Contagious

I went to the doctor’s office a few days ago because I felt like I needed an expert opinion.  A seasoned medical  professional who could tell me what kind of trouble I was in.  A stoic voice to give it to me straight. But he didn’t even have to open his mouth for me to figure out I was screwed.

In front of me sat a man who had likely witnessed all sorts of stomach-churning maladies.  We’re talking open sores, severed limbs, and rashes in regions of the body that were never meant to be without clothing.  As soon as he saw my face, he looked as if someone had just force-fed him a quart of expired cottage cheese.

“Whoa,” he said. “You definitely have a problem there.”

He looked down at my chart to help stifle his gag reflex.

“I figured as much,” I replied.

In order to allow my doctor to see the full effect of my ailment, I had purposefully avoided wiping my inflamed right eye, which had consequently been secreting a grayish-green ooze for the past twenty minutes.  I must have looked like a guy who had just learned to blow his nose through his eyeball.  Through the haze, I could make out the outline of his face.  He was a dead ringer for George Costanza from Sienfeld.

As he handed me a slip of paper, he unloaded his diagnosis.

“Looks like you have a pretty bad case of pink eye.”

My kids had accompanied me on the appointment.  The doctor’s words caught Audrey’s attention and she immediately looked up from the electronic talking book she got for Christmas.

“A pink eye?!” she beamed.  “Let me see!”

Pink being her favorite color, she must have thought princesses were flying out of my face.  When I showed her my oozing eyeball, she was sorely disappointed.

“That’s red!” she corrected, and quickly went back to her book.  The doctor interrupted our father-daughter moment.

“ Here’s a prescription for some eye drops.  Use them four times a day for three days.”  Though no one else was even in the office at the time, he stood up as if he was late for an appointment.

“Good luck with the eye.  Let me know if it doesn’t clear up.”

There were no long goodbyes.  No pleasantries.  No handshake.  The entire appointment lasted two minutes.  I left the office feeling like a modern-day leper.

‘Cuz that’s how it is with pink eye.

Sure, left untreated, pink eye can result in blindness.  But with today’s available medical treatments, it’s really not a serious thing.  Still, the stigma with pink eye is that it is twice as contagious as Disco Fever, and ten times as revolting.  Oozing eyes?  Disgusting with a capital GUSTING.   If you have pink eye, no one wants to touch you.  At least that’s what I learned when my wife got home.

“How was the appointment?” she asked.

“Dr. Costanza says I have pink eye.”

“Ewwwww.” she responded, giving me an awkward kiss on the shoulder.  “I’m not going to get close to your face then.”

For the past three days, she will only pat me on the butt, my upper back, or the tip of my elbow.  She doesn’t have to say it, but I know she is thinking far ahead as she does this, realizing that it is physically impossible for these areas to come into contact with my eye.  A recent hug consisted of her holding her arms straight in front of her, elbows locked, and squeezing my shoulders, like we were being watched by Sister Agnes at the Our Lady of Perpetual Motion Catholic School seventh grade dance.

Make room for Jesus, as they say.

“No kiss?” I inquired.

“No way.  That stuff might splatter into my eye or something.”

And this coming from a woman who voluntarily worked a foot care clinic for the homeless.  She is constantly reminding me to wash my hands, and insists that I use my own towels.  My white pillow cases have been replaced by yellow ones, “so we can make sure they don’t contaminate the other ones.”  She would probably quarantine me to living under the deck in the back yard if she wasn’t afraid our 14-year-old dog, Bailey would get it.

Spreading like wildfire.

I spoke with my friend Jim tonight.  An old college buddy.  In the old days we spent a lot of quality time together.  In the course of an hour, we might spend 13 seconds talking about something of substance, and the other 59 minutes 47 seconds making fun of each other.

It was a deep friendship.

Tonight, our substantive talk far outweighed the crap.  In fact, neither one of us made any comment that would offend the other’s mother, which made me feel warm and sad all at the same time.  As we caught up on the particulars of each other’s lives, I failed to mention the pink eye for fear that he would hang up on me.  I hear that stuff can ooze through phone lines and such.

The topic of our conversations drifted to this blog.  Odds are good that I’m the one who brought it up.  You tend to expect that from someone who writes about himself twice a week and publishes it for the whole world to see.  Such exploits involve a certain amount of ego.

“So.  Why are you writing the blog?” Jim asked.

“What do you mean?”

He clarified his statement.

“What’s it all about?  What’s it for?”

I thought for a brief moment, and then regurgitated some bullet points originally provided to me from my friend Charity (an aptly named friend, to be sure) who convinced me I needed one.  I added a few of my own.

Well… 1) if you’re going to write a book, it helps to build a following.  2)  It’s a good way to assure you keep “practicing” writing,  3)  it’s a good way to get feedback on your work,  4) it’s a way of chronicling and journaling about my life so my kids can read it one day,

He interrupted me.

“I’m a little disappointed in your answer.”

I was silent.

“I thought it was going to be about more than building a following.  Aren’t you trying to change the world or something?”

Hmmm….

Jim is absolutely right.  This whole blog experiment started as a way for me to write.  A fun diversion.  Encouragement to finish a book about a seven-year-old experience that I am just now beginning to understand.  At the end of said project, my wife and I will have a complete journal of an incredibly meaningful experience in our lives that still influences the way we live.  On top of that, writing about it would remind us of our own vow to live with integrity and serve, because those are things that easily get swept under the rug when you’re yelling at your kids or filling their lunch boxes.

But maybe there is something more here.

Something pink-eye-ish.

Something contagious.

There is a large body of research that shows how behaviors are contagious.  Nothing earth-shattering here.

Call it the “Pay It Forward” law, if you must.  What you’ve learned based on anecdotal evidence in your own life has been proven by honest-to-goodness research.  Behaviors are contagious.  Do your own experiment and yawn at your next office meeting.  See what happens.

But recent science carries the whole “yawn phenomenon” a lot further.  They find that bad stuff is contagious. Like obesity.  Vandalism.  Smoking.  Fascinating stuff!

But it’s not just the bad things.  Cooperation is contagious.  So is generosity.  Altruism.

There is a disease I’d like to spread.

The good news is, we’re all inextricably linked.  This new year, I am realizing that my actions and my words have an impact that extends beyond my body.  Each day I have a choice which direction I will go.  Will I enrich someone’s life today?  Or simply ignore them in indifference?  Will I forgive?  Or hold a grudge?  Will I serve?  Or settle for status quo?

So, as I sit and ponder what this is all for, and contemplate writing a mission statement for this here blog, I will start the year off with a simple resolution.

Be contagious.

And Dr. Costanza would tell you, I’m off to a good start.

Christmas, Fireworks, And A Gift Fit For A King

Merry Christmas!  As you might have noticed, I’ve been taking a slight break from blogging.  Trust that I’m not slacking off.  Just trying to get the figgy pudding out of my hair due to an unfortunate kitchen incident.  Peanut butter and tomato juice should do the trick.  Or so I’ve been told. The craziness of the season always reminds me of the Christmas Gabby and I spent in Guatemala during our mission year.  So, it seems only fitting that I share the story on Christmas Eve, seven years after the fact.

I would be lying if I didn’t say Christmas in Guatemala started off as a very sad affair.  Being away from home on the biggest holiday of the year is depressing.  Our mission program had a specific policy against traveling back to the States for any reason.  It was the first Christmas after Gabby lost her mom.  To top it off, we knew that piles of corn tortillas would be a lackluster substitute for traditional Christmas cookies.

In the village where we lived, Christmas doesn’t get a lot of press.  And it’s not because there aren ‘t any Christians.  In fact, there is a greater percentage of Christians in Guatemala than there is in the U.S.

But the reason Christmas isn’t all that huge is that, as you might imagine, loads and loads of indigenous Mayan people who had nearly been exterminated by their own government from the 60’s through the 90’s have a hard time understanding how some 8lb. 6oz. Jesusito is going to save the world.  Instead, they resonate a whole lot more with Easter.  The suffering Christ.  The guy with the bloody face.  And the resurrected Christ.  The one who brings hope.  They take the whole week off in celebration.  Parades.  Costumes.  Feasts.  The works.  They do Easter as Easter should be done.

But Christmas?

Not so much.

By December 22^nd, we still hadn’t heard a single Christmas song unless we were the ones singing it. To try and get into the spirit, we asked our host brother Francisco, “Is it tradition to put up a Christmas tree here in Guatemala?”

“Si!” he replied.  “Let’s go get it!”

So we followed him out the door, past the chickens and stray dogs, and climbed the mountain behind our house.

Is there a Home Depot up here?

As we trekked, we carried the magic of Christmas in our hearts.

Francisco, on the other hand, carried a rusty machete in his fist.

We came upon a thirty foot cypress tree, and Francisco beamed, “This will work!”  And he started hacking at a branch.  We had envisioned a tiny, six foot fir to dress for the Holiday.  Instead, Francisco wrestled a large, gnarly limb from the cypress and dragged it back down the mountain.  It looked like something you might leave on the curb in front of your house after a wind storm.

We brought the branch home and propped it up in an old coffee can with dirt and rocks in it.   It fell over instantly, so we gave it some support by tying strings to it and tying the other end to the wall.

Time to decorate.

Much to our surprise, Marlon, another of our brothers, brought out a ball of Christmas lights complete with mechanical Christmas music.  Next, the boys unwrapped a good-sized ceramic nativity scene and placed it beneath the tree on a bed of pine needles.  Even though the donkeys had long since lost their ears, and Joseph was a no-show due to the fact that he was shattered to smithereens in an accident a few Christmases back, the scene was very pretty.  We searched high and low for a Joseph stand-in so Maria wouldn’t be “soltera”.  I stumbled upon an old Power Ranger figurine, which seemed to do the trick.

That is, until Marlon blurted “That won’t work.”

“Why?”  I asked.

"Es chica" (it's a girl) he said.

Sorry Maria, I tried.

* Mary, the single woman, surrounded by friends and a decorated coffee can.

We didn't have a huge box of ornaments for the tree.  Instead, we made some.  The tradition is to go to the market and buy honest-to-goodness mandarin oranges and candy, and hang them from the branches of the tree.

This whole idea of edible ornaments is something I can get used to, though our mandarin oranges in the states come in a can complete with high fructose corn syrup, which would be far too heavy for our branches.

Since Gabby and I grew up with Christmas trees that look like a bunch of Santa’s decorating elves threw up on ‘em, we both wanted more ornaments.  So Gabby got all Martha-Stewarty and corralled the kids.  We were a virtual ornament factory, cranking out decorations made from old plastic lids and magazine cutouts.  The whole gang got into the mix, and the branch was drooping under the weight.

Bring on Christmas!

On Christmas Eve we took the 30-minute walk up the mountain to the pueblo of Cantel.  We were excited.  We heard they would put on the nativity play, and then we’d have a big dinner with the whole church.

* Gabby and our host brother, Eduardo.

We arrived to find Graciela's sister there, in charge of making 200 sandwiches for the post-service get-together.  Rather than leave her with all of the work, we chipped in.  Using what looked to be an old canoe paddle, we stirred giant tin barrels full of chicken salad, and spooned it onto about a zillion loaves of white bread.

In all the hubbub, we nearly missed the whole service.  We walked into the sanctuary in time for the short drama that starred our brother, Edwin, as one of the two (not three) kings.  There are only so many costumes to go around in the village, you see.

Since the most popular, and perhaps only, Christmas song in our church is "Noche De Paz" ("Silent Night" in Spanish), we sang it four times.  Painfully slowly.

And it was beautiful.

Something about singing a familiar song in another language makes you feel like the whole world is singing at the same time.  All voices.  Lifting up.  Together.

After the sandwich feast, we arrived home at about 10:30pm.  The power was out again – a 40% chance on most nights.  Everyone made their way to the kitchen table, which was the only furniture in the house save for beds and a few stray chairs here and there.  We rested for a bit in the candlelight.  We talked and laughed.  That is, until one of the kids broke out the fireworks around 11:15pm.

Fireworks?

It's the tradition here to set off fireworks for any and all celebrations.  Weddings.  Birthdays.  Loose tooth.  So Christmas Eve definitely qualified.  At the stroke of midnight, our family did it up right.  You could hear people shooting off Black Cats throughout the whole valley.  The local factory sounded it's siren that could be heard for miles.  Fun and flash burns were had by all.

When the last firework boomed, we gathered for a meal by candlelight.  Leftover chicken salad sandwiches that we brought home from the church, complete with hot chocolate.  By this time of the night, everyone was exhausted.  Kids were falling asleep.

That’s right.

Kids.

Falling asleep.

Because there is no Santa Clause tradition in this house.

But there was a small gift exchange. I’m not sure if this was the norm, or if it happened just because we gringos happened to be living there.  It was the only gifts we saw our host parents give to any of the six kids the entire year.   The three youngest boys each received a small, battery-operated car with a remote control.  Anyone over the age of eleven didn’t receive anything.

Except us.

Martin and Graciela, our host parents, gave us our gifts.  Tropical parrot figurines with a small snow-globe containing another tiny parrot.  Parrots were Martin's thing.  His dream was to own one.  So we knew this small gesture that came from a big place.  We also remembered how Martin had recently told us that he didn't have enough money to buy medicine to treat a stomach condition.

But he had money for the snow globes.

One of the best gifts we’ve ever received.  It sits on a shelf in my office.  A reminder of a special night, and a special Christmas -- perhaps one of our most significant.

Because it wasn’t about the gifts, or the decorations, or the symbols.  It was about a real genuine connection between people.  Once strangers.  Separated by miles and language.  Now living together as family.  The joys and the sorrows.  Sharing our lives.

And that’s the perfect gift for a king who has everything.

Help Me!

Well, it finally happened.  I was surfing the web and ran across someone who quoted my blog.  Unfortunately, he attributed the quote to some other guy who, one month before I started the blog,  had just published a book titled "The Accidental Missionary." Time to change the name of the blog.  Below are some random options.  Please weigh in with your vote, or come up with something on your own.

The Ordinary Missionary

The Misadventures of a Wayward Missionary

Stumbling Into The Missionary Position

The Bumbling Missionary

The Everyday Missionary

The Regular Guy Improvement Project

Misadventures of a Do-Gooder

Do-Gooder Done Wrong

The Fumbling Do-Gooder

The Do-Gooder Diaries

What Was He Thinking?

What's your idea? If we choose your title, I'll send you a free copy of the book (when finished) and my children for a week.

Love, The Unnamed Missionary

The Simple Life

Disclaimer:  This is a refreash of a five-year-old thought of mine.  But it's the Holiday Season, so you have to give me some leeway, right?

I went to the mailbox today in search of something inspiring.  Maybe a real-hand-written letter.  A Christmas card from a friend with an update of how his family is doing.

Instead, I got the usual.  A few bills.  Junk mail.  And a bunch of catalogs.

And that’s where my rant begins.

Of the items mentioned above, the most problematic are the catalogs.  We receive no less than 3-5 per day.  While my complaint is the weight and waste, Gabby’s beef is that she has to call every one of these companies to cancel the catalogs.  Though neither one of us knows why we started getting, say, ‘Macramé Madness”, Gabby still has to call the wild and wacky crafters and justify why she doesn’t want to receive their monthly “Craptacular” savings magazine (Oops!  Typo! It should read “Craftacular”).

That being said, I did find myself quite interested in one catalog that arrived a few weeks ago.  It is simply titled “Solutions:  Products That Make Life Easier.”  Now THAT’S something I can get into!  I opened to page one, hoping to find numerous products that would “make my life easier” as promised in the title.  For instance:

1. “TidyTurf”:  Dog-Poo Absorbing Grass
2. “BuffStuff” Exercise substitute pill.
3. “HubbyBuddy Millennium Edition”:  Gives automatic correct response to wife’s questions such as “How did our daughter get that mark on her face?”

Unfortunately, as I leafed through the pages, I couldn’t find a single one of these products.  Instead, I found a lot of false and misleading advertising.  The vast majority of the products actually make life harder.  The prosecution presents its evidence (and I’m not making this stuff up):

Stair Rugs ($24.50 each): These things are little “ruglets” that you place on each individual step on a flight of stairs.  Now you can worry about 73 of these little guys staying in place, and then wash each one individually when they get soiled.  Or, you can cut down on the washing by telling people to avoid stepping on them.  There’s nothing upstairs worth seeing anyhow.

Baking Soda Keeper ($5.00): A clear plastic box to hold your baking soda.  No, you don’t pour the baking soda out of its original box, you simply set the baking soda box INSIDE the second box, or “Keeper”, if you will.  The Keeper also has a ventilated lid, so you can keep the open box of baking soda inside an open plastic box.  Kinda’ reminds me of my last trip to Target where I bought a bag, and the cashier put it in a plastic bag so I could carry it out of the store.  Am I taking crazy pills?

Large Clear Plastic Box ($24.50): And I quote, “Large bulk food container holds up to 22 pounds of cereal”  22 POUNDS!  Who needs to store 22 pounds of cereal!?  Apparently the target market for this catalog is individuals who live in nuclear fallout shelters.  I am stressing out just thinking about having to eat that much of ANYTHING, even if it is Cookie Crisp.  The picture in the catalog shows the box filled brim-full with colorful Trix.  When the cereal is not being eaten, the whole kit-and-kaboodle doubles as the “Ball Pit” at Chuck-E-Cheese.

Paw Step Ramp w/ Extension ($159.00): This is a carpeted ramp that you put beside your bed so that your dog can easily get in and steal the covers.  The side of the ramp is hard plastic, perfect for stubbing toes when you get up in the middle of the night to use the restroom.  Such newfound ramp-climbing skills would only encourage my dog to join the circus.  Then, it’s nothing but sleepless nights hoping he doesn’t run off to Vegas with the dancing bear or, worse yet, the half-person-half-wolf lady.  $159.00 price does not include doggie prenuptial agreement or counseling.

Worthless crap.

I threw the catalog into our large-cardboard-box-turned-recycling-bin.  But I was sad.  A small part of me wanted to believe that little catalog really did have answers for me.  And it did.

Sort of.

As I threw the catalog into our sad excuse for a recycling bin, I began to feel inferior.  I thought

I’ll bet the neighbors have a really nice decorative recycling bin

I reached back into the bin to retrieve the catalog, hoping to find a bin-type item adorned with attractive stars or suns or moons.   Leafing through the pages, I did NOT find such an item.  However, I DID find a big metal trellis that is used to disguise your recycling bin.  (again, I’m not making this stuff up).

It was in that moment that I realized that the products in the catalog weren’t necessarily there to make my life “easier”.  Instead, the products are geared to make my life more “enviable.”

What really makes life hard?  Is it my smelly trash can?  How about the static cling in my socks?  Dull, lifeless hair?  Nope.  What makes life hard is that I make it hard on myself.

I listen to all of the people on TV, on the radio, and on the street who try and convince me that I lack something.  I buy into the idea that more “stuff” will make my life easier.  I start to believe that my worth is measured by the size and prestige of the things that I own. I try and differentiate myself by buying a new, truly unique shirt at the store, knowing full well that Old Navy manufactured about 7,000,000 of them.

“But mine has white stitching on the sleeve!” I say.

After a while, I start believing that my life satisfaction is wrapped up in increasing my standard of living.  I currently live in a small house in a nice neighborhood, where I can vacuum every room in the whole place without having to move the plug to a different outlet.

No lie.

It’s a nice, simple existence.  A small house (and small mortgage) gives us the flexibility to say, go back to school, take some time off to do more missionary work, or star on a reality show featuring people with large teeth.

But there are still those moments when I fell like a failure because I should have a bigger house with more amenities.

That’s when I realize it.  I’ve been hijacked.

It’s like when you were in grade school.  When it came time for sleepovers and play dates, you always wanted to go visit the kid who had the coolest stuff.  It was fun.  My neighbor was a great friend of mine, and he was also this kid.  In his house were treasures like a Nerf Gun, Slip-N-Slide, Atari, and an unlimited supply of Slim Jims.  The problem was, when visiting this house, you also knew who made the rules.  Inevitably, at the end of any game, the rules could be changed by the Keeper Of The Slim Jim, as it were.  You could be on the cusp of victory in the “Who-Can-Disembowel-My-Sister’s-Stuffed-Animal-Collection-The-Fastest” game, only to find that the object of the game was to go to the family room and put on a Village People record.

Who is making the rules now?  After watching TV, reading the paper, and listening to the radio, I get the feeling that those with all of the shiny junk (and TV stations and advertising budgets) have decided that shiny junk is the goal.

Coincidentally, they made these rules after they had already won the game.

The question is, “Why does owning all of the TV stations and/or Slim Jims give someone the right to make all of the rules?”  I get this crazy feeling that we’re all playing this game of life without knowing the true objective.

I read a really alarming statistic recently.  Every week, the average American spends six hours shopping, and spends forty minutes playing with his or her children.  Working couples spend, on average, 12 minutes per day talking to each other.

Three minutes if you accidentally washed your wife’s favorite white blouse with your favorite red sweat pants.

Does this seem out of whack to anyone else?

We’re trying hard to be successful, but in the end, we’re gonna’ figure out that the key to it all was something totally different. I don’t purport to know what the key is, but I feel like I’m learning that disemboweling stuffed animals ain’t where it’s at.

One day I hope to meet God and ask all sorts of questions.  Stuff like, “What were you thinkin’ when you made the platypus?” and “How did the cast of Jersey Shore really get so famous?”  But most of all, I want to get the final answer on what his purpose was for my life.

If only we could redefine success and winning in life and pursue it with the tenacity of an Olympic athlete.  Those same athletes who, when polled, 51% of them said that they would take a pill to win a Gold Medal even if it killed them in five years.  We could just change the rules of the game so that the winner wasn’t the one who could accumulate the most the fastest, but rather, the one who understood “enough” the fastest, and worked the hardest to make sure everyone had it.

The ultimate judge would be The Almighty.  I imagine it all looking a bit like the Price is Right.

God would be the Bob Barker of the Universe, asking us all to get as close to “enough” as possible, without going over.  Inevitably, in our world, the one who wins would be some grandma from Pomona named Ethel who bid $1, after she had seen all of us overestimate how much we really needed to survive.  She would then get to kiss and hug The Big Guy, while the rest of us were left holding our Year’s Supply of Turtle Wax and Rice-A-Roni – parting gifts for the overindulgent.  If only we knew what “enough” truly was, and worked hard to make sure EVERYONE made it to the Showcase Showdown!?

My guess is that God, my God and your God, probably has an opinion as to where He would like us to invest the blessings He’s bestowed upon us.  If I were to ask God if I should buy a fifth guitar, He would probably subtly remind me that the Second Harvest Food Bank could feed 2500 people for what it costs to buy that $500 guitar.

Maybe that’s what Jesus’ feeding of the 5000 was all about.  We often see this miracle as some sort of magic trick.  I can see the headlines in the local paper.  “Bearded Man With Great Abs Turns Two Fish and Five Loaves Into Enough Food for 5000 People!”  Might as well have had just two guitars, eh?

However, when we read In the Bible, it doesn’t talk of magic.  The disciples saw a throng of people gathered to hear Jesus and learn from him.   After Christ had spoken, the disciples said,

“This is a very remote place,” they said, “and it is very late.  Send the people away so they can go to the surrounding countryside and villages and buy themselves something to eat.” (Mark 6:35-36)

The disciples thought it only fair to let everyone fend for himself.   Hey!  Concessions aren’t free at the JesusPalooza!  You’re on your own, bro!

But Jesus answered,

“You give them something to eat.”

They said to him, “That would take eight months of a man’s wages! Are we to go and spend that much on bread and give it to them to eat?”

“How many loaves do you have?”  he asked.  “Go and see.”

When they found out, they said, “Five – and two fish.”

Then Jesus directed them to have all of the peoples sit down in groups on the green grass.  So they sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties.  Taking the five loaves and two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves.  Then he gave them to his disciples to set before the people.  He also divided the two fish among them all.  They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces of bread and fish.  The number of men who had eaten was five thousand.  (Mark 6: 37-44)

In this entire passage, there is no mention of Jesus multiplying or adding.  No.  Jesus divided.  He broke.  Mathematically speaking, these are very different.  This feast was not about bread and fish magically appearing.  No, the miracle was that a small amount of resources, equally shared, could satisfy so many.

What will it take to satisfy me?  What is “enough” for me?  Will I share my abundance?

God is asking me these same questions.  Will you share?  Will you stop?  Reflect?  Own what you have?  Love?  Cherish?  Savor?  Give?

This Christmas, God is challenging me to live the simple life.

Simple.

But not easy.

Love, Fear, and Toenails In Your Hair

* I've been taking a break from blogging for Lent.  However, I figured reposting this for Holy Thursday to commemorate Jesus' foot washing made sense.  Re-enjoy!

“You ready to go to lunch?”  Gabby asked.

“Not yet.” I said, straight-faced.  “I just need to pick a homeless man’s toenails out of my hair.”

She nodded in agreement.  Like it was no big deal.

This is not a typical conversation.  But yesterday was not a typical day.  Allow me to explain.

I know I’ve told the story a million times.  Like the million times your dad told you how he used to be so poor that his mom packed baked bean sandwiches in his school lunchbox.  OK.  So maybe that’s just my dad.  But you get the idea.  In the context of our latest escapade, our story bears repeating.

Seven years ago, Gabby and I quit our kooshy corporate jobs, sold the house, sold the cars, and spent a year as missionaries living with a Mayan family in the highlands of Guatemala.  The book should be out sometime next year if I could only stop blogging long enough to write a few more chapters.  Meantime, the Cliff’s Notes version is this – it was an intense year filled with miracles as well as faith-testing moments.

Prior to Guatemala, Gabby and I hadn’t done a lot of service.  So, when you embark on such a life-altering adventure your first shot out of the gate, it can leave you feeling a bit like Norah Jones whose first album won eight Grammy awards.  While I don’t really believe our mission year is Grammy-worthy, we’re similar with respect to anything we do after that makes people say, “But what have you done lately?”

My cynical self says a full year of third-world mission service should add up to 52 years of week-long mission trips.  So, when anyone comes looking for volunteers for a canned food drive or a United Way campaign, I should be able to say, without remorse, “I gave at the office.”

But it doesn’t work that way.

My heavy guilt and foolish pride don’t let that happen.  I firmly believe that these are emotions that God puts in my soul to remind me that He’s still in charge.  So, instead of feeling content with what could arguably be called a selfish year of service (yes, you read that right), I am left wondering what else I could do.  How can I truly be selfless?  What opportunities exist that could be God-centered enough to help me develop a deep spiritual connection, while at the same time be challenging enough from a service perspective to scare the Baby Ruth out of me like Guatemala did?

I got my answer a couple of weeks ago via email from my fried Jeff.

“I have a great opportunity for you service-minded types.  Nashville's third annual Project Homeless Connect is coming up Wednesday, December 8.  This is a day when the community comes together to offer numerous services to those who are experiencing homelessness.

I am coordinating Room In The Inn's foot clinic, and I need volunteers to help me.   Volunteering would entail offering basic foot care--washing feet, clipping nails, and giving a foot massage.  For anyone who is a little squeamish about feet, there are ways you can help as well.  It really is not as bad as you might think.”

I had to read the email twice.

Is this a God-centered opportunity?  Sure.  The Bible says that Jesus performed just such a spa treatment for his disciples, complete with exfoliating brush and tea-tree oil . (John 13: 1-17  SNRS  Scott’s New Revised Standard)

Is this a challenging/scary opportunity?

It depends.

I’m not sure where you stand on feet (pun intended).  If you are a nurse, masseuse, podiatrist, shoe salesman, or freak with a foot fetish, this is right up your alley.  You probably wouldn’t think twice.  You could just go on auto-pilot for the day and handle hundreds of feet like a baker handles buns.

But me?

Touching feet is an intimate thing.  Think about it.  How often do you touch someone else’s feet, much less a perfect stranger?  Besides, I have a long list of fears.  Ignoring my OCD compulsion with the number 7 and multiples thereof, allow me to showcase just a few of them here, in descending order from heart-stopper to rash-inducer.

1.       Eating food on or past the expiration date

2.       Not having lip balm

3.       Being trapped with a bad smell (except my own B.O., oddly enough)

4.       Going a full day without showering

5.       Hanging Christmas lights on the tallest gable of our house

6.       Clipping the kids’ (or dog’s) toenails

7.       Forgetting to put on deodorant on a muggy day

7a.     Tapioca pudding

7b.     Being sweaty without a change of clothes nearby

7c.      Confronting my wife about something when she’s stressed

As you can see, five or six of these have to do with hygiene in some form.  And this service opportunity would have me facing several fears head-on.  Then I read something else Jeff sent us.

“Organizers are expecting between 1,500 and 2,000 people to receive important services that will help them on their journey toward obtaining housing.  The foot clinic can be an important part of this process.  Physical needs are met, but more importantly it is an experience of sanctuary for our guests, a place where they are cared for as individuals and experience a few moments of unconditional love and respect that can help sustain them in the difficult experience of homelessness”.

Here I am, worried about my crazy phobias while someone. Some person. Flesh and blood.

Has no home.  No roof.  No place to feel safe.

For me, it now becomes a simple math problem to be solved.   True or false.

Is love greater than fear?

Time to find the answer for myself.

I sent Jeff an email to let him know that Gabby and I were in for the foot clinic.  Granted, I hadn’t confirmed this with Gabby, but I figured it was only fair that I sign her up for the foot clinic as payback for her volunteering me to be a youth group leader.  Not once, but twice.  In truth, I needed her support.  Gabby is the strong half of this marital union, and strangely attracted to physical abnormalities of all sorts.  A menagerie of corns and calluses could be right up her alley.

The day arrived, and Gabby held my hand as we walked into the building.

“Deep breaths, “ she said.  “No big deal.”

As soon as we entered, I immediately excused myself to the bathroom.

Gabby supported me by stifling a giggle.

The event center was a large exhibit hall.  It was an incredible sight.  Different services and ministries had their own designated area.  There was a place to get your hair cut.  Another area for medical questions.  A section for legal services.  A place to get new ID’s.  All things to help the homeless get back on their feet (pun intended).  As we looked around the hall, the most startling thing is how it would have been next to impossible to distinguish the homeless from the volunteers had it not been for our free brightly-colored T-shirts.

Children of God.

Then we found Jeff.  He gave us a brief orientation.   I figured I would start small.  Help people fill out the intake form.  Wash the trimmers and pumice pads between sessions, etc.  You know.  Ease my way into it.

Then, thirty seconds after removing my coat, Hillary, a volunteer coordinator, taps me on the shoulder.

“We have a space open for foot care.  Can you help out?”

Round One begins:  Fear just hit Love below the belt.

Gabby smiled.  Why shouldn’t she?  She had been standing there, and would have been more than willing to jump right in.  But who does Hillary tap?  Me.  Mr. Weak Stomach.

I would have thought it comical if it hadn’t been so personally mortifying.

My heart began to race.  The next thing I knew, I was seated on a stool in front of a metal folding chair.  On the floor was a washtub filled with warm water.  Another volunteer came by and gave me three towels, rubber gloves, nail trimmers, a pumice stone, a nail file, soap and lotion.

“Do you need a cheat sheet?” he asked.

I nodded.

He brought me the instructions.  I tried to commit them to memory.  Soak feet.  Wash feet with cleanser.  Clean out around and under toenails with cuticle stick.  Really? Clip nails.  Be especially careful with diabetics.  Apply callus remover and scrub with pumice stone to remove calluses.  Not sure about that. Massage feet with lotion.  Try not to look like you’re going to soil yourself.

OK.  So the last one was mine.

When I was finished reading, he asked, “Are you ready?”

I nodded.

“Then I’ll go bring you a client.”

I said a prayer.  Not the prayer you might think.  I prayed for God to settle my nerves.  And perhaps, if it wasn’t too much trouble, he could do this by sending me a client with dainty, pretty feet.  Like Jennifer Aniston.  Or Halle Berry.  Or Ashley Judd.  I’m not picky.

“Hi, this is Raymond.”

Raymond did not bear any resemblance to the aforementioned women, and had feet the size of canned hams.  I squashed my squeamishness and shook his hand.  Motioning toward the chair before me, I said, “Make yourself comfortable.”

As Raymond removed his shoes, I asked him if he had any special requests, or if he had any spots on his feet that I needed to be careful with.  Sore tendons.  Twisted ankle.  You know the kind of stuff I’m talking about.  As he removed his white athletic socks, he pointed to piggy #2 on his left foot.

“You see that one right there?”

“Yes,” I replied, gazing at a thick, discolored nail.

“That one has a fungus on it.  If you could smooth that one out a bit, I’d appreciate it.”

Fear staggers Love with a right cross to the jaw!

I got right to work.  Raymond and I chatted a bit.  He was in construction, but lost his job in the economic downturn.  Now he didn’t have a place to live.  As I scrubbed his size twelves with Cetaphil cleanser, I smiled at the sight of myself.  Here I was, a goofy, skinny, pale corporate consultant seated opposite a large, homeless, African American man, caressing his sudsy feet.  Not an image I could have conjured up just a few days before.  But now, it had an air of normalcy to it.

Love stands up straight, ready to take on Fear once more.

Normal, until I started cleaning with the cuticle stick.  I know my own feet can harbor a veritable treasure trove of goodies beneath each nail.  But prospecting for gold underneath a stranger’s toenails is another adventure entirely.  The big toe was particularly awe-inspiring.

Love takes an uppercut to the ribs!

After the cleaning was the clipping.  This wasn’t a huge job, as Raymond took decent care of his feet.  I moved on to buff out some rough spot with the pumice stone, and smoothed out the offending fungal nail with a file.  Next up was the massage, and Raymond was very appreciative.

“Man, I spend a lot of time on my feet walking from place to place.  This is just what I needed.”

Twenty five minutes after we started, Raymond was breathing a sigh of relief, looking more relaxed than before.  He gathered his things and shook my hand.

He left with, “God bless you, sir,” and slowly walked away.

Ding Ding!  Round one is a draw.  The fighters move to neutral corners.

With one client under my belt, I was gaining confidence.  The churning in my belly was reduced to a gentle kneading.

My next client was Kathy.  She was a heavy-set woman from Florida with brown curly hair who walked with some effort.  She had only been in Nashville for the past two months, and was living at the women’s shelter.  She had come to town to look for work and escape unspoken troubles.  She was chatty at first, but as time went by, I caught her leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes.  A soft smile drew across her cheeks.

“I don’t know if I ever remember someone taking care of me like this,” she said. “This is fantastic.”

Love takes round two!

Thirty minutes later, I was tending to James, a wiry Tennessee native.  Compared to Kathy and Raymond, his feet felt like they were filled with helium.  James admitted he had never had anyone tend to his feet before.  A proud man, he mentioned several times how he took very good care of himself, and was only sitting here because a friend recommended it.  He talked about losing his factory job in the recession, and living at the mission because “I can’t go home and stay with my family.  I just get in trouble there.  If I can stay away from them, I’m much better off.”

In that moment I realized how tough this must be for the homeless.  During the good times, you have a steady job and the means to put a roof over your head.  Then something happens and the rug gets ripped out right beneath your tired feet.  Now, you must swallow your pride and admit you can’t do it alone.  I can only imagine how much I would resist that.  Heck, I have a hard time admitting when I’ve had a bad day, much less anything worse.

But here was James, reluctantly accepting grace.  I easily saw myself in his chair.

Fear is knocked on its heels in round three!

It was nearing lunch time, so I mentioned to the coordinator that I would likely take one more person before a quick break to grab a bite.  James left with a handshake and I started to replenish my supplies.

“Hi.  I’m Charles.”

Charles was about 6’3” with plenty of gray hair on his temples.  I’m not sure of his age, but his skin showed that whatever years he had spent on the planet had been hard.  He spoke in a rapid-fire staccato.  He was missing several teeth, which gave him an interesting inflection that colored his speech with a mixture of lisp and drawl.

“Hey Charles.  Nice to meet you.  Get comfortable.  I’ll be right with you.”

As I said this, Gabby came by to tap me on the shoulder.  She had just finished with a client and heard that I was about to take a lunch.

“I’m just going to do one more and then I’m taking a break,” I said.  “Could you get me a couple of fresh towels?”

Gabby obliged.  I turned back toward Charles, who had removed his shoes.

“I want them two things gone!” He said with authority as he pointed to his left foot.  When I looked down I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Just when Fear looked like it was down for the count, it connects with a right hook to Love’s jaw. Down goes Love!  Down goes Love!

“It’s been years since I’ve done anything to that one there,” he said.

Years?

He wasn't kidding.  He touched the nail on his big toe, which, like all the other nails, had outgrown the limits of his shoes and retreated downward, covering the front of every toe like giant thimbles as thick as wooden spoons.  The only thing that prevented them from growing even more was that the bottom of his foot had acted as a file of sorts.  Otherwise, the nails would have covered the soles of his feet.

On his second toe was a growth the size of a marble.  As he touched his big toenail and the growth, he repeated, “I want them two things gone.”

My face must have looked as if I had just witnessed a sea cow riding a unicycle.  Completely dumbfounded.

And the referee is counting!  1, 2, 3, 4 ,5 ,6 ,7 ,8…

Gabby came back with the towels.  She said in a tone of great understatement, “I’ll go help with intake.  Let me know when you’re done.”

I turned toward the woman seated on the stool at my right.  She was a registered nurse who had also been providing foot care throughout the morning.   She had heard my conversation with Charles.

“Anything special I need to do here?” I begged, secretly hoping she would take my case as a research project.  She only giggled at my novice fear and said,

“Nothing special.  Just trim the nails as best you can, and get a few medicated corn pads to help with the bump there.”

And Love somehow staggers back to his feet!

Charles seemed pleased with the response and settled in, soaking his feet in the tub.  Meanwhile, I was petrified.  I scrubbed his feet with the special soap, hoping against hope that the concoction was something akin to Toenail Nair, which would just make them disappear in a flash of light.

No such luck.

After the soap, I was supposed to use the cuticle stick to get under the nails.  I looked down at the poor stick, and I heard it faintly whimper.  So I instead opted to work off the calluses with the pumice stone to allow each foot a bit more soaking time.

The rough side of the stone was like 100 grit sandpaper.  Before I went to work, I asked Charles, “Let me know if this is too uncomfortable for you.”

He replied, “Ain’t nothin’ gonna’ hurt these big size thirteen canoes, boy.  You doin’ a fine job. ”

I worked his foot like an auto body mechanic sanding paint off a Buick.  The pumice wilted under the pressure.  I commented to Charles, “I think I may rub off a size or two of foot here Charles.  When you walk out of here, you may be an eleven and a half.”  He laughed at the comment, and added, “Sho ‘nuff.  It’s about time them feet had some work done on ‘em.  This feels real good.  I really appreciate you doing this.”

When the scrubbing was done, it was nail time.  I steadied myself to tackle my fear head-on.  When I grabbed the toenail trimmers, I saw the nurse glance my way.  I believe she was watching to see if I would fold under the pressure.

I wasn’t sure exactly how to handle this.  Because of the unique growth of the nails, there was no way to just take the nail off in one clip.  I would have to take them all off a quarter-inch chip at a time.  The trimmers were the kind that look like a pair of pliers.  I grabbed them firmly in my right hand and settled in on the first chunk of the first nail.

I may not be the strongest man in the world, but I’ve done my fair share of working out.  Still, when I pressed down, the trimmers merely made an impression.  Like I was notarizing his big toe.  It didn’t budge.

Refusing to yield, I grabbed on with both hands and clamped down.  There was a sound like someone snapping a pencil, and the first chunk of nail flew off and hit the nurse in the cheek.

“Hold on there now!” Charles joked.  “I don’t wanna’ be responsible for hurtin’ nobody.”

What’s this?!  Love lands a right cross to Fear!

I had to laugh, and so did the nurse.  I continued chopping away at the nail.  As Gabby can attest, the big toe alone took four minutes.  Stuff was flying everywhere.  The area around my seat looked as if someone had been whittling one of those bear statues out of an old stump.  Toenail chips hit me in the eye, the cheek, and the lower lip.  My waxy hair care product, an unfortunate choice this day, was trapping slivers in my coif.

And my hands got tired.

As you might imagine, a couple years of growth can trap quite a bit of interesting stuff beneath a toenail.  I was quite certain that I would unearth the contents of Al Capone’s vault.  It made Raymond’s cleaning look like a speck of dust. This rattled me, but I pressed on, frequently cleaning my supplies and focusing.

And Fear takes one on the chin!  Up against the ropes!  Will this be the end?!?!

As I worked, Charles continued to voice his appreciation, and an occasional hint that my grip might be a bit rough.

And God was blessing it all.  Beauty for ashes, as they say.

Because as tough as this was for me, I can only imagine that it was ten times as difficult for him.   If you have no money and no place to live, the last thing you’re concerned about purchasing is a pair of nail clippers.  And when you look like Charles, out on the street, it’s likely that you would go weeks, if not months, without feeling the physical touch of another human, save for an occasional police officer lifting you off a bench and pointing you elsewhere for the night.

Can you imagine?

I can.

And it must be very lonely.  Enough to make you feel less than human.

Like I had treated Charles.  As a pair of feet instead of a man with a soul.

When Charles’s feet were back to normal, I felt beads of sweat on my forehead.  He looked at my handiwork and said, “Those babies haven’t looked that good in years!  Thank you!”

“But we’re not done yet, Charles,” I reminded him.  “We save the best for last.”

I poured peppermint-scented lotion into my hands, and got to work on the feet.  For ten minutes they soaked up a quarter-bottle of the stuff.  Like Kathy before him, he leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and sighed.  It was the sound of pure peace.  Breathing in a pleasant scent.  Both of us drenched in human kindness.  Bringing a subtle smile to my face as fear melted into the floor.  Showing.  Telling.  Proving that when you push yourself to the edge of your faith.

No matter the odds.

Love wins.  Every time.

Top Ten things We Said We'd Never Do (Vow #1)

Here it is.  What you’ve been waiting for.  The number one thing we said we’d never do as parents (which started in this post).  And I’d bet my collection of slobber-and-snot-stained clothing that it’s your number one as well. DRUMROLL PLEASE…………………………………..

Vow #1:  I will never talk incessantly about my kids

Result:  FAIL

Allow me to paint a picture for you.  I know this has happened to you and your significant other.  It might have been while you were dating.  Maybe while you were engaged.  But definitely after you got married.

You went out on a double date with another couple who has kids.

You were really excited to see them.  It had been forever.  You couldn’t wait to catch up with them.  Since they had the baby they had been missing in action. But they were finally able to find a babysitter and carve out some time to go out on the town with you like old times.

But it’s wasn’t like old times.  Unless old times involved talking about spitting up, nonstop crying, or pants filled with poop.  Which is entirely possible if your past was spent at fraternity and/or sorority parties together.

It all starts innocently enough.  You ask the polite question.

“So how’s the baby?”

Your friend replies, “She’s doing great.  So cute!  Thanks for asking.  She just now started to roll over on her own.  She just motors around the living room bumping into th…”

Her husband interrupts.

“Honey, we promised that we wouldn’t talk about the baby tonight.”

“You’re right, Dear.” She replies.  “We don’t want to ruin ‘date night’ by talking about the kids the whole time.”

Whew!

Ten minutes later, you’re reminiscing about how your old college friend dated that totally crazy chick back in ’92 named Betty who got so mad at him she stuck his remote control in a blender.  And then…

“Speaking of Betty, there is the CUTEST little girl in our son’s Toddler Time Music class named Betty.  She is soooo funny!  She and our little Jamison dance together like they’re at the high school prom.”

And then the husband gets sucked in…

“Oh Lord!  I hope our son doesn’t want to grow up to be a dancer.  Not sure I could handle that.  Better start playing some more football with him!  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA”

The next hour of conversation focuses on Jamison’s skin color, head circumference, and potential college choice.  The night is ruined.  Hijacked.  You’re only laughing on the outside.  Your insides are wondering what the heck happened to these people who used to be fun.  Through a big fake laugh you look at your spouse to send a telepathic message.

We will never be like them!

And then you have kids, and your worst nightmare becomes reality.  You are now that couple.

Case in point, this “top ten” series of blog posts now contains 3789 words (thanks, WordCount Feature!)  Ninety-seven percent of you who have made it this far have kids of your own.  The remaining 3% are being forced to read at gunpoint, which is an effective, yet unsustainable means of increasing my blog subscribers.

But that’s our life now.  We talk about the kids.

Nonstop.

During the day, we talk about how great they are.  Late in the day, we talk about how we can’t wait for them to go to bed ‘cause their behavior is giving us a mental condition.  Once they go to bed, we say everything about our kids that we’re not allowed to say when they’re within earshot.  Like my completely irrational worries that Jake’s frequent requests for Childrens' Tylenol will one day lead to a drug addiction, and how Audrey’s clothing choices will one day get her kicked out of school for dressing like the world’s only goth-vampire-turned-ballerina-turned-street-mime.

Hey.  Anything’s possible.  You gotta’ catch this stuff early.

And it’s no different when we’re out with friends.  That’s why the only people we see anymore are couples with kids.  Single people are allergic to us.  Mini vans and mom jeans give them a skin condition.  So, we commiserate with others that are afflicted with TalkAboutOurKids-itis.  Just go to a Chuck-E-Cheese.  That’s where they quarantine people like us.  Places that make single men sterile.  It has something to do with toxins leeching from the artificial fur on the giant mouse costume.  Trust me, fellas.  Stay away.  It’s not healthy.

But it’s how we roll now.  And it’s oddly satisfying.

******************

So that’s it.  The Top Ten Things We Said We’d Never Do.  Quite a list.  But it represents so much more.

This list of failures is what makes parenting one of the best jobs around.  It’s a humbling experience.  We make all these promises based on our vanity.  Based on our pride.  Based on the fact that we think we’re in control.  Then God gives you this gift.  This bundle of joy.  Wrapped up like a series of Russian dolls.

Because inside the bundle of joy is a bundle of worry.  And inside the worry is a bundle of excitement.  And inside that, a bundle of wonder.  Then fear.  Then  anxiety.  Then peace.  Then hope.  Promise.  Pain.  Laughter.  And Love.  Each day more surprising than the next.

All wrapped up in a life on loan to us.

So parents, this Holiday Season, may you enjoy the gift of life – your and theirs – and the God who grants it all.

Top Ten Things We Said We'd Never Do (Vows 4 - 2)

Hey folks!  Hope you had a great Thanksgiving!  The leftovers at our house are finally gone, so I can get back to the work of writing.  Once again, this is a continuation of my previous posts.  For numbers 10-5, click here.  I'll wrap up with #1 later in the week.

Vow #4:  I will never let my kids’ schedule restrict my schedule

Result:  FAIL

Everyone knows parents like this:

They used to be fun to go out with.  Life-of-the-party kinda’ folks.  Paparrazi-worthy.  They never missed a happy hour, birthday bash, or Jimmy Buffet concert.

And then they drop off the face of the Earth like Johnny Carson.  Why?  They have either birthed, adopted, or stolen a child.  Their house becomes like Saddam Hussein’s hidden bunker.  No one is allowed to enter or exit without express written consent of the baby.

“We will never be like that,” we vowed.

And then we learned what life was like with a child.

The first three months are like one long day lived in three-hour chunks.  Feed the baby.  Change the baby.  Clean someone else’s puke off your neck.  You’re so tired you can’t even chew your own food.  Ask any parent about this time and they’ll tell you the same thing.

“What did we ever do with our time before we had kids?  I just don’t remember!”

They lie.

We all remember.  We used to go shopping, have conversations, and go to movies at a real movie theater.  If we got bored, we would make out on the couch just to pass the time.  But we’ve blocked all of that out, like a disaster survivor with PTSD.

It’s a coping mechanism.  Once you get through this Baby Boot Camp, you achieve a sense of balance.  You never want to go back to that out of control time.  Any hint at chaos becomes a trigger.  At our house, chaos comes in the form of very tired, irritable children.  If you have seen the climactic scene from the horror movie, “Carrie,” you have seen what our living room looks like at 5pm on days when we decided to skip nap time.

For this reason, all invitations are weighed against the price we might have to pay for attending.  Afternoon sale at Kohl’s?  Forget about it.  Late lunch with friends?  Not a chance.  Private audience with the Pope?

We’ll get back to you.

Now that our kids are finally outgrowing nap time, our schedules are opening up a bit.  Ever so slightly.  So, if we turned you down for an afternoon tea invite a few years ago, don’t take it personally.  We fully intend to make it up to you by scheduling some alone time with you, and then boring you with tales of our children’s brilliance in hopes that you will join the club.  If you haven’t already.

Vow #3:  I will never put my kid on a leash

Result:  YOU DECIDE

We’ve all seen them, and some of you may have even used them.  These are the harnesses that you strap around your kids that allow you to tether them to your forearm or belt loop.

Muzzle optional.

Anytime I saw a parent using this, I considered calling Child Protective Services.  It seemed so barbaric.  What kind of parent would treat their kid like a dog? I wondered.

Every parent.  That’s who.

If I had a nickel for every time I whistled at my kid to get their attention, bribed them to get them to sit, or commanded that they “heel” next to me while walking through a crowded grocery store, I could buy a Tickle-Me-Elmo factory.  Many of the faces I make at my kids to convey my alpha male status are the same ones Cesar Milan, The Dog Whisperer, uses to keep a Doberman from turning your La-Z-Boy into a chew toy.

So, while we have yet to physically lasso our children in order to keep them from running away, we do have a no tolerance policy for walking through a parking lot without holding hands.  But we do allow them to lead each other around on leashes.  Which is somewhat disturbing and cute all at the same time.

Vow #2:  I will never let my kids eat in the car

Result:  FAIL

If you have ever been the back seat passenger in a car normally used for ferrying toddlers around the city, you’ve seen it.  The upholstery looks like the floor of a movie theater after a Harry Potter premiere.

Did I just sit on a Fruit Roll-Up covered in nacho cheese?  How can that be?

Well, let me tell you.

We never intended for our kids to eat in the car.  Sure, there are the horror stories of parents stopping along the highway trying in vain to dislodge a grape from their child’s throat.  That’s an obvious motivator.  But on top of all that, we just didn’t want our car to smell like a grade school dumpster.

So we made the vow, and quickly broke it.

This one is a matter of convenience and practicality.  Sometimes, if Saturn aligns Neptune,  you actually get to leave the house to attend an event.  Unfortunately, if nap time runs into dinner time and you have to be somewhere, it’s only natural that you have a meal in the car.

And this is a very slippery slope.

Once you’ve allowed food in the car, you can’t get the toothpaste back into the tube, so to speak.  You take a long car trip, so to avoid too many stops, you throw some snacks in the back seat.  And then comes my son’s persistent questioning.  He has a record-breaking qpm (Questions per minute) speed.  Audrey is quickly gaining ground. Just the other day, she asked for a cracker no less than 27 times in sixty seconds.  All of her attempts were rejected, but she kept asking.   She should have a long and lucrative career as a telemarketer.  Some days, you just can’t handle the noise coming out of their pie-holes.

So you feed them pie.  In the back seat.

There.  I said it.  I’m not proud, but that’s the way it is.

Stay tuned for #1, and the wrap up!

Top Ten Things We Said We'd Never Do (Vows 8 - 5)

If you missed the previous blog post, this one is a continuation of the “Top Ten Things We Said We’d Never Do.”.  If you wanna’ check out #9 and #10, you can find it here.  Otherwise, just know that we had grand ideas to be fantastic parents, and now we’ve become quite ordinary at best. Vow #8:  I will never let my kid wear ridiculous outfits

Result:  FAIL

OK… so I confess this one is more mine than Gabby’s.

As parents, it is inevitable that we view our children as a reflection of us.  If they are well-behaved, then we must be good disciplinarians.  If they are well-groomed, then we must be relatively hygienic.  Conversely, if they destroy a neighbor’s flower garden, then we must be serial killers.

Based on my kids’ recent fashion choices, Gabby and I must be rodeo clowns

I always used to believe that one thing parents can control is their children’s choice of clothing.  Granted, they may be covered in dirt or oatmeal, but the underlying outfit choice should be something semi-respectable.  In my mind, Halloween costumes are kinda’ like a wedding dress, and should be worn only once.

And then I learned something by watching my wife.  Apparently,  choosing an outfit for an important engagement involves mental gymnastics reserved only for Mensa candidates and astrophysicists.  Though the monologue is all internal, there are long, silent moments spent staring into the closet, formal planning sessions which involve laying out clothing onto the bed, the physical act of trying things on in various combinations, and finally, the “Which do you like better?” question that can (and I’m sure will) ultimately trigger divorce proceedings.  Me?  I try things on at the last minute.  Like the sweater my wife bought for me for our family photo shoot, which we found fit very awkwardly.  If you get our Christmas card, notice how I always have a child strategically placed in front of me.

Children are unable to do this "fashion math" in their heads, so these mental gymnastics take place in the open, in the form of screaming, crying, flailing tantrums filled with the fuzzy logic of schizophrenic hostage negotiations.  It’s just not pretty.  Sometimes giving two outfit choices will be sufficient.  But usually, it turns into shoving a kid into her clothes, which I imagine is a bit like trying to shove a cat into a bucket of vegetable oil.

Not that I’ve ever tried it.

To avoid this, one must make concessions to remain sane.  Case in point, I took Audrey to her three-year old well check last week wearing tights, a poofy ballerina dress, a pink princess baseball cap, frog galoshes, and a purple coat.  And Jake attended the church’s Thanksgiving celebration for ESL students wearing his Buzz Lightyear costume complete with laser cannons.

I figure that if we don’t show a little flexibility now, Audrey will  be rebelling like crazy and wearing studded dog collars and a garbage bag to senior prom.

So we bend a little.

Vow #7:  I will never play “kid music” in my car

Result:  FAIL

A leak inside the U.S. military has confirmed that two of the top ten songs interrogators used to induce torture and sleep deprivation in Iraq and Gitmo are children’s songs.  That said, I would bet my retirement savings that any parent could name one of the two without stopping to take a breath.

1.        The “I Love You” song made popular by Barney.

2.        The Sesame Street Theme Song

And a third on the list could qualify as kids’ music, the Meow Mix cat food jungle.

Allow me to apologize for dumping these tunes in your subconscious.  I fully expect some of you to throw a brick through my window this evening, adorned with a disturbing message and eerie drawing of how you would like to torture me.

For this reason, Gabby and I vowed we would never introduce our kids to children’s’ music.  Instead, we would offer them only a steady diet of our own favorites to condition them to like the music we like.  James Taylor.  Norah Jones.  David Wilcox.  Corrine Bailey Rea.  Jack Johnson.

This was relatively easy when Jake was just two months old.  We thought we were really successful.  He could be lulled to sleep on any car ride, even if we were thumping some Sir-Mix-A-Lot (Gabby’s CD collection, not mine).  Unfortunately, the sleep was induced not by the music, but rather, the motion of the vehicle.

Then, we got sucked into a program called Music Together, which is supposed to teach your ten-month-old how to play the bassoon or something.  Jake was a boy genius and could name a song if you hummed just a few bars of it.  This would have been fantastic if “Name That Tune” was still a lucrative game show on TV.  But all we ended up with was a kid with a great ear for music, and a keen eye to notice that we had stuck our favorite CDs in his children’s music CD case.  We’re weren’t fooling anybody.

It turns out that the only thing more cringe-inducing than listening to a big, purple dinosaur sing about how much he loves you is to listen to your own toddler scream and cry and tell you they hate your 80’s playlist.

Ironically enough, in my research for this post, I also learned that Manuel Noriega, the Panamanian dictator, was flushed out of hiding by blaring Rick Astley and Neil Diamond.

So sad.  They are some of the tops on my iPod workout mix.

Vow #6:  I will never yell at my children

Result:  FAIL

I fancy myself a pacifist.  No need for violent outbursts to get your point across.  I always thought this was in my genes.  My grandmother raised twelve children (yes, you read that right) without ever raising her voice.

This is a pretty easy motto to follow until your two-year-old gives you a Cool Hand Luke stare down and tells you for the fifth time, in no uncertain terms, that they will not be cleaning up their mess.  Worse yet, when you ask a tiny person to “please stop writing on the table with your crayon,” and they look you dead in the face with eyes full of venom and do it three more times, it’s hard not to lose it.

I’m not proud of it, but from time-to-time, I can do a pretty darn good Mike Ditka impersonation.  Why?  I don’t know.  Because what I hope will be a big attention grabber to shock my kids into submission backfires 98% of the time, as they become more defiant, scream louder, or cry and kick the floor.

But sometimes, like hitting that perfect tee shot on the golf course keeps you coming back to the game, a well-timed bellow can wake the kids up and help them realize that they are being ridiculous.

Just like me.

Vow #5:  I will never have noisy toys in the house

Result:  FAIL

There are two kinds of toy stores.

There are the toy stores for smart kids.  They have names like The Imaginarium and Growing Tree Toys.  Shelves are stocked with specialty wooden playthings and learning games that engage a child’s mind.  These are the places that you browse when you have no kids, marveling at the real-life microbiology kit and the build-your-own  sustainable eco-farm.  Won’t it be fun to sit quietly with our kids one day and play and learn the wonders of the Universe?

Then there are toy stores for the mouth breathers.

They have names like Toys-R-Us and Rocko’s House of Loud.  The toys in these places are specially designed to irritate anyone over the age of eighteen.  There are toys for maiming children, toys for bursting eardrums, and specialty toys for causing epileptic seizures.

Here’s the problem.  Parents love the toys from toy store number one.  Granted, it’s a good thing that they teach your kids a thing or two, because you will liquidate your family’s 529 college savings account to purchase them.

But kids don’t give two hoots about ‘em.  Dumb kids or smart kids.  Doesn’t matter.

The only time your kids like those toys is when you are there to play with them.  Then, they are far less interested in the toy as they are in you.  Either that, or they find out how fun the ecological ant farm can be when they fill it to the brim with Pop Rocks and Diet Coke and watch it burst forth like a Yellowstone geyser.

So, as much as we would love to fill the playroom full of carved wooden toys and learning games, people buy our kids the toys that they truly love.  The loudest ones imaginable.  In colors not found in nature.

And they love ‘em.

To be continued.

Top Ten Things We Said We'd Never Do (Vows 9 and 10)

Parenting is an interesting sport. I know what you’re thinking.  “Parenting isn’t a sport!”

Yes it is.  If bowling, curling and golf can be called sports, then parenting is a sport.  Let’s run down the similarities.

1.       All require practice.

2.       All require specialized equipment.

3.       All require a certain degree of physical skill.

4.       And all are best played while simultaneously consuming beer.

I have often watched these so-called sports on TV, especially bowling, thinking “If I really wanted to do that, I could totally be a top professional.  Olympic caliber!  How hard could it be?”

And then I remembered I used to say the same thing about being a parent before my kids were born.

I would see some frazzled guy chasing after his kids like an idiot.  They would be taunting him.  Screaming at him.  Crushing his manhood in a vice grip.  The poor guy would have absolutely no control.  He would give his strongest, sternest look in the hopes of putting the fear of God in his kids.  Promising torture using a voice that James Earl Jones would be proud of.

And they would just giggle and make fart noises with their faces.

How hard could it be?

Before we had kids, Gabby and I had some long discussions about the things we would never do as parents.  Our mission is life would be to raise loving, giving, God-centered children who make the world a much better place that we ever could have.  No mistakes.  No regrets.

Now that Jake is four and Audrey is three, I would like to publish the results of our parental vows top ten.

* My two kids.  They sucker-punched each other shortly after this was taken.

Vow #10:  I will never argue with a toddler

Result:  FAIL

After seeing countless parents enter into a battle of wits with two-year-olds that lack higher reasoning skills, both Gabby and I vowed that we would never get sucked in to such insanity.  But for some reason, it is virtually impossible to stay calm and collected when a tiny person is arguing the losing side of a point that makes no sense.  Morning at the Dannemiller house resembles the courtroom scene from “A Few Good Men” with Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson.

Case in point:  Just this morning, Jake and I spent three minutes debating  whether or not today was Wednesday.  In his mind, if he could convince me that it is Tuesday (a non-school day), then he would not have to attend.  I actually said, “Jake, the only way you can have two Tuesdays in a row is if you fly non-stop to Asia and pick up 14 hours.  And even then, it’s only sorta’ possible.”

He’s four.  Now I’m confused.

Case in point #2:  Again, just this morning, Audrey insisted that her preschool outfit contain at least one “fuzzy” item.  We went round-and-round  for five minutes whether or not knit pants were indeed “fuzzy.”  As she writhed on the floor screaming, I heard myself say as I rubbed tiny pants on my clean-shaven face, “Look Audrey.  The ruffles on the cuffs help make them fuzzy!  Don’t you see?!  They’re fuuuuuzzzzzzzzyyyyyyyyyy!”

Apparently, she can’t handle the truth.

Vow #9:  I will never bribe my children

Result:  FAIL

When I used to see parents give rewards for things that their kids should be doing anyway, it made me cringe.  A kid should do his chores because that’s what family members do!  A kid should eat all of his food because that’s what people do!  That’s like giving me a $100 bill for breathing.  Pure craziness.

And then I tried to potty train my son.

I don’t know about you, but I have never met a single adult that voluntarily poops his pants.  Involuntary?  Sure.  Some jokes are just that funny.  But voluntarily soiling yourself?  Not fun.

So it stands to reason that it’s unnecessary to rush the process with your kids.  Sooner or later, such behavior will become social suicide.  And it’s rare that it progresses to that point.

Still, when I was potty training Jake, I would hover over him like a hawk.

“Do you need to go potty Jake?”

“No.”

(45 seconds pass)

“Do you need to poop, Jake?”

“No.”

(14 seconds pass)

“What’s that smell, Jake?”

“I pooped.”

“In your pants?!”

“Yes.”

Such lunacy will cause you to do anything to avoid having to ever come in near contact with human feces again.  With our kids, you get one M&M for #1, and three M&M’s for #2.  Potty brilliance without being prompted will get you a lollipop or a handful of mashmellows.  Successfully wiping your own hiney the first time you sit on the toilet gets you a Ferrari on your 16^th birthday.

Even though the kids are self-reliant now, the bribes have created long term behaviors.  Every time Audrey sees a bag of marshmallows, she says “we don’t eat those anymore at our house, ‘cuz I’m good at pooping in the toilet now.”  And, both of them pee as frequently as a stray dog marking his territory.  But at least our house no longer smells like a kennel.

P.S.  Just in case you have a sweet tooth, know that the rewards don’t apply to adult guests who come to visit.

Stay tuned for the results of Parental Vows 8-5… and there is a point to all of this, that will be revealed after #1.

For the Broken

*Audrey mugging for the camera, and then spontaneously hugging and kissing "Garage Door Piggy"

My daughter Audrey celebrated her third birthday this weekend.  What started as an idea to have a small little party at the house turned into “Piggypalooza,” an overly-indulgent, pink-tacular porcine blowout attended by forty-five people.

To give you an idea of the space issues we had, you can vacuum every room in our house without having to move the plug to a different outlet.  No lie.  If those forty-five people didn’t know each other before they arrived, they have now shimmied up against each other in ways normally reserved for tandem skydivers.  We all literally rubbed elbows during the piggy storytime, piggy dance-party, no-hands piggy slop eating contest (disgusting, but a big hit), and pig-balloon decorating.

Due to the overcrowded mayhem, we opted to have Audrey unwrap her gifts after everyone had left.  When the dust finally settled, she began combing through her presents.  There were princess outfits, puzzles, games, stuffed animals and sparkly things.  Then she finally opened a rather odd one that we had purchased for her.

A broken, red ukulele.

So why did we buy her a broken ukulele, you ask?

Two months ago, Gabby bravely took both of the kids to a music store owned by a family member.  Turning our kids loose in a place filled with fragile musical instruments is like teaching blindfolded orangutans to play racquetball in a Venetian glass blowing factory.

Not for the faint of heart.

Audrey was showing some interest in music, so we were considering getting her a little something to rival Jake’s tiny guitar.  Before entering the shop, Gabby coached the kids on appropriate behavior.  No screaming.  No running.  No touching things without permission.  Check?

Check.

When they got in the store, Gabby assured Larry and the other employees that she’d keep a close eye on the kids.  Jake politely asked if he could play a tiny red ukulele, and Gabby obliged.  He quickly lost interest and moved to put the ukulele back on the wall hanger.  As he did this, Audrey darted off in another direction toward something loud and enticing, like a bird dog spotting wild game.  When Gabby turned, Jake let go of the instrument, not realizing it wasn’t seated properly on the hook.  It fell to the floor, inheriting a pretty nasty crack in the process.  He knew what he had done and apologized like crazy.

Gabby insisted we pay full price for the item.  She felt terrible, especially after she had promised that the kids would be well-behaved.  But Larry, ever the kind family member, cut us a break and gave us a deal.  Unplanned birthday gift purchase?  Complete!

On the way home, Gabby was re-hashing the experience in her mind.  Jake sat in the back seat, quieter than usual.  He was feeling pretty remorseful for a four-year-old.  Then, Audrey’s  tiny, two-year-old voice cut through the silence.

“Mommy?”

“Yes Audrey.” Gabby answered.

“Can we break a pink one next time?”

I love her little question for two reasons.  First, it shows how her brainlette is starting to put together some pretty complex thoughts.  I know I’m biased, but she may be the smartest kid in the universe.  If they were to measure that sort of thing.

Second, I love the idea that my daughter believes that something holds its value even when it’s broken.

That’s powerful stuff.

It gets me thinking about the service that Gabby and I have done.  How often have we sought to give to others in order to fix what is broken?  When we originally went to Guatemala to serve as missionaries, I had grand ideas that we were going to bring God’s love to a broken place so we could heal wounds, alleviate poverty, and build something sustainable.

We were going to fix Guatemala.

But it wasn’t about that at all.  Though, I must say that there is nothing inherently wrong about wanting to help in places where help is desperately needed.  Those places exist as much in our own neighborhoods as they do in faraway lands.  And there are plenty of them.

The problem arises when the desire to help comes from a place of imbalance and division.  I’ve heard it in my own words at times.  “We went to Guatemala to help ‘those people.’”  Or serving at the soup kitchen.  “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could provide more opportunity for ‘those people’ so they could get a job and feel a sense of fulfillment.”

Like me.

Do you hear it?  It’s subtle, but my guess is there are times when those I’m serving can hear it loud and clear.  The look of pity on my face.  The sad eyes that say “poor them.”  These unspoken words create so much noise and distraction that it drowns out what they are trying to say to me.  That they have something to offer.  Something to give.  Not based on their potential, but just as they are.  Right here.  Right now.

I’m reminded of an interview I heard some time ago with a man who was injured in an accident.  He was a quadriplegic, who had made the most of circumstance, and was traveling around the country to raise awareness and money for spinal cord injuries.  He was also a deeply spiritual man, so the interviewer asked.

“I imagine your faith has sustained you, with the idea of Heaven being a place where you will be made whole again.  Do you often dream of what Heaven will be like?”

For a moment, there was silence.  As I listened, I imagined the man to be conjuring images of himself running through golden fields, doing the moonwalk, or playing sports.

Then his voice cut through.

“I have a problem with that image if Heaven, and even take offense to it,” he said.  “Many people I talk to speak of Heaven as a place where broken people are fixed.  Even those who are disabled due to injury like I am.”

I, like the interviewer, was stunned.  The man continued.

“In my Heaven, no one needs fixing.  Instead, I see Heaven as a place where it just doesn’t matter  anymore.  I am not treated as some broken person to be pitied, but rather, I am seen as having value just as I am.

That’s what Heaven is to me.”

And such a Heaven is possible here on Earth.  Lord knows there’s plenty of raw material to work with.  Because we’re all here.  Broken.  Different.  Imperfect.

But seeing all that as a gift to be unwrapped and treasured?

That takes fresh eyes and a fresh perspective.  Perhaps the eyes of a child.

What Would Jesus Tweet? (WWJT)

Gabby and I were driving around town this past Saturday having a normal conversation.  My mom had taken the kids to see a play.  “Snow White and the Seven Doras” as Audrey calls it, since all the dwarfs apparently look like Dora the Explorer, her  favorite, tiny, animated, Hispanic TV hero that saves the world accompanied by her monkey that wears red moon boots. The talk turned to our blog, and we kicked around some ideas for a topic.  One of us suggested “What Would Jesus Tweet?”

What a clever idea!

Well, apparently, a quick Google search shows that 281,000 other people thought it was clever before we did.  The same goes for the following:

“What Would Jesus Eat?”

Answer:  a low calorie balanced diet… have you seen The Lord’s abs?

Or “What Would Jesus Drive?”

Answer:  A Christler

But I remain undeterred.  Much like I remain undeterred that a month after I bought the domain name accidentalmissionary.com, a guy came out with a book by the same name.  Dang.  Shoulda’ Googled it!  (By the way, new blog/book name suggestions are welcomed!  I could use the help.)

So, make that 281,001.  I’ll take a crack at the Jesus tweet.

Lots of the websites I visited had some very uplifting faux Jesus tweets.  Most were scriptures.  Others were thoughtful messages.  Still more were in the “God Loves You” vein.  While these were very inspirational, I don’t think that’s the kind of stuff Jesus would be texting into his account every day.

Now, I realize that this may sound sacrilegious, but stick with me here.  I am not denying that Jesus is Emmanuel.  “God with us.”  I believe that he came down from a nice cozy spot in Heaven to hang with us mere mortals.  A perfect presence on Earth to assure that we could see God in human form.

But one of the things I think is so fantastic about Jesus, is that he’s not some towering, 500-foot tall god that shoots lightning bolts from his fingertips and fire from his nostrils.  No, Jesus was a man, too.  Like us.  A regular guy.  Wore sandals like we do.  Ate bread like we do.  Had a job like 90.4% of us.

Or 85.7% in Detroit.

For that reason, I think he would have tweeted like a regular guy.  It would be his way of connecting with us.  Here’s how I think Jesus’ Twitter account would look.

With all of Jesus’ miracles and teachings, we tend to forget that he didn’t actually start his ministry until he was 30 year old.  Up until that time, he spent his days cutting wood and fashioning it into something useful.  The guy built tables and chairs and sold them to earn a living.  But Jesus’ time card never made it into the Bible.  Not even the appendix.  Stories about crafting shelving units aren’t quite as engaging as curing leprosy or walking on water.  Go figure.

But I think this untold story is just as powerful, if not more powerful, than the stuff that is written in the Bible.

Why?

Because we have a tough time relating to a perfect, God-like being.  It’s inspiring, but I can’t see myself catering a feast for 5000 people by just the waving of my hand.  Martha Stewart?  Maybe.  Me?  Don’t think so.

But the regular Jesus?  He’s my kinda’ guy.  Though we don’t have a catalog of Jesus’ line of furniture, I have a hard time believing that he would make a shoddy table.  Jesus stands for quality.  He probably didn’t have a lot of returns.  And if he did, you gotta’ imagine that his customer service was impeccable.  Full refund.  No questions asked.

Bottom line, he did his job well.

So often we sit and fret about how to be more like Jesus, and then feel guilty that we fall short.  We have a laundry list of all of Jesus’ teachings and how he asked us to live, and measure ourselves against an impossible yardstick.  In thinking this, we forget that the Savior of the World spent the bulk of his time on Earth honoring God by making really nice furniture and treating people right.

So the message for us?

Start with your job.  Let your work be your ministry.  Do it well.  With honesty, respect and integrity.  That in itself is a testament to Jesus.

But the bigger lesson is this.

We underestimate ourselves.  We get a picture in our heads of what a true God-follower looks like.  People who are deeply spiritual.  Those who do beautiful things for God.  Pastors.  Missionaries.  Monks.  Nuns.  Priests.  Holy people.  They are qualified to be servants of God.  They’ve known since the day they were born.

In doing that, we neglect the real Jesus.  The regular guy.  The simple carpenter who created a faith that has lasted for over 2,000 years.

In truth, we are all carpenters.  We’re also painters, plumbers, accountants, teachers and engineers.  We are managers and telemarketers and bus drivers.

And we are all called.

Right now, as you sit in your chair, munching on Cheez-Its and reading this post, there is an idea buried deep within your soul.  That thing you have always wanted to do.  That tingling in your gut.  That thing you’re putting off because you don’t feel you’re qualified.  Or ready.  You fear failure.  It’s outside your comfort zone.

Maybe it’s forgiving the unforgivable.  Or reaching out to the lost.  Connecting with a stranger.  Giving more than others think is reasonable.  Serving beyond what you think is possible.

Guess what?

That’s Jesus talking.  The regular Jesus.  The nobody from nowheresville who healed the sick, walked on water, fed thousands and revolutionized the world.  He’s got a message for you.

Do You have Cheez-Its in Your Car?

Gabby’s long-time friend and former roommate, Jeanie, came for a visit this past weekend.  She’s one of the most delightful human beings on the planet.  Lights up a room.  No.  Scratch that.  She sets rooms on fire.  In fact, she’s so wonderful to be around that Gab and I invited her to come live with us. And we weren’t joking.  Jeanie, if you’re reading this, come live with us.

Among the many things we love about Jeanie is her ability to tell stories.  One night after the kids went to bed, she told a great one that I have to share.

* Pictured here:  the oh-so-heavenly Cheez It

Our friend Robin was out one day with a few other people.  One of her companions brought along her four-year-old daughter.  While the adults were making idle chit-chat, the girl approached Robin and asked,

“Do you have Cheez-Its in your car?”

Robin thought it was an odd question, but that’s what you get with four-year-olds.  She responded, “Sometimes, but not today.”

The girl gave Robin a bewildered, hurt look, started to cry, and then ran to her mommy who was standing several yards away.

Sheesh, that kid must really like Cheez-Its.

When Robin finally met up with the girl’s mom later, she apologized.

“Listen.  I’m sorry I made your daughter so upset.  She was asking if I had any Cheez-Its in my car, and I don’t have any snacks.  But maybe I can find something close by around here.”

Laughing, the mother replied.

“Oh no, Robin.  I need to apologize.  She’s been on this kick lately.   She didn’t ask ‘Do you have Cheez-Its in your car?’  she asked

‘Do you have Jesus in your heart?’”

Sometimes, but not today.

Hilarious.

But it’s true, isn’t it?  There are some days when Jesus has a shiny four bedroom penthouse in my left ventricle.  Complete with granite countertops and a giant two person Jacuzzi tub.  Perfect for spontaneous baptisms and working out sore muscles from long donkey rides.

I hear Jesus likes the bubbles.

Other days, I kick him to the curb like some bad subprime lender.   I gave him my word that he’d have a place to live for life, but now I’m foreclosing on the Savior of the World because times are tough, and I think someone else could do a better job taking care of the property.  Someone like me.

But what does it mean, anyway?  To have Jesus in your heart.

My guess is that it means different things to different people.  To some, it means that their every waking moment will be spent introducing everybody to their buddy, Jesus.  To others, it means that every decision they make will be guided by Jesus.  Still more would likely say that having Jesus in your heart means that you have a sense of peace knowing that you’re Heaven-bound.

For me, it’s a little bit of those, but something more.

If you’re like me, you spend a good part of your life earning your value.  What do I mean by that?

If you have a job and a boss, this means that you try really hard to do your best.  To get the project done on time.  To do a good job.  To meet expectations.  Better yet, to exceed them.  Knowing you’ve done good work is satisfying, right?  It’s an added bonus when we get noticed by the right people so that we get the recognition we deserve.  The promotion.  The corner office.  Heck, even a ‘thank you’ is really nice.

If you’re a parent, you try with all your might to be the best mom or dad you can be.  To raise your kids to be productive citizens.  To be present for them.  To provide a good home filled with love.  To make the mundane moments special.  To create magical memories.

If you’re married, you want to be the best spouse you can be.  Attentive.  Caring.  Considerate.  You want to listen like you should.  To be the rock that your spouse needs.  To be the supporter when they’re down.  The shoulder to cry on.

So here’s the sucky part.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t do all that.  I hate to break it to you.  You’re going to fail.  It’s going to stress you out.  You’re going to prepare like mad for that big presentation, and then rip your pants five minutes before showtime.  You’re going to bite off more than you can chew, and it’s going to come back and bite you in the back side.  You’re going to work your tail off on-the-job, and no one will notice.  Worse yet, they’ll notice the wrong guy.  Joe Schmo will take credit for your work and get the big promotion, and the corner office.

I hate that Joe Schmo.

Wanna’ hear something worse?

You’re going to fail your kids, too.  You’re going to plan what you believe will be the most incredible birthday party in the world.  Then the day of the party, your daughter tells you she wants a mermaid party theme, even though you’ve spent your entire paycheck on piggy stuff.  Or worse yet, no one will show up.  Then that carries over into adolescence when you tell her she can’t wear the low-cut jeans that show the waistband of her underwear and this causes her boyfriend to dump her for the girl who actually wears jeans with a hole in the keester.  You’ll try and make it up to them by throwing them a beautiful outdoor wedding fifteen years later, but it’s gonna’ rain.  Trust me.  Cats and dogs.  Ruin the whole thing.  ‘Cuz you’re the one that suggested it.  And they’ll talk about you.  In therapy.  That they pay for using the money you saved up for their college education.

And what about your spouse?

When they need you most, you’re going to be tired.  Too tired to talk.  Too tired to be supportive.  And then you’ll say the wrong thing.  Ladies, you’ll tell him he’s just not trying hard enough.  Guys, you’ll tell her she’s worrying just like her crazy ol’ mother used to worry.  And you’ll spend the night on the couch.  And you’ll try and make it up to her by buying her a special dress, giving it to her as a surprise right before you take her out for a night on the town.  The same night she had planned on seeing a movie with her best girlfriend she hasn’t seen in months.  But she’ll go anyway, because she loves you, and then the night will be ruined because you didn’t realize that The Marble Room doesn’t take walk-ins, and is booked three months in advance.  Golden Arches it is!

That’s what we do.  We fail.  It makes us feel worthless.  It’s stressful.  It sucks.  It’s sad.  Sad enough to make a little girl cry and run to her mom.  It’s the way our world works.  The first question out of our mouths at a dinner party is “what do you do for a living?”  We’ve created this system where our worth is wrapped up in what we can accomplish.  What we can buy.  How many people we can make happy.

But guess what?

None of that matters.  It’s all smoke and mirrors.  The worry and the stress and the fretting and fussing.  ‘Cuz the instant you were born, God decided to love you.  It’s a given.  No take-backsies.  You will never be worth any more or any less than you are right now.  You are fully and completely loved, and you didn’t have to do a darn thing to deserve it.  Breathing is gravy.  You don’t even have to do that!  But God’s choice wasn’t a hard choice when you think about it.  He created us in His image, so essentially He loves Himself.

Whaddaya’ know?  God’s as narcissistic as the rest of us.

And that’s what it means to me to have Jesus in your heart.  It’s carrying that love of God deep in your soul.  Not love for others.  Not love for yourself.  That comes later.  It’s carrying the knowledge that no matter what you do, how bad you screw up, or who you disappoint today, you’re loved.  It’s realizing that you’ve been spending your time worried and worn out, searching for the acceptance you never lost in the first place.

And this is what frees us to do truly wonderful, glorious things.  It’s amazing how much love can flow through you when you’re truly at peace.  You’re able to truly open yourself up to others.  To love as God loved.

So do I have Jesus in my heart?

Sometimes, but not every day.

It’s tough to remember I’m fully loved when the ads on TV and the junk between my ears tells me different.  When the expectations I put on myself overshadow reality.  I kick Jesus to the curb and there sits my heart.

Empty.

So on those days when I forget, it’s nice to know there is now a tangible reminder.  Thanks to a curious little girl and her misunderstood question.  A lovely, carb-o-licious snack food filled with cheesy goodness.  All I have to do is open the box,  pop a cracker in my pie-hole, and I’m reminded.

So my prayer to you is that you will always remember that you’re loved, no matter the circumstances.  And just in case you forget, and you’re left with that hunger that is hard to satisfy.

Always keep Cheez-Its in your car.

The Greatest Game Ever Played

I was busily working in my office yesterday when a colleague barged in for an emergency meeting.  By his demeanor, I could tell it was urgent.  He was short of breath.  Rapid pace.  High volume.  In my face. And he was wearing a pirate outfit.  Complete with plastic hand-hook and swashbuckling sword.

* For your visual, here's Jake in full pirate garb a few months ago

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!  My eye patch keeps falling off when I’m fighting.”

Such are the joys of working from home.  You’re in your office on a conference call and there is a three-foot tall pirate in the office next door screaming “AAAARGH” and swinging his sword at the family dog.  She isn’t fighting back.  Bailey is 98 in dog years.  She can’t hear anything softer than a freight train, and had her fetching merit badge revoked for lack of use.   She’s like a soft bathroom rug that makes guttural noises and eats 45-pounds of kibble per month.

“Jake.  Can you go play in the playroom?  I have to send some emails and I need to concentrate.”

“How long?  I want to go play in the front yard.” He begs.

“Five minutes,” I say.

Miraculously, he walks away with a newly-tightened eye patch.  I know he’ll be back soon.  Kids don’t understand that parents work in order to provide for the family.  Gabby tried to explain the concept to them when I was away on a business trip.  Jake was in the bathroom, using far more bath tissue than one human being needs, even after eating a bad meal.

“Jake, stop using so much toilet paper!”

“Why?”

“Daddy has to work to buy things like toilet paper.  When you waste it, daddy has to work even more.  Do you want that?”

“No.”

Now when I’m out of town, the kids tell everyone that daddy is off working so he can buy toilet paper.  They must think the entire family has Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Anyhow, back to the story.  I continue working at my computer, quickly typing and clicking.  Reading and organizing.  Printing and filing.  Preparing for this week’s workshop.  Jake comes in a few minutes later.

“Are you done yet, dad?”

“Not yet.” I bark, quite frustrated now.  “Just two more minutes.”

I stare at my computer screen as if I’m looking for it to give me instructions.  This kind of information work is very odd when you think about it.  How many people get paid to simply transfer information from one place to another every day?  Responding to requests.  Asking for clarification.  Scheduling stuff, and re-scheduling.  For someone who actually produces real, tangible items like houses, cars, and landscaping, it must seem like fairy dust.  I’m sure that’s what it seems like to my kids.

“Dad, are you done yet?”

“Not yet, son.”  I was really on a roll, and these interruptions aren’t helping at all.

“But dad, you said five minutes.  And that was ten or eleven minutes ago.”

He’s right.  I curse myself for teaching the kid to read a clock at age four.

“Actually, you’re right, Jake.  Let’s go outside.”

I look in his hand and see something that makes me shudder.

A football.

I have never been a physical guy.  In my entire life, I have never been in a fist fight.  When the neighborhood kids got together to try out Theron Brown’s new boxing gloves, I put them on, climbed into the makeshift ring, and fell to the ground before the first punch was fully thrown.  It was like watching a bad karate movie where people react to fake jabs and kicks.  One kid thought I had fainted, and suggested I go see a doctor.

In seventh grade, I was one of two guys in a class of roughly one hundred and fifty boys who didn’t either play football or participate in the school marching band.  The other guy was a soccer stud who went through puberty at age six and was being groomed for the high school varsity team.

I had no excuse.  Fortunately, the soccer god could only handle three or four girlfriends at a time, and there were no less than ninety or a hundred lovely starlets surrounding me in the stands.  Unfortunately, junior high girls find football players far more attractive than skinny kids with big heads that go to Gifted and Talented class in the portable classroom outside the school.

To top it all off, I am a little OCD about being dirty without there being a specific purpose for the dirtiness.  I have been known to shower three-to-four times per day to get rid of a few beads of sweat or the faint smell of smoke from our backyard grill.  Granted, I’ll get in the muck for household projects and honey-dos.  But getting thrown on the ground just for fun?

I’ll pass.

“Let’s play football!” Jake exclaims.

“Football?  OK.  We can throw the football.”  I subtly try and guide the play to something that won’t involve me falling down.

“No.  Let’s play it.  Like on TV!  Let’s tackle!  Like the game with the white team against the blue team.”

This past weekend we had watched my beloved University of Tulsa Golden Hurricane beat the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, and Jake knew the game was something I must enjoy.  But watching football on TV is much different than playing.

“But Jake, I don’t have a long sleeved shirt that can get dirty,” I hedged.  “And it’s cold outside!”

Then I realize how absurd this must sound to a kid dressed in a pirate costume.

Undeterred, Jake bellows, “Yes you do!”

He runs to the laundry room, reaches into a basket, and pulls out a gray, long sleeved T-shirt with holes in the armpits.

Once again, he’s right.  I change into the t-shirt and we march ourselves out onto the front lawn.

“Let’s play right here!” he shouts, positioning our field markers.  “You gotta’ run between my bike and Audrey’s pink car to get a score.”

Looking out toward the yard, he sees as a perfect football field.   I see as a patch of dead grass, slightly damp, strewn with leaves, harboring allergens that could overpower even the strongest of prescription medications.  The thought of laying on the grass instantly makes my skin itch.  I feel a sneeze coming on.  I have visions of Theron Brown barreling down on me.

Jake throws the ball at me.

“OK, dad.  Try to get a score!”

I jog around in a circle, dodging him, and run past him to the end zone.  He’s having fun.  And I’m happy that I didn’t have to touch the grass.  Dad is up, 7-0.

“My turn!”

Jake runs around, darting this way and that.  I run toward him, grab him, sling him around my shoulders, and set him down on the ground.

“I missed!” I yell.  He runs to the end zone for a score, giggling the whole time.  Tie game 7-7.  I feel a bead of sweat forming on my upper lip.

I think I need a shower.

He throws the ball back to me.  I do the same dance as before.  But Jake darts in front of me when I least expect it.  Trying not to bowl him over, I zig when I should have zagged.  I trip over my own two feet and tumble to the ground.  It’s as if the whole thing is in slow motion.  I see dust and dead grass puff into the air.  I feel myself breathing in the smell of fall, complete with allergens and chiggers.

In an instant, Jake is on top of me.  Laughing hysterically.  Like I’ve just given him tickets to Disney World.  His smile is painted with joy.  Without a care.  He is bathing in the moment, and savoring it.  There is no place he would rather be.

“I tackled you daddy!”

“You sure did.” I say.

I forget about the dust.  I forget about the dirt.  I forget about seventh grade.  I forget about boxing gloves and the wet spot on the butt of my jeans.

I forget about the worries and the responsibility.  I forget about the reasons why I can’t play because I’m too busy earning money to buy expensive things that have no real value.  I forget about the shiny junk that gets in the way of the stuff that really matters.

I forget about being a father just long enough to be a dad.

Jake recorded seventeen tackles yesterday in an epic battle for football domination on Ramble Wood Circle.  Seventeen.  The stats won’t show up in the box score in the newspaper.  In fact, there was no score to keep.  But the game meant the world to those who played.

As I sit here in 7C, happily nursing a runny nose somewhere high above the Midwest, I’d like to close by sharing a few snippets from a passage our pastor read this weekend.  It sums up the idea of selfless giving very well.  Focusing on what’s truly important.  I do a lot of writing about service to others, often forgetting that we must start by serving at home, not as we would like to serve, but as those in need intend for us to serve.

And that, my friends, is the definition of love.

Excerpts from  If I found a Wistful Unicorn by Ann Ashford

If I found a wistful unicorn and brought him to you, all forlorn… would you pet him?

If I picked a little flower up and put it in a paper cup… would you smell it?

If I found a secret place to go with you the only one to know… would you be there?

If my cricket coughed and got the flu and needed warmth and comfort too… would you hold him?

If my rainbow were to turn all gray and wouldn’t shine at all today… would you paint it?

If I ran backwards up a tree and called for you to follow me… would you do it?

If I said that I could dance for you as hard as that would be to do… would you watch me?

If all that I would want to do would be to sit and talk to you… would you listen?

If any of these things you’ll do I’ll never have to say to you… “Do you love me?”

Split Personalities and My Mysterious Email

When I was a kid, I saw a fascinating program on TV about Bob Smith. “Who is Bob Smith?” you might ask.

Well, the proper way to phrase the question is actually “Who are Bob Smith?”

You see, the show was about an annual reunion of all the Bob Smiths in the country.  Some Bob Smith somewhere started the trend, after being mistaken for another Bob Smith.  The name is so common, he wanted to do something uncommon with it.  So, he thought it might be fun to meet all of the other Bob Smiths in the country so that they could share stories, have a few laughs, and presumably, swap monogrammed clothing.

Summer camp underwear included.

The reunion was huge, and I found this fascinating.  Those of us with uncommon monikers (Dannemiller, Pfreugenberger, Stachkew) have a love/hate relationship with our names.  All at once we love our uniqueness, yet curse the fact that the mention of our name to any restaurant hostess or tech support rep requires an additional five minutes of spelling.

And re-spelling.

I always thought a Scott Dannemiller reunion party would be a lonely affair.  Then one day back in high school, we received a call at our home.  My dad answered the phone.

“Dannemiller residence.”

The voice responded, “Hello.  Yes.  This is Scott Dannemiller.”

“No it’s not.” Dad answered.  “ Scott Dannemiller is taking a nap in my La-Z-Boy.”

That’s a party of two, please.

We learned that another Scott Dannemiller had moved to Oklahoma City.  Apparently, he had come to town for a job opportunity.  When he went to the bank to cash his first check, the teller refused to give him money.  She was a high school friend of mine, and was afraid this guy was trying to empty my checking account of all twenty-six dollars and eighty-two cents.  Luckily, he was able to clear up the matter.  He couldn’t believe the coincidence, and just wanted to call and introduce himself to us, given that we are distant relatives.

Over the years, I have enjoyed this name-sharing connection.  The other Scott Dannemiller is an avid triathlete.  His name constantly appears in newspaper clippings and on websites for ultra fit people who eat equal amounts of protein and carbs, and compare body fat percentages.  I’ll often get approached by folks who say, “Hey Scott, I saw that you ran one of those 70-mile races this past weekend.  I had no idea you were such a runner!  Congratulations!”

“Thanks!” I’d reply.

Why make them feel stupid, right?

Back when Gabby and I got married, we started receiving odd gifts in the mail.  Stuff we hadn’t registered for.  When we called the department store in Austin to clear things up, we found out that the other Scott Dannemiller was getting married as well.

The same day of our wedding.

In my old hometown.

To a girl who went to my high school.

After a few hours, I was fortunate enough to convince Gabby that I wasn’t a closet polygamist, and we got down to the business of returning all their gifts to them, save for the big screen TV from his Uncle Al. It would be impolite to refuse such generosity.

Every so often, I’ll Google my name for the sake of narcissism.  There will be stories of our mission service alongside stories of his athletic achievements.  But last time I surfed for myself I was shocked  to learn that I had died in an electrical fire about fifteen years ago.  It seems there is a third Scott Dannemiller, an electrician, that I will never have the chance to meet face-to-face, may he rest in peace.  And a fourth who is a high school baseball player.  And a couple others.

But perhaps the biggest shock of all came last week when I received a very curious email.  The names have been changed for obvious reasons.

To:  [scott@dannemiller.net]

From:  [JaneDoe@fakeaddress.com]

Subj:  could you please respond to me in private… this is Jane Doe… Julie Doe’s sister

Scott---I tried to look you up on facebook but couldn't find you.  I did a yahoo search and found this e-mail.  Out of respect for your wife and her being pregnant---I will not contact her and cause her undue stress.   But---I do have some questions if you would be so kind.   Can you please just email me back so I know that you are the Scott I'd like to communicate with.  My sister does not know that I am trying to contact you.  Just let me know if you would be willing to communicate with me.  I am concerned about my sister.

Thanks for your time---Jane Doe

My stomach instantly began to churn.  Jane Doe?  Julie Doe?  What could I have done to warrant this clandestine email?  Must have been pretty bad.  I scanned my memory.

Nothing.

The stomach churning stopped when I remembered that I don’t know a Jane Doe.  Or a Julie Doe.  Or any Doe for that matter.  Unsure what to make of this email, I just deleted it.  I thought it was probably some sort of SPAM, where someone wanted to make contact with me so they could sell me something to make certain body parts smaller, or others bigger.  Worse yet, they would sucker me into giving them $10,000 to retrieve the millions that the prince of Bundesia had left for me.

Fool me once, shame on you, I say.

The next day, I received another email.

To:  [scott@dannemiller.net] From:  [JaneDoe@fakeaddress.com]

SORRY SCOTT!!!!  You are the wrong Scott.  No need to respond to my previous email.  I hope I didn't cause you stress by not knowing who the heck I was.  ---Jane

OK.  So I guess it wasn’t SPAM.  My mind immediately drifted to thinking about this poor woman.  How mortified she must be.  She obviously had some significant drama in her life, and now she had involved a complete stranger.  I imagined her realizing her mistake and running to the keyboard in slow motion, trying to delete the message that had already been sent.  But the toothpaste is already out of the tube.

Wanting to calm her fears, I responded.

No worries, Jane.  I hope everything turns out ok for you.  I’m just glad to know that my wife isn’t pregnant.  Thanks for clearing that up.    -Scott.

All of these episodes of mistaken identity got me to thinking .  Maybe the identities weren’t so mistaken after all.  I am all of these people.   The singer, the writer, the triathlete, the electrician, the baseball player, the one who creates drama and conjures up clandestine emails.

Aren’t we all?

We are multiple personalities wrapped into one.  The boring and the exciting.  There are some days where we are super parents, and others when we should just be glad our screaming antics aren’t on some secret Child Protective Services video tape.  There are times when we are selfless to a fault, and others when our selfishness knows no bounds.  The shining moments when we love unconditionally, and the dark hours when we feel unworthy of love.

We’re all human, and therein lies the beauty of it all.  We are as The Creator made us.  Broken and blessed.

And I believe God’s message is this.  Love yourself.  Every part of you.  The bright spots and the shadows.  The stuff that works and the garbage that doesn’t.  Without the ability to give thanks for the you that was made, we have no ability to fully bestow love on others.  So today, I pray that I can come to love both the good and bad in myself.  And to fully immerse myself in this world where I can use what I’ve been given to make a difference.  In big ways and small ways.  Common or uncommon.

Amen.

Miners, Makeovers, and Lives Reconnecting

* I'm super-pumped!  I've been invited to be a guest contributor to the Presbyterian Church's (USA) mission efforts.  Their Mission Crossroads program does a monthly podcast called "God's Mission Matters."  It's a great resource for anyone in the short or long-term mission field.  Anyhow, my job is to augment the podcast with a written piece focusing on popular culture.  Here's a draft preview of November's article. *

No doubt you have heard last month’s news regarding the rescue of the Chilean miners.  After two moths trapped beneath the surface of the Earth, thirty-three very happy, smelly, dirty, grateful men broke through the darkness into the waiting arms of family and trained medical staff.  The story is the stuff of Hollywood movies.  Tragedy and uncertainty all wrapped up in a happy ending.

Before the miners had made it to the surface, I was lucky enough to catch a story on NPR that focused on the miner’s wives.  As you might imagine, the women were distraught beyond belief.  To help the women through their anxiety and grief, they dispatched a team of experts to help them.

Beauticians.

Apparently, the lack of sleep and unimaginable stress wasn’t their only concern.  The dry air of the Atacama desert was wreaking havoc with their hair.  Their skin was dry and flaky.  Their tresses were parched an unmanageable.  Forget post-traumatic stress.  They had split ends for cryin’ out loud!

Of course, I am being overly dramatic.

The reporter in the story interviewed some of the hairdressers.  Not surprisingly, they viewed their role as that of counselor.  They were there to listen.  To comfort.  To support and sustain.  All the while, choosing the right cut to accentuate high cheekbones or bright smiles.

The wives were in a different position.  Every fiber of their being wanted to lend a hand to the rescue effort, yet there was nothing they could do to help.  But what they could do was make the pending reunion with their loved ones as special as possible - as if it needed any sweetener.    This was one thing they could control.  They took pains to choose a look they thought would be flattering, yet not change too many attributes of their appearance as to shock their spouses.

Now imagine you are one of the miners.  You are going through one of the most agonizing waiting game anyone could imagine.  As one , Mario Sepulveda  would explain it, “I was with God, and I was with the devil.  They fought and God won.”  The only words to describe what you’ve been through involve a Heavenly battle between good and evil.

Meanwhile,  less than a half-mile above your head, your wife and her friends are getting makeovers.

This only proves that it’s not the physical space that creates the distance.  It’s the experience.  So different.  So unexplainable.  Still, I can only imagine the exhausting joy that the families are experiencing now, growing together through separate experiences now shared.  Lives reconnecting.

And so it goes with mission work.  Certainly, I cannot be so bold to say that volunteer service in God’s name in any way matches the struggles of the miners.  Not even close.  That’s like saying my experience as president of my high school mathletes club qualifies me for a race for the White House.  But the analogy is worth exploring.

All of us who have embarked on mission work can attest to feeling at a loss for words.  How can we explain what we’ve just experienced?  Truly connecting with the divine.  It’s like trying to describe the taste of air or the smell of your own nostrils.  It has moved us.  Changed us.  Shaped us.  Tranformed us.  We want to shout it to the rooftops.

But we just can’t tell you what “it” is.

And when others ask us about our journey, they ask questions that seem so far removed from the depth of the experience.

“So, what was the food like?”

“Did you get to bathe?”

As if a description of rice and beans, and occasional mystery meat might be a window to the soul of service.  Such encounters can leave the missionary feeling misunderstood and alone.  We’ve been changed from the inside out.  An extreme soul makeover.  Tranformed.

They merely got a haircut.

And this can be very frustrating.  Until we remember something.

Though our insides have changed, our outside looks exactly the same to everyone else.  So everyone else seeks to understand as best they can, using references that would have applied to the person they knew before.  This support can seem so awkward.  Like getting a makeover while the lives of loved ones hang in the balance.  But that is where we must begin.  Because we have to recall what it is that changed us in the first place.

We were changed because we were willing to go outside of ourselves to experience another culture.  Another perspective.  Someplace foreign.  Only to find that God was there waiting for us in the faces of strangers.  Sharing a common love.  Nurturing one another.  Learning from one another.  Perhaps getting more out of the service than we have given.

The entire experience is about community.  Building mutual respect.  Sharing equally.  All in the name of God.

And so when we return, the mission continues.  We must have the courage to go outside ourselves to experience another perspective.  Lives reconnecting.  Finding God anew in the faces of people who now seem strange.  Sharing a common love.  Nurturing one another.  Learning from one another.  And allowing ourselves to get more out of the service than we can give.

Then, and only then, will we truly be transformed.

Dilemmas and Dream Crushing

* Warning:  The following post is rated PG.  * I’m a Dream Crusher.

That’s right.  A Grade A, number one killer of hope and inspiration.

Santa Clause?  Fake.  Easter Bunny?  Come on.  Tooth Fairy?  I used to think so, until I saw my grandpa take out a whole mouthful of teeth every single night and place them by his bedstand.  The guy never had so much as a penny to show for it.

It’s all bunk.

If you think that’s mean, we’ve only scratched the surface of my capabilities.

Eight years ago, after being laid off from my job when the dot-com bubble burst, I started my own business doing training and development work for corporations.  In the early days of self-employment, I spent a lot of time prospecting, but not a lot of time generating income.  During this time, Gabby worked as a manager at Dell, Inc. and supported us.  That year, my gross profits amounted to the value of an eight-year-old BMW.

Without air conditioning.

Or doors.

Gabby didn’t particularly love her job at the time, but she was good at it, and it brought us a nice income.  After coming home from our mission year in Guatemala, it wasn’t all that surprising that she didn’t rush right back in to her work helping to make millions of dollars for a large, global computer manufacturer.  Something in her gut told her she was meant to do something else with her life.  Unfortunately, unlike Gabby herself, her gut didn’t provide many specifics.

Eight years later, I’m the main bread-winner, and Gabby is the main child-rearer and all-around magician of our lives and schedules.  She volunteers.  She helps with my business.  She keeps us all sane.  Our existence as a family is generally very joyful and stress-free, thanks to my wife.

But her gut is still talking.  And it’s starting to get into the details.

Gabby has always had a way with people.  She is kind and generous.  She wants to be a helping hand for others, even when that help is kind of messy.  In fact, I think she prefers it to be messy.   She also remembers how she would have given her right arm to have had some medical training when visiting small villages during our year in Central America.  Both of us recall countless opportunities to truly change a child’s life for the better, had we only known how to provide basic care.

It’s pretty obvious to you where we’re heading with all of this.  Whether it’s divinely inspired, or simply a result of eating too much dairy, her gut has finally spoken.  She wants to be a nurse practitioner.  Caring for patients.  Healing the sick.  Doling out prescriptions.  Trying to make health care a better place for all of us.  Honestly, the miracle here is that it took seven years to figure it out.  This call to service that started as a seed years ago is finally germinating into a full-on desire to commit herself to helping others sustain the most precious gift we’re given by the Creator.

Life itself.

The good news is that we live in a city that boasts one of the finest medical training institutions in the country – Vanderbilt University.  They have specialized Family Nurse Practitioner programs that would allow Gabby to take an accelerated track to earning an advanced degree that fits her skills to a “T.”  Unfortunately, there are no other programs of this kind in the city where we live, and it costs as much as a new  8-Series BMW.

With a chauffer.

Holding a briefcase full of money.

Bring on the Dream Crusher.  Call from God?  Nope.  I think it’s the dairy talking.  For the past week, I have been visibly antsy when we talk about this latest turn our lives have taken.  Rather than display excitement that Gabby may have found her true calling in life, I am agonizing over the price tag.

I know.  I’m a barrel of laughs.

This must simply be too purposeful for me, the Accidental Missionary.  Dedicating your life to service.  Finding a way to make your work something meaningful.  Developing yourself so you can help the Great Physician do the work that miracles miss.

We’re now facing what my friend Joe would call an honest-to-goodness dilemma.  A dilemma is not a choice between two alternatives where one is obviously right.  No.  A dilemma is a choice when both seem to have equal merit.  Think of how many people those tens of thousands of dollars in tuition payments could help.  Then think of how many people that trained medical professionals can help.  Especially ones who feel called to work with underserved populations both at home and abroad.

It’s a dilemma.

But is it?

It’s only a dilemma in the way I have defined it.  It’s not like we would liquidate our savings and give all of our money away if Gabby decides not to pursue this calling.  Could we?  Sure.  Would we?  I’m a little to “of this world” for that to happen.  At least not tomorrow.

What if we don’t have enough for retirement?  Lord knows our mission year set us back quite a ways.  When you make $260/month, there’s not a lot left over for savings.  Or even Ramen noodles.  Now, with Gabby staying at home with the kids, we’ve gone from being DINKs (Dual Income No Kids) to SITCOMs (Single Income, Two Children, Outta’ Money).  As Gabby will tell you, staying home and working for the kids has a great benefits package, but the pay sucks.

And what about those kids?  We should help support them by saving something for their college education, right?  This new plan could slow down our savings there.

And what about our life as we know it?  There would be lots of changes.  Scheduling hassles.  Gabby studying at night.  I might have to scale back business travel to be around for the kids when Gabby needs to be at school.

When we get right down to it, it’s only a dilemma because I am scared.  Scared of losing the staus quo.  Scared of sacrificing a good chuck of our retirement nest egg.  Scared of debt and the stress it can bring.  And I worry about all of this even though we haven’t even made a decision, she hasn’t even applied to the program, and we haven’t even investigated all of the alternatives.  Gabby even admits she may take her first prerequisite and realize it's not for her.  I’m worrying ahead of schedule.  It appears this is the only thing I do that doesn’t get a healthy dose of procrastination. It’s premature Dream Crushing.

And why am I worried?  I view money as security.  It’s one tangible way that I can maintain some semblance of control in a chaotic world.  It affords us comforts and flexibility.  If I have it, then I can conceivably handle anything the world throws at me.

If I don’t have it, then I have to rely on, well…

God.

Sounds like a dream.

Kids, Cops, and Breaking the Jesus Rules

I love my kids.  More than words can express. Please remember I wrote that.  Because I’m getting ready to do some Grade A complaining about them.

If you haven’t met them, allow me to paint a picture.

Jake is four.  Audrey is two.  They both talk incessantly, and at an extreme volume.  We’re not talking about a little bit of chatter and the occasional scream.  That’s other peoples’ kids.  The annoying ones.

With our kids, we’re talking about the "if-I-hear-that-kid-say-another-word-I’m-going-to-rip-off-his-tiny-little-fingers-and-pierce-my-own-eardrums-with-them” kind of loud.  I have inflicted pain upon myself just to get away from their high-decibel yappers.  Nearly suffocated myself under a pillow.  Hot.  Dark.  Sweaty.  Lack of oxygen.

It was worth it.

Gabby recently picked me up from the airport after I had been on a business trip.  Jake and Audrey were doing their normal Abbott and Costello routine, turned up to 11.  They were giving me a migraine, so I pulled out all the stops.  I offered them a special treat if they could be quiet for one minute.  Just 60 seconds.

Their longest silent stretch was four seconds.  I timed it.  Four seconds.  Though they were in the back seat, they talked as if they were trying to have a conversation in the front row of a Miley Cyrus concert.

Impressive.

Gabby and I have found that the only real relief is to join in the conversation before they start to argue.  My recent tactic is to use our traffic time as an opportunity to teach the kids their numbers.  There are numbers everywhere.  Even out in the middle of nowhere.

“Tell me what numbers you see, kids?”

“There’s a three!” yells Audrey.

“That black and white sign says fifty-five, daddy!” shouts Jake.  “ What does that mean?”

“It means you can only drive fifty-five miles per hour, son.”

On a recent trip to Ohio, I was unfortunate enough to get pulled over for speeding on I-71.  My excuse is that I was distracted by the kids and their incessant blathering.

The cop wasn’t even in his car.  He was just standing beside his cruiser holding a radar gun.  He waved me down while I was still a tenth of a mile away.  It hardly seemed fair.  Kind of insulting, really.  If I’m going to break the law, I’d at least like for you to give me a good chase, like an episode of Cops.  This was the police equivalent of a self-checkout at the grocery store.  I pulled up right next to him, rolling my window down. Audrey screams from the back,

“Daddy!  Why is that police man standing at our window?!”

I know it sounds like an innocent question, but it was incredibly embarrassing.  I am avoiding eye contact with the officer, who is looking down his nose at me with great disapproval.  I was going 20 miles over the limit.

In my defense, it was a speed trap.

How to respond to my two-year-old?   I had a couple of options.

Option A:  I could confess my traffic violation in the presence of the nice police man.  This alternative gave me the willies.  I grew up Catholic, and the idea of confession scared the holy shnikeys out of me.  By the rules of God, you’re supposed to do your first confession in the 3^rd or 4^th grade.  Must be in the Bible somewhere.  Anyhow, I played sick for an entire semester of Sunday School to avoid it.  I was confession-free until the 8^th grade when my Catholic guilt finally got the best of me.  By then, I had accumulated four more years of sins, which equated to an additional 45-minutes in the humiliating, non-sound-proof booth opposite Father Mikliska.

Confessing is not my strong suit.  What was the alternative?

Option B:  I could answer “I don’t know, Audrey.”  Thereby, leaving it up to the nice police man to tell the kids what a menace to society that I am, and how I had placed their lives in jeopardy with my reckless behavior, and how if I speed too much they can lock their daddy up in jail.

I chose option A.  Stopping just short of Jimmy Swaggart tears, I played it soft,

Menace:  “Well Audrey.  The police man pulled me over.”

Jake:  “Why daddy?”

Menace:  “I was driving too fast.”

There goes my chance at pleading “no contest” or arguing that his radar gun was mis-calibrated.  Thanks kids!

Jake:  “Why were you driving so fast?”

Menace:  “I don’t know, Jake.”

Audrey:  “What’s he doing?”

Menace:  “He’s writing me a ticket.”

Audrey:  “A ticket!?!?! ”

She said this with unbridled enthusiasm, confusing this ticket with the slip of paper that allows you to enter an amusement park.  Or the colored slips of paper they give out at the YMCA with bible verses on them.

Menace:  “No Audrey, not that kind of ticket.”

Jake:  “What’s it for?”

Menace:  “It tells what I did wrong.  It tells me I have to pay a fine.”

I would have bought them matching Ferraris for their 16^th birthdays just to get them to stop talking.  There is no way that would have worked.  Jake, still yelling over the howl of an imaginary jet engine called out,

“What’s a fine?”

Menace:  “Daddy has to pay money to the police department because he broke the rules.”

Jake:  “Oh.  That’s not good.”

Menace:  “No it’s not.”

Jake:  “Why were you driving so fast?

And so continues the circle of questioning.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gabby smiling.  For once, she didn’t have to be the bad guy and comment on my driving.

Now Jake has a new number game.   First, he looks at all of the speed limit signs and reads them aloud.  Next, from his prime viewing angle in the right rear passenger seat, he compares the posted speed limit to what he sees on my speedometer.

“Daddy!  The speed limit is 45 and you’re driving 60!  Slow down!”

“It’s OK Jake.”

“No it’s not!  You’re going to get a ticket!”

“OK, Jake.”

And so it has been for every single car trip since I started teaching the kid his numbers.  I almost wish he were an imbecile who just sat around and ate Elmer’s glue.  But no.  He’s Rainman.

This past Saturday, we were coming home from a shopping trip.  The car in front of me was driving very slowly.  Far below the speed limit, in my opinion.  As it exited the highway, it straddled both left turn lanes.  I couldn’t pass him, and the light was green.  So, as soon as he got over far enough, I sped around him and tried to make the light.  It clicked to yellow.  To stop, or not to stop?

Traffic laws state that stoplights have seven colors.  Green.  Yellow.  Yellow-pink.  Yellow-orange. Yellow-red. Just-Turned-Red.  And Been-Red-For-Awhile.  You may proceed with caution with all colors except Been-Red-For-Awhile.  Look it up.  I promise.

As I drove through the “Just-Turned-Red” light, Gabby gasped in disapproval.

Jake:  “What happened?!”

Gabby:  “Daddy just drove through a red light.”

Jake:  “You’re going to get a ticket, daddy.”

Menace: “No, I’m not going to get a ticket, Jake.”

Jake:  “But you broke the rules!”

Menace:  “I know Jake, but no police were around to see it, so I’ll be fine.”

I see Gabby wince.  She gives me a look that spoke volumes.

Is that really what you want to teach your kids?  That it’s OK to break the law so long as no one is watching?

I am not proud.

Then Jake verbalizes what she’s thinking.

Jake:  “That’s still bad, Daddy.  The next time you see a policeman, you need to tell him what you did.”

Menace:  “I will, Jake.”

The next day, I neglected to take the kids to their second straight day of the “Music and Molasses” festival.  First, because Gabby and I were worn out.  Second, because there are a slew of mounted police at the festival, and I would have had to confess to every last one of them, lest my yapping kids rat me out.

But this begs the question.  Are there some rules that are OK to break?  Just because something is against the rules doesn’t automatically make it bad, right?  And vice versa.  Just because something is legal doesn’t automatically make it moral.  For all of us, this is a tough call.  Navigating the gray area.  And, if you’ll allow me to go out on a limb here, it can be even tougher as a parent, when your every waking moment is being watched by a tiny little person that will likely emulate anything you do.   I’d rather teach them how to count.

Take this example.  Let’s say I wanted to start a business selling drug-free urine to people who were having trouble passing the good old fashioned drug test.  Guess what?!  In all but 13 states, it’s not illegal.  In Tennessee, they’ve outlawed synthetic urine sales, but you’re free to sell all the real pee you want.  Still, if Jake and Audrey became budding entrepreneurs and wanted to start selling their own “liquid gold,” I’d probably advise against it.  Not against the law, but it doesn’t feel right, either.

And what about this one.

A few years ago, Gabby and I volunteered with a group called No More Deaths.  They leave bottles of water, sometimes even 55-gallon drums full of water, in the desert in an effort to stop the deaths of desperate immigrants illegally crossing the border.   Hundreds of them die each year crossing the deserts of Arizona, literally baking to death.  Seems like the humane thing to do, right?  However, these humanitarians have been arrested for littering.  Granted, all have been acquitted using the defense that “How is giving a dying person water illegal?”  Even so, the debate rages on.  I know what side of the fence I fall on that argument, and I know what I would tell my kids about this one, but I’m not naïve enough to think that my position is shared by everyone, even my close friends.

So, which rules should I follow?  Which rules should I bend or break because I think Jesus would do it, too?  That’s a pretty tough question to answer, especially since the Hebrew-In-Chief  isn’t here today to weigh in on the drug-free pee debate.

Something tells me he might not give me a straight-up answer.  Instead, he’d speak in a parable.  He’d probably save a good one for me.  Like the story of the man who did everything right, but Jesus asked for one more thing, “Sell everything you have and give it to the poor. Then follow me.”

Oh.

Can you run that by me again?  I think I’d rather just obey the speed limit and limit my littering, thanks.

Living by the Jesus rules?  That’s the tough stuff.  The guy doesn’t give you a lot of wiggle room, does he?  He’s always there.  Reminding.  Prodding.  Challenging.  He wants me to put my money where my mouth is.  Literally.  But that’s easier said than done.

And that’s why  I think he’d probably describe me the same way I describe my kids.

“I sure do love him.  More than words can express.  But he’s a lot of talk.”

Pizza with Einstein

This weekend I am reminded that one year ago, I competed in the Urbanathlon.  It was one of those things I wasn’t sure I could do.  One of those things that makes you nervous.  A real challenge. “What’s an Urbanathlon?” you say.

Well, the Urbanathlon is a 12-mile footrace through the streets of Chicago, complete with “urban obstacles.”  This includes running through and jumping over monster truck tires, climbing monkey bars, hurdling beams that are five feet off the ground, running the steps at Soldier Field, jumping over taxi cabs, and scaling an 8-foot wall.  Apparently, these are all things that Chicago’s urban population must do while walking to school or work.

Glad I don’t live in Chicago.

I had seen an advertisement for it in Men’s Health, the magazine that sponsors the race.   Making small talk, I made the mistake of telling my brother Jeff about it during a family gathering.

Stupid.

As my sister says, Jeff “looks like somebody won him in a raffle.”  The guy belongs on the cover of Men’s Health, or featured in an ad for underwear.

I, on the other hand, once drew a stick figure of myself on the cover of the magazine, and own lots of underwear.  Some of it could even be called “vintage.”

As soon as I mentioned it, my brother got really fired up for the race, and I got caught up in his enthusiasm.  He said, “Man, that would be really fun!  I have an old fraternity brother who would be up for it, too!  We could do it as a 3-man relay team.  That means each of us would only have to do 4 miles plus obstacles.”

Jeff’s fraternity brother, Todd, makes my brother look like Chris Farley when it comes to fitness.  When my brother called Todd about the race, his reply was,

“I don’t know.  I usually don’t do races that short.”

And he was talking about the full 12 miles.

Todd is an adventure racer.  You may have seen them on TV.  These are the nut jobs that team up with other screwballs to try and cover as much rugged terrain as they can in a 12-24-hour period.  Using only a compass and a map, they hike through mud, carve their way through dense brush, bike up mountain trails, scale cliffs, raft on rapids, and set their own broken limbs.  I believe they get bonus points for eating  granola made from twigs and burrs, and starting a fire using only some wet bark and the heat of their steely-eyed gaze.

After some coaxing, Todd was in.

We arrived in Chicago the evening before the race.  We registered, checked into our hotel, and went out for a meal.  As is the common wisdom of all elite athletes, we opted to do some “carb-loading” before the race.  This consisted of 3 slices of deep dish pizza for each man, and 3 pitchers of beer shared among us.  I’m fairly certain that this is the same pre-race meal eaten by Lance Armstrong when he is out in Chicago with his fraternity brothers, and he’s preparing to watch the Indy 500.

When we awoke the next morning at 6:15am, it was a tropical 36 degrees outside.  I say “tropical” because the air felt as moist as the inside of a dog’s mouth.

When he’s sucking on ice cubes.

Five minutes before race time, it was 39 degrees, and sleet was falling from the sky.  Luckily, I was responsible for the first leg of the race.  This meant that I would be able to work up a sweat on my four miles of the course, while my brother and Todd waited patiently, freezing their pectoral muscles off at their checkpoints.

As worked up as I was about the race, it ended up being a non-event.  About two miles into the run, I found my groove.  The monster truck tires were a large, yet manageable bump in the road.  I got a second wind just as I arrived at the checkpoint to make the hand-off to my brother.  I passed him our timing chip, and he was off like a rocket.

When it was all said and done, we finished 76th out of 405 in our age bracket.  I wish I could take credit for our top 18% finish, but I was the slowest member of our team.  Given the fact that I was also the youngest member, it’s even more pathetic.  My brother ran like a gazelle and worked the monkey bars like Curious George.  Todd ran the steps at Soldier field like he was riding an escalator.  He literally left it all on the course, stopping just 20 yards shy of the finish line to deposit his breakfast at the feet of a lucky spectator.  I think I’d rather catch a foul ball at a baseball game, but I guess that’s the kind of souvenir you get when you watch an endurance race.

Afterward, we decided to celebrate with some more pizza and pitchers.  The place we found was a bit like Cheers, with regulars coming in just to hang out.  We found a table surrounded by televisions, ordered our food, and discussed the morning’s race.  As you might expect, our conversation focused on Todd’s over-the-top performance.

As we spoke, a guy lumbered in.  He looked like a homeless Albert Einstein.  He was disheveled, with his long wool coat bearing stains from long ago.  He carried a shoulder bag filled with knick-knacks.

The regulars saw him coming a mile away.  They didn’t make him leave, but they didn’t respond to his small talk, either.  It seemed that he was their bothersome gnat – something annoying to be tolerated.  He attempted to start up a conversation with a few folks, but was ignored.

He approached the bar and ordered a beer.  When the bartender brought him his glass, he paid for it using a handful of change.  In my head, I repeated my mantra:

“There’s no such thing as ‘worthy poor.’  There’s no such distinction. Everyone is worthy.”

All the while I wondered how many handfuls of change this man had poured into a pint glass.

Our pizza arrived, which distracted me from the man.  When the waitress laid it on the table, it was the size of a cheesy manhole cover.

We were dishing up our first slices when the man walked past our table with his glass of beer in hand.  He paused and asked, “How are you boys doing?”

“We’re fine,” we answered, all hoping the conversation wouldn’t get long and awkward.

“That pizza looks good.  I love the stuff.  Lemme’ know if you don’t finish it.”

We made some reference to being from out of town, enjoying the Chicago-style pie, etc, etc. etc.  He said a few more things and sauntered off to a booth twelve feet away.  He sat there sipping his beer, mumbling from time to time, singing along to the jukebox, and watching people come and go.

The bartender came over and asked, “Is that guy bothering you?”

“No,” we replied in unison.  “He’s fine.”

“Just let me know if he gets to be too much.”

We chatted some more, laughed some more, and ate until we nearly burst.  I looked down and saw we still had a couple of slices left.

For some reason, my mind went back to my childhood.  I saw an image in my head of my mother.  She was scolding me for bringing home a stray dog, which I had lured onto our front porch with pieces of ham.  He was a good-sized dog, too.  Like a German Shepherd.

“You feed a dog like that, and he’ll never leave.  It’s just trouble.”

Sure enough, that dog got into a fight with my little dog.  Treated him like a chew toy.  I thought he was going to kill him.  Luckily, I was able to scare the dog away with some yelling and a well-aimed tennis shoe.

But Einstein wasn’t a dog.  He was a human being.  A human being who liked pizza.  From a purely mathematical perspective, it just made sense.  We had two slices.  He had none.  We didn’t need any more food.  He did.

I approached the bartender and asked for an extra plate, napkin and fork.  He didn’t say a word, but gave me a knowing look.  The same one my mother uses.  And my wife.  It must be in a book somewhere.

Faces of Disapproval, by Ima Woman.

I loaded up the pizza and carried it over to the man.  He was scribbling something in a notebook he had pulled from his knapsack.

“Oh!  Thank you so much!” he said.  “That is very kind of you.  It looks delicious.”

“Yes, it’s really good.” I said.  “Enjoy.”

As much as I would have liked to create a connection with this man, the reaction of other people in the bar made me question this.  If they had been so pestered by him, there must be something about him that makes him a bothersome guy.  So, I cut our conversation short, and went back to our table.

My brother, Todd and I watched some more football and enjoyed another beer at the restaurant.  We were basking in the glow of our 76th place finish, and killing time before our flights.  As we chatted, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.  The man stood up from his seat and approached up once again.

Oh brother.  What have I done?

Einstein came over to thank us for the pizza.  He made small talk, asking us where we were from.  Why we were in town.  When we were leaving.  We talked for a couple of minutes, wondering where this conversation would lead.  He would ramble a bit about random subjects.  There were lots of long, awkward pauses.  Then he said,

“Do you mind if I take your picture?”

He swung an old camera off his shoulder, and held it in his hand.  It looked like a toy from the Nixon administration.

“Sure!” We answered.

It was dark in the restaurant, but as he clicked the photo, there wasn’t any flash.

“So, where should I send it?” he asked.

“Send it?”

“The picture!  Where should I send it when it gets developed?”

We all sort of looked at each other.  Should we give him our address?  Maybe not.  I thought it might just be safer to give out a fake address, like the girls I used to meet in high school who would give me their phone number.  When I would call it, it would be some bank’s time and temperature information line.

Todd grabbed a napkin.

“Sure!  Here you go!” and he wrote something down and handed it to Einstein.

The man thanked us again, and went back to his table to finish his meal.  When he left, we asked Todd what he had written.

“I gave him my mom’s address.”

“What?!”

“Yeah.  We’re building a house now, so that’s where my mail is getting sent for the time being.”

We all joked how there wasn’t any film in that guy’s camera.  How it was all a ploy to get personal information.  Now Einstein was going to show up at Todd’s mom’s house someday, looking for some pizza.  Worse yet, he would steal Todd’s identity and ruin his credit.

Stupid.

When the man finished his meal, he simply waved and walked out of the restaurant.

Fast forward three weeks.  I am seated at my computer and receive an email from Todd.  The subject line reads:  “You won’t believe this.”  I flashback to Todd giving his address to Einstein, and half expect that his mom has been abducted.  I gotta’ check the police blotter in Springfield, Missouri.

But when I open the email, I see this:

Urbanathlon pic - A black and white moment

Urbanathlon - the enclosed note card 2

A photo.  A note.  And a homemade business card.

I was floored.  We didn’t even think the guy had film in the camera.  Heck.  We didn’t even think the camera was real.  Now, here it is.  A dark, blurry picture of three friends who didn’t have a clue about the guy behind the lens, who calls himself “Z.”

I had gone to Chicago to do one of those things I wasn’t sure I could do.  One of those things that makes you nervous.  A real challenge.

And that’s exactly what I got.  But it wasn’t about the race at all.  That’s the way God does it sometimes.

I saw a side of myself that makes me nervous.  The side of me that judges.  The side of me that gets it dead wrong.  The side of me that misses seeing Jesus in others because I have simply forgotten what He looks like.  Ordinary.  Carpenter.  Vagabond.  Loner.   Radical.  Blessed.

Child of God.

Built To Last

Ten years is a long time.  There are many durable items that testify to being “built to last” that can’t survive intact for more than a decade.  For example:

• Snow tires
• Cheap roofing
• Exterior paint
• Weather stripping
• Egg Beaters (even from the freezer.  Trust me)
• Gift cards from JC Penney (don’t even get me started)

Exactly ten years ago today, Friday the 13^th, 2000, I met my wife, Gabby.  Luckily, the event was chronicled by a professional photographer.

It started like this…

No, that is obviously not us.  That lovely couple is Jason and Candice Hicks.  They chose to get married on Friday the 13^th, and invite us.  Jason was a former college roommate of mine, who moved to Austin, TX.  He worked as an engineer at Dell.  That’s where Gabby met him.

I know what you’re thinking.  If you meet someone on Friday the 13^th, you should probably just call it quits after the first date on principle.  Nothing good can come of that, right?  But, given that our friends were courageous enough to commit their lives to each other on that date, then we could at least share dinner and a movie.

When we got to the wedding reception, I noticed Gabby right away.  She was incredibly hot, in a sophisticated way.  Great smile.  Great haircut.  Nice ears.

Note:  Apparently, at this same time, Gabby was checking me out.  Her assessment was slightly different.  She told her friends, and I quote,

“He looks cocky.”

She arrived at the reception with three other folks, Summer, Dev, and Jeannie (pictured here L to R).

I automatically assumed she was there with Dev, due to her level of hotness, and the fact that Dev can bench press a Volvo and drink protein shakes fortified with nails and concrete.

Undeterred, I asked around about the hot chick.  The first person I questioned was this guy.

I know.  He doesn’t look like a trustworthy source.  My analysis skills had been slightly dampened by two glasses of wine.   That’s my friend Jamie.  An Irishman who worked diligently this night to live up to the Irishman stereotype.  The open bar helped.

Jamie said, between sips of lager, “That’s Gabby.  She’s been dating some guy for 8 months.”

Problem solved.  I gave up on the idea of Gabby, and immediately moved on to plan B.

Dancing like an imbecile (pictured here).

After a few more beverages, I decided to ask Gabby’s friend Summer to dance.  In retrospect, this probably was not the wisest move when trying to woo a woman.  To this day, I still hear about my questionable decision making skills.

As the evening progressed, I was approached by Jamie once again.  In his lovely Irish accent, he informed me (shocking!) that his previous assessment of Gabby’s relationship status may have been incorrect.  In fact, she had recently dumped the guy she was dating, and, had Facebook been around back then, her status would have been “Available, but not looking.”

But something told me she might be easily persuaded to dance. (pictured here)

I plotted my next step, which involved showing off my latest dance move.  I call it “Rhythm-less Man with Broken Arm”.  (pictured here)

I use it to take women’s attention away from their own groove.  You can see how well it’s working.

Finally, the music slowed, and I made my move.  I was nervous.  Sweaty.  Talking too fast.  Hoping that the rapid-fire words would shock her into submission.

I guess it worked.  I don’t remember the song.  Only that it was very long.  “Stairway to Heaven” long.  “Bye, Bye Miss American Pie” long.  And like most conversations, the length of the song was amplified by our awkward chatter.

But it didn’t matter.  I was hooked.  (pictured here)

Who else has a picture of the night they met their wife?  How lucky can one guy be.

The rest of the story goes like this.  We left the reception early to go dancing downtown.  Once there, I thought she left me, so, I asked Summer to dance again.  The problem?  Gabby had only gone to the bathroom.

When she returned, she asked, “So, do you want to dance with me, or with Summer?  ‘Cause we’re friends, and I don’t want to play those silly games.”

“I wanna be with you,” I answered.

And that’s how it remains.  Summer married a guy named Tim, and they have two beautiful boys.

As for Gabby?  The next day, I dragged Jamie along with me to meet her friends for lunch.  Two days later, I sent some roses.  Three months later, I was moving to Austin.  I tell Gabby that it was because I had a new job there, but she knows the truth.

Accidental?  Maybe so.  But whether it’s accidental missionary work, or accidental relationships, some things are just meant to be.  Sometimes you meet someone who makes you a better person.  Someone who challenges you to be more than you could be alone.  Someone whose giant heart teaches you about friendship, generosity, love and service.  Things that are built to last.

And today, I’m just thankful.

Bad Dogs, Death Alley, And Lessons Learned on the Farm

Let me make this perfectly clear. I am not a farmer.

Sure, I had a Fisher Price Little People Farm Set, complete with plastic cow and sheep. Unfortunately, I forgot to feed them and they were sent to live on a real farm at a day care center somewhere nearby. I also forgot to tend the crops, and the neighbor kid turned the plastic field into a skateboard ramp.

Needless to say, when someone chooses to spend their days toiling in the Earth, herding cattle, or milking goats, I just don’t get it. They are self-selecting hard work. And it’s hard work you have almost no control over. You could plant the best crop in the world, and it could get washed away by a terrible storm. You could provide top-notch feed for your cattle, and they could still catch Mad Cow disease and die. Or worse yet, they could actually survive, maybe with just a mild case of Slightly Irritated Cow disease, and you would be forced to do more arduous labor, butchering them and turning them to burger.

Yes, I’m lazy. This typing is hard work for me. I think I’m getting a wrist cramp.

But farming? That’s real hard work, with no guarantees. That’s what makes my brother-in-law Owen such a curious specimen to me.

About seven years ago, he and my sister-in-law moved their family from suburban Houston to a farm outside of Columbus, Ohio. They went from mowing a postage stamp yard, to owning a 10-acre farm. Gone were the neighborhood pool and bike riding on the sidewalk. They were replaced with a creek-fed pond and horseback riding.

The land is absolutely gorgeous, especially now in fall. The weather cools and the trees look like exploding tubes of paint, every shade of red, orange and yellow. Behind the house, the ground has a gentle roll, fading into forest along the creek. Next door is a field of soybeans. Across the street are stalks of dried corn as thick as the hair on Alec Baldwin’s noggin.

But even Owen will admit that the idea of the farm was quite different from the reality of the farm. When they first moved, they casually named the place “Harmony Hills Acres” or something like that. Several months later, we arrived for a visit. He joked with me that they should change the name to “Chaos Reigns Ranch.”

Runoff from the nearby animal farm was causing thick algae to form in his pond, making it challenging to keep it in use as a swimming hole. Some of the roosters were sexually harassing the hens. Turkeys would get out of their fenced-in area. They had to buy an Epi pen due to a series of bee stings suffered from a honey harvest gone bad. The goats found their way into a storage area and ate the vast majority of their cardboard boxes. Not the contents, mind you, just the boxes. All that remained were random semi-stacked cubes of stuff, spilling out onto the floor. Apparently, goats can be finicky.

And then there’s Bear-Bear.

Bear-Bear is a three-year-old Australian Shepherd. He’s the kind of dog that makes vets want to prescribe Prozac.

From the moment Bear-Bear stepped on the farm, he was trouble. He would bark incessantly during the night, for no apparent reason. He would chase cars. True to stereotype, he also chases the mailman. Last winter after an ice storm, he ran out in front of the garbage truck as it came barreling down the road. The driver, not wanting to kill a family dog, slammed on his brakes and nearly skidded into a ditch. All the while, Bear-Bear stood his ground like a protest student in Tienamen Square.

Bad dog.

Random animals were turning up dead, like a bad horror movie. Baby chicks. Roosters. Turkeys. Rabbits. Nothing was safe. It turns out that nearly all of the murders were committed by Bear-Bear, doing a Freddy Kreuger impersonation. A darn good one.

Since no one wants to eat a chicken that already has dog bite marks in it, the victims of Bear-Bear’s killing spree ended up buried in a place on the property that the kids referred to as “Death Alley.”  It became quite a cemetery. Lots of plots. No headstones.

Had Bear-Bear been mine, I would have sent him to “live on a farm,” as they say. The problem is, he was already on a farm. Even Owen was inches away from putting the pooch on Craigslist, but for some reason, he never pulled the trigger.

And I’m speaking figuratively, of course. Please don’t call the PETA on me.

Several months ago, we went to the farm for a visit. When we arrived, Bear-Bear barked at us from behind the fence, temporarily constrained from chasing cars or chickens. In the latest attempt to rehabilitate this devil dog, Owen had tried an old farmer’s trick, tying Bear-Bear’s latest kill, a duckling, around the dog’s neck in hopes that the ever-present smell would drive him nuts, and he’d never want to do it again.

It didn’t seem to be working. Bear-Bear eyed my children like an NFL lineman stares down the #4 Value Meal at Mickey D’s. Probably due to the fact that we pull out every trick (and treat) in the book to keep them quiet on a seven-hour road trip, so they were sweating pure high fructose corn syrup from their pores.

Anytime I went in the back yard, Bear-Bear would accost me and try to push his way through the gate, so he could chase God-knows-what or dig through a garbage can. I would use my size 11 to not-so-gingerly move him out of the way. I considered taking him for a long nap back in Death Alley.

Bad dog.

Perhaps the worst thing about Bear-Bear had nothing to do with him at all. He was now the only dog left on the farm. Owen used to have another dog. Another Aussie named Paco. With sincerest apologies to my own current and childhood pets, Paco was perhaps the best dog in the world. A loveable, huggable, loyal companion that seemed to anticipate everyone’s needs for thirteen years. He was like Radar O’Reilly from M.A.S.H., only with a cold, wet nose.

Unfortunately, on that summer trip, Paco had to be put down. He developed a kidney infection that couldn’t be cured, even though Owen would have spent a mint to save him.

And now, Bear-Bear is all that’s left.

Worthless.

When we pulled out of the driveway after that trip, I knew that was also the last time we would see Bear-Bear. There is such a thing as too much hard work, even for a farmer. And Owen had tried every trick in the book.

Fast forward three months.

This past weekend, we went to Ohio once again, to enjoy fall color on the farm. When we pulled into the drive, we were greeted warmly by the family. The whole family. Even Bear-Bear. I half expected he would have been shipped off to Timbuktu. But here he was. But he wasn’t jumping. He wasn't barking. Just an excited greeting, and licks on Audrey’s face.

Was this the same dog?

We took our bags inside and enjoyed some laughs and good conversation. Bear-Bear came into the house with us. Granted, his paws were a little muddy, but he behaved himself for the most part.  I still held a grudge, though, like the guy at the 20-year reunion who meets up with the bully who used his Fisher Price Farm Set as a skateboard ramp.

The next morning after breakfast, we walked outside, and there was Bear-Bear again. I half expected him to jump on me and knock me over like a bowling pin. Instead, he licked Audrey’s face for a small taste of her breakfast, and then left her alone. Then Owen noticed something and began calling to him in a low tone, “Os, Os, Os…” (Oso is “bear” in Spanish)

Bear-Bear sprung to action. The goats had miraculously gotten out of their pen. They had gritted their teeth and powered through the electric fence. All to eat the same variety of grass that was in their pen to begin with. But they were sure to spread more destruction. No boxes are safe with them around.

And then, quick as a yellow light, Bear-Bear jumped in front of them, herding them back into the barn as they baaahed in disapproval.

When Bear-Bear was done with his chore, he came bounding back toward us, happily. Then Owen chimed in.

“Yeah. Who woulda’ thought? After all that I’ve been through with this stinkin’ dog, chasing cars, killing chickens, nearly causing a garbage truck to drive off the road in an ice storm. All I had to do to break him was to pull another old farmer’s trick. Hold him in my arms, lay him on his back, and carry him around like that for a while. Now he listens to everything. He’s an awesome herding dog. He can’t stand for those goats to be anywhere besides where they are supposed to be, and he pretty much leaves the chickens and ducks alone. He’s not perfect, but he’s learning.”

I joked how that was the exact technique that Gabby used to get me to do what she wanted around the house.

Then I looked down at Bear-Bear. He was sitting patiently, looking up at Owen, waiting for his next call to spring to action.

“Yeah. Glad I didn’t give up on him,” Owen finished.

And that’s why I’m not a farmer.

It takes commitment. There is no giving up. Me? I have a closet full of excuses, and a rented storage unit packed with “should have’s.” Those are tools that have no use on a farm.

Because here was a dog that spent his life chasing rabbits down random trails. Making a mess of things. Irritating neighbors, mailmen and bus drivers. Destroying lives and property. Apparently doing all of those things because he didn’t understand who was in charge, and didn’t really know who to listen to, so he just listened to his own tiny brain. Didn’t do him a lot of good.

Then, the farmer picks him up and holds him. Day after day. Legs splayed in the air. Totally vulnerable. Totally unable to move, lest he fall to the ground.

Then one morning, he gives up the fight and gives in to the idea that he’s not in control. It took all that effort for that Australian Shepherd to realize that he wasn’t built for self-serving behavior. Nope. He was built for service. Even his name says so.

And that’s my prayer today. To let go. Give up control, and just serve without question. Till then, I’ll be here in the farmer’s arms, laying on my back, still flailing madly, praying to God he doesn’t give up on me. ‘Cause I know I’ve got some more to give.

And a lot more to learn.