The Lens Crafter

Shaping the lens...

2011-02-03T21:52:00.001-06:00

Dr Angel Hernandez with Corban

two days after brain surgery

These photos are from 2005 when Corban was 6 years old. It was his second brain surgery at Cook Children's Hospital in Fort Worth, Texas. The man shown is Dr. Angel Hernandez, a pediatric neurologist who directs Corban's neuroscience care still today. The surgeries were performed by neurosurgeons Dr David Donahue and Dr Johnnie Honeycutt.

Six years later the scar is still visible though not as easy to see. It's a simple reminder of a season of multifarious thoughts and feelings and it's times like this that bring out the boldness in me. I remember following Dr Donahue out of preop to say that I had one more question I didn't want to ask in front of my wife. He leaned his head to hear and I asked, "After this surgery will Corban be able to play the piano?" He looked at me as I continued, "because he couldn't play it before." A smile cracked across his caring face and while shaking his head, said, "That's bad, that's really bad." And those are the last words I said to the man who was about to remove half of my son's right hemisphere. But I knew the words on his mind were the ones he heard while praying over Corban earlier that November morning.

Imagine handing your child over to another while giving them permission to remove a portion of the brain and asking them to hand your child back to you the same as before, only better. This is a part of the lens crafter's work as he increases my vision.

Esther Amate, RN, EMU nurse and Betsy Bowen, CCLS,

have a laugh with Corban

Will Corb run part 2...

2009-06-17T01:05:00.003-05:00

Corban’s cousins, Hunter, eight years and Hayden, six years, head off down the long gravel driveway on their bikes, headed for the road. Corb takes off on foot, running as best he can, catches a toe, lands chest first. I walk over and call to him at which time he gives me that look that I know to be one of pain and basically a cry for HELP! Little arm outstretched, palm facing out shows me the gray dust from the gravel with a slight nick from a sharp rock or two. Lifting him up I ask if he wants to go down the road with the boys. He nods affirmative. Off we go, father and son, looking longingly to the boys riding on the road. We get to where they were, but they are now further along the road, turning around and heading back to us they pass, and so we turn only to walk back to them and this continues for several minutes. I feel Corb rest his head on the top of my head, arms draped to the sides.

How often do we long to be where someone else is, but we just cannot seem to get there without a lot of pain and frustration? Quite often, I’m thinking. We see friends advancing along at what would compare to our movement as light speed, and about the time we get to where they were, they are further down the road. Maybe with our jobs or finances or marriage or family or our worship we wish to be further down the road, with friends, not playing catch up. How great is it to have a father that calls out to us, lifts us up, dusts us off, carries us on his shoulders to get to where we need to be. It seems to be at that one moment, that point of realizing our helplessness that He comes, and is now able to give us what we need to get further on down the road. Funny how often I forget how I got there and start longing to be somewhere else. If I can just be patient, He will give me what is right for me. He will place me on the road in a safe spot where I can be happy, where I can see improvement. The road is still gravel it’s just not where I started out.

So I ask Corb if he’s having a good time on the road, up on my shoulders, and I feel his affirmative nod, hear a sigh. He’s all good knowing that even if he can’t be what he wants to be on his own terms, his Father will help him get there. Oh, to have his heart everyday and to be able to give my Father the affirmative nod when he asks if I’m happy.

October 2003

Brian Herrian <'((><

Will Corb run...

2009-06-17T01:02:00.000-05:00

For the past few years now I have been watching my son's progress towards normality. I've come to realize that one of us has changed. Either he has, or I have, or both of us have, and it's probably been the latter.

Will he run? Yes he will. Corb will run, that is. Oh to have his heart. He loves wide open spaces. You can see the adrenaline release in his body when he hits the open flats...the aisle of home depot, the back yard, the fields at Integrity park. He runs, headlong, out of control, characteristically with one arm out in front and the other pointing back and down as if holding onto the reigns of some imaginary horse, galloping at top speed. Running across level ground is one thing but uneven ground is another. Subtle changes in the hard packed soil are barely noted in my walk, but to him they hold skin changing possibilities. Scuffed knees or elbows have begun to form and yet he still runs, falls, headlong onto the hard surface, catching himself with his chest. Tears should come soon but instead you hear laughter. He's not laughing at the crash and burn so much as he is at the ability to just run. Un-encumbered (wearing braces?), taking great strides (tight muscled gait). He runs, not away from something but to something? To freedom? To Joy? To Pain? Not to pain, for in spite of pain, he runs. He runs as if to find something, looking for it, expecting to find it whatever it is. Runs, falls, laughs, picks himself up off the ground, doesn't look back, runs again. Oh, to have his heart right now. To have his heart that says no matter what calamity comes my way I will get back up and keep going for it. To have his determination that he will get the important job done. To have his resilience...face the pain and go for it again. To be free. Free from what people think and wired into what Father thinks. To know the heart of God. To have the spirit in you so tight that you try to communicate, the message but the message just doesn't come out in understandable language. To know with certainty that the Father is walking or running beside you. Could it be that the laughter from falling onto hard packed ground is because he is falling into the arms of the Father and I just don't see it? Could it be the angels given charge over Corb are also falling and laughing. Is that normal? If that is normal, give me all of that you have left.

October 2003

Brian Herrian <'((><

We fall down...

2009-06-17T00:59:00.001-05:00

On Wednesday when I went to Dayspring, the after school care place, to pick up Corban he was surrounded by a gang of boys, as usual. They were doing more than just kicking the ball around though. As I watched them and listened to what they were saying, they were encouraging Corban to run, to kick, to make the imaginary goal and as usual when I come into the yard, I say in a very loud voice, "Where's my Corban!" to which his reply is to run a few steps toward me then spinning and running as fast as he can in the opposite direction, arms flailing accompanied by squeals of excitement. I chase after him and the squeals continue. He wants me to pick him up and I go to hug him. Mom says not to carry him around in front of the other boys so we usually walk out on our own but always hand in hand. On this particular day, there were three boys that stayed with him on our chase around the yard and as they ran they were saying, "Go Corban." "Run fast." and then as if planned but it couldn't have been, they fell down, in succession, mumbling something as they did. They were not making fun of him, they were making him normal. Every day I am surprised for some reason at the types of people who love my son. He will be just fine, no matter what happens. I have to start accepting that I think.

October 2004

Brian Herrian <'((><

Deep Healing...

2009-06-17T00:51:00.002-05:00

A very precise surgeon has cut a hole in my boy's skull and has plans to cut into his brain...that sounds like the opposite of healing to me but that is what his goal is in doing it. Cutting deep through a hard surface in order to help start a road to healing. That's what God does in my heart, he cuts deep through the hard stuff and keeps cutting...all in the name of healing. And just like my boy who still musters a smile and bounces on the bed with glee when he see's friendly faces, I want to see God in all of this. My Father has nothing but love for me.

November 2004

Brian Herrian <'((><

Definition...

2009-06-17T00:49:00.001-05:00

I work with two guys who are into definition. One, the boss, goes to Lifetime fitness every morning, same time, same routine. In his prime he squatted 720 pounds. Today at 41 years his knees won’t support that kind of weight but he could still put you inside a Pepsi can just by looking at his definition. The other muscle man is slowly covering his definition with ink. Tatt's are a part of his non verbal definition. Outside is strong. Inside is scared and insecure by definition.

Trimming the sidewalk with the weed eater gives definition. People who walk the path may not see what kind of effort is put into it but the definition is there.

We meet new people. The second or third question is, "So, what do you do?" That question is like the definition can opener. Does what I do define me? Seems to. Or are we just comparing our definition against theirs, to see if we match or is it for validation? "I'm an engineer at NASA." "That must be interesting. I sweep floors." "Wow, you must see a lot of dirt." "Yeah, it has its' moments."

Our parents, present or absent or unknown, gave us definition. Our childhood peers, coaches, teachers gave us definition. As adults we work around, through, or under our definition. Now parents ourselves, we give or have given our children their definition with a look, a glance, a glare, a shaking of the head in approval or in disapproval. Some definition given is like firing a gun into the night sky, not knowing where or how the bullet will strike the unknown target. Years later the injury is revealed or kept hidden still, giving off definition.

Jesus came into this world by definition that was given long ago. Still, it seems that it was hard for people to see who he was. Those closest to him physically and socially, his peers, missed his definition at first. Two fishermen by the sea, mending their nets and Jesus asks them if they wouldn't like a new definition..."Fishers of men? Hey, we'd probably have as good a luck with that as we have all these years fishing and getting sun burnt and stinging eyes from the salt spray. Why not, we'll give it a try." They were marked for a new definition.

What is the big picture in your world? What does that picture's definition offer as insight into your life? Are you stuck under a definition? Are you working around or through a definition? Look closely at the big screen of high definition in your life. Is there something you missed before? What makes the big picture a little more clear? Better reception or a higher definition...or both working together as a team on your life's definition?

I look back and I see defining moments in my life. Some good. Some I would rather not acknowledge. Then I look closer and I see something new...a redefinition. Redefining moments that have overtaken the old ones, giving life and hope and peace, and patience, and joy, and faithfulness, and self control, and kindness, and gentleness, and joy, goodness and love.

Jesus was one thing that is most important to us. He was Abba's child. He asked us to become Abba's child too. Why am I to be childlike? Because it forces me out of and into a new definition. Try sitting in chairs that were made for two year olds and not feel something different. Try a child's game and see if you don't feel like there is a change in your definition.

There is one definition that is more powerful than any other and it calls to us at this moment. By it we are made powerful though it may feel anything but powerful to our nature. By it we are givin the freedom to become who we are meant to become. To this one definition, all others give way to its' strength.

Am I willing to continue accepting this new definition day after day? Am I willing to find strength in weakness? Am I able to put down the weight that I've been carrying around and allow this single definition make me whole again?

By now there is one word I don't want to type and you don't want to read anymore. But by this one word we who are. We are Abba's child. Nothing more. Nothing less.

1 John 3:1
How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him.
Thank you Father for redefining us. Thank you Father for loving us. Thank you.

Brian Herrian <'((>< May 2006

Home Depot 2005...

2009-06-17T00:47:00.000-05:00

At the Home Depot this Saturday morning Corban and I were standing in line to check out, in the outside garden area. In line in front of us, waiting for his tall, fit, ball-capped, sunglassed dad to complete their checkout the little boy of five years of age and red hair stepped back and forth between the Coke cooler and the space between it and his dad. As he stepped backwards the wheel of the shopping cart tripped him and he sorta fell backwards, catching himself against his dad before landing on his bottom on the floor. He quickly stood up and looked up at his red haired dad who by this time was looking down at him and shaking his head disapprovingly, no smile on his face. The boy leaned into him as if to get as close to his dad as possible and said something inaudible to me. But his actions seemed to loudly say, "Dad? Am I alright? Am I OK? Do you still like me? Are you proud of me?"

By now the boy has moved on from that event I'm sure, those moments don't often last long. But then again, it depends on how the future trail with his dad turns this way or that. Those moments of unanswered questions get in line to be answered at some time. It could be at age 16 or 44, or 76. They will have their answer.

Thank you Abba for being the answer to the unanswered questions in my life.

Brian Herrian <'((><

The Giver...

2009-06-17T00:34:00.003-05:00

This past May on the Friday before Mother's Day 2005, Corban's school teacher had helped her kids make a bouquet of flowers for their mom. The four large flowers, a mixture of pastel blue, pink, yellow, and purple tissue paper on fuzzy green pipe cleaner stems with just a spritz of perfume for effect, were a hit! Corban held them proudly and gave them to mom who made over them like it was the best gift ever. Truth be told my dozen roses to Beth paled in comparison to this handmade gift which still sits on the sofa table in the living room.

Several months have passed since Mother's Day and the giving of the flowers. I cannot tell you, literally cannot, how many times those flowers have been given and given and given and re-given to mom by her loving son. The prompting of the giving does not come from me and the excitement in the giving is high, sometimes even more than the past times of giving. I may be watching ESPN when Corban runs into the living room, grabs the vase of flowers, lurches back into the bedroom from where I hear a loud, "For me? Corban, they are so beautiful! Thank you!" Or I may get to witness the blonde headed giver grin from ear to ear as he dances in place and squeals from the excitement of the giving as he hands them to mom while she is cutting vegetables for a salad. The gift is the same and the times of giving seem random but the excitement is something to see.

I thought today of how my Abba has given me a gift, then given and given and given and re-given the same gift to me at what seem like random times though His excitement is the same if not more intense than the time before. I cry as I think about His grace given to me over and over again. I want the same attitude about this gift as Beth has for Corban's gift..."For me? It is so beautiful! Thank you!"

Thank you, Abba, for being the Giver.

Brian Herrian <'((><

Learning to say yes, in the dumpster...

2009-06-17T00:32:00.001-05:00

It was November, 2006, when I came to realize something about my work. At first I became angry and then found myself laughing out loud. Standing in the dumpster, a literal dumpster, as a warehouse manager, I realized that I was smashing down boxes in order for us to get more boxes into the dumpster. But wait, I have a 4 year college degree in youth ministry. What the heck am I doing in a dumpster? How did I get here? I turned to Lobo Vongsakda, my coworker and asked him the same question I had just asked myself. He smiled and nodded and handed me more boxes. So I started laughing.

There have been times in my life when I have just not wanted to express the power of a loving Father into the lives of my coworkers. Various reasons of why are on the list but the biggest reason is simply one word…”No.” I discovered I had a disease, a fairly common disease that overtakes us at times and it had overtaken me. I had cognitive dissonance. What? What is that? Simply stated, it is attempting to hold onto two beliefs of conflicting thought at the same time. This is when one thought has to be true but not both can be true so they conflict. The conflict results in being miserable and life basically being, well, not good. I had been hearing Abba’s voice prompting me to be true to him, to be true to the calling that I had heard long ago and still heard. I just didn’t want to think that the place where I was standing was the place I was supposed to serve. But it was in the dumpster where I said yes to God. And saying yes was me being tired of the results of having said no for long enough that I didn’t want to say no anymore. That week, my life changed for the better. In fact the next morning is when I began to notice the change. I spoke truthfully about my faith and told my story about how I got where I was without fear of rejection. It didn’t matter anymore because my heart, the new heart that Abba gave me, had also said yes.

Unexpected events began to happen in my life and that of my family. And may I just state here that I can’t begin to tell you how Abba will work in your life or that He will follow the same plan as He did in mine. But I can tell you that He promised to work his plan, the one designed just for you, in His own timing and it will have its’ own unexpected events. Life became smoother making the rough spots easier to handle and family life began to grow better. I was at peace instead of conflict even standing in the dumpster. Letting go of the conflicting thought that was standing in the way of God’s work in me opened up a new room in my mind and I again began to see God everywhere. But the benefits of having said yes were not limited to only emotional development. In December of 2006 I began to drive a pickup that I didn’t pay for because someone I never expected decided to gift me with their older truck instead of trading it in. It was an upgrade by 8 years newer and two hundred thousand miles less than the truck I had been driving. In August of 2007 a friend I had previously worked with suggested I apply to work in their company and on September 17, 2007 I said yes to a job offer that would put me alongside of over 500 people on a daily basis. Oh, in the interview I was as transparent as I could be. I told the interview panel that I would be speaking truth into the lives of people who worked there and into the lives of students at the training center and the still hired me. I’ve been working there for 17 months and we are over 1,200 people strong now and growing and I get to walk alongside of them. Oh and the best part is, it turned out this was my dream job. I’ve never enjoyed a better place or work. Did I mention that in October of 2007 my son’s name, Corban, came up on a waiting list that I had forgotten completely about? We signed him up when he was 7 months old due to his cerebral palsy. They got to his name as he was about to turn 10. It was a nine year waiting list. And his name came up at just the right time.

There are many other unexpected events that captured my attention and the best thing is none of the monetary or like mannered gifts even begin to compare to the worth of what Abba gave to me a long time ago. The gift of a son, His son, and saying yes to the calling he had heard from his Abba which lead him to a cross and which lead him to me in the dumpster, has changed my life forever. I wonder what would happen if you said yes to God?

Brian Herrian <'((><

The Toolbox...

2009-06-17T00:31:00.000-05:00

I remember in the early days when life was still fresh and did not have the patina that is has today. There was one day when Beth and I were just married and had bought our first car together, a Volkswagen Jetta, with the factory mag wheels and all. We were so excited. One day Beth was driving a stretch of North Council where the shoulder had been washed out and drove off the edge of the road, bending the wheel enough to break the bead on the tire and having a flat. There was a flat spot on the rim and there was no way it would hold a tire, it was useless and when I checked on a replacement it was $100. To us, back in 1986, that was a lot of money. But the parts guy said there was a shop downtown that the guy might (might) be able to do something with it. I drove up to this hole in the wall tire repair garage, a dark grey painted cinder block building. He told me to leave it with him; it might break due to the type of metal but if he could fix it it was $25. I came back two hours later and it looked like a factory rim, no flat spot. I wanted to give the guy $100 just for fixing it but he just stared at me and shook his head.

My dad spent the time with me on the farm, letting me watch how to use tools, teaching me how to tell when a bolt I was torquing on with my youthful strength was tight enough and let me break a few bolts in learning "the touch". We moved to town and I worked on the cars, for the last two years of my High School I went the first half of the day to the Vo-Tech in Enid and spent three hours in the Auto Mechanics Shop. To me, at the time in my life, working on cars was my passion. My mom had preaching in mind for me but she blessed me one day by saying that if I wanted to be an auto mechanic then I could be God's auto mechanic just fine. All I had to do was say yes to His calling in whatever I was doing. As a kid, I would wonder why my dad could spend two hours in the tool section of Sears just looking at walls and shelves of tools without really every buying anything. I don't know that I ever saw him buy anything. Several years ago, he gave me his Craftsman toolbox full of the tools he had so carefully spent time collecting. I don't know how old they are but they have seen and heard quite a bit of knuckle-busting-name-calling-flying through the air in their lifetime. I cherish those tools, because they were given to me by dad and that they are so useful. Ever try to do something and you find you don't have the right tool? It's so frustrating and often you will spend way more time trying to do a job without the right tool than if you equipped your toolbox with what you need.

So that's life; you are taught, you study, you gain experience, you are given the tools that you need and once in a while you surprise someone (sometimes yourself) and use it to benefit others. How great is it to just smile and shake your head at their excitement? It's pretty great.

Brian Herrian <'((><

Shadows...

2009-06-17T00:30:00.001-05:00

Tonight the wind blows stronger, and cooler in the backyard. Just this afternoon I was doing yard work and tending the garden in this same place. It had a different look to it then, all lit up and in vivid detail. The Bermuda fighting for control over the dollar weed, the okra, tomatoes and melons looking hopeful for a July harvest. But tonight, things are not so lit up and the vivid detail has been blacked out. The pole light (that's country talk for street light) on the corner to the north of the house shines enough to project the leaves of the tree in my side yard onto the back fence giving it a kind of dark camouflage that moves about and seems to be alive. The windsock owl decoy from Cabela's guarding the garden with wings extended and cupped, flap eerily in the breeze as it hangs suspended in mid air as if coming in for the kill, the detail of its body covered in blackness. The small sounds coming from the darker corners of the yard just to my left, during the daylight would go unnoticed but, tonight they invite my attention as I slowly turn my eyes to see what is sneaking up on me without alarming it into attack. Shadows...

So it is in the mind of a man who lives in the past, letting the shadows catch up to him and in a moment of darkness, letting them steal away his confidence. So it is in the mind of a man who just a few short hours earlier was king of all he surveyed, but now, in the darkness, he begins to question that which he knew for sure in vivid detail to be of no power. So it is in the mind of a man who allows his mind to be open to thoughts that are not of the light but of dark. But so it is in the mind of a man who remembers that what is seen is temporary, that darkness lasts but a night and joy comes in the morning, that the Abba who made the sun stand still for the battle to be won...is the same Abba who walked beside his son in the garden as Jesus prayed so strongly that the shadows creeping up on him might pass to someone else. So it is in the mind of a man who has lived to experience that he is fully known and fully loved by his Abba and that no shadows can stand in the light unless they are revealed by the sun itself.

Tonight the wind blows stronger, and cooler in the backyard and Abba is there, in the shadows...not hiding but trading life for death, not compromising but reclaiming confidence that had sold low to fear. So it is in the mind of a man who is able to believe in his heart that no matter what he sees in the darkness, Abba created the darkness too and whatever Abba creates belongs to him.

Peace,
Brian Herrian <'((><

Resurrection...

2009-06-17T00:29:00.000-05:00

This week we heard a story about what happened in my boy Corban’s class this past Sunday at church. Corban is 11 years old.

As Easter Sunday approaches, the children’s ministry has been telling the pre-story events that occurred in Jesus life before the morning of his resurrection. The story will conclude with Jesus busting out of the tomb on Easter Sunday. So as one of the ministry team was talking about the sadness of what Jesus was going through with the religious leaders who rejected Him and influenced people to reject Him as well as his trial and suffering that he endured, Corban was sitting at the back of the class with his Sunday morning volunteer. Just then, with the other 4th/5th graders chit-chatting and not paying too close attention, Corban stands up and walks to the front of the room and sits down on the low stage next to the story teller. As he sits, Matt puts his arm across Corban’s shoulders and continues his story. Corban emits a whimper and Matt looks at Corban and asks, “Corban does it make you sad to hear what Jesus went through for us?” Corban responded with his version of YES by quietly saying, “Doh” followed by a little cry. The chit-chatters grew silent as they looked at what was happening up at the front of the room. All eyes were focused on stage. Matt continued by saying to Corban, “It’s OK for us to be sad about what happened to Jesus because after all the pain that He went through, Jesus came out of the tomb on Sunday morning.” And better than if it had been scripted, Corban jumps to his feet and thrusts both arms into the air and shouts, “YEAH!”

Jennifer Day, the ministry leader, filled in the blanks for us of what must have been going through the kids’ minds as they saw this strange boy with cerebral palsy who likes to throw the ball back and forth in the hallway.

As for me, I have witnessed Corban’s compassion on numerous occasions and it occurs without prompting from mom or dad. The unknowing world may look at Corban and see that he rides the special bus, has a scar across his head from ear to ear, wears braces on his legs, walks funny, doesn’t talk, makes shrieking sounds now and then, claps for no apparent reason, and so on. But on this day the unknowing world stopped their chit-chatting for a boy who has a heart that is aware and which has a connection with the loving Father, who gave him life, of which I am envious of. On this day, a loving Father chose to speak through a boy and the best thing about it was He used a boy who had no words to express his feelings. The message came through loud and clear.

Brian Herrian <'((><

At the lunch counter today...

2009-06-17T00:26:00.000-05:00

Today eating lunch at a local diner I became aware of a group of people sitting to my left. Most were women who seemed to know each other but not from work. They may have been family as there were a couple of kids with them. One, a young boy, who was busy trying to sit still like his mother had told him to and, another, who I found it hard to turn and look for. You know when you hear those sounds, the ones made by a kid who has developmental delays, how you want to see where the sound is coming from but suddenly you are aware that even the kindest smile and turn of the head to look could be taken as anything but positive? That was the sounds I was hearing. Unclear expressions that only the trained ear could make out the meaning of.

Taking the family out to eat at a restaurant or BBQ joint is an experience. I mean, Corban is not one to sit still for long. Often he is up and moving about and I think would gladly work as a host, escorting customers to their tables. Unfortunately most people who come in to eat prefer to be seated with just their group and not made to join a table, of people that they don't know, where the meal may already be in progress. Corban doesn't seem to know boundaries like that one. My son is many things; annoying, happy, sad, beautiful, distracted, energetic, excited, unable to complete words or sentences that no one but the trained eye and ear could interpret. He is often loud, sometimes making a very high pitched shrieking sound and on one such occasion as he and I went into a BBQ joint in Muskogee, Oklahoma during the lunch hour he demonstrated this very high pitched shrieking sound six or seven times in succession which drew the attention of everyone who was waiting to be seated. As they turned and looked I got him to stop at shriek number 6 or 7 and then held out my hand for a high five and said, "Good job buddy." then turning I said to the closest guy who was wearing camouflage so that all in the shrieking area could hear, "We've been practicing our predator calls. He's got the dying rabbit down pretty good don't you think?" Some smiled, some smiled in bewilderment, then they went about their business. I think I remember having to kill the dying rabbit call one more time before we got seated.

My son is many things but embarrassing is not one of them. You know he has all the characteristics of being embarrassing but there is just something about him that, it just aint happening. I think the main reason is that...Corban is my son and I love him. Now, I've seen the looks before, people who turn around and look part way over their shoulder from the booth where they are sitting as if to say without saying it, "Someone is making annoying dying rabbit sounds and my wife and I would like to eat our brisket sandwich in quiet smokiness if possible." I notice most of those looks, some I don't see, none of them matter much to me unless I can make it into a meaningful learning experience for them.

So today I sat at a local diner eating lunch and as unnoticeable as I thought I could, I turned to see a young girl in her late teens or very early twenties sitting with the group of women. She was trying to talk and that is where the sound was coming from. I could feel the tide of emotion swelling up in me as I thought of her and my son and then me and my Abba. I must be quite a sight to Him. I go out with Him and make noises that only He can make out the meaning of and I am dependant on Him no matter how hard I try to do things on my own. Still He kindly cares for me and loves me as I am. He doesn't try to cover up who I am but tries to make me into what I am to become. And the best part is...I am never embarrassing to Him...because He loves me.

Brian Herrian <'((><

Don’t be an *…

2008-12-31T22:44:00.002-06:00

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...

2008-12-17T07:05:00.000-06:00

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...

2008-12-08T09:03:00.000-06:00

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...

2008-10-14T20:33:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-10-02T22:41:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-09-30T22:57:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-09-17T00:03:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-09-16T02:40:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-09-14T11:24:00.000-05:00

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...

2008-09-08T11:31:00.000-05:00

“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…