Don’t be an *…

A recent online advert caught my eye when I read, “Use steroids. Get caught. Be labeled. Don’t be an *.”

How do my life stats look? I see the celebration of the end of the year and recognize that for some of us there is significance to 12/31/2008. But I am confident that if the Lord wills it there is a 01/01/2009 just across the face of the clock. So life goes on as do those things that make us who we are because of whose we are.

Still, there can be haunting memories that lurk in the rearview mirror. Re-reading Windows of the Soul – Ken Gire (a Fort Worth guy) prompted me to send out some Meatloaf lyrics to a few coworkers. "If life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car, and objects in the rear-view mirror may appear closer than they are." I know that as we examine our memories of this year or past years, there are those moments that we might just as soon forget. However, they are just a glance away in that rear view mirror and always seem to be glancing back at us. Is this for the benefit of self-examination?

I had hoped to live a life that was * free but it seems under re-examination that there could be several *s in my life stats. So tell me, what’s a man to do? Does he stare, eyes forward, straight through this New Year and straight through the people whom he meets? Is there a good that comes from not acknowledging self and therefore closed off to the *s in the lives of our family, friends, co-workers, people we see in the larger community?

There is no good in ripping off the rear view mirror from the windshield of life just so we won’t be reminded of our past. As painful as it may be to look back at some of our memories, there is a good, a deep goodness that comes from the process. I am not proposing we make any large announcements or hold a press conference. Most of our stuff is very private and should remain so. But in the processing of our stuff we find moments of strength and vantage points on which to stand where we can view other low spots and see the path that lead us through them. I have found out so much about life when I have taken the time to look around the * that was blocking my view and by processing the path that lead me to that moment. We may even be uncomfortable with the extra spacing and apparent disorder or asymmetrical look when we acknowledge the *s in our life. (shhh, listen to my whisper…) Could it be that my life is not in the correct format of the commonly accepted style? And if that is true then could it also be that other people see that already? And if so, what effect does this have on my identification?

What’s a man to do?

What are you going to do with the *s in your life stats?

I used to be...

This morning as Corban was receiving massage therapy the therapist was watching the DVD I had put in to coax Corban onto the table. Third Day Christmas Offerings was playing out before us and the therapist said, "I like this group better than the other one you've had on before." I sat on my hands so that I wouldn't run the risk of flipping him off since the "other group" was my beloved Hillsong. I said, "Yeah, they are good." Then I quit talking and started listening again. The story began to come out from the therapist that growing up in their church, you would never have heard this kind of music before, especially with the instruments. Growing up in their church did not allow instruments or dancing or a lot of things and at 17 years of age was the final time that the hypocrisy cup reached the full mark. This 50 something therapist had not given up on God but had any kind of church. I kept listening. Mac and the Third Day kept singing and it felt like I was interrupting a sermon. Finally I said that I thought more people would give God a chance if other people didn't get in the way. (How profound...haha)

Hurting people are just an elbow length away from us. I love to listen for the pain and offer it an outlet.

The Stand...

On Saturday morning, an hour and a half before sunrise, a thief attacked my boy in his room. It was 5:30 am. The Brinks alarm did not recognize the intruder.

For several years, eleven years on December 9, 2008 to be exact, I have stood watch over my son Corban. When we began, he was in mom and dad's room where he was close to us. When he moved to his room there was the wireless monitor that created our ability to interpret sounds and discern those of joy from those of need. It was Corban's neurologist that finally suggested we turn the monitor off and try to get some rest ourselves which came after years of light sleeping. But there is a need that goes deeper than self preservation I think.

On most nights I will simply open his bedroom door and look in, listening for silence and even a sense of smell comes into play that I won't go into as you may be eating while you read this. A small lamp with a log cabin base and a vanilla shade with the silhouette of a moose and pine trees glows from the 15 watt bulb and gives enough light to burn all night and illuminate the room enough to see my boy sleeping. In his outdoor themed room hang a few deer heads that his daddy has taken and they are turned toward his bed in frozen stares that seem to be watching him. I know that may not be your thing but it is mine and so it has become Corban's as well. So every night, I and the herd stand watch over him in order to be alerted to anything that seems out of place. Oh but our reasons are valid and there have been no less than three times of heart stopping surprise when I have looked into my boy's room. After the third gran mal seizure, I learned to stare the others down. But it is less than easy.

So it happened that on this past Friday night when Corban crawled sleepily up beside me on the couch and we pulled the afghan over our legs that we both went to sleep sometime after 9 pm. Several hours later I woke up and carried us both into his room. Scooting him over, I crawled in bed beside him since mom had an early seminar the next morning. I wanted the chance to sleep in while she would be getting her morning routine going. It was 5:30 am when the first sound of the intruder woke me with gasping and the jerking of Corban's arm was followed by eyes fixed open and stiffness like a board in his neck and shoulders. The intruder had crept in undetected and was trying to take something of great importance away from me.

And so it goes on most nights this watch that I stand over my boy and the knowledge that there may come a time when the thief will come when least expected. And there is nothing I can do but trust in the one who made my boy and made him the way that he is. We are all made in God's image, right? That was a tough one for me to process. I process other tough things now and I am grateful. I am grateful to the one who made me and my boy who looks so much like me. We both have our weaknesses, our respective disabilities, and the similarities. The most glaring similarity is that our identity was given to us by default though the journey we are on to discover that identity is a journey everyday and it is earned.

Will you stand with me over my boy? Do you stand over your children or those of others? How about yourself? The only phrase that seems to make sense is this, "Abba, I am yours and I belong to you." For some reason that phrase helps me see through the blindness of life and I hold onto it with everything. I stand. Will you stand with me?

Halloween night came to the door...

Written in 2005 when Corban was seven years old.

Halloween night came to the door this year and found Corban and me at home with a big cauldron of candy at the ready. I support Halloween but this year didn't think walking Corban around the neighborhood would be as much fun as answering the door...that almost sounds believable, right? Anyway, we were at home, porch light and pumpkins lit up when the first of many doorbell rings chimed across the living room.

I invite Corban to come to the door with me which he eagerly agrees to do and as the door opens we hear, "trick or treat". I tell Corban to give them some candy and in goes his hand and out comes, usually one, sometimes three pieces of candy and he drops it into their bags. Now, I've got nothin at this point. I mean, what a night for kid’s right? You get to dress up or not and go around with a bag or pillow case and ask people who you don't talk to all year to give you something...for free. So I'm just a 40 somethin white guy passing out candy and that's about as animated I get at Halloween. But Corban...that's a different story. The trick or treaters are having to wait for this kid to pick the right candy and put it in their bag. Now, he's fast but not as fast as I would be. But then my delivery method would be to chunk handfuls out the door and let them go get it. Not Corban. He picks a candy and looks for the open bag, drops it in and yells "Yeah!" at the same time thrusting his right arm into the air. Not once mind you but every time he gives a piece of candy. Three kids at the door, three "Yeah's!" and so on. Then after all the Yeah's! are given out and the kids are walking away he starts squealing and clapping and as we turn and push the door shut he continues down the hallway clapping and cheering.

I've got to think, I want to think, that my Abba is like that. He is choosing what to give me, looks for the opening, drops it into my life and then cheers at the prospect of what is to become of that gift. I know that he gets strange looks from me as I stand at the door and witness his cheerful giving, wondering why he should be so excited about something so ordinary. But there is something more than the ordinary going on here. His continued cheering as he heads back down the hallway gives me courage and strength in the days when I wonder if the gift was enough.

It is enough.

This week's Theme Song...

My mind is captured by these words.

REMEDY ~ David Crowder Band ©

Here we are
Here we are
The broken and used
Mistreated, abused
Here we are

Here You are
Here You are
The beautiful one
Who came like a Son
Here You are

So we lift up our voices
And open our hands
To cling to the love
That we can’t comprehend

Oh, lift up your voices
And lift up your hands
To sing of the love
That has freed us from sin

He is the one
Who has saved us
He is the one
Who embraced us
He is the one who has come
And is coming again
He’s the remedy

Here we are
Here we are
Bandaged and bruised
Awaiting a cure
Here we are

Here You are
Here You are
Our beautiful King
Bringing relief
Here You are with us

So we lift up our voices
And open our hands
Let go of the things
That have kept us from Him

He is the one
Who has saved us
He is the one
Who forgave us
He is the one who has come
And is coming again
He’s the remedy

Oh, I can’t comprehend
I can’t take it all in
Never understand
Such perfect love come
For the broken and beat
For the wounded and weak
Oh, come fall at His feet
He’s the remedy
He’s the remedy

He is the one
Who has saved us
He is the one
Who forgave us
He is the one who has come
And is coming again
He’s the remedy

He’s the remedy
He’s the remedy
He’s the remedy
He’s the remedy
So sing, sing

You are the one
Who has saved us
You are the one
Who forgave us
You are the one who has come
And is coming again
You are the one who has come
And you're coming again
You are the one who has come
And is coming again
To make it alright
Oh, to make it alright
You’re the remedy
Oh, in us
You’re the remedy
Oh, in us
You’re the remedy

Let us be the remedy
Let us be the remedy
Let us bring the remedy

TooL...

Sunday morning I walked through the outer garage door and saw a balloon dragging a long ribbon resting against the car in my driveway. The first thought entering my mind was someone’s trash had come into my yard. The second thought, as I took the ribbon in hand, was to move it away from the car so that the balloon could find its way into my neighbor’s yard and out of my zone of irritation. I let go of the ribbon and expected the balloon to fly away but it did not move. “Well,” I said, “the ribbon is holding you back.”

This balloon that had found its resting point in my space was expensive, one of those $2.98 balloons from Party City or Balloon Heaven or some place like that. Its’ translucent white skin was decorated with fancy white hearts; I’m saying that this trash had been the guest of honor at someone’s baby shower or wedding. Looking at the long pink ribbon I counted to be six feet long you can see knots where other balloons had been tied before. For some reason this balloon had not enjoyed the unknown fate of the others who had been bound to this same ribbon. Perhaps if the other balloons were still together, they would have been better able to carry the weight of the ribbon between the three of them but as it was, all the weight was left for this one lost guest of honor to carry…and it was too much.

Still irritated, I remembered the knife in my pocket and walked back to the balloon, cut the long pink ribbon at five feet and 9 inches, and then I just let the guest of honor “go.” I watched as the balloon, now much stronger and able to carry the lesser weight, lift up into the air at an angle, rising slowly but steadily. As I backed out of the garage with the family in the truck, I looked again and checked the new heights being reached. Having risen much higher now and having cleared the trees and power lines it was headed south as it reached for higher air.

Why didn’t I grab a Mark’s-a-lot® and write a message of hope for the next person to find the balloon to read? I wondered. But I have come to realize that sometimes not all messages are written out in succinct form nor appear in a form that I am expecting.

Why did I put the knife in my pocket that morning? Would there be some boxes to open at church…no I don’t think so.

Was the knife a tool waiting to be used at just the right time? Does a tool become a tool by nature or is it in the using of the intended nature that makes it a tool?

Why was I so quick to try to let the trash find itself in someone else’s yard? Was it from the late nights of the weekend irritation that blurred my senses?

What if I carried my tools with me everyday so that when its purpose was needed it would not inflict harm but instead lessen the burden that was not intended to be carried alone? Would that make a difference in my life by clearing out my yard or would the difference benefit someone besides me?

I wonder about that…

Promptings for this week...

A reply email from a coworker contained an animated graphic that read “Thank You” as it spun around in a circle. As I looked, Abba said to send back, “You are a good man, but use his native language.” An accurate Google search provided a link to an English to Urdu translation so I typed in the phrase and clicked the transliterate option. It gave me the phrase in hand written Urdu (Pakistani) that I could not read, let alone pronounce. I copy/pasted the handwritten Urdu and sent it to my guy. For all I knew, the free translation page may have conjured up a string of curse words. 30 minutes later when I was with this man in a meeting he asked how I was able to write that into the email. I said that I have my ways then he turned to three more managers and said, “Do you know what this man did?” as he pointed at me, “He wrote in my language, “You are a good person.” A chain reaction was set off, not only in his mind but also, in the three people standing next to us.

Why go to the trouble to speak a blessing into the life of this man in the language of his heart?

Why does Abba go to the trouble to get my attention by speaking to my heart?

Wendy's...

I want to pay for the guy behind me…

Two intense days of training at school had my butt seated for 7.5 hours each day for two days straight. I think the information we were given was intended for a three day session but was forced into two days for some reason. Although it gave me information overload, it was just what I needed and at just the right time. By Friday afternoon I was mentally “full” when I reached home and the yard was calling out to be mowed. I said hello to Beth and Corban, changed clothes, and fired up the lawn mower.

An hour or so when I finished the yard work I was hot and still not hungry for supper but when 11:30 pm showed on the clock I jumped in the truck and headed to Wendy’s because, well, they are open late. The drive thru line was both long and slow. A minute later I watched a man ride up behind me on a Honda Goldwing. I thought the man looked familiar but a few more glances in the side view mirror and I realized that wasn’t the question that was being asked. The question was, “Why don’t you pay for this guy’s meal?” I didn’t take into account that he might be buying for a family of six and stuff the sacks into his saddlebags but I didn’t really care about that. One thing I have noticed is that when I stop following Abba’s voice I not only miss out on the great opportunity to serve but I turn my face away from Him.

It makes no sense to buy food for a complete stranger who I will not be speaking to nor will I most likely see anytime soon. But in this moment it was the faithful thing to do. I was taking a chance. I paid with cash – no debit card tracing on this deal.

I wondered what was going on in the night manager’s mind. I had just paid for a person’s meal but that was the easy part. Now the night manager had to figure out a way to tell the motorcycle man. And the motorcycle man had to accept the free supper since there was no one to pay back.

So, who was this prompting for? Was it for me? Was it for the night manager at Wendy’s? Was it for the motorcycle man?

The only thing that I think that I know is this: Being faithful to the voice was able to set into motion a chain reaction of events of which there may be no end.

What do you do with the promptings in your life?

A Desert Sage...

Do you see me?

For some reason, through a process that has developed over the years, I seem to hear God most while mowing the yard. There is clarity to thoughts that surface during the process. So as I walked by the front porch where the dusty green leafed Desert Sage was planted a few years ago, it asked, “Do you see me? Do you see what I am doing?” I passed on the question but the next time I walked by, and the mower was off, the locust in the large Red Oak tsk, tsk’d me as if they were reminding me to respond to God’s prodding question. So I took another look at this bush, planted in a not so great place and tried to see what it was asking of me.

The Desert Sage in my front yard is actually planted in an area of clay about 12”x24” at the front of the garage, just next to the walk up to the front porch. It is surrounded by concrete and the room it has to grow is small. When it was planted I dug a deep hole, put the roots in the hole, and then covered it with top soil. I chose this plant for this location due to its drought resistant nature and ability for full sun. I thought that being surrounded by concrete in the North Texas summer was not conducive to healthy growth. Yet this plant has survived here, in this spot where it was planted a few years ago. It is slightly larger now though not as large as the huge shrub size one that is at the Chic-fil-a drive through near my home. I wonder if mine is not so big because of where it is planted? I wonder what would happen if I transplanted it to open ground with a deeper root growth area?

For weeks on end during the dry summer months the dusty green leafed sage fulfills its purpose of providing color and breaking up the monotony of brick and by filling a hole surrounded by concrete. But on the rare occasions when rain visits this Desert Sage, well, look at it now. The dusty green is filled with bright purple flowers adding another color and beauty to what was plain. Now when people walk by it draws their eye. Still it fills its stated purpose in the place where it finds itself planted. Still it resists drought by not giving up its nature for the momentary rain fall that unlocks the purple flowers. The flowers are there for a few days until the soil grows dry again. They promise to return when the time is right.

I wonder what the Desert Sage asked me to see about myself when it asked me to look at its nature and location?

The Handshake...

“You left me hangin’ Mr. B, that’s wrong…”

I was standing in the empty hallway near my office and engaged in a quiet conversation with a 30 something year old male student about his relationship between him and his wife. Just then a class down the hallway went on break and one of my daily hand shakers headed toward us. Now, I am looking into the face of the man as I speak to him some words of hope when from the side comes this hand, extended into our conversation. I looked briefly at the hand shaker, nodded, then turned back to the man I was conversing with and continued speaking. I felt it as the hand shaker walked away, his hand left hanging in the air, untouched. I also heard him say, “You left me hangin’ Mr. B, that’s wrong…” In the blink of an eye the smile and enthusiasm left this guy as he hung his head and walked on down the hallway. We were still speaking when the hand shaker walked by us again, his face showing pain. He didn’t offer his hand this time.

I wasn’t trying to be mean, disrespectful, or even teach the guy a lesson. I was trying to give my undivided attention to this one man who is in pain from his relational hell that he is living. He noticed that I didn’t shake the man’s hand and as more students began to fill the hallways he let me end our 40 minute conversation so I could take care of other needs. My first steps were not back to my desk or to another part of the school. Instead my first steps were toward the classroom where the guy that I, “left hangin’” retreated into. I stopped at the door, stuck my head in the room and caught his eye at the back of the room. He was not smiling and his usual happiness had left him. He also did not immediately jump up and come to the door. But as another student asked me for help and I pointed her in the right direction, I held my stand and looked back to his eyes. He got up and came outside the room where I handed him a bus pass. I apologized for doing him wrong. He repeated how I hurt him. I apologized again and then cautiously took a step further and explained to him why I had given my undivided attention to that student just as I am in this moment to him. As he accepted my apology I looked into his watery eyes and said, “You are a good man.” A painful smile formed and he thanked me and went back into class after I had shaken his hand again.

This man with a family, unemployed, who rides the local bus to school every day and has to ask for a bus pass to help out when he has little money, was not looking for just a hand shake I would venture to say. But what he was looking for, he did not immediately receive and certainly not in the same manner to which he had become accustomed.

What was he looking for?

This morning as I head back in to school, I wonder how he will greet me in the hallway…