An Open Letter to My Daughter on Her First Date

Dear daughter of mine.  You reached a milestone tonight. Your first date.

Every dad dreads this day.  And, I must admit, I am very much like every dad.  So, to ease the sting of the first date and assure you were treated like a queen, I took matters into my own hands.

I asked you out.

The good news is you enthusiastically accepted.  No doubt my probability of success was buoyed by the fact that you believe I am a superhero, capable of throwing your giggling, 36-pound body into the air to unspeakable heights, and catching you again before you konk your head on our food-splattered wood floors.

And who wouldn’t want to date a superhero?

Don’t get me wrong.  I am certainly not naïve enough to think that my doorstep will never feel the heavy boots of a scarily-dressed, angst-ridden, mouth-breather intent on breaking curfew with my little girl.  No.  I know that day is coming.  And, sadly, I also know that you’ll look into that bumbling dolt’s eyes with the same sense of wonder that currently meets my gaze every time I miraculously untangle My Little Pony’s long-flowing, strawberry-scented hair from the whirring wheels of your Zuzu Pet.

But this first date was about planting a seed.  And I hope that our first night on the town burns into your memory with the intensity of the sun’s rays condensed by a magnifying glass.  Because tonight, at four years old, you were everything your future self aspires to be.  And since your little fingers and limited knowledge of spelling are only capable of cranking out .014 words per minute, allow me to capture your current life philosophy for your future self to ponder.

So here goes.

Someday, Audrey, you’ll hear a voice.  It might be the voice of your friends.  Maybe a shout from a picture in a magazine.  Or, Heaven forbid, a comment from your boyfriend.  And that voice is going to tell you that you don’t have the right clothes, the right makeup, or the right face.

And when you hear that voice, I want you to put on your green Christmas dress in the middle of April, don a bright red hair bow, and clip a frilly pink flower to your collar.  And with a love-stained, faded Toasty blanket draped over your shoulder, and a sparkling pink and white unicorn tucked under your arm, I want you to tell those voices that, in your world, beauty cannot be seen.  It must be felt.  A confidence that springs forth from deep within heart and soul and bone.    Both breath-taking and life-giving.

And no doubt there will be even more voices.  Maybe your friends.  Maybe a talking head on TV.  Or, Heaven forbid, a comment from your own father.  And that voice is going to tell you that material things matter.  It will tell you to make practical life decisions based on bank accounts and buying power, because money gives you the ability to acquire not only the good things in life, but the good life as well.

And once you’ve listened to their advice, just like today, I want you to pick a dandelion out of the grass and give it to them.  With a sincerity and smile born of your generous heart.  Ask them to turn down the radio and tell them a story about a stuffed elephant named Geraldine who flies through the air on the back of a magical horse.  Then make silly faces in the mirror at a fancy restaurant, and fill up on two loaves of free bread.  Show us how delightful it is to dip your spoon into the perfect bowl of macaroni and cheese.  Because there’s a reason it’s called comfort food.  We distracted people tend to forget. It’s the simplicity that makes you feel that way.

Finally, one day you will hear a voice coming from inside your head.  A voice with the same tone and inflection of yours.  Using words you recognize.  A shout that only you can hear.  Confusing.  Because that voice will be saying mean and hurtful things like cannot, will not and should not.  Telling you not to dream.  Not to try.  For fear of standing out and looking foolish.

And like your first date, I want you to silence that voice and listen to the music of your soul instead.  The music that tells you to dance and twirl in the middle of a crowded restaurant.   To spin.  All eyes on you.  Not once.  Not twice.  But seven times.

Until you fall down dizzy.

Because you will fall.  Onto the cold, hard floor strewn with dirt and crumbs of cheesecake crust.  And when you fall, I want you to do just as you did tonight.  I want you to stand right back up.  And against all better judgment, I want you to pick those crumbs off your dress.  Look at them.

And eat them.

Then keep right on spinning.  Because it’s not about the messes you make.  It’s about enjoying the sweetness of the journey.  My daughter, always know that who you are is who you were made to be.

Truly.  Deeply.  Loved.

- Dad

Chapter One: The Chicken Killer

*** OK... Rather than write a blog post, I started with renewed fervor this week working on a book about our experience as missionaries in Guatemala.  It's been several months/years in the making.  I'm about halfway finished.  So, this blog post is a "cheat."  Just posting Chapter One of the book... happy for any feedback you might have... good, bad or otherwise.***

Chapter One:  The Chicken Killer

“I killed Graciela’s chickens.”

The confession poured forth from my mouth like something from an episode of Law & Order.  I nervously paced across the floor of our tiny adobe casita.

Taking off her hiking boots, Gabby turned toward me.  With that look of half-contempt and half-curiosity that wives throughout the ages have mastered, she repeated my statement, phrased as a question.

“YOU killed Graciela’s chickens?”

“Yes.  I killed her chickens with my vomit.” 

Minutes ago my wife and I had been munching on a dinner of  hand-patted corn tortillas, rice, beans and watered down instant coffee with Martin, Graciela, and their six kids – the Guatemalan family that had adopted us for a year.  Huddled around a large, unsteady table, we ate silently as the family conversed. 

Though we’d been in Guatemala for seven months, it felt as if our Spanish fluency was hovering somewhere between Antonio Banderas and Larry the Cable Guy.  Still, as Graciela told her story, her intonation allowed us to get the gist of things.  She spoke in the slow, gentle, vowels-last-for-an-hour brand of Spanish that is typical of Mayan women who learned Spanish as a second language.

“Los pollitos murieeeeeeeron de la enfermedaaaaaad.  Toooodos!  Ya saaaaabe es la eeeeepoca.”

“The little chickens died of “The Sickness”.  All of ‘em!  It’s that time of year, you know.”

I nearly choked on my frijoles.

I’m no chicken farmer, but I have a hard time believing that there exists a very consistent, predictable “Chicken Sickness” that comes along every year at tax time and wipes out every clucking hen within the borders of a Central American country.  I’ve heard of the Plague of Livestock from Exodus, but I believe chickens received some sort of “white meat” exemption, right? 

Harder to believe was Graciela’s tone.  She was surprisingly nonchalant about the chicken deaths.   For most of us, hearing the word “chicken” conjures up images of The Colonel and a bucket of extra crispy.  To Graciela and poor Guatemalans like her, the chickens represent much more.        

In her community, women are second-class citizens.  After months of eating our body weight in rice, beans, noodles and tortillas, we had come to learn that meat is expensive and scarce for poor Mayans.  A woman who raises chickens and generates income for herself and her family is a big deal.  The chickens that Graciela cared for were a living, breathing business for her.  The chickens represented good fortune.  The chickens were hope, covered in feathers.

And I had killed them with my vomit.

“How do you kill chickens with vomit?”  Gabby asked, getting ready for bed, back in the confines of our casita.

“You heard her!”, I barked.  “It’s gotta’ be my fault.  Not Colonel Mustard - in the Library - with a CandleStick.  Nope.  It’s Scott - By the Chicken Coop - With Puke.”

“But how?” she pressed.

I continue.  “Remember when I got that stomach bug last week when my parents came to visit?”

“Yes, I remember your parents coming to visit,” she confirms. 

“Well I wen…”  I try to move on, but Gabby interrupts.

“But I don’t remember the stomach bug.” she says, making mocking air quotes in my direction. “What I do remember is you being sooooo nervous about your mom having to maneuver around chicken poop, eat mysterious food, and pee in a hole in the ground for three days that you made yourself ill.”

Caught off-guard, I consider defending my intestinal fortitude until I realize that she is probably right.  I am an expert worrier.  If worrying was a martial art, I’d be a 10^th degree black belt.  I gloss over this blow to my manhood and carry on with the story.

“Whatever.  Late that night, I felt my stomach churning, and knew I was in trouble.  I ran out of the casita toward the baño"  (our term for the concrete seat over a large hole in the ground) "and realized I probably wasn’t going to make it, especially since I had forgotten the flashlight.  So, I ran over to an open space and… well… got sick.”

I looked at her.

“So?”  she questioned.

“The open space was the chickens’ ‘area.’  The coop!  I contaminated their space!  They probably died ‘cuz they caught what I had.  By exposure to my puke.  Or eating it.”

“You’re disgusting!”

“Well!  They’re kinda’ like free range birds!  It’s not like they’re sitting there ordering off a menu, making sure they eat equal amounts of protein and carbs!  They just eat whatever is on the ground, and that ‘whatever’ was really bad!  I know I killed them.”

“Scott.  You’re overreacting.  I sincerely doubt you killed the chickens with your vomit.”

But I couldn’t get this idea out of my head.  What kind of missionary kills a poor woman’s chickens!?  Her livelihood!  The guilt was heavy.  Such a thing is not very Jesus-like.  As we lay there in the dark, I tossed and turned on our makeshift twin bed.  This obviously kept my wife awake.  Noting my genuine concern, her words cut through the blackness,

“If you’re really that worried about it, I think you should just talk to Graciela about it in the morning.  What can it hurt?”

The next morning, I woke to the sound of a rooster crowing.  Not our rooster, mind you, but someone else’s.  It appears Foghorn Leghorn survived the “great plague”.  This only solidified my theoretical position.  I’m a chicken killer.  Not some “Chicken Sickness.”  Me.

Gabby and I walked from the casita, across the dirt patio, to the cinder block structure that served as the kitchen.  We entered the room and found the table set, our breakfasts ready as usual.  The meal consisted of a few corn tortillas and leftover rice and beans from the previous night.  Most of the rest of the family had eaten before we even got out of bed, so it was just me, Gabby, Graciela, and Josesito, our two-year old host brother.

We ease into breakfast conversation, and I gingerly approach the subject.  My insides want to come out and confess, like some made-for-TV-movie.  I want to shout “I did it!  I killed your chickens!  I never meant to hurt anyone, but I was just so nervous and careless!  I puked all over them!  Take me away!  Lock me up and throw away the key!  Tear up my missionary card – the laminated one!  It’s in my wallet!  I’m not worthy!”

But I can’t think of the Spanish word for “laminated.”

Instead, I ask,

“Graciela.  Tell me again what happened to your chickens?”

She tells the story again.  No frills.  Just the facts.  Same as yesterday.

“So this happens every year?”

“Sí”, she continues.  “The chickens just start moving slowly, or not moving at all.  Some people give them treatment.”

“Treatment?” 

I imagine a little chicken hooked up to IV antibiotics.  Laying in a motorized bed made out of hay.  Watching a TV that’s mounted on the wall.  Graciela hovering over him with a chart in her hand.

“Sí, tratamiento.  Les dan asi tambien o fin.”

In my head, I am translating her words.  Literally, they mean “Yes.  Treatment.  They give them like that also or the end.” 

Is this some weird saying that makes no sense out of context?  All languages have them, right?  Like in English, we say silly things like “knocked up” to refer to getting pregnant.  The literal translation makes no sense, but if you know the lingo, you understand.  So, I run the last four words through my brain again.

Asi.  (like this/that)

Tambien. (also)

O. (or)

Fin.  (the end/final)

Nope… still means “like that also or the end.” 

Scott no comprendo.

“Graciela.  What do you mean by ‘asi tambien o fin?’”

Graciela giggles and covers her mouth to hide her embarrassment caused by the fact that what once was a “prom queen” face has been aged by hardship and a few missing teeth due to a lack of access to dental care.  Her laughter means one of two things.  Either I just told a joke, or completely misunderstood her.

“No!” she says, still masking a grin.  “Una palabra.  Acetaminofen.”

“Oh!  One word!  Acetaminophen!”

She nods in agreement.

Now I’m laughing.  Not so much for the miscommunication as for the image that is now in my head.  What once was a chicken on IV antibiotics is now a chicken struggling to open a tamper-proof bottle of Tylenol.

 “So how do you give a chicken acetaminophen?” I ask.

It appears that the image in my head is not too far from the truth.  Graciela went on to explain that she and the kids would chase the chickens around the yard, corner them by the woodpile, and wrap their arms around their flapping wings to keep the mayhem to a minimum.  Once a chicken was in hand, Graciela - whose name literally means “grace”

Sweet Graciela.

Lovely Graciela,

Would pry open the chicken’s tiny beak and shove a couple of big pills down its throat with her index finger.

Well.  That oughtta’ fix ‘er right up!

My guilt fades as I warm to the idea that it was likely not my queasy belly that caused the great “chicken deaths”, but rather, the Tylenol.  I’m no doctor, but I think 500 milligrams per bird exceeds the chicken dosage instructions listed on the bottle by about a million percent.  It’s a poultry OD for sure.  Like giving a grown man a Big Gulp full of liquid Robitussin.  It’s a comic beginning to a day that is faded around the edges by reality. 

Here is a woman who had spent hard-earned money on a few chickens, hoping only to turn that investment into a few more Quetzales.  Money she could use to buy some shoes for her two-year-old, some thread to mend a blouse, or some school supplies for her daughter.  Instead, her poverty - a product of decades of bad government, bad education, bad luck, and bad choices – keeps this tiny dream from becoming a reality.  And it’s in this moment, as with many moments, that I grasp the magnitude of the task before me. 

This is all part of being a missionary.  Starting with a desire to save the world, only to realize that the world is not yours to save. 

So what’s the point?

And how did I get here in the first place?

Falling Down

“My car has a favorite speed.  It wants to go this fast!”

At least that’s what I told myself as the wobble in the steering wheel subsided upon reaching eighty-two miles per hour.  I’m pretty sure it’s written somewhere in the 2000 Acura Integra User’s Manual.  Right after the page that explains that driving through a heavy downpour is equivalent to detailing your car.

But I had to get to the sports complex. 

I had just landed in Nashville after a three-month stretch of business trips that left my wife feeling like a single mom and my kids feeling like Monday-Friday orphans.  And today was Jake’s first time on the ice as part of the Nashville Predators’ GOAL program.

Kids in the south have about as much interest in hockey as they do the economic situation in Khazakstan.  So, taking a page from the tobacco industry marketing handbook, the local NHL team has adopted the “get ‘em hooked while they’re young” strategy.  Their program will give your five-year-old a helmet, gloves, pads, pants, skates, a jersey and a hockey stick, and provide four group hockey lessons absolutely free of charge.  It’s genius.  Since Jake had recently shown an interest in all things sports, Gabby signed him up.

I arrived at the rink ten minutes into the first practice.  Gabby was standing in the bleachers, laughing to herself, with her camera phone pointed at the ice.  I turned my eyes toward the rink and saw what looked like a huge mix-up in the wardrobe department at 20^th Century Fox.  Every single Oompa Loompa in Oz was mistakenly outfitted with a Transformers costume and turned loose on the tundra. 

There were dozens of little kids scattered from one end of the rink to the other.  Some were skating like old pros.  Others were upright, gingerly making their way from one coaches’ station to another.  And a good number were laying flat on their backs like beetles with their limbs flailing.  Helpless.

I approached Gabby and gave her the usual kiss hello.  Still smiling, she pointed to the center of the ice.

“He’s right there.  In the red leg warmers.”

And there he was.  A newborn deer in spring.  Wobbly knees and all.  He would try and lurch forward, only to find his legs splay out like a wishbone, sending him flopping to the ice.  Face-first.  Head-first.  Butt-first.  Over and over again.  Coaches would come by from time to time, get down on the ice, say something to him, and then skate away. 

I felt horrible for him.  I knew how excited he was for this first practice, and he was spending the entire time falling down.  And he wasn’t alone.  As I scanned the rest of the rink, it looked like a scene from beneath a bug zapper.  There were bodies strewn about.  Kids crying.  Reaching into thin air, hoping for a rescue.  Coaches would come by at random times and hold out a hockey stick.  A kid would grab on and the coach would skate away, dragging  the blubbering husk of a hockey player and sliding them across the ice toward the exit.  For others, the rescue never came.

Hockey can be a cruel sport. 

Then there was Jake.  Like the rest of us, he can get pretty frustrated when things don’t go his way.  I waved toward him to get his attention.  After a couple more flops I finally caught his eye.  I expected tears streaming down his face. 

Instead, he picked his head up off the ice, sat upright, extended his arm, and me a thumbs-up.  When he smiled, his eyes beamed and his lips parted to reveal a bright green mouth guard. 

Pure joy.

The coaches set up different areas for kids to rotate through, practicing stick handling or footwork.  Falling, crawling and sliding, Jake would finally make it to one of the stations.  By the time he’d finally get there, everyone would dart off to the next location, leaving him scrambling to catch up.  He face-planted and butt-busted the ice well over a hundred times in the span of 45 minutes.  The final whistle blew.  I met him at the rail.  He was one of the last ones off the ice.

“Did you have a good time, buddy?”

“Yes,” he answered, slobbering through the mouth guard.  “I want to go again.”

 “Really?  You must have really liked it.  What were they teaching you out there?”

“How to get back up.”

“How to get back up?”

“Yep.”

There were about half as many kids on the ice at the second practice.  Hockey Darwinism.  For some reason, Jake was still loving this sport that was 90% ego-bruising and 10% gliding grace.

By the time the third practice rolled around, Jake could skate.  Sure, he still fell plenty of times, and he wasn’t setting any land speed records.  But he could also weave through cones.  Even swatted the puck into the net a couple of times.  When he did, he thrust his arms into the air in triumph.  I couldn’t help but join in the celebration.

In moments like this, you feel the joy of parenting.  Seeing your kid fall in love with something.  Watching them fight through adversity to find the satisfaction that comes from hard work and determination.  It makes you feel like you must be doing something right as a dad.

And then you’re reminded that such moments, while thrilling, are also fleeting.

Like last week when my young Wayne Gretsky chose to wake me with a scream at 2:30 in the morning. 

“I can’t breathe!  I can’t breathe!”

I ran into Jake’s room to see what was the matter.  He was sitting up in his bed, red faced, and yelling like mad.  We had house guests that night, so Audrey was sleeping in his room with him.  She had this incredibly worried look on her face.  I would have been very concerned, were it not for the fact that my son was breathing just fine.

And screaming. 

Waking up the whole house. 

I hustled him out of his room and into the master bath.  There, amidst the chaos, I tried a remedy that had worked to calm him down in the past.  I turned on the hot water to create some steam, leaned over the sink, grabbed a towel, and draped it over both of us so we could breathe in the makeshift sauna air.

But this time, it wasn’t working.  Both of us had hot, sweaty faces, and he was still howling like a banshee.  The kid has a flair for drama, which he inherited from me.  I was trying to calm him down by saying, “You’re fine!  Don’t worry!  Just take some deep breaths!”  It was no use.  He still wouldn’t chill out.  Instead, he yelled back,

“I can only breathe in!  I can’t breathe out!  I can’t breathe out!  It’s not working!”

And that’s when I lost it.  Parenting fail.  I grabbed my son, and pulled his face two inches from my own.  I then shout-whispered biology facts at him.  At 2:37 in the morning.

“You’re being ridiculous, son!  You cannot produce sound from your mouth unless you are exhaling air across your vocal chords!  It is technically impossible for you to make the noise you are making without being able to breathe out!  There is nothing wrong with you!  Now CALM DOWN and GO BACK TO BED!”

Gabby, hearing my little science lesson, came to the rescue.  She walked in to the bathroom, politely asked me to get him a cool drink of water, and gave the boy a hug.  When I returned to the room with the water, Jake was already half asleep.  I, on the other hand, was wide awake.  And angry.

In the morning, Jake felt a bit warm.  So, we took his temperature. 

102.

When he complained of a sore throat, we grabbed a flashlight to take a peek.  The kid’s windpipe was red and swollen.  Inflamed.  It looked like it hurt.  Next, I checked the mailbox, where I found a letter declaring that I was voted Runner Up in the America’s Most Heartless Father competition.  Bested only by that guy who put his kid in a weather balloon as a publicity stunt. 

There’s always next year.

I wanted to rewind the clock back to 2:30am.  Erase the mistake with a hug and some will-timed compassion.  Unfortunately, I’m not Marty McFly, and there is no flux capacitor.  So, I did the next best thing. 

I took Jake’s hand and walked with him to the couch.  I looked him in the eye as he plopped down next to me. 

“Hey buddy.  Last night, I didn’t do such a good job taking care of you.  I didn’t realize you were sick. I messed up.  Sometimes dads make mistakes,” I told him.  “I’m sorry.” 

 “That’s OK.”  No fanfare.  Just a quiet voice telling me that it’s not the end of the world.

Then Audrey came in, book in hand.  She crawled next to me on the couch and said, “Read it.”

She handed me the book and I settled back into the cushions.  As I turned the first page, they both shimmied in close.  I started to read.  Jake grabbed my arm, lifted it, and placed it around his shoulder.

Teaching his dad how to get back up.

Penmanship Counts (Merry Christmas!)

I began collecting notes back in the fifth grade.  The obsession was born from a deep-seeded desire to be noticed.  I’m sure a trained psychologist would diagnose it as an acute case of narcissism which presents as numerous symptoms.

• Loud, girly laugh. 
• Blathering storytelling at gatherings involving four or more people. 
• Blog posts exceeding 1500 words.

Warning:  There is no cure.  There’s a team of doctors in Switzerland working on a remedy, but they can’t get the control group to shut up long enough to get ‘em to pop a placebo.

The notes I collected are probably tucked away in a box somewhere in my attic.  I’m not exactly sure.  But I don’t need to find them, because I have vivid memories of them.  Many of them folded with care in intricate shapes, much like the pegged jeans of my 80’s upbringing.  Call it suburban origami.

My favorite notes were the ones I would receive from girls.  I still marvel how anyone ever had interest in me, as my head encompassed half of my body weight.  My silhouette was that of a rubber mallet. 

Reading every note was like panning for gold.  Inevitably, the object of my affection du jour would ramble on and on about the trivialities of the day.  Mounds and mounds of silt.

     “Mr. Myers farted in gym class again.  Some of us laughed, some of us gagged.”

     “I had nachos and a chocolate milkshake for lunch.  Was totally bummed that they were out of Nutty Bars.”

     “Mrs. Henley smells like a blend of freeze-dried Folger’s crystals and Virginia Slims.”

But sometimes, I would find a gold nugget that would bring a smile to my face.

     “I like your spike hairdo.  It’s awesome.”

     “Are you going to Brad’s party?  I hope so!”

     “You’re cute.”

But it wasn’t just the words that meant something.  It was how they were written.  If Christi dotted her “i” with a heart, I knew it was special.  And, anything written in a glitter pen meant that first base was on my horizon. 

If not matrimony.

So, as a force of habit, I panned for gold when I received a note a few weeks ago.  As a happily married man, I no longer look for signs of an impending wedding or a confirmed acceptance of a Sock Hop invitation. But I still look for the meaning behind the message.

The email was from a woman I met while working in Saudi Arabia.  Meshael had given my family a wonderful gift.  A total surprise, as I wondered if it was even appropriate for me to have a one-on-one conversation with her, since she was a conservative, burka-clad, married Muslim woman. 

I had written her a note to say thank you for her generosity.  And, to keep the thank-you chain alive, she responded in kind.

Now, I’m not a militant against the term “Happy Holidays.”  And writing the word “X-Mas” does not punch your one-way ticket to H-E-double-hockey-sticks. But I am sensitive to the fact that Christmas has become so commercial that we sometimes forget that the whole reason for the celebration is to remind us how  Jesus came to Earth to be with us as a baby boy.  Showing us peace, love, and compassion.

So, I was blown away to receive this note from a woman of another faith.  A woman who some might say was put on the planet to threaten Christianity itself.  Her photo alone would strike fear in the hearts of some of us.  But it’s not just her words.  It’s the care she took in crafting them.  A virtual glitter pen and heart-dotted “i.” 

A golden nugget to show me that, in a world divided, there are people who understand the value of bringing us all together, no matter the season.  No matter the religion.

So, to those near and far, here’s hoping you have a beautiful, multi-hued Holiday, and a very Merry Christmas.

Those People, That Person

Apologies to my follower (singular intended) for taking a three month break from the blog.  The combination of a horrendous work schedule and an overactive laziness gene was too much to overcome.  But now I’m back, writing with a renewed sense of mediocrity. I’m currently on my way home from one of the most eye-opening business trips of my short and illustrious career.  My work took me to Saudi Arabia, home to the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Center.  Apparently, they wanted some training in critical thinking and problem solving.  How they got my name, I’m still not sure.  I think my application to Saudi Arabian Idol must have been mis-routed.

Needless to say, my trip to The Kingdom caused my nervous mother to wear out a mountain of Rosary beads praying that I wouldn’t be arrested, abducted, or put into indentured servitude as the King’s personal ear hair trimmer.  I must admit, I had a bit of anxiety, too.  I’ve never traveled to the Gulf, and had no idea what to expect.  My limited information comes from a mild recollection of scattered news reports and conversations with other Americans who have never been there.

Research is not my strong suit.

Before my trip, I read a couple of websites to beef up my knowledge and avoid Saudi prison.  The consistent theme was that Riyadh is the most conservative city in the country.  Sounds like a perfect place for a bleeding-heart liberal like me.  Some of the do’s, don’ts, and punishable offenses included:

1. Never be seen with any woman who isn’t related to you.
2. Don’t touch people with your left hand.
3. Don't eat with your left hand.
4. No alcohol (not even beer with pizza).
5. Don’t point the bottom of your shoe toward anyone else.
6. Do not eat in the family section of the restaurant.  Men must sit only with other men.
7. Don’t take pictures of women or government buildings without permission.

While learning these helpful tips might make the average person feel more confident, it had the opposite effect on me.  I’m not a guy who’s known for being good in a crisis.  When danger calls, I can be found flailing my arms and telling people they’re probably going to die.  It’s not my most attractive quality.  I now realized I would be spending a full 18 hours standing in front of a Saudi audience, teaching, telling stories, and offering amusing anecdotes.  The odds were pretty good I was going to cross a line of appropriate behavior at some point.  Pair this with my lack of planning, and it was a recipe for disaster.  “Those people” might flog or stone me.

Gabby must have noticed my heart palpitations, because she quickly put me in touch with a Jordanian friend of hers who, as luck would have it, had recently taken a job in Riyadh.  Raed and I arranged to meet on the day of my arrival.

Coming out of the airport, any hopes I had of blending in were quickly dashed when I met my driver, Octavio, surrounded by dozens of men dressed just like him.  It reminded me of my college days when I was the only white guy in the University of Tulsa Gospel Choir.  I could sing as soulfully as anyone in the room, but I could never figure out how to sway in the right direction.  A dead giveaway.

*  The driver, Octavio

I met Raed later that afternoon in my hotel lobby after a short nap.  He had arranged for a Saudi friend of his, Mohammad, to give me a taste of life in The Kingdom.

We drove an hour outside of the city where the Saudi’s had turned a bunch of sand dunes into a virtual weekend amusement park.  Families in 4x4 pickups and Ford Crown Victorias were racing around the mountains of dust while four-wheelers darted in between.  Though none of us had ever piloted anything more risky than a ten-speed, we convinced each other to rent some ATVs and try it ourselves.  It was a blast.

* Raed (left) and Mohammad (right) negotiating with the ATV rental guy, who is saying "how do I know that gangly white guy isn't going to trash my four-wheeler?"  As you can see, they had no response.

* if you're not distracted by my crazy ATV hair, you can make out the faint image of people driving like maniacs on the dunes in the background.

At dinner afterward, covered in dust, I asked Mohammad to teach me about Saudi culture.  He started by ordering way too much food, and serving me until my gut busted.

Saudi hospitality.

Then he gave me the low-down.  He wears the traditional garb (a thobe) to work, but dresses like you and I do on the weekends.  He has two kids (4 and 2) who talk back and give him fits.  He and his wife like to watch TV to unwind in the evenings.  On weekends, they go to a family “cabin” outside of town and listen to music, play cards, and chat.  His wife wears an abaya in public, but wears whatever she wants in the home.  He’s a devout Muslim, but sometimes skips out on the sermon because “it’s kinda’ boring… and one time, I caught the imam repeating the exact same message two weeks in a row!”

I asked him about my class.  What should I be concerned about?  What should I avoid?

“Just be yourself.”

Wanting more direction, I worriedly asked, “What about the classroom participation?  Will the women need to be segregated?  Will they even speak?  Do I need to be concerned about how I break up the class into small groups?  Is it OK to tell jokes?  Show videos?  Tell silly stories about Gabby and me?”

“No problem!” Read chimed in.  “Maybe don’t call on people directly and put them on the spot.  Might make them uncomfortable.  Especially if they don’t speak English very clearly.  And don’t force groups to work together.  Let them pick which small group to join.”

That sounds a lot like the rules I use in the U.S.

“But most important is just be yourself.  Saudis love learning, and love learning from westerners.  So, you already have that working for you.  If you have passion about what you’re teaching, that’s really all that matters.”

Surprised.

“And the women will love you.  You just wait!”

Double-surprised.

So I taught the class.  Two full days.  I survived.  It was an experience, to be sure.

* A group of hospital leaders coming up with ideas to make patient education more efficient and effective.

* This leadership team is working on ways to encourage pediatric cancer patients to follow their treatment regimen when they leave the hospital.

When asked about trips overseas, it’s sometimes tempting to tell people all of the ways that “they” are just like “us.”  Fostering  the belief that we’re all the same deep down.  Part of one big happy family.  And it would be partly true to say that, because I heard the Saudis say a lot of things in Riyadh that I might have heard coming from an American in Rhode Island.

• “We need to improve our employee satisfaction.”
•  “I’ve never ridden a camel.  I just don’t see the appeal.”
• “The employees here often have great, innovative ideas, and some leaders are fantastic… but some managers and leaders don’t listen very well.”
•  (whispered to me before class)  “Dr. Ibrahim is a well-respected leader, but he can be loud and overbearing, and take over conversations.  Just be aware of that, and try to encourage comments from others. (pause)  And mix up the groups a lot so none of us has to work with him the entire time.”
• Mohammad:  “’Everybody Loves Raymond’ used to be may favorite show.  Now it’s ‘Modern Family.’  My wife and I are just like the Dunfy’s.”

  Faryal: (wearing a burka) “I love that show, too!  The old guy and his wife are hilarious!”

But as common as these statements are, there are distinct differences in people and cultures.  We’re not all alike.  I was at the restaurant eating dinner with Raed and Mohammad when evening prayer time came (maghrib).  The shades were quickly drawn and the doors were locked.  We were stuck inside for 30 minutes while everyone on staff went to the back to pray.  This happens five times per day.

There’s a “singles only” line and a “families only” line at Mc Donald’s. Though this probably doesn’t sound so foreign to those looking for lunch in Alabama in 1966, the year my sister was born.

And it was an adjustment for me to tell some of the women apart who were wearing a full face covering, with only their eyes showing.  It sure makes it easy to call them “those people” when they are all dressed exactly the same.   Although I do note the irony in writing this as I sit here wearing Aeropostale jeans and an Old Navy shirt also worn by ten million other guys in the U.S.

But most profound was the lesson I learned from Meshael.  She was the one who helped me coordinate travel arrangements and other logistics.  Meshael is probably 30 years old.  Married.  No kids.  Wears an abaya with face covering, only her eyes peeking through.

When the first day of class was finished, she walked me through the maze of hospital hallways to the area where I could catch my ride.  I waited alongside all of the female employees, clad in black, waiting for their rides home, as they aren’t allowed to drive themselves.

I made small talk with Meshael.  We talked about the weather.  Family.  The city.  The hospital.  Restaurants.  My desire to try authentic middle eastern food.

We had a pause in conversation.  Maybe twenty seconds.  She turned toward me and asked,

“Mr. Scott, would you like a date?”

“Excuse me?”  I flashed to the comment from Raed.

The women will love you.  You just wait.

My face revealed confusion and panic.  This is highly inappropriate.  Arms beginning to flail.  What to do?  I’m a happily married man!  What is appropriate in this culture?!

“Dates.  Do you like dates?  We are famous for our dates here.”  Meshael clarified.

“Oh!” I said, realizing this was not a love connection, but rather, a continuation of our food and restaurant discussion.  “I don’t know.  I don’t eat a lot of dates.”

“I will bring some tomorrow for you.  A gift for your wife and family.  We have all kinds.  They are very delicious.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No.  I will bring them.”

“That would be wonderful.  You are far too kind.”

The next morning, I walked into the classroom to prepare for the day.  Meshael had arrived early.  She held a big red bag in her hand.

“Mr. Scott.  Here are the dates.”

She handed me the bag.  It weighed about four pounds.  I opened it and pulled out two large containers.  One a gold tin, and another with a clear lid revealing the contents.  The candied dates were all arranged perfectly.

“There are dates dipped in chocolate,  Dipped in honey.  Rolled in sugar.  And here are some plain ones.  You must sample them all.”

Her letterbox-framed eyes were sparkling.

I looked back at her, wishing I could see her face.  So hard, when “those people” are donned in the same black flowing obscurity.  What does she look like?  Is her hair black?  Or colored?  Curly or straight?  What about her ears?  Does she wear earrings?  Lipstick?  Freckles?

But I’ll never see her face.  Never know what she looks like on the outside.  But perhaps that’s the way it should be.  Because in my mind I imagine a beautiful, genuine, radiant smile.  Honest.  Authentic.  Warm.

Finally seeing “that person” for the first time.

*image from asianews.it

An Open Letter to My Son on His First Day of Kindergarten

Dear Jake, I’m writing you this letter because you still think I know something.  In fact, you think I know everything.  I would tell you that you’re mistaken, but you’ll come to that conclusion on your own in about 8-10 years.

At that point, you’ll think I know nothing.

Then I could tell you you’re mistaken too, but you’ll come to that conclusion on your own 8-10 years after that.  At which time, you’ll know I’m just a guy.  A guy who happens to be your dad.  The one who occasionally gives you money but won’t let you move back into our house.  But while we’re still in that magical place where you see me as a superhero, pit crew chief, doctor, pastor, and professional athlete, allow me to share a few words of wisdom with you.  It’s important stuff, so pay attention.

No, I’m serious.

Put that down.

And get your finger out of your nose.

I mean it.

One… two… th-

OK.  That’s more like it.

 

* Jake's excited...                          Audrey?  Not so much...

Today is your first day of school.  Ever.  For a short time, your success will not be measured in grades.  Instead, you’ll know it’s been a good day when you come home exhausted, smelling of stale milk and kid sweat.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Enjoy it!

You’ll have some choices to make today.  First things first, you’ll want to make some friends.  My advice?  Choose carefully.  But don’t judge a book by its cover.  The kid in the corner eating Elmer’s glue is probably the kind of friend who would give you the shirt off his back, the best thing in his lunchbox, and would tell you when you were about to do something stupid.   He also wouldn’t rat you out when you did it anyway.  That’s the kind of friend I hope you grow to be.

What about the kid who knows all of the cool new words for private parts?

He might be good for a few laughs.  He might even teach you how to put a mirror on your shoe so you can look up Amy Clifton’s skirt.  But beware.  He’ll also try to rope you into the mix when he gets caught stealing a pack of Now & Laters at the Itty Bitty.

Again.  Choose carefully.  I know the kind of guy you are.  You’ll know character when you see it.

While we’re on the subject, someday you and one of these new friends might decide it would be funny  to bake chocolate chip cookies and put Kibbles n Bits in some of them.  Then you’ll think it would be even funnier to play a joke and feed them to that weirdo in class who is always getting into trouble.

You’ll do it.  And the other kids will laugh.  Hard.  But the weirdo kid won’t.  He’ll play it off like it’s no big deal, but you’ll be able to tell by the way his smile doesn’t quite curl like it should that he’s crying inside.  You’ll feel so bad about it later that you’ll eat one of those dog food cookies.

And another.

Just to try and make it right.

But it won’t work. You’ll have to do something harder.  You’ll have to apologize in person.  Right to his face.  Tell him how horrible you were, and horrible you feel.  And he’ll still be crying, inside and out.  Because sometimes words can’t fix everything.

Trust me.  It’s better to never make the cookies in the first place.

And one day, I’m not sure when, some adult is going to tell you, “It’s better to give than to receive.”  Take this one to heart, because they are absolutely right.  But please note the following exceptions to the rule.  Sucker punches, atomic wedgies, and haircuts with safety scissors.  With these, you should avoid both the giving and the receiving.

Also note that you will be measured from this day forward.  We adults like to do that kind of thing.  Makes us feel smarter, I guess.  You’re a pretty sharp kid, so my guess is you’ll be put in the Red Robin Rockets reading group or something like that.  But remember, just ‘cuz you’re there doesn’t make you any better than all the kids in the Brown Barn Swallow reading group.  Trust me.  There are Brown Barn Swallow groups all over this world, and sooner or later you’ll belong to one of them.

As you’ve probably already learned, Ms. Pilkinton is the one who hands out smiley faces.  There are lots of Ms. Pilkintons in the world, too.  I recommend that you always go for the smiley face, Jake.  Not because Ms. Pilkinton likes it, but because it feels good to work hard and do the right thing.  If you do this enough, you’ll build up a strong muscle called integrity.  It’s right in the middle of your chest.  You’ll need this muscle for the times when some other person who doesn’t smell like roses and cake (like Ms. Pilkinton does) offers you a smiley face to treat someone else unfairly.  This is a tricky one, but you’ll know by then what’s a real smiley face, and what’s just a yellow circle with some dots and a curvy line.

And now for the most important thing of all.

Make mistakes.

Lots of ‘em.

But don’t make the same one twice.

You’ll learn more from your mistakes than you will during the 15,210 hours your little tush will be sitting in a classroom between now and your high school graduation.    That’s what they call “growing up.”

(And, in case you’re wondering, I used math to perform the “tush in seat” calculation. Did it the old-fashioned way.  Paper and pencil.)

Time to go now.  You woke up forty minutes before your alarm clock went off this morning, fueled by a love of learning and a burning desire to break in your new, monogrammed backpack.  I love how you get so excited about the little things in life.  They always seem to bring you the most satisfaction.  Paper airplanes.  Stomping puddles.  Lightning bugs.  One day you’ll forget how cool these things are.  And when that happens, I pray that God sends you a 48-pound savant filled with sage wisdom and corn syrup-laced snacks to remind you.

I love you, buddy,

Dad

Confessions of an Eight-Year-Old Beer Vendor

Think back to when you were eight years old.  What did you want to be?  What were your wildest dreams and fantasies? Me?  I wanted to sell beer.

Lots of beer.

Allow me to explain.

I grew up in Yukon, Oklahoma, a middle class suburb of Oklahoma City.  My old neighborhood was a sprawling subdivision of homes that sprung out of some old farmland back in the 60’s and 70’s.  All around the housing development were cattle ranches and wheat fields as far as the eye could see.  Still, Surrey Hills was its own self-contained suburban utopia.  On the northern edge of the subdivision rested a strip of shops that contained a tiny little convenience store appropriately named the “Itty Bitty”.  On the southern edge of the subdivision was Surrey Hills elementary school, site of both my first kiss AND my first “wedgie” (both occurring in totally unrelated incidents).  Winding through the center of it all was a meandering golf course “for members and guests only.”

We weren’t members of the golf club.  My family was neither poor, nor wealthy.  My dad (and hero) was a general manager for a local tire company, and made a decent living.  Some others in the neighborhood were a different story.  They worked in the oil industry in the late 70’s and early 80’s and made pantloads of money.  So, I was good friends with their kids, who had open tabs at the golf club.  There, I tried to look like a regular while I sipped on mooched Shirley Temples and ate my body weight in maraschino cherries.

One hot summer day, walking home from the club, we noticed how many golfers were driving by in their carts, sweating like crazy.  My friend T.J. and I immediately had the idea to open a lemonade stand.  So, we went to T.J.’s house, filled a Radio Flyer full of Solo cups, a pitcher of lemonade, and a homemade sign, and snuck on to the #15 tee box.

We taped our sign to the wagon.  “Lemonade – Small Cups, 10¢    Big Cups 25¢”  The first thirsty foursome approached.  As one of the men stepped out of his cart, he chuckled and said, “Are you sure you don’t have any beer?  I sure could use one!” Recognizing T.J. as the son of a club member and me as his mooching friend, he pulled out a pocketful of change and purchased a few cups of lemonade for himself and his buddies.  Nice guy!  We pocketed the 70 cents and beamed at the thought of the 20 pieces of Super Bubble it would buy us at the Itty Bitty.

The next foursome arrived at the #15 tee.  A man with giant, swollen gut tottered out.  He spotted our sign and said with a smile, “You got any Coors?”

“Nope.  Sorry.  Just lemonade.  Small cups ten cents.  Big cups a quarter.”

He came back, “I’ll take a big cup then.”

We handed him his drink and took his quarter.  We watched silently as they teed off, mentally noting the brisk sales pace.  Two groups of golfers.  Two sales.  This is too easy!  Like shooting fish in a barrel.  We were marketing geniuses.

Just then, a third group came and went without a sale.  This dampened our mood a bit.  Was the market softening already?

Then a fourth group made their way to the tee box.  Before even exiting the cart, a plaid-clad duffer boomed, “I’ll take a Bud!”  His buddies laughed.  We gave our sales pitch, but we were largely ignored this time.  They hit their tee shots and drove off without buying a thing.

In the silence of the moment, I complained, “Man.  I wish we were selling beer.  Everybody asks for it.”

I looked at T.J.  His eyes got a bit larger.  “My dad has beer.  Lots of it!”

Before the words were out of his mouth, we were packing up the Flyer and heading toward his house.

We didn’t even enter the front door.  Instead, we went straight into the garage where the “special fridge” was located.  Inside, we found a decent inventory.  Though it wouldn’t supply a fraternity party for more than an hour, it would satiate plenty of foursomes.  T.J.’s dad stocked the good stuff, too.  Coors and Bud were in demand, and we had 6-8 of each!  Add to that a couple of Michelob and a stray Pabst Blue Ribbon, and we had quite a selection.  We stashed the beers in the wagon, poured in some ice, and headed back to #15.

When we arrived, we doctored our sign to feature our newest item.  Because demand was so high, we priced the suds through the roof.  Cans - 50¢, Bottles $1.00.  The first cart approached.

Half-looking, the first golfer wheeled out of his cart.  He jokingly asked, “So, you kids got any Miller?”

I replied, “Nope.  But we do have Budweiser, Coors, Michelob, and Pabst.”  There is still a wet spot on the cart path where the man’s tongue hit the pavement.  “Oh.  And we have lemonade if you want it, too.”

For the first time, we saw one of our customers pull out bills instead of change.  He handed us $2.00 and grabbed four cold ones out of our makeshift cooler, laughing the entire time.  He passed the beers to his buddies as we nearly peed our pants with excitement.  Lemonade was for sissies.  Beer is where it’s at.

Every single cart that passed the #15 tee box bought beer from us.  We sold out in less than an hour.  We had over twelve dollars in our pockets.  With this kind of money, we could buy so much Super Bubble that we could chew on one piece for a minute or two, spit it out before the flavor fades, then unwrap another piece without even thinking about it!  Luxury at its finest.  But why stop there.

“Does your dad have any beer?”  T.J. asked.

“Yep.”

Again, we packed up the Flyer and walked a few blocks to my house.  When we walked through the front door, my mom asked “So, how is the lemonade business?”

Without making eye contact, we barked, “It’s great!” and moved toward the garage fridge.

My dad was not a big beer drinker, but we usually had a decent stash left over from dinner parties and neighborhood get-togethers.  Inside the fridge we found a hodge-podge of brews left over from a family Christmas party seven months prior.  Being only eight years old, I knew nothing of old, skunky tasting beer, so we filled a bag with as many as we could carry, and headed back through the house.

“Whatcha’ got in the bag?” my mom inquired.

“Some beers.”

To this day, I am still amazed at my mother’s emotional restraint in this situation.  As a father, if I saw my eight-year-old son hauling beer through the house on a hot summer day, I would immediately think the worst.  He’s gone off the deep end!  Where did we do wrong?  How much does celebrity rehab cost?

Instead, my mom patiently asked, “So, what do you need the beers for?”

“We’re selling them on the golf course.  Nobody buys lemonade, but EVERYBODY buys beer!  We’ve made twelve dollars so far off the stuff we got from T.J.’s house!”

“Hmmmm.  I’m not so sure that’s the best idea.  Those are your dad’s beers, so you should ask him if you can have them.  We should call him.”

Though my mother could have shut down our bootlegging operation right then and there, she always loved sharing such parental joys with my dad.  Smiling, she dialed the numbers and handed me the phone.  My father answered.  His voice sounded as if it was coming from an echo chamber.

“This is Ken Dannemiller.”

“Hi Dad.”

“Hey Scotty.  Whadja’ break?”  To this day, this is my dad’s default when we call.

“Nothing.”

I contemplated the best way to ask.  After all, Dad was the linchpin to my achieving financial wealth in beverage sales.  I had to be persuasive.  Unfortunately, my eight-year-old communication skills lacked the finesse of a high-priced power broker.

“I need your beers.  I want to sell them on the golf course.  We already sold T.J.’s dad’s beers and made twelve dollars.”

I heard a huge belly laugh coming from the echo chamber.  However, it was not my dad’s laugh.  Apparently, he was in a meeting with a client and had me on speaker phone.  I can only imagine the pride my father felt in that moment.

“Twelve dollars, huh?”

“Yeah, Dad!  Isn’t that great!”

“That is great, son.”

Trying to close the deal, I glance at T.J. and quickly add, “So, can I have your beers?”

“Well son, I would love for you to make some more money, but I see a problem.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  Not just anybody can sell beer.  You have to have a license.”

“Can I use yours?”

“Not a license to drive.  A different kind of license.  If you aren’t at least 21 and have a special license to sell beer, then you could go to jail.”

“Jail?  For selling beer?”  I can still hear the other man laughing in the background.  T.J.’s eyes are the size of a Wham-O Frisbee.

“That’s right.  I don’t want you to go to jail, so I’m going to have to say no.”

My emotions were a strange mixture of fear, anxiety, and dejection.  Not only had my business plans been shunned, I was also in danger of getting thrown in the clink for selling suds on hole 15.  I imagined life on the chain gang.  In the face of such opposition, I caved.

“OK Dad.”

With a knowing glance from my mother, we walked back to the garage and deposited the beers back in the fridge.  She helped us make up another pitcher of lemonade.

That day, we made another two dollars selling the legit stuff.  With our day’s take exceeding fourteen dollars, we wheeled our wagon down to the Itty Bitty and invested no less than ten bucks in a mountain of candy and pocketed the other four.  That night at T.J.’s house, we unpacked our stash of Starburst, Now & Laters, Chic-O-Stix and tons of other junk and dumped it all into a communal bowl.  We played Atari and gorged ourselves on the fruits of our labor until we both puked in Technicolor.

In retrospect, it was crazy, impulsive, and ill-advised.

Then why did it feel so great?

Because instincts trumped anxiety.  When opportunity presented itself, we went for it without hesitation.  Passions ignited.

I’m beginning to feel like I’m at a crossroads in life.  A full-grown adult this time.  Opportunity may be knocking once again.  Very softly.  But there’s no need to call Dad.  I know the rules.  And there’s no risk of incarceration.  All I’m lacking is the child-like exuberance.

Anyone know the way to the nearest lemonade stand?

On Divinity and Dementia

Several days ago, the world lost one of its more vivacious citizens.  Nobody famous.  You didn’t hear about it on TMZ.  She left the world without much fanfare.  Her name was Toni, my brother-in-law’s mother. Which makes her my…

well…

I’m not sure.

Let’s just call her my adopted grandmother, since all of the lovely women I once called “Grandma” have long since passed.

Back in 2004, Gabby and I had just returned from Guatemala.  We were in the midst of touring the country delivering concerts of original songs and stories from our mission year, trying our best to raise money for different charities.   As part of this effort, I had produced a CD to sell at our shows.  While the album didn’t go platinum, it did flirt with “yet-to-be-recycled aluminum” status, selling tens of dozens of copies.  Such was my short-lived career as the lead singer in a pasty-white, solo, Christian ballad-themed boy band.

It’s a niche market.

Somehow Toni had obtained a copy of the aforementioned CD.  When our tour came to Nashville, she passed a note through my mother requesting we come over for a visit.  I was instructed to bring my guitar.  We didn’t know Toni very well at this point, but were happy to spend some time visiting with family.

We arrived at Toni’s place and trudged up her steps.  She had anticipated our arrival and rushed to the door with gusto.  Toni wasn’t a large woman by any stretch of the imagination, but her personality was huge.  Tan skin.  Glowing smile.  Bright white hair.  An unforgettable Italian with a New York accent.  Her exuberance kicked her voice up an entire octave.  She welcomed us as if we were the Publisher’s Clearing House Prize Patrol.

“Come iiiin!  So good to seeeee you!”

She showered us with a variety of kisses, hugs and semi-inappropriate pats.  Had she been one more branch removed from our family tree, we may have considered pressing charges.  Realizing it was simply a good old-fashioned case of violent endearment, we let it slide.

We all sat down in the living room and she brought us glasses of water.  She wanted to know everything about our year as missionaries.  Her questions were deep and detailed, the product of a faith that had been well-worn.  Like a favorite pair of slippers.  As we talked about how we found God in Guatemela, she would punctuate each story with “Fantastic” or “How wonderful,”  spoken with a tone that was at the same time curious and all-knowing.  As if we were describing a movie she had already seen, but she was enjoying reliving it through the eyes of someone else.

It wasn’t long before she pulled out my CD.  I had no idea that we had been lured into the lair of the world’s foremost music junkie.

“Sing something for me, honey.”

It was less a request and more of a demand.  But how could I resist?  I pulled out the guitar and sang for her.  As soon as the first note came out, her eyes disappeared. A smile crossed her face.  She began to hum along.  Her hands danced in front of her, conducting an imaginary choir.  This continued for several songs.  At the end of each one, she would shower me with a chorus of “Beautiful’s!” and “Oooooh’s!”

When the private concert was finished, she made me promise to sing for her again sometime.  I agreed.

And such was the beginning of our relationship.

Our families would get together for significant birthdays and holidays.  Each time, I would bring along my guitar.  After the food had been put away and dessert had filled our bellies, we would sit in the living room and conduct a spontaneous jam session at Toni’s request.  We were always reluctant to begin, racking our brains to find songs we all knew.  Eventually, my dad, brother, sister, brothers-in-law and anyone else would settle on a tune or two and the fun would begin.  Toni was always asking for more.

*A family get-together with Toni and the other beautiful women in my life

But time can be cruel.  As years went on, Toni’s love for music never faded, but her mind did.  Many of you have been along on this journey and know it all too well.  It starts with a little forgetfulness.  Then repeating stories.  Then mild confusion.

We attended my dad’s choir concert with Toni a couple of years ago.  She sat in the front row.  Humming.  Smiling.  Hands dancing.  But something was different.

When the clapping died down after each number, you would hear Toni’s voice through the silence.  “That was beautiful!”

“That one was so loud!”

“I think I’ve heard that one before.  Loved it!”

She even came up to one of the singers afterward making kissing noises and saying, “Boy did I like you!  Beautiful voice!  And good lookin', too!”

For family members, it can be both heartbreaking and hysterical.  Our social conditioning tells us that such unfiltered comments aren’t appropriate.  We cringe, hoping that our loved ones don’t say something truly embarrassing.  But the glaring honesty brings about a laughter that breaks the tension.  Nervous laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

For the past year, the laughter waned.  Toni’s unfiltered comments got shorter and shorter.  Her eyes wouldn’t quite focus.  There was less talking.  More forgetting.  Details.  Faces.  Names.

Family members would talk to her.  Tell her stories.  Ask her questions.  Explain what was happening.  But her mind was like a broken cup.  Words and images would come in for a moment, and then slip through the cracks.  They wouldn’t stay long enough for Toni to register them and reply.  Confusing.  Frustrating.

There was sadness over what was lost.  Memories of the exuberant, faithful, grandmother that brought a lively energy to every gathering.  But the person Toni had been was now gone.  Someone had turned her color film to black and white, a gradual tragedy played out over the course of months and years.

So the relationship moved beyond conversation.  Sometimes family would simply sit with her.  Be with her.  An acceptance that people are more than the memories they have created and the works they can perform.  In the absence of shared words and stories, there were lots of hugs.  Kisses on the cheek.  Whispers of “I love you” in her ear.

In her last months, all I could see was Toni slipping away from us.  But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Imagine losing yourself in the music.  Taking off the filter.  Saying what you’re feeling without worrying about what others will think.  Finding it harder and harder to understand this world that operates under strange rules.  So you stop questioning.  Give up control.  Own the silence.  There’s no need for words anymore.  Just be.  That's enough.

Slipping away?  I don’t think so.

More like she was drawing nearer to God.

Enjoy the choir, Toni.  I hear it's Heavenly.

The Nose Knows

It started today.  And I never saw it coming. I was going through my morning routine.  Visit restroom.  Brush teeth.  Shave.  Shower. Put on clothes.  Deodorant.  Fix hair.

But somewhere between clothes and deodorant, I got distracted.  As I turned my head I caught a glimpse of something in the mirror.  Like a flash of light.  Or an apparition.

What was that?

I turned my head again.  Leaned in this time.  At a certain angle, the light caught something protruding from my nose.

Upon further inspection, it was a hair.

A long hair.

Braidable.

* Hindsight being 20/20, I could have used one of these snazzy finger-shaped trimmers.  Boy does this fella' look happy!

How could I not have seen that before, I thought.  It was obvious that this hair was lost.  God had intended for this hair to grow from the top of my head, or at the very least, an eyebrow, but it hit a detour somewhere inside my melon and wound up in my schnoz.

At this point there was only one thing to do.  I had to remove the wayward follicle.  As most of you know (and don’t even try to deny it), there is no elegant way to do this.  Lacking any of the proper implements, or even a pair of hedge clippers, I simply grabbed tightly with thumb and forefinger and pulled.

* Even this solution would have been an improvement

What came next was an audible *snap* followed by a searing pain emanating from the core of my body.  I appears that this hair had been growing since my second birthday, taking root in my spleen and meandering through my central nervous system throughout my lifetime, finally breaking through to daylight this past Memorial Day.

My eyes watered.  My knees buckled.  My sinuses cleared.  I am fairly certain this is what childbirth would feel like if God had chosen to place a uterus in all our foreheads.

When I recovered my faculties, I looked down at the offending party.  It was no ordinary hair.  It was abnormally shaped.  Thin at one end, then fat in the middle, then thin and slightly curled at the other end.  Like a mythical tree from a Dr. Seuss book.  I’m sure if I sliced it, I could have counted the rings to determine its age.

Slightly rattled, I put the hair in the trash, and went about my routine.

Later, in the car, my mind flashed to images of guys I’ve seen in my lifetime.  Guys whose noses are home to dozens of these crazy hairs.  Guys who looked like they spent hours sniffing dryer lint screens.  And the common thread with all of them is that they are all closer to the end of their lives than the beginning.

And that’s when it hit me.

One day we wake up and realize we’ve crossed that threshold - moving from “growing up” into “getting old.”  For some of us it’s a birthday celebration.  For others, it’s living through a crisis.

And for me, it was a hair.

Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t think I am as “grown up” as I need to be.  This post is testament to that fact.  I firmly believe that you spend your entire life learning, and you don’t come to understand what it’s all about until that magical moment when The Great Rogaine Master In The Sky calls you home.  At 38 years young, I am far from that, God willing.  But there is good chance that I have more years behind me than I do in front of me.

Coming to grips with your own mortality can do one of two things to a person.  Choice #1: it can cause you to look at your life and compare your contributions to those of others.  Like a couple of weeks ago when Shaquille O’Neal (also 38 years old) retired from the NBA.  This little newsy nugget led me to realize that my dreams of NBA stardom would likely never come true, adding age to that long list of limiting factors including lack of jumping ability, endurance, strength, size and full body tattoos.  And unfortunately, that’s the case with this perspective.  When we choose to compare ourselves to famous people like Mother Teresa or Warren Buffet, and feel like we have woefully fallen short, the end result is a bad case of the “blahs.”

It’s defeatist thinking.  Sadly, a lot of us go there.

Choice #2 is to look at the time we’ve spent on earth and remember all we’ve learned.  The lessons of life.  Experience gained.  The strength we’ve built celebrating successes and facing down failure.  The anxiety that accompanies this line of thinking is not that we feel we haven’t measured up.  Rather, we’re anxious because we feel like there’s something more.  A way for us to connect our experience and our values to our work.  A yet untapped purpose that’s been growing since your second birthday.  Taking root in your soul and meandering its way through your nervous system.  Ready to burst forth in an unexpected place.

Time for another good, long look in the mirror, I think.

***  I would love to hear from those of you who have plucked far more crazy hairs than I have.  What unexpected purpose have you found, and how did you stumble upon it?

Seeing Things for The First Time

Late again. It’s 10:04 pm.  I had hoped to be halfway home by now, but we’re still sitting at the gate.  An issue with the jet-bridge.  I won’t crawl into bed next to my already-sleeping wife until well after midnight.  My mouth tastes like airport food – a combination of greasy cardboard box and preservatives.  My nostrils still harbor that airport bathroom smell.  I have a mark on my cheek from a run-in with a fellow traveler’s backpack.  I’ve been on the road all but two weeks since Valentine’s Day.  It’s getting old.

Very old.

I’m in the window seat of the exit row.  The perk of the extra legroom is offset by the surprisingly scary quiz I receive from the overzealous flight attendant.  She looks like your grade school lunch lady who accidentally put on a navy blue uniform.  Only not as friendly.

“What do you do in the event of an emergency?”  She glares into the eyes of every one of us seated in the row, pausing to make sure we catch her direct eye contact.

“Uh… open the door?” says my seat-mate, sarcastically.

“Are you sure?” she says, knowing that each of us has read the safety briefing card with the same rigor as the warning label on a Hot Pocket.

We sit motionless.

“What if you see fire out there?” she prods.

“Leave it closed?” answers the guy in 21D.  The tone of sarcasm replaced by genuine doubt.

“What about smoke?”

“Closed?” Our cautious guess.

“Debris?” she continues.

“Closed?”  At this point in the questioning, we’re looking for the bare light bulb hanging above our head and the ropes tying our hands behind the chairs.

“What about strange faces?” she rattles.

“Strange faces?”  We’re dumbfounded.  She answers for us, spitting the words in a forced staccato.

“Not long ago, a plane landed and came to a stop on the tarmac.  Hijackers stormed the plane.  A person in the exit row panicked and opened the door.  The hijackers came aboard, took the plane, and killed a passenger.”

She paused for effect.

“We don’t open the door for strange faces.  Ever.”

She left without saying goodbye.  We sit in stunned silence.  Then, I hear 21D mumble,

“I know what strange face I’m afraid of.”

Flying used to be fun, but all the joy is gone.  Replaced by mild irritation and angst.  So now I need to wash the icky off of me.  I close my eyes and remember last Monday night.

We were in Cincinnati squeezing in some vacation time in a rare off-the-road week.  I decided to take Jake to his first big league game.  I’m not a huge baseball fan, but taking your kid to the ballpark is a father’s right of passage.  A must-do.  I talked my brother-in-law into coming along, taking his boys and a friend.

Being that Jake is only five years old, I didn’t expect much.  Maybe three innings and $412 worth of snacks before he got bored as a stump.  As a preemptive strike, I bought a bag of peanuts from a vendor outside the stadium and stuffed them into my cargo shorts where they mingled with a packet of fruit snacks and some gummy worms.  Unfortunately, as I was describing both the wonder of salted-in-the-shell-peanuts and the value of “snack smuggling” to my child, he tripped and fell and skinned his knee.

Blood = tears.

My kid was already crying and we hadn’t even made it inside the ballpark.  I imagined this could ruin the whole night for him.  My every attempt to take his mind off the pain failed miserably.  I shrewdly used his bawling to distract the ticket taker from noticing the peanut warehouse in my left pocket.  He gladly pointed us to the first aid station.  On our way in, we grabbed our “Let’s Go Reds!” free souvenir towel.

At the first aid station, Dr. Mike, one of the team’s trainers, patched up Jake’s knee.  He let the boy apply the Neosporin using a giant Q-Tip, and covered the whole mess with a bandage the size of movie theater curtain.  Jake’s mood improved immediately.  Towels and baseball gloves in hand, we found our seats.

We were on the lowest level behind first base, about 30 rows from the field.  From this vantage point, we had a prime view of the action, and some shade from the Mezzanine above.  The cover also provided a nice echo when the first vendor came by 17 seconds later.  That’s when it all started.

“Lemon Freeeeeeeeze!  Getcha’ Lemon Freeeeeeeze heah!”

Jake’s pupils dilated.  Never before had he seen the miracle that is roving snack sales.  You could see the wheels turning.  You mean the food comes to me?!?!?!?!  It was as if he had witnessed the discovery of fire.  I quickly distracted him with the smuggled peanuts, and held his attention after promising further sweets in return for adequate hot dog consumption.  He buried himself in the oversized bag of nuts while I quickly made my way to the concession stand in search of protein before the inevitable onslaught of high fructose corn syrup in its various forms and shapes.

I returned several minutes later with hot dogs and giant lemonades for the whole crew.  Jake’s knees were covered in peanut shells and he was grinning ear-to-ear.  He grabbed his dog and took a huge bite.  Then, almost instinctively, placed the rest in his baseball glove.  ‘Cuz anyone knows the best way to store a ballpark dog is in your little league mit.  The lemonade cup, which doubles as a wading pool on the weekends, was no match for the kid.  He easily drank 29 of the 32 ounces.

With the kid’s belly temporarily satisfied, we got down to business.  Time to teach the kid about the game.  About five minutes in, I realized that baseball is far more complex than say, tic-tac-toe.  It’s a game full of heady concepts.  And, when explaining them all to a preschooler, one soon realizes the game lacks any semblance of comfortable logic.  Sacrifice flies.  Infield fly rule.  Double-plays.  It’s OK to run on a dropped third strike.

This night could get long.

And there were numbers all over the scoreboard.  Runs.  Hits. Strikes.  Balls.  Outs.  Pitch speed. Batting average.  Bail bondsman phone numbers.

And he soaked it all up like a sponge.  Filled with awe.  Overflowing with questions.

“What’s this guys, name, daddy?”

“The batter’s name is Drew.”

“Go Drew!  Get a hit!”

And Drew Stubbs hits a home run in the third.  The crowd goes crazy.  Jake jumps up and waves the towel.  Like he helped will the ball over the fence.  Throwing high fives.  Screaming.  I half expected the kid to start taunting the poor Cubs fans.

The rest of the game was more of the same.  He spent the better part of two hours stuffing his cake-hole, cheering on batters, calling out the pitch speed, and watching the giant scoreboard.  There was another home run in the fifth, lots of action, ten runs in all.

Since we were spending the next day at King’s Island theme park, I tried to bail out during the seventh inning stretch.

“I thought you said there was nine innings, daddy?”

It’s all new.  The first time.  Grass as green as Crayola.  Crowds cheering.  Popcorn.  Peanuts.  Candy.  Action.  Lights. Why leave, daddy?  Why leave?  What else is there to do?  What’s so darn important?  Are you seeing what I’m seeing?

So we learned the art of late-game seat exchanges during blowout victories.  And we learned the art of graciously getting bounced from said seats in the top of the ninth.  As we walked out of the stadium, fireworks popped overhead, signaling a Red’s victory.

And so much more.

Now I’m hearing a familiar voice over the intercom,

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have started our descent into Nashville. The captain has asked for you to return your seat backs to the upright position, stow your tray tables, and power down all electronics.  Your flight attendant will be coming by to collect any cups, cans and glasses.”

My seat mate is snoring in 21E, and hogging the armrest.  Ms. Cruella StrangeFace just came by and gave me the “stink eye.”  I’d better shut down my laptop lest the flight protocol police put me on the no fly list, never to experience air travel again.  Honestly, this would have sounded like a godsend just 75 minutes ago.   Pure bliss.

But not now.  Not anymore.

I’m gliding through the air in a 140,000 pound chunk of metal, with a bird’s eye view of God’s creation.  A miracle, to say the least.  Something most of the world never gets to experience.  Outside my window I catch a glimpse of a twinkling sea of jewels.  Diamonds. Rubies.  Sapphires.  Amethyst.  All on a black velvet background.  Stretching out into forever.

Which is how long it’s been since I’ve noticed.

Too Much Pomp for the Circumstance

Please forgive my candor, but I’m a little miffed at all of you.  More than a little miffed, actually.  I’m experiencing an anger that falls somewhere between being shorted one McNugget in a six-pack, and being told by your doctor that you’ll need a “do-over” on that last colonoscopy because the nurse forgot to turn on the video recorder. Why?

My son graduated last week, and not a single one of you sent a gift.  Not even a card.  How could you be so thoughtless?  If you had seen him toiling away all these years months on macaroni art projects and hastily-drawn stick figures, you would see that the sacrifice and mental energy he has exhausted in the dogged pursuit of his preschool diploma are worth recognition.

That’s right.  I said preschool diploma.  Jake is five.  Allow me to refuel my sarcasm tank, as I’ve just depleted it in that two-paragraph rant.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good celebration as much as the next guy.  And I’ll admit to being the annoying father in the front row, snapping photos like a papparazi at the door of a celebrity rehab clinic.  I’m proud of my kids, love them dearly, and am happy to post saccharin-sweet photos of them in a vain attempt to make myself feel more attractive, as if I had something to do with their cuteness.  Still, a new phenomenon has me scratching my head.

* Jake (pictured here with Gracie - the love of his life) graduated Magna Cum "Loud"

When I was growing up, graduation was something that happened when you completed 12^th grade.  You waited for it for years.  Then came that magical day when so many dreams were realized.  For the students, graduation signaled that you were now ready for the freedom of adulthood, be that college or the world of work.  For the parents, they could now legally kick you out of the house and make you fend for yourself, which, I now realize, is something they had dreamed of since the first night they brought you home from the hospital and you pooped immediately following the 3am diaper change.

Graduation was an accomplishment.

Over the past two weeks, Gabby and I have attended no fewer than four “graduations.” My two nieces graduated from junior high.  Other nieces and nephews graduated from fifth grade.  A neighbor graduated from first grade.  This is all fine and good, but I’m not sure I would call this an accomplishment.  In fact, if you don’t complete fifth grade, I believe your parents get thrown in prison.  It’s like giving a kid a medal for not getting struck by lightning.

* A photo taken by a friend in a mall parking lot.  When Makenzie graduates high school, I believe her parents are running an ad during the Super Bowl.

Granted, I think my kids are wicked smart, but to have an entire graduation ceremony for children that can’t even tie their own shoes seems a bit over-indulgent to me.  Heck, some even have trouble with the Velcro.  But at Jake’s preschool, they wore their special caps, were introduced by name, and received diplomas.  The double-bonus was a Bible embossed with their names.

One of the fifth grade graduations lasted longer than a feature-length film.  They even had a keynote speaker.  He made his message interactive and memorable.  He first asked the kids to clap.  Then he said, “Remember the word clap, because that’s the subject of my talk today.  C-L-A-P.  What do you think the ‘C’ stands for?” he asked.

“Character!” one kid yelled.

“That’s right,” he answered in a congratulatory tone.  “How about the letter ‘L?’”

After a few “L” words were called out, someone finally came up with “Leadership!”

“Right again!” he answered.  “And the ‘A?’”

“Excel!” called out one brave student.

“Not quite!” the speaker politely deflected, amid chuckles from the audience.

Mind you, this was at the “good” school in a strong district.  I don’t want to know what happens in the “bad” schools.  Still, each kid received a diploma, and I received a case of bleacher-induced scoliosis.

After the fifth grade ceremony, we went to the reception held in the school cafeteria.  There were four, long lunch tables completely covered in homemade cookies.  Yes, you read it right.  Roughly 150 square feet of cookies.  It was the most beautiful display of made-from-scratch goodness I have ever seen.  Girl Scouts would be jealous.  It made your church potluck dessert table look like a handful of petrified peppermint candies.

There were Red Velvet cookies.  Chocolate chunk.  Snickerdoodles.  Brownies covered in cream cheese icing and topped with a fresh strawberry.  Cookies that only exist in dreams.  Cookies that didn’t exist at my high school graduation.

Perhaps it was a feeble attempt to rewrite my own school experience, or better yet, to relive my childhood as a suburban kid in modern times.  Or maybe it was the scoliosis talking.  Whatever the case, I created a Mount Everest of cookies on my plate.  There were easily six or seven.  And I ate every last one.

Then I went back for seconds.

They had brought out some new varieties, so I sampled them all.  I knocked fifth graders out of the way.  I even stuffed my face while standing at the buffet table, which, after second thought, probably crossed the line of buffet etiquette.  But I didn’t care.  They invented sneeze guards for guys like me.

Then it got disgusting.  I went back to the table and ate all of the cookie fragments that Gabby and the kids failed to finish.  I realized I had crossed the line into full-on gluttony when I grabbed for half of a Rice Krispy Treat and Gabby swatted my hand away.

“Slow down!  I’m still working on that!”

“Sorry.  I had assumed that unless you were cramming your pie-hole with two hands, then you must not be eating.”

Then it happened.  It started as a mild cramp in my belly.  By the time we got to the car, it had morphed into a slight nausea.  When we rolled in the driveway, I started to sweat.  The cliché your mother warned you about is indeed true.  If you eat too many sweets, you’ll make yourself sick.

And the metaphor isn’t lost on me.

Praise and recognition is healthy in moderation.  Unfortunately, this whole graduation madness is a symptom of a much greater problem.  There is a culture of excess that comes with parenting today.  There are entire magazines devoted to parenting that make the child the center of the universe.  The pride of calling yourself a good dad or a fantastic mom is like a tiny mountain of ice bobbing in a sea of “ought to’s.”  But just below the surface is this giant iceberg of guilt that will sink the Titanic if you don’t provide for every want and need of your child.  It appears that we are all supposed to strive to give our kids a childhood that none of us had.

And it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.  But not because of the cookie binge.

My parents provided for me.  I had everything I needed but they knew better than to give me everything I wanted.  Instead, when other kids wore the hip Reebok High tops with the velcro ankle, I used a Mr. Sketch marker and some scrap paper to make my own Reebok label and taped it over the Fast-Baks logo of my knock-off sneakers.  I was 35 years old before I owned my first Atari gaming system.  And, if you’re a regular blog reader, you know my lust for Moon Boots was never satiated.

So here I am, asking.  No, BEGGING you to tell me I’m not going crazy.  I want to hear that there is value in sending kids to bed without dinner.  I want to know that it’s OK to deprive your children.  I want to believe that moments aren’t special because you label them “special.”  Instead, I want it to be acceptable to wish for your kids to grow up, remember the mundane, and label it “special” because it reminds them of a childhood well-lived.  A childhood where they learned to be their own person.  To work hard, and never feel entitled to anything.

So, to all you parents out there, I ask you to share a story with me.  Not all the things you wished you had as a kid.  But rather, what did the “not having” teach you about life?

Putting Two Cats In A Bag And Living To Tell About It

Today convenes the inaugural online meeting of the CAA.  As founder and President, I am happy that you have all chosen to attend.  As a nod to both brevity and my own crazy number obsession, we shall dispense with the planned recitation of our 7-step program for recovery, and get right to business. Welcome to Conflict Avoiders Anonymous.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been averse to conflict.  My older brother and I never fought, even when he beaned me with a baseball in our back yard.  When kids mocked me with their time-tested “I’d rather be dead than red on the head” comments, I told them my mom dyed it for me to keep me in the witness protection program.  When the guys would break out the boxing gloves for a neighborhood Battle Royale, I would use them as puppets.  When I found myself accidentally enrolled in Speech and Debate my senior year in high school, I immediately signed up for the humorous duet competition.  My partner and I made it to the regional finals where we proudly earned second place.

Out of two teams.

But no debate.  Debate = Conflict, and I wanted none of that.

Fast-forward to Tuesday, May 10^th.  I sat in my hotel room, musing about what to post as my Facebook status.  Tell folks what I ate for dinner?  Pithy comment about my kids?  Proclaim my loyalty to the Oklahoma City Thunder?

For some reason, I skipped over all of those, and chose instead to share something totally innocuous.  You know.  Like announcing my support for the Presbyterian Church’s decision to permit the ordination of gays, lesbians, and transgender people.

For a brief moment, all sense fell out of my head and rolled under the bed.  I later found it curled up next to that list of stuff that conflict avoiders like me should never post on Facebook, including:

1. Homosexuality
2. Religion
3. War
4. Gun Control
5. Abortion
6. Welfare
7. Disparaging comments about one’s mother or Justin Beiber

And I had blended the top two.  Sheesh.

If you’re a regular reader to the blog, you’re probably thinking “but you talk about religion all the time?”

Sure.  But my God talk is akin to the job applicant who, when asked, “What’s your greatest weakness?” answers,

“I tend to expect too much of people.  I also have a hard time saying ‘no’.  Oh… and I almost forgot, sometimes I work too hard and get a bit too passionate about my job.”

Not too risky.

I usually talk about how God wants us to be more and do more and give more to help the little guy.  The folks on the margins of society.  Who can argue with that?

But here I was, sticking up for folks on the margins, and taking it a step further.   I was advocating for the rights of homosexuals to become pastors.  Not a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.  Openly gay folks.  Needless to say, my little post, accompanied with a link to the article outlining the church’s decision, garnered a bit of attention.

The first comment was from an atheist friend of mine giving a giant thumbs up.  The very next comment was from a Christian friend quoting scripture, which, if taken literally (and some argue ‘how else can you take it?”) explicitly calls homosexuality a sin.  Giant thumbs down.  It’s like I just put two cats in a paper sack.  Closed it.  And shook it.

Hard.

* Don't you dare put anyone else in here.

The comments started rolling in.  Friends of mine who had never met each other were sounding off in one direction or another.  Expressing opinions.  Challenging each other.  But it wasn’t just them.  Some questions and comments were directed at me, and I was expected to respond.  To share my faith out in the open and explain the rationale for what I believe.  The musings of my soul.  My reason for living.

I should have posted about breakfast.

The debate eventually got to the heart of the matter.  Ultimately, it wasn’t about homophobia or left-wing liberals.  The debate was over a deep chasm of difference.  Allow me to over-simplify.

On one hand, there are those that read the Bible literally.  It is the Word of God.  Written by God.  The heart of God.  It is inerrant and infallible.  You may not like what it says, but if you believe in God, you must believe the book.  The Bible is where you go to find the right answers.  Then you pray and ask the Holy Spirit to guide your life.

On the other hand, there are those that read the Bible as a book to be interpreted.  Written by Divinely inspired men.  But fallible men with a sinful nature.  A book that tells us as much about the time in which it was written as it tell us about God.  It is nuanced and confusing and contradictory at times.  The Bible is where you go to find the right questions to ask.  Then you pray and ask the Holy Spirit to guide your life.

As you might imagine, these two views of the Bible produce very different interpretations about what is a sin, who should be able to get married, who should be able to lead a church, and how we should lead our lives.  And these interpretations tend to take root in our souls and become part of us.  So here was a debate, raging on Facebook, where, in some small way, people’s very sense of self was being challenged.  But settling this debate is not the point of my blog post today.

Comments continued to roll in, and opinions strengthened.  I got scared.  I closed my eyes and tried to go to my happy place.  But when I closed my eyes, I saw a little movie playing on the backs of my eyelids.

It was a screen, continuously populated with comments.  The venom increasing with every semi-anonymous post.  Clicks of “Like” and “Dislike” popping like gunfire.  Facebook then created a “Love” and “Hate” button.  But that wasn’t enough.  Soon appeared a “ Did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby?” button.  Then lots of four-letter-word buttons.  Some posted that I should be the next Presbyterian Pope, if there was such a thing.  Others said that I was going straight to Hell.  In ALL CAPS.  With lots of exclamation points!!!! Then I replied that I’m OK with that, since, while hot, at least I could expect Hell to be tastefully decorated, with exceptional theater and a fantastic women’s softball league.  LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION!!!!!!

But that was only in my head.

What appeared on screen was something much more civil.  It would have been easy for those commenting to launch into biting comments and personal attacks.  Instead the debate was about ideas.  No doubt the people behind many of the comments were fighting the urge to judge, because that is surely how I felt.  Reading someone’s position which was different from mine felt threatening.  But something kept me grounded.  Kept all of us grounded.

And that was the beauty of the comments that day.  A measured debate.  Honest, yet reflective.  Refusing to cross that line between weighing ideas and verbal warfare.  Each person leaving a tiny door open to the reality that none of us truly knows the answer.

Do I believe that anyone’s position was changed?  No.  But that wasn’t the point.

The point is that people, God’s people,  shared their hearts openly.  Willing to risk themselves without harming others.  Willing to defend the God they love, or the one they don’t believe exists.   Proving that in today’s hyper-sensitive, polarizing culture, there still exists a safe place for conflict avoiders like me.

Shelter under God’s umbrella if we choose love above all else.

Garage Sale Glory

This past weekend was Garage Sale Saturday in our neighborhood, and my wife was positively giddy.  But not for the reason you might expect. There are people who are garage sale addicts.  They love to wake up early on a Saturday morning, visiting the homes of perfect strangers, combing through their junk in hopes of finding the perfect doily to slide under the life-sized porcelain cat they picked up for fifty cents the Saturday before.  But that’s not Gabby.

She loves hosting garage sales.

I know it’s hard for some of you to imagine.  If so, you’re probably like me.  A procrastinator.  Disorganized.  Blind to details.  Lists make you nervous.  Planning makes you nauseous.  I’m all that, coated with a delicious frosting of irrational sentimentality for every item I’ve ever owned.

Gabby is the exact opposite.  Streamlined.  Efficient.  Organized.  I once thought of buying her a label maker for Christmas, then stopped myself after having a nightmare of waking up to find all of my body parts appropriately tagged.

And the woman adores lists.  She’s the person who, if she completes a task that is not on her list, she will add it to the list just so she can cross it off.   Heck, she started keeping track of her favorite potential baby names sometime in high school.  Stored the journal in her night stand for well over a decade.  I presume this was so she could have it within arm’s reach just in case she had one of those “surprise births” you hear about on the Learning Channel.  The baby name list would have scared the daylights out of me when we were dating had I not been so distracted by the gleaming shelves in her refrigerator.

Garage sales are my Kryptonite.  But they are Gabby’s Nirvana.

Her preparations started months ago.  While you were busy decorating your Christmas tree, my wife was clearing some space in the garage as a holding pen for wayward household goods.  Since December, anytime she would walk through a room and stumble upon some item we rarely use, she would haul it out to the garage, banishing it to purgatory.  She would emerge with a wide grin and a double-dose of satisfaction, both for reducing the amount of nonsense in our house, and getting a jump on the spring sale.

This past Friday night, she shifted into high gear.  She disappeared into the garage wearing her “pricing uniform,” which consists of comfortable clothing, a colorful menagerie of Sharpies clipped to her shirt collar, and a roll of painter’s tape encircling her forearm – her bracelet of choice.

I have learned to stay away from her during this time.  I’ll never forget our first garage sale after we were married.  In Brady Bunch fashion, we had merged two households into one.  However, to look at our driveway, my belongings were the ugly stepchildren.  My La-Z-Boy was parked where our Ford Explorer usually sat.  It bore the signs of numerous sleepy Sundays watching football.  The upholstery was pregnant with so much snack residue that it could be boiled and strained to make a junk food soup.  It was now tagged with the blue tape.

Twenty bucks.

I screeched in horror.  My couch, selected when jewel tones were in fashion, was also marked for quick sale.  My artwork, side tables, and bedding all suffered a similar fate.  I looked to my dog, Dexter, to try and rally support for my protest to save long-cherished items, but he was busy nibbling away at the blue tape stuck to his right paw.  The sticker said $5, marked down from $10 due to his loss of bladder control during thunderstorms and his propensity to chew the wood trim by the back door.

Cute will only get you so far in my house.

I approached Gabby with caution, for fear I would emerge from our conversation with a “Free to a good home” label affixed to my forehead.

“Hey hon.  Why are we selling all of my stuff?” I said sheepishly.

“You mean OUR stuff,” she replied.

Huh?

I was lost.

“When we got married, MY stuff and YOUR stuff became community property.  OUR stuff.  So, WE are selling the things that just don’t fit.”

“But what if I want to sell OUR prom dress from 1987 or OUR 27 pairs of shoes?” I quipped.

“Then YOU will have to go get the items, bring them to the garage, get your own pricing tape and start labeling.”

Ouch.  Did I mention that I rarely do any actual work during garage sale time?

Gabby was only kidding, of course.  She took me aside and we had a good conversation about “stuff.” She asked me why I was so attached to all of my shiny and comfortable junk , and I regaled her with stories of fantastic naps, fabulous prices, and long searches for just the right this-or-that.

And when I was done with all of these stories, I realized that the items themselves still had little-to-no usefulness in our home.  They would be the eyesores and space hogs that never get used.  But now they could be used by someone else, who would find some practical value beyond stoking a memory or two every twelve to eighteen months.

Then I looked down and spotted a stray coffee mug that was the black sheep of the dinnerware set.  It bore no resemblance to any other cup, glass or plate in our home.  Now decorated with a stripe of blue tape reading “.25”.

I picked up my grandfather’s mug.  A reminder of a man whose visits to our house happily dotted my childhood memories.  I removed the tag and walked the mug back into the kitchen.  I have long since given away the Canary Yellow 1977 Lincoln Continental that he had given me.  A splendid car to be sure.  One that carried all of my college roommates on road trips.  Filled with great memories.  But I never had the space for it, and there were other family members who would treasure it and care for it more than I would.

But there was room for the cup.  It carries hot tea and a connection to a fun-loving, life-of-the-party man that helped shape who I am today.

Fast forward to this weekend.  Due to previous years of purging, there were scarcely any of my own items in the sale.  But Gabby had Jake and Audrey sift through their own toys and encouraged them to part with the ones that just didn’t matter anymore.

Jake gave away his Cozy Coupe.  The first “car” he ever owned.  Audrey parted ways with her pink scooter, complete with ultra-loud annoying music and spinning princesses.  This wasn’t easy for either of them.  But they were learning, little by little, that there’s value in pruning away the distractions of life.  The trinkets and treasures that keep us stuck in the past, fearful of the future, and ignoring the beautiful present that’s right in front of us.

On Monday morning, the kids and I sat on the floor of Audrey’s room.  The big sale was over.  Leftover items had been taken to Goodwill.  We had pocketed $82 and a couple of nice deck chairs that another family had all-too-hastily pitched into our post garage sale neighborhood refuse pile.

Some folks call it Dumpster Diving.  I call it “being Green.”

As we sat criss-cross-applesauce style, contemplating the lessons learned from the weekend, Jake asked,

“When can we plant the pretty bushes we bought with our garage sale money?”

Ah yes.  The next family project.  Planting bushes that will bear witness to many backyard baseball games and water balloon fights.  The ones that will probably outlive me.

I answered, “As soon as the ground dries out, Jake.”

And then we got back to the important stuff of life.  Leaning against the side of Audrey’s bed.  Listening to the rain hit the window.  Sitting with our arms wrapped around each other.  Staging my own dramatic reading of The Cat In The Hat.  Sipping from my favorite warm mug while the cool rain fell outside.

Pruning away the distractions.

Love, Fear, and Toenails in Your Hair (Repost)

* 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! ¹² When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and returned to his place. “Do you understand what I have done for you?” he asked them. ¹³ “You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and rightly so, for that is what I am. ¹⁴ Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. ¹⁵ I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. ¹⁶ Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. ¹⁷ Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.  John 13: 12-17w

“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.

The List Is A Lie

You’re not going to believe me when I tell you this.  But that’s OK.  I can take it.  And I realize that by sharing this nugget I may bring disappointment to your lives.  I may even betray the trust of every reader of this blog who is in a committed relationship.  So be it.  It has to be said.  I am compelled by the laws of nature to reveal what I now know.  In fact, I share this information not to hurt you, but to enlighten you.  So today I tell you, dear reader… The list is a lie.

You know what I’m talking about.  Male or female.  Married or single.  We all have one.  Some of us discuss our lists among close friends.  Others of us keep the list a secret.  Our list tells so much about us.  Sometimes embarrassing.  Sometimes surprising.  Always entertaining.

The Celebrity Crush List

My wife and I have a pact.  If anyone on my Celebrity Crush List shows up to the front door and asks me to go out with them to dinner, she must, by the Law of Husbands and Wives, allow me to go.  Even if I have to pay.

Reciprocally, if I were to die in a freak accident, I must, according to the Law of Husbands and Wives, bless the new marriage of my wife to anyone on her Celebrity Crush List.  Even if my lifeless body has yet to cool.

Yes.  This stuff makes for fascinating table conversation.

The lists themselves are quite interesting.  For guys, a “published list” usually includes your run-of-the-mill supermodels, singers or actresses.  These are the safe names to debate during a Guy’s Night Out at your local sports bar.  No chance of ridicule.  For me, this includes:

1.  Ashley Judd

2.  Halle Berry

Then there are the list-dwellers who are known by description only.

3. That woman on Modern Family who plays the wife of the guy who used to play Al Bundy

But every guy’s list also contains a surprise entry.  The name that they are afraid to share for fear of being ostracized from the pack.  Usually it’s some obscure local celebrity, a non-sexy lady, scientist, politician, childhood crush or cartoon character.  These names rarely surface, unless by mistake.  For me, this includes:

4. Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Elaine from Seinfeld)

5. Ellen DeGeneres

6. Wonder Woman

7. Julia Child

To my wife’s credit, all of these women, save for Ellen, have dark hair just like Gabby.  Still, with the Julia Child reference, Gabby has a fear that any mildly attractive, scantily-clad woman showing up to our doorstep holding a moist chocolate cake could be cause for concern.

A girl’s list, on the other hand, has no constraints.  They’ll share the names on their list with anyone.  There are no secrets.  After watching The Last King of Scotland, which is a fantastic film, I noticed that our Netflix became populated with all sorts of utterly unwatchable movies starring James McAvoy.

Guess who’s on Gabby’s list.

*  I can do pouty, too, James.

The best part about her list is that there isn’t a single beefcake to be found anywhere.  Like all my women with dark hair, her list is a veritable Who’s Who of skinny, pasty white guys.  And women, unlike men, seem to understand that such a list can be populated by less-than-attractive people, proving the sitcom cliché of pairing a beautiful wife with a very dopey, dorky husband has basis in reality.  I give you Exhibit A:  Gabby’s List.

James McAvoy (whom you have already met)

Jon  Stewart (whom she calls her Jewish TV Husband)

David Sedaris (whom she calls her Jewish writer husband)

Ira Glass (whom she calls her Jewish NPR Radio host husband)

Michael Vartan (whom I had to look up on Google.  Probably converting to Judaism)

Gabby has all of these fellas on speed dial in the unlikely event that I get run over by a combine.  She’s a practical gal, after all.

Just last Thursday, I had the good fortune of getting a free upgrade while traveling on business.  They booted me up to First Class.  Lucky me!  It is no doubt due to my frequent travel and doe-eyed flirtation with the ticket agent who thought I looked like Anthony Michael Hall.  You know.  Farmer Ted from the movie Sixteen Candles.

He’s probably on her list.

I settled into my seat in 5A, feeling a little guilty as I sipped my pre-flight Diet Coke that the attendant so graciously brought me.  I learned that you can work up quite a thirst waiting for all of those poor schlubs to make their way back to their seats in coach.

Just when it looked like every passenger had boarded the plane, one more lonely soul walked in.  She looked familiar.  Her eyes darted back and forth between the overhead bins as she looked for a place to store her rolling suitcase.  She wore a pair of khaki casual pants, an orange t-shirt, and a gray hoodie.

Must be someone from Gabby’s Mom’s Club. I thought.

Three men jumped from their seats in First Class to help her hoist her bag into the bin.  So eager!  As they did this, she quickly turned her head toward the floor, looking for something.  She darted just past my row, reached down, and picked up something.  Then I heard her say to the men.

“Thank you so much.”

That voice.  Where have I heard that voice?  Oh… my goodness!  It can’t be!

That’s right.  The woman I thought was a member of my wife’s Mom’s Club was none other than Ashley Judd.  The Ashley Judd.  Famous actress.  Spokesmodel.  Wife of a Formula One racecar driver.  Numero Uno on my Celebrity Crush List.  Within stalking distance.

I think I aspirated an ice cube.

But she wasn’t standing on my doorstep asking me out.  Instead, she stood there looking very normal.  Like someone I might ask to borrow a Wet Wipe on the playground.  But it wasn’t her appearance that dealt a crushing blow to my Celebrity Crush List dreams.  No.  As Julia Child would attest, looks aren’t everything to me.

It was what she was holding.

A dog prop.

I’m not sure what your stance is on animals, but I’m one of those guys who believes that dogs are meant to be dogs.  Outside.  Fetching sticks.  Eating dry kibble.  Sleeping on the floor.  Dogs aren’t meant to go shopping.  Or to day care.  Or the spa.  Or be carried in purses.

And here was my dinner date clutching a tiny doglet in her famously beautiful arms.

I envisioned my night on the town with Ashley Judd.  We would make small talk.  I’d ask her about her movies.  She’d ask about my family.  I’d ask her if she was going to finish her dessert.  She’d say no.  I’d stuff my face.  She would be enamored by my healthy appetite for sweets.

Then she’d pull a dog out of her purse.

I’d get annoyed and irritated.  She’d start asking about my obsession with the number seven.  I’d take offense.  She would ask why I was so defensive.  I would then tell her how I thought her dog belonged at home in her back yard.  She’d get upset.  I’d take seven drinks of my Fresca and leave.  Only to arrive home and find Gabby criticizing Michael Vartan for never scrubbing a single toilet in our entire house.

Ever.

‘Cuz that’s how the list works.  It’s all a lie.  The fantasy can never measure up to the real thing.

And the real thing is what we have.  If you’re in a relationship, it’s likely messy.  And exhilarating.  And irritating.  And peaceful.  And mundane.  And joyous.  What makes it work isn’t the fact that it fits so nicely into some sanitized package.  No.  What makes it work is the commitment.  The no-holds-barred giving of yourself to another person, heart and soul.  It’s knowing all of each other’s quirks and loving them.  Even the annoying ones.  Because that’s what makes the love of your life the love of your life and not someone else’s.  And remembering the beauty of being accepted for who you are.  Getting a small taste of the love God promised, served up by your soul mate.

But it’s even more than that.  It’s feeling lucky that you get to walk through the world, sharing it with someone else, and learning, growing and changing together.  For better or worse.  In sickness and in health.  Till death do you part.

And so here I am.  Off on another business trip.  But I won’t be here for long.  Headed home tomorrow night.  Upgraded to First Class with God-knows-who.  Soon to be seated back home on the couch, snuggling up next to my wife.  Watching some unwatchable James McAvoy movie.

Happy.

Settling For The Same Old Fantastic

My mom was so excited, I could hear her about to wet her pants over the phone. “We even met some of your new neighbors.  They have a little boy that is Jake’s age.  And the best part?”    As the suspense and bladder pressure built to the point of bursting, she blurted.

“They’re hispanic!”

Ever since her first grandchild was born, my mother’s dream was to have all of her kids live close to her.  She now envisioned us becoming best friends with some random family in Nashville.  For all we knew, they could be militaristic Guatemalans who had once tried to exterminate the Mayan family we lived with during our missionary year.  But the fact that we could all read the menu at a fancy Mexican restaurant would be the tie to bind us together forever.  This was mom’s big selling point.

But we weren’t biting.  Mom and dad moved to Nashville in 2002 to live near my sister and her family.  My brother followed a couple years later with his wife and two girls.  Gabby and I were the lone holdouts, and we showed no signs of moving from Austin.  Too many friends and too much love for the city that prides itself on being “weird”.

Unbeknownst to me, my mom would drive through random neighborhoods in Nashville looking for homes for sale.  One day, she found a really cute one, so she parked her car out front and prayed that Gabby and I would one day move in.  While the Neighborhood Watch director was calling the authorities, mom was calling the Big Guy upstairs, praying for a miracle, and accosting the neighbors.

Call it coincidence.  Call it Divine Intervention.  Call it an 862 mile umbilical cord.  Around this same time mom was pulling out the rosary beads on Ramble Wood Circle,  Gabby and I both realized living close to family was more important than anything Austin had to offer.  Over the next six months, we were somehow able to sell our house in a very down market.  The amazing thing is that we were still offered more than the asking price.  When it came time to buy in Nashville, the house that mom had prayed over was still available, with a greatly reduced price.  We moved in on October 19^th, 2008.

Apparently when Mom prays, God listens.

The house only needed some minor renovations, including re-seeding the lawn where her knees had worn the grass down to bedrock.  We soon met our Mexican neighbors, Rich and Lyndsey, who turned out to be a couple from the U.K. with very thick Irish and Scottish accents.  Mom may have some impressive spiritual connections, but don’t call her if you need a dialect coach.

“Scottish.  Mexican.  What’s the difference?”  she said.

We became fast friends with the Williams family, and our kids loved playing together.  They helped ease our transition to a new city.  We missed our wide network of Austin friends and the familiar faces.   Every day I would fondly recall something different that was now lost to us.  No more birthday parties with friends.  No more Town Lake.  No more Tex-Mex food.  Amy’s ice cream.  Sixth street.  Waterloo Ice House.  All a memory.  We tried to find replacements, but it just wasn’t the same.

To heal the heartache, we spent lots of time outside in the cul-du-sac with the neighbors, talking about life, laughing at our children, and making future plans.  We hosted backyard barbecues.  Our kids shared toys.  They were all a true blessing in our lives.  Especially Rich and Lyndsey.  Every story they told was peppered with the U.K. colloquialisms “fantastic” and “brilliant” which made everything sound… well… fantastic.  They were our silver lining.

That is, until they decided they needed to be close to family as well.  Less than a year after we moved in, they moved back to Northern Ireland.  Just a stone’s throw from Cancun.

We were sad to see them go, but couldn’t fault their reasoning.  After they left, we moped around for quite a while.  Jake missed his buddy next door.  We missed the energy they brought to the neighborhood.  We spoke often about the good they brought to our lives.  And even though our favorite Tex-Mex restaurant from Austin decided to open its first “outside Texas” location just 20 minutes from us, resulting in literal tears of joy streaking down Gabby’s cheeks,  it just wasn’t the same.  We fondly reminisced about the good times we had together with our old neighbors, realizing that it was just a season of our lives.

But the good thing about seasons is that they tend to come back around again.

Just this past weekend, Rich had an opportunity to return to Nashville for a business trip.  We hadn’t seen him in well over a year.  He was traveling without the rest of his family, but we used the opportunity to “get the old gang back together” for a neighborhood barbecue.  We invited a bunch of friends over and grilled copious amounts of charred animal flesh, at Rich’s request of course.  I guess finding a tasty baby back ribs in Ireland is like finding a Leprechaun guest starring on “Sarah Palin’s Alaska.”  I also dug out a really old recipe for sausage balls that I used to eat as a kid.  I loved the things.  They turned out OK.  But not the same as I remember.

For a few hours, it was just like old times.  Rich and I chatted about family, work, and regular life stuff that makes you feel like a regular person.  Things were as fantastic and brilliant as always.  I half expected him to turn around and walk into the house next door.  The house he used to own.  It would have felt so normal.  In fact, the new owners came out to the cul-du-sac to celebrate his homecoming with us.

“Would you like to come in and see the old house?”  they asked.

Rich thought for a second.

“No.  But thanks for the offer.  I appreciate it.”

I was kind of surprised at this.  I would have wanted to go check out my old house.  Especially if I was invited in.  No worries about being the creepy guy who knocks on the door and says, “Uh… can I come in?  I used to live here.”  The new owners gave you a free pass!

When we asked Rich about it later, he summed it up for us.

“It would have been odd.  They asked for some of our furniture in the contract, so we left it for them.  It was a win-win.  But now, to go back in and see the place.  Our furniture with someone else’s things in it.  Our walls, painted a different color.  Our house, but with new people living in it.  It just wouldn’t be the same.”

Smart guy, that Rich.

I’ve been back to Austin and visited once or twice, hoping it was just like I remembered it to be.  But it wasn’t.  Friends have moved away.  Things look different.  It’s just not the same.  I went to the Nashville Chuy’s hoping the food would taste just the same as it did back in Austin.  But they don’t serve Gabby’s favorite salsa.  They don’t have live oak trees in the outdoor patio.  It’s just not the same.  And I make sausage balls in a vain attempt to recapture a taste from my childhood.  But it’s no use.

It’s just not the same.

Every time I try to relive something that is past, it never fails.  I walk away with a twinge of nostalgia mixed with disappointment.  Sadness for days gone by.  So why am I surprised?

Rich has it right.  Why go back?  Memories are the gifts of the past.  Happiness and joy in concentrated form, with all of the mundane and ordinary stripped away.  Trying to rewrite all of that is like being back in junior high making a mix tape for the girl you had a crush on.  You would overwrite an old cassette with new music, but every time you did it, the quality just wasn’t the same.  The whole exercise not only brings about a shoddy result, but it diminishes the vividness of the original.

Maybe I should just hang on to the memories as they are, and rewrite the present instead?  Filter out all of the negative and focus on the fantastic and brilliant in every moment.  To do so would certainly be revolutionary.  It might change the way I see the world.  Less moping and worry and stress.  More hoping and joy and peace.  What might my life be like if I took that view?

One thing’s for sure.  It just wouldn’t be the same.

If The Shoe Fits?

A few weeks ago on a business trip to Minnesota, my favorite dress shoes finally gave out.  I had purchased them over ten years ago, around the time I met my wife.  The shoes held tremendous sentimental value.  They also held about a pound of adhesive between the sole and full leather upper.  I had sniffed so much rubber cement in previous attempts to fix them that I started having visions of appearing in an after school special on the dangers of “Huffing,” getting a personal visit from Nancy Reagan telling me to “Just Say No.” But walking into the hotel, my toe caught a curb and the sole fell off, leaving me with one dress shoe and one moccasin.  Time for replacements. I went to one of those massive shoe warehouse stores where you can buy everything from steel-toed boots to clown shoes.  I must have tried on a dozen pair.  Nothing fit quite right.  Not like my old favorites.  The whole exercise took me back to high school when I worked in a shoe store and I would try desperately to help all the ladies find just the right pair of Naturalizers to accommodate their bunions.  The manager used to tell me,

“You want to know the secret to selling more shoes and getting a big commission?”

“Sure!” I answered.

“When you’re slipping on the shoe, just give the old ladies a gentle calf massage.  Works every time.”

I stifled a gag.  “Ewwww.  Isn’t that awkward?  Rubbing a perfect stranger’s calf?”

“Not if you don’t make eye contact.”

Needless to say, I never earned that big commission check.

Back at the big box shoe store, I continued to wander the aisles, and not a soul offered to massage my calves.  No one even offered to let me select from the questionable grab-bag of loaner dress socks.  I was alone.  On a mission.  But I was failing.

I started to lose heart, choosing loafers at random.  I just wanted something that felt good and didn’t look like it came from Liberace’s closet.  I spied a pair of very plain black shoes with a slightly pointy tip, but not so pointy that I looked like a genie.  Without much of a thought, I slipped them on my feet.

* The shoes.

Angels sang.

I took a few steps, and it felt like I was walking on pillows of marshmallows resting on a bed of Twinkies filled with goose down.  Yes.  It was that soft.  But not so soft that I felt like I was going to wrench my knee.

I took one of the shoes off and replaced it with the best of the other clod-hoppers.  Had to do the comparison test.  I slipped on the opposing shoe and proceeded to walk down the aisle looking as if I had been injured in an obscure farming accident.  While embarrassing, this exercise confirmed for me the pure awesomeness of the shoes.  I had to make them mine.

Then I looked at the price.

Ouch!

These would be the most expensive pair of shoes I had ever purchased.  Even with the "Big Deal."  Granted, I am a cheap skate when it comes to clothing.  It probably comes from wearing a lifetime of hand-me downs.  Working through my sister’s dresses was an especially painful period.  Still, the frugality wore off on me.  I have learned to accept the fact that I will never be the most fashionable guy in the room.  But these shoes were calling out to me.  I was sure it was the voice of God.  Or a salesperson.  But who’s counting.

I threw caution to the wind and bought the shoes.  They made my feet feel like they were encased in velvet.  A kind sales clerk with a voice straight out of the movie Fargo rang up the sale.  I told her I was from out of town, and she replied with, “Well.  Good nooz fer yoo!  No tyax ahn shooz in Minn-ah-so-tah.”

No tax?  Bargain!

I proudly wore them out of the store, their leather soles slip-sliding along the carpeted floor.  Once outside, I found a patch of sidewalk not coated in snow and scuffed up the soles so I could walk without fear of tripping.  After scuffing the soles, I put them back in the box and traded them for my tennis shoes so not to get them all messy in the slush and salt of the parking lot.  Back at the hotel, I slept like a baby, dreaming of my lovely new shoes.

It wasn’t until the next day that I noticed something wasn’t quite right.

I had left my room and taken the elevator to the lobby.  As I walked out of the elevator, I could swear I heard a supermodel sauntering in stilettos through the hotel’s grand entry.  Either that, or someone was firing a tiny handgun.  I looked down in horror to see that the noise was coming from my shoes.  And it was loud and high-pitched.  What had been a black velvety dream the night before had become a walking nightmare.

Maybe it’s just the flooring?  Maybe the marble tiles are loose? I thought.

I tried to walk a bit lighter, but this only made it appear as if I was trying to sneak up on the bellhop while doing an impression of Neil Armstrong’s moon landing.  When that didn’t work, I sped up, which echoed the sound effect of a woman in a murder mystery trying to escape an oncoming attacker.  Men looked up from their newspapers in hopes of seeing a really hot bombshell rapidly hip-swaying through the lobby.  Instead, they saw a panicked girly-man hustling toward the exit.

Disappointing on so many levels.

I made it to the car and froze momentarily.  Not from the cold, but from the shock of my shoes.  How can I walk around in these all day?!  I am a man.  My favorite meals involve charred animal flesh.  I stink, even when I’m not sweating.  I watch sports.  I can belch my high school fight song.  Both verses.  I pee standing up, unless it’s pitch black in the middle of the night, then cleanliness trumps manliness.  It’s practicality over pride.

I removed the left loafer to double-check the brand name inside, half expecting to see a label that read “Fashion Gal” or “Sexy Trex.”  Nope.  A man brand.  And no metal tap shoes on the bottom either.  Just a hard leather heel, probably filled with blasting caps.

But I had no choice.  I thought about returning them, but how could I do that?  For one, I had already scuffed the bottom of the shoes like crazy.  And second, what was I going to say?  I can hear it now, sheepishly approaching the counter.

“Um.  I’d like to return these shoes.”

“OK.  What’s the reason for the return?”

“They make me sound like a woman.”

“OK.  But are you sure it’s the shoes?  I overheard you talking  on your cell phone, so I personally think it has something to do with the fact that you know lots of show tunes, care about your shoes, and giggle like a fifth grade Brownie at a sleepover.”

I wouldn’t be able to deny her assertion.  She’s right on the money.  Gabby is considering hiring our beautiful friend Shannon (A.K.A. “Uncle Shanny”), who has a man laugh, to come teach Jake how to bellow like the big boys lest he be shunned on the playground.  Still, I would go parade around the tiled entry of the store and holler,

“I sound like a girl wearing high heels!  Close your eyes and you can’t distinguish me from Marilyn Monroe, sister!”

* My shoes sounded like Audrey's "Clickety-Clacketys"

But I never returned the shoes.  They were mine.  Thankfully, the training room I was teaching in was carpeted, and the company cafeteria had enough ambient noise to muffle my “clickety-clackety shoes”.  But every time I walked on the hard floor, I could feel the anxiety bubble to the surface.  Especially when I was walking through the airport later that day.  I turned a lot of heads from gate 15 to 36.  I projected that everyone who was talking on a cell phone momentarily interrupted the conversation to say,

“Do you hear that?  It’s a guy!     No!  I’m not even kidding!”

Going to the bathroom was (and still is) the biggest challenge.  Every men’s room in the country has hard tile floors that echo like the Grand Canyon.  When I walk in, my “click-clack” immediately cuts through the silence.  The guys in the stalls think that a very overdressed cleaning lady has wandered in unannounced.  I know this because they all begin to cough loudly to alert her (me) that the space is occupied.  Never fails.  I can’t imagine how confused they must be when they overhear me stop and use the urinal on the wall.  Baffled for sure.

I find it funny how something as simple as the sound of my feet hitting the floor can make me self-conscious.  It’s such a small thing.  I like the shoes.  I like the way they look.  Love the way they feel.  Yet Gabby and I went out Sunday after church, and I felt compelled to change my shoes because they made a higher pitched sound than the heels she was wearing.

It’s no wonder then how hung up we can get about going against the grain of the more crucial norms of society.  We put a lot of pressure on ourselves.  To have the great car.  The big house.  The great job.  The well-dressed and well-mannered kids.  The biggest party.

To do more.

To earn more.

To be more.

It all seems so important.  Especially when every time we turn on the TV, pick up a magazine, or listen to the radio, someone is confirming for us that this is what we should be striving for.  Chasing a dream that someone else defined for us.  So when we don’t get there (and who ever does?) we beat ourselves up, stress ourselves out, and keep trying harder.

So today, as I slip on my shoes, let every step I take be a reminder.  To remember that all of that extra noise is just nonsense.  Time and energy spent pushing  myself in the wrong direction.   What I forget is that when it’s all said and done, I can never be more.  I am as God created me.  With all my failings and faults and funny sounding shoes.  Simplicity in complexity.  And what God wants most from me is to own all of that.  To embrace my quirks like a badge of honor.  Wear them on the outside.  Front and center.

And to keep walking.  Comfortably.

How Losing My Virgin-ity Strengthened My Faith

With Ash Wednesday fast approaching, I find myself reflecting upon my church upbringing.  You see, I was raised Catholic in Oklahoma.  Until Guatemala, it’s the closest I ever came to feeling like a minority. For every Catholic in the sooner state, there are roughly five Baptists.  If religion were a basketball team in Oklahoma, Catholic would be the assistant trainer, taping ankles with rosary beads and working out sore muscles with a chrism oil rub down.

In fact, you are twice as likely to find someone calling themselves “non-religious” as you are to find a Catholic in Oklahoma.  And this is in a state that has seen its share of God-fearing moments.  Just think of it.  The Trail of Tears.  Check.  The Dust Bowl.  Check.  The Oklahoma City Bombing.  Double-check.  Still, even those claiming no faith at all outnumber the Catholics.

Because of this, I got used to feeling a bit outcast growing up.  Tested in my faith.  There were certainly peaks and valleys for this malaise.  The whole Lenten season leading up to Easter was perhaps the grandest of the peaks.

I clearly remember a trip to the grocery store on Ash Wednesday when I was eight years old.  I was perusing the cereal aisle, drooling over Cookie Crisp and Fruity Pebbles.  Unfortunately, the only cereals we were allowed to have in my house were those that resembled the floor sweepings from a cabinet shop.  Nutritious.  Full of fiber.  Tasteless.  As I reached for a box of Frosted Mini Wheats, I was trying to think of a way to lure mom to the dark, sugary side of breakfast.  Right then a woman approached me and tried to wipe the “smudge” off my forehead.

“Herman, I think this kid’s been playing in the barbecue pit?”

Rather than explain the ritual, which I really didn’t understand anyway, I acted like I had to pee and quickly walked away.

And then there were Lenten Fridays.  If you’re Catholic, this meant no meat.  Early on in my grade school career, the school system gave an honorary nod to Catholics and made every Friday a “fish stick day.”  Unfortunately, by third or fourth grade, that policy was withdrawn and I was considered a lunatic for trading my Little Smokies for an extra helping of green beans. This did, however, create an enormous amount of good will which I cashed in for choice seats on the bus.  In retrospect, many of the meat items in school cafeterias today would technically qualify as “soy slurry pressed and formed into meat-like shapes.”  I digress.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Catholic religion.  I’m not a practicing Catholic today, but I still catch myself making the sign of the cross after a prayer - especially when approaching a truly monumental situation.  My wedding.  The birth of my two children.  Preparing to grill a slab of baby back ribs.

I find the tradition and ritual of the Catholic faith to be a beautiful thing.  The smell of incense makes me nostalgic.  Gregorian chants calm my soul.  All of the pomp and circumstance surrounding the communion table fascinates me.  A priest teaching a Jesus 101 workshop back in college told me and a few other trivia-seeking Catholics that during communion, the bread and the wine actually become Jesus body and blood.  So much so, that it cannot be thrown away.   It must be consumed.  He recounted a story of church protestors, angry with something the Pope had done, coming forward to receive the bread and wine, and then spitting it out right there at the altar.

In response, he simply knelt down, picked up the remnants, put them in his mouth and swallowed them.

There are two key takeaways here.  First, this ritual and tradition holds deep meaning in the Catholic church.  Second, if you’re thinking of becoming a Catholic priest, read the job description very carefully.  There are more than few “gotcha’s.”

Upholding the rich tradition of Catholics never doing anything half-way,  fifty scholars, translators, linguistic experts, theologians and five bishops have spent the past 17 years revising the New American Bible, the text owned by U.S. Catholic bishops for prayer and study. Tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, a new edition of the Bible is coming out.  My guess is that you probably haven’t pre-ordered a copy at your local Barnes and Noble.  If you’re looking to update your library, you may want to make note.

The last edition was published in 1970, but there has been some significant research done since then, and the Catholics, wanting to stay current, have been poring over original manuscripts, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and archeological findings.  Sounds like quite an undertaking to me.  Their goal was to improve the accuracy and accessibility of the Bible.  So, based on the most recent information available, they have made some changes.

For instance, the previous version contains the word “booty,” which refers to treasure.  Noting that “booty” in today’s vernacular conjures up images of Jennifer Lopez’s abundant backside, they have now changed all references to “plunder” or “spoils of war.”  Also gone are the giggles from every kids’ Sunday school class.  Look for another revised version after Sir-Mix-A-Lot comes out with their comeback album titled, “I Like Big Plunders.”

Also changed is Proverbs 31:10.  The passage used to be titled “The Ideal Wife.”  Now, it’s called a “Poem on the Woman of Worth.” This change was made so women everywhere could see the Bible reflect the fact that they are measured on their own merits, rather than the perspective of their husbands.  I think Gabby will like that one.  I frequently tell her what an “ideal wife” should look like, and she promises to fulfill that role when I can take up the mantle of “ideal husband.”  This is highly unlikely to happen unless I can overcome my fear of rodents, and stop shrieking like a child when I accidentally walk through spider webs.

I’m not sure how you feel about all of this, but I’m OK with it.  Updating the Bible to reflect the times in which we live.  Personally, I encourage it.  Language is constantly evolving.  The original Bible was written in Hebrew and Greek, and arguably in the vernacular of the day.  One the people could best understand.  So, it stands to reason that we take a fresh look from time to time to assure that the original intent of the passages matches the words we now use to describe it.  But the biggest change in the 2011 edition has nothing to do with making the language up-to-date.

It has to do with accuracy.

And it’s a biggie.  Hold on to your Papal Tiara!

Isaiah was a prophet.  The great forecaster.  The predictor.  In today’s words, we Christians might call him the Al Roker of the Bible.  In Isaiah 7:14, he writes “the virgin shall be with child, and bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”  We Christians point to this scripture as proof that folks knew Jesus was on the way.  It foreshadows the coming of Christ.  A once in a kabillion kind of miracle.  Tough to miss.  Spotting Jesus’ birth to a virgin mother is like spotting me as the only caucasian member of the University of Tulsa Gospel Chorus back in college.  I was always the one swaying in the wrong direction.  There’s no denying it.

But in the latest edition of the New American Bible, the Isaiah passage has been rewritten.  It now reads:

“the young woman shall be with child…”

Young woman?

A footnote in the new Bible provides a bit of clarity.  The Hebrew word "almah" which translates into English to mean "maiden" was later translated into the Greek word parthénos which translates simply as "virgin". So, scholars say “almah” may, or may not, signify a virgin.  The research is inconclusive.

Wow.

Is this an important detail to anyone else?  Seems like a big one to me.  Isaiah predicting a young woman giving birth is like Al Roker predicting that it might rain, somewhere in the United States, sometime this week.  Kinda’ takes the “oomph” out of the prophesy if you ask me.

What is most significant to me is that the people who are responsible for this revision are the ones who have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.  Why would the bishops and Biblical scholars want to change something that might cause their flock to doubt what some see as a foundation of the Christian faith?  It seems like it would have been easy to let “almah” lie for another forty years.  Take it up in the next revision.  But they chose to do it now.  Make the change.  With conviction.

I’m left with a couple of potential responses.

I could fight it.  I could argue that the scholars are mistaken.  They don’t know what they’re talking about.  I could look for alterative translations.  I could even deny it.  Heck.  Even if they are correct, that doesn’t mean that Mary wasn’t a virgin.  It just means Isaiah wasn’t very detail-oriented.  The kind of guy who would forget your birthday.

But that’s the reaction of a defensive faith.  A faith that takes the Word at face value.  And defending the Word in such a way would mean I would still be making burnt offerings, swearing off shellfish, and owning slaves.  It’s a scared, stagnant faith without room for growth.

Or,  I could embrace the change.  I could question.  I could doubt.  I could wrestle with the faith that has sustained me for years.  I could use this doubt to spur me to an even deeper knowledge.  An even deeper understanding.  Go on the offensive.  Ultimately arriving at the point where I know I can never know it all.  Still being happy in that space.  For it is a space where faith is alive.  Where the Word moves and changes and transforms.

With all of the options before me, I think I’ll choose Door #2.  I’ll let the Living Word live.  Let it move and breathe.  Let it be part of a conversation rather than a passive voice.  It’s risky and confusing and hard to grasp.  But I think that’s what the Catholics intended.  Indeed, what God intended.

For a faith untested is really no faith at all.

Righteous Anger

My wife left me this weekend.  Ran off to Louisville to attend a planning meeting for a group of volunteer alumni. She does it a couple of times a year, getting together with former missionaries who once served the poor and outcast all over the globe, and now work as artists, social workers, or pastors who find a way each day to make the world a better place.  It’s righteous work.  Very inspiring.  Just being around these folks gives you hope.  I, for one, am proud of my wife, who gets to use her abundant talents of organization, inclusiveness, and collaboration to help them all keep the fire burning.

But she left me.  Alone.  With the kids.  What kind of mother does that?

A highly intelligent, perfectly sane, rational mother.  That’s who.

I travel for work.  A lot.  I’m gone an average  of 2-3 days per week, so Gabby gets plenty of “quality time”’ with the kids.  And Gabby, being the giver that she is, simply wanted me to experience the joys of parenting without having to share my children with anyone.

And I did enjoy Daddy Boot Camp.  The part I liked best was being on the good side of the parenting double-standard.  It seems that anytime I go in public with my kids, whether picking up groceries or getting an oil change, women can’t take their eyes off me.  No.  I wish it was because I had abs of steel and biceps like swollen grapefruits.

It’s because unsupervised men who can keep their own children alive for 24 hours are considered miracle workers.

* Michael Keaton as Mr. Mom.  My Hero.

Women smile at me.  They wink.  Some say, “Good job, Dad!”  Others will even introduce themselves and say, “Wow.  You are such a good father.  So involved.”  This happens without fail.  I’m convinced that Audrey and Jake could be lobbing live grenades into the clown’s mouth at the drive-thru fast food joint, and the ladies would look my way and say, “How creative!  Encouraging role playing games!”

But, if Gabby is out with the kids and Audrey has jelly smeared on her face, these same women are speed-dialing Child Protective Services with complaints of neglect.

Even with the double-standard benefit, the downside of the joyous Daddy Boot Camp is the accompanying exhaustion, frustration, and relative insanity.  Take Saturday morning, for example.

We left the house at 8:00 to go to the YMCA.  There, the kids got to play in the KidZone while I ran 3.27 miles (note the "7").  Afterward, we came home, got cleaned up, and took my niece to work.

Then we took a trip to the post office, where the kids helped people toss their packages into the giant rotating hopper while I bought stamps.  Total blast.  Lots of smiles from the ladies.

Next, I told the kids we were going racing.  We went to Home Depot and spent nearly an hour jumping from one riding lawn mower to another, making fake racecar noises and irritating all of the shoppers.  Not a single tractor was sold, but there were nearly a dozen imaginary fiery crashes.  The department manager asked if he could take our picture “to capture the moment,” he said.  I’m sure it is now posted in the break room with a big sign above which reads:  WARNING – THESE PEOPLE CAUSED DISMAL SALES IN LAWN AND GARDEN.

* The Dannemiller Clan:  Happily Irritating Home Depot Sales Staff since 2011

When the great tractor race was over, the kids wanted to go to the zoo.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten our zoo membership pass, to which the children replied, “mommy never forgets the zoo pass.”  We added that to the long list of other items mommy never forgets, including:  water bottles, hair clippies, Handi Wipes, crackers, ice packs, books, blankets, Band Aids, and Proof of Insurance cards.

Not to be deterred, I improvised.  The ASPCA was having its regular dog adoption at PetsMart.  So, we spent a half hour whipping the poor caged dogs into a frenzy.  Then the kids went inside to “watch the sleeping goldfish at the bottom of the tank” and tap on the glass walls of every mouse, hamster, and ferret home in the place.    All of the animals have since been prescribed Xanax to settle their nerves.

Afterward, we went to the park until Audrey announced to the entire playground that she had to pee, at which point, we ran to the car and drove to “Old McDonald’s” to use their restroom.  Once inside, we consumed some burgers and fries before going home to enjoy ice cream.  Though the kids were all hopped up on greasy food and frozen treats, they played together like angels.  To reward them for their incredible, loving behavior, I offered to clean up their toys while they enjoyed lollipops at the kitchen table.  It was only 2:00, but I already felt like it was 10:00pm.  Exhausted.  How does Gabby do this all the time? I wondered.

But it was a perfect day.

Until.

“Time for nap!” I called out.

There were grumblings, but they meandered back toward their bedrooms.  Then Jake asked, “Daddy, do you know where my orange plane is?”

“No.  I don’t, son.”

“I think it’s outside in the car.”

“I can get it later, Jake, but right now, it’s time for nap.”

“But I want it!”  He said, his voice raising.

“Later, Jake.  You don’t need it right now, because it’s time to rest.”

My four-year-old son started spinning around and flailing his arms as if he had just been set on fire and was trying to extinguish himself.

“But Daddy, That’s NOT FAIR!  (crying)  I’m NEVER going to listen to you!  I’m NOT TAKING A NAP!”

Then came the stop, drop and roll.  Plus screaming.

I remained calm, and spoke in a slow, low voice.  “Jake.  You need to get in bed.  It’s time to rest.”

More flailing.  I think I even heard “I hate you.”

“Jake.  This is unacceptable.  I’m going to give you one minute to calm down.  Then I’ll be back.”

I left him in his room and walked down the hall.  The whole time I was replaying my morning.  The tractors.  The animals.  The ice cream.  The candy.  They give dads medals for stuff like that.  And here I was, being berated by a four-year old.  I couldn’t believe it.  He was still screaming his head off.  Kicking the door.  I should have taken some deep breaths.  Counted to ten.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I marched in his room, and through gritted teeth said in a very low voice.  “Jake.  Get. In. Bed Now.”

More kicking and screaming.  I grabbed him like a sack of flour and stood him up on his feet.

“LISTEN TO ME!”

Who was this guy talking?  Jake was, shall we say, surprised.  I don’t get angry often.  But it happens.

Then I did what all good parents do.  I laid a guilt-trip on my four-year-old.  The kid can hardly put on a pair of underpants without supervision, and here I was, playing psychological mind games.

“Jake.  I took you to ride the tractors.  We saw puppies.  We went to the park.  Ate burgers.  Ate ice cream.  Ate lollipops.  Did you say ‘thank you?’  No.  Now you’re kicking me?  And screaming at me?  How do you think that makes Daddy feel?”  Then I pulled straight from the book, Overused Quotes of Parents by Hugh R. YourMom.

“If this is how you’re going to treat me, then maybe we just won’t go do fun things anymore.”

“Now get in bed!”  I picked him up and plopped him on his mattress.  He was no longer screaming, but there was lots of crying.  It was not my proudest parenting moment.  The yelling.  The manipulation.  The grabbing.

Anger.

But in this case, it didn’t do any good.  My kids don’t respond to anger.  But if it didn’t work the first 46,000 times I tried it, that doesn’t prove anything.  Better give it one more shot, but louder this time!

So the result was a crying kid and a guilty dad who wished he had made another choice.  Don’t get me wrong.  Kids should be respectful to their parents.  And anger isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Heck, even Jesus got angry, right?  But anger comes in two distinct varieties.  Jesus always chose the right one.  Me?  I'm not so choosy.

The first variety is what I call Selfish Anger.  Selfish Anger is the anger I feel when others don’t recognize my worth as a human being.  When I’ve been wronged.  It comes after I believe someone has “gotten the best of me.”  When someone cuts me off in traffic.  Or cuts in front of me in line.  Or doesn’t say thank you when I give them a lollipop.  This anger stems from the fact that I don’t believe people are treating me the way I deserve to be treated.  A lack of respect.  Don’t they know who I am?

What’s ironic about this kind of anger is that it tends to run counter to what God has taught me.  In fact, it kinda' spits in the face of God.  Indeed I’m worthy of respect, but my value doesn’t come from how others treat me, or how I am seen in the eyes of others.  If someone treats me like royalty, or treats me like dirt, it doesn’t change the fact that God loves me just the same.  I have worth because God made me.  Flesh and bone.  So all my selfish anger is wasted effort trying to regain something I never lost.

The second kind of anger I’ll call Selfless Anger.  This is the anger you feel when people aren’t honoring the worth of others.  This is the anger you feel when you see injustice.  When people take advantage of the poor, or the sick, or the elderly.  When people don’t respect the basic human rights of others.  “It’s just not right!” you say to yourself.  “Someone should do something!”  It’s the anger you hear in Naravanan Krishnan’s voice of how he felt when he learned of the poverty just outside his door.  If you don’t know who he is, you gotta’ see this video.

Everybody “gets the best of” Naravanan.

The sad part is, my Selfish Anger often trumps my Selfless Anger.  My blood was boiling because my four-year-old threw a tantrum after I had given him ice cream.  Yet, I’m only mildly miffed when I hear that the government is cutting home heating assistance for the poor, or that there are thousands of homeless in my own city.

What the heck is that?

I think I need to prioritize my anger, because when I think of all of the things recently that have made me mad, far too many of them are about protecting myself rather than protecting those who have no voice of their own.

So let that be my prayer today.  When tantrums come, and insults fly, and others cut in line, may I simply let it go and show love.  But when I see injustice, I pray for anger.  The kind that motivates.  The kind that heals.  The kind that moves mountains.

Cause I want everyone to get the best of me.

I Should Have Known

We are all surrounded by stuff.  And there are certain things in life that always seem to be close at hand.  Empty boxes and ink pens and Ziploc baggies and scraps of paper and gas stations and Elvis impersonators. So prevalent that it seems as if you are marinating in them.

Until, that is, you desperately need one of those things.  Then finding one is akin to trapping a Sasquatch.

Not long ago, I was on a business trip, driving around for nearly a half hour one evening looking for a discount hair salon.  You know what I’m talking about.  The kind of place that bastardizes the English language by spelling everything with a “k”.  Kwik Klips.  Kid Kuts.  Kustom Kurlz.  The shops I like often feature incredibly low prices and beauticians with, shall we say…

Kwestionable Kredentials.

I finally found a spot tucked away in the corner of a strip mall next to a dollar store and a now vacant yogurt shop.

I should have known.

When I entered, the place was midway through a makeover of its own.  The carpet was torn and stained like they had staged it as a crime scene on an episode of Law & Order.  Some of the baseboards were missing.  The walls had been tattooed with scuffs from chair backs and swinging handbags.  There was even a streak of paint brushed on the wall to show what the new palette would look like.

Strangely, I couldn’t find the sign that said, “Please pardon our mess.”

I approached the register and signed my name to the list.  I was third in line.  I sat down with the other patrons and instantly adopted the anticipatory energy of the group, which hovered somewhere between “root canal patient” and “defendant awaiting sentencing.”  There were three stylists on duty.  The room was silent, save for one chatty clipper.

We had waited for a considerable amount of time before the one stylist finished with her client.  The customer walked to the register without fanfare and paid his bill.  She then called out a name, and one of my cell mates stepped forward to hear his verdict.  Now there were two of us.   The wait was long.

I started to get a bit irritated, having now invested 45 minutes in my quest for a cheap haircut.  My mood lifted a bit when the very perky stylist finished with her customer.  Though she tried her best to engage the guy, he said few words as he paid his bill.  As he left the shop, she called out,

“Richard!  You’re up!”

A young guy in his mid twenties was seated near the door.  He looked up from his cell phone at the stylist, paused, and then gazed in my direction.

“Um.  You go ahead.  I’ll wait for the next one.”

I should have known.

Crystal was a bundle of nerves, likely fueled by the 24-ounce energy drink I spied on the counter.  We made small talk as she wrapped the drape around my neck.  I’m in town on business.  Corporate consultant.  I have two kids.  She has two kids.  Blah blah blah.

“So, how do you want your hair cut?”

“It’s been a while, so take about a half inch off all the way around.”

“Do you mind if I just scissor cut the whole thing instead of using the clippers?”

“No problem.”

“OK.  Good.  Those clippers can be hard to use.  Some of the girls here like them, but I think it’s hard to get them just right.”

Huh?

The clippers she is referring to are the ones where you attach a guard that assures you cut every hair the exact same length.  You can choose a #1 guard, which delivers a buzz cut, all the way to a #8, which is leaves the hair about an inch long.  This is the same tool used by the groomers at PetsMart.

I know I have a limited haircutting vocabulary, but it sounds to me that in the evolutionary chain of barber shop implements, the sophistication required to produce a haircut with clippers is only slightly more advanced than using the Ronco Flowbee - that wacky contraption that you hook up to a vacuum cleaner to suck your hair up into a tube attached to a rotating razor.  For three easy payments of $19.95 plus shipping and handling, you can run your own home hair salon.

I should have known.

Crystal sprayed my hair with water, combed through my coif, and then went to work.  She seemed to have an unorthodox style, jumping from one part of the head to another, without much rhyme or reason.  A little from the side.  Then some from the back.  Then a clip right in the middle.  Call me a cock-eyed optimist, but I interpreted this in a positive way.  I pondered several thoughts:

Brilliant artists are known for throwing caution to the wind and ignoring conventional wisdom.  Doing it their own way.  With flair.

Meanwhile, Crystal chatted about her challenging children and her lack of sleep.  Then she moved to the delicate part of trimming around my ears.  I felt a sharp pain and winced.

Crystal reacted with, “Oh!  I’m sorry.  I just sharpened these scissors, but they just aren’t cooperating.”

She hadn’t cut me.  Her scissors were no finer than a butter knife.  When she had to trim very precisely, it felt like she was using her molars to chew the hair from around my giant ears.  Several hairs would get stuck between the blades, so when she pulled the scissors away, they would get plucked out by the root.  Crystal definitely resembled an artist now, in a crazy, Van Gogh sort of way.  I told her I would leave my sideburns “as is.”

“I’m growing them out,” I said.

The ear trim ended quickly, like getting a series of vaccinations.  She spent the next ten minutes “touching up” her work.  She ran her fingers through my hair, checking the length, making sure it was just right.  Paying special attention to my double crown and cowlick.  Then she handed me the mirror and spun me around so I could see the back of my head in my reflection.

“Is that short enough?”

“Oh yes.  I think that’ll be fine.”  At fifteen feet away it was acceptable.  I took a quick look at the job she did  on the front of my head, and it looked OK.  I was in a rush to get back to my hotel room after the ordeal.

Crystal poured copious amounts of baby powder on a big, fat brush and dusted my neck.  She then unbuttoned the drape and pointed me toward the cashier’s desk.  When it was all said and done, I had spent twelve dollars on the haircut, and three more dollars on the tip to feed Crystal’s Red Bull addiction.

When I got back to my hotel, I went into the bathroom to check Crystal’s work.  The bright lights surrounding the Marriott mirror painted a very different picture than the flickering fluorescents at the salon.  I let out a shriek followed by an audible gasp.  The hairdo staring back at me just two feet away was both comical and embarrassing.  I looked as if I had been attacked by prehistoric men using stone tools.

Maybe I just need to put some more stuff in it.

I stuck my head under the faucet and rinsed out the clippings.  After a quick dry using the towel, I reached into my travel bag and filled my palms with a generous helping of hair wax.  When I massaged it into my scalp, it only served to give my bad haircut that “just woke up from a long night sleeping in a food processor” look.  I hoped Gabby could help me to find the humor in this situation.  I took a picture with my camera phone and sent it to her.

I should have known.

The phone rang within minutes.

“Dannemiller!  How many times do I have to tell you?  You can’t trust those places!  Remember the time you came home and you could see the cut lines on your head? “

“Uh huh.”

“And the day before our wedding when you came out looking like you had joined the military, with your bumpy scalp showing through the close-cropped hair?”

“Yeah.  Ruined all of our photos.”

Then she put her foot down.

“You’re not allowed to waste any more money on bad haircuts.  If you’re going to look like that, at least I can be the one that does it,” she said with confidence.  “I know I can do a better job than that!”

Three weeks later, Gabby was hovering over me in the bathroom.  My shoulders were draped with a towel.  She had done her homework.  It’s amazing what you can learn when you Google “how to give a haircut”.  She supplemented her self-study course by asking my brother-in-law for some pointers.  He’s an expert at the craft who works at one of those high-end salons that offer everything under the sun to make you look fabulous, stopping just short of plastic surgery.

They don’t hand out balloons, though.

I was skeptical.  Filled with doubt.  And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that my first home haircut was an adventure.  Gabby was excited by the challenge, and I was intrigued by the novelty.  We had lots of laughter mixed with critique and questioning.  Second guessing.  Debates.  In the end, my head required some post cut touch-up, and I had to hold my own ears out of the way, but our marriage survived.

The second cut was an improvement.

Now we’re on cut number three, and my guess is that the general public is none the wiser, with the exception of the three or four folks who read this blog.

I never would have believed that I would now revert back to the old days, when mom used to sit me on the bathroom vanity and cut my hair, and be happy with the result.  And I’ll bet Gabby never thought she would actually enjoy doing it.  And it’s a welcome departure from sitting in front of the TV or working on the computer.  Who would have known?  Our little problem has been fixed, and we’re both a bit better off or it.  Who would have believed it?

But when I really take the time to think about it, that’s the usual outcome when we take a look at a problem situation, stop complaining about it, and start tasking action.  Whether it’s haircuts, the homeless, or human rights, when we get off the sidelines and finally get involved, the situation always turns out for the better.

I should have known.