It's Just a Thought

Where do we go from here?

2022-06-02T10:30:00.002-04:00

Hey all. While this post is in Gwenn's voice. We wrote it together. I wrote chunks of it as Gwenn because I figured it would just be more readable that way. And because we are 100% aligned on what we're sharing today.

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Early in our time in Haiti Nick and I learned the necessity (for that line of work) of living a public (within our circles anyway) life. Authenticity and transparency became our “brand,” so to speak. And if I’m honest, we came to love it. When everyone knows everything, there is nothing to hide. There is so much freedom in that. It’s so beautiful to live the same life whether at home, alone, with family, or friends, or in front of a crowd. It’s one of the reasons that we decided to share about my orientation publicly. It allows us to live one life, out in the open, in front of everyone.

There’s a tension that Nick and I are managing right now though because, on the one hand the specifics of our relationship and where we go from here is our business. On the other hand, people talk. People speculate. People judge. People think they know something they do not know. And so, because of our deep desire to live one whole life, out in the open, we have more to share. So, here’s the deal.

At this point, Nick and I are not discussing separation/divorce. We love one another. We hope we can forge a new kind (to us) of marriage as platonic partners and best friends. We believe in and stand by the family we have built. We are proud of it.

We also both understand that (for us) part of embracing this reality means that we will almost certainly desire the kind of companionship that we are not able to offer one another. And so, are leaving space for that and recognizing that as valid, and normal, and good. We are both open to each other exploring that. To be clear, I am okay with Nick pursuing friendships, companionship, and even dating other women, and he is okay with me doing the same.

Some people may think this is sudden. Like we are moving too fast. But remember, my identity is something we have been working on and wrestling through for 5 years. This is not new to us. Sure, being out about it is new to us and new to others. But we’ve been privately holding this for a long time. This kind of arrangement is something we have been open to for quite some time now—probably more than 2 years. We haven’t shared it with too many others (although we have shared it with some people) because, well, it’s nobody’s business and we know that people have lots of opinions about non-traditional arrangements.

So then why are we sharing this now? For the very reason I lay out above. We want to live one life--without fear of being “discovered” or “found out.” We are sharing this now because we don’t ever want people to make assumptions. If someone sees me in public hanging out with a woman, I don’t want people to assume that I am “stepping out” on Nick. And the same goes if someone sees Nick out with a woman. He’s not cheating. It’s not a scandal. Remember that you don’t know what you don’t know.

Nick and I have an extremely close relationship. We tell each other the details of things that many (most?) couples would never discuss. Nothing has transpired (or is transpiring) without the other being fully aware.

We recognize there are other ways to live in a mixed orientation marriage. Some of those ways may be more comfortable for some people. But a guiding principle for us right now is that we want to add and multiply love in our lives, not subtract and divide (isn’t it cute the way Nick turned that into a math equation?). So, the idea of one or both of us living anything less than a fully embodied life is unacceptable. And we have been there—that’s the entire tenant of purity culture—that you ignore and cut off parts of yourself. Nick and I do not see a way forward for our marriage where he can be fully himself and I can be fully myself without also acknowledging our potential desire for romantic companionship within our respective orientations. And we believe that’s something we can navigate.

We know a lot of people are not going to be okay with this. That’s okay with us. We know a lot of people will think, “There’s no way this will work.” And maybe, ultimately, they will be right. Or maybe not. We do not know what the future holds. But when we look ahead, this is the way we believe we can fight FOR our relationship and FOR our family. And we have always believed there are a lot of good, and right, and valid, and honest ways to build a family. This is one of them. And this is how our family is navigating this. Full transparency with one another and with any potential romantic partners. We are adults. No one will be uninformed. No one will be in the dark.

Finally, this is probably the extent of what we will share publicly on this issue. We wanted it out there because we never want assumptions/rumors made about us in the future that we are unfaithful to one another. Because nothing could be farther from the truth. This is how we remain faithful to our very real and true love for one another.

We wanted you to hear this from us

2022-05-21T10:22:00.001-04:00

(If you're interested in Gwenn's voice first click here, I'll link to it again at the end)

"Life is multiple choice, " this has been my mantra lately, "we don't get to pick the options, we just get to make our choice"

"It changes everything," this has been Gwenn's mantra lately, "and it changes nothing." Then she adds, "but it changes everything."

Gwenn and I find ourselves in an interesting situation lately. No choices were made. No mistakes. Just a new situation. A beautiful one.

Gwenn is gay. And we're married. We're in a mixed orientation marriage.

I am so proud of Gwenn. She has been digging deep for the last few years. Doing really hard. Really scary work. And I am honored that I was part of the process. She left me out of nothing. She did the work, but we did this together.

And I am so happy for Gwenn. Anyone who knows me knows that I adore her. I have never wanted anything but for her to be happy and that has always been a struggle for her. But this new reality has brought her a joy and a comfort and an identity that she has never had before--not before me, not with me. I cannot speak to her inner world, but from the outside looking in, for the first time in our life together, I can see that she is happy. It's what I've always wanted. And I support her 100%. In exploring. In experiencing. In discovering. In becoming. There are no scandals here. I am behind my wife.

And now it gets darker, because I am also devastated for Gwenn. Once you reach a certain age, every great discovery comes with the regret of not having discovered it earlier. And I know Gwenn feels that now. I am devastated that it took 45 years for her to have enough space and support to be who God created her to be, not what other people wanted her to be.

And I am devastated for me. I watched them wheel my 3-day-old son into heart surgery. I experienced a natural disaster that took hundreds of thousands of lives. I have been robbed at gunpoint multiple times. I was there when my wife admitted herself to a psychiatric hospital. Personally, this is harder. Maybe the hardest thing I have ever done. And I wish it was easy.

Yet there's hope. I find myself inspired. The reality is I was a child when I married Gwenn. And the struggle to make everything work, neither of us knowing the reality of that struggle that we now know, caused me to turn off parts of myself that I'm turning back on. I'm looking forward to discovering and growing and becoming. And there is no scandal here. Gwenn is behind me. As for our relationship, I am letting go of the ending. At the same time, there are dreams that are not yet dead--not happily ever after, not in the traditional sense, but dreams nonetheless. We are working to bring the life that we have built and love, our home, our children, our friends, our marriage into this new life that we are, again, building together. One beautiful, messy, loud, crowded, table.

Life is multiple choice, we don't get to pick the options, we just get to make our choice. And in this intensely beautiful, intensely difficult moment we are choosing each other. I choose Gwenn. She chooses me. I choose me. Gwenn chooses her. And we appreciate your love and support.

(Gwenn's voice)

In Response to Sex, 21 Years of Marriage, and Happily Ever After

2021-10-14T14:41:00.002-04:00

This is a response to a post by Gwenn.

We toasted at our wedding with sparkling cider. We didn't have any alcohol at all (at least not sanctioned). And while the venue we booked for our reception (which didn't allow alcohol) was the nominal reason for our teetotaling, the more accurate reason was my age. I was 20. I couldn't drink. As I look back now, with 18 and almost 17-year-old children, I realize it was crazy.

But I don't regret my decision. I'm sure I had plenty of misinformation and wrong-headed ideas at the time, but I also had seeds of ideas and feelings that were right. I knew I wanted to be something different than I was. I knew I wanted to be better. I knew I loved this girl (although I had no idea what that meant, really). And I knew marriage could get me all those things.

There was a book going around in our circle when we were newly married. I don't remember the title or the author. And I don't know if I ever read the book so please don't take this as a recommendation. But I remember the tagline: "What if God designed marriage to make us holy more than to make us happy?" Again, I don't know if I recommend the book. But I recommend the tagline.

The first decade of our marriage was one of constant, manic, personal growth. I had wanted to be better and it was doing what I wanted. I leapt out of adolescence into a world of budgets and jobs and time management (these days we would call it adulting). I started waking up at 4:30 in the morning (no longer). I had to concern myself not just with myself but also with another. And then two others. And then three and quickly four (the fifth came in the next paragraph) others. And I fought for that marriage. I had always been stubborn, but I had never persevered until I had to figure out how to stay married to someone I didn't always like and, much more often, didn't always like me.

But a funny thing happened toward the end of that first decade. I think colloquially it's call the seven year itch. It was a desire for more. A feeling of stagnation. Personal growth slowed. I realize now what I didn't then: we had fought for our marriage and we had won. It no longer stretched me to stay in this relationship, in fact it had become quite comfortable. And I wanted more. And Gwenn wanted more. So we moved to Haiti. And there is lots to say about that next decade, but for the purposes of this writing it was just a detour.

We returned from Haiti a few years ago. And we recovered for a few years. And that pretty much brings us up-to-date. Over the past year I've watched as Gwenn has awakened to who she was always meant to be. And I've struggled to figure out where I fit. And while I don't know where this journey leads, I finally know what the journey is. For a decade I fought to hold on to my marriage. Insert decade long detour here.

Now it's time to let go.

All these people I fought so hard to hold so tight aren't actually MINE. They're not MY kids. She's not MY wife. To be clear this isn't about divorce or separation. This is about open hands instead of closed fists. In the same way that I opened my life to include Gwenn over a glass of sparkling cider 21 years ago. I now open myself to more. In the same way that my view of God has expanded over the decades, my view of love must as well. Love is not control. It is not ownership.

It must be something else.

May the next 10 years be devoted finding out what love is. And to fighting for it as hard as I fought for what I thought love was when I said "I do" 21 years ago.

Them, Too

2018-07-03T20:43:00.000-04:00

America isn't yours.

The flag is not yours.

I, too, have the right to fly it. I, too, have the right to post it. I, too, have the right to claim it and sing about it and chant U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

But America isn't mine.

The flag is not mine.

They, too, have the right to fly it and post it. They, too, have the right to kneel before it in honor, or raise their first before it in hope or respect or protest or whatever they want to describe it as.

This is their country as much as it is ours. With their bodies it was built. With their blood it is protected.

So celebrate the day. Wave the flag. Grill the brats. Stand in awe of the burning embers flying through the sky and a country who's promise is freedom for all. Not just you. Not just me. But us. We. Yes, even them.

I, Too

2018-07-03T20:41:00.001-04:00

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong.

Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then.

Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

- Langston Hughes, 1902 - 1967

Protect and Serve

2018-06-12T09:52:00.000-04:00

Johnnie and Suzy lived in a small town. It was probably a bit like yours, if you live in a small town. Johnnie and Suzy's small town's only claim to fame was a juvenile detention center on the outskirts, actually just a few blocks from the neighborhood where Johnnie and Suzy lived and played. Johnnie had always been afraid of the big block building with fences around it-- he called it "jail". His fear was so irrational that when their local church announced a service project IN the detention center his mother signed herself and Johnnie up to participate as a way to cure him of his fears.

Johnnie shook as they prepared to enter the building. "Don't worry," the adults in the group assured him, "these are bad people, but look at the thick walls and bars--They will keep you safe." Johnnie stuck close to the largest man in the group as they entered the detention center. And by the time they ended up in a common room with the inmates he was absolutely terrified. But a funny thing happened. These people didn't look bad. They looked like kids. They looked like Johnnie. He smiled. One of the boys smiled back.

By the end of the visit Johnnie was playing and laughing with the inmates. He was no longer scared. But he wasn't reassured by the walls and the bars. He was reassured knowing that these inmates were, in many ways, just like him.

But this story isn't about Johnnie's visit to the juvenile detention center.

Suzy loved her mother. Her mother loved her garden. She loved Suzy too, but she hated when Suzy and her friends played in her garden. Johnnie was Suzy's best friend. They played in Suzy's mother's garden a lot.

Suzy's mother would come out of the house, see footprints in the garden and begin chasing the kids around the house.

"Stop playing in my garden!" She would yell, "you're trampling my seeds!"

The kids would run and laugh.

"I love you, Suzy, but you drive me crazy with this garden thing," she was beginning to lose her breath still chasing the kids through the yard, "why is it so hard to stay out of the garden?!"

Suzy laughed.

"And you, Johnnie," she turned her attention to the boy, "I'm telling you if you don't stay out of my garden I'm going to have to call the police!"

The neighbors, listening through their kitchen windows and from their back porches, chuckled. Suzy's mom stopped, doubled over with her hands on her knees.

Johnnie's eyes grew large. "She's not serious is she?" He turned toward his friend. She just shrugged.

But this story isn't about Suzy's mother.

Officer Smith and Officer Winston were patrolling the quiet neighborhood with extra care that evening. Just a few blocks away a juvenile had escaped from the detention center. There were reports here might be armed-- rumors, really, but enough to put everybody on edge.

"What was he wearing again?" Officer Winston asked while peeking between the houses as they rolled by.

"Blue is what they said." Officer Smith glanced at the digital screen between them to confirm the information. "Shouldn't he be wearing a prison uniform or something? Why blue?"

They bantered to pass the time until, "what was that?" Officer Winston caught sight of something blue disappearing into a lush garden.

Officer Smith slowed the cruiser and stopped while both searched the garden for another look. Johnnie, wearing blue, popped out between the rows, saw the police cruiser, and froze in his tracks.

The officers glanced at each other recognizing the guilty look on Johnnie's face.

"He's a little young," officer Smith said out of the side of his mouth, "but we should check him out anyway."

Officer Winston nodded without taking his eyes off of Johnnie. "Hey there young man." He spoke loudly out the window.

But Johnnie began tearing up because all he could hear was Suzy's mother's voice; "I'm telling you if you don't stay out of my garden I'm going to have to call the police!"

Johnnie's vision blurred. He could barely see the officer open the door and step out of the vehicle, but when he did, he turned and ran. Johnnie bolted between the houses and didn't look back.

The officers glanced at each other again. This time with surprise. Officer Winston, who had stepped out of the car, was still looking back toward officer Smith when the latter pointed toward the garden. A young girl had emerged right where the young boy had been standing.

Suzy was surprised as well. She had popped out to ask Johnnie a question. But he was gone. And the police were there.

"Do you know that boy who was in the garden with you?" One of the officers asked.

Suzy briefly considered telling him she wanted to speak to a lawyer like she had seen on TV. Instead "yes."

"Does he live around here?"

"Yes." She pointed across the street to his house.

The officers shared a third glance. "Shit," officer Smith muttered, realizing they had just made this potentially dangerous situation worse. They radioed the dispatcher to let him know what was going on and then approached Johnnie's home.

Johnnie's mother became more and more upset as they explained everything to her until, toward the end of the story, she angrily demanded, "how are you going to find and protect my son!?"

They all agreed that finding Johnnie had become the highest priority and left the house together. Johnnies mother rode in the back of the cruiser with the windows down. As they pulled away she kindly instructed Suzy to go inside and lock the doors. The officers smiled and that took away any worries that she had. Suzy did as she was told.

The cruiser wove from block to block as Johnnie's mother called his name over and over. The neighbors heard the worry in her voice and began checking their back yards. It was one of them that found him sitting under a willow tree. His youthful energy had only endured for a few blocks.

Johnnie's mother ran to meet him under that tree. He buried his face into his mother's stomach. He cried. She cried. The officers thanked the neighbor profusely and then turned to the boy.

"I'm sorry I played in the garden," Johnnie apologized to the officers, "I won't do it again."

Johnnie's mother intercepted the apology. "We'll talk about that later."

"For now," Officer Smith picked up where she left off, "I want you to know that, as far a we're concerned, you've done nothing wrong."

"More than that," Officer Winston pulled something out of his pocket and winked at Johnnie's mother, "because you have been so brave I would like to award you the honor of 'Junior Deputy'." He showed a small plastic badge to Johnnie. It said 'Junior Deputy' across the top with the insignia of the police force below. "Can I pin this badge on your shirt?"

Johnnie saw the sharp pin on the back and pulled away into his mother's stomach again. "I'll just hold it," he said as he pushed out his hand. Everyone laughed.

And they all lived happily every after.

This story is about a community. And it's about a police department that protects and serves it's community. My wish is for every community to have a police department like that. But instead we get this: Johnnie, handcuffed on the hood of a police cruiser, peeing his pants.

We're Doing it Wrong

2017-11-25T15:18:00.000-05:00

Recently a former friend and colleague was convicted of some pretty heinous crimes. There's been lots of processing. Lots of feelings. Feelings primarily for the victims, also for the criminal, and finally for me. The emotion that hit, upon hearing of the verdict, was not singular. It was a mix of:

Sadness—allowing the weight of the accusations, now proven beyond a reasonable doubt, to hit home.
Relief—because, while I'd never pretend to know what I didn't witness, I believed the victims, and wanted justice for them.
Shame—at the part I played in creating an environment where these crimes could occur.

And all this happened at an oddly appropriate cultural time as allegations come in (nearly daily) against famous, powerful, men who abused their power and violated women. And in light of my recent experience, while I don't pretend to know what I didn't witness, I believe the victims and I want justice for them.

So it is with great frustration that I watch the public pick sides, as if an athletic contest or political debate. And it is with greater frustration that I watch many people that claim Christ as their mentor and savior pick the wrong side.

You may say that it is less than I think. That I overstate the problem. But I can not tolerate even one. I see Christians picking the powerful over the powerless. The accused over the abused. We are discussing the character of victims as if they are the ones who should be on trial. We are using the Bible to defend pedophilia, amongst other things.

And we are standing by as our sworn enemies—you know who I'm talking about: the "left", the "libtards", the "snowflakes", the "gays", the "cross-dressers", the "vulgar", the "heathens", the "socialists" and "communists", the "feminists", and the "politically correct"—we are standing by and opposing as they do so many beautiful things. They believe. They listen. They apologize. They love fiercely in the midst of pain and betrayal. They stand with the oppressed. All the while we seem to be choosing our response based on political association. And when we side with the victims it sounds much less like solidarity and much more like "I told you so" as if this morally bankrupt society is something we predicted years ago.

To be fair, we did. I learned at a young age about the slippery slope. "If we let a man marry a man," I was assured, "next he'll want to marry a child" as if homosexuality was the grown up version of a children's book about a pig and pancake. And yet here we are. WE elected an admitted abuser of women to the most powerful office in the world and now, when faced with a pedophile running for the senate WE respond "if it was good enough for Mary and Joseph." We were right about the slippery slope. But then we jumped right on it.

And if you're thinking that I'm wrong and that there are many Christians speaking out against this I tell you they are not speaking loud enough. Because I, for one, and my non-christian brothers and sisters, for many others are not hearing them. So if you are a Christian and you stand against the state of the American church—if you stand against the twisted politicization of Jesus—against the sacrifice of character at the altar of power—against the confusion between the American Dream and the Kingdom of God—if you are against these things then this is your chance to speak. And it might be your only chance. Because many of us are about to stop listening. If we want to avoid the "post-church" society we've been fear mongering about we'd better stop being a church the rest of the world wants to put in the past.

We, Church, are failing. We are not only not doing our job but we are actively fighting the people that are trying to do it for us. So while I'm using my pronouns with purpose in this writing, you'll forgive me if I'm using "we" when it comes to Christianity less and less these days. It has nothing to do with the object of the word (Christ) and everything to do with those that are claiming it.

An example of loving fiercely in the midst of pain and betrayal, if needed:

Soon Enough

2017-10-15T06:53:00.000-04:00

I was looking for Nico at his school last year. I had met with his teachers and wanted to touch base before I left for work. I found him in the gym jumping rope and he looked so old. It was one of those moments when you realize how long it's been since the first time I saw this amazing little boy.

"He looks at least 15," I remember thinking.

The same age as Jordan Edwards.

But he wasn't 15.
He was 12.The same age as Tamir Rice.

Nico's always been small. People always tell me that he's cute. He's got a great smile. They talk about his perfect hair and beautiful eyes.

But he's not a little boy anymore.

And it scares me.

And soon enough,

that hair will be locked or corn-rowed and it will no longer be beautiful.

It will be dangerous.

And soon enough.

Those big, brown eyes will stare down the barrel of a gun.

And his actions in that moment,

No matter how innocent,

No matter how well-meaning,

His actions will be brought to account,

Quite possibly with his life.

But the actions of the other,

The one with the gun,

The one with the badge,

The one with the uniform,

And the power,

And the responsibility,

Those actions,

No matter how heinous or irresponsible,

No matter the consequence for my son's body,

Those actions will not be held to account,

Not with their life,

Not with their freedom,

Not with their job,

Not with their social standing.

I will not even be allowed to question their love of black people.

Jesus Christ,

They say,

Will save us from all death.

Unless it's death by a gun,

Whose barrel is pointed at my son.

So Christians,

You know who you are,

Do not speak to me of life after death,

Unless you are willing to listen to me about my son's life before it.

Tamir Rice, 12-years-old

My son, 12-years-old, not posed

Math is Easy

2017-10-10T15:37:00.000-04:00

I want to do some math. Is that ok? Do you have your calculator out?

Let's start with minimum wage: $7.25. 2.6 million people in America work for minimum wage. Over 2 million of them are adults trying to support themselves and their families. You can check those numbers here.

$7.25

That’s minimum wage. How much would one make working full time? 40 hours per week. $7.25 per hour.

$290

That’s the weekly pay for a full-time minimum wage worker. Now there are 4 weeks in a month. To be fair, it's a little more. In fact, if you do more math (52 weeks in a year / 12 months in a year), it averages out to 4 1/3 weeks per month. $290 per week. 4.33 weeks per month.

$1256

That's the take home pay for a month of full time work at minimum wage. At the same time, the average studio apartment in my town is $861 per month (You can find the number for your town here and follow along—it will be fun). $1256 per month in income. $861 per month for rent.

$395

That's how much one would have to live on if he or she worked a full time, minimum wage job and had a 1-bedroom apartment. That’s $13 per day. Could you live on that? Eat? Drink? Get back and forth to work? Electricity? Taxes? No. You can’t. Let’s take this math in another direction.

$861

That’s the average rent in Cary, NC. “They” say you shouldn’t pay more than 30% of you gross income on housing. That being the case one would need to make 3 1/3 times this number to be able to afford it.

$2870

That’s the monthly salary necessary to afford a 1-bedroom apartment in Cary, NC. Divide that by 4 1/3 weeks. We already did the math to find that number. $3270 per month. 4 1/3 weeks per month.

$662

That’s the weekly salary necessary to afford a 1-bedroom apartment in Cary, NC. If one was working for minimum wage of $7.25, he or she would need to work a lot of hours. $662 per week. $7.25 per hour.

That’s how many hours one would have to work to afford a 1-bedroom apartment at minimum wage. Ouch. That’s 13 hours per day. 7 days per week.

I have so many question. Not enough words.

Let’s do one more math problem. $662 would be needed per week in order to afford a studio apartment. What would we have to pay a person so they could work 40 hours per week?

$16.55

That’s what someone needs to live on in this town. It’s similar all around the US. This is why I support the Fight for $15. Because it’s a place to start.

Coconut Curry Chicken

2017-02-01T08:18:00.001-05:00

Ingredients

1 lb Chicken
Sauce

1/2 tbsp curry powder
2/3 cup (1/2 can) coconut milk
1 tbsp soy sauce
1/4 tsp red pepper flakes
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
2 tsp corn starch

Vegetables

2 bell peppers, chopped
1 cup chopped mushrooms
1 jalapeno pepper, chopped

Instructions

In a small bowl stir together the cilantro, soy sauce, cornstarch, curry powder, coconut milk, crushed red pepper, and salt. Set aside.
Cut the chicken into bite-size strips; set aside.
Spray an unheated wok or large nonstick skillet with nonstick cooking. Preheat over medium heat. Add sweet peppers and jalapeno pepper; stir-fry for 2 minutes. Add mushrooms; stir-fry about 2 minutes more or until vegetables are crisp-tender. Remove from wok.
Add the oil to hot wok. Add chicken; stir-fry for 2 to 3 minutes or until chicken is cooked through. Push the chicken from center of wok. Stir sauce; add to center of wok. Cook and stir until thickened and bubbly.
Return vegetables to wok. Cook and stir about 1 minute more or until heated through. Serve immediately with noodles or rice. If desired, garnish with cilantro. Makes 4 servings.

Source - http://www.bhg.com/recipe/poultry/thai-chicken-curry-stir-fry/

Agent of Change

2016-07-25T10:00:00.000-04:00

Before there was a good grocery store in Jacmel we would take monthly trips to Port au Prince to fill up on groceries. There were a few stores to choose from in Port. Each had a slightly different selection. We would typically hit up multiple stores on each trip. Caribbean market was a personal favorite. It was at the top of major road called Delmas. Another favorite of mine was Megamart. It was a Costco styles store that required membership cards and sold in bulk which was ideal for shopping a month at a time. Megamart was at the bottom of Delmas so we would hit up one, drive up (or down) Delmas, stop at Epi D'or for lunch, then hit the other.

Ramen noodles are cheap. And they're easy to make. In the land of $5 blocks of cheese and make everything from scratch meals, they were a perfect bulk-buy. And Megamart stocked "Yum Yum" brand Ramen noodles which are AWESOME. They come with separate "vegetable" and "oil" packs. You boil the "vegetables" with the noodles and then add the "oil". I remember thinking this was going to be one of my favorite things in Haiti. I pictured it being something we bought and ate for years. Within a few months it became more difficult to find the brand and flavors we wanted. The earthquake hit. Megamart closed and never reopened. I never saw my favorite Ramen noodles again.

Not long after the earthquake a new store opened in Jacmel: Phillipe, "Agente de Change". The name makes it sound like a political party, "Agent of Change", but it just means that they change money. But Phillipe was an agent of change, in a way. Having a second store (adding to the existing St. Cyr Market) made it possible to not do most of our shopping in Port au Prince. A few years later when "Star Plus" opened in Jacmel, there were very few things left that we couldn't get locally. It changed the way we lived.

Change is constant here in Haiti. Ironically more so than in the United States. The march of progress in the United States is expansive. There is always more, but the old rarely disappears. When it does we petition and protest and mourn the loss of a neighborhood icon. But in Haiti, progress, when it comes, eats its own. I keep thinking I know how to handle this place but then it changes. Very few of the things we enjoyed when we moved to Haiti still remain. The restaurants have changes. The beaches have changed. The stores have changed. And with people it's the same; They come and they go. Whether it's a new great restaurant that doesn't last through the off season. Or a new best friend that's gone by the 1st of the year. Change is constant. Change doesn't expand, it replaces. And change is stress.

There was brief moment of a couple of years, when Church on the Beach was at it's height, when people weren't leaving our community here in Jacmel. It was beautiful. It was game changing. It kept us in Haiti a few years past what would have been possible otherwise. For a beautiful moment a group of people held back the inevitable change. But it didn't last. Most of us are now gone from Jacmel or on our way out.

But it seemed in that moment, instead of change happening around us, we were the agents of change. We were modeling a beautiful, diverse, community held together by Christ alone with a pinch of desperation. And it was good.

So I take with me the lesson that change, in this life, is inevitable. If we do not change the world, it will change without us.

"Us" not "Y'all"

2016-03-14T10:00:00.000-04:00

In Haiti we were the "givers" or that's what we would have been considered, anyway. When we lived in the States before we moved to Haiti we really weren't involved in the giving economy, not on either side. Coming back to the States, we've settled into a new, hopefully temporary reality of the being the "receivers" (some might say "takers"). We're used to some aspects of it, having lived off support in Haiti, but that was a "sender" and "goer" relationship which is different.

Being a "receiver" has been illuminating and that part I have embraced.

Our neighborhood is THE low-income community in West Cary (I don't know of any others). It's the target of a good amount of giving. One organization sends in a group every week to provide a meal. It's called "Family Night" but we realized pretty quickly it should be called "Kids and Teenagers Who Are Home Alone Because Their Single Parents are Still Working Night". We've gone a couple of times. We were pretty much the only adults (outside of those that were serving) there.

And that reminds me of one particular interaction I observed. Hot dogs were being served that night. Everyone went through the line. As was normal, by the time the last of the kids got their plate, a group off teenagers had already circled around for seconds. They had their fill and more people came back for another serving of one thing or another. At some point during this process they ran out of hot dog buns. Not a big deal. They still had plenty of everything else to eat. Everyone walked away happy. But one young child was curious: "why did you run out of buns?" she asked the woman placing the hot dog directly on to her plate.

I don't think there was any malice in the question. The woman didn't appear to be offended. "well," she responded, "we didn't expect so many of y'all to show up tonight."

Right there-- she said "y'all". The child didn't notice. But was that because she was conditioned to see the "giver" as something separate from what she is? The woman didn't notice, but she obviously considered those kids, the "receivers", to be in a different group than herself. However it stung me a little.

Why should serving separate? Why is it "us" serving and "y'all" receiving? Why can't it just be "us"? Why are we eating at Chick Fil A on the way home instead of sitting and eating the same food we're offering? Why aren't our kids there, not to "learn how to serve" but to eat a meal with their friends.

I hesitate to call people out. I don't want to criticize people that are doing the best that they know. Or assume that I understand what's going on in their heads or hearts. But I do want to challenge.

IS HURTFUL CHARITY BETTER than no charity at all? The answer is no. Take an honest look at the outcomes of our benevolence—from the soup kitchen in inner-city Atlanta to the entire country of Haiti— and the answer becomes obvious. (Robert Lupton)

Are there moments when the need is so great that giving is the appropriate response regardless of any unintended consequence? Sure. But not normally. And not here. The lines that we are drawing between "us" and "them" and the cracks in society that are growing ever bigger are not worth a meal a week. Especially not when we don't have to do it this way. Don't "serve", rather "join". Make it about "us", not "y'all".

Joy and Truth

2016-03-07T10:30:00.000-05:00

I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.

- 3 John:4

It's striking what gives Paul joy. The most joy. People walking in the truth. And this word truth is not code for something else. It's not capitalized in the way we capitalize certain words when they mean Jesus or God or something like that. To be honest, some translations do capitalize the word, but the original Greek, alētheia, wasn't used that way. In the King James it is only translated as anything but truth three times and then it is taken to mean true, truly, and verity. Verity means truth, by the way.

Why is this striking? Because I would have expected Paul, the leader of the early Christian church, one of the most influential followers of Jesus (but not as influential, apparently, as Kanye), a man who refers to himself as a bishop of the church in the first verse of this letter, I would have expected to have a more "churchy" answer to the question of what pleases him most. Shouldn't he be more pleased with people walking in the way of Jesus? Living out the gospel? Serving others? Loving others? Nope. Truth.

Of course we must consider that Paul is not Jesus. Jesus may have another way of filling in this blank:

I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are ______.

And I think He would. But that difference is itself telling. Jesus was probably a little less concerned about truth. But then Jesus knew the hearts of men. Paul didn't. And neither do I. And so for Jesus dishonesty is just another sin to be loved through, looked past, and forgiven. He cared about it in the same way he cares about everything we do. But probably not more. Certainly not the most.

But for Paul. And for me. Dishonesty breaks everything else. Of course I want you to follow Jesus. That would make me super happy. To love others? Yes. To serve people? Great. To do all the things that Jesus would have you do would make me very happy. But whatever you do, d on't blow smoke up my ass. Because I have NO WAY of knowing what's really going on unless you tell me.

So that's what would make me the most happy. Someone I can count on. Maybe not to do the right thing or the best thing all the time. But to tell me the truth about what they did. And what they're going to do. That sounds like a relationship that I'd want to be a part of.

Survival Demands Community

2016-02-29T10:30:00.000-05:00

They had not chosen to live in "intentional community." Their survival demanded community.

- Claiborne, Shane

We had gotten the message about a church service coming up on Sunday. I don't recall if the message came through a friend, or Facebook, or possibly just the rumor mill. If it had been an actual invitation, I'm sure we would have declined. We were leaving the day before for Jamaica, a long-awaited, much-needed vacation. Childcare was taken care of. Plans were set. We were packed. But that's not the point. If we had just heard through rumor or impersonal message we wouldn't have followed up for the same reason's I just laid out.

But things change. Life changes. And it did. The church service was planned for Sunday afternoon. The trip was planned for early Saturday morning. We were robbed, at gunpoint, late Friday night.

The rest of Friday and Saturday were a blur. We didn't think much about the now-relevant church service. We cared for the team that was leaving on Saturday. We loved our (scared) children. We canceled the trip. Sunday we made french toast for the family. I had a wound and a tan-line on my finger where they had ripped off my wedding ring. It's strange to think now how close we came to letting it pass us by. We spoke to some friends about going. We weighed our options. In the end, I think we relished the thought of a few hours at the beach. Home, in that moment, the place of our violation, was less a comfort than a stress.

As we gathered that Sunday evening on beach outside of Jacmel we made light of the situation that was weighing on all of us. Two families, ours and another, had been robbed in two weeks. Were there more to come? One of our ranks was bandaged from multiple gunshot wounds. I had my puny little finger wound which felt much larger on my heart. We compared (un-comparable) injuries. We made up witty slogans ("never bring a flashlight to a gun-fight") and designed T-Shirts ("I got shot for Jesus, what have you done for him?"). Maybe we were catching a glimpse of a future in which all of this could be looked upon from a distance. Or maybe it was an unhealthy use of humor to deflect our pain and fear. We did "churchy" things that evening to be sure. We read and discussed the bible. We sang songs about God accompanied by an acoustic guitar. But the most important thing we did that day was to be together.

Years went by and this small, ever-changing group of people continued to spend time together. We had not chosen to live in "intentional community." Our survival demanded community.

It is not simply to be take for granted that the Christian has the priviledge of living among other Christians... It is true, of course that what is an unspeakable gift of God for the lonely individual is easily disregarded and trodden under foot by those who have the gift every day. It is easily forgotten that the fellowship of Christian brethren is a gift of grace, a gift of the Kingdom of God that any day may be taken from us, that the time that still separates us from utter loneliness may be brief indeed.

- Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I have had the privilege of being desperate for community. The gift of realizing my very real, physical need for connection with others, in general, but specifically those who are longing after Jesus. As those years I spoke about went by we all lost a bit of our desperation. Things came between us. We moved on from that community to others. Myself included. And while I hope to never be that desperate again. May it never be that I forget the feeling of being alone or that I take for granted the great privilege it is to be among friends.

Thank You

2016-02-08T10:00:00.000-05:00

Have you ever had one of those days when there is ONE THING on your to do list that you don't want to get done? It's important. It has to happen. But you can't seem to make yourself do it. Maybe you work on something else for awhile to build up momentum, maybe you just force yourself to take the task on, either way it's like a roadblock in the way of all the other good and exciting things you could be doing if you'd just get through this one thing.

The last few months have been like that for me. Honestly, it's been hard closing up shop on Joy in Hope. In one sense it's the death of a dream. Worse than that, I've spent the last few months doing to the hard work of the ending that dream. It's death, in a way, was by my own hand. It's important work. It has to happen. But it's been the thing, for months now, that I didn't want to do.

I can see the good and exciting things that are sitting on the other side of getting this work done. I'm really happy that my kids in Haiti have Sarah. I'm pleased with our transition here in the States and I want to keep working toward health for me and my wife and my kids here. I have ideas and dreams for the work that continues in Haiti and for new things that I can be doing here. But the hard work had to come first.

Each day as I tackled this job I would run across one name or another. As I dug through old correspondence or printed up donation receipts I would see people's names. Some names were from my past. Some from my present. Some from my past and my present. I would do the administrative work that needed to get done and the names would pass by and, I'm being completely honest here, my heart would ache with gratitude. Too many people have given too much to us. There is no way that I can express that adequately. Even as I write I know that it's not enough.

I know that I have failed you. That's not false humility it's just a statement of fact. I stood in the batters box (sorry for the sports analogy), I called my shot, and I took my swing. It came up short. We can argue whether I popped out to the first baseman or hit a double through the gap, but either way it wasn't what I planned. It wasn't what we "sold" and it wasn't what you "bought". But regardless of how well I kept my part of the bargain you always kept yours. Through each of our setbacks and failures you were there. Before us. Behind us. Beside us. And through this last sad chapter of our story in Haiti you are here.

Thank you.

There are so many of you I can't list you all. Some of you were vocal; Some were silent. Some of you gave money; Others time. Some sent prayers. Some wished us well from afar. Some joined us in Haiti. I can't list you all. But you know who you are. And I thank you.

Very, Very High and Very, Very Low

2016-02-01T10:00:00.000-05:00

Written in August 2015 in Haiti:

This morning I lay in bed after the rest of the family had gone to church. I turned the fan on to keep the mosquitoes off. I covered my legs with a sheet because I was slightly cool on this overcast morning. I read a chapter of a book. I watched the last fifteen minutes of Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb. I pushed down the screen of my laptop as the credits rolled on the movie.

It began to well up inside of me. I didn't ask for it. I didn't want it. I thought I was past it. But the tears rose to the surface. I tried to hold them back for a few moments. I didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to be in that moment anymore. But I knew I needed to be. And I soon relented. I knew these feelings of sadness, of regret, of failure, of separation, of nostalgia, of missing out, of falling, of fatigue, of desperation, of longing for something different, would not leave until I let them. So I did.

The tears were mostly dry; Life in Haiti is dehydrated. But they were strong. Heaving me out of my reclined position they forced me to sit up. They were, as my wife would say it, "ugly". It must have sounded as if I was laughing. But I wasn't. At least it didn't feel like laughing even though the sound I was making was too high pitched to be crying. I was glad I was alone.

I wanted to speak, to articulate that long list of feelings. But the only words that would come out were "I can't do anything."

I cried (literally) those words to God, "I can't do anything", and the tears began to subside. I wasn't saying this for anyone else's benefit. It wasn't false humility. It was, at the moment, what I believed: I was utterly incapable of doing anything of value. And that feeling seemed to drive out all the others. I think there may be a lesson in there somewhere.

I reclined back on my bed. I wiped the few physical tears that had fallen from my face. I closed my eyes. I slept.

I was soon awakened by the alarm on my phone reminding me that I had committed to make pizza for the kids. I lept out of bed, not because I was feeling particularly motivated or energetic, but because I needed to make myself do this job. I collected the ingredients for the dough and made four batches, one after the other after the other after the other. I left them on the counter to rise and headed to the store to buy the rest of the ingredients for the sauce and the cheese.

When I got back I searched for our pizza stone and, when it was found, I started the oven to preheat it. I made the sauce without a recipe. Slowly adding ingredients until it tasted about right. I grated the cheese and pulled out the first batch of dough. It had more than doubled in size. I dropped the bowl in the counter and watched the ball of dough deflate. It was satisfying. I worked the dough between my hands, as I imaged a real pizza chef would, allowing gravity to stretch the dough into a wide flat circle. It didn't work. So I pressed the dough out on a platter before transferring it to the now hot pizza stone. I spread the sauce. I sprinkled the cheese. I let the oven do it's work.

The next pizza went better. And better the one after that. They went into the oven one after the other after the other after the other after the other after the other until I was finally satisfied with the 7th and final pizza. I cut the cooked pizzas with a large kitchen knife and plated them, half a small pizza for everyone in my family. Fritzie, having return from church with the rest of the family, came into the kitchen and sat next to the largest pieces she could find. She smiled at me. I responded by saying "Mwen konn fe anpil bagay!" (I can do a lot of things!)

I wasn't saying this for her benefit. It wasn't dangerous pride. It was, at that moment, what I believed: I could do anything. It wasn't until later that I connected it with the earlier feeling from my bed.

The highs and lows of a life well lived are very, very high and very, very low. And by "life well lived" I don't mean successful. In fact, I believe a life well lived may be much more defined by failure than success. Maybe the hallmark of a life well lived is not success but it is very, very high and very, very low.

Paper Angels

2016-01-25T10:00:00.000-05:00

Jan 12, 2010 Nia approached me with an idea for a project. The Christmas season was over but she had seen something in one of her school books about making Angels using the printed faces of people in your family. That morning we spent a few minutes searching for good pictures of our family members. I printed the angel outlines and set the materials on the scanner glass of our printer to be worked on the next day.

That evening was the earthquake. The next morning was too busy to work on the project. Wednesday Nia reminded me and I promised her we would get to it. Thursday we decided to send our kids out of the country and I promised myself I would make the angels with Nia before they left. Friday, Saturday came and went. The kids got on a plane with a dear friend and the angels sat on the glass. They sat there for a month waiting for the kids to return but by the time they did Nia had forgotten and I was only reminded in those moments that I moved the angels to make a copy or scan a document.

A year went by. I kept telling myself I would make time to finish the project. I was armament. I was determined. But I never followed through. Christmas approached and the project made sense but was forgotten on the glass of our scanner. It was sometime after the 1-year anniversary of the earthquake that I threw the materials away. I quickly crumpled them and covered them in the trash can because I didn't want to be reminded anymore.

I returned to Haiti for the first time after our decision to move back to the States and EVERY SINGLE ROOM seemed to contain a dozen half-done paper angels. It was a rough couple of days.

It's hard for me to read my Facebook feed with all it's Haiti updates because each one reminds me of something I had always meant to do-- another paper angel. Less Facebook reading is probably a good thing, though.

These days Haiti is filled with regrets. Not of things done wrong, although there are a few of those, but of things not done. And I realize that I can leave them on the scanner to pull them out each time I visit or read about this beautiful/painful place or I can move on. And while I say that I want to move on, the sting of regret only disappears when I forget. But I don't want to forget.

Maybe this week, when Nia gets back from visiting her cousins, we'll make paper angels. Maybe that will make it feel better. Maybe six years late isn't too late.

I Cried. I Breath. How Long?

2015-08-21T10:00:00.000-04:00

I cried watching "Soul Surfer" with my kids the other day. Watching her parents' anguish after she was bitten by that shark did me in.

I cried listening to a radio show about school segregation. Gwenn told me it would make me mad. It did. I cried. I cried tears of joy when the mother and daughter found out they could send her to a school with better opportunities. I cried tears of sadness for the thousands of kids left behind in a failing school district.

I cried watching "American Ninja Warrior".

W.T.F.

Nothing. Nothing has ever wrecked me like this is wrecking me. And, make no mistake, I meant to write that in the present tense.

I walk through the airport terminal and I breath, deep and long. I wake up, in my own bed, in a hotel bed, in my bed in Haiti, in the middle of the night and I breath.

I breath through sadness. I breath through ambition. Through hope and regret I breath because it's the only thing I can do.

The air is heavy and it takes everything in me to move that heavy air in and out of my lungs. I cross my arms and squeeze in an effort to lesson the burden on my diaphragm. Still periodically my chest cunvulses, rejecting the heavy air that is my new reality. And I cry.

I read the Psalms and I am struck with how often this one question comes up: "How long?"

I believe. I know. You don't need to worry and you don't need to remind me. But I still have to ask: "How long?"

Time and Thankfulness

2015-07-27T10:00:00.000-04:00

I used to wear a pocket watch. I never could stand having a watch strapped to my wrist, so I tried out the variety that hung from a belt loop and nestled into my pocket. I had a couple of different pocket watches. First was a gold watch with a button to pop open the cover and see the time. Eventually the mechanism to close it broke. But realistically, having to open the watch after pulling it out of my pocket seemed a little redundant. I eventually settled on a silver watch with an open face. It had thick rugged glass. It held up well. Eventually the clasp where it hooked into my belt loop loosened up. I tried to fix it with a rubber band. It didn't last. I never replaced that watch.

Of course all of that was before cell phones really began to take off. Now, my phone is my watch. I realized this earlier when I was stuck in some back room at the border control station in the Miami airport. Time was going by. My connection was getting closer. I wanted to know how close but I had been told that cell phones were not allowed in that back room. "Put them away so we don't have to take them away" the border patrol agent warned. I longed for my pocket watch.

I knew throughout the entire flight to Chicago that we were late. I checked my phone to get the time as we landed. I hadn't checked earlier because, let's be honest, there's nothing I could do to make the plan move faster. 26 minutes. That was how long I had to get my connection to Raleigh. (It would be cheap to make a sarcastic comment about connecting from Miami to Raleigh through Chicago, right?)

I pulled up the map of O'Hare airport on seat-back television in front of me. I tried figured out the route from H18 to K15, but H18 wasn't on the map. I figured knowing my endpoint was more important than knowing my starting point. The doors opened, and, being in only the 2nd row (seat 3B, is there never a 1st row on airplanes?), I rushed out of them. I realized only a few feet up the jetway that I had left a guitar on board. That made me two for two. I left my passport on the first flight.

Guitar in hand I sped through the airport. I followed the signs to K15. I had written down the gate number (typed, actually, on my phone) so I wouldn't waste time checking the departure boards on my way. A few turns and a lot of walking brought me to within sight of the gate. I figured I still had about 5 minutes before missing my flight. But there were no passengers at the gate. I began to panic. There was an agent at the desk, but instead of speaking with him I noticed the departure board and finally looked at it.

Raleigh-Durham.

Flight 1529.

Gate K16.

Oops.

I looked across the hall but there was no K16. Apparently O'Hare airport is like Route Delmas in Port-au-Prince. The even numbers don't, in any way, correspond with the odds. I followed the signs and a few more turns brought me within sight of the gate. Again, there was no one there. Again, I began to panic. I walked up to the gate agent: "Has the Raleigh flight already boarded?"

"We don't have the Raleigh flight." She responded.

I handed her my boarding pass and explained, "I just looked at the board."

She examined what I had given her. "That's flight's not until later-- at 8:10."

"What time is it?" I asked, confused as to how 15 minutes from now could possibly be considered later.

"6:55"

And that explained it. My phone hadn't recognized the time change.

I turned and walked away and smiled. Maybe it was the blood pumping through my body. Maybe it was knowing that I wasn't going to have to sleep in the airport. Mostly I was thankful.

I realized as I went through the normal struggles of air travel that Haiti has done me some good. Yes, it has taken a lot (including my appendix). But if nothing else, if I were to leave Haiti tomorrow, if I have accomplished no other thing, I have learned to be thankful. I have learned that it is not a given to have food on your table, electricity in you outlets, and water in you faucets. And every day that I have those things is a blessed (emphasis on the "ed") day.

So I may have arrived in Chicago a little late. But I got there by hurtling through the air, 38,000 feet above the earth, covering the distance from Miami to Chicago in just about three hours. And I'm thankful.

But I'm going to be in the States for a couple of months so does anyone have any ideas on how I can STAY thankful?

Sorry, Didn't Recognize You

2015-07-20T10:00:00.000-04:00

My phone has a security feature that allows me to unlock it using facial recognition. It works pretty well. I had to give it a few pictures in different lighting, background etcetera to get it started, but then it worked flawlessly for awhile. I grew a beard and it needed a little more training. I shaved it off and again I had to help it. But as I said, it's worked very well. These last couple of weeks we've been dealing with hard issues. I find myself waking up without joy. Feeling fatigued early in the day. My mind wanders to these hard topics in the midst of the mundane, or even the joys of everyday life. And as my mind wanders, my joy dissipates, my face falls. And my phone doesn't seem to recognize me anymore. "Sorry, didn't recognize you" it taunts as I enter in my pin code.

Carrying on the theme of computers pointing out my failures, we recently started using a new backup service for our photos. I've hooked up all our computers and, slowly but surely, all our photos are showing up online with the service. The service also adds a bunch of nice features like facial recognition and text searches.

For whatever reason the photos are uploading from the most recent backwards but also from the oldest forward. So there is one group of photos from now, 2015. And another from 2007. The other day I was playing around with the features. I clicked the search icon and a bunch of faces came up. I clicked a picture of Nia and it brought up all the pictures of Nia in the system. I tried a couple more faces before noticing that my face appeared twice in the list. I clicked the first and there were photos of me. I clicked the second and there were different photos of me. The first group from 2007. The second from today. This service can recognize 4-year-old Nia and 12-year-old as the same person. But I'm apparently unrecognizable.

Contrary to the way we typically trace the stories of our lives, maybe age is determined less by time and more by hard living. Time goes on but stress, pain, pressure, and sadness are the things that age us.

I can feel it in my body. I can see it on my face. And so, apparently, can my phone.

Live Simply

2015-07-06T10:06:00.000-04:00

"Live simply so that others may simply live."

- Mahatma Gandhi

The other day Gwenn and I were lounging around in our Caribbean paradise (insert sarcastic emoticon here) and we discussed going out for dinner. I thought it was a good idea. Gwenn was going to leave with the boys in the morning for a few weeks. I had been gone with a hole in my abdomen for the two weeks prior. A date night would be appropriate. However, we then realized that we didn't have a working truck. Which makes a date more difficult, especially because I probably shouldn't drive a moto because of said hole in my abdomen. We then began discussing "inviting" a friend along in order to give us a ride and this too was appealing because neither of us had been able to or would be able to spend much time with friends for awhile. We let the discussion die.

Later, when I heard the dinner bell and realized there was food waiting for us in the other room I picked it up again, "So what are thinking about dinner?"

"I think we should skip it" was her decision. I was a little disappointed, I was looking forward to good food, so I pushed a little, "Why don't you want to go out?"

"Let's live simply."

I think that's a good idea.

Long ago, about the time I was thrust into leadership of Joy in Hope, I needed to set the direction for the ministry. The idea of "health and permanence" kept coming to my mind. It was as if those words were being spoken to me by an outside (inaudible) voice. I began to share them with other people in the ministry and that's where we all went. That was our direction for years after that.

I feel like I'm hearing that voice again. Life has changed so much these past few years, so I don't pretend to speak for the ministry when I say this, but I know I can speak for my family. We're changing direction-- pivoting-- refining our target. We're going to live simply.

I don't know if God (I admit it, that's who I think is talking to me) is going to bring anything else to the surface. I don't know where this is going to lead us. But I do believe He is bringing us on a new journey. And the first step is to live simply.

I hope that you begin to see this new direction in our lives. Practically it means that the URL of my blog is going to change. I've loved using itsjustathoug.ht for a few years now, but the $144 per year price just doesn't seem to make sense. At least not if we're living simply. So look for this and future blog posts at nick.mangine.org. It comes at a much lower (free) price.

I Hate Adventure

2015-06-17T20:52:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, as Gwenn and I were driving over the mountains because we (at the time) suspected (and later confirmed) that I had appendicitus, we crowdsourced the question as to the best hospital to go to in PaP. The overwhelming response pointed us to a hospital called Bernard Mevs. I turned to Gwenn and commented "I don't know why I still ask these questions; the answer is always Bernard Mevs."

Bernard Mevs is (used to be?) Run by the University of Miami. It's a good combination of Haitian staff, visiting American doctors, and support from the States.

Honestly, despite the recommendations, we still tried to get to Miami instead of staying here in PaP. We got to the airport about 45 minutes before the last flight out, but they said it was too late to buy a ticket. We gave them all of our powers of persuasion, but they would not budge. That was disappointing. More than we expected it to be. Even after six years in Haiti there is still a strong desire for the comfort of the familiar, especially in times of sickness or medical emergency.

We headed to the hospital, heavy with disappointment, but hopeful this might be a better experience than we'd had in the past. We parked on top of a pile of gravel in front of the guy who was obviously fighting with a large generator. The power went in and out a bunch of times the first few minutes we were there but settled down after that; I guess he won his battle.

One of the first things I noticed about this hospital was the preponderance of foreigners (white people). There were other white patients, there were white doctors, there was even a white film crew wandering around the next morning. But it was a Haitian hospital and the Haitian staff was in charge. On an intellectual level this made me happy. As a patient, I wanted one of those foreign doctors to take charge and offer us a level of care that would make me more comfortable.

But this didn't happen. Like most Haitian hospitals, privacy was non-existent, bed-side-manner was sorely lacking, and sanitation was not their highest priority. Stepping into the ER we were greeted by a doctor who was competent, but beholden to the rules. "You can't take pictures in the ER" despite the film crew wandering around and "no guests allowed in the ER" despite adequate space and lots of other guests milling about. They accepted the letter that was supplied to us by Haiti Health Ministries where we had stopped earlier in the day to confirm our self diagnosis. And quickly got me set up in a chair in the corner of the ER with an IV. The chair was the type that is typically used in hospital rooms in the States-- for the guests. It was comfortable and had an attached ottoman that theoretically folded underneath when not in use, but it was not the best solution for someone in intense abdominal pain. To be fair I don't think any piece of furniture would be ideal in that situation. While it was not the most painful thing I've ever experienced (that title remains with being stung by a lion fish) it was long-lasting, over 12 hours from start to finish with the pain increasing (or maybe my tolerance going down) with time.

We were assured as we settled in (as I settled, Gwenn was forced to wander the courtyard because "no guests allowed in the ER") that a surgeon had been called and was on his way. We were encouraged. While waiting, a few American doctors stopped by (probably their interest peaked because of the color of my skin). They were kind and spoke well of the hospital. We were further encouraged.

At some point I overheard a conversation about the surgeon and 7pm was mentioned. This was about 1:30 after our arrival but wasn't terrible. However, 7pm came and went. I sat in my chair, frequently changing positions. Gwenn wandered the courtyard, frequently popping in to check on me and take advantage of the A/C. At 8pm (still no surgeon) the first ER doc rotated out and the new doctor was much less attentive to both the rules and the patients so Gwenn got to spend more time with me. At the same time, it fell to her to communicate with our many worried family and friends, so she still wandered the courtyard for large amounts if time.

I passed the hours being miserable and observing the other patients coming and going. There was an elderly woman who swallowed a carrot. It had gotten lodged in her throat. They took x-rays and told her to come back in the morning. There was a young lady covered in blood. It seemed to be from a small cut on her head. She hung out for awhile calmly texting on her phone. Eventually they told her to go home and she freaked out screaming about how she was going to die. The staff laughed (I might have too) then cleaned her cut and sent her on her way. A little boy came in clearly unable to turn his head. It had been going on for days his father explained. They put a neck brace on him. Then they took it off. Then they sent them on their way. An older lady was in the ER but couldn't remember why. They told her to return to the clinic in the morning. Another young lady had a large boil on breast. A necklace had caused it. They drained it. They sent her home. A couple of American medical students came in with diarrhea and vomiting. They sent one home but hooked the other up to an IV. He insisted his illness was an interaction between his malaria medication and an antacid. They sent him home too. A few elderly patients were in beds in the back of the room but they eventually disappeared; I didn't noticed what happened to them. By 10pm (still no surgeon) I was alone in the ER and was feeling pretty good that I hadn't yet been sent home.

By this time we were considering our options. We were only 8 hours away from the next flight to the States. Maybe resting in a hotel would be a better way to pass the time until then. Gwenn was talking to other friends about other hospitals. One of the Americam doctors was worried that we were going to leave and we were able to have a good conversation about the "self-service" (thanks Marci) nature of medical care in Haiti. I didn't want to go to another hospital. I didn't want to fly to the States at that point (remember the pain had been getting worse the whole time). And while I may have been confidant in the level of care I could get at Bernard Mevs, without a surgeon, that confidence did me no good. The American doctor made a few calls. The ER doc called the surgeon again. Gwenn started pushing the issue with administration. And there was renewed reason to believe that the surgeon might actually show up.

And so the nurses started prepping me for surgery. One showed up with a Foley catheter. I was not happy. I bargained with her. I told her I would go pee without the catheter. I asked her to put me to sleep first. But she would not be persuaded. And so the (peep) show began. To be clear I won't be so vain as to suggest that there something special about me to make nurses want to look at my penis. I also don't want to suggest that these nurses were anything but professional. But I also know that there was probably a good amout of curiosity about my white penis. They pulled a screen over next to my chair which I appreciated, but then all 6 members of the ER staff squeezed on this side of the screen for the procedure. There official jobs seemed to be one person to do the procedure, one person to hold a bottle of iodine and watch up close, four people to watch from a little father away.

The nurse that inserted the catheter was very nice. She kept telling me that if I opened my mouth to breath it would hurt less (not true). She also kept telling me that it didn't hurt (also not true). Finally she started asking me to pee and I kept telling her I didn't know how to with that thing suck up in there. A couple of tries later we made it work. I made sure to let her know I wasn't good with her ("M pa byen ave w!"). She prayed for me and asked God to go with me into surgery. At about this moment there was a knock on the full length widow to my left. There was another window behind me and while, during the day, you can't really see into them, by this time it was dark outside and light inside and, apparently, there were a lot more than six witnesses to this procedure. I hope none of them had smart phones.

The surgeon appeared shortly. That made me very happy because, now in addition to an inflamed appendix, the catheter was very uncomfortable. They finished prepping me for surgery. They threaded the IV tube through a sleeve and removed my shirt. They threaded the catheter cord through a leg and removed my shorts. They threaded the IV cord back through a sleeve and put on my surgery gown. Interestingly, they made Gwenn remove my underwear-- as if I had any dignity left. I kissed Gwenn goodbye as the wheeled me across the courtyard and into the surgical suite.

This was the first moment where I really got nervous (scared?) about what was happening. I know Gwenn had many more of those moments than I did. They laid me down on the surgical table and I pondered whether I was ready to die. They strapped my arms and legs down like a horizontal crucifixion. The anesthesiologist asked if I had any anxiety and I said "no, just pain" and I asked her to put me to sleep.

I woke up in the recovery room still drunk from the anesthesia. Have seen videos of Josiah's recent recovery from anesthesia I assumed I was being recorded and made the best of it. I flirted with the recovery nurse. I bargained with her for sips of water and shots of morphine. I remember asking if they had taken my appendix out but I already knew the answer because I felt so much better (although that may have been because of the morphine). Later they proved that they had taken it out by giving it to us in a jar; Mechanics in Haiti do the same thing with old car parts. The recovery room was probably the highlight of my stay at Bernard Mevs. Even Gwenn had nothing but good things to say about this nurse (as you can probly tell, while physically I bore the brunt of the pain, Gwenn's experience was much more mentally and psychologically taxing). But my time in the that recovery room was short. They soon wheeled me into a ward with one, two, three, four, five, six other patients. And one empty bed. I sweated and dozed while Gwenn tried to figure out how to get some sleep herself. She started in the car but ended up at a nearby hotel where a friend happened to be staying. The first room they gave her had no A/C. The next room smelled bad and was a super long walk from the car (she was hoping that I would end up in this room as well). So she asked for her money back and sprung for the more expensive and more comfortable hotel down the road. There she was able to get breakfast, a warm bath, and a nap while I sweated and dozed and observed my fellow ward-mates.

The woman at my feet was in traction. Traction weirds me out in the States, it totally grosses me out in Haiti, so I tried not to look. Opposite me, by the door was a man with huge bandages on his head and hand. Next to me was man with a bunch of infected scrapes or boils. The man at his feet was in the same condition, but also appeared to be having mental problems. He drooled a lot. And the nurses were very concerned he was just going to take off. There was a woman in the corner to my right who spent the entire time asleep and a man in the far corner who spent most of the time outside the ward getting tests done. The empty bed was to my left. I wonder if the empty bed at a Haitian hospital ward is like the empty chair at a bible study; Some people say it's for a visitor; Others say it's for Jesus.

Gwenn came back and pulled the plastic sheet out from under me. That took care of my sweating problem. She brought me a Tampico but I got yelled at for drinking it. The nice recovery nurse had assured me I could drink in the morning, but doctors confirmed it was a bad idea until they cleared me. I farted, and they cleared me to drink. A short time later they cleared me to eat. Then they cleared me to leave. Gwenn took care of all the discharge paperwork while I got my catheter and IV removed. Then we walked out of the ward with the pillows, sheets, and towel we walked in with. I slowly made my way to the front gate where we were informed that we couldn't leave because we were missing a stamp on our discharge paperwork. Five more minutes of work and we were ready to go again. This time the security guard didn't even check our papers.

We were both glad to be leaving the hospital. But it was a big emotional letdown. Adrenaline had gotten us through a night that had a lot of pain and a little sleep, but the adrenaline was quickly dissipating. We stopped at a grocery store on our way to the more comfortable hotel. Even though it was barely the middle if the afternoon we turned in for the night. Gwenn is asleep beside me as I write this story and afternoon turns into evening. We haven't yet made decisions about tomorrow, we may stay in Port au Prince, or head back to Jacmel, or go to the States for follow-up. But tomorrow will take care of itself. I'm going to take some medication for the pain and join Gwenn in sleep.

Who am I?

2015-06-09T07:04:00.001-04:00

I have come a long way from the apathy of my youth; I am a passionate person:

I am passionate about community. I believe that God is bigger than each of us. We cannot know him unless we know each other. We cannot learn about him unless we are getting to know someone different from us.

I am passionate about truth. But truth is very different than true. True is fact our fiction, right our wrong. But we do not live in a world so simple. All but the most basic of facts can be parsed and debated. Truth embraces this complexity. It is about authenticity, transparency, consistency. It demands that we believe and act the same regardless of the audience we are performing for, whether that be an audience of one or the public at large.

I am passionate about the intersection of the spiritual with the physical. I am convinced we cannot live a healthy life by ignoring either of these worlds, by favoring one over the other, our by treating them as completely separate entities.

I have learned many things through the years but they are if little importance. I have come to believe a few things:

I believe in Christ. I believe in a God who gave up the glory of the heavens to come down and be with us. I believe this (He) should be the model of our lives: giving up whatever possessions or privilege we have to join in the suffering of others.

I believe in ideas. I believe that each of us have both the ability and responsibility to create. If we are not creating, imagining, we are not listen to God's voice. When we stop listening to God's voice we have no choice but to mimic or parrot the ideas of others. And any number of evil atrocities and well-intentioned failures can be attributed to a group of people who stopped thinking and dreaming for themselves and instead began parroting the ideas of another.

Sleep

2015-06-01T20:28:00.000-04:00

I'm lying in my bed with three young boys. I severely dislike having kids in my bed. I complain whenever Gwenn says a kid can sleep with us. Even if they're just in the room. But when Gwenn goes away they don't even bother asking (that's not true, they always ask, but they know what the answer will be) and the bed is full every night.

Our system at this point is that the boys lie side-by-side in our big king bed and I hang out at the foot. I get kicked all night long. Schneider, despite being the shortest, is the worst. But allow it because I'm not really comfortable in an empty bed. I have trouble sleeping.

Trouble sleeping is something I've never dealt with before. I still don't, really. I can sleep in cars, the beach, the middle of the day. And I can sleep at night when I choose to. Lay down, be still, turn off the phone, tablet, laptop and soon enough I'll be sleeping soundly. But when I'm am in empty bed, I have trouble choosing to go to sleep. I don't like the emptiness that fills the few minutes before sleep comes. This is starting to sound unhealthy isn't it?

My life doesn't have much when it comes to emptiness. 12 kids, a business, a ministry, the effort it takes to stay sane living cross-culturally, the effort it takes to stay married living cross-culturally, all keep me quite busy. So maybe quiet is just too foreign a concept right now.

On the other hand, when I do have quiet in my life (furlough, vacation) I actually do have trouble getting to sleep. That, however, is a separate issue of Haiti tired vs America tired.

So I come back to this idea of quiet. And I'm going to choose to look at it in a positive light. We do so much living here in Haiti. The days last so long. So much gets done. Because of this, resting, sleeping, or just being still has a higher cost here; I'm missing more. So yes, I like having the ability to rest, but I also realizing I'm missing a lot by doing so. And I don't want to miss out.

1-Pallet Adirondack Chair

2015-05-25T10:00:00.000-04:00

What You'll Need

1 Pallet - There are a lot of different variations on pallets. To make this work you'll need a pallet that has 3 rails (that's pretty typical), 8 small slats, and 3 large. Of course, you can always try to substitute if you're pallet doesn't line up exactly. [G150]
8 3" Wood Screws [G33]
6 1 1/2" Wood Screws [G25]
24 3/4" Wood Screws [G100]
14 Finishing Nails [G14]
1 Quart Varnish [G250]
Claw hammer
Mallet
Chop saw (preferred) or circular saw
Paint brush
Furniture clamps
C clamps

What You'll Do

Take your pallet apart. The claw hammer and mallet will come I'm handy here. Be very careful taking all the pieces apart because pallets tend to be well built and the wood well often split before the nails come out. I've found the best strategy to be pounding the claw of the hammer in between the boards with the mallet until the boards are loose, them pound the board back in and pull the nails (hopefully now sticking up from the wood) out with the claw hammer.
Cut your wood. A chop saw will make this support easy; A circular saw will make it possible. Here's a diagram of the pieces you'll start with and how you should cut them:

- A - Legs
- B - Chair Slats
- C/E - Arm Rests
- D - Arm Rails
- F/G - Back Supports
- H/I/J - Back Slats
- K/L - Chair Rails
- M - Chair Supports

Assemble the base of the chair. Clamp and glue the chair rails (K) around the back chair support (M) as shown in the side detail. Fasten with 2 3" screws on each side. Clamp and glue the front chair support (M) and legs (A) inside and outside, respective, the chair rail in the front. The chair support should be flush with the front of the chair rails, but the legs should be angled as shown in the side detail. Fasten with 2 3" wood screws into the chair support on each side along with one 1 1/2" wood screw on each side connect only the leg with the chair rail.
Assemble the arm rails and back support. Using C clamps, clamp and glue the side rails (D) to the legs. Screw these pieces together using 3 3/4" wood screws. Using a furniture clamp, clamp and glue the back support (F) in place as shown in the side detail. Connect with .
Assemble the back of the chair. Arrange the back slats as shown in the back detail. Clamp and glue then in place. Using 1 1/2" wood screws screw through the back slats into the chair support. Use 2 screws per slay for a total of 6. Screw through the back support into the back rails with 3/4" wood screws. Again, use 2 screws per slat. Finally clamp and glue the back support (G) behind the back slats and ave in place with 6 3/4" wood screws.
Add the arm rests and chair slats. Clamp and glue the 4 chair slats (B) into the chair rails. Set the forward-most slat flush with the front of the chair support. Leave a 1" gap between each slat. Fasten each slat with 4 1 1/2" finishing nails. Clamp and glue the arm rests (C/E) in place. The front of each arm rest should be flush with the inside of the leg. The back should be resting against the back slat. Fasten with 6 1 1/2" finishing nails each. Using the corners from the arm rests (N), create supports for the armrests. Place the 2" from the front and back of the armrest and fasten with glue and 2 finishing nails.
Varnish.