I felt like posting, but had no single train of thought, so here, instead, are a series of random musings

"Life is full of greetings and partings. That is the way of things." So spoke Kermit the Frog in "Muppet Christmas Carol." That's sad though, because he was talking about the death of Tiny Tim. Less traumatic, but still no less mourned, are the dying days of my summmer. I go back to work on Monday. It has made me realize that beginnings are for excitement and joy and wonder...experiencing the newness of life. Endings are for remembering and longing; particularly longing for moments lost and time ill-spent. The secret to the well-lived life is to grasp a bit of beginning and ending in every moment.

Are we becoming dumber? Go rent "V for Vendetta" and watch the opening sequence where V meets Evey. 1) See if you can grasp the meaning of the speech (and part of the problem is the speed at which the soliloquey is spoken) V speaks as he introduces himself. 2) Understand it? Now go back and look up all the words to which you still don't know the definitions.
But beyond that, Hollywood is working hard to complete the dumbing down of America. The movie, which I really enjoyed on various levels, is tauted on trailers as an action film. Can't we be trusted to want to see quality, thought provoking films without the lure of guts, mayhem, thrills, chills, spills...Will Smith? Sorry dumb question. When was the last time you saw a trailer for a documentary?

Kids are awesome and resilient and patient. Far more than we give them credit for. My children love me, and that is a blessing. To look at them, and tremble with the realization that I am shaping who they are, is too much. But to look at them, and smile, and touch them, and tell them I love them...that is more than I could ask for.
Children also have a beautiful knack for dropping things. This talent really ticks me off. Honestly...fills me with rage. A phone falls. Milk is spilled. My temperature rises. I have to believe this is a common occurance in other parents. They made a saying for it, for crying out loud. There really is no use in crying over spilt milk. And it's dumb to get mad. Kids lack a lot of manual dexterity we adults take for granted. Plus, I had some batteries squarely in my grip last night and they inexplicably tumbled to the ground. Nobody's perfect. "They look like good, strong hands...." {Reply and give me the name of the film containing the aforementioned quote and you'll be my hero.}

Read "Young Goodman Brown" lately? I just did. Very thought provoking. Check it out.

I must retire. You stay classy.

Daniel LaRuso

Remeber in "Karate Kid" where Daniel-son gets ticked off at Mr. Miagi and demands to know why he's been painting and sanding and washing...and not learning karate. The moral, we all remember, is that sometimes you are learning even if you don't know it.

And that kind of learning sucks.

I am at the point on my current drawing that it is past ad tedium, ad nausium...it is to the point that I want to take my maul stick and repeatedly bash myself in the face. Now I am using hyperbole here, but I really wish I could move on to the fun stuff. Shading in a background is not fun. Showing your work in a gallery and making millions of dollars and gaining international notoriety while your exhibit tours museums the world over...that is fun.

But as Daniel learned, you can't defeat Cobra Kai unless you "sand the deck" and hop like a crane on a frigid beach. So I suppose I'm learning something now. I just hope I can appreciate the learning process and not get fed up.

Prelude to Elysium

If you could go anywhere before you die, where would it be?

List it like this: 1-3=favorite places you've been and want to see again; A-C=Places you haven't been to yet, but want to see before you die. (If you want to be serious about the whole thing, list them in chronological order; I did not do so below.)

1. White Sands National Park, New Mexico
2. Indiana Dunes State Park, Lake Michigan, IN
3. The Badlands, South Dakota
4. Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, Africa

A. Maine
B. Vermont
C. Ireland
D. Montana

My wife:

1. Chicago, IL
2. Denver, CO

A. Africa
B. The Mediteranian

From Sea to Shining Sea

While falling asleep last night (and thrashing around, trying desperately to do so) I had a vision. A few moments later, and it would have been a dream...but that's neither here nor there.

A documentary: "From Sea to Shining Sea." I'll explain the idea in a second, but I think it's interesting to note that this is not my first itch to make a documentary. Right after I went into teaching, I joked with my wife that I wanted to change occupations again, this time to be a documentarian. My idea then was called something like "Threads." That can't be right; it seems like it was snappier. That's how it always starts--with a snappy title. Like blogging or teaching a Bible lesson: it's not really important or a good idea unless it has a snappy title, and no ideas come without the title first. Anyway, the idea was to chronicle the lives of apartment dwellers and observe the interconnectedness of man. "No man is an island" and all that jazz. We would throw away a piece of furniture (and of course, when I say throw away, I mean put it in front of the dumpster) and observe who came to claim it. In my experience, this is inevitable. Dumpster diving is asuch a reasonable pasttime among those living in apartments that furntiture is rarely discarded. Hence the idea for the documentary. The threads of the upholstery weave together like the threads of the various families lives. So once the furniture is aquired by a new family, we would ask the family's permission to film them and so on. An alternate take on the idea would be to track the lives of thrift store t-shirts. Maybe it will happen one day. Until then, if you happen upon this site and read this, don't rip off my idea.

"From Sea to Shining Sea" would not be a politically motivated movie as the allusion to the patriotic song might suggest. It would deal with the USA, but in a more intimate way as it is viewed through the eyes of one man (me). Borrowing from the film about the life of Che Guevarra, "The Motorcycle Diaries," I would buy a beat up, realiable old motorcycle--with a sidecar--and explore a land I've only read about. The goal would be to travel the perimeter of the United States. Now I haven't done any research, so I have no idea how many miles this is or how long it would take, but what an awesome road trip! I think I'd like to take my son(s) and add some personal interest for the viewer. It would also make it a more beautiful experience in my life. I'd get to share the exploration of our country (our world) with my boys. A coming of age story, maybe. I'd travel south on 377 to 281, and then run the majority of Texas on this same road, all the way down to close to Brownsville. As far as I can tell, there is no coastal route along the Gulf of Mexico, so I've hit a snag in production already, but I'll figure it out. Heading east from Brownsville, I would then outline all of of America, sticking to the coast, no matter how tiny and painstakingly slow the route might be. I'd see the Gulf, the Atlantic, weave across the northern boarders formed by the Great Lakes, hug the boarder of Canada, travel the Pacific, and then race by Mexico on my way home. I just took a break to check the distance and I found a plan laid out (starting in CA) to bike the perimeter. I found it on 43 Things, submitted by Apollo Lee. He states it would be 16,000 miles, and that, if he could bike 100 miles a day, it could be accomplished in 6 months.
This epic road trip would encompass one of my dream road trips: travelling Route 1/101, The Pacific Coastal Highway. I might try to also cover my second dream trip, Route 66, but since that cuts diagonally across the states, from Chicago to LA, it might not fit the vision for the film. Listen to me talk like this might actually happen! Still, I would love to do it.
All of this makes me think of a conversation I had with a fellow art teacher recently. She suggested that I might be a conceptual artist. When I asked her for her definition of the term, she said the purest definition would be an artist who comes up with ideas. At this point of my "career," yup, that's what I am.

What are we to do AS the church?

I had previously posted about the shortcomings of the church as expressed by several friends I talked with over my recent vacation. The following is an additional line of questioning. I will intersperse my own thoughts, but I am really excited to hear the perspectives of others who have waged war as vocational ministers. Whether you have planted a church internationally, cared for a flock in rural America, or been part of a team at a Bible-belt megachurch, worked with youth, worked with seniors, worked part-time, worked way overtime, etc., etc. your input is highly valued.

F - E - A - R.

How do you know when to give up? How do you know when to move on, hoping that a change of scenery and a hopeful outlook will bring different results than the ones you find yourself in?

While it is true that I had to leave my role as a vocational minister due to personal issues, I also chose to leave a couple months before I stepped down. I had hopes of going to plant a church in Buffalo, NY and this opportunity seemed like it would be a great fit for me. I love to start things, but sometimes have trouble following through. I would have been part of a team, and at that time I was feeling alone (I was also becoming convicted that team ministry is the ONLY option). I would be working in an area of passion and interest (small group ministry and discipleship). All in all, my passions were changing (not that I didn't love youth ministry, but.....) and I felt like staying would not benefit either party. The congregation I was serving was resistant to change and comfortable with the status quo. I had made some dumb mistakes and burned some bridges. I didn't disagree with the senior pastor, but I didn't value him like I thought I should--he seemed comfortable to coast, rather than challenge people to impact the Kingdom. So it added up to a change for me. Little did I know the full extent of the change in store.

Also, I had a mentor recommend that I read "Red Light, Green Light: Discerning the Time for a Change in Ministry" by John R. Cionca. It was very valuable, so that certainly helped.

Of course the ambiguous answer is the seek God and let him direct you. There were also some signs indicating a change was due. But we know what God's will is really about, right? Following his direct commands places you in the center of his will, and there is wiggle room of the geographic location after that, correct?

I would say it's probably not a good idea to leave due to greener grass. I've fled to greener grass before, only to have the field burn up around me. A hopeful outlook CAN change things...but not just over there; it also works right where you are. Are you staying fresh? Are you resting? Are you supported and valued? Are you using your gifts? Are you focusing on your God-given vision? Are you rallying others around the vision? Are you constantly communicating that vision with the hope that things will happen, mountains will move and God can accomplish all things with the hope you place in him? Start asking the tough questions and don't be afraid to respond to the difficult answers. As I always say, follow where Jesus wants you to go, and if people freak out that you're going that way, you're doing things right. It's like trying to get fired. You do what you have to do and either they respond, or they burn you at the steak. That's not fun, but at least you'll have your answer.


Why does the church lack strength, vibrancy, and transformed souls? Is it a lack of leadership, is it the elders, or stifling people in the church? Maybe it is the lack of leaders. Maybe it is me?

It is a combination of all those factors. Not to keep harping on vision, but unless people know what is expected of them, they'll usually settle for less than the best (Prov. 29:18). Then there are those who are in a congregation to satisfy some personal need or placate some hidden guilt. They're there for themselves, not the Kingdom. It's the same way with a corporation. Check out the hysterical "The Office" TV series with Steve Carrell. The employees at Dunder-Mifflin hate their company, but they're there to get a paycheck. See if Dunder-Mifflin advances very far with such apathetic employees. It's part of group dynamics, I guess.

But let's be honest: poor leadership is a killer for any movement. And really, it's provavly not that you're a bad leader, but sometimes leaders don't take care of themselves. You minister out of WHO YOU ARE, not what you do. If you are not monitoring yourself and ensuring you're empowered by God, walking in his ways (including REST) and pursuing his calling in your life, everything will go to pot.

Forget about the "wet blankets." Don't blame the "subordinate" leaders. Make sure you are white-hot and passionate, then gather quality people around you. All it takes is one visionary...then most other people LIKE to follow.

Jay, you have started over a couple times with jobs and scenery. What is your advice? I am beginning to feel like I have done what I can here. Grass is beginning to look greener when i think of starting over with a fresh start. But a part of me wonders if it isn't just a fear to face the challenges here. Fear of facing my own shortcomings as a leader. Fear of having to have tough talks with difficult people with lots of influence who are holding the church back.

Face the tough stuff. Do the hard work. Even if that's just self-evaluation. "You have not been given a spirit of fear, but of love, power and a sound mind" (am I way off in my paraphrase?).

The thing that pushes it over the edge is a desire to feel my efforts make a difference. In a bigger city I felt that I was really a part of what God was doing in an exciting environment. Here I kind of feel that I'm off the beaten path treading water and fishing. I don't want to do this 30 years!!I care for these people though and have grown alot in these last 2 years. I feel like I would be leaving the church better off than when I came. I feel bad for desiring to minister where there is more people- like i am deserting them. Like I am married and lusting for another. Should I feel this way?

"It's not the world that I am changing. I do this so, this world will know that it will not change me." No, that's not scripture, that's the sage Garth Brooks. Another quote I've heard before is from some wise old saint, "When i was young i lived freely and had nothing to do, i wanted to change the whole world. But when i was an adult i had a little thing to do, i wanted to change just only my country. Later on i had a family and there were many things for which to be responsible, i wanted to change only my family. And now i ‘m sleeping in on the bed of death i realize that if only i change myself my family would also change.. When my family changed, other families might also change. When all the families change, my country would change too. When all the countries changed my world also change."

Okay...it's pithy and trite, but it's true. Also check out "The Making of a Leader" by Robert Clinton. It will perhaps give some perspective on what God is doing in you, even if not through you. Remember you are part of God's story. Your greatest achievement could be miniscule in worldly eyes, but shape the Kingdom in unimaginable ways.

No answers, but does it at least provide some food for thought?

Freedom (Part 2)

Infinite choice is not freedom. Imagine going into your closet and getting ready for work. How many of you have more than 3 pairs of pants? More than 5 shirts? Very simple multiplication leads us to see that you have to choose between 15 possible outfits. Need to wear a tie with one of those shirts? Let's say you have 10 ties. Now your possible outfits equal 150 (assuming they all match). Now you can see why you might spend 10 mintues in the morning trying to figure out what to wear; or even why a woman could look at 150 outfits and exclaim, "I have nothing to wear!" (nope...doesn't explain that one, but it was worth a try).

Well I must have close to 25 ties. I have over 70 t-shirts. And no, I'm not saying I wear them together, I'm just making a point (although, with 80's fashion on the rise, I might start doing just that). It is sometimes difficult to decide which option to choose. Similarly, if you have a spare moment and you want to: A) work out B) eat ice cream C) read a book D) watch TV E) do household chores, your vast array of choices doesn't make it easier to find something to do, but more difficult. In such a case, one usually chooses the path of least resistance. In the example above, you will likely eat ice cream WHILE watching TV (or maybe that's just me).

Now if unlimited choice leads to a dilemma, and the easiest way to solve the dilemma is to solve the dilemma the easiest way, then there is little hope that we could ever rise above settling for less. But the problem is that the easy way is usually the wrong way. If you want illustration of this point, see "Pilgrim's Progress" by John Bunyan. Or, as a Marine once told me, "Easy equals dead."

Enter Christ. He has told us that he came to give us abundant life. "If the Son sets you free, you are free indeed." The irony is that the above position is now reversed. Freedom means loving God. "The one who loves me is the one who obeys my commands." So freedom in Jesus means that we give up the freedom to choose a bunch of easy, destructive options. We are free to make only one choice, and that is "the hard but right way," as stated by Bunyan.

Other options will still surface. I find myself deluded into thinking that they are still viable choices for me. Like Christian in Bunyan's allegory, I wander into some pleasant looking field, only to be trapped by the Giant Despair. The key to freedom is to actively pursue the difficult road. Alfred Lord Tennyson said it like this: "I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair." I can be lazy and fall into a rut or ruin myself with some easy choice, or I can follow Jesus, even when it is tough...or perhaps precisely because it is tough. The Son has set me free, and I can now throw myself into acting on his behalf and for his kingdom.

Only one choice: Freedom.

Freedom

Teaching is the best job ever. I told Heather the other day that I think it has quite possibly ruined me for all other jobs. Having been in a number of jobs, I haven't found anything to compare, and I can't imagine anything else that could offer what teaching offers. While it is a phenomenal priviledge to shape young lives, the schedule ain't too shabby either.

I have not been to my place of employment for the past month and a half. What glorious freedom! If being a parent enables one to live vicariously through their children and expereince childhood all over again (see my previous post), then teaching further compliments that position by allowing a person to enjoy those long, lazy days of summer. When was the last time you rode your bike for hours and hours and went swimming every day?

Such has been my summer. Up until Aydan burned his arm (a story I won't get into right now) the boys and I went swimming literally every day. And the beautiful thing was that this activity was not planned. 1:00? 6:00? Bored? Let's go swimming! Then yesterday we departed on our bikes at 9:00 am and raced through the misty rain, stopping at every park we passed on our nearby bike trail and leaving the trail to crash through a dirt-worn forest path. The only thing that brought us home, over two hours later, was the need for food and a restroom break.

I walked in from the studio twice last night to sneak into the boys' room and gaze on them soundly asleep. Free to be a child, free to laugh uproariously and have fun, free to lie in peace (Psalm 3:5)...and all this for the second time in my life.

A blog is dying

I like to write, sure. I'm not even that bad at it. My priorities, however, place writing at a fairly low point on my "to do" list. Then, of course, the real trouble is sitting down and finding something whimsical and interesting to write about. Then there's the added pressure of feeling the need to sound witty or wise as I chronicle my thoughts. And then I get so discouraged when there are no responses to my thoughts (please, no pity responses on this post), as though they are not valid without a reply. Such pressure makes me reluctant to post, especially when I need to be in the studio or playing with the boys or doing 1 of a 1,000 other projects. Doesn't this all sound familiar? I'm sure I've talked about this before.

Well, since it's about time for another post...or time to let my dying blog finally die...I'll pull out something from about this time last year.

Nostalgia

"Aydan was getting ready for VBS today and I was fairly fascinated at how big he's getting. He got dressed entirely by himself, including picking out all his own clothes: a repetoire complete with camoflage pants, sweat bands, his VBS shirt, and a visor. He then packed his Bible in his backpack by himself and hopped in the car. When we got to church, I expected him to be hesitant, but he charged into the unknown with no reservations, and I was the one who started to cry.
He's so big. He's spreading his wings and flying. It's cheesy, but it's true. He is finding independence and flourishing in it. I'm proud, and I'm sad (it's going by so fast), and I'm drawn back to my own childhood. I think maybe nostalgia is the state of mind that naturally occurs when such emotions are mixed together in the perfect cocktail.
1985. Maybe it wasn't a big year for you; hey, it probably wasn't that big a year for me either, but it signifies an important period of time in my life. In my nostalgia I find myself looking for the GI Joe theme song on the internet and longing for the return of parachute pants." {As an aside, I find it humorous that, a year later, that the 80's are fully upon us. We are revisiting that era in all manner of fashion, right down to white deck shoes (which I WILL be getting a pair of) and plaid shorts}. "I focus on this year because it is the subject of a song by the band Roper. I realized, thru this song, that it’s because I long for those days of ease and carefree living. The days of exploration and breaking free from the parents. The days of running through a park in Jamestown, ND with striped tube socks up the to top of my calves.
“Those days seem so distant, feels like a million miles. Troubles were nonexistent--1985.”

Maybe you feel like me, and you realize you MUST remember some of those feelings, relive some of those days, just to feel alive. In another song, "End of the Innocence" by Don Henley, I achingly agree with the lyrics, “Remember when the days were long…Didn’t have a care in the world…Somewhere back there in the dust, that same small town in each of us. I NEED to remember this.” It's like a hook inside my brain that pulls me back again and again. I have an idea for a painting depicting this, and hopefully you'll get to see that someday. But for now, I think I'll just grab a glass of lemonade, sit out on the lawn next to the sprinkler and remember the sights, sounds and smells of summer. When the days were long and we had no cares in the world. And when, at last, I must return to the "grown-up" world, I will go pick up Aydan and relive all these beautiful memories vicariously through my son."

what are we to do with the church?

cheesy. corporate. embodying failures and resentment.

This is how the church is perceived by many very dear friends of mine. If it is so with them, those who are part of this body, what are we to do?

no mission statements. no doctrinal statement.

I saw a man proclaim that "Jesus" is his church's doctrinal statement, and have heard other beleivers like him cry out for the church to leave behind mission statements, demographics, target audiences, etc.

painful.

should one member of a family consistently feel pain after reaching out when that person is let down again and again by "brothers and sisters" and even caretakers of the flock?

"I don't get anything out of it."

Is church an "it"? Does the church exist for you to benefit from it? A poor economist can tell you that your return is at least somewhat based on your investment. Getting out? Are we puting in?

"The church should be about teaching the broken how to do laundry."
"Spirituality is communal living, growing a group garden, and helping people who try to put Coca Cola in their infant's baby bottle."

Putting in. Is church attendance where we should be fixing our gaze? Can you attend church? If we invest by the current standard, are we just giving 2 hours of our time and our warm rumps to heat the cushioned seat beneath us?
There is guilt and regret. There is a longing for true community, true spirituality. The paradox is challenging: commit to an industry not getting dirty searching for the tangibles of the Gospel, OR justify not going to church. Both are contrary to the heart of God, right? Hebrews says we shouldn't give up meeting together, but James says that true religion, faultless in the eyes of God, is that which cares for orphans and widows. If the church is not about loving the unlovable, helping the marginalized, what would one be committing to if they "went to church"? Singing songs? A message? Social hour? Let's not give up meeting together, but are we meeting together for the right things?

What is the church now? If you "go to church," what are you doing? What must the church be? What is the church becoming? What should it become? How do we bring unity to the body? How do we bring different camps together?

what are we to do?

Look at those "Eyes"

The Isuzu Trooper parked in the garage now shows 73,000 miles on the odometer. That means in 14 days, I traveled 2, 825 miles. On our vacation to Chicago and Ohio, I was reminded of a powerful truth: selfishness is hard to outrun.
I had fun seeing old friends. I played basketball and in so doing, cut open a gash on my dad's eyebrow that required stitches and sprained my ankle so badly that it quite literally took on the shape and color of the legs belonging to the McDonald's character Grimmace. I relaxed. I took it easy. Look at those "I's". I, I, I, I.....
This is my blog, and I suppose the only person I'm qualified to speak authoritatively about is me. But my self-absorption was pointed out by my lovely wife as I looked at the above picture. I was struck by the humor of the pose, the irony of its commemoration (taken at an emergency room in Cook County Hospital after my friend Kyle had to get stitches in his eyebrow following a basketball injury), and particularly surprised by the appearance of my hair. "Did my hair really look like that?" I thought to myself. After thumbing through hundreds of pictures of Kyle looking hilarious, the only photo I asked to borrow and scan was this shot of me. Heather commented, "You really are fascinated by yourself, aren't you?" Ah...the painful truth.

I have mentioned before that sometimes I wish I could just escape myself; think about others and put them first more easily. I traveled from Texas to Ohio only to find my selfishness waiting for me there. It is true what they say: "Where ever you go, there you are."

Mohawk Madness

Couldn't let the anniversary pass by without a new picture demonstrating the fact that I am truly and hopelessly uncool.

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

I have one hour in which to post before the day that marks the anniversary of my first blog post passes by. As I sat thinking of something profound to write about to commemorate this occasion, nothing struck me as so real or so true as the mention of this simple fact. I have one hour, and it's slipping away.

I love opportunities for remembering. This anniversary adds another contemplative date to the existing list of birthday, Christmas, New Year's, and Easter. Times to stop and think about times gone by; consider how life is being lived. Because, as I'm realizing, if you don't stop and evaluate, and in so doing, remind yourself what it is you want to live for, life slips by without much living going on.

I have one hour, and it's slipping away.

What has happened in this past year? I began and ended a program that placed me in the classroom and moved me toward the goal of being an art teacher. Furthermore, I began art lessons to put me on track to be working as a true artist. Good things. But in so doing I have missed the wedding of one of my closest friends, I have stretched myself thin, putting up more deadlines and heaping up more guilt for not meeting them.
Other things have also transpired. The painful things seem to stand out, and so it seems that the year has been marked by a progression in art and painful trials in just about everything else. Still, I guess pain is good if it teaches you something. Am I learning?

I have one hour, and it's slipping away.

Tonight I have to clean the studio, prepare for school tomorrow, write a reference letter, create a layout and captions for my website, put the finishing touches on a drawing, start a new drawing....and the list really could go on. What will get done? What is most important?

I have one hour, and it's slipping away.

When Robert Frost penned the unforgetable words, "But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep" he was talking about death. I read another quote recently that reminded me that each day--each hour even--is a microcosm of our lives. How we live today IS our life. The commitments keep adding up; "the burdens keep piling up on my back." What will get done in this hour, this year, this life? What is important?

I have one hour, and it's slipping away.

TGIF

Remember the good old days when television was great? I can recall Friday nights, glued to prime time television and the incredible "TGIF: Thank God it's Friday." Who could forget such classics as "Full House," "Perfect Strangers" and "Family Matters"? Give me an hour and a half of such excellent fare, along with pizza and popcorn, and life didn't seem as though it could get any better.

Now, as primetime television started to slip, there remained a "safe" alternative: the Family Channel. Maybe it's programming is not remembered as widely, but I have such fond memories of "Zorro," "Rin Tin Tin: K9 Cop," and the truly one-of-a-kind gem, "Maniac Mansion." Now, if the mention of such shows fills your heart with longing, then take a trip down memory lane by going to http://www.lounatale.com/index.html (after you enter, click on "Samples" and you'll find the "Maniac Mansion" theme). Also, check out http://www.mansionsite.com/mmpics.htm for some images to further jog your memory. Ah...TGIF!

"What I Thought I Wanted" (part 2)

"You're gonna get caught."

Imagine this being whispered in the darkness as you are roused from sleep. What would your conclusion be? Would you assume a pair of burglars have entered your home and one is chiding the other for his clumsiness? Would you assume the voice to be that of God, speaking to your guilty conscience?
Or would you assume it was two little shaggy-headed boys?
Just such an experience happened to Heather this morning. Aydan and Brennan were sneaking into our bedroom closet to claim their Easter baskets. Why were their baskets in our room the day after Easter? Because they are notorious for stealing little bits of candy and sweets from the kitchen in the brief moments between when they wake up and when we do. So this morning, as they were clanging around in our closet, their guilt was certain. Caught red-handed.
Some may read the story and thinks it's cute. Some may see the ingenuity and cleverness of my 2 and 5 year olds and be amazed. I'm furious. No...I'm hurt.
Sure, my first reaction is to be angry. They were told not to try to sneak candy and they do so. There is some type of deceptive streak that runs through their body, some devious, cunning anomoly to their cherubic heartbeats. For further proof, consider the conversation I had at dinner tonight.
"Daddy, Mom said I can't have dessert tonight."
"Why is that, Aydan?"
"Because I took too many sticks out." (It is a favorite practice of the boys to take branches from our firewood box in the garage and play with them as swords and guns and all manner of things destructive).
"Oh, that's too ba......"
"An' cause we ate cookies!"
"What is that Brennan?"
"We are cookies!"
"Aydan? What's this about?"
(Silence)
It turns out that before going to the closet, they went to the fridge. They eagerly devoured two rows of break-and-bake cookie dough before ever asking Heather for breakfast. The truly infuriating part is that Aydan wasn't going to say anything (because he had gotten away with it--Heather assumed I took the dough for a sack-lunch dessert). The only reason they were caught is because Brennan naively assumed the lack of dessert was somehow connected to the dirty deed he knew he'd perpetrated.
But I digress. After the fury subsides and I can feel the flush of heat retract from my face, I feel an ache in my heart. Why sneak? Why steal? Why lie? Well, the lie is to cover up the wrong that has been done. But why not just ask?
Heather nailed it when she recognized a pattern from her own life emerging in Aydan: "He takes without asking because he's afraid we'll say no." He anticipates disappointment and so to avoid not getting what he wants, he takes matters into his own hands.
He doesn't trust me.

What I Thought I Wanted

The following is told by Brennan Manning in his book, "Ruthless Trust."

When the brilliant ethicist John Kavanaugh went to work for three months at “the house of the dying” in Calcutta, he was seeking a clear answer as to how best to spend the rest of his life. On the first morning there he met Mother Teresa. She asked, “And what can I do for you?” Kavanaugh asked her to pray for him.

“What do you want me to pray for?” she asked. He voiced the request that he had borne thousands of miles from the United States: “Pray that I have clarity.”

She said firmly, “No, I will not do that.” When he asked her why, she said, “Clarity is the last thing you are clinging to and must let go of.” When Kavanaugh commented that she always seemed to have the clarity he longed for, she laughed and said, I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust. So I will pray that you trust God.”

Craving clarity, we attempt to eliminate the risk of trusting God. Fear of the unknown path stretching ahead of us destroys childlike trust in the Father’s active goodness and unrestricted love.

Exhausted and Victorious

Viewing the past month, or the past 40 days, more specifically, I can see an intense period of meditation on Christ. This time of lent has been extremely beneficial, resulting in the most joyful Easter I can recall in a long time.

But the benefit did not come easily.

I have spent time in various fasts. I have had my views of life, security, happiness, and love smashed and destroyed, only to be built anew. I have lost sleep. I have endured pain.

How weak this time is when compared with Jesus and his 40 days in the wilderness. How trivial it seems in light of his passion.

But that is the hope and the joy of this day. Though trouble may come, it is light and momentary, fleeting in the scope of God's love and his eternity. Though I may be at the end of my resources, I could never fully tax God's limitless supply of all he has given me for life and godliness. Though life seems hard at times, there is new life. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

So, I am tired.
But more, I am alive.
I am forgiven.
I am victorious.

Exhausted and Defeated

A letter I am leaving for my wife tonight. I plan to head to bed in about 5 mintues.


Heather,

You know how you can just sense that some evenings will go badly?

This was one of those evenings.

And really, I’m just being melodramatic and selfish, but I’m exhausted and I can’t recover and every little failure seems like a colossal defeat. But here’s what happened. You’ll need to pick up some of the pieces (literally) in the morning.

1) I attempted to unclog the toilet.
Our snake did not work. I then took the toilet off and tried to snake it that way. Did not work. I then went to Home Depot and rented a better snake for $13/4 hrs. Did not work. So now I am $20 odd dollars and 2 odd hours into the project and things are no better…and I’m violently pissed off. Remember how I hate plumbing? Uh….yeah…..
***YOUR PART: Since I rented the snake at 7:30 (at the Roanoke HD on 377) and they close at 9 pm, it is due back by 9 am this morning. Feel free to wake up early and take a crack at it yourself, but please have the snake back by 9:00. (I went down the drain all 25 feet of snake and found no blockage. Could it still be a block in the toilet? Seems unlikely, though I was going to have the boys fish their hands around in that drainage curve and see what they found. Anyway, I’m stumped and completely unable to do anything about it.)
2) Brennan would not go to sleep without talking.
Again. So I put him in time-out in the library. He proceeded to pull the lamp off the desk, breaking the bulb and the glass. (Accident or deliberate? Not sure. It was dark and I didn’t want to talk to him about it, since it would have probably led to a violent outburst on my part.) I was going to vacuum up the shards, but since the vacuum was not put together (and since I was unable to put the components together on Saturday) I could not. Would you mind doing that?
3) Dry wall is not hung.
I guess that’s what got me disappointed and frustrated in the beginning. I was going to go back out and cut it correctly to set up for tomorrow, but I was afraid the sheetrock would literally crumble in my hands and I’d tear down the rest of the shed with my bear hands….so I left it for later.

But all is not lost. I did the dishes. Yipee…major victory right there.

Looking at my list, it seems petty. I must be completely depleted. I’m having trouble functioning. Bible study is still not complete, and it’s 9:30. I need to finish it, but if I don’t go to bed I might self destruct. Anyway, kiss me softly when you come in and say a prayer for Jesus to deliver my soul.

Love
jay

For Pete's Sake

My friend is dying.

The feelings I have are bizarre. For one, I have neither seen nor spoken to this friend in an unknown number of years; yet there is still sorrow and heartfelt prayers on his behalf. I am glad that he holds fiercely to Christ even as he clings to life; yet I cry out to God, wondering why one so young, one who follows him, would have to suffer and die. My only memory of my friend is shooting bottle rockets at the neighbor across the street on a hazy summer afternoon; my only picture of my friend is an image I just saw of him and his wife holding each other and smiling...cancer-bald head and all.

I have been reading Job, and so in the face of suffering and questions, only the words from the beginning of Job's trials come to mind. "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." Father, we can only trust you when we cannot understand you in this. Draw near to Pete's family and strengthen them with ruthless trust in you.

No Original Thoughts

My life is an endless stream of music and movie quotes, shaken up inside my brain and poured out in some maniacal cocktail.

Listening to Jimmy Buffet, I am beginning to identify with his sense of social rejection. It seems like he's senses being identified as a social outsider, a reject, a lazy beach bum. In reality, he is different from the masses. His laid back, fetterless lifestyle no doubt infuriates those who have chosen confinement over carefree existence. Moving toward a more bohemian lifestyle as an artist, especially after a long trek through multiple career “pit stops,” his lyrics resonate with some of the thoughts within my heart.

I was supposed to have been a Jesuit priest or a naval academy grad
That was the way that my parents perceived me
Those were the plans that they had
But I couldn’t fit the part too dumb or too smart
Ain’t it funny how we all turned out
I guess we are the people our parents warned us about

You know I coulda worked the rigs when the money was big
Or hopped a freighter south to Trinidad
And when they tried to draft me I earned a college degree
Buyin’ time ’til things were not so bad
But then I got a guitar found a job in a bar
Playin’ acid rock ’til I was numb
Tell me where are the flashbacks they all warned us would come

Hey hey, Gardner McKay
Take us on the Leaky Tiki with you
Clear skies bound for shanghai
Sailing cross the ocean blue

We are the people there isn’t any doubt
We are the people they still can’t figure out
We are the people who love to sing twist and shout--Shake it up baby!
We are the people our parents warned us about
("We Are the People Our Parent's Warned Us About")

I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
Stout sailor's legs and a license to fly
I came with nomad feet and some wandering toes
That walk up my longboard and hang off the nose

I suppose the need to focus never arose
So something like a Swiss army knife, that's my life
Frankenstein had nothing on this body of mine
The villagers still flockin' to see, to see me
Breaking free, breaking free

Cause I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
Stout sailor's legs and a license to fly
I got a bartender's ear and beachcomber's style
Piratical nerve and a Vaudevillian style

I suspect I died in some cosmic shipwreck
With all hands spread all over the deck...what the heck
Then some kind of obscene and unscrupulous mind
Began to pick up what he could find
Added ice, shook me twice, rolled the dice

Now I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
A sailor's legs and a license to fly
I got a native tongue from way down south
It sits in the cheek of my gulf coastal mouth
("School Boy Heart")

Some of the details are different, but I love the line "so something like a Swiss army knife...that's my life." I feel like a jack of all trades, but a master of none. It is both a blessing and a curse.

Still, as I leave mainstream society behind, it's nice to know Jimmy will provide the soundtrack for my new life.

Spring

"Four things on earth are small, yet they are extremely wise:
...a lizard can be caught with the hand, yet it is found in kings' palaces."
-Proverbs 30:28

The Mediterranean Gecko has returned to my doorway. I was in the studio tonight and, upon exiting, was greeted by him as he hung onto the glass of my screen door. Walking through the breezeway, I noticed another clinging to the rafters. These are the first I've seen since the fall, and surely the fact that there were two on one night must mean something. Spring has arrived and with the glowing green buds on the trees, the missing lizards return. As it says in Proverbs, they must be very wise, because I don't know where they went, and I don't know where they go when you chase them, but they make themselves an easy abode out of my home. The Proverb is proved even more true this early in the season, because it's very easy to catch these geckos, who are still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. I read recently in "Walden" how Thoreau almost stepped on snakes in his woods in the early spring, as they were still trying to have the morning sun thaw out all the members of their bodies. So it is with my friends tonight. They are so sluggish that their usual lightning-fast quickness is still frozen inside them, and it's quite easy to reach out and touch them or catch them in your hands. I almost wanted to wake the boys so we could catch one together. But the spring is young. We'll have more nights for catching geckoes soon.

Love Song to the Rain

Gee, l'm glad it's raining
There's always somethin' to be thankful for
l'm awfully glad it's raining
'Cause no one sees your teardrops when it pours
And no one knows the thunder is your heartbreak in disguise
They think the rainy night's what put that sad look in your eyes
Sure, l'm glad it's raining
The gentle rhythm soothes the pain inside
l'm glad the stars aren't shinin'
A wounded warrior needs a place to hide
l thought l had found someone l could count on till the end
What they wanted was a hero all l needed was a friend
Gee, l'm glad it's raining
l hope the mornin' sun won't come up soon
As long as it keeps raining
No one knows my heart broke right in two
l thought l had found someone l could count on till the end
What they wanted was a hero all l needed was a friend
Sure, l'm glad it's raining
l'm awfully glad it's raining "

Hungover

"Okay, I have a hangover. Does anybody know what that means?"
"It means you're drunk."
"Wrong. It means I was drunk yesterday."

I only throw this in because I watched "School of Rock" today (seeking some inspiration for my own classroom) and laughed hysterically the whole way through.

But I am hungover.

I took a nap today from approximately 3:15-4:10. Not enough time to do any real good, but plenty of time to do some serious damage.


Now I'm trying to post something, and after 5 attempts on various topics, I realize I'm not capable of any significant thought thanks to my nap hangover. Instead of thinking, I only feel...and I feel bitter, depressed, apathetic, and lazy.

The world is a terrible place when I'm tired. Especially after I just wake up from a nap.

Subterfuge

Creeping through the ventilation shaft, the merceny paused to listen for any signs of detection. Hearing none, he pressed on to the core of the base. With one deft motion, he placed a tiny chip in the motherboard of the systems network which would eradicate all data from the better half of the past decade.
Stripping off all signs of the disguise he wore, the spy walked calmly out of the building.
"See you tomorrow, Jim," someone said to him.
"Sure...we'll see you then."

The Stranger

"Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone.
Some are satin, some are steel, some are silk, and some are leather
they're the faces of The Stranger but we love to try them on."

How well can you really know a person? Even if every intimate detail of their heart is laid bare, is their soul truly exposed? What if the "truth" flowing from their lips is the truth they want you to hear? Who has not had a conversation where you say the right things and express the right sentiments, and then walk from the room, stripping The Stranger off your face?

Do I fear to trust because I am untrustworthy? Do I doubt others because I have such grave doubts in myself? Is Jesus really in control? Is he strong enough to change me? Is he strong enough to save me from myself? If he has little effect in me, what effect can he produce in others?

Will I choose to discard The Stranger from my countenance? Will my exposed face produce faith and goodwill toward others? Will those who see the skull behind the mask stay the course, or turn away? Can I stay the course, regardless of how many Strangers surround me?

A Foot in the Door

This picture (with the blueish tint) was drawn by Charles Bargue. In my Atelier training I had to copy this picture exactly.

As for the success of this venture, I'll let you judge for yourself. My replica is at the top.

Where Do They All Come From

(Another bit from the archives. Perhaps appropos for Valentine's Day.)

She looked different than I expected.
First of all, she was a he. He sat in a two-person booth at Chili's, eating by himself .
My boys surrounded me. My wife sat across from me.
He had no book to read. Seemed to have no agenda in being there.
No one came to meet him.
"Maybe he likes 'alone time'," I thought to myself. I know I do at times.
My heart ached. "What if all his time is 'alone time'?"
I felt like asking him to join my family for the rest of his dinner.
And the music played, “All the lonely people…”

She showed up again. In fact she just kept popping up, but she always looked different.
Walking alone in a mall. Gazing silently at books in the library.
Sometimes looking sad, other times looking pained, other times, looking quite normal.
Yet each time I see her, there is a profound sadness in me, perhaps more than in them.
The refrain rings again "All the lonely people..."

Loneliness grips your heart and twists and squeezes until it's hard to breathe.
The hardest part is not the physical act, but wanting to breathe.
Who do I take in air for? Who will hear me if I exhale?
I looked within and found her.
"I'm sorry....who are you? Why are you here?"
"I'm Eleanor. I have no where else to go."
Surrounded by a sea of people; does anyone know me? Does anyone reach out to touch me?
"Where do they all come from?" I ask, and the music echoes, "All the lonely people."

Fruit of My Labor

A month of hard work has resulted in...a foot.

This picture shows an early stage in the process of completing my first Bargue Drawing in my Atelier training. If you can make out the faint image on the right, you're doing pretty good. I plan on taking a photo of the finished piece tomorrow, and I'll post it here soon. Stayed tuned for the website (hopefully coming soon).

Pink Cigars

(a little bit from the archives for all those yearning for some "uncoolness" in their lives)

Thoughts strike at weird and unexpected times/places. I was cleaning up dog urine from my carpet, and I thought how I can’t get enough of sin.
When I was little, I went to a Sunday School party and Ken and Charlotte Ruchtie’s house. They had ice cream sundaes there, but these were no ordinary sundaes. Oh no! They were pink sundaes. A scoop of pink ice cream. A pink cone for a hat. Pink bits of candy for eyes and mouth. It was a cute, pink clown sundae. I made it through the cone…and the candy…and the ice cream, but when I reached the bottom layer, the pink wafers forming the clown’s collar, well I began to recall feelings of illness from earlier in the day. The feelings became stronger, until they compelled me to the restroom. What landed in the toilet was a partially digested pink mess.
To this day I cannot eat anything pink.
(although yesterday I was eating cotton candy, and when I switched from blue to pink, I noticed I had no problems. Just an interesting sidebar).
I used to smoke cigars. Not that I really liked them all that much. But on special occasions I would light up a stogie. For one bachelor party, I joined my brother and a group of his friends on the Indiana dunes. It was a great night…hearing the guys tell stories about the group while sitting around the campfire. And all the while smoking cigars. Different kinds, different sizes, different tastes. Then the rain put an end to our evening. We went to bed and spent a soggy night. In the morning, we awoke to an overcast, cool day. My work schedule during those days was pretty typical: ride the L to work and eat breakfast at my desk when I got there. I usually packed a Tupperware full of cereal and a water bottle full of milk. For whatever reason, I did not eat my breakfast that Friday morning. This meant I had cereal and day old milk waiting for my on Saturday. Disregarding the soggy clothes, the lack of sleep, and the taste of wet socks in my mouth was probably stupid enough. But what I did next, I would not recommend to anyone. I reasoned that since the preceding day was cool, and the evening was cool, and the morning was cool, although the milk had not been a refrigerator, it could not have gotten too warm, and therefore it would not be too bad to use it on my cereal. It was Life cereal. I remember that because to this day I have trouble eating Life cereal. I can…it’s just not the joy it once was. But that’s not the point of the story. After eating the cereal we went to the lake. We tried to explore the dunes, but it was just too cold, and no one was dressed in preparation for the frigid temperature. Some genius amongst the group (and I wonder if it may even have been me) suggested we stay warm by running over the hills of sand. Like bright, educated college boys we did so, the wind whipping in our faces, tearing at our clothes and shooting ice right through our veins. It took approximately 36.2 seconds for the cocktail of little sleep, bad milk, racing and an evening of cigars to take its toll on me. I lay curled in the fetal position on the sand, moaning, coughing and spitting sock-tasting saliva onto the beach.
To this day I have problems lighting another cigar.
Why is it not the same with sin? Why can’t a horrible sin experience sever all ties and create a pink cigar barrier in my life? I’ve sinned in heinous ways. I’ve even tried to get a glut of sin to produce some kind of overdose, backlash-like effect, but it doesn’t work quite like pink or cigars. I’ve crushed my wife with my sin. I’ve wounded my sons. These facts are too overpowering to even think about. I believe that if I were cognizant of these things all the time I would be too overwhelmed to go on. But then the door is left open for repeating the same mistakes. I have found this to be true:
there is "pleasure in sin for a short time,” (Heb. 11:25) and
“like a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.” (Prov. 26:11)
What is the key to remembering without being dismayed? The secret to recalling the pain in order to prevent future unpleasantness? How does one create a pink cigar barrier with sin?

What Are You Prepared To Do?

The Kingdom of God is on a forceful advance, and forceful men lay hold of it. (Matthew 11:12)

I will tell you 4 stories of 4 extraordinary men. My hope is that by the end of these tales, you will feel a bit of what I feel in my heart at this hour. Even more so, I hope the telling (and the fact that it is recorded here) will spur me on to further action, and greater commitment.

Eliot Ness was a Treasury Officer. More than being an officer of the law, he was a man of justice. It was his desire to bring Al Copone down. When he arrived in Chicago, his first efforts to topple the big-city boss were embarrassingly unsuccessful. After his initial, painful defeat, he threw a scrap of paper into the Chicago River and so began a relationship that would change his life. An old beat cop, Jim Malone, chided him for his littering, and in the course of their conversation proved himself to be an experienced, insightful, and above all, honest cop. Malone dismissed Ness's proposal to join him in his fight against Capone, but after many hours of thought, later came to Ness with a changed heart. Whisking Ness out of the police headquarters ("These walls have ears"), Malone escorted him to a nearby church. The conversation held there is profound on many levels, and shook Eliot Ness, and now shakes Jay Elliott.

Malone: You said you wanted to get Capone. Do you really wanna get him? You see what I'm saying is, what are you prepared to do?
Ness: Anything and everything in my power.
Malone: And THEN what are you prepared to do? If you open the can on these worms you must be prepared to go all the way because they're not gonna give up the fight until one of you is dead.
Ness: How do you do it then?
Malone: You wanna know how you do it? Here's how:they pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send on of his to the morgue! That's the Chicago way, and that's how you get Capone! Now do you want to do that? Are you ready to do that?
Ness: I have sworn to capture this man with all legal powers at my disposal and I will do so.
Malone: Well the Lord hates a coward. Do you know what a blood oath is Mr. Ness?
Ness: Yes.
Malone: Good, cause you just took one.

There once was a man named Jason with tin ears, and even if he had a bucket, he would have been unable to carry a tune in it. Yet somewhere in his soul, he felt he should play the guitar. There were many nights when, after he had completed his school work, he would resolutely sit in his bedroom and pluck shaky chords on his guitar. In a matter of months, he could play simple songs. In time, he discovered not only musical ability in his fingers, but also in his voice. Out of sheet effort and practice, Jason became not just a singer and musician, but one who would lead others in song.

Kaiser Soze was a notorious theif. So much so that one fateful day, he came home to find his family being held captive by a group of murderous mobsters. Without describing the events of that grusome day in detail, let it be said that, "he showed these men of will what will really is."

Some people are born, and from their earliest days, they are declared to be wonders in music, in athletics, in academics, and in art. Jon was not one of these people. He reached his 20th year and suddenly thought to himself, "I would like to draw." Imagine sitting for hours and producing a work on the level of a junior high art student. The frustration was almost unbearable. He nearly quit. But instead of turning away, the times of despair fueled drawing sessions that would last for hours and hours. They prompted a two year period of intense artistic study. By force of will, Jon is now perhaps THE best artist I know personally.

Do you catch the familiar strain in each of these four lives? Will. I have two dear friends who, although seemingly lacking the "inherent ability" in art and music which I possess, have far surpassed me by will and determination. I love the quote from the film, "The Usual Suspects": "He showed these men of will what will really is." It speaks to me directly of the Scripture in Matthew 11:12: "the Kingdom of Heaven is on a forceful advance, and forceful men lay hold of it." Does this mean the Kingdom will be persecuted and warred against? Most likely. But also true, and I believe even more so, it carries the idea that those who strive with steely resolve to follow the King of Kings will most fully grasp the Kingdom. Consider the context. Jesus points to John the Baptist. He renounced (and I speak from a modern perspective) fashion, delicacies, comfort and fine living, norms of work and social interaction, and lived what would be considered the life of a madman in order to proclaim the coming of the Kingdom. He forcefully held onto the Kingdom, seeing that all else would slip away. He had resolve. He had determination to forsake all else for that high calling. "He showed these men of will what will really is."

It boggles my mind that Jason and Jon, both men of faith, along with their talent and passion, labored until they reached their goal, when, as Jon put it, "(they) didn't even show signs of promise." There are countless lives of resolve, from John the Baptist, to Abraham, (see Hebrews 11 for the list of those in between), from Jim Elliot to Elliot Ness, who challenge me to evaluate what it is I really want, what is really important, and mostly, what it is I am prepared to do to achieve such ends.

I have set my face toward being an artist. Not simply producing a mediocre sketch here or there, but being, thinking, working and living as an artist. It will require much sacrifice, and will greatly test my will. But before that, above that, I have been chosen to follow Christ. I responded to this high calling. And I was reminded this morning as I worshiped among the people of Irving Bible Church that I must steadfastly commit to my convictions, to caring, and to endurance until the coming of Christ. Artist. Theologian. Social activist. Expectant worshiper. I could be no happier than if these titles were authentic in my life. The question remains: "What are you prepared to do?"

It is easy to see Christ in many things, and I find him in the cathedral conversation between Malone and Ness. Christ, in a curious Scottish brogue, lays out the plan of discipleship, pointing out the inherent dangers, and asks if it is really my desire to follow him. With a meek, "Yes," he responds, "What are you prepared to do?" In a brutally poignant seen later in the film, "The Untouchables," Malone is ambushed and lays dying in the arms of Ness. Here too I find Jesus. In an act of supreme devotion and resolve, showing what will really is, he showed what he was prepared to endure for my sake. He stretched out dying to show what force would be required to take hold of the Kingdom. As Malone, I hear his last words stab into my heart: "What are you prepared to do?"

Lack of Posting

I anticipate that I won't be posting much here, as I am diving deep into art training. I will occasionally post on "Those Awake" (see the link) and I'll try to do something every so often here. I'd love to post pictures of what I'm working on (and hopefully there will be an art website up in the next few months), but we'll see. "So much time, so little to do....Wait, strike that; reverse it."

Age of Annonymity

Recently I returned a DVD case to a nearby Blockbuster Video store, but I forgot to return the disc inside that case. Today when I returned the movie itself, it occurred to me that there was no local, hometown video store attendant who would have been sure, based on his knowledge of me and my character, that the empty case was a mistake and the DVD was sure to follow. My grocier doesn't know me. My banker doesn't know me. To be honest, my pastor doesn't even really know me.
My first thought was that we live in a day and age, much the the information age, when being annonymous is more common (much like I spoke about in the post, "Bill Gates is the Man"). But to link my lack of connectedness to those around me directly to technology may be missing the point (although it may be a contributing factor).
My second thought was related to a discussion I had recently with my brother regarding the culture of different U.S. geographical regions: east coast, southern, mid-western, etc. It strikes me today, however, that different characteristics emerge on smaller levels (I could talk about Willard vs. Shelby, OH, but since few would understand, I'll look at a slightly broader group). Having lived in various states and various cities, I can conclude with reasonable certainty that, no matter where you are, there is a profound difference in lifestyle between town, suburb, and city. True, this may be a bit obvious, but I'm just now really thinking through it. The long and short of it is that if you live outside the town, the ability to be known diminishes radically. In a small town, everyone knows your business. In a suburb or city, you must make yourself known. You can gain connectedness, but it comes with greater effort (my writing even now seems like a self-indictment to me. Was I the one who was selfish and withdrawn? Did I not live with sufficient patterns and redundancy in order to be known? Did I live in the city, but not participate in the neighborhood---the metropolis' antedote to its massive size; the town within the city, if you will?).
I grew up in a town where a name carried significance. Bell. Highland. Stock. Medley. Asp. Your name, your family connection, meant something--it indicated who you were. Didn't get the DVD back in the case? Who returned it? If "Highland," it might be gone for ever, but if "Asp," it's sure to come in the next day or two. What does "Asp" mean in Keller, TX? Who is "Asp" and who knows the name?
So the third, and concluding thought, is that I may actually be longing for home. "You can't go home again," they say; but it seems so many of us long to surround ourselves with all the trappings of home so we feel like we're still there. Perhaps this is why so many of my peers stayed in Shelby after graduation, and why so many around the country and the world are born, grow, live and die and in one spot. Am I longing to be connected, be known and to make a difference? Or am I longing for small-town America, where life was so much simpler? Or am I longing for simplicity? How do you perceive it?

Backflips

Once, in high school, I asked a friend on the track team how to do a backflip. "You just have to go all out," was his only advice. Apparently, based on his instructions, the only thing necessary for doing such a gymnastic feat was commitment. All you have to do is sell out. It makes sense, I guess. You have to go for broke. Who wants to get into the middle of a rotation, only to bail out in mid-flight, flop awkwardly and break a neck?

I never did accomplish that feat back in my high school days. The counsel seemed too simple. It lacked tangible steps to follow through on to ensure success. All it called for was guts and determination. Back then, I wasn't really willing to risk my neck, so I never tried. I never failed, but then again, I never succeeded either.

I am learning to do backflips again. The dream of doing art full-time keeps bouncing around in my head. Now, providentially, I have had a friend placed in my path who could help me take this art dream to the next level. "You just have to go all out," is his only advice. But that means uncertainty, sacrifice, commitment, selling out, going for broke. It means wondering where money will come from to support a family. It means giving up on other enjoyable pasttimes (like blogging, for one). It means less energy as a result of strenuous output and less sleep-filled nights.

But this time I want to try. I want to succeed, but I think I'd even be willing to fail. I may land awkwardly and break my neck, but there's that brilliant chance that, if I tuck my legs tight enough, jump high enough and spin at the perfect rate, I could land gloriously.

My Home Companion

People are like plants.

As a kid, you shoot upward, and all thoughts and activities are focused in a single direction. It's all energy and growth, and single-minded attention. Though a child can't name it as such, his or her singular pursuit is, "things pleasing to me." It takes many forms, including sugar (or other manner of things which taste "yummy"), games and play (and all things "fun"), bright colors and pictures ("pretty"), happy stories ("funny"), and bouncy, syruppy music (for "singing" and "dancing").

As the stem grows, it doesn't seek to venture outside upright expansion. Ask a child to partake in steak, chess, PBS, independent films, lectures or sermons, or cultural music, they will flatly tell you, "I don't like that" (of course, they have countless ways to say the same thing: boring, yucky, etc.).

But when the plant has reached maturity, it suddenly branches out. Thoughts turn to reproduction, food production, and comfort (or "homeostasis" for all you scientists out there). Suddenly the plant is concerned for companionship, love, sex, home, job, income, and various pleasantries. Granted, these things were not absent from the tender shoot, just, perhaps, undefined and unrecognized.

It is still the quest for "things pleasing to me," but now satisfaction is found in so many new areas. In this branching process, the interests of the plant broaden. Now "yummy" is as much about cuisine as candy, "fun" ranges from simply watching people to creating a work of art, "pretty" gives way to beauty, which wears many faces, "funny" is more about wit and irony, and stories can be valued not only if they are entertaining, but also if they are important, interesting, troubling/moving, and even tragic. Learning is valued, even in the face of boredom. And an odd new category comes into being, showing the furthest spreading of life's limbs: nostalgia.

I can recall hating Neil Diamond on long car rides because he interupted my endless "Psalty the Singing Songbook" listening. Now I love Neil Diamond. I remember the days when I would have been put to sleep by public television or radio. I can easily say they are now my favorite channels on radio or tv.

Which brings me to my present post (took awhile, didn't it?). If you have the rare misfortune to hear Garrison Keillor as a child, your ears will bleed, your head will begin to expand and come dangerously close to explosion, and you will whine to your parents, "Why do we have to listen to this!!??" I know: I said it myself, and now I hear it from my own kids. The curiousity I am facing is why I love "The Prairie Home Companion" so much. I'm sure part of it is the fond memory of my parents which it stirs. However, I don't think my siblings would share the enthusiasm I have for the program. Something about sojourning in Minnesota on my own has made Lake Wobegon ("where all the men are strong, all the women are good looking, and all the children are above average") real in my heart. To hear Keilor's deep, soothing voice no longer lulls me into slumber but excites my memory of the frozen north, makes me laugh at the comical, generalized observations, and takes me back. When I was little, there was no "back". Forgive me for being a bit wowed by this. I can finally understand some of what my parents used to feel.

So now, every Saturday, I find my roots growing in an altogether new place. No longer do they sink down in front of the TV for Saturday morning cartoons. Instead they find me taking part in what I call, "the finest day of radio broadcasting ever" (Sputnik, on KTCU, FM 88.7, an alternative rock show, from 12:00-2:00; The Prairie Home Companion, NPR, FM 90.1, a variety show including old-fashioned storytelling and music, from 5:00-7:00; and, Thistle and Shamrock, a celtic music festival follwing on NPR).

Anyway, it is not so odd that I would grow into this sapling. After all, each plant springs from the seeds of its parents.

Cowardice

Definition: Ignoble fear in the face of danger or pain.

Allow me to rant for just a bit.

I was on my brother's blog reading about dead pigeons and thoroughly enjoying his self expression, when what should I run across, but an irritating post by an unknown assailant.

Maybe it's the brother defense in me (pick on him, you pick on me, too), maybe it's just a general distaste for cowards, but I was strangely and strongly irked by this comment.

I could not tell if it was meant to be funny, or harshly critical. Had I known the person who said it, such information might shed light on the spirit of the remark. But no..."Anonymous" did not have the courage to both have his/her ideas heard AND boldly proclaim he/she was the one saying them.

For all you "anonymouses" out there, find a back bone and use it. After all, if your thoughts have any merit (and certainly you think they do), the name of the individual spouting them should be attached. Without a name, it just seems like a pot-shot from a pansy poking at perfectly proud and prominenly named persons.

So there.

Borrowed Time

Each day is a mortgage on eternity
The span of a few hours is borrowed without collateral
A well-lived day seems a good return on time spent
Time is spent, or time is invested
Either way, the day is borrowed
Death is an exacting lender
An accounting must be made for the days used
And like figures on a tabulating machine
the days add up to what might account for a life
In the end the life must be paid to make up for the debt

Bill Gates is the Man

I took a class recently in which the conversation turned one evening to Bill Gates and his unfathomable riches. The instructor said that, unlike so many, Gates produced his wealth by trying to help others. In providing a product that revolutionized life and increased productivity, he made the world a better place, and consequently made a well-deserved fortune.

I am not writing to discuss the virtues or vices of Mr. Gates (personally, I think if a guy gives away billions of dollars annually, he can't be all bad), but rather his brainchild. While Bill Gates is not responsible for the invention of the computer, his Microsoft and Windows rapidly accelerated the accessibility of the computer to the common man. My instructor thought this to be a glowing accolade, but I'm not sure I agree.

At first, I think I was serving as devil's advocate, just to stir the pot and create some annimated conversation, but the more I was pressed on the point, the more my stance solidified in my mind. I told my instructor that computers aren't necessarily all that great. To say that the man to whom I directed my retort was outraged would be taking it too far, but shocked is certainly a good description. He simply could not fathom how the computer, and the Information Age it serves as harbinger for, could be anything but fantastic. I pointed out that it has become another chain to bind us with, another piece of property and another process to make us slaves. What has it made us more productive in doing? Does it add to the list, or help simplify to the essential?

So I've begun reading "Walden," again, and if you have not checked it out, you definitely should. A friend who was in the class also turned me on to Wendell Berry, and an interesting article he sent me can be found at http://www.tipiglen.dircon.co.uk/berrynot.html. Also, for a fine example of being bound by modern technology, see http://amsterdamasp.blogspot.com/2005/10/braham-lincoln.html, or look no further than these posts. I am intricately bound to the complex web (no pun intended) of technological revolution, for all it's blessings and curses. Yet I am longing to "simplify, simplify."

In the words of Sir Paul McCartney:
"If I ever get out of here, thought of giving it all away to a registered charity, if I ever get out of here."
What would the world be like if we all did that? Now that is a revolution.

Out and About

For those of you who have missed me, the computer is in the shop and our Internet is disconnected. I promise I will post more in the near future.

Are you kidding me?!

I'm creating a logo for Drew (really, for Jon) right now, and while I was looking for pictures of buffalo I found this. For those of you who may not be familiar, this is the world's largest buffalo, located in Jamestown, ND.
Jamestown is the home of my grandparents, and this image is an icon of my youth. I was shocked and delighted to discover this image, and I know you will be greatly enriched by the ability to see it yourself. It cannot compare to the real thing, however, and I highly recommend you go immediately to North Dakota to see it, if you have the means. Besides the buffalo, it really is a swinging place.

Worth

I just read Slack's blog and I thought I should get this thought out finally. I've had it in the conceptual stage for a month, and the hurricane issues have brought more to the surface. Anyway, thanks, Jason, for the inspiration.

I measure everything in terms of Ipods. For instance, several weeks ago I had a 1/3 pod evening. Dinner, put-put (or mini golf, depending on what region of the country/world you live in...do they even have miniature golf in Europe?), babysitter…it adds up.
Why do I use this yardstick? Because I really, really, really want a stinkin' Ipod!! I've been convinced for about 10 years that my life absolutely needs a soundtrack. Any situation, any mood, I want to be able to click a button and heard the song that my memory has already brought to the front of my mind. Now that technology is available...and it's expensive.
Why do I use this yardstick? Because basically...down deep...I'm selfish. I think about myself much more readily than any other person. In a way, it makes sense. I know more about myself than I do about any other person. But in a more profound way, it's sad.
Why don't I think first of presents and fun activities for my boys? Why don't I think of opportunities to shower my wife with love and affection? Why don't I think of ways to encourage my friends and make new acquantances (see Luke 16)? Why don't I think of foreign aid, philathropic gestures, support for victims very near my backdoor (literally) suffering from natural disaster?
I am truly selfish. I'm hoping that hitting the nail on the head, however, helps to drive it into the wood.

I Blog, Therefore I Pray

I was reading this book by Donald Miller today and he was really pounding away on the point that being a Christian isn’t about religion, it’s about knowing Jesus and him knowing you. All of a sudden it hit me why I blog. I want to be known. I want to throw thoughts and ideas out there and have people know me. And this is more than the spotlight-craving behavior I’m sometimes known for. It’s not a cry of, “Look at me!” but a whisper of, “I’m here.” My favorite part of blogging isn’t the posts. The posts nearly kill me. I have all these ideas and no time to type them up, to revise and edit, to perfect and post. No, my favorite part is the reply. The response post from a dear friend or a complete stranger. And honestly, sometimes I feel God is both. I know him a little, but he’s so immense. Scariest of all is my struggle to pray or journal. When I realize that I do struggle to pray, and then realize I’m blogging instead, I see this whole mess as a cry to God. Prayer seems formulaic, repetitive, burdensome at times. As a Christian that puts me in a hard place. Prayer is uber important. But it’s hard for me. It’s been hard. So I think maybe these random, personal ideas thrown out into cyberspace…the netherworld of technology…are really little notes or love letters thrown out into the sea of the cosmos for a God who I know loves me, but sometimes it’s scary to love back. I say this because I know in my heart I want to love. I want to know him. I want him to know me.
I’m here.

Pardon Me

I feel like Salieri, uttering, "Grazie, Signore" each time I finish a post. You see, it's not easy to post alongside the greatness of Mozart.

At first I endeavored to draft, revise, edit...and generally make all my writing a glowing work of art...each time I posted.

But now I realize that I just don't have the time for all that. So please forgive me. I know these posts could probably be better, but I can't commit that time right now. Accept them as the musings of my heart, even if there aren't a perfect piece of prose (at least I've got alliteration going for me tonight!).

“Come in, Base…”

I’ve landed on a foreign planet.
A place where a child weeps for an uncle in jail.
A place where a mother, glad for the return of her husband from jail, counsels her young son to “whoop” a bully to make the teasing stop.
A place where slavery and segregation are forgotten, and must be relearned at age 10.
A place where cousins are kin in more than the blood ties relational way, but also in the deep concern, daily communication kind of way.
Don't beam me up yet. There's much more to see, do, and discover.

Lighting the Way

Ms. Star, the school librarian, was giving a boring presentation, distracting me from creating my "To Do" list. An important item on my list required a call-out, so I put a start next to it.
A star? I never do a star. An asterisk, maybe, but never a five-point star. This star then brought the strangest sensation cascading over me. I felt warm and began to smile. I realized the star reminded me of decorating my home for Christmas. I thought of the excitement, joy and peace of the season. I thought of the star lighting the way to Jesus. How thankful I am that the star directed me back to him today.

Incommunicado II

Christmas is a time when there is a lot of hustle and bustle. Shoppping and lights and gifts and noise and lines and stress and family and parties and on and on and on. When all these things crowd in, there is little time to communicate. At a deep, dark, cool and quiet time of year, when it seems very natural to be spiritual, my life easily becomes too busy to communicate with Jesus. If it is sadly ironic that we speak to others the least when we have the most going on and the most to say, how tragically moreso that during the season celebrating the birth of Jesus it is hardest to stop, contemplate, and speak to him.

Only 103 shopping days left until Christmas. Will I be ready?

Incommunicado

Isn’t it ironic that the times in life when you have the most to talk about you have the least time to talk about them? Take my life, for example. I’ve got all this crap going on, but I’m so busy because of the crap that I can’t communicate the crap to anyone. I’ve got no time to share it all. Of course, when life hits a lull, that’s inevitably when my parents call and ask me what’s up. All the time in the world…nothing to say.

AA

Do you know why an alcoholic drinks?
Because he can.
Think about that for a second. For a person who feels their failures are self-defining, failing becomes the only thing they can do really well.
I fight the fearful feeling that my failure is final.

“Oh for the sake of momentum
even though I agree wit the stuff about seizing the day
Still I hate to think of efforts expended
all those minutes and hours and days that I’ve flittered away
I know life is getting shorter
I can’t bring myself to set the scene
Even when it’s approaching torture
I’ve got my routine
But I can’t confront the doubts I’ve had
I can’t admit that maybe the past was bad
And so for the sake of momentum
I’m condemning the future to death so it can match the past”
(Amy Mann)

Powerless

Do other teachers fear the coming revolt? Do they realize that if students were ever smart enough to realize that we are completely impotent public schools would be utter chaos? We have no power. No impending doom. We cannot touch them. We cannot talk derisively to them. Not that I’m saying these are good things and we should use them. But nowadays, if you look at a kid cross-eyed a parent is liable to sue you and demand your job. We’ve surrendered everything…what’s left?

Corner of the Sky

I love the musical Pippin. I love the main theme, “Corner of the Sky.” I think a lot of my living lately has been this Ecclesiates-type quest. Pippin feels like what he’s looking for can’t be found in books. So he tries war, politics, hedonism, love, marriage, fatherhood…right up to death. And he can’t find that corner carved out just for him. In the end he faces death, but chooses instead to keep living. The curtain drops.

I’m like that. I want to find where I excel; my corner of the sky. I want to be great, to find my niche, to feel like I’m doing what I was born to do. I think a lot of my job hopping has a lot to do with that. Obviously, part of it was pragmatics—I needed money to support my family, and anything that was best for them, I would do (even if it meant another jump for me). But something like 10 jobs in 2 years…that’s a ton! I think I knew in my heart, though I never acknowledged it to anyone, that I was just desperately hoping one of them would be right for me…the perfect fit. I had to leave youth ministry. That’s what I thought I always wanted to do; the thing I was made for. Losing that certainty is like falling out of your corner of the sky. I was Icharus wandering around with broken, waxy wings, hoping something would lift me back to the heavens.

But Pippin was right. I can’t seem to find my place anywhere. None of those things seemed to work. In the absence of stumbling into “my true calling,” I’ve chosen to pursue teaching. Is it really because I love students (and art, which I hope to one day teach)? Is it really a fusion of my passions, as I say it is? Or is it another direction, another stab that will ultimately fail and leave me wanting more? It feels like a temporary fix. In the quiet moments when I’m honest with myself…and when I’m pretty certain no one else is around to hear…I admit that I don’t really know why I’m doing this. All I know is that everything God makes has a place. Rivers ramble. Eagles fly. I want my spirit to run free in serving God the way he made me.
I have to find my corner of the sky.

Hero Worship

If you have ever seen the film “Unbreakable” you might recall Elijah’s mother, and her brave decision to coax her son, hiding in their apartment due to his frail bones and his fear of being hurt again, out into the playground. She did this by placing a box full of comic books on the park bench across the street. From these early experiences, Elijah developed a love for comic books.
I always get tears in my eyes when I watch that scene. I recall that scene being played out in my own life. I recall a time when I was sick and home from school. My mother took care of me and waited on me hand and foot. She had to go to the grocery store at one point and when she returned she presented me with a “Wolverine” comic book to occupy my ailing hours. To this day I can remember the plot of that book, I can remember the pictures, and I still have that comic in my home. What is even more interesting is the fact that, to this day, my love for Wolverine, for the X Men, for comic books, is a result of a choice made by my mom. I didn’t choose Wolverine. She chose him for me, and I loved it. You cannot understand how cool this is for me to remember. My mom recognized a talent in me, an interest and a passion, and she was instrumental in shaping that ability in me…all through the purchase of a simple comic book. My mom and dad were always doing things like that. In my early adolescence I started to listen to hip hop and rap. My first foray into the genre was the soundtrack to “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Movie” (don’t rag on me too bad…the blog is called “Hopelessly Uncool” after all; and yes, I did see the movie 3 times in the theatres…and yes, I am a dork). I didn’t realize how amazing my parents were at the time, but looking back I see it clearly. The kid who starts defying the culture of his parents (by dressing goth, listening to rap, etc.) is often met by an aggressive backlash on the part of the parents. Not so with my folks. My parents never confronted me on my choice of what was then “questionable” music. They didn’t even tell me I couldn’t listen to it. They chose instead to channel it…channel me…and they did a great job of it. I can still remember the details of that situation. It was around Easter. When Easter arrived and my family opened our traditional Easter baskets, there in my basket was a cassette tape of DC Talk’s self-titled, smash-hit debut album. I hate DC Talk now, but back then they were the “it” band of Christian hip hop. See the brilliance? He likes art? Get him a comic book. He likes rap? Well that other stuff isn’t all that wholesome, maybe introducing him to Christian rap will meet that need and build him up at the same time. Freakin’ genius, if you ask me.
And at this point you may be thinking that this post is about my parents. They are certainly my heroes, but I was planning on going a different direction at first. Forgive my MASSIVE digression.
So back to Elijah “Mr. Glass” Price. His mom turned him on to a love for comic books. Mine did the same. And in this love for comics I began to learn a lot about myself. I learned that I loved to draw and would copy pages from the books. More importantly, I learned that there was an aching in me to develop an identity for myself. I longed to be like the heroes in the pages I read. Before long, I latched onto MY hero: Superman.
Now in junior high I was not much to look at, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell that by my attitude. Cocky is not a strong enough term to describe the annoying level of self-confidence I exuded. I started to feel like I was invincible. I started to wear the crimson “S” on my chest as a sign of my superiority. A high school girlfriend bought me a Superman ring. I persuaded my shuttle hurdle team to buy red and gray Superman warm up t-shirts. I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, but I really wanted to be the Man of Steel.
Then my world just kinda fell apart. I learned later that various people in my youth group were praying that God would break me and draw me to Himself. I think that’s sort of mean (in truth, I’m thankful), but that’s what they did, and that’s what He did. I broke my wrist on the first day of basketball practice my senior year. God used that, but the deconstruction/reconstruction process was not complete there (and I’m pretty sure I’m still a work in progress). That girl who bought me the ring broke up with me. I met a new girl, but kinda botched things with moral failure (she’s my wife now, and we’ve worked through it, but it crushed me back then). I got back up, then fell again. I wanted success and stardom…I got pain and heartache (mostly self-inflicted). The illusion of Superman was as far from my soul as distant Krypton (wait…Krypton blew up…but you get my drift).
Somewhere in the process a new hero began to take root in my heart. My identification with him is far more realistic than with that of Superman. I literally see traces of him nearly every day of my life.
Mr. Furious.
You know, the guy in “Mystery Men.” The guy whose “power comes from his boundless rage.” The guy who crushes the life out of a stress ball and still seethes, “That little sucker just saved your life!!” Yeah, that’s me. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t “go Pompei on (somebody’s) ass.” Hardly a moment at home slips by when I don’t want to throttle a dog or a child. I told this to my buddy Steve, and moments later watched him struggle in the backseat of his minivan, trying to strap in his son. When he emerged, all he said was, “I just had a Mr. Furious moment.” And I laughed uncontrollably. That’s good—I’m going to use that.
But even though I say all this in a humorous light, I get really down on myself…and scared of myself…when I realize how inclined to rage I really am. I long to “get rid of all…rage” as I know I should. But when I try, and inevitably fail, I get really mad and just want to hit something.
And this is what I am learning from Jesus: I have serious self-control issues. Furthermore, I can’t control myself in my own ability and power, and that’s precisely why it’s a fruit of the Spirit and why I need submission and relinquishing of control. It’s a bizarre paradox: self-control by Spirit control. So am I really controlling self, or is the Spirit controlling this self; so that makes is Spirit-control, not self-control right? AHHH, it’s so frustrating, where’s my stress ball!!
Okay Jesus…I’ll try to learn. Can you help me control myself?

Wisdom

My father is a very wise man. From a simple movie quote he can discern all my thoughts.

My last post was an unusual one. I was talking to my friend Michael and he said that when he checked my blog the next day, he wanted to see a reference to "flip the script." This phrase emerged at one point in our conversation, and Michael commented how that street vernacular term was quoted in a Masters level college course by an Anglo professor. An educated, white, middle class woman using "flip the script." We commented that it was rather humorous. You see, we talk to each other as if we were some ridiculous rappers. We lived in Rogers Park (Chicago) together, and would often immitate the language we heard around us everyday. We are wannabe ganstas a la Michael Bolton in "Office Space." But to have this woman say "flip the script...." well that's something else entirely.

So I thought of the quote from "Be Cool." I ruminated on the influence of African American culture on American culture as a whole. What has made me more sensitive to this fact is that I will soon be teaching on the east side of Fort Worth with a classroom full of urban, poverty-level, minority students. I think I approached this occupation as a chance to truly influence "poor black kids," but (and this is a cheesy cliche, so forgive me) I wonder how much they will influence me? I wonder how much I will look at them and say, "Yeah...I do that too" and with even greater astonishment will learn that such a cool/valuable/important thing originated in them, in their culture, and not in my own.

I wouldn't say I'm a racist, but I'm not so sure a coworker or student at my school would read this and agree with me. Certainly to be so ethnocentric is a sort of default racism. To believe that my race is better and brighter than others is racist, even if I don't hate those other races.

So I am eagerly longing for my script to be flipped. I am anxious to know, and not just to presume to know in generalities and stereotypes. My brother is also wise, and he points out looking past the exterior is the only way to see a person. I'm hoping that with a little bit of my father...a dash of my brother...and yes, a dose of Cedric the Entertainer...I'll be ready to learn when I start to teach.

Flip The Script

"How is it that you can disrespect a man’s ethnicity when you know we have influenced nearly every facet of white America? From our music, our style of dress, to the basic imitation of our sense of cool. The way we walk, talk, dress, our mannerisms. We enrich your very existence, all the while contributing to the gross national product through our achievements in corporate America. It is these conceits that comfort me when I’m faced with the ignorant, cowardly, bitter, and bigoted who have no talent, no guts…people like you who desecrate things they don’t understand when the truth is, you should say, “Thank you, man” and go on about your way.
Racial epithets…why does it always come down to that?"
-Cedric the Entertainer, “Be Cool”

A person very dear to me suggested that I publish a more recent photo, lest some get the idea that the afro picture is current, and thereby conclude that I am strange. So I had to find a recent picture (taken within the last week) to send the message, "I am not strange." This one should certainly do the trick.

Failure

"Why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up again."
-Batman Begins

Have you ever had those times when you feel like the thing you are doing best is doing your worst? Do you ever feel like no matter what you try, all you can successfully do is fail?

I am not in a particularly depressed state as I write this. In fact, I only write in order to add a new post to my blog. I sat thinking, "What do I write?" and the response was, "Man, you suck at writing in this thing. You've only got like 3 posts!" So the thought struck me that I feel like I am doing poorly in so many areas.

Even as I type this, each time I want to write "thing" I somehow type an "s" on the end to make it "things."

I try to wake up early. I feel tired all day.
I try to work out. Well...not really. Once in 4 months is not really trying.
I try to raise my sons to the best of my ability. I end up yelling a lot.
I try to housebreak my dogs. They pee on the carpet.
I try to love my wife. I'm busy with homework.
I try to do homework. I type in my blog.

And this is what I'm learning (and what I'm teaching a group of high schoolers this Sunday): sometimes you have to stop trying. I can't stop raising my sons. I can't stop loving my wife. I can't simply abandon my life. But I can stop trying to be Atlas, holding my entire world aloft on my shoulders, and thinking I have the strength to do it on my own. Sometimes you just need a Hercules to give you a break. Sometimes you just need to shrug.

"Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

The tasks will be there tomorrow. The sense of failure may persit, but it motivates me to pick myself up and try again.

"The weight of the world in a burden,
but it's my cross to bear,
I stumble under the weight,
and know you're Simon standing there."

bird