As I finish my 41st Christmas, I have had time to reflect back on the Christmastimes of my youth. The anticipation for presents, the tree, the decorations and the gaiety of the season were almost more than a young man could bare. We would split vacations between Detroit and Tennessee to share our time with both sets of grandparents, as my family does today (only now it is between Alabama and Tennessee). I remember those very special holidays that sparked a permanent memory that lasts through the years.
The first Christmas I can remember was when Santa brought me a chalkboard. He took time to write, "Merry Christmas," to me and even wrote the note to me by name. To a child, that is like getting a hand-written note from the president of the United States. One of the confusing points for me was the fact that we did not have a fireplace. Everyone is well aware of the habit of Santa to gain entrance through that particular orifice. Without one, how could he find his way into the house. I remember asking the question of my parents and then finding the next morning that he had obviously come through the front door leaving a conspicuous trail and remnants of his beard, as well as partially consumed snacks. He had left no sign of forced entry and obviously did not have time to run by the hardware store to have a key made, but like most children I did not let the facts get in the way of my imagination.
I also remember when I received a record album of "The Muppet Movie." You know the one. It had "The Rainbow Connection" in it. I recall imagining how wonderful it would be to play the song whenever I pleased (which happened to be enough to wear down the grooves in the record to render the music almost completely void of its original clarity). This was also the first year that I came to understand that there were not musicians playing the music live down at the radio station each time the song was in the rotation. It was also at a time where stereo music was an unknown concept. The small record player had one speaker underneath the tone arm that would pick up the vibrations of the speaker if played too loudly and cause a low frequency feedback.
As I grew older, one Christmas brought the excitement of our first video gaming system: an Atari 2600, complete with Asteroids, Combat, Pacman, and Space Invaders. We played at my grandparents house in Tennessee on a 13 inch black and white television until our eyes crossed. At night when we had to go to bed, in my mind I continued to run up high scores and pull off spectacularly coordinated offensive strategies leaving other kids to marvel at my skills.
These days Christmas has come to be much different to me. The magic of the season has been replaced by the pressures of work and home. There are the bills to pay, the gifts to buy, the miles to be travelled, the work that has to be done ahead of time to make up for the lost time during vacation, the planning and logistics of visiting family 500 miles apart. But like most people at my stage of life, Christmas has come to symbolize something much simpler, something deeper. Christmas has become about family and friends. Gifts, although appreciated, are now more of a bi product of the invaluable time spent talking, laughing and simply spending time with those who mean so much to me. It is the time of year when my wife and children sit around 5 candles and recount the story of Jesus Christ and the impact one life had on the world and how it affects us 2000 years later. It is a special time with our church family where ancient hymns are sung and old stories are shared and we are all able to find fellowship without reservation not only among our own families, but also those of other congregations. It is a time where we can set aside the toils of everyday life, even if only for a few days, and be truly content with sleeping in a little longer, staying up late with my wife while we talk and laugh with each other. I remarked to Valerie that being a dad was all about giving hundreds of dollars worth of presents out while receiving a SoniCare toothbrush and being absolutely thrilled.
These are the things the first Christmas was all about. The stress of travelling a long distance to get home. The frustrations of masses of people all trying to accomplish the same tasks at the same time. No vacancy when you get where you are going. The excitement, worry and work of bringing a child into the world...followed by peace, beauty, a sigh of relief, visits from friends who travelled to see you, and gifts. As we have attempted to convey to our children, there is no magic man who comes to reward only the good and deserving, who hides in a far-away land, unapproachable and teeters on the edge somewhere between believable and fiction. Rather, there is a Savior who entered and departed this world humbly, who accepts you where you are, bad or good, deserving or not, and gifts us with peace, joy, hope and love in a never-ending stream of light, and is alive and real. You will never wake someday to find out he was a myth or a sweet story someone told to make you behave a certain way. He is not hidden or unapproachable. In fact he intercedes for us in behalf of His Father. He is the true giver of all good gifts, and among these are faith and love. Love for Him, your loving family, your brothers and sisters - all who may or may not even be related to you by blood.
There is a magical quality to Christmas. The mystery of Christ is great. There is a real mystic quality to the plan of the first noel, one that exceeds our comprehension. The anticipation I once had for my own selfish gain has now been replaced by reverence for the One who made the season possible. Christmas is so magical because without it there would be no Easter. Glory to God in the highest...
Peace
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Willow Tree
When I was only about 5 or 6 years old, I found myself in a bit of trouble. At this point in life I cannot recall what the exact infraction was, but I do remember it involved my mother. I also remember that it was not the normal, everyday incident, but rather one that led to the infamous words, "We will deal with this when your daddy gets home." Whatever happened that day, I was sent to my room to consider my actions and begin my rehabilitation and eventual reentry into society.
I grew up in East Detroit, Michigan, where we lived in a very humble single-story home with an unfinished attic. After my brother arrived, the attic was finished by my father to become an extra bedroom (which I would occupy) and an office/sitting room with a television. In my room was a window with a view of the alley and the adjoining parking lot. Every year I would plant my elbows on the bedroom window and look for Santa Clause to come calling. It occurred to me fairly early in life that we did not have a chimney, but I was comforted by my father's explanation that Santa could come in through the front door of homes not outfitted with a fireplace. However, I was convinced that he would still land on the roof since that was his preferred method of entry. I was sure I could hear the sleigh bells at least one Christmas Eve, but this was not to be one of those visits to the window. Instead I sweated out the time until my father's imminent arrival at home for my inevitable departure from this life.
Around dinner time heard what I had been dreading: it was my father’s Chevy. He had arrived and my fate was sealed. I listened to the engine stop, the car door close, the steps to the front door and the final moments of his expected peaceful evening drift away as he kissed my mother and asked, "how was your day?" The sound that followed was the worst-case-scenario. Dead silence. The words coming from my mother were too soft to be heard. Perhaps what I had done had been so awful that it could only be spoken of in a whisper. But I could tell she was conveying the whole terrible truth of my escapade. As the words poured from my mother, I could hear my dad taking deep breaths followed by long, arduous exhales similar to that of a man who has just been told the house he just bought needs a new roof. Then I heard, "Have you already punished him?" I screamed in my subconscious, "Yes, father, yes. He has been punished enough and has seen the error of his ways. Go easy on the poor boy." It was not to be.
Dad walked up the steps, around the corner into my room with a look of sheer disappointment combined with shock as though I had knocked off a liquor store. "What do you have to say for yourself," he asked. Now this was an interesting question. I had many things coming to mind. I was framed. It wasn't really me. Momentary lapse of reason. It was Col. Mustard in the Library with the candlestick. I had to come up with something quickly. But all I could find to say was, "I don't know." Like a sheep before the shearer, so stood I in front of my father without uttering a word except the mutterings of a condemned man with no recourse and no hope of a last minute stay. I was sent immediately to the backyard to procure a switch from the resident willow tree. Many times I had played under the same tree. Its shade had provided respite from the midday sun. It was my friend. Now it just seemed to laugh at me and sway back and forth as if to say, "Nanner, nanner, naaa-neeer." I pulled my switch and headed for the back door where the wages of my actions awaited.
As I walked across the backyard my mind raced grasping the gravity of my situation. The circumstances called for something new, something cunning; a plan so perfect that my future would be transformed in my favor. I found no such plan, but I did say, "I am not taking a whipping." Had I really said that? Was that really my voice? It was! My father looked at me like I had two heads. After a long pause, he asked me who was to take my punishment. Who? What? I did not expect this line of questioning. I stood there, perplexed and utterly confused. Could we not just say someone had been punished and move on with our lives? "Someone has to take the punishment for what you have done. Who should it be," he asked. So I said the first thing that popped into my head: "You will." Without so much as a flinch my father handed me back the wooden menace and told me to go ahead. All at once a million thoughts raced through my head. My plan had backfired on me. I didn't want my dad to take my punishment. I didn't want to take it either. But how could I possibly punish my father for what I had willfully done? He was innocent. I had no right to expect him to take the hurt upon himself that was rightfully mine.
As I stood there wondering what to do, hands trembling, lower lip quivering, I began to feel a lump in my throat and my forehead began to burn. Tears built up in my eyes and soon I was reduced to a fit of weeping over the thought of my father taking the full brunt of my iniquities. I was ready for him to do it, even momentarily thankful when he offered. But I was not ready for the sight of his back turned to me ready to receive my punishment by my own hands just because he knew the price must be paid and he loved me enough to stand in my place. In that moment I understood the price of my disobedience and the incomprehensible love of my father.
Peace
I grew up in East Detroit, Michigan, where we lived in a very humble single-story home with an unfinished attic. After my brother arrived, the attic was finished by my father to become an extra bedroom (which I would occupy) and an office/sitting room with a television. In my room was a window with a view of the alley and the adjoining parking lot. Every year I would plant my elbows on the bedroom window and look for Santa Clause to come calling. It occurred to me fairly early in life that we did not have a chimney, but I was comforted by my father's explanation that Santa could come in through the front door of homes not outfitted with a fireplace. However, I was convinced that he would still land on the roof since that was his preferred method of entry. I was sure I could hear the sleigh bells at least one Christmas Eve, but this was not to be one of those visits to the window. Instead I sweated out the time until my father's imminent arrival at home for my inevitable departure from this life.
Around dinner time heard what I had been dreading: it was my father’s Chevy. He had arrived and my fate was sealed. I listened to the engine stop, the car door close, the steps to the front door and the final moments of his expected peaceful evening drift away as he kissed my mother and asked, "how was your day?" The sound that followed was the worst-case-scenario. Dead silence. The words coming from my mother were too soft to be heard. Perhaps what I had done had been so awful that it could only be spoken of in a whisper. But I could tell she was conveying the whole terrible truth of my escapade. As the words poured from my mother, I could hear my dad taking deep breaths followed by long, arduous exhales similar to that of a man who has just been told the house he just bought needs a new roof. Then I heard, "Have you already punished him?" I screamed in my subconscious, "Yes, father, yes. He has been punished enough and has seen the error of his ways. Go easy on the poor boy." It was not to be.
Dad walked up the steps, around the corner into my room with a look of sheer disappointment combined with shock as though I had knocked off a liquor store. "What do you have to say for yourself," he asked. Now this was an interesting question. I had many things coming to mind. I was framed. It wasn't really me. Momentary lapse of reason. It was Col. Mustard in the Library with the candlestick. I had to come up with something quickly. But all I could find to say was, "I don't know." Like a sheep before the shearer, so stood I in front of my father without uttering a word except the mutterings of a condemned man with no recourse and no hope of a last minute stay. I was sent immediately to the backyard to procure a switch from the resident willow tree. Many times I had played under the same tree. Its shade had provided respite from the midday sun. It was my friend. Now it just seemed to laugh at me and sway back and forth as if to say, "Nanner, nanner, naaa-neeer." I pulled my switch and headed for the back door where the wages of my actions awaited.
As I walked across the backyard my mind raced grasping the gravity of my situation. The circumstances called for something new, something cunning; a plan so perfect that my future would be transformed in my favor. I found no such plan, but I did say, "I am not taking a whipping." Had I really said that? Was that really my voice? It was! My father looked at me like I had two heads. After a long pause, he asked me who was to take my punishment. Who? What? I did not expect this line of questioning. I stood there, perplexed and utterly confused. Could we not just say someone had been punished and move on with our lives? "Someone has to take the punishment for what you have done. Who should it be," he asked. So I said the first thing that popped into my head: "You will." Without so much as a flinch my father handed me back the wooden menace and told me to go ahead. All at once a million thoughts raced through my head. My plan had backfired on me. I didn't want my dad to take my punishment. I didn't want to take it either. But how could I possibly punish my father for what I had willfully done? He was innocent. I had no right to expect him to take the hurt upon himself that was rightfully mine.
As I stood there wondering what to do, hands trembling, lower lip quivering, I began to feel a lump in my throat and my forehead began to burn. Tears built up in my eyes and soon I was reduced to a fit of weeping over the thought of my father taking the full brunt of my iniquities. I was ready for him to do it, even momentarily thankful when he offered. But I was not ready for the sight of his back turned to me ready to receive my punishment by my own hands just because he knew the price must be paid and he loved me enough to stand in my place. In that moment I understood the price of my disobedience and the incomprehensible love of my father.
Peace
Friday, October 22, 2010
Mothers: Human Cyborgs? You decide
This is the weekend of the yearly women's retreat. I have been planning how to be Mr. Mom for weeks. Right now I am with a good friend and his kids in the same situation. We took all 6 children to the Greensboro Childrens Museum where they can roam free in their play and not destroy anything that belongs to us. For twenty bucks you can't go wrong. Last night we had pizza and movies. Tonight we have more friends coming for dinner and a Wii tournament. Tomorrow is a play date and a concert. All this so I can hopefully make it through the weekend with them.
It occurs to me that my wife has them all day every day. She teaches them, ties their shoes, brushes their teeth, feeds them, gets them to their rehearsals, takes them to the grocery store and (shreek) Costco - alone - without help - with all those people around, and then puts up with me when I get home. That isn't natural! In fact I believe they may be some kind of genetically engineered humanoid aliens among us. Who could do this every day without mind-altering drugs? Seriously, I am ready for a Prozac drip now and my wife hasn't been gone a day yet. And the more I feel the weight and gravity of my unfortunate state, the more excited the kids get. Like dogs and bees sense fear, children sense distress in their parents, especially their fathers. It is in those moments of weakness and vulnerability that the obligatory questions begin to assault us like flaming Roman projectiles against unfortified earthen walls. Daddy, can we go get ice-cream? Daddy, can we stay up late? Daddy, is it okay if we start a fire in the bathtub? HELP! I'm not even sure I heard the last question. Wait! What did he just ask me? And yet I answer the same way every time: sure - okay - just go ahead and stop asking me.
How do they do it? What is it that drives Moms forward? Is it something special within them that God placed deep inside, or is it something much more sinister? All I know is that whatever it is that lights their fire, I don't have it and cannot hope to attain it. Like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop, the world may never know.
Serenity Now... Peace
It occurs to me that my wife has them all day every day. She teaches them, ties their shoes, brushes their teeth, feeds them, gets them to their rehearsals, takes them to the grocery store and (shreek) Costco - alone - without help - with all those people around, and then puts up with me when I get home. That isn't natural! In fact I believe they may be some kind of genetically engineered humanoid aliens among us. Who could do this every day without mind-altering drugs? Seriously, I am ready for a Prozac drip now and my wife hasn't been gone a day yet. And the more I feel the weight and gravity of my unfortunate state, the more excited the kids get. Like dogs and bees sense fear, children sense distress in their parents, especially their fathers. It is in those moments of weakness and vulnerability that the obligatory questions begin to assault us like flaming Roman projectiles against unfortified earthen walls. Daddy, can we go get ice-cream? Daddy, can we stay up late? Daddy, is it okay if we start a fire in the bathtub? HELP! I'm not even sure I heard the last question. Wait! What did he just ask me? And yet I answer the same way every time: sure - okay - just go ahead and stop asking me.
How do they do it? What is it that drives Moms forward? Is it something special within them that God placed deep inside, or is it something much more sinister? All I know is that whatever it is that lights their fire, I don't have it and cannot hope to attain it. Like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop, the world may never know.
Serenity Now... Peace
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Finding our worship "voice"
I just came from Wednesday night classes at Friendly Ave. I am always so blessed to be with friends doing what all of us love: singing. I am truly blessed to be part of a community of believers that is discovering how everyone has a different voice in worship settings. While my true voice is singing, I have found that there are many others around me that have various talents given to them by God that are equally beautiful and glorify the Creator in ways I would have never recognized until recently.
About a month ago my wife, Valerie, and another sweet, Godly woman, Amy, put together an event called "Created: Reclaiming the Arts for His Glory." The idea was to call people to worship in a totally unexpected way by allowing them to share their passions dedicated to the Lord. Of course we had singing, both instrumental and some really great acapella. But we also enjoyed a good friend, Renee, demonstrating how to make sweet bread. She shared how she thinks of various scriptures relating to the bread and prays over those she plans to deliver it to. We also saw Randy's collection of wooden bowls. He explained that he makes the exquisite bowls from the pieces of wood that are always discarded due to their hardness, knotty textures, and lack of wide appeal. Then he shared how making something so beautiful from the wood others regarded as throw-aways made him understand the way we must be seen by God. Outstanding! We were also treated to Prince's reading of traditional African poetry, Rachel's commentary of her "Gray Hair Talking" video about losing her grandson (her YouTube channel has subscribers in over 40 countries!), and Valerie's interpretive reading of "God's Trombones." I never knew a white, middle-aged mother of two could deliver an African-American sermon quite so well. Lastly, I laughed until I was out of breath at the teens and college students who presented a drama entitled, "A Bad Day." It was an evening I will remember for some time.
All these talents got me to wondering: how many talents must we be completely unaware of that God is just waiting to bless us with through those who are so often overlooked? Planning our worship time outside the boxes we have imposed for many hundreds of years is often scary and seems almost sacreligious. I have been challenged in recent days to see beyond the orthodox approach to worship -- beyond the status quo into the realm of possibilites God has waiting for us to be blessed by if we could just open our eyes to the silent greatness He has created all around us in each other. I mean, isn't that the purpose of the Church? Aren't we here to spur each other on and find strength and beauty in those who are called to be His children? I am sure there are those who may be afraid that this kind of thinking could lead to disorder and even more of a stage show than a worship service, but I am finding that there is nothing more worshipful than to see God working through the lives of those He has called to discipleship through the ordinary in extraordinary ways. In the end no worship could be more true and honorable than witnessing His ability to pull us from the discard pile and create something beautiful by whittling away the ugliness into something of indescribable wonder.
Peace
About a month ago my wife, Valerie, and another sweet, Godly woman, Amy, put together an event called "Created: Reclaiming the Arts for His Glory." The idea was to call people to worship in a totally unexpected way by allowing them to share their passions dedicated to the Lord. Of course we had singing, both instrumental and some really great acapella. But we also enjoyed a good friend, Renee, demonstrating how to make sweet bread. She shared how she thinks of various scriptures relating to the bread and prays over those she plans to deliver it to. We also saw Randy's collection of wooden bowls. He explained that he makes the exquisite bowls from the pieces of wood that are always discarded due to their hardness, knotty textures, and lack of wide appeal. Then he shared how making something so beautiful from the wood others regarded as throw-aways made him understand the way we must be seen by God. Outstanding! We were also treated to Prince's reading of traditional African poetry, Rachel's commentary of her "Gray Hair Talking" video about losing her grandson (her YouTube channel has subscribers in over 40 countries!), and Valerie's interpretive reading of "God's Trombones." I never knew a white, middle-aged mother of two could deliver an African-American sermon quite so well. Lastly, I laughed until I was out of breath at the teens and college students who presented a drama entitled, "A Bad Day." It was an evening I will remember for some time.
All these talents got me to wondering: how many talents must we be completely unaware of that God is just waiting to bless us with through those who are so often overlooked? Planning our worship time outside the boxes we have imposed for many hundreds of years is often scary and seems almost sacreligious. I have been challenged in recent days to see beyond the orthodox approach to worship -- beyond the status quo into the realm of possibilites God has waiting for us to be blessed by if we could just open our eyes to the silent greatness He has created all around us in each other. I mean, isn't that the purpose of the Church? Aren't we here to spur each other on and find strength and beauty in those who are called to be His children? I am sure there are those who may be afraid that this kind of thinking could lead to disorder and even more of a stage show than a worship service, but I am finding that there is nothing more worshipful than to see God working through the lives of those He has called to discipleship through the ordinary in extraordinary ways. In the end no worship could be more true and honorable than witnessing His ability to pull us from the discard pile and create something beautiful by whittling away the ugliness into something of indescribable wonder.
Peace
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
David Lipscomb and Voting
Here is an excerpt from 1913 by David Lipscomb, a man who was far ahead of his time (unless you count, of course, Jesus) when it came to political thought...
“To the claim that a Christian is bound to vote, when he has the privilege, for that which promotes morality, and to fail to vote for the restriction and suppression of evil is to vote for it, we have determined that, to vote or use the civil power is to use force and carnal weapons. Christians cannot use these. To do so is to do evil that good may come. This is specially forbidden to Christians. To do so is to fight God’s battles with the weapons of the evil one. To do so is to distrust God. The effective way for Christians to promote morality in a community, is, to stand aloof from the political strifes and conflicts, and maintain a pure and true faith in God, which is the only basis of true morality, and is as a leaven in society, to keep alive an active sense of right. To go into political strife is to admit the leaven of evil into the church. For the church to remain in the world and yet keep itself free from the spirit of the world, is to keep alive an active leaven of morality in the world. If that leaven loses its leaven, wherewith shall the world be leavened? or if the salt lose its savor wherewith shall the earth be salted or saved? God has told his children to use the spiritual weapons, has warned them against appealing to the sword or force to maintain his kingdom or to promote the honor of God and the good of man. When they do as he directs them, and use his appointments, he is with them to fight their battles for them and to give them the victory. When they turn from his appointments to the human kingdoms and their weapons, they turn from God, reject his help, drive him out of the conflict and fight the battles for man’s deliverance with their own strength and by their own wisdom. Human government is the sum of human wisdom and the aggregation of human strength. God’s kingdom is the consummation of Divine wisdom and in it dwells the power of God.”Lipscomb calls us to hold but one affiliation: the Kingdom of God. We are to trust none other than God himself to tend to the politics of this world. We are simply to follow His leadership. If we are just part of the masses struggling to find meaning in this life through the legislation of the powers and principalities of the world, we may be part of the problem as we attempt to be part of the solution. It's something to consider.
I approve this message.
Peace
Quoted from: THE ORIGIN, MISSION, AND DESTINY OF CIVIL GOVERNMENT, AND THE CHRISTIAN’S RELATION TO IT by David Lipscomb
That irritating rumble in my SUV
As time went on, I continued to enjoy my purchase as much as I thought I would. Most people talk about buying a car and then it becoming just something else they were excited about at one time and now just find boring and dull. Not me. I have a special relationship with my cars, past and present. I baby them. I clean them meticulously. I love to drive them. I pick parking spots where only one door is in danger of being dented by a neighboring vehicle. I fill in paint chips on the hood. It has always been a source of personal pride to me to be able to keep my cars in good condition.
About two years ago I began to notice a strange rumbling when I accelerated to a speed of 35-45 mph. It was similar to the the sensation when the wheels are off balance. So I took the car to Wal-Mart and had it aligned and balanced. When I left, my prized possession was still rumbling at the same speed. I decided it must be the tires. I replaced the tires. The new tires proved no better than the old. I had Goodyear replace the tires, even though they promised nothing was wrong with them. I took the Buick to the dealership and had them look at it. They also proclaimed I had cheap tires and they needed to be replaced. AHH-HAAA! I was right all along. I had not driven a mile when I realized the problem was still present and I was out $800. After some coaxing from my father to the Buick dealership, the shop took the tires back and I was back on the old tires.
It is now two years later. I just drove home with the car rumbling along at 35-45 mph. You never know how much you drive at that speed until something is off-kilter. For the past two years I have expected the rumble, waited for it, and then rolled my eyes, pounded the steering wheel, complained to my wife, asked everyone who rides with me if they feel it, and driven myself crazy feeling it on every ride. So why, you may ask, don't I go get it fixed? The truth is, I believe in my heart-of-hearts the fix will be the source of a bill from Buick that would make a grown man cry himself to sleep. It's not that I don't want to fix it, it's just that I would rather continue to try inexpensive, simple and inefectuous solutions that I want to believe will mask the true problem that probably requires more of me than I am willing to promise. The truth is I don't know what the real problem is. I am afraid to even take my car in to have it looked at because living with the problem is easier than committing to the solution.
Unfortunately I have found life to be very similar to my Buick rumble. Often times I am so satisfied with everything in my life except one little annoying rumble that presents itself consistently. I know the problem is there. I know when to expect it. I know how frustrating it is going to be when I experience it. I have tried countless times to fix the problem on my own and have blamed the problem on issues that I have convinced myself must be contributing factors knowing deep down they will not solve my root issue. The only answer is to take my problem to the manufacturer who understands all the known issues for my model and can get to the heart of the matter and ultimately resolve my frustration. But that requires willingness to commit to the cost. Something as of yet I have been unwilling to do.
So I continue to wash and detail, change the oil, dress the leather, and try to cover up the fact that in an unseen place there is a problem. It probably will never be noticed by anyone but me and those who are closest to me, but nonetheless, it is there causing me discomfort and the inability to enjoy my SUV the way I was meant to - the way the manufacturer wanted me to in the beginning. Will it cause a major problem that will someday cause the Rendezvous to stop operating altogether? I choose to believe it won't because it hasn't happened yet. If it does, I am sure the cost will be much higher, and by that time the rumbling may have caused many other unseen problems that will have to be dealt with too. Maybe one day I will head out for work and the problem will just worked itself out over time. Makes sense to me.
Peace
Why "Conspicuously Blessed?"
So, you may be asking yourself why I have titled my page, "Conspicuously Blessed." I have been throwing the idea around in my head whether anyone could possibly be interested in my thoughts for some time. During the past year I have been amazed at just how many people care that I am watering, or sometimes even fertilizing my lawn at 11 or 12 o'clock at night. The way I figure, if people are so interested in the strange quirky things I do at night enough to respond back to the post at an equally disturbing time in the morning, then maybe, just maybe, someone might really want to check into the dark spaces of my mind (as troubling as that may seem).
As I began the very simple task of setting up a blog, I found myself completely and utterly disoriented when I had to choose a name for my page. At one point I almost gave up and decided that, not unlike watering the lawn while David Letterman is wrapping up, my thoughts written down for anyone to see could seem a little crazy. Nevertheless I continued for almost an hour deciding what I should entitle this new endeavor. As I struggled with whether or not to give it a name associated with music (after all, I have been involved with music since I was 9 years old and am working as a music minister), or a pejorative religious title (since I am indeed a Christian and am employed by the church), or some strange A.D.D. induced psychotic name, the same thought kept coming to me over and over. If I want people to know something about who I am just from a title for a blog, the most obvious descriptor is blessed. I have a great life with a wife who cares about me way too much. I have children that run to the car to hug me every day when I arrive at home. I have a church family that loved me enough to hire me out of the business world into my dream job as a minister of music. I mean, seriously... How blessed can one guy get.
I used to think when people looked at me the first thing that must go through their mind is, "he could stand to lift something a little heavier than his fork more often." These days I believe most people more honestly look at me and think, "Wow! How blessed must he be? What did he do to deserve all that?" Good question for which I do not have a good answer. All I know for sure is - I am blessed, and not just a little - but so much as to be highly conspicuous.
Peace
As I began the very simple task of setting up a blog, I found myself completely and utterly disoriented when I had to choose a name for my page. At one point I almost gave up and decided that, not unlike watering the lawn while David Letterman is wrapping up, my thoughts written down for anyone to see could seem a little crazy. Nevertheless I continued for almost an hour deciding what I should entitle this new endeavor. As I struggled with whether or not to give it a name associated with music (after all, I have been involved with music since I was 9 years old and am working as a music minister), or a pejorative religious title (since I am indeed a Christian and am employed by the church), or some strange A.D.D. induced psychotic name, the same thought kept coming to me over and over. If I want people to know something about who I am just from a title for a blog, the most obvious descriptor is blessed. I have a great life with a wife who cares about me way too much. I have children that run to the car to hug me every day when I arrive at home. I have a church family that loved me enough to hire me out of the business world into my dream job as a minister of music. I mean, seriously... How blessed can one guy get.
I used to think when people looked at me the first thing that must go through their mind is, "he could stand to lift something a little heavier than his fork more often." These days I believe most people more honestly look at me and think, "Wow! How blessed must he be? What did he do to deserve all that?" Good question for which I do not have a good answer. All I know for sure is - I am blessed, and not just a little - but so much as to be highly conspicuous.
Peace
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