My Fuzzy Buddy

It's sad watching an old friend die slowly. (I mean, I don't really want them to die quickly either.) Some are just suppose to last forever. But, alas, I don't think she's going to make it. She's not yet "critical" but she's moving in that direction.

No, no. Debbie is fine. The kids are great. It's ... "The Date Chair."

I'm sitting in (on?) her as I write this. I purchased her years ago from a wholesale place in East Alton, Illinois. I had never been in the store before but found myself walking through it one day and came across her. It was love at first sit. I went and got Debbie, knowing that she would share my love. She didn't. I walked away broken hearted. A week later I went back ... you know ... just to visit. I sat in her again. It was a perfect moment. The angels sang. Then I noticed a flaw in her fuzzy arms. I pointed it out to the salesman. He sighed and knocked another $50 off of the price.

SOLD!

I loaded her into the back of my mini-van, drove to the old "TR's" restaurant and phoned in an order to be delivered to the back parking lot. Kelli was there and she delivered with Tammy Iskarous. I was lounging on my new fuzzy buddy, van hatch open, shoes off. The bagel just made it all the more perfect.

Eventually Debbie forgave me and wanted to sit in her too. I had to share. But she was really mine. Always was. Always will be. She became officially known as "The Date Chair" when the kids started bringing their dates home and discovered that she was big enough and long enough (she's a "chaise lounge") for them to sit next to without dad (that's me) going nuclear. This chair survived Kelli and Joe's dating extravaganza. She saw Scott and Amanda fall in love from close up. Christopher and Laura have camped out on her through many an evening. One of my favorite memories is of Amanda and Laura sitting side by side in her singing the theme song to "The OC." Ahhhh. Those were awesome days. The Date Chair never met Bear but she survived Bailey. I often lay in her (the chair, not the dog) in the nearly fetal position with my head on her thick fuzzy arms while Bailey lay next to me, resting her little Beagle brains on my leg. It was the best moments I ever spent with Bailey. We bonded there.

And now she's not doing so well. She made the trek to Cleveland with me a few months ago. I noticed her creaking as Danny Dingeldein and I moved her upstairs. And now as I sit in her I realize that she isn't so fuzzy anymore. I lay my head on her arms but she no longer caresses my cheek. Perhaps worst of all there are patches ... little areas ... where her fuzz is gone. Completely worn off by the very love she offered.

I don't know how long she'll last. And there is no point in calling the chair doctor. (Is there a chair doctor?) No, her condition is terminal. She isn't going to make it. I believe that 5115 lake Road is going to be her last stand. But I'm not giving up on her. I'm not throwing her out the door early. Like the true lover she is I'll sit with her till the very last moment. She'll be my fuzzy buddy until her little cushions no longer beckon me to rest ... until her cushy arms are nothing but fabric covering 2X4's. Until she is pronounced "deceased" by a stronger heart than mine. And then I don't know what I'll do. Perhaps I'll have friends come and remove her while I'm out pretending that all is well. Tricking myself into believing that it's just another evening. And when I get home and gaze through tear filled eyes at the place where she brought me so much joy ... I'll lift a cold can of Vernor's in her honor ... and toast the days gone by.

Then I'll probably go chair shopping. (Hey. You can only take this grief over a chair thing so far!)

Scott, Elle & Bailey in The Date Chair

The Christmas Story House

We've waited until we really needed something to do before pulling this one out of our hat. Friday's are our designated "Discover Cleveland" day. Last week you may have read that we drove all of the way to Toledo for peaches. Okay, we got that one wrong. So today we made up for it. We went to "The Christmas Story House" in the inner city. If you have any holiday spirit in you at all you've seen "The Christmas Story." It was filmed in 1983 and is the story of Ralphie and his family as they live their lives out around the Christmas holiday. The house where it was filmed is still standing. A couple of years ago it was in a state of total disrepair and for sale on ebay. It sold for $150,000. I think the guy who bought it was from the west coast and was not really terribly happy when he came out and actually set eyes on the place. (Lesson: Never buy a house on ebay.) But he's done okay for himself, rehabbing it and charging $7.50 per person to tour it. I'm sure it takes a lot of tourists to cover the purchase price of the house (20,000 to be exact,) not to mention the rehab tab. But people come by the bus loads. So I'm not too worried about him.

We finished off the evening by heading over to Blockbuster and renting the movie. Had to verify its authenticity, don't ya know.

And in case you are wondering ... no, Debbie would not let me buy a "leg lamp" at the gift shop. Not that I didn't try...

10 Summer Olympic Events I Would Like To See

Hey, we all love the olympics. The sportsmanship. The competition. The medals. But it's all gotten so predictable. We only watch these sports every four years. So I say it's time to revamp the events. Out with the old, in with the new. Let men prove themselves to be men. Let women show once and for all what they are made of. In the spirit of the original games I humbly submit the following "upgraded" events. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

10 - Asphalt volleyball
9 - Parking lot diving
8 - Beach bob sledding
7 - 100 Meter Reader Dash
6 - Cherry Bomb Badminton
5 - Chain Link Fencing
4 - Waterford Crystal Basketball
3 - Real Horse Gymnastics
2 - Inverted Aquatics
1 - I-Beam Pole Vaulting

-195 miles

Today I found a fruit stand selling "Red Haven Peaches" five miles from my apartment. I refused to purchase any.

Should have settled for a banana

All we wanted was some peaches. Freshly picked "Red Haven Peaches." 'Tis the season. So this morning Debbie asked somebody she volunteers with at "Meals on Wheels" for advice. The kindly woman wrote up directions to her favorite fruit stand and "nearby" "Lake Erie Fresh Perch And Walleye Restaurant." Peaches and Perch. (Peaches and Perches?) Sounded good to me. But It looked like a rather long trek. And the directions were ... less than stellar. But we decide to scrap our previously agreed upon plans and "go for it." So we dropped the top on "Emma the Mustang" and headed west. We followed the directions meticulously.

We gave up when we got to Toledo. That's near Michigan.

No, I am not kidding. We drove 200 miles (round trip) for peaches and Perch(es). But we would not be defeated. On the way home we actually found the restaurant AND the fruit stand. They were both in the GPS data base. Who would have thunk it?

We purchased 19 peaches. I crunched the numbers. With gas we paid roughly $1.83 per peach. Neither of us have eaten one yet. I think we feel a certain reverence toward them.

Just Wondering

So today I was sitting on the beach gazing out over lovely Lake Erie. I was sitting with my wife, which is a very fine choice of people to sit with. A boat went by. Quickly. And I asked myself ...

"Self? Why don't fish die in propellers?"

If I understand the purpose and function of a propeller (and it is entirely possible that I do not) the propeller spins it's little curved blades. In so doing it pulls water IN from behind the propeller and forces it out the front of the propeller. Right? Seems right to me.

Well, fish live in the water. This part I am certain of. So if fish live in the water and the water is FORCED through the blades of a propeller ... why do you never see hacked up fish floating up all bloody behind a boat?

Anybody? Class? Anybody?

In Good Hands

My "Leadership Summit" experience last week went in a direction that I did not expect. I know Willow Creek and I was certain that the Summit would be first rate. I was not disappointed. But what really impressed me, what was really off the charts, came out of left field.

I spent the nights in the Chicago suburbs with Scott and Amanda. If you don't know my family, Scott is my son and Amanda is his amazing wife. They own a killer condo and I camped out in their spare bedroom. (I was nearly licked to death by their new dog, Wrigley. He's a great pooch and, yes, he's named after what you think he is named after.) And so each day I rode the half hour from their home to the church with Scott and his friends. His ... youth pastor ... friends.

I spent 33 years doing youth ministry. That's a long time. If I were a Marine I could retire by now. And I probably would be less tired than I am. I know youth ministry. I know it quite well. I don't mean that in a "Yea, me!" kind of way. But when you do something for over three decades you either figure it out or you don't make it. I made it. So I must, in some meaningful way, understand it.

So there I was, spending the entire days with this group of twenty-somethings. Guys half my age. Guys that work with kids because it's God's calling on their lives. Let me tell you something about these guys.

They are insane. They are hilarious. They are brilliant. They are passionate. They know God. They love God. They love kids. They know how to connect the two (God and kids.) They are dedicated to the point of driving themselves to exhaustion at times. They kept me silently shaking my head and thinking, "I can't believe these men and women." I do believe that watching them and interacting with them had a greater impact on me than what I viewed and heard from the stage. And I came away saying, "If this is the norm among youth ministers today, the young people of the church are in very, very good hands." Please understand, these guys are the cream of the crop or this church would not have hired them. But I don't believe that they are anything but fully representative of the young men and women that serve God in youth ministry throughout our land every day.

I left youth ministry because it was time. And somewhere deep inside of myself I wondered if the roof would cave in on the whole thing when I walked out the door for the last time. It did not. It will not. I am proud of these guys. I felt like a grandpa (which I most assuredly am) when I was with them and it did not bother me at all. Because I realized that it was the men and women that I worked with over the years in youth ministry that blazed a trail so that these "young en's" could be who they are and do what they do.

Excuse me just a second while I say something that I need to say. Something to men and women who probably do not know that this blog exists. But it needs to be in print somewhere. So I'm saying it here...

Jim. Mike. Roger. Ron. Carly. Ronn. Ed. Clint. Kling. Ed. Jeff. Vicky. Randy. Gary. It was a great ride. And we won THOUSANDS. We left it in good hands. Hands that are at least as capable as ours and hands that have far more tools than we ever dreamed of. Come to think of it ... seems to me that was how it was left to us.

Huh. Full circle. Just like it should be.

Carry-on.

My son, Scott

Tara

Adam

Kellen

Scott & Scott

Descending from the Summit

Sometimes all you can say is "wow." That pretty much describes the Leadership Summit. I'm so glad that I went. I'm so glad that it is over with. There were just so many moments that stand-out. I can't even begin to explain. So settle for this ... a couple of pictures of how things work at this particular church. You see, they have this ... uh ... video system ...


And they have this little worship center ...



But tonight it's back to home and reality. Debbie is still in St. Louis and won't fly back until tomorrow night. This place is way too quiet when she's away. So I opened the balcony door and the roar of a wind blown Great Lake fills the rooms. Both of them. The smell is fresh with the Canadian air dropping in from the north. It sounds poetic or even romantic. But I would trade the rhythm of the waves and the smell of the water for the happiness of her smile.

Yeah. I'm still in love with her.

It's still strange to me but after speaking twice today and leading a church "business meeting" I find myself tired. How can you get tired speaking about the God that you love? I suppose it's just the pouring out of the passion that causes it. Whatever it is, it is real. I'm not sleepy. I'm just tired. And I really hated missing the family events this weekend. I know, guys don't go to showers. (I'm forever grateful for that fact.) But I love the "hang-out time" and, while I'm totally glad it occurs, it makes eating a Whopper with extra ketchup over an Olympics broadcast pale in comparison. We have this really amazing family and there are a handful of us that don't live nearby. Scott and Amanda in Chicago. Kristi in Dallas. Debbie and I in Cleveland. That's what you call "scattered." But we all went in these directions at the call of God. And that, my friend, makes all the difference in the world.

Reaching the Summit

Today I attended day one of the Willow Creek Leadership Summit. I've attended quite a few Willow conferences before but this one was more than mildly amazing. The conference is about the obvious. Leadership. The auditorium at Willow seats around 7,000 and was full. But the truly stunning fact is that this conference is beamed live to cities all around the country. Many leaders, both church staff and corporate leaders, attend this once a year event. And the total registration reached ... 100,000 people. Watching. Live.

Can you believe that?

What an incredible opportunity. God has created this training event based upon the faithfulness of one church. Today's speakers included their Sr. Pastor, Bill Hybles, as well as the founder and CEO of "Teach for America, " the President and founder of " International Justice Mission," and the former CEO of "Medtronics" who is now a professor in the Harvard Business School. Folks, that's not a bad line-up for one day. All of these are believers in Jesus Christ who have made a major impact in our world.

Tomorrow's speakers include former Richard Nixon advisor, Charles Colson, the Vice Chairman and CEO of "Best Buy," and the founder of "Life Church.com." Again, not a bad group of leaders to sit at the feet of for a day.

But I think that the most striking moment of the day for me came as a young woman, a worship leader at Willow Creek, sat on a stool and sang "I Saw What I Saw." The leader of the International Justice Mission had just shared stories of rescuing children stolen from their neighborhoods and sold into prostitution in third world countries. It was a heart breaking moment punctuated by the joy of knowing that believers were making a difference by prevailing against the gates of hell. And then Helena sang. The lyrics to this soul searing song are ...

"I saw what I saw and I can't forget it
I heard what I heard and I can't go back
I know what I know and I can't deny it

Something on the road, cut me to the soul

Your pain has changed me
your dream inspires
your face a memory
your hope a fire
your courage asks me what I'm afraid of
(what I am made of)
and what I know of love

we've done what we've done and we can't erase it
we are what we are and it's more than enough
we have what we have but it's no substitution

Something on the road, touched my very soul

I say what I say with no hesitation
I have what I have and I'm giving it up
I do what I do with deep conviction

Something on the road, changed my world"

You can see Sara Groves sing a video of this song at http://www.artistdirect.com/nad/window/media/page/video/0,,4707180,00.html?aff=lyricsmania.com

I suggest you watch it. I don't think my heart is that hard to "touch." I don't think I'm that calloused. And I know that you will not have had the benefit of having heard the amazing story that I heard today. But somehow ... it reached deeply.

Jim & Elle

Here's how my brother-in-law, Jim, and granddaughter, Elle, spent their summer vacation. Yeah ... it runs in the family.

It rocks when it should roll and it rolls when it should rock.

Last night we had some great friends stay over and sleep at our place. They are in the midst of a long summer trip. Really long. They live in Stockholm. Pretty sure that is in Sweden. Pretty sure that is in Europe. The wife, Amy, was the best kid that I ever had in any youth group. No, really. She was. And she married Jonathan and they've set-up housekeeping in his home country. So they were heading back to New York to fly home and stopped here to visit and stay with us. It was great. Catching up with old friends is one of my favorite things to do.

We were sitting in our living room talking after having polished off a couple of "Mama Santa's Pizza's." (Yum.) I saw a flash come from down the hall. That can only mean one thing. Lightening. Well, or maybe the bedroom has blown up. I opted for the lightening option and was correct. We stood on our balcony for the better part of an hour and watched the most amazing storm move out of Canada, across Lake Erie, and make landfall on the other side of Cleveland. God's lightening display was incredible! You had your cloud-to-cloud lightening which lit up all of the multi-layers of clouds. You had your cloud to ground (or in this case, cloud to water) lightening which was positively riveting. It went on and on and on.

Jonathan really noticed it first when he said, "I'm surprised that with a storm like this the water is totally calm." Huh. He was right. It was like glass. No wave action to speak of at all. That really makes no sense to me.

Well, it is 24 hours later and today has been a beautiful day. I just watched the sunset splash-down into the lake. There is no wind at all. Yet the waves are crashing into the shore as though God were using a giant mixer to do His bidding. Go figure. That doesn't make any sense either.

And yet ... it makes total sense. It has been said that all of life is a reflection of God and His handiwork. If that is true, and I believe it is, then while I can't understand it, I can agree that it is a perfect picture of how God seems to work.

Why is it that turmoil rears its ugly head just when you thought you would be relaxing and enjoying life? And when you think you see trouble gathering on the horizon an inner calm suddenly takes over and you just cannot find a good reason to worry or fear. Yet, isn't that just like life? Unpredictable? Untamable? Unexpected? There is this Hand bigger than my hand that seems to be in control. That Hand makes decisions based upon what pleases Him. And He always works those decisions to my good because I have decided to trust Him. It's a biblical concept. It's also true.

Still, it drives me more than a little crazy. Why can't life play by my rules just once? Why won't it play and work well with others? No, I can't really complain. God has been quite good to me. He's given me far more than I deserve. His kindness is what drives me to repentance and makes me want to please Him. Not His harshness. His kindness. You would think it would be the other way around, wouldn't you?

If I were just a little bit wiser I would give up trying to figure out God and trying to figure out life. I would sleep better at night if I were to do that. I would probably be more carefree and joyful. But I must admit that there is something inside of me that drives me to want to understand the un-understandable. I want to "get it." And God says, "No. Trust me." He wants me to "Walk by faith and not by sight." Me? "Show me the money!"

But I don't get a vote. And so the waves of life rock when I think they should roll and they roll when I think they should rock. And God sits on His throne patiently waiting for me to give it up. I mean, give up trying to get a handle on it ... on Him.

What you can understand you can control. I don't understand God. I don't understand this world. And I don't control either one. It's best that way, really. Because I seem to have come to an understanding that I can't understand myself either. And while I can control my words, my actions, and my decisions, I certainly cannot control my frustration and not being the one in charge. Be glad that God and life leaves me confused. Be very glad. Because if I understood it I would most assuredly screw it all up.

I'm just saying...

One day I Heard Voices

WLS ... "THE ROCK OF CHICAGO"

Oh the joys of living in Tinley Gardens. The backyard of our home bordered on a huge open field. We are talking acres numbering in the hundreds here. It was mostly vacant space that seldom saw a tractor come by to mow it. It was separated by an easily scaled six foot chain link fence. In the middle of this vast piece of open country stood a 500 foot tall radio transmitting tower. This was the place where the signal for WLS "The Rock of Chicago" was hurled across the country side at, quite literally, the speed of sound.

WLS was not just any old radio station. In the 1960's and 1970's it was the standard bearer for rock 'n roll music radio nation wide. It was a "clear channel" station. That meant that no other station in the country shared it's frequency, 89 on the AM dial. We listened to that station at night when visiting our grandmother in Arkansas. We heard it from family vacations in Tennessee, Missouri, and even Colorado. We are talking serious power here. Even tonight I can listen to WLS at night from my new home in the suburbs of Cleveland. I don't really want to because it has sold out and become "talk radio."

There were several reasons why WLS was significant to we little ones growing up in Tinley Gardens. First, it was a great place to play "guns." Or "war." You might find that barbaric but you need to get over it. Every kid played guns in those days and I suspect they still do. But we had a real battle ground complete with high grass to hide in, a few rolling hills to sneak up behind the enemy, and plenty of room to roam. It was perfect for reenacting world war two.

The second reason was the way the tower reenacted with the weather. Specifically, thunderstorms. My brother and I would stand in our bedroom window, which faced the tower, and watch as frequent lightening strikes sent visible currents of electricity shooting down it's guide wires to the ground below, sparking and popping all the way. One day we were in school and my mom was out shopping with a friend. As they returned to our house to enjoy a nice cup of coffee mom walked to the kitchen sink to fill the coffee pot. The window over the sink looked out upon the field and the WLS tower. Mom lost her ability to speak. Her friend, Bonnie, said she could only gasp and point out the window. Bonnie joined her in time to see a full fledged tornado slide right past the tower and make a bee line for our little home. They ran to my bedroom where dad had cut a hole in my closet floor making for an easy entry into the four foot crawl space below. That was the safest place to be during tornadic activity. While mom tried with all of her might to remove the floor "plug" Bonnie stood at our bedroom window and watched the twister veer off to the north several hundred feet before it could obliterate everything we held dear. It tore up a lot of homes and property but ours was spared.

The third reason why we loved "our tower" was because once every couple of years we got to sit in the backyard with cheap binoculars and watch skilled men climb their way to the top and paint their way down. The shiny red and white paint job never saw a tarnished day on my watch. "My boys" did a good job. I suppose they even changed the ever blinking light bulbs on the way down.

And the final reason why this tower was so special to us? Well. Honestly, you might not believe this but it's true. One day my dad was eating breakfast preparing to leave for work. Mom mentioned to him that she heard a radio playing. He listened. He heard it too. Actually, they realized they were listening to WLS and its "on the hour" news broadcast. In the broadcast it was mentioned that a convict had escaped Stateville Penitentiary which was located about ten miles to our west. Dad followed the sound of the radio and discovered that it was coming from the heating ducts. Yes, WLS was broadcasting from our metal heating vents. According to their retelling of the story later in the day, mom turned to dad and said, "You think he's in our crawl space listening to the radio?" Dad replied, "You want me to go look?" Mom, in her infinite wisdom said, "You want to get your head shot off?" Dad said that he found that idea less than appealing. And so he went to work. And mom went back to bed. Actually, she pulled the covers OVER her head. This was during the summertime and my brother and I slept in late. But when we woke up we heard the radio as well. We traced it to the same heating duct. The news was not on. Rock and roll was playing. Let's be specifically clear about this. We were listening to The Beatles playing in our crawl space through our heating ducts. And so we did what any eight and ten year olds would do. We decided to go to the concert. We skipped breakfast and made our way to the outside entrance of the wonderful world underneath our house. We pulled the cover off of the little entry way and, flash lights in hand, descended into the netherworld. We saw the water softener, the sump pump, numerous pipes and duct work. No Beatles. No escaped convicts. We scratched our heads and went off to play for the day.

At this point I would like to thank my parents for going to such lengths to protect the lives of their young children on that danger filled morning. They are both in heaven now. Probably listening to WLS broadcasting through those streets of gold.

The WLS building with the big town in the background

*As a side note, we occasionally picked-up WLS on our telephone. Our neighbor got it on her mixer. This was one honken station.

**As a second side note I came across a web site recently dedicated to radio transmitters. Yes, I did. Don't argue with me about this. For the WLS portion check out http://www.fybush.com/sites/2004/site-041015.html . There. I told you so. As a result of this discovery I found myself emailing one of the old "disc jockeys" from those sun-filled days in the summer of my youth. I told him my stories. I confessed that "The Big Dare" among the neighborhood kids was to run all the way up to the tower, touch it, and run back. None of us mustered up that kind of courage. It's inner sanctum was guarded by multiple fences all topped with differing sorts of razor wire. The retired disc jockey replied that I should thank which ever god I worship that I never made good on that bet. To touch the tower could easily have fried me on the spot. You would think maybe they would have mentioned that on the "No Trespassing" signs, wouldn't you?

One Day I Moved To Chicago Again

The day must have come but I do not remember it. I only remember arriving in Chicago. Actually, Tinley Park. Our house in the new subdivision of Tinley Gardens was not completed yet and so we moved into a local motel. No, not a "hotel." That is too nice of a name for it. It was one of those places behind a Texaco station. You know the type. Nice colored lights across the front at night made it look very inviting. During the daytime, however ... not so much. It wasn't really bad. It's just that if you wanted to watch TV you had to put a quarter in the meter. Uh huh. Really. Attached to the Texaco station was a diner. It was exactly what it sounds like. A few tables but mainly a bunch of stools anchored to the floor facing the counter. There were no backs on the stools and they swiveled 360 degrees. It's a major miracle that my brother and I didn't unscrew all of them and fall flat on the floor. It isn't because we did not try.

Dad worked during the daytime. I have no solid recollection of what the rest of us did. I do know that one night mom screamed in the bathroom because a "peeping Tom" was gazing at her through the glass slats of the crank-out window. Dad wasn't there or we probably would have had a killing. In reality, mom was more than capable of dispatching the pervert herself if she had gotten her hands around his neck.

The house we were building was about five miles away. Mom and dad managed to buy it for $100 down. That's quite funny given the current market prices. It was a simple two bedroom ranch with an attached garage. Dad way paying to have the shell built and then he was going to take it over and finish the inside. When we finally did move in I realized that this was not a perfect plan. All of the walls were mere 2X4 studs. That means the privacy ratio was effectively zero. Mom hung blankets around the bathroom to afford some privacy. That didn't help much because the plumbing was not yet hooked up. And the house was located across one street from city sewerage. That meant that a septic tank was being installed. When we moved in there were big trenches dug in the back yard. They ran the entire depth of the yard and were about six feet deep. For the first week we lived there those trenches were designated ... our bathroom. It was not pretty. Don't try to imagine it.

The water was hooked up but it was from a well dug on our own property and tasted like pure steel. So my parents and our neighbors (which was also dad's new business partner in the storm door and window industry) would drive into the downtown area of Tinley Park and fill metal trash cans with fresh city water. That's was for drinking. This trend continued until water softeners could be installed in each of our homes.

But there were many huge pluses to living in a new ... VERY new ... neighborhood. Bull dozers were parked everywhere and at night they became the dream machines of every kid that had moved onto the block. We would climb into the drivers seat and for a few precious hours practice being the ones moving the dirt and digging the holes. There were new friends. Kids we had never met. And most of them had no desire to beat me up. That too, was a major benefit. During the daytime we could ride our bikes to our content around all three blocks that had been whittled out of the corn fields on the edge of town. And as an extra added bonus, the land directly across from my house had been designated a park. Volunteer dads took the time to carve a baseball diamond out of it and for the next years I would practice being the latest star of the Cubs or White Sox, whichever team held my fancy at the moment. Yes, in those days you could root for both and nobody called you evil or a traitor. It was the game that mattered.

Finally, one day the house was finished. We had a new home. I found my way to a new school. This time there was no walking involved. No, the wheels on the bus went round and round. I got my own lunch box and my monthly bus permit was dutifully taped to it by my mom. Detroit? Who needed Detroit? I was now an official resident of suburban Chicago.

Little did I know that the best was yet to come. Tornado's and snakes. They were to shape me into the man I am today. (Snickering will not be tolerated.)

One Day I Moved To Chicago ... And Back

Dad came to get us. That was the good news. We were moving to Chicago. That was the bad news. And to make matters even worse we did not know if the move was permanent. But I was like ... five years old. So what did I care? Mom and dad moved all of our stuff into the basement of our home and rented it out. Then we made the trek to a rented house on Seeley Street (Avenue? I have no idea.) In Chicago.

I don't remember much about it except that mom was not pleased. At all. Even a little. Dad rented the place all by himself, a dangerous thing for any man to do. I recall mom mopping and mopping and mopping, trying to make things clean enough for her little kids to live in. Or maybe on. Whatever. She was really and truly hacked-off.

One day we went to a park. It was within walking distance to our rental. It had to be because mom did not drive. She wanted her kids to be able to play. Well, it didn't work out so well. While my brother and I played on the swings a car beside us caught fire. I have no idea how that happened because it wasn't going anywhere. It was just sitting there and suddenly flames were climbing up the sides of it. Mom rushed us home and that was the end of our excursions to the Chicago City Parks.

Sometime in the not too distant future we moved back to Detroit. I know it was less than a year because our house was still rented out. This time mom must have had something to do with the situation because we rented a two story townhouse on Chicago Avenue. Catch the irony?

This one was a winner. I really don't recall whether or not it was clean. I could not have cared less. Because from my upstairs bedroom window my brother and I could clearly see over the tall fence across the street and directly to the biggest video screen my young brain could imagine. Yes, my friends, we had a ring side seat to the first drive-in movie in my personal history. Unfortunately, (or perhaps fortunately?) we were unable to hear the sound. It didn't matter to us. We were in movie heaven. Every new release was ours from our bedroom perch. I have no idea what God was thinking but as far as my brother and I are concerned ...

It was very good.

One Day I Moved to Detroit

I really don't remember much about it. I mean, there was not much to remember. I moved to Detroit from the womb. Now there was a dark place.

But I digress.

9976 Vaughan Street, Detroit, Michigan. I remember the address because, well, because it was written right there on the front of my house. Little kids might not be smart but one thing they do is notice things. And before I moved away from there I had it memorized. Don't ask me about the phone number. I could not reach the phone so there really was no reason to concern myself with it.

I had a tricycle. And from it I eventually graduated to my brother's BIGGER three wheeler. It was shaped like a policeman's motorcycle. Decals and everything. Yeah, policemen in Detroit must have ridden three wheelers. Can't prove it by me. I was between zero and six, remember?

What I do remember is a "ribbon" driveway. That means that the places where the wheels went were paved with a grassy strip between them. There was a front porch with an awning over it. The backyard had a concrete porch too. It also had a sand box and a brick barbeque grill that my dad made. Very cool. I don't remember anybody ever cooking on it so maybe it wasn't such a big thing after all.

There was a basement with a workshop for my dad. He took me there one day and showed me a gallon jug full of a green liquid. He told me that it was not kool-aid. It was poison and if I drank it I would die. He really didn't have to mention the kool-aid part. The drinking and dying was quite sufficient to get my attention.

There was an upstairs too. It had mahogany paneling with closets with doors that blended into the walls and, to a little kid, was shockingly awesome. I never understood why we didn't live up there instead of down stairs.

I went to Horace Mann Elementary School. That is where I attended Kindergarten. I'm not sure but I think we moved away from Detroit before I graduated to first grade. My teacher was really nice. Her name was Mrs. Lambert. I may have been five years old but I knew she was hot. No, not in a sweaty way. I made a pumpkin out of newspaper one day just before thanksgiving. It was colored all orange with a greenish yellow paper stem. Very authentic. (Did I mention that I made it myself?) When the bell rang that day I walked out of my classroom with my paper pumpkin in my hand. And there was nobody there to meet me. I remember standing all alone on the sidewalk. No mom. No dad. No brother. Just me. And so I started walking in the direction they always pulled me in when they took my hand at the end of the school day. For some reason I suddenly noticed for the first time that the driveways actually sloped down to the street. I mean they didn't make you go "thump" over the curb to get from the drive to the road. They sloped. And they sloped very, very well. I had not picked up on that before. But I noticed it on this day and I examined every driveway on every block during my walk home. And I did get there. Not before I crossed several busy city streets. I shudder to think. And then I proudly presented my pumpkin. I would imagine that at some point my mom went ... "oops" ... and realized that she had forgotten to pick her kid up from school. But it was not a big deal to me then and it isn't a big deal to me now.

As my days in Detroit were winding down my dad started driving frequently to a far away city because he could work there. I did not understand that Detroit was a city with a whacky economy. When the auto industry went sour everything went sour. My dad did not work in the auto industry but we were affected by it. And one day I found myself crying as I looked out our dining room window at my dad's pink 1957 Chevy backing out of the driveway and turning to the left. He was going back to that far away city. He would be back as soon as he could but that didn't mean much to a five year old. I just knew dad was leaving. I did not yet know that I would be leaving soon too.

Even forty-seven years later i remember Woodward Avenue, Hudson's Department store, Vernor's Ginger-Ale, the big building downtown with the huge Christmas tree fashioned out of lights on the front in December, Willow Run Airport, Silver Cup Bread, and the building my dad worked in. I remember my friends, Chrissy and Tony. Their dad never mowed their back yard and we had big steel rods to kill snakes that surely lurked back there. We never saw any. But they were there. Tony said so.

Oh. And I remember that walk home. It was no big thing. Every five year old kid should be deserted by their parents in the depths of Detroit at least once. Seriously. I made it. And I sleep just fine at night.

Once the nightmares stop.

VBStressin

STOP!

I stole this from my son-in-law. It reminds me of Baptist business meetings.

180 degrees. It's just a thing.

I suppose the title to this blog is misleading. Let me say that it is not 180 degrees outside. 75 maybe. No sweat. (Pun intended.)

I was sitting outside on the balcony last night after our evening in Vacation Bible School ended. It was cool and the sky was clear above me. The stars made certain that I knew. I found myself on the balcony because, after arriving home, I had glanced at the weather on my laptop and had noticed a rather strong thunderstorm over the middle of Lake Erie and directly off shore of our apartment. Hmmm. Debbie was on the phone and so I made my way through the bedroom and before I could even open the blinds on our balcony door I saw the lightening. This could be cool.

And it was! As I settled into my high-rise lawn chair God's fireworks display began. For the next half hour I watched the lightening dance and flicker to my north, lighting up the lake in ways I had never really seen before. In the flashes I could see that the clouds were multi-layered and incredibly tall. When the cloud-to-cloud lightening was hitting its zenith the reflection off of the water was breath taking. I tried to get a picture but my camera just wasn't fast enough. The picture above is the best that I could do.

It's different, living on the edge of such a vast body of water. I thought about that last night after the last light had been turned off and the last words had been spoken. It's not just the view. That is the good part. However, there is an ironic part to it too.

Believe it or not, you don't have as many places to go. I mean, think about it. Being a suburban adult who grew up as a suburban kid I always had 360 degrees of potential activity. 360 degrees of roaming space. Living on the edge of Lake Erie, while beautiful, reduces your "roaming potential" by 50%! Driving northward is not an option. You can drive southwest but you cannot drive directly west without very tall tires. And you can go northeast or any other direction. But, any way you look at it, you only have half of the menu of directions to choose from. Hmmm. I suppose it is a good trade. View is important. And if I really, really want to drive a northerly route I can do that. I just have to drive a southerly route first.

There are no malls to my north. No restaurants. No stop lights. No intersections. No pedestrians. There is water. Actually, I live on the epidermis of the country. I grew up in the heartland and now I live on the skin. It doesn't mean anything. There is no lesson or deeper truth to this. It's just a thing. And sometimes things are all I have to write about.

Too tense to tango

I wasn't doing anything when I noticed it. Nobody was messing with me. I wasn't speaking or teaching or in a heated debate. I was just ... sitting. Just being. And I was tense. I mean REALLY tense. Like I was expecting a punch to the gut. You know what I mean. You've found yourself like that before. Stressed with no real reason.

I tried a little self-analysis. What is it that's making me so tight? What happened that left me tense and ready for "fight or flight." And what does it all mean? Why and what. It occupied my mind for a few minutes with no real results.

And then it hit me. Okay, that is a bad choice of words. Nothing "hit" me. Then it OCCURRED to me.

I am either too stressed or I am not stressed enough. Too tense or not tense enough. But my current level is totally inappropriate.

Here's the deal. I am a Christ follower. I believe everything Jesus said is true. I trust Him. I believe that He is alive today and living in me through the presence of His Holy Spirit

Now, if I am right, then I am way too uptight. If Jesus is who He said He is then I've got nothing to worry about. Nothing to stress over. He knew well in advance about every situation, every sin, every defect of my life. He figured it all into the equation before I was ever even born. And He went to the cross and died in order to take care of my every situation, every sin, and every defect. None are excluded. If I blow apart and commit some horrible sin later today or in five years, Jesus already knew and had already paid for it because I am His. If my life situation blows apart and I find myself alone and destitute, Jesus already took that into consideration and He has provided all I need to get through it. And so if I am right about Jesus then I am WAY over stressed.

And if I am wrong? If Jesus didn't do all of those things? If He was just kidding? If His sacrifice and grace are not sufficient? Then I am WAY under stressed. Because I am in deep trouble and nothing is going to fix that. I have an expiration date and it is quickly approaching. There is nothing I can do about it. So I really ought to be more tense and stressed than I am.

But my current stress level? Entirely inappropriate. I can think of no circumstances under which living life moderately stressed is appropriate. Jesus was who He said He was and did what He said He did ... or not. I am either over stressed or under stressed. But the middle of the road isn't a viable option.

Well. That's what I learned today. So I thought I would share it with you. Now all I have to do is figure out how to put it into practice. I have to learn how to dance when I should be dancing. That ... is where I always blow apart.

Pray for me and I'll pray for you.

Maybe anorexia isn't always a bad thing ...

A long, long time ago in a garden far, far away, a woman picked a piece of fruit from a tree and she ate it. It was a very bad decision. I do not know if she ate the entire piece of fruit or simply took a bite. No difference. For all I know she may have cleaned off the entire tree. Again, no difference. The damage was done. She had eaten fruit from the only tree on planet earth that she had been forbidden to eat from. The only one. The single tree. That one.

And I am really hacked off at her about it.

Her culinary indulgence launched the human race into a downward spiral that continues this very moment. The woman's name was Eve and she had disobeyed God. There you have it. The first sin. God said, "Don't eat it" and so, naturally, she ate it.

Ladies and gentlemen, the score at the end of that fateful day ...

Sin - 1
Obedience - 0

I've spent too much time wondering why Eve wasn't a binge eater. Why wasn't she one of those people that makes an entire chocolate cake and eats it in a single sitting? God never said anything about eating a chocolate cake. Why wasn't she inclined toward greasy cheeseburgers like I am? They may give me a coronary but they won't condemn the human race. Why wasn't she anorexic? Lots of that going around these days. What if Eve had this idea that "thinner is always better" and forced herself to stay away from foods altogether?

No. No. Eve had to eat fruit. Eve had to eat THAT fruit. And it was so unnecessary. Such a horrible decision. You know the rest of the story. With the entrance of disobedience came the reality of sin. I wasn't even born yet and I was already condemned. Fair? No. Reality? Yes. But lest I get to cocky, every time I sin I reinforce Eve's original decision. When it comes to sin I'm not anorexic either. These bad decisions are why people come to my office with screwed up lives looking for solutions. They are why people wind up in the hospital with rebellious bodies that have turned on them. That's why cemeteries are full.

I imagine that Eve was a "hottie." She was the perfect woman, set in God's perfect garden, living with God's perfect man. Naked. Without shame. And yet she had to mess up the human race with FOOD. Think about that one for a minute. Never turn your back on a "hottie." They have a way of burning you.

Fortunately, God had/has compassion on us and sent His Son, Jesus, to pay the price for our sin. That's the good news. The bad news is that things in this world are still screwy till this very day. We still live in and with the effects of sin. And it won't go away until we do. And we won't go away until we physically die or Jesus comes back. That's just the way it is.

I wish Eve had been anorexic. I wish she had taken a pass on that fruit. It would make today a lot easier. The air would be clearer. The water would be sweeter. Nuclear weapons would not exist. Neither would bullets. The planet would not know a hospital or a cemetery. Medicine? No such thing. Work-out? Why bother. Your body would be perfect. Like Eve's. Like Adam's. And you would be naked. And not ashamed.

But noooooo .....