Elliot Allen Ames arrived on Earth around 3:20am this past Monday morning. Due to the planet’s gravity, he registered 6 lbs 11 oz and he was 19.5 inches long. His 2 sisters Savannah and Sydney, who had arrived on the planet 2 and 5 years prior, were delighted to finally fulfill their dreams to hold him in their arms.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

It’s no secret, Carlos Whitaker loves time lapse video. Last year he recorded his family decorating the tree using an awesome song from August Burns Red. This year, I decided to follow suit.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

Internet at large… meet my soul. My soul… meet the Internet. You two will get along famously.

In fact, I think the only time I twittered about the Christian show was when I re-mentioned the Mtv one. I still think this tweet sums up my feelings nicely.

I already wrote about my experience with making the Christian video in my post How My Brain Was Washed by Christians. So I won’t rehash that here. The segment is part of the program Northpoint.tv and you can watch it online the day it airs, Sunday August 30th, if you don’t have FamilyNet.

I don’t know much about the Mtv show. I know it’s called Pranked and here is what Mashable had to say about it. Apparently it will be hosted by the guys from College Humor which, you should know, is not really safe for work most days and may or may not trip your family’s Internet content filter.

Here is the suck part. They haven’t been forthcoming with information about my segment. So while the show debuts Thursday, August 27th, I don’t really know if my clip will be in that episode. In fact, according to the paperwork I signed… it may not be featured at all. I know I made the first cut, and I know I got them the footage early, but that’s it. Oh, and even if I do make the grade, I could be mocked heavily. The show format indicates that 2 smartass types will be commentating over the videos as they play, so it stands within reason that my video could very well be so lame that the only way to salvage “the funny” is ridicule.

I just want to make people laugh and I’m not all that particular about how it happens. I don’t mind being the butt of someone’s joke.

But you don’t have to wait until Thursday or possibly forever! Here is the video.

So there you have it. My hand may or may not be visible on Mtv and/or Christian television within 2 days of each other! And while I’m not sure whether or not God still wears trucker hats, ahem Archie, I cannot deny the possibility that he is punking me.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

I published 49 posts (this one will make 50) and I have 47 unpublished drafts. Here are my top 5 most-viewed posts:

1. Me and My Freakish Uvula – 858 views
2. The Child Brothels of Svay Pak – 711 views
3. Inauguration Day, Expletives, and Racial Slurs – 517 views
4. Hiding My Shame – 430 views
5. That Day I Exorcised Demons. At Burger King. – 384 views

The first one brings in views via google searches from my fellow freakish uvula bearing brethren. The second and third bring in views from individuals who are googling for “child brothels” and “f*cking nigers” respectively. I hope the first lot take the time to listen to the IJM letter. I hope the second lot never realize they are very nearly functionally illiterate. Or I hope that they do, and it causes them a terrific amount of mental anguish on a routine basis.

Here are my top 5 personal favorite posts:

1. Rerun: God and Darwin and Me on One Knee – 53 views
2. A Question Twice The Size Of My Large Intestine – 173 views
3. An Unconscionable Addiction Part 4 – 183 views
4. Rape and Coffee – 103 views
5. Keeping Your Privates, Private – 127 views

I did a series of parenting tip videos that are consistently my lowest viewed posts. So I stopped doing them after episode #5. I can’t see how they would be useful to my kids in the future, if they aren’t useful to you in the present.

I have a grand total of 13,735 views. That’s more than a bit nutty to me. Here is a break-down by month:

As expected, the more posts I write in a month, the more views I get. Also, controversial posts spark comments. And comments drive more page views because each person engaged in the conversation comes back a few times to see if anyone responded to them. On a high viewing day, a single person can represent many of the “page views” for the day in question. So if you want traffic on your blog here is what you do. Post a lot and occasionally say outlandish things. That’s not my strategy because I don’t have one. I say what I want to say when I want to say it, always considering that my daughters, and now my son, may one day read these words.

This blog has generated 584 legitimate comments and 2,573 spam comments. And while some of those are me showing appreciation to you, for your kind or insightful words, most are not me at all. When I started, I hoped that blogging publicly, as opposed to journaling privately, would generate conversations and that these conversations would help validate some of my views, fill in gaps in others, deconstruct others still, and help me grow as a person all around. Trust me when I say that I have not been disappointed in this area.

I don’t know if this means I have a successful blog. I do know that I have benefitted from this transaction considerably. I’ve always been a reader and that hasn’t changed. But now I feel myself becoming a writer. I’ve started to read books and blogs on writing. And sure, this may all be flights of passing fancy, but also, it may not.

About 4 years ago I revealed to my wife a growing desire to become a licensed marriage and family therapist. It was late at night, before bed. A fire had been unexpectedly lit within me and I explained it to her with an impressive, albeit false, nonchalance. When I was finished talking she looked at me with a contemplative-but-perplexed look and said, with less reservation than I would have preferred, “Aren’t you supposed to have a marriage worth emulating before becoming one of those?” Now, my wife is not always right about everything, but she was right in this moment and today I am thankful for her frankness in a way that my wounded pride would not permit at the time.

I tell you this story because the other day I asked my wife if she thought I could be a successful writer. She cocked her head to one side, grinned mischievously, and replied, “We’ll see.”Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

You can see from the poll results below, that it was a tie. 48% vs. 48%. So enough speculation already. Watch the video for the final word on the matter.

Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

Care to take a wager?

Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

Our church does this thing that is fairly popular with Evangelicals. They facilitate the process for regular attenders to form “small groups”. We meet once a week, usually 3-4 weeks in a row and then we take a week off each month. You’re matched up by age, location, and stage of life.

In our group we do bible studies and read books together. Often, we choose topics related to marriage and child-raising. It’s pretty laid back and it has added tremendous value to our marital relationship and our parenting ability.

One of the unexpected delights (and disappointments) is that we are encouraged to break up every year and a half or so and form a new group. This is usually a sad time at first, but it keeps the cast of characters in our lives fresh and unique. You end up befriending people who have the very basics in common with you, and sometimes little else. If it wasn’t for small group you never would have met.

Our good friends Jody, Jennifer and baby Makenna, who we met via small group, are an excellent example. I don’t golf. I’m not “outdoorsy”. I don’t have a green thumb. On the surface, Jody and I don’t have a great deal in common. Needless to say, we don’t run in the same social circles. But we’re friends now. And we have way more in common that I ever would have imagined in the beginning. He’s the kind of guy you do not want to be around if you have a weak bladder because he is so funny he will make you pee your pants. His dedication to his family and wife is an example to me.

One of the benefits we’ve enjoyed from being his friend is that on the 4th of July we get an all access pass to a well-manicured private golf course. We relax. We let the kids run as fast and (almost) as far as they want. It’s refreshing and beautiful.

While all the well-to-do rich folk are enjoying perfectly grilled filet mignon and salmon on the deck of the clubhouse, we’re lounging about on the back nine, sipping sweet tea and chewing on the Colonel’s extra crispy fried chicken, in our own private Eden.

It’s a tradition I hope we keep for many years to come.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

First of all, someone needs to teach that dude how to cuss all right and proper like. I know profanity and that isn’t it! I mean, didn’t God himself have some strong feelings about “He that pisseth against the wall“?

I know I haven’t been in the club very long, but I’m still mystified. I’m assuming if he doesn’t like crap, he certainly doesn’t approve of real profanity. I read the bible roughly 5 or 6 times a week. I actually enjoy it and look forward to it. So I would think that the concerns with cussing would be, you know, obvious to me. So far they are not.

I grew up in a military family from the northern U.S. so I don’t even notice profanity half the time. It was always just a part of the scenery. It’s not even considered profane by the speaker or the recipient in most cases. It’s common dialog.

Ironically, however, I have made it a personal goal not to use profanity and for the most part, I don’t. I have my moments where I slip into old habits, but largely my language is church-appropriate on a daily basis. Here’s the thing though, I don’t do it for Jesus or for any religious conviction. My reasoning is that I want people to understand me and consider my points of view. I want to be seen as credible (don’t we all?). I don’t want my choice of words to interfere with what I have to say. In light of this, I took a look at all people and I realized the following:

A. People who cuss are tolerant of people who do not. For the most part they are understanding and respectful of the culture of the non-profane.

B. People who don’t cuss are not tolerant of people who do. For the most part if you use profanity, they will stop listening to you and avoid you entirely.

Therefore:

C. The path of most effective communication is one without cussing.

I commented in response to the “cussing pastor” post and now I’m wondering if it’s a valid perspective.

Ed has Southern Baptist tunnel vision. And I’m not talking about his theology, I’m talking about his culture. To the majority of the U.S., it’s only the reached people who are offended by “bad language”.

So if you want to save the saved, keep on wasting time on this topic. If you want to introduce unreached people to Jesus, speak to them plainly, in their vernacular.

I’m a hypocrite. I know this. Not only am I wasting more time on this, I’ve invited you to do the same. If I’d have known I was going to write this post, I can assure you I wouldn’t have written that .

I’m not advocating that people who do not use cuss words start using them in order to artificially impress others. Unless of course someone has a video camera rolling because as that scene plays out in my mind it is awkward and hilarious. What I am advocating, or at least questioning, is whether or not we should be judging Christians who already use cuss words as a natural part of their vocabulary. If I am a Christian and I’m hanging out with my friends who use cuss words as a part of everyday language, and I am fluent in the same vernacular, is it right or wrong for me to speak the common tongue?

And so, a paradox. On the one hand, I don’t want my girls to grow up with potty-mouths. On the other, I don’t want them to feel awkward or uncomfortable around people that choose to be different than them.

It seems to me that we Christians are artisan wall-builders. And the tragedy is that all of the walls we erect just so happen to be strategically positioned between nonbelievers and Jesus.

Is it only the reached people that are offended by profanity? If so, does that say something? Is profanity in the ear of the beholder? I’m searching, here. So bust out your bibles and liquor me up with some religion already. Clearly, I need it.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

We tried to warn her. She thought it was funny at first. You’ll notice her hamming it up, until the candy bit her back!

Experience is the best teacher, right?Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

First, one of my posts was picked up as an article for Transparent Christian Magazine, a site run by Jason Elkins. Quite an honor.

Then this morning I discovered that a comment of mine won a contest over at Stuff Christians Like. The contest was to write a descriptive profile for your favorite Christian stereotype.

dewde said…
In order for an adult to “find Jesus”, they have to be brainwashed by the Christians during a season of particularly extreme vulnerability. Such as a divorce, or loss, or unemployment, or criminal conviction of some sort.

God, as it were, never seems to seek out the healthy, happy, successful types.

(except me)

So yeah. Busy week. How’s it going for you?Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

Happy Anniversary my love! You’re my favorite!

I am sitting in a large, comfortable bus as we take a day-long tour of London. It’s December now and the contrast of the cold outside upon the heat inside has created a perpetually thick matte of condensation on my window. I reach up and write with large, friendly letters the words “Stupid American” into the fog, followed by an arrow that points down and ends where my face begins. The words are written backwards inside the bus so that spectators outside the bus can read them in the right direction. My girlfriend of 4 years is sitting beside me and my family, who lives here in England, is with us taking in the sights and history of the city. My Mom shares with me, “In England a hundred miles is a long distance, but in America a hundred years is a long time.” It is my love’s first trip here, but not mine, and I am beside myself with excitement to show it to her.

I should stop here and say that it has been no secret through most of our courtship that we are going to be married. As we have made our way through college, dating and living separately, we have passed the time by planning our future life together. I have made it a point to tell my love throughout this courtship that she will never know when I am about to ask for her hand in marriage. On several occasions I have told her, “You are going to think you will know when I am about to ask you, but you will be wrong. I promise you will never see it coming.” I am hoping that this will be my brilliantly played victory in psychological warfare.

And so it is not by accident that today is a few days after Christmas, but not quite New Years Eve, and that we are traveling London. My love does not notice one of my hands spending an unscrupulous amount of time in its corresponding pocket. She is far too distracted with everything to suspect that I am guarding a secret in the shape of a diamond engagement ring. She should be curious as to why, as we approach Westminster Abbey, my family has decided to sit outside the historic church instead of accompany us inside, but just as I planned, she is not taking notice.

Together we drink our fill of the 1400 year old abbey which is shaped like a giant cross. This, we learn, is a place where kings were crowned, royal families were sewn together, and national treasures were laid to rest. We meander through the hallways marveling at the names of historic figures entombed in the very floors and walls around us. The anticipation of the impending moment is circling the rim of my heart like a twister circles the chain-link fence of a trailer park, just before leveling it completely. This grand Gothic masterpiece is the final resting place to monarchs and scientists and poets. From Henry V to Elizabeth I. From Geoffrey Chaucer to Charles Dickens. From Sir Isaac Newton to Charles Darwin. We stand in awe, again and again, that surely one hundred years is a mere drop in the bucket of time for a place such as this.

My love and I have reached the center of the abbey, in front of the altar. I looked around, breath in the moment through all my senses, and say…

“This place is beautiful.”

“Yes,” she replies.

“This is the place where kings have been crowned and royalty has been married for hundreds and hundreds of years,” I remark with purpose.

She doesn’t respond.

“This would be a romantic place for someone to propose, don’t you think?” I offer casually.

“Yes,” she agrees softly, admiring something off in the distance.

And then, in the heart of Westminster Abbey, with my would-be wife half distracted and not paying me much attention, I get down on one knee, in front of God and Charles Darwin’s bones, and I cast an anchor into to sea of time that will be ours forever.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

Other times, you hear advice and your immediate reaction is to question the credibility of the adviser giver.

I read some advice recently on how to stop yelling at my children, and it was exactly because of the source, the advice giver, that I paused and soaked it in slowly. You see, this trick of not yelling is one I have not mastered. And I so desperately want to master it.

Her name is Christine and her blog is Welcome to My Brain. She is a pastor’s wife. Her family has been fostering, and then adopting, a girl over the past year-ish. Her name is Mar and I think she’s around 11 years old.

Mar cannot yet believe things are not going to change once the adoption is final. Her last adoptive mom was super sweet and sappy during the adoption process while they waited in Haiti. The abuse started as soon as she became theirs “officially” – literally on her first day home. I can understand her fear. She wants to do whatever it takes to stop the adoption, wondering if we’re just “acting nice” to make her “all ours” … and then we may change. She has witnessed a woman being completely two-faced: one thing at home and another thing in front of school employees, church friends, and caseworkers.

Understandably, due to her time as an orphan and also her prior adoption, Mar has developed a condition called Reactive Attachment Disorder. The wikipedia entry on RAD says, “children with RAD are presumed to have grossly disturbed internal working models of relationships which may lead to interpersonal and behavioral difficulties in later life.”

Two months ago, as the adoption date was looming ever nearer, Mar’s behavior (read: misbehavior) escalated. And who could blame her? Right around this time Christine wrote a post titled: I’ll Just Out-crazy Your Crazy!

When your child has hit you, bit you, had to be restrained, was asked to stay outside then crawled back in a window, locked themselves in the bathroom, thrown something through one of the windows, ripped up some of your garden, etc., etc. … what is a RAD Mom to do?

…

You come home to the child who hit you, bit you, had to be restrained, was asked to stay outside then crawled back in a window, locked themselves in the bathroom, thrown something through one of the windows, ripped up some of your garden, etc., etc.. You enter their room with a can of spray paint and a bag of candy. You step over the posters and notes you’ve made for them over the past year (now lying all over the floor torn to shreds), and you just spray paint your love notes directly on the walls.

…

You out-shine their darkness. You out-love their fear and anger. You out-crazy their crazy.

Right about now you’re really jonesin’ hard to read the original post and gawk at her pictures. Fine. Click here.

So you see, when a woman like this writes a post titled How I Stopped Yelling At My Kids, I stop and pay attention. Then I come here and blog about it, not only because I want to share her wisdom with you, but because the only way for me to own up to my responsibilities as a Dad is to saturate my life with good advice. My brain is dark, and advice like this is white. I have to force myself to think about this stuff over and over, so that it soaks into my thoughts like multiple coats of white paint on a dark wall.

Here is how Christine recommends that I stop yelling at my kids.

STEP 1: Believe yelling is not okay. When you are screaming at someone, you are not thinking clearly, you have abandoned love and kindness, and … well … it’s wrong. It’s just plain wrong. Yelling hurts. It never helps. Ya’ know … cause it’s WRONG!

STEP 2: Acknowledge your children learn through what you do, more than what you say. “STOP YELLING AT YOUR BROTHER!!!” Um, yeah.

STEP 3: If it’s good enough for your kids, it’s good enough for you. Give your kids permission to say, “Mom, can you please change your voice?” Also, in our house we do something extra for the person we have hurt. So, if I yelled at my kids, I owed them an extra treat or some extra reading time or they could stay up a little later, etc. I received consequences for yelling.

STEP 4: Do not yell at your child the first time they rationally and calmly say, “Mom, can you please change your voice?” You’ll want to, but it’s better to put yourself in a time out … in your room … while you scream into a pillow.

STEP 5: Yell less and less and less until you are no longer a yeller.

I want you to take 2 things away from this and the first thing is perspective. Chances are, you don’t have it nearly as bad with your kids as you pretend. If you’re being honest, your yelling is probably a significant part of the problem.

The second thing is a challenge. In the comments below fill out your own report card based on each of these steps. Give yourself an A for excellent and an F for failing. I’ll jump in down there too. And if you disagree with any… by all means say so!

P.S. Christine, your courage and patience dwarfs mine. Thank you for inviting us on the journey.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

My guess is that by the time you’ve read 16 different perspectives on 16 different chapters of one author’s book, your brain will be so soupy that you’ll wish you’d just read the stupid book yourself instead. BUT WAIT! Before you do that, meander over and read my article on chapter 3 first.

In all seriousness, thanks for the opportunity John. You run a good show. I’m proud to have been a part, and I can’t wait to read all the other authors’ posts.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

Chris,

Thanks for finally writing ! You never did tell me writing letters “is just not your thing.” Well I’m glad you took the courage to write this one. I have re-read it twice and I’m almost certain that won’t be enough.

I honor you. My judgement is most people don’t have the guts to be honest. I judge they skirt around the truth, or just avoid it with superficial letters. I’m glad you chose the other route.

It’s tuesday night around 10. I’m laying up in my bunk listening to the radio and the Cavaliers game. On clear nights I can pick up a Cleveland station on AM. It’s nice to hear familiar voices from home.

I’m not really sure how I’m going to get my point across.

I’ve shared with you that my arrest was the best thing that could have happened. I don’t change that belief. I ask that you judge me as a man, not as a sex offender. That doesn’t define me. It’s something I did. And believe me, I am not trying to minimize that. It’s horrible and something I can’t imagine doing again. Fortunately I don’t have direct victims,but that doesn’t mean I don’t consider the indirect victims. I have great remorse and struggle with being forgiven. And being forgiven may not be the correct phrase, because I believe saying I’m sorry is too easy. I believe ‘I’m sorry’ is too easy to say and get away with. I’m guilty of it. For me, it’s just a scape goat. “I’m sorry that you were a victim of my crime.” Sounds kind of blah, and not connected to me. “When I chose pictures of you being abused I was wrong. I can only imagine the pain you suffer and if I hadn’t sought out your picture, maybe you wouldn’t have to suffer any longer.” That’s what I mean.

Chris, I continue to put it all out there, here. I’m trying to change peoples perceptions, one at a time. I respect everyone’s opinions. Ya, I don’t like the negative ones, but I still respect them and I don’t let them define me. My ex-wife didn’t like the fact that I was so open. I respect that. The last letter she wrote me, when she ceased communication, she called me a monster. Unfortunately I am respecting her wishes not to communicate, but I’d love to share with you why I’m just the opposite.

The lights are off now so it’s kinda hard to see.

I don’t know what life has in store for me. I know I want to make a difference. What that’ll be I’m not sure. Right now I’m making a difference in me. It all starts there.

Sure sucks writing in the dark. My neighbor is reading so I get a little light pollution from him.

There’s about 1100 guys here. Rumor is 600 or so are sex offenders. I’d say 25% of those are doing something about their issues. I struggle too. There’s guys here that have done horrendous things. Some continue their behavior here. I’m pissed and disgusted, using your words. If we ever have that cup of coffee I can tell you.

I spent 2 weekends ago with 12 of my peers and 14 volunteers doing 3 days of work on me. I was in a group of 3 other men with their volunteers. I was able to shine some light on some areas in my life. It was awesome. As par for the course, I was 100% open with these men. Men who told me they were disgusted with what I’d done, but I also proved to them that it doesn’t define who I am. There’s a naming process at the end that the volunteer that was with me gives me. He names me Wild Stallion. He described me as majestic, powerful, and free. A gentle warrior and a masculine, mature male. I own all that. I’m a man among men who believes he can change the world one man at a time. How’s that for a mission statement? I don’t have any tattoos, but if I did, I’d have one that said, “Only God can judge me.”

Chris, I respect you for your thoughts. You may never get past the fears, and I’m not asking you to. I thank you for telling me your truths. I want to continue to be your friend, on whatever level is comfortable with you.

I’m glad your wife supports you on sending me books. I’m looking forward to the one from Francis Chan you talked about. All your books get read. My friend David has the Deadly Viper. I really liked that one. There’s nothing that I really need to read. I’m reading Ludlum right now. We have a decent library and there’s always magazines about. I really enjoy the food magazines, I get 3 of them now.

When you find some time share with me any responses you got on your blog.

Thanks for your truths and honesty.

Your friend,

Billy

I’m inviting you to speak to Billy. I will be sending the entire series with comments to him. I’ll wait a week or so. Respond as if he doesn’t exist and will never read your words, respond directly to him, respond to me, or ignore this post entirely.

It’s up to you.Popular Posts:

• Me and My Freakish Uvula
• Am I A Husband Or A Project?
• Hiding My Shame
• I Wrote The Constitution
• The Child Brothels of Svay Pak

Because there are some conversations you just won’t see coming.

My nephew has a black Daddy that he hasn’t seen in over a decade and a white Mama, my sister, that he has known his whole life. He is a young teenager now, but when he was five years old he taught me a lesson at the Sam’s Club food court I will never forget. The rest of the family (read: the women) were off doing the hard work of shopping. So it was just he and I sitting there, hanging out. I didn’t have children at the time and I remember something peaceful came over me. Here I was sitting with a five year old kid doing absolutely nothing, and it felt very, I don’t know, right I guess. I should have been in one of my world famous, shopping-induced, foul moods, but I wasn’t. This is how it should be, I thought. Man and boy, eating hot dogs, bonding together in spite of age and a complete lack of words.

But then an unexpected heaviness invited itself to our crummy, fiberglass table and sat down beside us in one of our crummy, fiberglass seats. I realized in a split moment that I was not the man who was supposed to be doing this. This boy had a father and I knew that my nephew would never be able to have his dad in the way a boy needs. I was Uncle Chris. I wasn’t Dad and I never would be. My heart became lethargic as my peaceful mood was buried beneath this data, this… tangle of information.

So I looked at him and I said, “You know what? I’m lucky I get to be your Uncle.”

He smiled.

I continued, “It’s true, you’re pretty terrific. Did you know that?”

Then his face softened and he got, well, almost contemplative. “Really?” he asked as he made eye contact with me.

“Well DUH,” I responded incredulously, and then I added, “When your Aunt and I have kids one day, I hope I have a son. And I hope he turns out to be just like you.”

He studied me as I finished. He looked straight into my eyes and positively studied my face, even after I stopped talking. The silence was almost awkward, just short of unnerving, and finally he spoke.

“You want him to be just like me?” he searched. ”Even my same color?”

And there it was. The moment. The kind of moment that, as a parent, you both long for and fear at the same time. But as an Uncle, you get utterly blindsided by its very existence. One second I’m sucking down a hot dog twice as long as my large intestine, the next I’m staring down a once in a lifetime opportunity to validate this boy’s very existence. This five year old embodiment of self worth was looking up at me and asking a question as old as history itself, “Am I acceptable?”

I met his gaze without hesitation and I lowered my face to be even with his. In a soft, confident tone I said to him, “Christian, I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. If your Aunt and I had a baby that looked exactly like you, I’d be the happiest Daddy on the planet.” I stopped there and let it sink in. I went back to my hot dog.

After a few moments had passed I added casually, while licking my lips and chewing my food, “You realize that won’t happen, though, right? Since I’m a cream colored guy and your Aunt is a cream colored girl, we can’t make little brown babies. We’re stuck with little creamy ones.”

He looked dubious.

“Let’s take you for example. Your skin is brown because your Mommy is cream colored like me. But your Daddy, the one that lives far away, is a darker brown color like that man over there, see him? That’s why your skin is light brown. You got some color from your Mommy and some color from your Daddy.”

He sat there, expressionless, for a full two seconds. Then he shot up unexpectedly, and raised one arm over his head before bringing it down swiftly, pounding his fist into the palm of his open hand while exclaiming loudly, through a triumphant, goofy-looking grin, “I KNEW IT!” I almost choked on my food from laughing. He thought this was some kind of deep, dark family secret or something, and he had finally cracked the case!

So I say again, do not make assumptions about what your kids understand. Talk to them early, and plainly, and often. And get really good at mastering that relaxed, calm, and confident disposition. You never know when a teaching moment will present itself.

But most of all, validate the young ones in your life. Answer the visible questions, but also seek out and answer the ones that lie beneath the surface. Because if you don’t, I promise that someone else will. And they will not necessarily have your kids best interests at heart.Popular Posts:

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“Isn’t it sad or depressing to think that when you die you simply cease to exist?” my well-meaning Christian friends would query.

It always seemed obvious to me then, and still does now, that nothing was better than Hell. Wait, that didn’t come out right. What I mean is that ceasing to exist is preferred to spending an eternity in a place like Hell. It is more sad and depressing to me that people who spent an inordinate amount of time doing good on this earth would go to Hell for an eternity than that all people would have one, short, finite life. I mean really. Which presents the greater tragedy?

Another thing I would hear along the same lines is, “If this life is all you have then where is your incentive to be good? Wouldn’t you be motivated to lie and exploit and deceive and cheat since you have just this one life to seek pleasure and no fear of eternal consequences?”

Think about it. Since they don’t know God, the source of all goodness, how could they be anything but powerless to chase after both the carnal and the diabolical sins?

No.

Atheists are not so shallow and immoral as you might expect. They believe in love and justice and honor and respect and the sanctity of marriage. They die for our country, uphold our laws, research our medical treatments, and educate our children. When you believe that you only have one, finite life… your motivation is to seek pleasure to be sure. But if the good things in life really are good, and the bad things really are bad, what greater pleasure could there be than spending a single, finite life pursuing the joy and satisfaction that can only be achieved by the higher virtues?

Besides, I think it is best that we, as Christians, not be too quick to pull out our moral report card to compare it against others. I’m not convinced I’d be too keen on the results, personally.Popular Posts:

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These are my concluding thoughts to a series of posts that begin here.

I believe that I am incapable of executing my life without the presence of sin. What I mean is, I feel as though a universal code of conduct exists that creates peace within me when I follow it and creates distress within me when I do not. Furthermore, I have projected this belief about myself onto all people. Onto you, even. It is accurate to suggest that it forms a load bearing wall in my worldview.

One of the things I respect about the Christians is that they are acutely sensitive to the tension between justice and mercy. Because of their belief in the “sinful nature” of all men, including themselves, this issue gets more than mere depthless, fleeting consideration. This tension is thoroughly pillaged and crops are routinely harvested. It should be noted, however, that it can look foolish to the rest of the world if they happen to peek in during the sowing season.

One of these crops is compassion.

Right now you’re probably thinking that I’m talking about the compassion that you, and I mean you specifically, feel on a regular basis. But I am not. Oh sure, some of you know what I mean, but I’d wager that the rest of you are clueless now in exactly the same way that I was clueless before. The kind of compassion I’m talking about does not tug at your heart and captivate your attention. It is not the soft compassion reserved for poverty stricken orphans or leukemia patients or quadriplegics. This compassion smells like beer and hasn’t shaved in weeks. It is hard and calloused and abrasive to your sensibilities. If you don’t look for it, you will not find it.

Some of the most rewarding experiences available to us in this life will not come naturally. They will carry risk and have personal cost. Pardon me for a moment while I talk to my children.

Sydney and Savannah:

As you make your way through this life I hope you recognize two forms of compassion exist. The first kind will seek you out unexpectedly and come easy to your heart, the second is the kind you have to seek out for yourself and work for once you’ve found it. I believe that if you feed either of these they will grow and if you starve them they will wither. I also believe that the greater of these two is the one you have to earn. Inherent in the process of chasing down and working through the hard compassion is an undeniable truth. While pursuing either may afford you the opportunity to change the heart of the world, focusing on the hard compassion carries the added benefit changing the heart of you.

You can’t force yourself to feel compassion, but you can earn the privilege.

I love you both,

Daddy

Here I am, a man in his early 30s with 2 young daughters writing letters and sending books to a confessed pedophile. When I stand back and look at it in those terms I think to myself, “To whom, exactly, does this make sense?” But when I look at it the other way, my doubts scurry. The folks at Deadly Viper have a campaign called People of a Second Chance and they believe that a second chance is a human right. I’m a little divergent about the wording but I am 100% behind the spirit of the message.

Are some crimes, and consequently some people, beyond compassion? Do you believe that compassion can be earned, and if so, to what benefit or folly?

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So I prayed. I prayed leading up to your sentencing. I did my best to show you grace on the site. I asked God to give you justice and mercy, and I specifically remember praying that God would ignore any notions I had about how much justice and how much mercy because I was a stupid, broken man with very little qualification to make such a decision. I prayed for you after your sentencing. I believe it was through all of this (the praying, the online interaction,  the letters) that I became discontent with being angry at you for what you did and I started wanting to help you. I started believing that you could change. I mean, I knew that you could change. I believed that God was powerful enough to help you if he was willing. But I started to believe that you, too, were ready. That you, too, were willing.

I send you books because I want to help. I am convinced that you really are preparing yourself to take full advantage of your fresh, new start. I can’t do a lot to help and sending a few books here and there is easy for me, especially because you can accept Amazon.com shipments. I’m already on Amazon several times a month buying books for myself and your shipping address is programmed in. Actually, you are probably the best person for me to send books to. I think most of the books we give away never get read. Not only do you read them but you share them with other people who actually read them also. That’s a flippin sweet return on investment if you ask me.  

I will continue to send you books at least another time or two while you are in. I’m reading a great one right now that I think you’ll dig by Francis Chan. It’s not about sex addiction or integrity but I imagine a little diversity would be welcomed. Do you have access to any David McCullough or Malcolm Gladwell books? They are also excellent. You’ve never asked me for anything in your letters except companionship (as in: “I’d love to hear from you”). Is there a book you’ve been wanting to read?

I don’t know where to go from here, man. I’m not sure what will happen when you get out. I have asked myself this question. What if Bill was in Georgia? What if he was in my town? Would I be his “real” friend and to what degree? What if he was just passing through? Would I meet him for coffee?

The truth is that I want to be your friend and that I want to buy you coffee and hang out and chat. The truth is that I want to continue to help you become the sort of man who would be immune to the temptation of falling back into your former behavior. Not just for you, but for the exploited victims. 

But the truth is that in spite of what I want, and in spite of the man I feel God is calling me to be, I have two young daughters, a mercy-resistant heart, and a belly full of fear. 

I honestly don’t know if I am man enough.

You challenge me, Bill. Your friendship and correspondence challenges me in a good way. As messed up as it may sound, I’m thankful for that. When I first learned about you I couldn’t really feel compassion for you. But now that I know you, I do. And I hope that you still write to me.

Thank you.

Chris

Conclusion and final thoughts: An Unconscionable Addiction – Part 4Popular Posts:

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I thought I could say what I wanted to say about all this in one post. Then I thought maybe two. However, I didn’t expect to have to write Bill this letter and it just so happens that the letter says most of what I wanted to cover anyways, so I’ll just share that instead.

It’s long, so I’m breaking up yet another post.

Bill:

Thank you for the letters. I’m not sure if I warned you up front that I’m no good at sending mail, but you should believe me now. It’s just not my thing. 

What I appreciate most about your letters is that I really don’t get the impression you’re blowing smoke up my skirt. You tell me the things that suck and the things that don’t. When you say that you want to be a man of integrity, I believe you. I want that for you, too. That’s why I send you the books. Well, I say that “I” send you the books, but in reality they are from my wife and I. I have read your letters to her. Giving away books is a thing we do. It just feels good when we give them to our friends and family and even complete strangers that I meet online.

Lately I started a blog, a public online journal, in order to capture certain life experiences and my thoughts about them. It’s mostly for my daughters, but also for me. Not too long ago I wrote a post about you and I documented my thoughts and feelings surrounding the events when I first heard about you, what you did, and when you showed up at XXXChurch and Higher-Calling.com. I want you to know that in this blog post I was brutally honest and shared things that I never shared with you directly. In light of me sharing this stuff online I feel it is only fair for me to let you know.

I was pissed, Bill. I was disgusted. I had what I think is a “normal reaction” to your offense. We have had hundreds and hundreds of sex addicts show up on our forums over the years, and I could empathize with most of them, but it was harder for me to empathize with you. I’m not naive enough to believe that you are the only member we’ve ever had that has your struggles. That is not what made you unique. I am convinced that way more men have your struggle than we know. What makes you unique is not the type of porn you collected, it’s that you admitted it. And so I struggled with grace. And that is an ugly thing about me.

Once you were caught, you owned up to it. You confessed. You went public, even. And that put me in a very strange situation. Because I respected the hell out of you for that. When I hear about anyone participating in the exploitation of children it floors my emotions. I get instantly combative. But there you were, admitting it. Talking about it. Taking responsibility for it. Trying to shed light to help others out of it, or steer them away from it. On the one hand I was repulsed and unforgiving and rightly so. On the other, I was impressed. I imagine all the talking you did was against the advice of your attorney, but that didn’t stop you.

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The past few Saturdays we’ve watched this show on ABC called Wipeout. It’s sort of an Americanized, spay/neutered version of Most Extreme Elimination Challenge. As such, it is more family friendly. The first time our little one Savannah saw someone fall off the new Nards of Doom (a.k.a The Big Balls) she actually started crying. Which made us laugh more, of course.

Anyway, today as we watched Savannah was laughing with us! So we can check “Desensitized Children to Pain of Others” off our parenting check list.

Bonus.

Savannah got bored watching stupid people hurt themselves, Dewdette went upstairs to finish laundry, and Sydney decided to get out of the bleachers and into the game. Naturally, I grabbed my video camera.Popular Posts:

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