Spirit Poor

Terry Started It

2026-01-24T17:51:10.138-05:00

Terry stunk. Tall for his age, he had flunked a couple grades. Long messy hair, ratty clothes, constantly dirty. His chipped tooth protruded from his mouth and his voice cracked when he talked, always saying the wrong things. He didn’t fit in—anywhere. Too smelly and awkward to hang out even with the geeks, nerds, and dweebs. A true outcast.

And I was stuck being his friend.

It was Chris’ fault. He invited Terry to play with our foursome of Fourth Grade buddies that day on the playground. I instantly rejected the idea, but Chris, with his constant spastic energy, was the defacto leader of the group, and his will always won out.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Chris had stuck around. But a few months later his dad took a job a couple hours away. By then Terry had latched on as a permanent fixture and the other guys in the group slowly distanced themselves. When fifth grade started, it was stinky Terry, and me.

That was the start of poverty for me. Not in money, but in spirit. Terry unknowingly started me on an uncomfortable path in life that I’m sure is destined to save me from myself.

This blog is the continuation of that journey that started 25 years ago. One in which I am finding God in the needs of those around me and in the poverty of my own soul. Come with me. It won’t always be this heavy. Sometimes goofy, often reflective, and maybe corny at times. Most likely, it will stink—like Terry. Like me. But that’s all part of it.

Gratitude Hurts

2026-01-24T17:51:10.137-05:00

We were friends for only a year, but in a way, Terry was the truest friend I could have ever had. He stunk on the outside, but no worse than I smelled on the inside. His odor was nothing compared to my disdain for people lower than me, dumber than me, and poorer than me.

Not that I meant to or even realized it, but looking down on him made me feel better about myself. Even at eight years old, I realized that there were higher social circles that I didn’t belong in, but at least I wasn’t as bad off as Terry.

He only made it worse by occasionally fawning over me, thanking me for being his friend, grateful, because without me not a single person would have spoken to him except as an insult. Kids are cruel and I was Terry’s only refuge. His gratitude hurt though, revealing to me how limited my friendship to him actually was. Sure, we sat together in class and I’d take him to church with me. But it was an act of tolerance, not love or loyalty. I did it because I knew I should, not because I wanted to. It was pity, not friendship.

I feel so hollow about it now, so hypocritical. I’m glad I did the right thing. I just wish I had felt the right thing, too--had done it for the right reasons.

It’s possible to help someone and not love them, but it’s impossible to love someone and not help them. One gives charity, the other gives dignity.

Terry has helped me see the truth about myself. That‘s what a friend does.

A League of Your Own

2026-01-24T17:51:10.136-05:00

He was in love with my sister. It embarrassed her to no end, of course. What is it about guys going for the girl way out of their league? Yeah, I had a crushes on popular girls, but I kept my mouth shut about it. Not Terry.

His whole existence was a faux pas that he was only vaguely aware of, if at all. You don’t talk that way, you don’t act that way, and you certainly don’t go anywhere looking and smelling like that. If he was embarrassed, he didn’t show it. I felt embarrassment enough for both of us.

As long as I was with him, I was an outcast by association. I’d catch the glances and hear the comments behind his back. In a small way, I experienced his world of rejection. And it hurt.

Through Terry, I discovered the difference between sympathy--hurting for someone--and empathy--hurting with someone. It’s a matter of reaching out of your league in the other direction.

Round and Round She Goes

2026-01-24T17:51:10.135-05:00

I was at a Hardee’s fast food joint in another city when it happened. “There he is,” my brother said, but I didn’t believe him. A red bandana disguised his hair, but it was the same lanky stride, same smile, same voice. Four or five years hadn’t changed us that much.

Terry.

I can’t remember what I said other than small talk. Then goodbye. Glad to see you, we’ll probably never see each other again, have a good life. I meant it. I really wanted his life to turn out better. I like to think that he graduated, got a good job, found something meaningful to do in life, got married, had kids, and lived happily ever after.

I have my doubts though. Cycles are hard to break.

It was a dump, the home he lived in when we were in school together. Tall grass, weathered paint, rusty hinges—probably had plastic on the windows, though I don’t remember for sure. I thought it was abandoned, but apparently his family lived there along with some mangy cats that Terry wanted to show me. I don’t think his parents wanted to be poor, but they seemed content with it.

Terry’s was a cycle of lower class poverty and social misfit. Not an easy thing to overcome without some catalyst to break the spell.

I have my own cycles. Middle-class comfort. Educated arrogance. Poverty blindness. Many more. They too will roll on endlessly without some outside force at work.

I’ve finally found the magic that breaks the enchantment. Stick around and find it too.

But first, a few more stories. It’s all part of the journey.

Me Redefined

2026-01-24T17:51:10.134-05:00

Jeans, panty hose, and high heels. It was probably trendy somewhere that year in the 1980‘s, but not in our town, not in our school. Theresa’s locker was next to mine and I heard her sobbing as she gathered her books. I had heard the snide comments from the popular girls as they walked by a moment earlier, taking an easy verbal jab at her.

She was another outcast. Not so far down the social ladder as Terry, but not so high as the average crowd either. I’d known her since first grade, but hadn’t spoken to her much. “Don’t let them get you down,” I heard myself saying. “They’re such jerks. You look fine.”

It wasn’t much, but I felt good trying to reassure her. Ever since Terry had moved away after fifth grade, I had moved up into a socially better crowd. Nothing drives survival in Junior High like popularity.

But Theresa’s predicament was one of many events during that time that kept me grounded. It kept awake my resolve to be a friend to the friendless and give dignity to people who are on the outside. I doubt my words did much to help her. But saying it out loud defined for me once again whose side I was on.

It takes only a small word or gesture to redefine who we are.

Just for Kicks

2026-01-24T17:51:10.133-05:00

It smelled like a triple dose of peppermint down the entire hallway. His eyes were red and puffy with tears. Ryan was the fattest kid in Junior High, which meant that he was one of the loneliest. This time a couple bullies had emptied an entire tube of Icy Hot into his underwear while he was in the shower after gym.

I admit with shame that I’ve shared that story since and laughed at the thought of it. Ryan wasn’t laughing that day. The burn of that medicated cream would have made anyone cry. There was far more than that behind his tears.

It‘s horrible how our emotional scars cripple us. One day after that, Ryan started trying to kick me in the shins, laughing as I told him angrily to stop. I was his friend, or the closest thing he had to one, which might be why he felt safe enough to act out his frustrations. He must have known I would stick by him.

We need that safety--when we’re so desperate for affection and can’t figure out how to get it. Any attention will do so that even the anger of a friend feels like love. It’s better than nothing. At least someone responds to us.

The guys who did that to Ryan have probably forgotten all about it. Just another prank pulled on a dare. I’ll bet Ryan remembers though, along with countless other rejections and abuses. Only this time I’m not there to take the kicks. Maybe it’s his dog, or his wife, or his kid, or himself.

Hurting people hurt people. The bullies hurt Ryan. He tries to hurt me. Maybe someone hurts the bullies to begin with and that’s what makes them what they are. The cycle passes on.

Where does it stop? When healing removes the hurt.

Good Morning

2026-01-24T17:51:10.132-05:00

I fell asleep for twenty years.

All of the stories so far have been simple snapshots from my childhood, markers which I’ve revisted to help me make sense of what’s going on inside me now.

I still smell Terry’s unwashed jeans. I still hear the sound of lockers slamming while Teresa sniffled. I still see the devastation behind Ryan’s eyes as he walked the hall alone. But I had forgotten it for so long. Until someone recently awakened the memories.

He’s smarter than people give him credit for. He doesn’t smell bad or dress weird. But he’s a modern day Terry. When he talks about how people treat him, I’m transported back to fifth grade where I am a refuge for an outcast, the closest thing to a friend he might have right now.

He struggles to find his place in the world and I hurt for him. I have very few answers except for an encouraging word now and then. Mostly I listen. Turns it’s the best thing I can do for myself. Yes, for me.

Yeah, he needs someone to talk to. But when I listen to him, I live the story of his hurt and it stirs something in me. Discomfort. My usual routine is disrupted, my awareness disturbed. My easy professional life comes face to face with the heartache of someone unable to keep a job, lonely, mocked behind his back, brushed off by everyone I’ve seen him with.

He woke me up to things that lay dormant for so long. He reminds me of people I’ve known before, of what I used to be about. He’s one more story in which I’ve though I was the hero, but find myself in need of saving instead.

He’s not the only one. Now that I’m awake, I’m finding more Terry’s.

Underneath

2026-01-24T17:51:10.131-05:00

He doesn’t have all his teeth and it’s difficult to understand him when he talks. He’s always clean, but unkempt. Wrinkled skin and shaggy hair frame his hearty smile. Chatty and friendly, his outward appearance belies the fullness of his human worth, his heart, his intelligence. Like so many Terry’s.

His story is so much deeper, more complex and heartbreaking. I described here, but deleted it because it bothered me so much. Maybe because it paints him one-dimensionally, as if all there is to him is his poverty. Maybe it makes his difficulties too public. Maybe it’s just not my story to tell. It’s his.

He’s truly poor. Bankrupt. Can’t work due to his health and Social Security doesn’t pay all that well. Medicine eats up almost every cent. The trailer he calls home is falling apart and they have to move, but his wife doesn’t want to leave, for who knows why. It’s odd the things we cling to sometimes.

I want to help him, but I’m not sure how. A gift of money might help, but then what? The hole is so deep, it seems inescapable. How do you help the seemingly helpless?

The only answer I’ve come to is simply to get to know him as best I can. As small as it seems, friendship may be an even greater need to him than clothing, food, or money. So I listen. I ask questions. I want to know this man so that I can care for him as a friend and not just a mercy project.

In a way, it costs me much more than only writing a check. Takes more time, more effort. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s more rewarding. I’m not just meeting a need, I’m meeting a real human being.

Recipe for Change

2026-01-24T17:51:10.130-05:00

Have you picked up on it yet? The secret?

I promised a few posts ago to reveal the potion that continually cures me (because I am continually ill) of my “whatever-it-is” that keeps me from caring or even noticing Terry’s.

Here’s my personal recipe (I’m still experimenting with it):

Take one frozen self, let thaw in the fridge of exposure to other people’s needs. Trim fat acquired from being so self-centered for so long. Remove thick skin accumulated from seeing needs just on TV, not up-close-and-personal.

Soak in marinade of thought-provoking books and true-to-life examples of people doing good in the world. Rub in the fact that the frozen self has had it so much better in life than most others.

To enhance tenderness, let sit for some time with an unloved person, doing much more listening than talking. (Note: If you find it difficult finding an unloved person, you may have to look beyond your normal routine and friends. It’s an essential ingredient if you want your dish to succeed, so don’t skimp!)

Throw self into a pot of personal challenges to stew and simmer. Chop and add assorted character. Season with experiences of actually helping others close by and far away. Dish up with a side of humility. Serves as many as needed.

Me TV

2026-01-24T17:51:10.129-05:00

“Why are you watching that?” my wife will ask. I’m never really sure.

For the first four years we were married, we didn’t even own a TV. We still don’t watch it that much except for a favorite show each week or when I just need to turn my brain off after a hard day.

Occasionally as I’m flipping through, I’ll stumble across one of those shows that fascinates and disgusts me.

“Made” is one such show, usually featuring some high school kid dweeb who wants to lose weight, be homecoming queen or win a beauty pageant. I can’t believe I’m watching MTV…

“Intervention” is another—where families drown in the hopelessness of trying to save the life of their addicted loved one. Inevitably, after heaving 45 minutes through a person’s ruined life, the show climaxes in a confrontation, the addict agreeing to get help, and then an epilogue telling how he fell off the wagon six months after rehab. Depressing stuff.

For a nerd like me who generally prefers nature shows, Discovery Channel, and Sci Fi, these reality shows are a misfit. But I’m drawn to them...

...because these are shows about me.

I’m not fat. I don’t want to be homecoming queen. I’m not addicted to anything (except sitting at a computer all day and all night). But that’s me on the screen.

I have been on the outside of social circles. I have wanted someone to believe in me to achieve something impossible. I have drowned my hurts and numbed my pain in my own ways, if not substance abuse.

So I’m rooting for the underdog, watching my life vicariously on the TV, hoping against hope for the hopeless. Often, I’ll see something new about the type of people I’m watching. And if I take time to think about it, I’ll learn something about me.

'Fraid So

2026-01-24T17:51:10.128-05:00

My drive to work takes me past one of several trailer parks nearby. Chris, my best friend as a child, lived in a trailer and I thought nothing about it back then. But lately I’ve been afraid of them.

Here’s how my emotional logic works:

People don’t naturally want to live in a trailer.
They must be living in a trailer because they have no choice.
They must not have enough money.
Without money, people can’t get their basic needs met like food, health care, and clothing.
Those people must be cramped, hopeless, miserable, and ashamed.
I don’t want to be poor, cramped, hopeless, miserable, and ashamed.
I better stay away from trailers.

I don’t actually worry about being poor, but I certainly don’t want it to happen. So, unconsciously, I distance myself from it as much as possible. That’s why I’m uncomfortable driving past worn down sections of town, shopping in Aldi discount grocery, or seeing beggers on the street.

It’s why I feel good staying at a nice hotel, shopping in an upscale mall, wearing snazzy clothes, or sipping cappuccino in a Barnes & Noble. It keeps poverty at bay, misery out of mind, hopelessness far from my heart. I feel secure, upwardly mobile, successful just by association. It sounds shallow when I say it now, but it’s true.

But I’ve become the very thing I’ve been trying to avoid. My aversion to anything resembling poverty has me feeling ashamed now. I’m miserable in my middle-class comfort, knowing that people need help. I feel hopeless trying to figure out what to do. I’ve been too cooped up and cramped in this narrow way of thinking and living.

So now when I drive by the trailers, I feel less of an aversion and more of a connection. They represent now more than the poverty of their tenants, but the poverty of my soul. And that's a good thing.

Space Junk

2026-01-24T17:51:10.127-05:00

Image above: Flight Engineer Clay Anderson, at the end of the station's robotic arm, jettisons the Early Ammonia Servicer. Image credit: NASA TV

With a shove, a refrigerator-size piece of man-made trash slowly tumbles into space, never to be seen again.

It’s the perfect picture of our human habit.

1. Get something.
2. Keep it until it’s no good or we’re bored with it.
3. Find someplace to dump it where we won’t have to deal with it anymore.

We do it with space junk, and it flies off to oblivion or to land in the backyard of some poor Martian.

We do it with clothes, cars, cellphones, CDs, toys, furniture, TVs, gadgets and gizmos, fashions and fads.

We do it with relationships.

Most times, things and people disappear. Out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes, they stick in our memories for better or worse. Occasionally, they come back to haunt us or delight us.

But they never truly disappear, no matter what we may think.

Throw Some Dirt On It

2026-01-24T17:51:10.126-05:00

There’s only one hill in our county. I’d say it’s about three stories high, a square mile in area.

Everything else is fairly flat farmland, green and fertile in summer. But this hill is barren and brown. Sure, someday it will probably be covered in grass, maybe even a golf course. But underneath will always be a mountain of rubbish.

The first time I took a load to a landfill, I was overcome by the smell and the sheer volume of garbage. Never really thought about where all that stuff goes that I toss in the trash. Now I easily envision it being shoved around by bulldozers, jutting out of the ground like a corpse clawing out of its grave.

We always think we can bury our problems, whether its work, family, hurts, frustrations, or actual trash. But eventually we’ll run out of space. We’ll pollute our own drinking water. We’ll leave a mocking scar on the landscape that even our best efforts won’t disguise.

Better to deal with the junk than bury it. Better for you, the environment, other people, and future generations. But the best solution is to keep from creating the garbage in the first place.

Humans Suck

2026-01-24T17:51:10.125-05:00

Whether you’re a Creationist, Evolutionist, or somewhere in between, I’ll have to argue about the whole coming from a chimp thing.

I say we’re direct descendents from leeches.

Chimps live in harmony with their environment. Leeches suck life out of their hosts.
Chimps eat what they need and move on. Leeches gorge themselves into a sickening bloated mass.
Chimps meet each others needs, grooming each other for social connection and to remove pests. Leeches know nothing but host and self.
Chimps create tools and solve problems. Leeches are fairly mindless, living only to eat and reproduce.

You may think of yourself as mostly chimp, maybe a little leech on your bad days. But as a collective, I’ll have to throw the lot of us into the leech category.

You be a chimp.

Think About the Drink

2026-01-24T17:51:10.124-05:00

I washed my hair by a mountain stream once. We were backpacking for an entire week and I stunk. So I took an impromptu bath, rinsed my hair in the stream, and watched the bubbles drift downriver.

Didn’t give much thought to the hikers who would be collecting water from that same stream down below.

We live our lives with that same thoughtlessness. “I can live any way I darn well please. To hell with the rest of you.”

We wouldn’t say that out loud, or maybe even think it. But it’s how we live.

It’s what we do when we buy clothes made in third-world countries at the expense of someone else’s near-slave labor.

It’s what we do when we sip rich coffee grown and harvested by the sweat of people who will see almost no income for their efforts.

It’s what we do when we buy products that can’t be easily recycled. When we carry them home in plastic bags. When we toss away the glossy packaging and eventually the item itself with its non-degrading plastic and toxic chemicals.

It’s what we do when we treat the waitress that way. Or the co-worker. Former friend. Husband. Wife. Child.

What’s your trickle down? What are you dumping in the river for others to drink? What lives are impacted by your actions? Take a long, hard look downstream.

Recent Read: If They Give You Lined Paper, Write Sideways

2026-01-24T17:51:10.123-05:00

Author: Daniel Quinn

Best quote: “You never change things by fighting the existing reality.” Original quote by Buckminster Fuller. p 134.

Summary: Groundbreaking anthropologist Daniel Quinn is known for his unique way of seeing and understanding human behavior, history, and our future. The book is a simple transcript of several days of interviews in which Quinn not only helps his interviewer understand Quinn’s way of thinking, but teaches her to how to think for herself in a similar manner.

What I liked: Quinn doesn’t take any statement at face value. He’s always probing deeper into the “common knowledge” that the rest of us easily accept. By the end of the book, I found my critical thinking skills sharpened, excited to put them to use.

He summarizes his ability to think critically:

1. Be Alert to Nonsense. While the rest of us are happy to accept “facts” handed down to us. He sniffs out the nonsense in our cultural beliefs.

2. Examine the Assumptions. When presented with a question or problem, he rarely tries to answer. Instead, he asks “Why has this person asked this question? What assumptions are driving their reasoning?”

3. Explore the Broader Assumptions. “If so-and-so assumes this is true, he is also likely to assume this and think this.”

4. See Where the Assumptions Lead. Our assumptions about the world are what drive us to certain actions. By examining the way we think (our assumptions), he can predict with accuracy how we’ll behave as individuals and a collective.

(The above steps are my summation of Quinn’s process, not at all a quote. The concepts are presented on pp 115-116 of his book.)

He portrays humans as “a species of being, which, while supposedly rational, are destroying the very planet they live on.” I resonate with Quinn’s insight and am saddened that Christians seem to be the most reluctant one’s to care.

Probably the biggest takeaway for me is the simple idea that when presented with a social problem, most of us are quick to push for some action to overcome it, as if legislation, protesting, boycotting, etc. will work. We don’t really care if it works as long as we’re busy trying. Far better, Quinn says, to aim our efforts not at changing people’s actions, but by changing their thinking. Seems obvious, but we don’t try it that way.

What I disliked: I don’t mind at all that Quinn isn’t a Christian, or at least my variety of one. Or that he doesn’t believe in the same kind of God that I do. It bothered me that reason he gave for his departure from mainstream Christianity was based on what I consider to be a faulty assumption—that Agriculture was a result of the curse God put upon Adam. I contend that God gave Adam that task from the very beginning in the garden and that the curse only made the job toilsome and difficult. Quinn makes a faulty assumption, the very thing he warns us not to do.

Critical Situation

2026-01-24T17:51:10.122-05:00

I've been both kinds of people:

CRITICAL THINKER	CRITICAL PERSON
Sets aside his opinion in order to examine other points of view	Sees things only from his perspective
Comfortable with being wrong, willing to change his mind	Unable to accept being wrong, resists changing his mind
Asks many questions of himself and others	Makes statements about himself and others, but asks few good questions
Compares himself to others in order to improve himself	Compares himself to others in order to feel better about himself
Congenial toward those who he disagrees with	Bitter toward those he disagrees with
Continually re-examines his viewpoints	Dependent upon established viewpoints
A lifelong learner, he regularly takes in new information seeking new insights	A limited learner, he relies on past learnings and established insights
Reasons with both logic and emotion	Reacts with an extreme of either logic or emotion
Comments on both good and bad in what he examines	Focuses on the negative in what he examines
Pulls back from a problem to see the bigger picture	Fixates on smaller issues, missing the big picture

Which kind of person do you tend to be?

What characteristics would you add to these lists?

Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!

2026-01-24T17:51:10.121-05:00

She cries a lot. It’s out of her reach and she really wants it.

It’s not that she’s lazy, but our 13-month old isn’t anywhere close to walking yet. She was premature, only 3 lbs at birth. Spent the first 8 months of her life in an orphanage. Pneumonia sapped her strength when we got her, quiet and unmoving.

Now she’s vocal, happy, and active, but behind just a tad developmentally.

So I entice her with favorite toys placed just beyond her reach. She’s delighted at first, thinking she can get them. Then wrinkles her face in protest, squawks a bit. Tries charming her way with that squishy smile. Squawks some more.

I walk away.

Seeing no other hope, she sloooowwwwly reeeaaaaaaaches. Misses.

Tries again. Strrrrrrrrrrrrrretch…

Gets the toy and coos with delight.

Cry all you want. Beg, plead, charm, squawk. Sometimes the only way to get to the next stage is to stretch for it. It ain’t fun. It hurts. But you’ll be glad you did once you learn to walk on your own.

I Hope I Growed Out of that Stage

2026-01-24T17:51:10.120-05:00

“I drinked it, Dad!”

At three years old, my son can carry on a decent conversation, but he abuses the English language mercilessly. Oddly enough, he does it because he’s following the rules.

Without me teaching it, his brain has already decoded the basic rules of verbs. Just add “-ed” and you get past tense:

Drop – Dropped
Bump – Bumped
Walk – Walked

Of course, the rule only goes so far:

Draw – Drew
Give – Gave
Go – Went

There are countless irregular verbs that the poor boy will have to stumble through till he figures out that rules are meant to be broken.

Toddlers, bureaucrats, and religious legalists. They’re all just babies clinging to the few rules they know.

Some will grow enough to realize that there are exceptions to the rules. Some will eventually see that many rules are simply general guidelines meant to help us. A very few will mature enough leave the rules behind and live by wisdom, love, and grace.

Every Yes is a No

2026-01-24T17:51:10.119-05:00

I’ve lost thousands of dollars in the past year—and I couldn’t be happier about it.

My oldest child wasn’t born when I started it five years ago, so my side business in graphic design didn’t cost me much. An evening now and then for a little extra cash.

But no one told me of the fine line between owning a business and having that business own you. I found out the hard way, saying “yes” to every available project until I was spending nearly every evening and spare weekend a slave to my own business.

Every “yes” I said to work, was a “no” I was saying to my family and to myself.

“No, Daddy can’t play right now.”
“Can you take the kids somewhere so I can work?”
“Let me just finish this and I’ll be right there.”

And for what? A few extra bucks in my pocket? Even though the money was good, it could never buy back what I was missing out on—fun with my children, losing myself in a good book, hanging out with a friend, sleeping peacefully.

So I turned to tables. “No” to business. “Yes” to my soul, my family, my life.

Oh, it hurt when I had to let people down who actually begged me to take on their project. It really hurt when it cost me several thousand dollars for a single job. But it’s a good kinda hurt. Ya can’t have everything in life, so you have to choose which hurts you’re willing to live with.

“Yes” to this is a “no” to something else. Make sure you understand what you’ll be saying “no” to before you say “yes”.

I'm All Ears

2026-01-24T17:51:10.118-05:00

We call it the Wheelbarrow.

A long day with three kids in the house and no adult interaction is enough to reduce any adult to a babbling, incoherent mess. Add the stress of health issues, some bills, upcoming plans, and life in general—and her emotional Wheelbarrow is full.

So when my wife starts talking, I know by now that I had better be listening.

It’s tough sometimes. When my favorite show is on. When I’m in the middle of a really good book. When I’m so tired I just want to collapse into unconscious bliss.

Sometimes there are timeless gaps of silence while she gathers her thoughts. I sit there imagining a computer hourglass icon turning in front of her face while I wait.

Sometimes she repeats herself while she’s getting it all out. “You already said that,” I commented once. Don’t ever say that.

Sometimes my ears are full long before her Wheelbarrow is empty. I sit as quietly as I can, look her in the eye, nod appropriately, ask questions, and give insights. Or maybe I don’t do it as well as I imagine.

But this is love to her. Doesn’t want the gifts. Don’t waste money on the flowers. Can’t eat the chocolate.

Don’t just listen until you understand what she’s saying. Listen until she feels like she’s been heard. Listen till she’s all out of Talk. Listen until her Wheelbarrow’s empty.

Yeah, Well Prove It

2026-01-24T17:51:10.117-05:00

“The virgin birth [of Christ] is such a beautiful thing, it just has to be true, whether it happened or not.”*

Curious to know how that statement strikes you.

I revel in its paradox. It is certain in its uncertainty. Willing to embrace mystery and contradiction without flinching.

It is the non-answer type of solution to a conflict between those who believe and those who don’t.

Personally, I believe wholeheartedly in the virgin birth. But laying that actual issue aside, what I love about this statement is how it ceases to argue logical facts in order to prove truth. Instead, it finds the very same Truth in an aesthetic way. It both scares and amazes me.

Modern Christianity has built its foundation solely on argumentative, logical, apologetic proofs and must shudder at a statement like the one we opened with. But there is another way to that same Truth.

It’s the Truth I hear in masterfully crafted music, art, narrative, and nature. Truth that is more felt than known. Experienced, not espoused. Ethereal and subjective, it calls deeply to some while making others scoff.

Maybe you’re a scoffer. But I say there is a mystery to Truth that logic can never touch, test, argue, or prove.

I like it that way. Sure, there’s a place for logic, but that’s only half of it. I don’t want a God that I can completely understand, a future that I can entirely predict, a Truth that I can prove without faith.

Give me not just a truth I can know with my head, but also with my heart.

*Paraphrased from a story told by Phyllis Tickle on the Emergent Podcast, July 15, 2007.

Obedience School

2026-01-24T17:51:10.116-05:00

Educated beyond my own obedience.

I know exactly what I ought to do. I know what people would tell me to do. I know what I would want the best version of myself to do.

But I do the opposite.

Lately, I’m starting to come around a bit in the cycle of idiocy and wisdom. Getting it back together, doing the things I know I should be doing—the things I really want to do but don’t.

Like flossing.

Like recycling every scrap of paper.

Like using my own bags instead of plastic at Wal-Mart.

Like being more patient in shaping my children.

Like staying in touch with God every day.

It’s like going back to kindergarten and re-learning the basics of interacting with the world, God, other people, and myself. And it’s such a good feeling.

How about you? What do you need to re-learn?

Listening Down

2026-01-24T17:51:10.115-05:00

“I didn’t get to have fun with you today, Dad,”

My five year old son sat on the other end of his bed sadly. Never mind that we had spent the day kicking the ball around, playing a board game, chasing around the yard, and giggling at the playground.

Figure that one out.

Took me awhile, but I eventually was able to listen down enough levels to hear what he was really saying.

Not, “I didn’t have fun”, but “I don’t feel connected to you”.

Love to this oldest child of mine has always been spelled T-I-M-E. I’ve known that. But it had escaped me that it was Quality Time he needed in addition to Quantity.

Yeah, we had played, but we hadn’t really talked and connected. Like his mama, he needs someone to listen to him.

So I opened my arms, he crawled on my lap, and we talked about essentially nothing. Somehow it met his need and we said goodnight.

It’s possible to pour love on someone and them not feel a thing. Then what may seem the smallest thing to us can mean the world.

Driven

2026-01-24T17:51:10.114-05:00

“Hold your hand still!” she insisted, almost angrily.

“Someone’s a little testy today,” I thought.

This was our fourth trip to Cleveland to be fingerprinted electronically for international adoption, so my wife and I were no strangers to the process. As you would expect from a government agency, the staff were always aloof and robotic, but never this rude.

Somehow it didn’t bother me—not like it normally would. As this mannish, overweight woman wrangled with my fingers, her outer show of irritation did little to hide what was really just nervous insecurity. She was new at this, I discovered as her supervisor reviewed her work. Her sense of worth clearly came from her ability to meet his expectations. And she wasn’t very good at it yet. (Believe me, I know.)

I imagine the scene was just a revision of one that played out many times in her life. Hurt by how others viewed her, she made a show of anger to deflect attention off herself. As long as it appeared to be someone else’s fault, it couldn’t be hers. Just a mask to hide her embarrassment. A coping mechanism.

Ultimately, we’re all driven by our insecurities.

Driven to anger.
Driven to fear
Driven to please people.
Driven to win at everything.
Driven to not even try.
Driven to be the center of attention.
Driven to hide.
Driven to perfectionism.
Driven to be the smartest.
Driven to get guys to notice.
Driven to substance abuse.
Driven to be different.
Driven to fit in.

Personally, I’m driven toward perfectionism and distancing myself from people. What are you driven to? C’mon. Be honest.