• I love creating awkward situations for my own enjoyment and the discomfort of others
• I have a very sophomoric sense of humor (this may not be a new revelation)
• My family is convinced that I currently have a nasty medical condition

Last week I discovered a product on the internet that’s so completely AWESOME I almost wet myself with anticipation of the possibilities for creating some aforementioned awkward situations.  I eagerly read the detailed description of the product, the multitude of glowing customer testimonials, and even watched an amazing home video demonstrating the effectiveness of this item.  I was hooked like a bullfrog at the end of a gig pole.  Like a caffeine addict with a year’s supply of free Starbucks.  Like a flamboyant Apple fanboy with a ticket to the latest Launch Event.

I placed my order on Amazon and scored free 2-day shipping.  Then I started some wild and crazy planning for its arrival.  Unfortunately, Steve Martin wasn’t available to help.  That would have been cool.

So, are you intrigued?  Are you crossing your legs in anticipation of the big reveal?  Can you even imagine how amazing this product must be to have achieved the coveted Authentic Ramblings “Shut Up You’re Awesome!” award, sight unseen?

This 8^th Wonder is called…Liquid ASS.

The website describes it as “an overwhelming, stinky, funny prank product.  Once unleashed, this power–packed, super–concentrated liquid begins to evaporate filling the air with a genuine, foul butt–crack smell with hints of dead animal and fresh poo.”  Just…awesome!

Two days later my package arrived and I was literally light-headed with giddiness.  I had already decided that my family would be the ones to experience this “overwhelming” product.  Other people can unfriend me.  My family is stuck with me.

Without further ado (or adieu), here’s how it went down.

Friday Night

My wife was out late with some friends while my daughter was at a sleep-over, so my son and I were home alone.  He’s created his own entertaiment mecca upstairs in the Game Room, complete with 48” TV, DVR, game consoles, etc., and I could hear him cackling to some adolescent TV humor.  I stuffed a bottle of Liquid ASS in my pocket and made my way to his man-cave, where I plopped myself (uninvited) on the sofa directly behind the La-Z-Boy where he was sprawled.

“Sup?”

“Not much, just seeing what you’re up to.”

“Just watching Family Guy.”

“K.”

I silently extracted the bottle, pulled the cap like the pin on a hand grenade, and pumped the nozzle five or six times directly behind his chair.

“WHAT is that smell?!”  He whipped his head around the edge of the chair to glare at me.  The aroma was rising, and oh my gosh it was shocking.

“Ummm…it might be me?  Mom and I ate Mexican for dinner and I had some really funky tasting charro beans.”

I could barely contain my immature giggles, but he wasn’t the least bit suspicious.  Is there any teenage boy who can resist the humor of a farting scenario?  As the essence increased in intensity, however, he found it much less humorous.

“You need to quit eating that stuff that makes you stink like that.  Seriously Dad, it smells like a squirrel crawled up your butt and died.  Uggggh! I need you to leave.  Now! I’m gonna barf.”  (You know it’s rank when this comment comes from a kid who relies on Axe Body Spray as a shower alternative.)

When I realized he was ready to forcibly remove me from the room, I got up, fanned my butt in his face as I walked by him, and went back downstairs.

Saturday Night

My daughter got home late from a school band trip.  I saw my window of opportunity as she chattered non-stop to my wife about her day.  I pocketed the bottle of Liquid ASS and stealthily made my way upstairs.  Once outside her bedroom, I pumped a few liberal sprays in her doorway and in her bathroom.  I retreated down the back stairs as she began to head up the front stairs to get ready for bed.  I hid in my bedroom because I knew I couldn’t remain composed and I’d give myself away.  Almost immediately the mayhem began.

“Mooooom!!!”

“What do you need?”

“You gotta come up here!  It smells like poop all over!”

My wife rolled her eyes and trudged upstairs, as I watched and listened from the door of the bedroom where I pretended to fold laundry.

“Dang! What did you do?”

“Mom – I didn’t do anything! I haven’t even been here!  Ugh. It smells like cat litter.  Without the litter.”

“Well it smells fine down the hall there where we keep the cat litter box.  It’s coming from your bedroom.”

My wife came down, grabbed a can of Lysol, and went back up to spray the funk away.  What she was unaware of was one of the unique properties of Liquid ASS: you cannot disguise that smell with any amount of disinfectant spray, air freshener or perfume.  Liquid ASS is large and in charge and it, and it alone, decides when to recede.

“Gak! Now it just smells like butt-flavored Lysol!”

“I’m doing the best I can, honey!”

My son became aware of the stenchy situation as my wife flew into our bedroom to consult with me, and he followed her in.

“Jon, I really don’t know what to think about this.  It smells terrible up there.  Like really bad.  Worse than that time we went on vacation for a week and left a chicken carcass in the trash under the sink.”

“It’s Dad!  It’s Dad!  He’s farting!  He did it to me last night!”

I couldn’t control the grin that began to spread across my face, and my wife began the third degree.

“It’s you?  Have you been in or near her bedroom?”

“Well, I had to put some laundry away in there.”

“Oh my lord!”

“It may have been something I ate.  Not sure.”

My daughter finally settled down and went to sleep an hour later, although still indignant, as the smell finally began to dissipate.

Sunday Morning

While my wife was upstairs making sure the kids were up for church, I sprayed some Liquid ASS around our bathroom and then hopped in the shower.  She came in to do her make-up, walked through the room, and sort of stumbled as the reek hit her nostrils.  She grabbed her make-up kit and blow dryer and hustled to the powder room next door to finish getting ready.

She never said a word to me or displayed her disgust with the smelly fumes (allegedly) coming from my butt.  Bless her heart.  She must really love me, for better or for worse.

Sunday Night

The wife and I had dinner by ourselves at one of our favorite Mexican food restaurants.  When our food arrived, she sighed.

“This isn’t really what I wanted, but my stomach’s been upset so I needed to get something without beans.”

“Me too!  I do not need any more beans!”

“Are you sure it’s beans that are causing your problem?  Cause it seems like this issue goes way beyond anything even beans would create.  Oh. My. Gosh.  I’ve never smelled anything like that.  Wow.  I thought something had died in the attic above the girl’s bedroom.”

Later Sunday Night

On the way home from dinner, we stopped at Kroger to engage in our ritual Sunday-night grocery shopping soiree.

“Ooh!  I need to get some more of that soy milk to use with my protein shakes.”

“Wait – how do you know that’s not what’s causing the smell?”

“Hmmm…my parents gave me that as a baby because I was lactose intolerant.  It’s got to be okay.”

“Well, we’ve got to figure it out.  Because truly, I’ve never smelled anything as foul as what’s coming out of you. And we’ve been married a long time.

We got home, unloaded the groceries, and collapsed.  My wife commented, “Is it just me, or is it really hot in here?”  My son didn’t waste the opportunity to jump in with, “It’s probably just the heat from all that methane in the air from Dad.”

So, Dear Family.  Surprise!  You’ve been authentically pranked!

What’s the most awesome practical joke you’ve played on somebody?

Walgreens has annoyed me for years with their cute names for generic products that all begin with the prefix “Wal-“.

There are several categories of products that Walgreens has yet to place their ubiquitous “Wal-” brand label upon.  The geniuses in HQ Marketing seem to be missing some huge opportunities for cheese, so here are my suggestions for some even cuter names, and accompanying slogans with sharp-cheese edge.  You’re not likely to see these on the local shelf any time soon, so enjoy them here.  And put in a good word for me at Walgreens headquarters.

Depilatories

Wal-Expunge

“Conquer your unwanted hair problems and your lice infestation with one great product!  Depilatory of choice for Britney Spears and Howie Mandell.”

Disinfectant Spray

Wal-Sol

“At last, the two-in-one product you’ve been waiting for: Sunscreen + Germicide.  Spray this where the sun shines and you’ll not only be germ free, but avoid the inconvenient pain of melanoma.”

Condoms

Wal-BabyDaddy

“Number one contraceptive choice of the Kappa Alpha Psi fraternity at LSU.  For those times when low cost and urgency trump quality protection.”

Menopausal Feminine Products

 Wal-WinterFlash

“The only feminine deodorant product containing concentrated  spearmint and peppermint essential oils.  Guaranteed to cool you down when your hormones heat you up.”

Enemas

Wal-Squirt

“Unstoppable help for your gastric discomfort.  Also try our Little Squirts, travel sized for on-the-go evacuations.”

Note: Walgreens actually does carry a generic enema product, but they’ve not branded it with a snappy “Wal-“ name.  And even if they did, mine will always be much snappier.

Skin Exfoliators

Wal-Molt

“Safely and easily remove those unattractive layers of dead skin from your neck, thighs, and back.  Includes DIY instructions and patterns for creating your very own personalized purse or European Man Bag.  They’ll be as unique as your DNA!”

Did I miss any products from the line-up?  What would you suggest for the big-wigs at Walgreens Headquarters?

My church hosted a leadership conference last week called Catalyst.

When my buddy Peyton (our church staff organizer) put out the call for volunteers to help host the event, I was quick to say “Yes!”  I had grand illusions of meeting and hanging out with Andy and Craig, or at least indulging in some up-close stalking.  Peyton assigned me to the Resources Team with my friend Josh and our job was to stand by the book table and direct attendees to purchase books, CDs, and magazines.

“Hi!  On my left, your right, you’ll find all of Andy’s books and CDs.  On my right, your left, are Craig’s products.”

All of this accompanied by wide sweeping arm gestures and a Crest-White-Strips smile.  It didn’t take long for this routine to get really old for me.  I do like some variety in my work.  So, I made the leadership decision (see what I did there? It’s a leadership conference?) that two of us were not needed to direct traffic so I bailed on Josh to assist with a really important crisis: we had run out of bottled water.  Our Pastor of Operations quickly dispatched me with a credit card to Sam’s Club to buy 30 cases of Ozarka so our church didn’t earn a city-wide reputation as a poopy host.  We wanted to be known as the Martha Stewart of Church Leadership Conference Hosts, not the Russell Brand of Conference Hosts.

I grabbed two other lackeys and we headed to Sam’s in a borrowed (not stolen  ̶  as far as I know) pick-up truck.  We worked our biceps, triceps, and sweat glands slinging cases of water onto some flat-bed carts at the back of the store.  None of us have mad math skilz, so we actually pushed 34 cases through the check-out line instead of the mandated 30.  I wasn’t worried or plagued with guilt – it’s summer in Houston (a/k/a the Surface of the Sun) and that water wasn’t gonna collect dust.

The three of us crammed ourselves back into the cab of the pickup and proceeded to have some interesting and controversial conversation on the way back to the church.

“Dude – stop it! I don’t want your sweaty armpit touching me anymore.”

“Do you want me to use the steering wheel or not?  Cause we can just pretend this 2002 Chevy has auto-pilot.”

“Hey, no need to get snippy.  It’s just really awkward.”

“Guys. Quit the petty bickering.  We need to just love one another and build each other up.  That’s what Jesus would do…blech!  Which one of you smells like feet and rotten chicken?”

We arrived back at church in record time and unloaded the 34 cases of water.  Before I had even dumped the third case on the water table, the conference attendees were ripping into them like ravenous hyenas.  I have a claw mark on my upper thigh to prove it, and I’m not afraid to show you.

About this time I confirmed a suspicion about myself I’ve been secretly harboring for a couple of years.  I sweat more than the average man.  We’re not talking a few moist spots in strategic places after a workout.  Oh no.  My Catalyst volunteer shirt was soaked (i.e., really, really wet) from above my nipples down to the front hem, and from the neckline in back all the way to the bottom.  The only dry spot (i.e., not really, really wet) was a place 3” in diameter around my belly button.  I have this dry spot in the same place every time I leave the gym, so there’s obviously some medical or genetic issue that needs investigation.  Or else I’ve been unconsciously swiping my antiperspirant stick across that particular patch of tummy.  Who knows?  The other thing you should know about me is that once I get overheated I have a very difficult time lowering my body temperature.  Which means I continue to sweat even in air conditioning.

After we unloaded that last case of bottled water, break time was over and it was time for Andy Stanley to speak.  I wandered toward the book-signing kiosk trying to cool off and dry off when I noticed Craig Groeschel desperately attempting to untangle himself from a very chatty hipster worship pastor.  It’s not hard to identify a worship pastor these days.  Throw a pair of skinny jeans, a purple deep V-neck shirt, and a sport coat from Express into a dressing room and out will swagger a worship pastor, complete with a Pete Wilson doo.

Now I’m nothing if not opportunistic, so I jumped in to rescue Craig.  After helping him to disengage from a swirling cloud of hair wax and Axe, I walked him back to the Green Room so he could prepare for his next talk.  I have to say Craig is a class act.  He patiently answered my litany of questions delivered rapid-fire, while enduring the aura of my physical presence – heat waves radiating from every sweaty pore of my body, my moist (understatement) Catalyst t-shirt, and my very own distinct aroma.

My campus pastor walked by us and I grabbed him to take a picture of me with Craig.  I was all smiles as I reached over to engage the Sideways Bro-Hug and Craig returned the arm across my (moist) back.  When I look at the picture now, I see that behind that Disney Princess-perfect smile of his is a decided “Ewww.”  Just before he disappeared into the Green Room, he leaned over and quietly asked, “Dude.  Have you heard of Axe Body Spray?”

What’s your most embarrassing brush with fame?

I’m in a new season of work right now

• Most of my work is done from home
• I can stay unshowered and in my PJ’s until noon (or later unless I’m expecting a delivery from Papa Johns)
• My dry cleaning bill has gone from $65 a month to zero
• I can listen to my “Rapilicious” playlist on Spotify with wild abandon and absolutely no fear of humiliation or ridicule (check it out if you’re connected to me on Spotify)
• I can gag the cat with duct tape when it makes catty remarks about my rapping, and there’s nobody here to call the ASPCA (Oops – did I just give myself away?)
• I can insensitively and with no guilt refer to the cat as an “it” because it’s been spayed and is now neither a “he” or “she”
• I have unlimited access to all the yummy Dunkin Donuts coffee I can drink, with no one here to criticize when I suddenly jump out of my chair to break dance  ̶̶  or to power-walk from one end of the house to the other while singing the new Luke Bryan song in a twangy falsetto

But, along with all these great Jonquinox benefits, there are some challenges:

• There’s no one here to annoy when I’ve completed my fifth cup of Dunkin Donuts (annoying the cat is no fun once the gag is in place)
• An odor of onions and feet seems to follow me wherever I go in the house, and I’ve not been able to locate the source
• I’m beginning to OD on peanut butter and butter sandwiches (we ran out of jelly and I just didn’t feel like getting dressed to go buy some more)
• The exercise of clarifying my career goals, defining my passions, and researching opportunities has led me down some very interesting paths, some of which are probably not practical (such as cruise director and personal trainer)

What name would you give to your current season of life and why?

Toyota’s Product Positioning for Venza.  I am honestly quite offended by the commercials for the Toyota Venza.  I currently drive this model and I absolutely cannot agree that I am of the demographic portrayed by the “brilliant” Saatchi & Saatchi marketing team.  In one of the commercials, A 20-something son wanders the house looking for his old fogie parents who have apparently gone to bed at 8:00 PM.  In reality, the seniors are hosting a tailgate party in their Venza at the drive-in, passing around wine glasses of prune juice to other like-minded (and irregular) old farts.  By the way, their affinity for prune juice is what earned them the nickname “old fart.”  True fact.

HuluPlus Captivity.  We recently bought a Roku box that allows us to wirelessly stream television show content from the internet to the TV.  This has been great for summer entertainment when our regular shows are on hiatus.  Our son convinced us to buy a subscription to HuluPlus, which seems to have the best selection of stuff we like.  The downside?  Commercials that you cannot fast-forward through.  It seems Hulu was only able to garner sponsorship from about three advertisers.  If I have to see the same two Geico commercials (lizard giving the disco ball presentation and the rock dwellers) one more time I’m going to send the Progressive lady to their corporate offices on a killing spree.  And that Charmin commercial with the animated bear?  They’ve set up a whole website dedicated to “making going to the bathroom more enjoyable.”  Check it out here.

Over-Talkers.  You know who I’m talking about.  The ones who so desperately need to hear their own voice that they constantly interrupt you by starting a new conversation on top of the one already in progress.  Call me sexist if you will, but this habit/character flaw/propensity seems to be more confined to the female gender.  Guys usually follow the maxum, “Get in, get out.”  I was in a recent meeting with five or six over-talkers where the cacophony was so intense that my left eye started twitching.  The whole conversation was about buying the perfect pair of “pumps.”  I learned way more about women’s shoes than a dude ever needs to know.

Pets with Human Names.  Why do people insist on naming their pets after celebrities, historical figures, or dead relatives?  I can’t understand the appeal of owning a Shar-Pei named Zsa Zsa, a tabby named Mr. Belvedere, or a fish named Ariel.  Really?  What happened to good old pet names like Duke, Hooch, Rascal, or Bubbles?  Before my wife sells me out, I will have to admit that we used to own a cat named Chauncey.  In my defense, the name fit perfectly.  That was the most uppity cat I’ve ever seen, although I have to allow some grace for over-compensation.  Chauncey was a female.  Her uppitiness was no doubt a result of low self-esteem.

What’s the most ridulous pet name you’ve heard and/or used recently?

In Exodus 33: 12-13, Moses felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.  He felt alone and up against an impossible task.  God had charged him with leading and shepherding the Israelites out of Egypt, but Moses wasn’t feeling God with him and beside him, and felt completely in the dark about how to move forward.  I’m a lot like Moses.  When we’re stressed out and frustrated, we throw inhibition to the wind and just say what we’re thinking:

Moses said to God, “Look, you tell me, ‘Lead this people,’ but you don’t let me know whom you’re going to send with me. You tell me, ‘I know you well and you are special to me.’ If I am so special to you, let me in on your plans. That way, I will continue being special to you. Don’t forget, this is your people, your responsibility.”

I’ve been feeling a lot of this same emotion for months now.  I know the Bible tells me that God loves me and I’m special to him, but I don’t feel His presence and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.  I seem to be in a holding pattern in so many areas – my career, the pursuit of my writing dreams, even many of my relationships.  If I just had some small idea of what God’s plans are for me, I might not feel so lost.  “If I am so special to you, let me in on your plans.”  

Moses said, “If your presence doesn’t take the lead here, call this trip off right now. How else will it be known that you’re with me in this, with me and your people? Are you traveling with us or not? How else will we know that we’re special, I and your people, among all other people on this planet Earth?”

God said to Moses: “All right. Just as you say; this also I will do, for I know you well and you are special to me. I know you by name.”

Moses continued to challenge God in verses 15-17.  He desperately wanted to see and feel God’s presence.  So do I.  I want Him to draw near in a way that will strengthen my faith and give me assurance that He’s really with me.  I’m asking Him for that, just as Moses did.  When Moses asked, God revealed Himself in all His glory, because He loved Moses.  “…I know you well and you are special to me. I know you by name.”

I know God loves me in the same way.  I believe what the Bible says.  I’m just not connecting what I know (in my head) to what I know (in my heart).  I’m tired.  I’m anxious.  I’m frequently depressed.  I need a vacation from myself.  But mostly I need the joy of knowing God is by my side and on my side.  How else will I know that I am special?

How do you find God’s presence in seasons of spiritual drought?

I got a taste of some of this kind of adventure on my summer vacation.  I rode the longest zipline in the world over open water, conquered a surfing wave simulator, and went surfing for real in the ocean off West Palm Beach.  I’m a realist, however.  I know there are basic limitations on what I’ll actually be able to do, mostly because I have two kids to put through college and adventure tends to be expensive.  So here are a few activities from my ultimate bucket list, tempered with some realistic but less-wild substitutions.

What’s on your bucket list?

If you’ve learned anything about me from reading my blog so far, I’m sure you’ve recognized that I’m a) quirky, b) resourceful, c) mischievous, and d) sexy.  Using the combined power of the first three (the fourth one is a nice-to-have but irrelevant here), I’ve created a few titillating “Gym Whims” (patents pending) that I use for entertainment while exercising in my rhythmic trance.  Feel free to borrow them, but just give proper credit when you get caught or noticed.  And by proper I mean blame Obama.

Wonky Pedal Punk’d

Occasionally one of the pedals on an elliptical machine comes loose and begins to slide around.  The sliding is usually accompanied by a very noticeable thumping and slapping noise. 

A couple of weeks ago I made my way upstairs to get my 30 minutes of aerobic exercise in, but the floor was packed.  It was the day after Independence Day so I’m sure all these peeps were working off the copious piles of barbeque, hamburgers, and potato salad they consumed over a six-hour period.

I managed to locate one lone machine that was not currently hosting a large, sweaty man/woman (to dispel your confusion I mean either/or, not hermaphrodite).  I hopped on, put the pedals in motion, and there it was: slide-thump-slap, slide-thump-slap.  Just great.  The grinning dude next to me finished up and headed for the stairs so I immediately took his vacancy.

This is when my fun began.  Less than five minutes after I switched machines, Victim #1 approached.  Sauna-Suit-Sally rustled up to the machine in her full-body, NASA-grade, silver reflective outfit.  She grabbed the stationary handles to steady herself before hoisting her sizable buttocks one-by-one up onto the pedals.  When she finally got the thing into motion, the slide-thump-slap, slide-thump-slap action had her lurching all over the place like a drunk sailor in a riding the perfect storm.  She stopped to evaluate what the heck was going on, couldn’t really figure it out, and finally hoisted each (sizable) buttock down off the machine.

A few minutes later, Victim #2 ambled over.  He’s a regular at my gym and I call him Monkey Arms.  Not so much because of their length (although they are a bit longer than on most men his height) but because of what he does with them on the elliptical.  These machines have two sets of handles – one is stationary, the other set moves back and forth with the pedal motion.  When Monkey Arms gets going, he goes fast – those arms fling back and forth with such wild abandon that you think they’re gonna come loose from their sockets.  At the same time, he sports a sort of constipated grimace on his face while snake-like sounds escape from his lips with each exhale: Ssssssss…

This video clip comes pretty close to illustrating Monkey Arms in all his glory. 

I could hardly control the smile starting to eclipse my face as I anticipated the spectacle I was about to witness.  Really, the entertainment value doesn’t get much better.  Monkey Arms hopped onto the crippled machine, grabbed the moving handles, and revved it into high gear:

Slide-thump-slap-grimace-ssss-slide-thump-slap-grimace-ssss-slide-thump-slap-grimace-ssss

It took a full two minutes (I timed it) for Monkey Arms to realize that something was not right.  He popped an earbud out, leaned over to me, and asked, “Is there something wrong with this machine?”  I shrugged and turned my head so I wouldn’t get caught with the impossible-to-contain huge grin on my face.  I guess Monkey Arms decided that there was something indeed wrong with the machine and he left for a different tree-top.

A total of five victims learned about the broken machine the hard way.  I got more amused with each new episode, and felt like a kid with the giggles in church.  It was awesome.  Some might say epic.  I won’t say “epic” because I think it’s a cheesy thing to say. But some might.  Could I have been a compassionate, helpful, generous person and warned these victims before they made fools of themselves?  No I could not.  That would have violated the rules of my Gym Whims, drastically reduced my entertainment value, and cheated you out of using this nifty diversion at the gym when your iPod’s battery runs out. 

Stay tuned for more Gym Whims for your edification and pleasure. 

What do you do at the gym to keep from getting bored?

I’m cursed with a 45 minute commute each way to the office, which actually has the decided benefit of blessing me with some of my best thinking time.  I’m a thinker, a processor of information, and I need this thinking time to make decisions and come to conclusions.  For Bugs Bunny fans, I’m more like Marvin the Martian than Hugo in the Abominable Snow Rabbit episode.  (I’m also kind of a random thinker.)  This morning I made a little bit of sense out of what I’ve been feeling.  It all comes down to lies and truth.

The Lies

 I’ve surrounded myself with a bunch of ideas that reflect popular viewpoints in our culture today.

It’s about who I know.  Being part of the “popular” crowd, aligning myself with influencers, seeking shallow friendships with “cool” individuals who by association will make me appear to have it all together.  Investing my time and energy in the wrong places. 

It’s about how I feel.  If I allow myself to “feel” useless, unwanted, incapable, and untalented, then I must be those things. 

It’s about what I do.  Being a vice president, owner, partner, author, speaker, or having another “prestigious” role will clearly make life worth living.  Not having any of those titles just proves how insignificant I am. 

It’s about what I have.  The latest technology gadgets, new clothes, big house, and feature-rich cars mean that I’ve made it. 

It’s about my image.  Revealing only the parts of myself that won’t embarrass me or show my weaknesses.  Hiding behind masks of composure, style, physical appearance, and carefully scripted interpersonal engagements.   Keeping up with the Joneses.  Or maybe the Kardashians. 

The Truth

I’m slowly beginning to shatter those lies.  My value and worth is based on an entirely different standard.

It’s about Who I know.  I am a follower of Jesus Christ and know that He lives within me.  My relationship with Him gives me my identity – not my things, my job, or my friends.  All of those things won’t last, but my security with Christ is for eternity.

It’s about believing without evidence.  Much of the time I don’t feel like a child of God, deeply loved and cherished.  But the bible says that I am:  “No, the Father himself loves you because you have loved me and have believed that I came from God.” (John 16:27)  Feelings are deceptive.  God’s word is unfailing.

It’s about the richness of my relationships.  I have the most amazing wife who puts me first, loves me when I’m unlovable, and believes in me when I can’t believe in myself.  I have two amazing kids who challenge me in every possible way, daily chipping away at my impatience, intolerance, and selfishness.  I have deep friendships with a handful of guys that I would label as “2 AM Friends.”  Brothers I can call on any time of day or night to walk with me through pain and sorrow, pray with me and for me, and give me wise counsel.

It’s about making a difference.  Most of the time it’s not about the job or profession that I have or the position that I hold, but about the people surrounding me.  Jobs are temporary – people are forever.  Showing compassion to a co-worker with serious health or family issues, being available to listen when a colleague’s marriage is crumbling and pointing him to the truth of God’s love and hope, or rejoicing with a cubicle neighbor whose child was accepted to an Ivy League school – this is what it’s all about.

It’s about my character.  The consistency (or inconsistency) of my behavior at home, at the office, or in Sunday morning church has a lot to do with the willingness of others to trust me.  Am I living what I say I believe?  Or am I a hypocrite and a liar?  My behavior should reflect the purity and intentions of the Holy Spirit living in me.

It’s about being real.  When I dig deep and find the courage to reveal my true self, I find freedom.  Realizing that no one has their act completely together gives me comfort to just be me.  The real me that I’ve been ashamed of, embarrassed by, and scared of for most of my life is becoming a close friend that I enjoy time with.  I don’t worry so much about whether others feel the same.  To not be me is to deny God’s work in my life.  I just can’t do that anymore.

I’m a work in progress.  I need these truths to infiltrate my heart each and every day, but it takes intentionality and discipline.  I guess that’s the next area I need to focus on!

What lies do you tell yourself?  What are the truths that overcome those lies?

These are a few of my favorite things I won’t touch.  Julie Andrews won’t touch them either.

Most anything in a public restroom. 

Airports are the absolute worst, followed by sports stadiums and the ones at my office. 

• The toilet seat.  If I walk in, all the urinals are occupied, and I end up in a stall where the seat is down, I am not lifting it.  Not even with a big wad of toilet paper used like an oven mitt.  I’ll do my best to aim straight, but I apologize up-front for any stray splashes.  On the rare occasion where I might actually have to sit, I won’t.  I hover.  Not even one of those butt-doilies can make it right.
• The flush handle.  I believe in flushing.  It’s truly a civilized thing to do.  Even at an Astros game.  But I’m not touching that handle because I know that whoever did business in there before me did not have an opportunity to wash their hands before touching it.  Or, if they’re like me, they used their shoe to engage the lever.  You know exactly where those shoes have been.
• The exit door.  I have seen way too many guys leave a stall and completely bypass the sink area on their way out.  I’m not touching that door handle.  I usually wash my hands, dry them with a paper towel, then use the same paper towel to grab the handle and pull open the door.  Standing at the free-throw line in the doorway, I’ll lob the wadded up paper towel toward the nearest trash can.  I usually miss, but I refuse to correct my error.  That would mean making contact with the bathroom floor, another thing I will not touch.

Most anything on a commercial airplane. 

What with all the cutbacks, we are paying much more for much less.  This includes the luxury of a cabin cleaning crew.

• The seat headrest.  Most airlines now have these weird looking “wings” on the headrest that you can bend to fit your head shape.  Nice idea, except when they are infected with lice or crusted with dried slobber.  This is why I don’t sleep on planes.
• The tray table.  How many times have I pulled that thing down and found chunks of food or smeared booger juice adorning that wobbly surface?  Too many.  I will continue to eat on my lap.  I know exactly what to expect there.
• The blankets and/or pillows.  I have heard too many stories of Mile-High-Club activities happening under cover of those royal-blue institutional felt blankets.  (My mother read Fear of Flying to me as a bedtime story when I was six – yes, another piece of the puzzle drops into place.)  Breast-feeding mothers are fond of propping the kid and his dirty diaper on top of one of the pillows and disguising the naked nipple action with the blanket.  No way am I paying $3.75 for the use of linens that are about as sanitary as the bottom of my teenage son’s laundry basket.

Dogs. 

Let’s face it, they stink.  They roll around in random outdoor poop, they lick their butts and genitals, and they rarely bathe (and even when they do you still have the aroma of “wet dog”).  People like dogs because they are friendly, but that’s a big part of the problem.  They want to be all up in your grill, and unfortunately they bring their filth and stench with them.  I push them away, but they immediately come back.  And by pushing them away I have to touch them.  Then I must wash.  Immediately if not sooner.

What are some things you draw the line at touching?