Spirit Poor

Just a Burger and Fries

2008-05-03T01:30:00.000-04:00

He wouldn’t tell me his name. The shame of having to stand in front of a McDonald’s and beg for food compels a person to stay anonymous.

He was young, probably 20s, tall. Puffy winter coat, shorts, tennis shoes, ball cap. Not dirty or smelly. Wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t high. Not yet anyway.

His eyes shifted, not from nervousness, I think. Just embarrassment.

“Excuse me, sir? Would you happen to have a couple bucks so I could get something to eat?”

I hadn’t been working for the Rescue Mission that long, but I had enough experience by now to know what to do. Don’t give cash. Do give food. Don’t give it too quickly. Do use it to open a door for conversation. You never know where it might lead.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to buy you a meal inside. But before I do, tell me what you really need.” A burger and fries would stop the growling in his stomach, but for how long? It would take more than a McDonald’s dollar menu to put his life back together.

I probed gently with my repertoire of questions, trying to open him up. He slept on the streets in this part of town. Never been to the Mission. Was looking for work. Beyond that, he didn’t want to talk about.

Inside, he quietly ordered his food. “You sure that’s all you want?” I offered. Small burger, small fries. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he replied.

We chatted uncomfortably as we waited, until he excused himself. I folded the receipt in my hands and prayed for him.

I caught him in the corner of my eye. He reached into the trash and pulled out a used cup. He knew I saw him, but acted as if he didn’t. The place was too busy for anyone else to notice him walk to the soft drink dispenser and fill his cup for free.

This was act of a man fully accustomed to hunger and homelessness. He’d lost the dignity that kept him from digging through trash or drinking from a dirty cup. But he had enough pride to keep him from taking advantage of my generosity. Allowing me to buy his drink was more than he could bear.

His order came. I offered to stay with him while he ate. He preferred to eat alone. I could respect that. In a final attempt, I recounted my offer to help him find a place to stay and offered to buy a bus ticket to get to the Mission.

“No, thanks.”

“I know it’s hard, man. I’ve been around enough guys and heard their stories. Ya gotta get help though. When you’re ready, come down to the Mission. Here’s my card.”

He thanked me, truly grateful.

Walking home at dusk, I knew he’d be sleeping on the street that night. He’d probably find a way to get some money, then silence his inner demons with his addiction of choice, probably meth.

You can’t truly help a person until they truly want help. But it doesn’t free you from the responsibility to try.

He’ll hit bottom eventually. When he does, maybe he’ll remember that meal. Maybe he’ll call the number. I’ve heard enough stories to know that it does happen that way sometimes. I can only pray that it does.

Read Me Your Story

2007-09-01T17:37:00.000-04:00

“We never really grow up. We just learn how to act in public.”

Don’t know where I first read that quote, but it’s incredibly true. Somewhere along the way, I realized that all of the adults I’ve encountered are just kids inside big bodies. They might pretend to be mature now and then, or suppress their childlike instincts, but there’s still a kid in there somewhere.

Their childhood hurts are there, driving the ways they cope as an adult.

Their childhood fantasies are there, driving their dreams and disappointments.

Their childhood joys are there, driving their sources of happiness now.

Their childhood training is there, driving their manners and public behavior.

Their childhood family is there, driving their quirks, customs, and habits.

Their childhood relationships are there, driving the way they communicate.

Their childhood education is there, driving their occupation and interests.

Their childhood memories are there, making them essentially everything they are today.

Childhood isn’t just a chapter closed, a prologue to the real story of your life. It’s the story itself, the part where the deepest conflicts, climaxes, and character development all happens. It’s the most interesting, formative, and change-filled, page turner you’ll ever read.

Don’t bury your childhood on a dusty shelf. Open the pages of your memory and live the adventure again. Awakening the child inside you just might make you a more complete adult.

Déjà Who

2007-08-31T20:23:00.000-04:00

I swear I’m having 18 years of déjà vu. So much of what I experience as a parent reminds me of my own growing up that it’s like reliving my own life through my kids.

I hurt for my son when I see him not excel at sports. I wasn't so good at them either.

I delight for my son as he soaks up books, reading well ahead of his grade level. I loved books too.

I hurt for my son when he’s frustrated by his own perfectionism. I cried over my paint-by-numbers.

I delight for my son when he uses a big word in conversation. I loved language.

I hurt for my son when his shyness keeps him from enjoying life. I was such a recluse.

I delight for my son when I see him lost in his own imagination. I was a daydreamer and a doodler.

I hurt for my son as he longs for affection, but doesn’t know how to get it. I remember feeling that way.

I delight for my son when he excitedly shares a story about his day. I treasured the undivided attention of my parents.

So much of the memories are painful, but they give me sympathy for what he’s going through. So much of the memories are joyful, and I’m glad to relive the good times. Glad to have the chance to live life again and try to make his better than mine was.

Oh, Brother

2007-08-30T20:55:00.000-04:00

They giggle at the table till more food is on the floor than in their mouths.

They chase their toy jeeps around, tearing through the house like bulls after a rodeo clown.

They’ll play happily one minute, then pull hair and pinch, then make up and play again like nothing happened.

They’ll stay up at night telling silly stories and chanting nonsense songs instead of sleeping.

They’ll walk hand-in-hand when they’re out somewhere new, both protecting and being protected by the other.

They eat together, play together, bathe together, sleep together, fight together, laugh together, learn together, and do pretty much all of life together.

That’s my boys. That’s why it’s great to have a brother.

To this day, I’ve never found anyone who connects with my brand of humor quite like my brother. Corny, intelligent, movie-quoting, linguistic, and dry.

We giggled at the table. We chased recklessly through the house. We played, we fought, we forgave, and played again. We stayed up when we should have been asleep. We watched out for each other.

Life was good. Life was hard. But I’m glad I had my brother to go through it with me.

Tell your siblings you love ‘em today.

Drill Sergeant Dad

2007-08-29T20:30:00.000-04:00

I was such a patient person before I had kids who didn’t do what I told them.

I was such a quiet person before I had kids who didn’t listen.

I was such a peaceful person before I had kids who cried at the top of their lungs.

I was filled with such wonderful qualities before those qualities were ever really tested by real life.

My kids are the most delightful part of my life, but there are moments when parenting has a way of bringing out the worst version of me, so that I barely recognize myself sometimes.

When did I get so tense?
Who replaced my voice with this Drill Sergeant’s?
Where did I learn to give useless sermons about behaving at the table?
Where’s the perfect dad that I was before I had kids?

Oh, parenting is hard, not just because of the work, but because it forces me to own up to my inconsistencies, my weaknesses, and my failures. And for that, I’m grateful, because as this crucible boils my patience to the limit and the gunk rises to the top, I get to see myself as I am and hopefully pour off the dross so that my character gets a little more refined.

Here I thought parenting was just about shaping kids. Didn’t know I’d be raising myself too.

Here Lies My Life Before Kids

2007-08-28T20:57:00.000-04:00

My life ended six years ago. It happened slowly at first, so I didn’t notice. But looking back at my first child’s birth, I see a headstone where my life as I knew it took its final resting place.

Parenting killed me.

The squirmy buggers start off small, and dads don’t do so much of the work, so I didn’t notice at first. Then I awoke up one groggy day and found three squidgets underfoot and realized that six years of my life were over with.

I’m just not the same person I was back when I was single and childless. Marriage didn’t require all that much adjustment really. The first child changed my wife’s life more than mine since she chose to stay at home rather than work. Until the kid was mobile, we still had most of our time free. By the time the second child was born, my Daddy hat was on quite a bit, keeping Kid #1 busy so mommy could have a break and so that he wouldn’t poke Kid #2 in the eye (“But I want to!” he said. True story.)

Now that Kid #3 is here, I have approximately 60 minutes every day in which to fulfill myself. That means cramming photography, writing my blogs, reading other blogs, eating a snack, surfing the net, reading a book (I have lists of dozens that I’ll never get to), catching a favorite show, fixing whatever the kids might have broken, scratching off something from my wife’s “Honey Do” list, and tying up loose ends on business projects. Very little of that ever gets done, of course.

Lest I catch the wrath of the Mrs. for sounding like I have it bad, let me admit right up front that she has it much worse. =)

But rather than mourn the loss of my free time—my luxurious, sensational free time—my only-means-of-coping-with-life free time—my how-the-heck-am-I-gonna-get-anything-done free time—my what-am-I-gonna-do-when-there-are-FOUR-kids free time—my what-did-I-ever-do-with-all-that-time-when-I-was-single free time—I’m just going to say something sappy about how I wouldn’t trade it for all the free time in an unbroken infinity loop ‘cause the kids are incredible, beautiful, and bring me more fulfillment than anything else in life.

It’s true. And it's worth dying for.

Help Me! Or Not.

2007-08-24T19:59:00.000-04:00

He came running across the parking lot to me, shouting and asking if I was an elder or deacon of the church I was walking into.

“No,” I was glad to be able to say. I wasn’t sure yet, but this looked like a situation I probably didn’t want to be involved in. Big, sweaty, frantic guys yelling and dashing my direction have a way of setting off mental alarms for me.

He just wanted to talk to someone. “C’mon inside,” I smiled graciously, “I’m sure we can help you.”

Once inside, however, I got a familiar story that smelled fishier than my grandpa’s tackle box. Still, I knew one of the pastoral staff guys would hear him out and provide at least some help for the guy if we could.

I asked Big Sweaty Guy to sit in a chair, but he started pacing. Asked him to wait, but he became agitated. His eyes weren’t glassy, so it wasn’t marijuana. Breath didn’t smell, so it wasn’t alcohol. Probably cocaine, we decided later.

His patience wore thin so quickly that he finally just yelled and stormed out the door. His crave for a quick fix driving him away from the help he really needed.

How is it that the people most in need of help, and with such easy access to it, can toss it aside so easily?

I’ve never been an addict, but I’ve done it. Like I’d rather live with the ongoing discomfort of a splinter than to go through a few moments of pain to have it dug out.

How do you help someone who doesn’t want help?

Choices are Hereditary

2007-08-23T12:46:00.000-04:00

Was it my destiny to adopt a child from China? Why did I choose it?

Because my parents worked a children’s home for needy kids?
Because we had foster kids in our home growing up?
Because of the missionaries who visited our church and stayed in our home?
Because of the books in our home about life in other countries?
Because of the missions trip overseas that my parents encouraged me to take?

There were a lot of other reasons, of course, but the ones above were foundational for me even considering international adoption.

Sometimes our choices are not entirely our own, but the bloom of seeds planted by the choices of others.

God knows how many negative things we pick up from our childhood, the lesser choices other people made that reaped consequences for us. But this time I’m just thankful for the positive ones.

I wonder what choices I’m making today that will shape the choices of my kids make someday.

Stink. I gotta change the way I've been thinkin'.

2007-08-22T20:39:00.000-04:00

Been thinkin’ a lot about choices lately. This quote came to mind:

Watch your thoughts, for they become words.
Watch your words, for they become actions.
Watch your actions, for they become habits.
Watch your habits, for they become character.
Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.

I tend to focus on changing my words, actions, or habits. But I don't often think about the source and destination of those.

I keep forgetting how much power my thoughts have over the future, and how much power I have over my thoughts.

I keep forgetting how character is cumulative, chiseled out over years yet fragile enough to be destroyed in a moment.

I keep forgetting how my destiny is being shaped in this very moment of thought.

Choices Have Momentum

2007-08-20T20:30:00.000-04:00

My wife is the only person I’ve ever met who actually does it. I’ll bet you can’t remember the last time you did it, unless you had popcorn last night..

Personally, I’ve been trying to do it more ever since the dental hygienist took out the jack hammer to get the crud out of my teeth.

Yep, talkin’ about flossing.

Embarrassed by the reprimand of my dentist, I’ve been trying harder to establish that habit. And, since there’s little else you can do while you flick teeth gunk onto the bathroom mirror, I found my mind wandering a bit while I flossed yesterday.

“Eureka! My life is like flossing!”

I usually only floss when something’s caught in my teeth, but this time I grabbed it because it was part of my routine. I chose to do it simply because I had chosen to do it the time before. Every choice to go ahead and do the darn thing made it easier to choose the right thing the next time.

Momentum!

Of course the opposite is true. Every time I go to bed too tired to floss, it makes it easier to just forget it the next night too.

That’s how habits are born and broken.

If you want something to change in your life, I’ll bet you can get it started by just doing that small thing once. That will make it easier to do it the next time. Then do it again. Before you know it, you’ve radically changed your behavior.

Floaters and Sinkers

2007-08-19T21:25:00.000-04:00

Is a zebra white with black stripes or black with white stripes?

Are you an optimistic person who is sometimes down or a pessimistic person who is sometimes happy?

I have a theory that we each have different emotional set points where we naturally gravitate to. For some people, life throws them a difficulty, but they will always float back up to a level of optimism. Ya just can’t keep ‘em down.

For others, life throws them some incredibly good things, but they will always sink back down to a level of ho-humness, blah, or outright depression. Ya can’t force ‘em to be happy.

Personality has a ton to do with this, but I don’t think our emotional set points are immovable, though they tend to harden the longer we live by them. I really do think people can choose to be happy, no matter what’s going on in their lives.

So which are you? A happy person who is sometimes sad, or a sad person who is sometimes happy?

I’m right about in the middle. I’ve never been a person to get overly happy or overly sad. Mostly, I just ride life out as it comes. Forced to choose, though, I’m probably a little more of a sinker than a floater. I'm pretty content with things, but so much of the wrongs in the world tend to weigh me down.

I’m doing better at choosing to be happy, in spite of some hard circumstances. Hope you’re choosing joy today too.

Cloning is Inevitable

2007-08-18T21:52:00.000-04:00

When you find yourself, you’re far more able to give yourself away. Others have said it this way, ”You have to love yourself before you can love other people.”

I’ve heard well-meaning people misconstrue that to sound like pride, as if it is instructing you to meet your own needs before you meet the needs of others—or to be self-absorbed with only an occasional thought to others. Hogwash.

It simply means that we all follow the same inevitable rule: You pass on what you are.

Hurting people reliably hurt other people whether they mean to or not. Whole and truly happy people can’t help but pass on wholeness, healing, and joy to other people.

The most selfless thing you can do is to come to peace with yourself. That’s a vague way of saying that ya gotta unload your junk if you’re gonna get anywhere.

Do the hard work. Make peace with your past. Get those relationships mended. Forgive. Be forgiven.

The saddest, most hurting people I know are the ones who won’t admit it even though everyone else sees how emotionally stunted they are.

They consistently make poor decisions. They can’t seem to relate to people. They hide behind all sorts of facades. They numb the pain in all sorts of addictions. They pretend, withdraw, fail, wound, drive, and end up empty—with a trail of broken relationships behind them.

Have you found inner peace yet?

Oh, There I Am!

2007-08-17T21:57:00.000-04:00

My problem wasn’t that I wanted to die. It was that I didn’t know how to live.

I didn’t know who I was all through my childhood and college. But as my senior year in college drew to a close, an immense amount of pressure built up, throwing me into a dark emotional storm and brush with suicide.

That dark time of my life set the stage for the dawn of discovering who I am. Through counseling, I understood that my inability to cope had little to do with my present circumstances and everything to do with mis-identifying myself.

It was a rapturous emerging as I gradually began to loosen my grip on the baggage I had lugged around for so long. My parents’ divorce was their own issue. It didn’t have to be mine anymore. I could be Me.

The positive parts of my upbringing were something to be appreciated, but that was just the foundation. I would have to make my own way now, building upon what I had been given. I could be Me.

The expectations of my instructors, my family, and my peers were theirs to deal with. I could choose to do what I loved and not be the person they expected. I could be Me.

I discovered choice! I could think for myself and decide what was best for my own future—not selfishly, but securely.

I discovered too late for it to change some decisions, but just in time for others. Now, over a decade later, I look back on the bold decisions I’ve been able to make, leaving a bold trail behind through thick wilderness, and I marvel to think how I would never have gotten here if I hadn’t been set free to be me.

Where in the World Am I?

2007-08-12T16:55:00.001-04:00

I found myself in California. And Arizona. And a lot of other states. Europe even.

I know there are legends of cultures who send out their adolescent boys into the wilderness to survive on their own for a time before they officially enter adulthood. Oughta be a requirement for everyone. And I speak from personal experience.

In the summer just before college, when I was just 17, I went on a three-month long missions trip playing concerts every single night across the U.S and Europe. From the moment I stepped on the plane leaving home, I knew a radical transformation was beginning.

The people I was with had no idea who my family was or my upbringing. I was not “So-and-so’s son, or brother, or cousin.” I was an individual with permission to make my own decisions, have my own opinions, make my own mistakes, and choose my own path. I didn’t have to be defined by the people around me, but began to create the identity that would become Me.

We need both roots and wings to be fully ourselves. I was leaving my roots—the only small existence I had ever known—to take wing and see the world. It took a lot more years to come into my own, but that summer was a milestone.

Hold too tightly onto the roots, and you’ll never fly—never discover who you really are. Hold to only flying, and you’ll lose your roost—always be wild, aimless, without a sense of home, anchor, centeredness, belonging, and heritage.

I know both types of adults. Some who’ve never flown. Some who’ve flown too freely. Which are you?

I’m curious to know--what experience taught you to fly? How did you begin to discover who you are?

Am I in the Dictionary?

2007-08-11T22:19:00.000-04:00

Who do you define yourself?

No, I didn’t mistype that. I don’t mean “HOW” do you define yourself. I mean “WHO”.

My father’s family really defined me during my high school years. I was home-schooled, so I was with them all day and night. My dad was the pastor of our small country church, so family influence ruled there too.

I applied for only one college close to home, because that’s where my parents influenced me to go. Never occurred to me to go anywhere else.

I majored in music because my parents influenced me that direction. It was all I knew that I could do at the time. Never occurred to me to try anything else that I might enjoy.

I took all the classes that my advisor recommended. Never occurred to me to question the status quo.

I continued to attend church with my family because my dad was the pastor. Never occurred to me explore my faith independently.

Other people defined who I was and dictated who I would be. They all meant well and had my best interest in mind, so they’re not at all to blame. I’m certainly grateful for the foundation I had for becoming who I am, but at the time I was aimless, empty, and unsure of myself.

I simply didn’t know who I was.

So who has defined who you are?

Jellyfish and Sociopaths

2007-08-10T12:36:00.000-04:00

When I was younger I had a trump card that forced every decision. “Which option will keep other people from being angry or hurt?”

It seems selfless, but it’s not. I wasn’t out to make people happy, though it could appear that way. As a child torn between two families by divorce, I was out to keep my personal pain to a minimum. If I could keep everyone happy, I wouldn’t have to bear their disappointment, hurt, or anger.

It was the extreme side of decision making—always focused on avoiding pain and never toward gaining pleasure. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t please all the people all the time. I felt like a failure for causing other people to be unhappy.

Eventually I realized that it’s not actually my job to make people happy.

And I learned to balance my decision making away from total pain avoidance to include some pleasure seeking. (Neither extreme is healthy. One is a co-dependent jellyfish, the other is a hedonistic sociopath.) Sounds weird, but that’s when I finally started to figure out who I was.

Decisions, Decisions

2007-08-09T19:34:00.000-04:00

How do you make decisions?

When presented with two options, I predict that we will take the one that will bring us the most pleasure or cause us the least amount of pain.

The other night I had the option of eating bean and spinach soup or going to my favorite restaurant to eat. Somewhere in me, the decision was made almost instantaneously without thinking. But logically, it looks like this:

Option 1: Bean and Spinach soup
- Pleasure from Eating: Fairly Low
- Pleasure from Saving Money by Eating at Home: Moderate

Option 2: Eat at Favorite Restaurant
- Pleasure from Eating: Really High!
- Pleasure from Paying the Bill: Fairly Low

The Fairly Low’s cancel each other, leaving the Really High to beat out the Moderate. Eating out wins!

Test it out for yourself. Think of any scenario and prove to me that you didn’t simply pursue pleasure or avoid pain. Leave it in the comments.

Free to Be Hungry

2007-08-08T21:21:00.000-04:00

“Where do you want to eat?”

“I dunno. Where do you want to eat?”

“Wherever you want to eat.”

“Well, just choose a place.”

“I want to eat wherever it will make you happy.”

“It will make me happy if you’ll just make a decision!”

This would go on for 15 minutes and always end up with her choosing the restaurant, then frustrated through dinner. When we were dating, it drove my-now-wife crazy that I couldn’t speak my mind and just make a decision.

I was still in my boneless stage, without a spine for fear of upsetting someone—a leftover conditioning from my childhood. My parent’s divorce left me with dual families, dual holiday obligations, dual loyalties. My inability to ever please both sides left me unsure of how to please anyone, least of all myself.

Years later, I actually could not form an opinion about what I wanted to eat. I wasn’t hiding my thoughts—I had actually stunted my ability to think them for myself.

Took a tough turnaround, a very dark emotional journey, some caring counseling, but I emerged through it like a new birth. Emotionally stunted, but free to grow.

Free to choose.

Free to live.

Free to disappoint people. (Didn’t expect that one.)

But more on those choices later. Right now, I need a snack—and I know just what I want to eat.

Give a Little, Get a Little

2007-08-07T20:38:00.000-04:00

She’s so frugal that if she had two dimes to rub together, she wouldn’t do it for fear she’d lose one.

I can always count on her to shut off the lights while I’m still in the room, turn down the air conditioning while I’m still sweltering, and use half the meat the recipe calls for.

And I love her for it.

The other night our junky ol’ computer monitor finally gave out in a blaze of blue hazy streaks. Grabbed a dinky spare we happened to have, but the text was so fuzzy, I couldn’t read what I was typing.

“That’s it,” I blurted. “I’m going to Wal-Mart and buyin’ a flat panel display.”

She stopped me, of course. Why spend the money? Why perpetuate the system of dumping computers in the landfill by buying more of the stuff unnecessarily?

She was right. Again.

So we borrowed a decent monitor from her dad for a couple days while she asked around for a free one on www.freecycle.org. Two days later, I sit here with sun tan lotion and my shirt off, basking in the glow of a huge 19” monstrosity, marveling at its clarity, detail, and color.

It was free. It helped the environment. I feel all warm and happy, and it’s not from the radiant glory of this monitor.

Do your part. Check out www.freecycle.org. Get stuff you need for free. Even better, get rid of some of that junk that’s laying around.

Driven

2007-08-06T13:02:00.001-04:00

“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.

Listening Down

2007-08-05T13:08:00.000-04:00

“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.

Obedience School

2007-08-04T20:02:00.000-04:00

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?

Yeah, Well Prove It

2007-08-03T12:48:00.000-04:00

“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.

I'm All Ears

2007-08-02T18:49:00.001-04:00

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.

Every Yes is a No

2007-08-01T21:09:00.001-04:00

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”.