You know, I really don't understand it. I was tired all day today. It's been a long week. We've had youth events 4 out of the last 7 nights. They have been really great. First we did our "True Love Waits" retreat. I don't know, there was somewhere around 50 there. Thirty-three signed commitment cards to remain sexually abstinent until marriage. (Maybe the others will remain sexually obstinate?) And then on Sunday night we went out together and ate pizza at Imo's until all I could dream of was cheese that night. Last night we had bible study and a lady from our church (who also works at the "Arms of Love Crises Pregnancy Center") came and talked about her experiences ministering in that arena.

And then tonight. Like I said, I was already tired. On top of the youth stuff I've been to some hospital's, visited some very sick people both there and at homes, worked on summer plans, and basically tried to stay out of trouble at the office. And at 7:00PM tonight JPL started. I went without much energy or desire. I had purchased supplies to run 7 games, knowing we would not get to them all. I just hate "down time" where I have to stall or kill time until bible study begins at 8:30. So I had the stuff all ready in the kitchen along with "bomb pops" and assorted flavors of soda. Music was playing on the stereo. The lights were up, the bull horns had fresh batteries, and Scott and I were as ready as we could be. But ... as I said ... tired.

Then the kids started arriving. First it was a trickle. Groups of 2 or 3 would enter and mill around the big empty room waiting for something to happen. Then some of the crazier ones came in and things would start popping. By now I had a couple of spare adults around to watch out for problems. College students actually. Their help is VERY appreciated. We were in the kitchen making final preparations and you could hear the growing roar on the other side of the door. 7:00 came and we stepped into the room, bull horns hanging from our shoulders, music blaring on the stereo ... and we cranked it up a notch. Let the fun begin! And did it ever.

It almost always happens. At that point I forget that I am tired. I suppose it's adrenaline that kicks in. Something does. And its a 2 hour roller coaster of fun mixed with work mixed with policing a ready to explode crowd of teenage energy. These are great kids. Many of them already know and love Jesus. Some have just begun on their journey. Others have made commitments and have not even had the chance to make them public in church yet. 4 of them are waiting for the baptistry heater to be repaired so that they can be baptized. How can a career youth pastor NOT get buzzed about that?

We closed out the evening with a rather odd bible study. I had a copy of some weird grocery store tabloid newspaper. The National Enquirer or something. I would read a bizarre article claiming to be true. One was about how a human virus had now mutated and was affecting computers. Riiiiiight. And then Scott would read a story from the words of Jesus taken out of Matthew's account of the sermon on the mount. I would read a story from the rag. Scott would read a story from the bible. It went back and forth like this for about 10 minutes. Then we told them about how there really is a "right" and a "wrong" in life. Situational ethics don't work. God's Word is true and ever lasting. And you know what? For the first (and only) time this night ... they listened. They were quiet. They paid attention. I told them that anytime they hear somebody tell them that they don't matter ... that they are no good ... that they are worthless ... it is just like the trash written in the tabloids. It is a lie. God made them, He loves them, and their lives have a plan and a purpose. It was not hard to see the wheels turning in some of their heads. Not all of them hear this at home. God, forgive us, but it's true. Some of these kids are pretty beaten down and live under a constant berating.

And so it's not really all that hard to come to JPL on Thursday nights. All you have to do is to stick 700 Q-Tips into a kids head (photo's available upon request!) and then they will listen to you tell them about Christ. I will never understand how those things connect. But they do. I've been doing it for quite a while now. How can I stop when they keep listening? It's a strange trade-off. But it is oh so worth it ...

It was just me and the mountain. One on one. Just the way it is supposed to be. I stood overlooking the steep, snow covered slope and felt it sneer at me. Daring me to take it on. I clicked into my rented Solomon ski's and pointed their tips over the edge of the slope. As I dug my poles into the snow I thought about "crossing myself" and remembered that I wasn't catholic. So I pushed off and felt the wind begin to rush by my nearly frostbitten cheeks.

It had been five years since I had skied. Sixty months of solid ground under my feet. The last time I had been on the boards I was in Colorado. I knew that i was not well but I did not realize just how sick I was. I had finished up a difficult month but could not have guessed that I had eight more ahead of me before I felt anything even approaching normal. After four runs down various slopes on that day I coasted off a lift that dropped me several hundred feet below the ridge of the continental divide. I love to ski. In the winters I have lived for it since I learned at the late age of thirty. On that March day I began my descent from above 12,000 feet. A quarter of the way down I had to stop short. I was still above the tree line and snow was blowing over the divide and skimming along above the pack making it nearly impossible to see what terrain was coming. Several hundred feet lower I had to stop again. And yet again as I entered the tree line. I was suffering vertigo. My head was spinning and I could not catch my breath. I looked below at Interstate 70 where it enters the Eisenhower Tunnel. It looked like it was a mile away. I limped the rest of the way down the mountain, clicked out of my ski's and turned them back in at the rental hut. After a mere five runs I realized that if I kept on skiing I would probably get hurt before the day was out. I felt sad and yet relieved. Sad to be unable to enjoy my favorite hobby. Relieved to be able to walk away without the help of a stretcher or a crutch.

And now the five years have gone their way. I have stayed healthy most of the time but the last two years have been very stress filled and I've got a relapse or two under my belt. The doctor calls it "adrenaline exhaustion." I call it "hell." But on that March day ... I skied again.

Where was I before I interrupted myself? Oh yeah.

My legs were not very stable. It's tough to do anything that really prepares you to make the quick turns and absorb the rough bounces of downhill skiing. You just have to get your legs back. So I was pointed down my first black diamond run for the first time in a long time. True, it was just cheese laden Wisconsin but it was vertical and snow covered so it counts.

Everything went fine for the first couple of turns. I struggled a bit through a dip that resulted in a short but very steep pitch. I told my skis to turn right. They caught an edge in a rut that went to the left. I didn't go right or left. I went forward. Over the tips of my own skis. I felt them fly away and then I was on my back looking up at the beautiful cobalt blue sky. I realized my poles were no longer in my hands. I was still going downhill but I was doing it head first and face-up. I probably only slid twenty feet but it felt like two hundred. When I coasted to a stop ... I smiled. Nothing hurt. I looked up the way I had come and my equipment was scattered across the mini-mountain in a way that resembled a yard sale. My sons skied up and gave me a very pathetic look. I am the guy that taught them to ski. Now they make me look like the old man that I often feel I am. and you know what? It's all right. I have done my job. I taught myself to ski on a small hill in suburban St. Louis, managing to put a hairline crack in my shoulder the first day on the bunny hill. A few years later I went to Colorado all alone and skied the highest (though not the steepest) peak that the state offered before I even told my family I was going to try it. And then I came home, taught them to ski on the same suburban hill, and took them to Colorado with me. Now they make me look silly at every turn. That is a dad's job. Learn yourself and then teach your kids to be better than you are. I did ... and they are. Mission accomplished.

The next day I felt like I had been run over by a Hummer. My sons felt great and did most of the driving home. And I did not mind at all.

Life ... is good.

God is really amazing.  I like hanging out with Him.  For some reason He seems to like hanging out with me too.  This is a good thing.  But the really surprising thing is that He chooses to keep blessing the work of my hands.  I mean, come on.  I've been a youth pastor since I was 19 years old.  I walked straight out of being in the youth group into leading the youth group.  That's a little odd.  Since then I have spent exactly one month not pastoring teenagers.  That comes to 31 years.

The big question seems to be why would teenagers allow ... and even encourage ... an old man who is turning gray and no longer "gets" their music ... to hang out with them and even choose to follow him?  I am not at all sure that I would, were I them.  But they do.  And I am honored.

It's gotten really interesting lately.  It is like God has decided to go hyper-active in our kids.  As of the first Sunday in March I have baptized 6 teens this year.  I have 4 more that are now waiting to be baptized.  After that is done the teens will be leading every other age group in our church COMBINED by a 5 - 1 ratio.  Wow.

Which brings me to todays story.  Last Sunday I was to baptize two young men, Casey and Kyle.  These two guys are really incredible.  they are high school students and they have fallen in love with God. No, they don't "get it" all yet. But they are moving in that direction. And they are both football player big. Prime beef kind of guys. I love them to death, along with about 50 or so of their closest friends.

So they show up Sunday morning and I have to break the news to them. The baptistry heater didn't work the night before and the water is cold I mean COLD. I've checked and water comes out of the ground at a consistent 54 degrees. That, my friend, is quite chilly. And that is what it checked in at in our church baptistry. So I told them of the situation and told them it would be fine if they wanted to wait. They laughed at me. Our heater has been breaking a lot lately and I don't think either of them was surprised. Kyle told me he had recently gone swimming in a very cold pool of water and he wasn't concerned. Hey, I wasn't concerned either. I wear these big rubberized fishing waders so that I don't have to change clothes before returning to the auditorium. When the heater fails I can feel the cold through them but it's not a big deal. However, it IS a VERY big deal to the one being baptized.

The time came and, with hundreds watching, I waded into the water, looked up at Casey, and gave him the nod. He hesitated. Then he stepped into the water. One toe at a time. This big guy literally creeped, gasping, down into the pool and stood in front of me. His teeth chattered. No joke. I asked him the usual questions about what decision he had made recently that had brought us to this point. He spoke involuntary words ... "It's so cold!" And then he caught himself and told us that he had asked Jesus Christ into his life to be his Savior. Then I dunked him. He went down fast and came up faster. But if you really want to see fast you should have seen him climb those stairs out of the big tub!

Now that left Kyle standing there looking down at me. He's a tough guy. No doubt. He is a football player and does not intimidate easily. I watched him steel himself and wade down into the water with me. He clinched his teeth. I asked the questions and he answered them appropriately. When i went to lean him back ... he helped me out in a big way. He literally threw himself backward! When he did his feet slipped out from under him and I was the only thing keeping him from sinking to the floor of the baptistry. I mean, he went WAY down. Deeper than anybody I've ever baptized. So deep that the entire right half of my body went under with him in order to bring him back up. So deep that the water began flowing into my waders. Did I mention that it was cold? Now I knew just how cold! As I pulled Kyle back to the surface the water was still going up from his going down. It didn't just get me. It got part of the choir that was sitting immediately in front of us! And when I finally got Kyle to the surface he "pulled a dog" on me. I mean he SHOOK just like a Golden Retriever after a bath. Water went everywhere. All over me. All over the choir. People were actually diving out of their chairs to get away from the splash! It was one of the greatest moments of my life! I loved it! I didn't know it at the time but the water had flowed so far into the waders I was wearing that the microphone box to my wireless lapel mike got wet. This is not good.

Kyle and I both managed to get out of the water. We shivered our way downstairs to the changing rooms. I did not bring a change of clothes with me because I didn't expect to need them and so I had to go home to change. When I got back and the worship service ended I went and found both of my friends and we laughed and hugged and had an awesome time celebrating the wonderfully unique experience they had in following Jesus.

So right now we are just sittng here waiting for a new heater to arrive so that we can baptize 4 more kids that are waiting. All four of them are middle school girls and I would not even consider baptizing them in unheated water. No way. And get this. They tell me that in the process of trying to find out what was wrong with the heater they made a discovery. It seems that the box that holds the plug that the heater plugs in to ... is above and behind the baptistry ... and has never ... NEVER ... been bolted to the wall. It has just been hanging there. I have been dunking kids and adults here for 23 years. And it has never been bolted down.

This is just one more reason why I believe in God.

After even greater deliberation here is a comprehensive list of my 10 Most Enjoyable Things In The World As Of Today Though I Reserve The Right To Change It At Any Moment Without Prior Notice And Without The Express Written Consent Of Major League Baseball(not counting things like relationships, hugging family, being ... ahem ... alone with my bride, worshipping God, etc. This is a blog not a political philosophy or theological/doctrinal statement!)

10. (It's a tie) Gym shoes that fit perfectly (it's a fetish) //// Opposable thumbs (try brushing your teeth without them tonight)
9. Remote control anything (sooooo lazy)
8. The first hour after a good work-out (they say it's chemical)
7. Music ("... it's the best thing I have ever found..." Rich Mullins R.I.P.)
6. An Ipod, a helmet, a motorcycle ... and no cars
5. Sunny days, Green Mustang, top down ... nuff said
4. White Sox Tickets, downstairs near Jermaine Dye after an hour at the Grandstand (35th Street just west of "The Cell")
3. Cubs tickets, bleachers on the vines (Night ... day ... doesn't matter)
2. Bailey crashing next to me in my big huge brown fuzzy mega-chair (She is form fitting)
1. Crashing in my big huge brown fuzzy mega-chair (You have to be there to get it)

After great deliberation here is a comprehensive list of my 10 Most Irritating Things In The World As Of Today Though I Reserve The Right To Change It At Any Moment Without Prior Notice And Without The Express Written Consent Of Major League Baseball(not counting things like war, disease, famine, etc. This is a blog not a political philosophy or theological/doctrinal statement!)

10. Camping (or anything having to do with being required to shower and/or sleep out doors)
9. Weddings (sorry. I feel badly about this one but it is true)
8. In coming phone calls from phone numbers that caller id doesn't recognize (forget it ... I won't answer)
7. The Cardinals (every day in every way)
6. Staying when I don't want to stay
5. Going when I don't want to go
4. Daytime television (a waste land)
3. Anything involving numbers or math (I don't do numbers)
2. Meetings (necessary evils)
1. Peanut Butter (it is inherently evil)

Have you ever saved somebody’s life? Have you ever had your life saved by someone else? I have experienced both. The former is by far better than the latter. I will not tell you about two of the former because that would be bragging. Both times it was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. But I can think of three times in my life when, had I not been where I was or had I not done what I did, somebody would have died. Forget the first two. But the third one you just have to hear.

It was Tuesday of this week and I was driving to St Johns Mercy Hospital in West St. Louis County. The weather was nice, the stereo was turned up, and I was ahead of schedule. (That alone qualifies this as a miracle.) I exited from southbound I-270 onto the Ladue Road exit. I was planning on turning left on Ladue Road. This particular exit has two lanes and I was in the right one. (Meaning the one on the right … not meaning the correct one.) I was about one third of the way up the ramp when I saw a car make a right turn off of Ladue Road onto the exit ramp I was on. (Teachable moment #1. Exit ramps should never be used as entrance ramps. It defies the very nature of safe driving. Make a note of it.) At first I thought, “no way.” Like I am not seeing what I think I am seeing. Then he got close enough for me to realize that he was in a Mini-Cooper. (Teachable moment #2. If you are going to be so foolish as to go the wrong way on an expressway you might want to drive something more substantial than a Mini-Cooper.) I hit the button to lower my window. I began braking and waving both of my arms out the window at the oncoming car. I flashed my headlights. I waved again. The Mini-Cooper began slowing about thirty feet in front of me. The driver was looking at me like I was insane and he was afraid. You know the look. I began coasting up to him and he lowered his window half way. I took this opportunity to inform him that he was driving on the expressway EXIT ramp. He did not say anything. He raised his window, drove past me, executed a u-turn, passed me, turned right on Ladue Road, and drove on out of sight. No “Hey, Thanks!” No, “Whoa! That was close! I’m so sorry!” Nothing. As he drove away he was still looking at me like I was the one who was crazy.

My state trooper friend tells me that a driver going the wrong way on an expressway is the worst possible traffic scenario. He says that it always ends up with fatalities. So I figure that I have it from an expert that I saved this guys life and probably the lives of countless people on I-270. He could have hit a school bus. Or a family van. Or your car. Seriously.

The point is not that he didn’t pause to thank me. (Though that would have been nice.) The point is that it is NEVER right to go the wrong way. Never. Somebody always gets hurt. Don’t believe me? I can prove it. Proverbs 14: 12 says, “There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.” You can’t get much clearer than that. Which way are you heading today? Are you going in your own direction or are you following the directions found in God’s Word? Might I suggest that you see what God has to say about your method of reaching your destination? It might change your entire life. Or even your entire eternity.

Consider yourself flagged down.

They are not kidding. You really can fix anything with Duct Tape. (Or is it "Duck Tape?" I've never been certain.) I have used it to repair the turn signals on my motorcycle. I've repaired the seat on an old car I use to have with it. I taped my wounded exhaust pipe up with it on a VERY temporary basis. (Note to self: Duct tape melts.) I've used it to hold a multiplicity of things up. You know what I mean. "Up" means where ever something is supposed to be but is not. I use it as a part of youth group games on a very regular basis. Which brings us to tonight's story.

She came to me with a pathetic look on her face. She's just a young kid. A teenager. Full of life, energy, and a generous helping of bull. If you know what I mean. But this time she wasn't kidding. She was wearing one of those pairs of jeans that you are pretty sure "The Gap" pulled out of a trash bin someplace and hung on a rack with a $59.99 price tag on it. They had holes everywhere. And yet she had managed to add one more hole in a place where holes do not belong. She ripped one where she sits. And, as I said, she looked pathetic. She asked if I happened to have a safety pin. Well, I didn't exactly examine this hole in her jeans. When she pointed to its location I decided that this was a situation best left to herself and a girlfriend. I told her I would see what I could come up with.

The best I could do was ... a stapler. She gave me "that look." But she also took the stapler and went into the ladies room with her friend. She came out with a renewed look of disgust. The stapler had failed. Somebody happened by at just about that moment and tossed her a roll of Duct Tape. Good old silver Duct Tape.

My young friend broke into a smile and trotted off to the ladies room again. The next time I saw her, about 5 minutes later, she had an even bigger smile. And she was walking rather stiffly. She had transformed her renegade tear into a mark of glory. She was a testimony to good old American ingenuity. I'd rather not try to explain. Just take a look at her picture.

You know, I really have to hand it to her. Not only did she fix her jeans but she became instantly popular with every kid in the room. Fifty of them. It would appear that Duct Tape is cool. Hey, it works for me. It has to be better than stapling your jeans to your butt.

How Bad is it?

-I sneezed this evening and my right eyeball fell into my lap.
-I used excess snot to refill my lava lamp.
-My ears are ringing so loudly I answered the phone 27 times today and it only rang twice.
-Bailey the Killer Beagle asked me to stop coughing because the squirrels can't hear her bark.
-The siesmology department of Washington University called and asked me to please jump into the air when I cough because I'm causing false earth quake reports.
-The meth dealers asked me to stop buying up all of the Pseudoephedrine.
-The Kleenex Corporation is naming their new multi-pack box after me.
-I had to squeegee my laptop screen repeatedly.
-The Weather Channel clocked my sneeze-gusts in Pittsburgh.
-FEMA has a trailer in my driveway.

There are things in the universe that make sense, there are things in the universe that don't make sense. I am dealing with a couple of those items right now. I hope you don't mind if I elaborate. Because I am going to. It's my blog.

Why is it that science can cure horrible diseases like polio and small pox but they can't put a dent in the common cold? The entire world seems to be sniffling and sneezing right now. Well, most of the world. I watched some wild eyed maniac's in another country tonight chanting on the evening news about how they want to kill me and everybody who looks and acts like I do. I've never met any of them and I am not sure why they want me dead. But none of them seemed to have a snot problem. Come to think of it, have you ever heard of a wild eyed maniac getting sick? I went to high school with a girl whose father was a prison guard in Stateville penitentiary near Joliet. Part of his assignment was to watch the mass murderer, Richard Speck. She told me about how he spent his time making incredible works of art. He not only killed people but he painted in his spare time. She never mentioned him being sick. Do convicts get Kleenex? Is that one of their civil rights? What if you were strapped to the gurney awaiting lethal injection and you had to sneeze? Would they unstrap you so that you could wipe your nose or would it just be tough noogies for you? Dying is bad enough. Dying with snot hanging from your nose might just be cruel and unusual.

But back to the sane people.

Why do they call it a "bad" cold? Have you ever had a "good" cold? Do you know anybody who has? I think not. So that "bad" part is superfluous, don't you think? Wasted syllables. I suppose that we have plenty of spare syllables though so never mind.

Can you die from a "bad" cold? If it gets really, really bad? If you read my last blog you will know that my father-in-law had brain surgery two days ago. He's doing remarkably well. He left ICU today and is in a regular room. I talked to him on the phone. He's bald now. My wife e-mailed me a picture and he looks like Colonel Klink from Hogan's Hero's. Scary. But how weird would it be if my wife flew all of the way to Richmond, Virginia to watch after her father who was having his head drilled on and meanwhile, back at home, I died of a "bad" cold. What do you suppose that would do to her psyche? I would really like to worry about that for her sake but I can't because I seem to be out of Kleenex. I have resorted to using toilet paper to blow my nose. My nose finds that repulsive. It knows what part of the body toilet paper is made for and I do believe that it feels insulted to have reduced to that level.

Ok, well I'm over it now. Not the cold. I still have that. I'm just over having to talk about it. I am off work tomorrow so I plan on doping myself up with ibuprofin and some tylenol pm minus the tylenol. They have a name for it but I'm not sure what it is. If I take enough I won't have to get up in the middle of the night for more toilet paper masquarading as Kleenex. You know, sometimes whining to a computer screen really does help. I feel oddly better. Not good enough to proclaim myself healed but still.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Today my father-in-law had brain surgery. That is pretty serious stuff. I could crack jokes about how they will probably only charge him half price. Or about how they went in, looked around, and didn't find anything. Jokes like that are kind of funny AFTER the surgery. When you are joking with the guy who actually went through it and now he's got his eyes open and he's laughing with you because everything is ok. But until then ... it's really not very funny at all.

I have a really wonderful father-in-law. There has been a time or two when I think he's forgotten about the "in-law" part. Times when he's treated me like a real flesh and blood son. That is the kind of guy he is. I mean he's not perfect or anything. That is one of the reasons why I like him so much.

I remember when I was just dating his daughter. He owned an elevator company with his brother in Chicago. He got a call to go downtown one night for a "shut down." All I knew for certain was that this meant some poor guy's elevator had quit working and that my father-in-law was the guy to go fix it. He asked his daughter and I to accompany him on the journay. I figure, what the heck? Worst that can happen is that I spend a couple of hours on top of some high rise with this beautiful blonde while he fixes the thing. So I went.

I almost died that night. One of my father-in-laws (nearly) fatal flaws is that he's basically a horrible driver. I really don't know how he has lived to be 73. My memory says it was about 9PM. It was definately after dark. We were in this place where the Dan Ryan Expressway merges with the Stevenson Expressway and cuts over to Lake Shore Drive. Very busy. Very inner city. You have to be careful here. So as my father-in-law merges from the right there is this big tractor-trailer to his left. He figured the trailer was in his way. He couldn't move it so he did the next best thing. He let it go by. Now when I let a tractor trailer go by I generally allow it to finish passing before I pull in behind it. My father-in-law never really believes in doing things the ordinary way. He let about 7/8ths of the trailer go by and then went ahead and pulled over behind it. Well, actually ... under it. I am not kidding. I am not exaggerating. The hood of our car was UNDER the back of the trailer. That, my friends, is a merge.

He told me before he went into surgery (they were about to drill four holes into his cranium and pump out some blood and crud that had gathered there, threating to give him a stroke) that his anxiety level was a one. That's on a scale of one to ten. Ten being high. He wasn't too worried. I suppose when you live under the tail end of a tractor trailer at 65mph a little thing like a drill to the head doesn't really intimidate you.

He came through the surgery just fine though it took about twice as long as it was supposed to take. I don't know why. He might well have been sharpening their drill bit for them before they started. That would not surprise me in the least. When he woke up his first question was if he was in South Carolina. He was in Richmond, Virginia. I suppose he got the continent right which is more than I would have done.

My father-in-law really loves Jesus. I have learned a lot about the Savior by watching his life. Like I've learned how to get forgiven. My father-in-law is the kind of guy that seems to need to get forgiven a lot. I don't say that in a mean way. I simply mean that he is human. And when he blows it he is smart enough to repent. Jesus liked that in a man. So do I. I blow it a lot too. More than you want to know about. But I do know what to do about it.

I repent. And I stay out from under tractor trailers. See, I've learned two very important things from my father-in-law. And he let me keep the beautiful blonde as a bonus.

Life is good.

Bright eyes. You know them when you see them. Bright eyes mean something. They reperesent a soul that is joyful, open, and full of light. They are often found in a person who is friends with God.

A wise man once said that the eyes are the window to the soul. He was right. Unfortunately, bright eyes are not the only type off eyes you will see.

You will see critical eyes. Look through them and you will see a soul that has no room in it. It is closed off to the world. You cannot put another thing in it because it is full of itself. It elevates itself by putting others down. It is the embodiment of hate and distrust. These eyes make you feel judged and guilty.

You will see condemning eyes. Look through them and you will see a soul that feels so condemned itself that it maskes it by transferring it to others. These eyes make you feel worthless and vile.

You will see self-righteous eyes. Look through them and you will see a soul that is crammed full of empty achievements and meaningless accomplishments. Trophies for the pointless. These eyes make you feel repulsed.

But when you see bright eyes your soul soars with hope. Have you ever been in a tunnel? I have driven through the Eisenhower Tunnel in Colorado many times. It cuts right through the heart of a mountain under the Continental Divide. it is narrow and feels confining. You drive with your headlights on and you don't dare change lanes. And then you see a little dot down the road. it is a dot of brightness. As you near it you realize that it is the end of the tunnel. Suddenly you fly through that little bright dot and the entire world explodes before you. The view is stunning as you look down from the top of this 13,000 foot mountain into the valley below. All around you is space. After being in that tiny tunnel you feel oddly free. There is air! You can breath! That is what it feels like to look through bright eyes. Hope abounds. Your soal takes wings. All boundries melt away into the vastness of the huge world we live in. This is life the way God designed it to be experienced.

God, give me bright eyes. Eyes that see the hope of Christ at every turn. In every moment. In every event. Let me burst out of the constraints of the sadly faithless and into the joy of seeing Your Hand in everything. Don't let me doubt you. Don't let me be mean, critical, condemning, or self-righteous.

I need this, God. I must have bright eyes or my soul will die. It is feeling sickly lately, Father. Please. Brighten my eyes once again.

God is good. So good. He never fails, He never let's His people down, He never ever loses. When it looks like He is not good ... He is still Good. You just have to trust that The Truth is good. When it looks like He is failing ... He is still winning. You just have to trust that the end game is all about Him. When it looks like you are being let down ... He is still going to come through for you. You just have to wait. When it looks like He is losing ... get ready for the victory. It is surely coming. Maybe not until you are dead ... but it is coming. (By the way, you are not ever really dead. Not if you are a Christ follower.)

Those are unshakable, unalterable truths. They are part of my "core values." I count on them and stake everything on them. I have learned much through my journeys on this planet. Most of what I have learned are mere details. Details, while important, in some cases are the composition of a fact so huge, so over-riding, that you cannot see it all at once.

And I think that is where so many people get lost. People with spiritual tunnel vision cannot grasp the fact of God. Not really. They say they can. And they really believe they can. But experience has shown that they are wrong. What they are really grasping is a tiny portion of truth that fits their fancy. They find it to be comfortable because it supports their desires and agenda. They are looking at a detail and missing the vision.

Let me give you an example. A person decides that he wants his church to be a certain way. He wants it to be a place that feels comfortable to him. He wants it to look just so, sound just so, and work just so. Because that makes him happy. And he read in the bible that God wants to give you the desires of your heart. Translation: God wants to make you happy. And so it is easy to extrapolate that out to seem to mean you can manipulate your church to be what you want it to be. And because that will make you happy, God will be happy too. This is a person who has looked at one detail in the bible and grasped it (incorrectly) and that is as far as he ever gets. Because he is busy killing a church. And all the while he truly believes that his actions (based on his own opinions) are God given.

Do you realize how dangerous that way of thinking is?

Nobody can completely grasp God. That is a silly notion. He will not be understood or grasped. But I believe that spiritual visionaries have an insight that allows them to see past the details of life and come to some sort of understanding of a big picture. He thinks like this ...

He reads where God says in His Word that he wants to give you the desires of your heart. And he does not stop there. He keeps on reading. He reads where God says He is entirely pleased with His Son and wants us to follow Him. And he keeps on reading. He reads where God allows His Son to be nailed to a cross, He turns His back on Him, and His Son dies. Dead. Stone cold dead. Real flesh bleeding out onto the dirt dead. He reads where God's Son is pried loose from the cross, planted in a borrowed, closed, sealed tomb. He reads where God raises His Son from the dead three days later, gives Him some more truths to teach, and then takes Him back to sit down at His right Hand. And this person wonders, "If God is pleased with His Son and yet allows Him to go through this humiliating agony ... if God allows His own Son to experience the greatest example in history of delayed gratification ... why would I think that He would treat me any differently?"

And that person has discovered a remarkable truth. God does love us and want us to have the desires of our heart. He also knows (because He read the whole book) that God already tried to give us non-delayed gratification. That happened at a place named "Eden." It did not work out so well. We screwed it up. It was our fault, not God's. God gave us everything and we wanted more. (The couple in Eden were looking at a detail ... the serpents lies ... and not the bigger picture ... God's truth.) And this person knows that God wanted to give us the desires of our hearts so badly that He didn't give up there. He kicked in what appears to us to be "plan b" but was really "plan a" all along. I mean, God knew that the Garden of Eden thing was going to go south quickly. It did not come as a surprise to Him. He knew that if He was going to create man and stick with this dubious project it was going to cost Him the ultimate price. And He went with it anyway. God knew the big picture before there was a day-one.

Let me wrap this up for you. A spiritual visionary understands something that a tunnel vision guy cannot get. We do not call the shots. EVER. When we try to we screw it up every time. Go ahead. Read the book. Find me one example of a time when we called the shots and it all worked out alright. Good luck. Plan on taking some time off for your search. You are going to need it. Come in real close to the screen ... closer ... I want to tell you something. It-is-not-in-there. Is that print to small? Here ... IT-IS-NOT-IN-THERE.

Do you think that your precious vote means anything in God's economy? Do you really think the church is a democracy? Do you think that you know best? Do you scoff at those who say "I have prayed and God told me ..."? Do you think nobody can be trusted because everybody has their own agenda? Do you waffle back and forth, wringing your hands, wondering what we should do? Listen closely one more time ...

God is laughing. Not with you. At you.

Stop staring at the details. How much? How long? Where? Why? Give it up. Tunnel vision only gives everybody around you a head ache. Get the big picture ... the huge, over-riding FACT ... or get out of the way.

I'm writing tonight just for the sake of writing so don't take any of the following too seriously:

I like late night. It is quiet. Even Bailey the Killer Beagle hides under blankets or afghans. She doesn't want to be messed with after 10PM. It is like she can tell time. I think she would get up for a Milky Bone but I'm not sure. She'd much rather I deliver it. That's not happening.

What is it about the darkness that attracts me? I think it is because my life tends to be so public that anytime I can hide I just naturally take advantage of it. I like to go to the car wash here in our little burb. It's the kind you put money into and this machine goes round and round soaping, rinsing, waxing, and rinsing once again. It promises not to touch your car... only wash it. Right. Like that is possible. Anyway, at one point, if you pay for the ultra good job, it goes around you two times (a bonus round!) squirting you with multi-colored foam. Each color is supposed to do something different. I don't know what because I seldom bother to read the fine print on anything. And truthfully, I doubt that it works anyway. I pay the extra because I get to sit in my cool Mustang and hide. Nobody can see through the foam. Well, I can't see out so I assume nobody can see in. Their is a flaw in my logic at this point. When I purchased my Mustang I chose one that is "electric green" with a khaki convertible top. To the best of my knowledge it is the only one in town. Therefore, if I want to hide ... my car is not the best place to do it. Everybody in my church knows who owns that car. Every teenager in my youth group knows who owns that car. Every cop in town knows who owns that car. And I am pretty sure that they all know the car is not capable of driving to the car wash on its own ... so they know I'm in the thing. See what I mean? Bad logic. But I don't care. I feel hidden. Kind of like a small child who thinks you cannot see him if he is under the covers. Maybe this is all a sad commentary on my life and the way I live it. I don't really care. Maybe I cannot truly hide but if I can convince myself that I can, well that is almost as good.

You know what I hate? I have this place that I go to at least once each day. They sell my favorite caffiene there. I fill the 32 oz. cup knowing that I will never finish it. I seldom do. The ice melts long before the cup is 2/3rd empty. I should by the smaller 20 oz. cup but when I do they give me pennies in change and I don't want pennies. The 32 oz. cup costs .99 with tax and I always throw the left over penny in the "give a penny/take a penny" tray. It's just easier to hand them a dollar and walk. But it doesn't quite work that way. I know most of the people that work there by sight. I don't "know" them... I just know them. Know what I mean? We speak every day and never really say anything. It's one of those "comfort" things where you feel like you know somebody because they are a part of your morning (or evening) scenery. But there isn't really a connection of any depth or quality. I'm fifty years old. Most of them are in their twenties. What I hate is when I see one of them and they say something like, "Hi, hun." Or, "Hello, dear." They don't know my name. They don't know where I live. They do know what I do for a living but only because I come in occasionally in a suit and they get curious and ask. But the point is that they really don't have the right to call me hun or dear. Maybe I'm silly but that is a right reserved for somebody who I am really a "dear" to. Or a "honey" to. The honey part is pretty much the sole domain of my wife and I don't really like anybody else tromping on it. She might not call me honey very often but it's there for her if she wants to use it. There are multiple people that can call me "dear" without bothering me. That's slightly more generic. I would hope that one or two friends would find our relationship dear to them. Their is a deep intimacy attached to "honey" in my mind. A lesser intimacy (but still an intimacy) is attached to "dear." Am I being too picky? Maybe. But this is my blog and if you bother to read it I don't charge you anything. You are probably somebody that could call me "dear" without bothering me. Give it a try and then winke once ... I'll know the signal and I'll tell you if you are in my "dear club" or not.

Ok, it's late and tomorrow is getting closer. I'm trying to train myself to start the process of going to sleep before 11PM. It isn't easy for me. Like I said, I love the dark. And the quiet. It's nice. I feel good at night. It is a shame to ruin it with the unconsiousness of sleep. But such is the nature of life. There is not going to be any night in heaven. It says so in the book of Revelation. I know that heaven is lit by the presence of God Himself and that will make up for any missing of the night time I might experience. But down here .... it's my time.

It's 11:02 and I didn't quite make it. But I'm going to try ... starting .... NOW!

Ok, it was here and now it's about to leave. "It" being Christmas, of course. This is a confession blog. If you are not in the mood to read confessions then vamoose. Scram.

I warned ya.

Christmas is not my favorite time of the year. I know, I sound like a pagan or a communist or something for saying that. I've spent 50 years denying it but it's time to 'fess up. Let me make a few things very clear first.

A) I love Jesus. Actually, I love the whole Trinity. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. And I totally do not mean to be flippant or disrespectful in my phraseology. I am not merely a Jesus fan ... He is my Savior. I owe Him everything. He is my best friend. I would rather spend time alone with Him than anyone. I take joy in worshipping Him. So my lack of passion for Christmas is not a lack of passion for the birthday Boy. Not even close.

B) I love the church. She is the Bride of Christ. I am a part of her. I do not disrespect her, feel cynical about her, or in anyway mean to trash talk her. Never trash talk Jesus bride. That would, I suspect, be a very dangerous thing to do.

C) I love my family and my friends. Both my local family and my long-distance family. I would do anything for them. My local friends and my long-distance friends. Again, they are on my short list of things (people) I would die for. So I don't mean any of this as a slam against them. For that matter, I don't mean it as a slam against anybody.

So now that we have that out of the way, here we go.

The Christmas season leaves me cold. It is all of the usual things that people complain about when they analyze Christmas and it is more. Crass commercialism? Yes, of course. I detest the way that the media insists on a day by day dissection of whether or not we are going to spend as much money on each other as we did last year. How despicable is that? While Santa reigns in center court of every mall, Jesus sits outside somewhere beyond the parking lot. And we do not even try to hide it. "We" being the church. We fall for the same thing pagan's fall for. The only possible difference is that we spend our money in "Christian" bookstores ... of course they are owned by conglomerates that have nothing to do with anything remotely Christian. On the other hand I am well aware that I should not expect anything better out of the world. I mean, at least we are giving each other gifts. We are generally not killing each other. We are, for once, being nice and thinking of people other than ourselves. So I suppose that there is a plus side. It's just a smaller plus side than I would like.

I confess to being bugged by eight foot tall glowing Santa's, snowmen, and this years latest addition, huge inflatable water filled snow globes. I have to admit that this latest edition is at least creative. The first time I saw one I knew how an ant must feel crawling across an end table where the usual mini-snow globes sit. Do I even have to mention my thoughts on 200 watt manger scenes?

And then there is "The Little Drummer Boy." Have you ever really listened to that song? It's about some guy playing a drum solo for baby Jesus and getting a smile in return. Isn't that just a little bit goofy? There are twenty-one "rum pum pum pum's." This lyrical masterpiece has one hundred and sixty eight words. Ninety eight of those words are either pa, rum, or pum. That leaves seventy words for substance and story line. Do I really need to say more?

Fudge. I love fudge. Vanilla is my favorite but nobody makes it so I settle for chocolate. It is usually polluted by nuts of some sort. All nuts are evil so it doesn't really matter. I suck the fudge off of them and spit them out. Why do people only make fudge at Christmas? Have you ever seen fudge at an Independence Day celebration? Memorial Day? Have you ever seen green fudge on St. Patricks day? Face it, if it is not Christmas your only hope for getting fudge is to go to some tourist spot and pay $7.99 per pound. Not even fudge is worth $7.99 per pound. Carrot Cake is another evil thing that seems to dominate Christmas. People ... vegetables do not belong in cake. Ever. Make a note of it.

Now that I am fifty years old the gifts that I receive at Christmas tend to be designed to encourage me to do things that will not hurt me. You know. Things that point me to my favorite easy chair rather than participation in a wild eyed sporting event or even a minor league work-out. I suppose that I should make that concession to Christmas. I can't get hurt watching a dvd in my new sweater. Well, I can. But I have to work at it.

And here is the real problem. Who has the time during December to really sit down and contemplate what Christmas means? Can you honestly say that at any time during the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas day you are able to simply reflect on the magnitude of what this holiday means? I'm not really all that bugged by the shopping and the culinary gorging and such. I'm just irritated that the entire season slips by and I feel so pressured to "do the Christmas thing" that I never connect with Christ Himself. And you know who's fault that is? Mine. You don't run my schedule. Nobody runs my schedule but me. So it's my fault. Not yours. Certainly not God's. The gavel crashes down on nobody but yours truly.

I could go on but what's the point? I am always more tired when Christmas is over than I was when it began. I just wish that we (the church) could find some way to love Jesus out loud without having to fake it. And that is what Christmas so often seems to be. Faking it. Convincing ourselves that we are really loving and caring and self-sacrificing when we know that we are not. Not in any big scale way at least. I think that it would be really cool if, for instance, someone would just forget about the fudge and instead call me up or drop by my office and say something like, "How are you, Ron? Tell me the truth. What is on the front burner of your brain these days? Let me in on it so that I can pray for you or simply encourage you. Because I care and I don't need to spend a penny to prove it." How refreshing that would be!

Ok, enough. This is probably a really bummer/detestable blog. I apologize if I drug you down with my thoughts. That was not my goal. Honest. But every now and then I have to just say, "Hey, this is MY blog spot and so I'm just going to write what is on my mind." And that is all that this has been. It's what is on my mind. It may or may not be close to the truth. It may or may not apply to you, the reader. I haven't a clue. It's just where my brain is. I'll probably wake up at about 3AM, burp, and be over it. So sleep tight and puh-lease don't let these mini-ranting make a dent in your tomorrow.

God is good. He can take it when I'm feeling less than exhilarted. I hope you can too...

Peace. it is a gift given by God. I have looked around a bit and have come to the conclusion that it really cannot be found anyplace else. You can be in the fiercest battle of your life and have peace if the Spirit of God reigns within you. You can be laying on the beach in Cancun and experience inner turmoil if the Spirit of God does not reign within you. It is that simple.

True, sometimes God reigns within and you still feel anything but peace. Many have said that you will know the will of God if you have peace about a situation. I have to take issue with that. There has been an abundane of times that God has directed me to do something and I have felt anything but peace. I have felt pain, grief, sadness, and a variety of other emotions. The picture the scripture paints of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane on the eve of His execution is anything but peaceful. He sweat drops of blood. That does not sound peaceful to me. Yet He went through with His assignment and came out on top. Way on top. This teaches me that God calls me to do the difficult thing at times. Peace is not always the hallmark "check point" for being in the will of God.

And yet outside of the will of God any peace you experience is a mere counterfiet. Life is odd. It is seldom pleasing in a geometric sort of way. It is about hard corners, difficult angels, and wicked curve balls thrown your way. But if you trust ... the Lord is always with you. Always.

And it is enough.

I'm not on fire anymore. I wish I were. Fire I can understand. This ... this I cannot figure out at all.

This is going to sound stupid. I feel like a gray haired grandpa (never mind that I am a gray haired grandpa) moaning about his lumbago or his rutabaga or something. I kind of ran into something last week. I did it with my right foot. I didn't have shoes or socks on. When I did, I tore the toe nail on my big toe. Really badly. I tore it in such a fashion that it ripped the edge off of it. You know what I mean ... the very corner. The result is that as the toe nail has started to grow back it is growing INTO my toe. This is what the call (in medical circles) an "ingrown toe nail." Who is the genius that names this stuff? It really hurts. I'm playing with it every day trying to turn it back into an "outgrown toe nail." It will eventually work but it's going to take some time.

That's where things get wierd.

I was on my hands and knees a couple of evenings ago poking around at the hot coals in my wood burning stove. I love seeing how long I can keep the same fire going. My record was set two winters ago when I kept the same fire going for twenty three days. I was sooooo proud! I haven't really gotten with it yet this winter. But I will when it gets really cold. It's just "toying with us" cold right now. I'm being patient. It will get here. Anyway, I was on my hands and knees going at it with the fireplace poker when I noticed ... I noticed that I could not feel my big toe. The one on my left foot. The one that doesn't have an ingrown toe nail. I sat back on the floor and looked at the toe. It looks normal. I touched the tip of the toe. Nothing. I poked it harder. Nothing. I took the relatively hot poker and touched the end of my toe. (Ok, this was not smart. I know. You don't have to tell me.) Nothing. No pain. No feeling whatsoever. Nada. Nyet. Nothing.

Is this not a little too odd to be chance? One toe is in great pain. The matching toe on the other foot feels nothing at all. What are the odds? And more importantly, does it mean anything? I told Debbie that it is probably the precursor of a stroke. She did not smile. I said, "watch!" And I closed my eyes, extended my hands, and tried to bring my index fingers together in front of me so that they touched on the tips. I missed by about 8 inches ... on purpose. I tried it again and almost poked both of my eyes out. I thought it was really funny! She did not. Something about not thinking it was hilarious to consider finishing up raising Christopher all by herself. (He's twenty. We are done. She just hasn't admitted it yet. And Debbie, I know you are reading this. I'M KIDDING.)

There is probably a spiritual application here. Like ... oh ... when one part of the body hurts other parts compensate by numbing out. Now understand, that is not at all a positive spiritual application. Yet I have found it to be true time after time after time. If you don't agree just talk to anybody after a typical baptist business meeting. Those that are not angry are numb. This is a lousy application. I'll have to work on a better one.

Well, there is nothing to do about this situation but wait. The bad toe nail will be good again someday. The numb toe ... well, I don't know what's going to happen with it. It doesn't really bother me physically. But it drives me bonkers mentally! Things on my body are supposed to respond when being touched! I mean .... today it's a big toe. Tomorrow? I shudder to think.

As Forest Gump said so eloquently ... that's all I have to say about that.

I have been on fire twice this week. And it's only Tuesday. I have to wonder what the rest of the week has in store.

It all began on Sunday evening. It was quite crisp and I had a fire roaring in my wood burning stove. When the wood burned low I grabbed a new piece and slid it through the door, placing it on the glowing embers. And then I touched the steel plate that keeps the flame from rushing up the chimney and lighting the flue on fire. It really did not take long to realize that I had touched it. I knew it immediately. The pain was ... intense. I leaped the 15 feet to the kitchen sink and turned on the cold water. I also found a huge hunk of ice laying in the sink. Debbie had cleaned out the ice maker in our freezer. I stuck my hand against the ice and kept the water pouring on it. The pain eased. After several minutes I lifted my hand and looked at the wound. Part of my index finger was charbroiled. You know how when you drop a chicken breast on the old weber grill it quickly gets those black "cooked" marks on it? That's exactly what I had on my flesh. I was cooked. No, not all the way through. If you cut me open you would have found that I was probably to rare for your taste. But, none the less, I was partially grilled.

This morning I had an early dentist appointment. I found myself in his torture chair at 8 AM. It seems I had a small cavity in the back part of a front tooth and he was going to fix it for me. That is how I came to find myself tilted back so far that my head was below the level of my feet. My mouth was wide open and this big man had his hand buried in it up to his last knuckle. That is always a fun way to start off a morning. Then, through the music piped in to my Ipod covered ears, I heard him rev up his drill. What an instrument of mid-evil torture these things are. Total brutality! But four shots had gotten me numb enough that I really didn't care much. Within seconds his drill was doing its work on my tooth. I was listening to a nice rotation of various worship music that I had formed into a play list. After about a minute I realized that this drilling was taking quite a long time. I opened my eyes (Teachable moment: never open your eyes when a dentist is drilling on a tooth.) My mouth was smoking. Yes, smoking. The dentist did not seem concerned. The dental assistant didn't seem concerned. I, however, was concerned. I was numb from the tip of my nose to somewhere near my navel but I was pretty sure that smoking teeth was not a good thing. Well, he stopped drilling and his assistant squirted water into my mouth. The smoking stopped. I thought I heard a siren in the background. It might have just been the smoke detector bolted to the ceiling. I am not sure. So anyway, he finished his work, charged me a fifty dollar co-pay, and sent me on my way. I think I drooled down my chin for about an hour. I cannot find any signs of fire damage in my mouth. I don't have any symptoms of smoke inhalation. I don't know what to make of it all.

So that is how my week is going. I suppose things could be much worse. Of course, there is still 5 days to go. I am going to try to stay flame-free. Why push my luck?

Oh. So this is what it feels like. The White Sox won the world series. The last time they did that my dad (who died in 2000 at the age of 80) was negative two years old. That is a long time. A very long time. I have done some research and I think I have discovered the date of the first baseball game I ever attended. I began with the knowledge that it was a night game played during the week against the Detroit Tigers at Comiskey Park and the Sox won 7 - 0. That would fit only one game. It was played on September 2, 1964. I was 9 years old. And I was a deliriously happy.

I watched every pitch in all four world series games on a 31 inch television in my living room. I sat in the same chair ... MY chair ... for all four games. I do not believe that I missed a pitch. As a sports thing it was magnificent. My beloved White Sox, hero's of my childhood, the first team I ever saw play in person, executed a nearly flawless performance. And last night they won the world series. The Chicago White Sox are world champions.

So this is what it feels like.

I do not know what I expected. Exuberance, perhaps? I experienced that. Ecstasy? Present. Joy? Most certainly. Flashbacks of playing baseball on our neighborhood ball diamond while pretending to be Pete Ward, Ken Berry, Ron Santo, or Glen Beckert? Yes. I watched every post-game show I could find and absorbed every minute. I enjoyed it in its entirety with my baseball fanatic son as my baseball impaired wife and mildly interested son floated occasionally through the room. I propped a picture of my dad up on the edge of my chair so that he could enjoy the moment with me. After all, he was the one who got me hooked on the great American game. I had my childhood scrapbook of the 1968 Cubs and Sox on the table next to me. In it I had chronicled every game of both teams throughout that long, dismal, typical summer of Chicago baseball. It was all there with me. Sharing the moment.

And then it was suddenly closing in on 2 A.M. and I thought it best to go to bed. So I did. I lay there in the dark, on my back, listening to my wife quietly breathing next to me. That was the moment things began to fall apart in my baseball soaked world. Without asking for His opinion I heard God speak. He asked me which I enjoyed the most, a White Sox world series or the simple sound of my wife's breathing.

My wife won, hands down. It is better to lay in the stillness and listen to the life sounds of someone I love than it is to win the world series. And then God told me what it was that made baseball so important to me ... why it is a passion. And it turns out that it isn't the beauty of the game (though it is a thing of beauty,) it isn't the perfect symettry of the field (though it is a perfect diamond,) it really isn't even tradition and team and time honored statistics kept in painstaking detail.

It isn't the "what" of baseball. It is the "who" of baseball. You see, the man that bought me the tickets and sat with me in the bleachers and behind home plate is the same man who tossed the ball up in the air and hit it as high and as far as he could so that I could run across a field and chase it down, feeling that incredible satisfaction of leather landing in leather. The "who" of baseball is my annoying brother emptying out his paper popcorn holder, ripping the bottom open and using it as a bullhorn to cheer whoever was winning from 10 rows behind Sox catcher J.C. Martin at the "Boys Benefit Game" played annually at Sox park against the cross town Cubs. (I never could figure out who to cheer for. It was always an evening of exuberant pain.) That is, by the way, the same brother that I called within seconds of the Sox winning it all in the middle of the night. To call him was to touch him ... to touch our past. The "who" of baseball is sitting with my own wife and three children, sometimes right behind the dugout at Wrigley Field and sometimes huddled under a blanket in the frigid upper deck of Busch Stadium at April's "Good Student Night." These days the "who" of baseball is grabbing some tickets from on-line and running up to Wrigley Field's bleachers in mid-summer or, as was the case this year, a couple of great seats 5 rows off the field down the right field line at "The Cell." We were close enough to Jermaine Dye to hear him burp his pre-game snack.

But it's not what. It's who.

I never would have known this had it not been for last night. It seems that the best feeling I have ever felt is NOT my beloved White Sox winning the world championship. Don't hate me for saying this. Please don't call me a sissy. Friends, it probably is not even in the top ten. It does not come close to watching one of my kids lead their own church youth group. I've done that for thirty one years. And now both of them have done it. And they are probably just getting warmed up. It is not even in the ball park with the phone call I just got from my happily married daughter telling me that she's going to work at her church. She's going on staff within their preschool department. (Three of my three kids ... serving Christ by serving His bride. Only God could do that.) The Sox victory, as sweet as it is, should not be mentioned in the same breath with any one of the thousands of times my wife has slipped her hand into mine.

But the very best feeling I have ever felt is the indwelling Holy Spirit. Sometimes it is when He quietly whispers what I should say to the lost and seeking soul that has come to me for direction. Sometimes it is when He simply tells me that The Father really, really, loves me.

So there it is. My team won. If you are a Cardinal fan ... tough noogies. Nah nah nah nah nah. (thumbing my nose in your direction.) I shall rub it in all winter long. I will be merciless in my taunting.

But now you know the truth.

Some things on my mind at the moment...

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N. Need I say more?

The White Sox are in the World Series. The last time that happened I was 4 years old and had not even moved to Chicago yet. While watching the game last night I realized that my dog, Bailey the Killer Beagle, has white paws. White Socks. Hmmm. My dog is a White Sox fan. And I don't even think she knows it. One of my dad's customers in his door and window business was a guy named Tony. Tony owned Melrose fireworks. They are the company that manufacture and launch the fireworks at Sox Park in Chicago when the Sox hit a home run or win a game. Tony was a great resource for tickets when I was a kid. I remember one day I was at my desk at Lincoln-Way High School when his factory blew up. When a fireworks factory blows up ... it really blows up. Fortunately dad was not there at the time. They rebuilt the factory and they still have the Sox contract. Every time I see fireworks above Sox Park (ok, ok, US Cellular Field) I think of Tony and dad and those twilight double headers we use to go to. Or the "Boys Benefit Game" that the Sox and Cubs would play yearly. It didn't count but we always went and always had great seats behind home plate. And now they are half way through winning the world series. Life is surreal.

My youngest son, Christopher, just moved back home after serving a two month mission in Council Bluffs, Iowa. By the time he had been home for a day I realized what I had missed. Like, I missed the little stereo being left on the vanity in the bathroom every morning. He listens to it while he showers and then never bothers to put it back in it's spot. That bothered me until he was not here to do it anymore. I actually put it on the counter myself one morning. It just wasn't the same. I was really glad to see it back there bothering me on the vanity again Saturday morning. Welcome back, Chris.

My wife is going to have her gall bladder removed two weeks from today. That scares me. My wife is my best friend and the best person that I know. I do not like the idea of some strange surgeon putting her to sleep, punching little holes in her, cutting out a part that she supposedly does not need, stitching the holes closed, and then waking her up again. If she doesn't need the gall bladder ... why did God give her one? Did I mention that I really love my wife? I want her to be ok.

Here is the best thing that I know. God loves me and made room for me in His family. And then He went to a lot of trouble and expense to get me ready to move home when I'm done here. I spent a little money sending Christopher on his mission trip and bringing him back. No big deal. It was worth it because I see how God worked in his life while he was away. I wonder if, when God looks at me, He says "I spent quite a bit to get Ron where I want him on this mission trip he's on and I spent even more to make sure he gets home ok when he's done. But it's worth it. Because I love him and want him back here with me." I really hope so. I know how good I feel every time I look at my kids. All three of them. They amaze me. It is important to know that they feel welcome here and will always have a key to my door. To think that God might feel that way about me, well, it's just the best thing I can imagine.

I have had this thought rolling around in my head over the last day or so. I can't get rid of it. You know the story about "the frog in the kettle?" How if you put a frog in a pot of cool water and then put the water on the stove and bring it to a slow boil the frog will just sit there. I mean, he won't catch on to the fact that he's being boiled alive because the change is so gradual. So here's the deal ...

Who figured that out ... and how?

Is there a guy out there somewhere that tried this? And if there is ... how in the world did it ever enter his mind that we needed this bit of information? Maybe he just needed to boil a frog and did not have time to kill it first and so he just threw the frog in and while he was tossing the salad he happened to notice that the frog made no move to escape?

Which is worse? The fact that somebody decided to run this experiment for experiments sake or the possibility that somebody didn't have time to euthanize a frog before cooking it up for supper? Either way it's pretty sick in my humble opinion.

Yet here is what really bothers me. Nobody bothers to ask the hard question. Nobody even THINKS of the hard question! (In case you didn't catch it, the hard question is "who figured it out ... and how?") We simply allow an anonymous person to give us facts about the death of a frog and we don't even use our brain enough to question the pertinent fact of the story. Somebody boiled a living frog on purpose.

Now, understand that this story about the frog is most often used in a speech geared toward warning you about how society is changing and we don't even notice it. (The old "We are the frog in the kettle" speech.) Or maybe about how we, as Christians, are being unwittingly corrupted by the evil left wing empire. The old "they are not like we are" story. And so the frog finds himself back in the kettle to make the point.

But (big BUT coming...) do you really think we should trust a person who makes his point by boiling frogs alive or, just as alarmingly, picking up lame illustrations from people who do boil frogs alive? How about this for a possibility. Maybe nobody ever boiled a frog at all. Maybe it is all just a story somebody made up to justify their about-to-be-made point. Perhaps all of the frogs slept the night away last night, safely floating on thier lily pads. Could be. We've been scammed before.

I do not expect this little essay to change the speech patterns of preachers, politicians, or doomsday predictors. And I don't really have a frog fetish. I actually think they are rather creepy. I just wanted it noted that just because somebody comes up with a eye popping illustration ... I don't make a habit of taking it at face value. Illustrations are just that. Stories. Parallels. Parables. They do not prove the fact of their message. So stop being so alarmed by them.

I mean, for crying out loud, there are plenty of frogs.