STRONGLY urge you to have your own!

I found myself in Alton today. Had a nice lunch all by myself at Carver Southern BBQ. Yum. That's a great way to kick off a crises. With a virtual one man banquet! I sat and read Newsweek Magazine while munching on dead pig soaked in sweet and mild sauce. Add a bit of baked beans and some potato salad and life is gooooood. I learned while reading an article about MY president that he and I use the same devotional book each morning, "My Utmost For His Highest." Nothing quite like starting your day with the same briefing that the president gets, huh?

The next stop in my crises was to get back in my car and begin driving. Where to? That's the cool part! When you are suppose to be coming apart at the seams you don't have to have a destination in mind! You can go anywhere... or nowhere! And everybody will understand! So I cut back behind the mall and shot down Alby Street. That's where I noticed that the sign on the bank said it was 58 degrees. Now we all know that bank thermometers are lying dogs. But this was just possibly true. I was willing to give it the benifit of the doubt. So I pulled my green Mustang into the parking lot and dropped my top. Then I put it back on and dropped the top on the car instead. It was a tough decision but I think I made the right one. I indulged in several scenic (by Illinois standards) drives, culminating in Sieler Road while winding my way back to Bethalto. The stereo was up loud enough that my hair parted on its own. Sure it was cloudy but so what. This was my first top down experience in my own vehicle. No cloud was going to ruin it.

When I arrive in my driveway I put the top back up, opened the garage door, and warmed up the motorcycle. Mmmmmmm. You gotta love the smell of exhaust in the garage. The roar of the little engine warmed my heart even more. After a few minutes I put the headphones of my IPOD in my ears, hit the "play" button, pulled my helmet on, zipped the cord under my jacket in order to fool any law enforcement professionals (aka: Mike Hogan) and took off. I was only going to Amoco to put gas in the tank but it was just too darn nice. Amoco turned into Meadowbrook. Meadowbrook turned into Edwardsville. Edwardsville turned into back roads easing through the countryside and back into Bethalto. It was a 23 miles gas station run by the time it ended.

Now my crises took me to my mega-chair located before the fireplace in my very own den. I plugged the IPOD into my killer JBL "Creature Speakers" and listened to quiet praise music. Sweet. And then I did my duty. "God. I'm on the front end of a two week vacation. I just took a drive in my long awaited Mustang with the top down. Then I rode my Honda all over, hither and yon. And now I find myself sitting before you... worshipping... all alone... in sweats. God. Life doesn't get any better than this. Amen. And amen."

You know, I'm really not sure how it happened. I was driving along one day in my putrid green Neon, enjoying a sunny day and great gas mileage. Sure it was small, unexciting, and a tad underwhelming. But cars are for transporting... that means "transportation"... and that means getting from one place to another. That really is the essence of what it is all about. I remember the moment. I was drving on I-255, southbound, nearing I-64. I was in the right lane. My plan was to exit eastbound and proceed to "Best Buy" near St. Clair Square. So here I am, cruising along at an altogether legal 65mph (really officer, I was....) and I had crept up next to an 18 wheeler "Smasher of Neon's." I was actually about half way up his trailer and passing him, on the right, at about 2mph faster than he was going. True, HE should have been in the right lane. Not me. But he was not. So you gotta do what you gotta do. (This is technically knows as "mistake #1.) And then... his right turn signal came on. Not good. I glance up at his cab and saw the drivers face in his mirror. I still believe that we made eye contact. When that happened I stopped worrying. (This is technically known as "mistake #2.) I increased my speed to finish going around him so that he could enter my lane. I assumed that he too wanted to exit onto I-64. After a second I glanced to my left... and his trailer was about 18 inches from my car and closing fast. I don't know if I hit my horn first or hit the shoulder of the road first. It is immaterial. I did both. Thank God for the wisdom of the Illinois Department of Transportation! Placing car-sized shoulders on expressways is a great idea! I began to decrease my speed to allow the trucker to go on past me. (This is technically known as "mistake #3") I was almost even with his cab at this point and as I glanced at him again... he was 18 inches from my little car AGAIN and still closing fast. It seems that friendly Mr. Truck Driver did not want the right lane after all... he wanted the shoulder of the road. Now, I never was much at physics. I only learned one thing that entire semester. I think it has a fancy name. You know... "Bobbie's law of singular objects" or something like that. But what it means is that only ONE thing can occupy any given place at any given moment. Mr. Truck-From-Hell had decided to occupy MY space. I honked again and did the only thing left to do. I left the road. Completely. Totally. I departed the kind world of asphalt in favor of green weeds and mud. Serious mud. The lawn that I found myself on was strongly slopped to the right... toward a ditch, about 10 yards of ugly looking bumpy space, and then a state owned barbed wire fence that seperated the highway property from ... from... something. I'm not sure what. It's all kind of blurry because, well, I was still doing well over 50mph. I drove through that ditch and came up on the other side. I crossed nearly all 10 yards of lovely green space and came perilously close to the fence before I was able to make a quick adjustment, fish-tail a little, and head back toward the expressway. By now the mud was taking it's toll on my little 14 inch tires. All 1,500 pounds of Neon really wanted to sink axle deep into the mire. But, as I'm sure you understand, that was just not acceptable. At this point I need to explain something. I learned to drive in Chicago. Lake Shore Drive is my favorite street. I have navigated the Dan Ryan, Stevenson, Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Eden's expressways, at rush hour. I have handled every toll-road that city has to offer. I have driven school buses full of kindergardener's as well as high school students through raging blizzards. But never... NEVER... have I been chased off the road... much less have I ever stalled out in some slimy, mud-infested, ditch. I have two modes of driving. There is my "Country Mode." I use it in and around Bethalto. I drive politely. I wave. I smile. I let people in front of me. I do the speed limit. Well... close to it anyway. And then I have my "City Mode." I use it when I have to go to Barnes, or St. Lukes, or one of those other "take-a-lunch-with-you" hospitals. That mode came in handy in the ditch. It is a fearless.... get outtamywayyoubigdummy... mode. I punched the accelerator (as much as a Neon's accelerator can be punched.) Mud flew. I fish-tailed. I pointed back toward I-255. Unfortunately, in my exuberant adrenaline filled lust for asphalt, I pointed DIRECTLY AT I-255. It quickly became obvious that the term "merge" would not apply. It was going to be more of a 90 degree angle of attack. And it was coming fast. Without bothering to signal I glanced to my left, silently praying that nothing was coming. My will is in order but I have no desire to use it today. The demon-truck was only yards to my left. It had finally come to a stop. I strained to see past it in order to determine whether or not to bother keeping my hands on the steering wheel. That's when I saw him. The truck driver. The man that tried to kill me. His left window was down. His arm was extended out of the window. His hand was pointed in my direction. His middle finger was obviously cramping because it stood out from the rest of his hand. If I didn't know better I would think... well... you know what I would think. I suppose it is possible. Jeffery Dahmer might have flipped-off his victims before he killed and ate them. Jack-The-Ripper might have flipped off the prostitutes before he strangled them and slashed their throats. It is conceiveable that this gentleman was extending his subtle greetings to me in hopes that he had removed me from the gene pool. I was too busy dodging chunks of human-filled steel to pay much attention.

But now I'm paying attention. And I'm not at all happy. And I'm wondering... what the heck was that all about? He looks at me in the mirror... he signals that he's coming over... he runs me completely OFF the expressway... he watches me go where only farmers combines have gone before... he sees me hurtling toward a car-filled expressway at an unholy angle... and then he flips me off? Is there no justice in the world? In Washington DC tonight there are "Stinger" anti-aircraft missles pointed sky-ward. They are connected to computers and radars, searching, ever searching, for planes that shouldn't be approaching downtown. In New York, roving radiation detectors drive the streets trying to find nasty explosives before they can be blown-up. And in southwestern Illinois truck drivers are trying to kill Neon's.

I gave my little jade Neon to my youngest son this week. Earlier I had given my oldest son my purple Neon. Earlier still I gave my daugther my cobalt blue Neon. (Hello. My name is Ron and I am a Neon-a-holic.) I'm now driving a bright green Ford Mustang. I didn't trade because of the truck. And I don't expect anybody will try to run my sons or daughter off the road. But wouldn't it be sweet to have one or two of those Washington heat-seeking missles mounted to the front of your car? These are the things I dream about. These are the things that make America... America. Some people will call it revenge. I call it.... justice.

Odd how the world works. Sunday was the Super Bowl. They tell me it was a good game. I missed it, choosing instead to eat pizza with 5 teenagers. Their exuberance was contagious… as it always is. Monday was nothing. Today was the State of the Union Address by the President. On a national scale we are off to quite a week. If the pattern holds, tomorrow will be a zero. Thursday worries me. I suppose we'll have to wait and see.

On a personal level the entire week has been… off beat. The doctor that prescribes my "brain candy," a leftover from a touch of exhaustion a year or so ago, tells me that I live life in never-ending "crises mode." I don't remember asking his opinion. He told me I need to get over it. I told him he needs to tell me how. We don't get along very well. Usually he just gives me whatever pill he wants me to take and I go home happy. Well, not really happy. Not until I find a crises anyway. You see… if I don't feel needed I'm not sure why I'm breathing. Silly? Probably. Yet true.

So this morning I entered my office to face ridicule. I knew it was coming. You see, I was wearing a black, double-breasted, suit. Nice tie too. 100% silk. I even got the knot right. But all I have to do to get abused is to show up on a weekday dressed like a "real pastor." No biggie. It gives me an adrenaline rush. That makes me happy. I told them that I was going to be doing a funeral. A potentially interesting funeral. I explained and they looked at me like… like I had 3 ears and one was in the middle of my forehead. I love it when they do that. It energizes me.

After telling my story, Byron, one of the maintenance guys flipped me a quarter and told me to give it to the corpse. (See yesterday's funeral song for details.) I absorbed his teasing smirk and slid the quarter into my pocket. It was only 10:30am and I was already up twenty-five cents profit on the day! That gave me a rush! I gathered up my materials and drove to the funeral home.

Upon arriving I spoke briefly to the funeral director and the family of the deceased. I planned out the order of service for the big event and notified the main players. There weren't many of those.

Quickly enough the funeral began. I strode to the podium and thanked them for the honor of sharing such a holy time with them. I read a scripture and I prayed. Then I returned to my seat while a young lady, a lovely 13-year-old granddaughter of the man in the box, read a poem written especially for the occasion. She did well, even though the theme of the writing centered on the moment he stopped breathing for the last time. As she sat down the music began. Yes… "THE music." The family smiled, grinned, laughed, and began singing with Joe Diffie as he sang "Prop me up beside the jukebox if I die." I reached over and clicked on a mini-cassette recorder I had hidden behind flowers near my seat. This moment just MUST be documented! Joe really gets going in his little ditty. I was amazed that it would even enter anybody's thought patterns to put sand in their boots so that they could stand near the jukebox for time eternal. I looked at the sons of this soldier. One wore a coat and tie. The rest wore their very best work boots. Their feet tapped and their heads swayed as they sang. Even mama got in on the big number. Her gray streaked hair and brown streaked teeth flashed to the rhythm of the line "remember I prefer blondes…" I felt a rush of energy course through my bloodstream. It was that "put me in coach!" feeling. I was so ready to get up and tell these people… uh… tell these people… um… how was I going to tell these people that because of Jesus they'd be able to see their loved one again. Did I really believe that in this case? The only reason I was doing this ceremony at all was because "Gary" had "Baptist" embossed into his army issued dog tags. I could just as easily have been a bartender or a bouncer. Actually, that would have been more appropriate. I suddenly found myself reaching for my shirt pocket and felt the little bump of insurance called "Xanax." I remember thinking… "You and me, buddy. We'll get through this." And then the song ended and I was up. I glided purposefully toward the podium and read Psalm 23. "The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want…." I finished the scripture; looked at the mini-sermon I had prepared, folded it and tucked it into the back of my bible. Desperate times calls for desperate measures. It was time to launch out into the world of the unknown. I now had no notes. I did not have President Bush's speechwriters or his teleprompter. I had the Holy Spirit in my fleshly temple, a Xanax trying it's best to synthesize itself through a layer of cotton and into my flesh, and suddenly… adrenaline. Energy. I pointed out that the author of the Psalm had much in common with "Gary." Both were servants. Both fought enemies for the good of others. Both loved their families and their countries. I found the groove. I hit the stride. The family sat somberly, occasionally nodding, never looking away from my gaze. Having no notes, I also had no reason to take my eyes off of them. I was one with my Macoupin County, Jerseyville, boot-clad buddies. I told them that Gary missed some Christmas dinners at their table because he was off defending their right to celebrate. I told them that Jesus missed some family occasions too because He was off serving the sick and seeking to set free the captives. They squinted, trying to not miss my meaning. I appreciated it. I had not seen any tears. Nobody had hunched over in grief. They were listening. They hung on my words. I pointed out that Gary had a very special beret resting near his hands. It was awarded to him, along with several obtuse, unexplained medals, for service performed that he could never talk about. Rumor has it that the service was on the wrong side of the Vietnam/Thailand border during the war in the late 1960's. Oh how easy it was to explain how Jesus, too, found Himself on the wrong side of borders. He often sat in taverns and bars with the rebels and the down and outers. He was there because He wanted them to know that, no matter who they are or what others thought of them… He loved them.

All too soon I ran out of words. (I might point out that it was "all too soon" for me. The family was probably quite ready to move on to poor Gary's resting place.) But I had a dilemma. How do I wrap this thing up? The only words that sprung to mind concerning the decease was "hell-in-a-hand-basket." Somehow… that just didn't seem productive. It was too late for poor old Gary. There is absolutely no evidence that He ever even knew that Jesus was the Son of God or that He had died for anybody's sins. But there is no pleasure and no point in making it obvious or rubbing it in. What to do?

I turned to face the casket, which stood about 10 feet to my left. The lid was open. The soldier lay inside. I remembered the quarter. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. Did I dare? How could I not? More adrenaline… more energy. Gary… it's too late for you, my man… but I'm going to take this hill. I moved slowly toward the casket, finding my voice again.

"Gary, I'm so sorry I never got the chance to know you. It sounds like you were a man Jesus really would have gotten along with. And I never got to serve in the same Army that you served in. But I do know what it means to be a servant like you were. You served in your countries army and I serve in the Army of the Lord. When I got to my office today, Gary, they laughed because I was wearing a coat and tie. And then I told them that I was coming here, to pay my respects to a soldier that gave years of his life to protect me. One of them stopped laughing. He is an old soldier too, Gary. And I told him about the song we were going to sing. The one about propping you up next to the jukebox and putting a quarter in when we come by to pay our respects. I told him that it was an odd song but that it reflected the way you lived your life. Gary, that old soldier reached into his pocket and he handed me this quarter. He told me to give it to you Gary. So here it is, my friend. Your first quarter for the jukebox up there. Thanks for taking care of us, Gary. We'll miss you."

And I heard a wail. It was a mournful sound. It reminded me of the sound an injured animal might make when wounded or dying. I turned away from the casket to face the family of the soldier. I looked up and found that the wail originated from the son that told me that he wanted to lay his father out in the woods, a buffet for our animal friends. The one that insisted on the odd musical selection. His brother collapsed on him. And then the entire front pew began to moan. The wailing swept its way through the family filling the front seats and spilling over into the friends sitting in the back. I stood at the head of the casket looking at the scene before me. The rear doors of the chapel opened and the funeral director entered. He whispered to the occupants of the back seats. They stood and made their way down the middle aisle toward Gary's body. As the first couple stopped to say their final goodbye, the man of the family took a quarter and placed it on the soldier's chest. The next person approached and another quarter was produced. I watched in fascination as the quarters found their way from trembling hands into the casket. Not everybody gave but then, that never surprises a minister. My best estimate is that we buried somewhere in the neighborhood of five dollars with the soldier today.

About an hour later I walked into my office and sat at my desk. I looked at the paperwork sitting, waiting for my attention. I quickly checked my email. I thought about the youth calendar that I needed to work on. But it just wasn't happening. The adrenaline was gone. The energy burned. I was done. I got up, told the secretaries I'd be back later, and made my way to TR's Café where I ordered up a bottle of Fitz's Root beer… cold but no ice. And keep another bottle handy. This one's for you, Gary. I'm hoping you found your jukebox.

The man is most certainly dead. Like a stone. He is layed out in a rather inexpensive casket with an American flag on a pole embroidered into the fabric of the inner lid. He is wearing the dress uniform of a Master Sergeant in the United States Army. Good thing... he's going to be facing that flag for a very long time. Let's call him... Gary. Gary died too young. He was 64. I hope to be driving a Mustang at 64 and letting the air blow over my hairless scalp. I'll probably still be a youth pastor. I hope so anyway. But Gary died of Alzheimers. 64 is definately too young to forget your life. I never met Gary when he was alive, which turns out to be just as well because he would have forgotten me anyway. Nobody introduced us until he was dead. All of a sudden, Sunday afternoon, a local funeral home is calling me up trying to ruin my Tuesday. They pulled it off. It seems that not only was Gary dead, he was dead without a pastor, a church, or anything but a totally clueless family. They wanted to know if I would say some nice things about him... over him... and then give the signal to drop him into the ground. I said, "Sure." What are you suppose to say? "No thanks. I'd rather sit around and hope a tele-marketer calls?" So tomorrow at 11am I'm going to bury Gary. So today I thought I should go by the funeral home and meet with the family as they go in to view his body for the first time. Nobody should have to go in and see their husband or father or grandfather or uncle dead without having a representative of the Almight present. Some guys sell used cars. Some guys make pipes fit together. Some guys write newspapers. I go in with families to see dead guys. What can I say? It isn't particularly fun but God told me to do it.

So I went. Sure enough, he is dead. The funny thing is... nobody seemed very upset. You see, Gary's wife was present. Actually she was his double wife... he married her. He divorced her. He married her. He died on her. She went by the casket but didn't seem to upset. He had three sons and a daughter there as well. I didn't see anybody cry. There were some grandkids. They were more interested in the flowers. I don't get it. So I gathered them around what's left of Gary and I prayed for them. I had been scoping out the family, trying to figure out who is in charge now that dad/grandpa/hubby is gone. It seemed to be Randy, his oldest son. So I asked Randy to sit and talk to me for a few minutes about his dad. I asked him for some memories. It seems that his dad was a 20 year army vet that majored on tanks. He drove 'em. He fixed 'em. He shot their guns. And then he taught others to do the same. When he retired from active duty he kept on doing the same thing as a civilian employee. He moved all of the way to Kansas so that he could drive 'em, fix 'em, and shoot 'em at Fort Riley. Then he got sick and he came home. He remarried his former wife. And the family hunted, camped, and fished with him for a few years until he died. And now we are pretty much up to speed.

That's when Randy said it. He just came out and said it. He said, "If it weren't for going to prison there wouldn't be no funeral attal." He stared across the room toward the windows. It became obvious he wasn't going to say anything else and there was no way I could let that go. So I asked him what he meant. Randy said, "If it weren't for getting sent to prison I'd do what daddy wanted me to do. I'd take him out and lay him in the woods and let the animals eat off him." Selah. Pause and reflect. This was new. This was interesting. I had never heard this one before. I'd like to go on record at this point as saying that I had no reply. If Randy and I were still sitting in those chairs I still would not have said anything. I still haven't figured out what an appropriate response is to that statement.

After a few quiet moments Randy broke the silence. He told me there would only be one song at the service. He said they have it on CD but that the family would be singing alone with it. I admit that the theme song for "Deliverence" began playing in my head. But no, I could not be that fortunate. Randy again needed prompting and so I asked him the name of the song. He said that he suspected that I, as a man of the cloth, would not appreciate the song but that they were going to sing it for daddy anyway. He said, "The song is called, 'Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die.'" We sat in silence. He said it was his daddy's favorite song. I thanked Randy for his help and told him I would see him in the morning. I went into Jason's office. Jason is the funeral director. I asked him if he knew what we were singing at the funeral tomorrow. He looked down at his desk and mumbled. I asked him if he had a copy of the song. He handed me a CD. It was by a country gentleman by the name of Joe Diffy. He personally penned these words...

Well I ain't afraid of dying, its the thought of being dead
I wanna go on being me once my eulogy's been read
Don't spread my ashes out to sea, don't lay me down to rest
You can put my mind at ease if you fill my last request

Chorus
Prop me up beside the jukebox if I die
Lord I wanna go to heaven, but I don't wanna go tonight
Fill my boot up with sand, put a stiff drink in my hand
Prop me up beside the jukebox if I die

Verse 2
Just let my headstone be a neon sign
Just let it burn in memory of all of my good times
Fix me up with a mannequin, just remember I like blondes
I'll be the life of the party even when I'm dead and gone

Repeat Chorus

Just make your next selection and while you're still in line
You can pay your last respects one quarter at a time


When I was young I wanted to be a policeman. I went to school to study criminology. Then I changed my major to photography. Then I studied journalism. Finally, I gave up and became the pastor God was telling me to be. I went to school for 9 years. 9 years. I graduated with enough credits for you and I both to have a degree. But never... never... did ANYBODY tell me that I would get to minister to people that wanted to feed their daddy's body to squirrels and possums. NOBODY told me what to do when they want to sing drinken songs about propping their daddy's cold stiff body up against the juke box right after I tell 'em about Jesus. And you know what scares me? There was this look in Randy's eyes. It tonight it occurs to me... there just might be a juke box at the funeral home when I get there tomorrow...

Random thoughts of no particular consequence but extremely serious intent...

-Whoever decided to put zippers on nylon goose down jackets should be feather whipped. I am incapable of zipping even ONE without jamming it on the fabric. And it's not my fault, darn it. They just don't work.
-The entire expense of a wedding reception is worth it simply for the experience of the "Father/Daughter Dance." Why did I have to spend thousands of dollars and give away my kid to figure this out?
-God loves me. I know He does. So why does He seem to delight in putting me into circumstances where .... oh yeah. Nevermind.
-I love my new son-in-law. I'm glad he still calls me "Ron." That's my name, ya know. And he already has two dads. Being Ron is what I do best.
-I've loaded some old favorite albums onto my high tech I-pod Mp3 player. And you know what? The music is flat. Was it flat back in the 70's when it was recorded? Or is it just flat compared to what today's technology does to today's music? Carol King's "Tapestry," one of the biggest sellers of all times... sounds anemic. This is a loss. I mean... "SmackWater Jack... He bought a shotgun....Cause he was in the mood for a little confrontation..." Ya had to be there I guess.
-My dog's still dead. My house smells better. I could still re-build him from the left-over hair. But he's still dead. And yet... I continue to step over him at night when I get up and walk through the house in the dark.
-My daughter took the NBC Studio's tour while on her honeymoon in New York. She told me that some of the coolest sets... like Tom Brokaw's... are put together useing duck Tape. That means my water bed mattress is state of the art.
-A snow fall doesn't count if you can still see the top of the grass sticking through. This should be the official measure.
-I own 3 Neon's and they are all the same color... salt gray.
-When Jesus walked on the water and calmed the storm... do you think His clothes got wet? When He fell asleep in the back of the boat and the disciples woke Him in a panic to get Him to help... and He calmed the storm by rebuking it... do you suppose he needed a towel?

I am officially out of things to say. My bag of tricks... my box of ideas... empty. Not just empty. Scraped clean. No scraps remain in the bottom. No crumbs to expound upon. Everything has been said and everything has been done. But just for memories sake...

Walking my daughter down the aisle... a surreal moment in history. It has not even been 12 yours and yet I struggle for the memory. I remember wondering what was going on in the sanctuary when suddenly Patti Lash pointed at us and directed us to the doorway. Kelli took my arm. She was so beautiful. A vision. On oasis of loveliness on a desert of ordinary. As we stepped out in the aisle my main memory was not of imminent loss. It was pride. Pride in this young woman that somehow managed to turn out so well even when my direction and leadership has been so sporadic. As we walked I looked at her more than I looked in the direction I was going. I did not want to be the only one in the room to miss out on her radiance. We talked but I don't recall what we said. But we made it a happy walk... a walk into the future rather than out of the past. There is something bittersweet that has gone on today. Most everything about Kelli is sweet. And that's what brings a touch of bitterness. It isn't that she's 22 years old, married, and moved out. It's that the old days are over. Someway, somehow, that just... is sad.

Conducting the cremony was one of the oddest moments of my life. I felt as though I were giving away my own head... or my right hand. The presence of this lovely daughter in my home and my life is so expected... so common place... that I really can't concieve of life without her in the room next to mine. Eye contact was very important to me during the ceremony. I did not want to look at the papers in my hand. I wanted to look into their eyes. I Kelli's eyes I wanted to see joy. I wanted to see expectation and satisfaction. In Joe's eyes I wanted to see commitment, resolve, and trustworthiness. I got what I wanted in both instances.The up's and down's of the service amazed me. The full whiteness of the decor brought a sense of purity and holiness. It was perfect. It was Kelli.

And now her room is empty. She still has "stuff" in it but there is no more "she" in it. And she was what filled it. I'm so happy for her. I'm so thrilled for Joe. I am not sad for anyone... especially her mother and I. Wait... I am a little sad for Scott and Chris. They seem to be in a state of shock over the marriage and subsequent departure of their sister. I watched in awe this weekend as they served her by serving her guests. I saw them cry. I saw them hug her. I heard them tell her that they love her.

You know, this fatherhood thing really isn't so bad. I mean... it's really, really, hard. There is pain involved. Most of it is pleasure but when it hurts... man it's bad. I guess that's what "bittersweet" means. But over all I love being a dad. And now I want to be a great dad to two single sons and a married daughter. And I want to practice being a great father-in-law. It will take some time and some effort. But the dividends will be incredible. I don't care much about money. I am not too concerned about things. But today, during the reception, I have a thought. Almost every person that I love... nearly everyone close to me... was in that room. That, my friend, is satisfaction.

I do believe that I am caught in a time warp. It would appear that Capt. Kirk was correct all along. In 62 hours I will walk my infant daughter down the aisle and give her away. She was just born last week but somehow this young guy named Joe has captured her heart. How? Don't ask me. She was sitting there watching Sesame Street and suddenly she's driving a car, collecting diploma's, and wearing fancy schmancy diamond rings. I don't recall giving her permission to date yet? And what's this about her having her own apartment in Edwardsville?

It appears that I am going to have to have a talk with the Almighty. Somehow He has let time get all out of kilter. My friends try to tell me that it is 2003 but they lie. I'm not sure what is in it for them but I suspect Debbie told them they can hold the baby if they can convince me. And yet... the date on the newspaper does indeed say January 9, 2003. I noticed it on the bottom right of my computer screen too. I just don't understand.

Exactly how do you go about this, God? Giving your daughter away, I mean. There must be a trick to it. Like when I played first base back at the old ball yard across the street from our house in Tinley Park. I couldn't get a runner out to save my life until the coach taught me to streeeeeeeetch for the incoming ball. Base runners starting trotting back to the dugout on a regular basis. Or maybe like when I was learning to drive a school bus and they made me back up without looking over my shoulders. I just couldn't get the hang of that until one day the windows fogged up and I had to use the mirrors if I ever wanted to park that thing. I learned to trust them that day and never looked back again.

So what is the trick to giving Kelli away? Do I put a bow on her head like I did that year when she was just months old and sitting under the Christmas tree? Where is that picture anyway? It was here just yesterday. Do I make Joe sign a "letter of intent" promising to really house her and feed her for the rest of her life?

I am use to her room being empty most of the time. Between college dorms and her apartment it's pretty rare that she's here. And yet... sometimes she does stay over. That's the weird part. She's done "sometimes staying over." No more, "I think I'll just stay here tonight." And not only that, I am not suppose to ask her to call me when she gets home so that I'll know she arrived alright. Joe's suppose to do that. What if he doesn't? Has anybody told him that's part of his job? Is he suppose to just know that automatically? Doesn't sound likely.

The aisle is going to be the hard part. I'm use to standing on the platform, speaking, even marrying couples. No big deal there. As long as I look at the words I'm going to say and don't spend much time looking at the lady behind the veil, I'll be just fine. I think. But how the heck do I get down that aisle? She'll be on my arm. She's NEVER been on my arm before. And now she finally grabs ahold and it's simply so that I can lead her to another man. What's the deal with that? She's been on my shoulder. She's been on my lap. She's been on my back. But I finally get her on my arm and she's useing it as a launching pad into another realm.

God, didn't you say that I'd never be faced with a temptation that was not "common to man?" What's so common about this? I also seem to remember that you mentioned in passing that Jesus faced every temptation we face. Suddenly I'm wondering about that one. Did you ever face the temptation to hide your daughter under the house and keep her all to yourself? Ok, that wouldn't be a good idea. Even if they didn't find her she'd sneak out. She's that way. Always having an opinion and doing what she wants. I didn't teach her that trick either.

I guess I'll just give her away. He seems to make her happy. They seem to get along. She's 22. She has a college degree. She has a job. She's almost as old as I was when I got married. I didn't have a degree yet and my job... well, I had two of them. We called it, "making ends meet."

Kelli, I know you don't read my blogs but should you happen to accidently surf by I just want to tell you a couple of things. Things I might not have mentioned. First and foremost... I love you. Always have. Always will. Please remember that. You know all of those times I climbed your frame for different things... I thought it was for your own good. You turned out great so maybe I was right. But I'm sure I blew it sometimes and I really am sorry about that. That last guy you dated... the one before Joe? He was a loser. I'm glad you realized that or this would be a truly sad week. I'm glad you are happy. If anybody makes you unhappy I promise I'll help Joe break their face. I didn't really mind that you didn't clean your room very often. I had to say that I did because dad's are suppose to. I read that somewhere. Oh, that bike that Grandpa bought you... your first one... you know, with the training wheels. You looked really good on it. Very self-confident. Even with the pig-tails. You did not write me letters very often and you almost never responded to mine. But I think I still have everyone you did write me. You are prettier than I ever imagined you could be. Actually, you are prettier than I ever imagined any girl could be. You look a lot like your mom did when she was 22. Good thing for you... my looks were the alternative.

Ok, I'm only going to say it one more time... Drive careful. Set your alarm. Don't forget to lock the doors. Go to bed early. Make sure you have enough gas in the car. Carry your cell phone. Wear your seat belt. Eat your vegetables. Wear a jacket. Don't lose your umbrella. Call your mother. Check your oil. And please, please, please... call home every now and then.

I love you forever. I like you for always.
Dad

I know this isn't much of a blog but it's is my random thoughts of the day...

1. Thank God the holiday's are over. I'm thinking that God probably agrees.
2. Tonight I sat in a friends outdoor jacuzzi. We got out and rolled in the snow before jumping back in. I've heard that they do that in Sweden. This proves what I've long suspected. Swedes are idiots.
3. Speaking of Swedes, I actually met a member of the Swedish Parlament last week. He tried to tell me a joke but was not successful. I think he rolls in the snow a lot.
4. Last month I had my dog put to sleep and one week from today I will give my daughter away. They charged me to kill my dog for me. They are charging me for the privilege of giving my daughter away. I thought "sleeping" and "giving" were free? This "free market society" thing is out of whack. Big time.
5. They called school off here for Thursday before a snow flake had fallen. They called school off for Friday when you couldn't find a snow covered road to save your life. I believe that these decisons are being made by the Swedish Parlament. When I was in high school I was listening to the school closings on the radio and they announced that the principal of my school, "Lincoln-Way," was snowed in his home and could not get out and, therefore, school would start 2 hours later than usual. Men were men. Women were women. Snow was for shoveling, not fearing.
6. I wish people would stop talking about the Rams like they just had a bad year and they will be back. They stink again. Get over it.
7. My left front tire has a slow leak. How does that work? What decides if a leak will be fast or slow? Is the air tired? I mean, a hole is a hole. How big of a hole does it take for air to get through. Not a big one I would imagine. You would think if it just did it's job it would leak fast... like an air matteress at 3am. They never leak slowly.
8. My brother lost his cell phone today. He works for the Salvation Army. He was getting some sandwiches for a hungry Mexican guy. While he was in the kitchen getting them the hungry Mexican guy stole his phone. I wonder if he used it to order up a pizza?
9. Now that Chrysler has stopped making 15 passanger vans it is going to take us 22 mini-vans to get to Centrifuge this year. I find that fascinating. God has to find me 22 people willing to drive them or I need a lot of rope.
10. Like I said, I'm marrying off my daughter one week from today. How cool is that? All of these years she's slept at my house and now I can't even find her. We went from father/daughter to "hey, how ya doin?" in about 10 days. It's the cycle of life. While I approve I can't help but wonder why it is that the people I like best are always leaving and the people I can't stand the site of just always seem to be around? It is a far bigger mystery than crop circles and yet I don't think anybody has done a documentary on it. It's a pulitzer waiting to be claimed.