The story so far...

I believe it is important to share our positive customer experiences with each other. Not only does it benefit us as consumers, it also rewards those same businesses by creating a strong pipeline of customers.  It is also important to share negative experiences when we can do so objectively and without the intent of vengeance or slander.  I have experienced both scenarios this week and want to share them with all of you.

Saturday, around 5 PM, I was taken to the Cone Medical Center ER at NC 68 and Willard Dairy Rd. with crippling pain caused by a herniated disc and pinched nerves in my upper spine.  The pain was strong enough that I have only limited memory of the episode.  The medical team at the ER treated me quickly and effectively, and by midnight I had prescriptions, relief, and was released.  Unfortunately at 3 AM Sunday, the intense pain had returned, only worse than before.  Valerie rushed me to the ER again where once more, Mark and Lauren Slayton met us to offer assistance and babysitting for the children.  In both instances we called Dr. Tooke's office to get direction on what to do.  Since the doctor-on-call was unable to prescribe any pain relief over the phone, we were advised to go to the ER.  This time the pain had become unmanageable and so, with the support of Dr. Tooke's staff,  it was decided I should be admitted to Moses Cone for treatment and to have corrective surgery.  The staff at Moses Cone has been tremendous.  I want to specifically call out a few of the outstanding employees that have gone far beyond the call of duty to assist us:

• Linda Coon, RN, MSA (Department Director, 3000-Neuro Med Surg)
• Christa McClellan, RN
• Dr. Joseph Stern, MD (Neuro Surgeon)
• Dr. Shanker Ghimire, MD (Board Cert. Hospitalist)

All of these hospital employees have been exceptional in going the second mile.  I will explain more below.

Regrettably I have also suffered a loss of confidence in my Orthopedic Surgeon, Dr. Michael Tooke.  Dr. Tooke has been seeing me since December of 2011.  Until this week my experience with him had been quite positive.  When I first met with him I asked for a conservative treatment of my pain issues.  He agreed that the best course of action was to make every attempt to avoid surgery if possible.  Dr. Tooke treated me with steroids, muscle relaxers, and Neurontin (a nerve blocker) for over a year, but these therapies ultimately proved ineffective.  In order to elevate my head and neck, and to reduce the pain, I spent 2012 sleeping on the sofa every night. The pain had also rendered me almost incapable of more than 2-3 hours of sleep each night.  Before the Christmas holidays I saw Dr. Tooke one last time with hopes of avoiding an operation, however, according to the doctor there were no other viable alternatives left.  I was told it was time to make a choice since nothing had really changed.  For 4 weeks I attempted different combinations of therapy, but none showed any traction.  When I was admitted to Moses Cone on Sunday, Valerie went to work finding out what the doctor would need in order to perform the operation.  She remained in contact with the office through Monday night after the MRI had been completed and was available to Dr. Tooke.

It was Tuesday morning before Dr. Tooke came to see me for the first time.  When he entered the room, he was visibly irritated and communicated that Valerie had been wasting everyone's time since there was no reason for him to see us until the MRI was complete.  He also let us know he was leaving the practice he was with and had no idea where he would end up next.  After examining me he stated that my MRI looked the same as last year and that he now believed the pain might be stemming from the facet joints on the back of the neck (a diagnosis he never discussed with me previously).  According to him there was no reason to do surgery, and even if I wanted him to proceed, he did not have the time to operate on me.  His only solution was to do an epidural block that could last "2 days, 2 weeks, 2 months, or possibly not at all," to get me off diladid, out of the hospital, and time to find another doctor.  Several times he hinted that I was hooked on the prescription drugs available to me here!  After consulting with us for about 15 minutes he told us he needed an answer because he was in a hurry to operate on another patient.  Needless to say, we were dumbfounded.

Less than 30 minutes after he left, Linda Coon, the Department Director for nursing, knocked on our door to inquire about our experience at Moses Cone thus far.  We invited her in and discussed the morning's events.  She seemed as confused and upset about it as we were.  Mrs. Coon was reassuring, telling us that she was going to work to rectify the situation.  Our nurse, Christa, also came by and discussed the situation with us and jumped into action.  Within an hour we were visited by Dr. Ghimire, the hospitalist doctor, who also represented us to all the right people.  In the meanwhile I called Mark Slayton, who suggested a Dr. Joseph Stern, a neurosurgeon who had worked on his back issues with great success.  When Linda returned, she offered to contact Dr. Stern on our behalf, as did Dr. Ghimire.  At the same time, Christa worked with us to secure the records from my previous spinal surgeon in Nashville, calling them personally to get them here faster for Dr. Stern.  Though Dr. Stern was in surgery, he still managed to look at my MRI, reassure me that "I was not crazy," and sent his nurse, Brian, to my room to discuss everything with me.  Last evening, after a long day of surgery, Dr. Stern came to my room as well and discussed all the particulars of his plan of action with me.  He even took the time to listen to our story and try to shed some light on it.  This morning he also came by my room again to ask if there were any lingering questions.  I am now scheduled for surgery Thursday with Dr. Stern and his fine staff.

As difficult as it has been, I believe the events of the past week have worked together to pair me with a fine doctor that comes highly recommended by every staff member in Neurology, and by several people outside the hospital.  Had Valerie and I been left alone to reconcile our problems, we would have lacked the proper knowledge and connections to find a resolution to our situation so quickly .  If you are a believer, you will find it hard to deny the providence of God in this story.  We feel blessed by the events of this week, and are convinced that we have been plucked from a potentially disastrous situation that promised only long-term pain and frustration.  I pray God's blessing on the staff here at Moses Cone.  They have certainly been a blessing to us.

Peace.

Chris

Reflections of Fatherhood

 

Fathers' Day is a special time for me.  I awoke this morning to hand-made cards from my daughter, jokes on my son's card, directions to turn the pages of the card (in case I was confused), and of course the gifts.  I received a placard to place on my home office desk about being a father, a green t-shirt with the kids designs on them (a yearly favorite), and a polo from my wife with the church's logo.  This year I also have the savored memories of a very special vacation to Disney and Myrtle Beach.  Any one of these gifts, cards, and even the trip would be meaningless had they not been given by my family.  I am not always the best at showing deep emotion like some.  I am sure most of my friends and the congregation I work with would be surprised to learn I am actually quite shy and withdrawn inside, but make up for it with an exuberant personality on the outside.  But family - well they know you for who you really are.  My emotions for them are so deep and so powerful I often find myself alone in my office or car tearing up at the mere thought of them.  I am so blessed.

I am also blessed with a wonderful Father who, as time passes, becomes dearer to me and almost mythical in some respects.  I am old enough to know now that he is imperfect and flawed in his own humanity in the same ways we all are.  I now understand that he still sees himself as a young man who was thrust into the position of fatherhood, prepared or not, and fulfills that duty to the best of his ability the way all fathers do.  The freedom of youth paired with the ownership of decisions, victories and setbacks that accompany it are suddenly and for all time transformed when you look into the eyes of your first child.  My father was considerably younger than I was when my son was born.  He did not have all the advantages I took for granted.  He had returned from Korea after being drafted right out of college.  He worked in a dangerous neighborhood in downtown Detroit.  The house I came home to was smaller than most modern apartments.  And his parents and in-laws were both blue-collar workers who, although loving, generous and concerned for his well-being, could not financially support him in the way I always knew I could fall back on should a catastrophic event alter my life.  But he pressed on, as all good fathers do, and gave of himself in the ways he understood and appreciated from watching his own father.  To my father, that meant hours on the job, along with any overtime he could get, using questionable transportation, spending his weekends working on keeping the same vehicle running another week, staying up late into the night working a second job of preparing taxes, supporting the church as a deacon, and as I grew, being involved in children’s ministries.  My mother stayed home to raise me most of my life, an honor and sacrifice that I can only now, as the sole income for my own family, appreciate.  Many parents now choose to have dual incomes, and it was the same when I was a child, but neither of my grandparents chose that road.  My parents understood the value in such a decision and made up their minds that I would have a mother at home even when giving in to pressures to a “better life” must have seemed much more appealing.  But we were always clothed, always fed, and always well-loved through the good times and the lean ones in those early years, a testament to my father’s fortitude and my mother’s support of long hours and a Spartan budget.

As is true for most honest, hard workers, my father found a great deal of success in his work and was promoted many times.  But with all the improvements in his financial standing, we always lived in a modest home and lived within our means.  My mother only worked outside the home when my brother and I were mature enough to not need constant supervision.  Dad taught me to be wise with my money, care about the feelings of others, be an involved and vibrant member of the local church, to treat others with respect and dignity, and to value honesty, hard work, and family.  We never went on opulent vacations or drove new cars (until my father’s job allowed him to drive them as a perk), but we went to Disney World, Williamsburg, Gettysburg, Washington D.C., and always to our grandparents.  Family was prized, and I grew up spending a great deal of time with my mother’s parents who lived close by, and looking forward all year to the trips to Tennessee to see my father’s parents.  Christmastime always arrived with presents under the tree, but many of them were clothing and necessities of life that my brother and I needed, and were taught to value along with toys.  We were taught to help around the house without the need to be reimbursed with an allowance.  I was allowed to hold a part-time job as long as it did not interfere with school and extra-curricular activities.  And with the money I earned, I was expected to assist with my expenses such as gas money and insurance.  I know now that the amount that I was able to help was inconsequential, however, it gave me a healthy attitude toward the rewards of earning my own paycheck and the difficulty of making it last.  I didn’t always appreciate or even respect these requirements as a young man, but the return on their investment has paid dividends in my adult life I would have never expected.

My parents don’t have a perfect marriage.  Who does?  But I watched my father closely, and from him learned how to love your spouse.  I saw in him a respect for my mother’s abilities and a gentleness in the way he never forgot what she could have been had she followed her career ambitions.  But he never missed an opportunity to make my brother and I aware of how blessed we were to have our mother at home.  My father drove 3 hours each way after working all day every week to earn his Master’s Degree.  During one of our relocations, he spent hours with me for months on the phone helping me with my homework.  He came to nearly every football game and sat in the stands with the band when I was in high school.  And after every concert, he would tell me he could hear me singing or playing (something I know now after being a musician for more than 25 years is either not a good thing, or practically impossible).  I remember him listening to me intently when I had girl problems and relating that the girls that ignored me now would be the same ones that would appreciate me in college.  He suffered through 3 broken retainers, some dismal report cards, picking me up from late practices and dropping me off for early ones, my share of bad relationships, and, I’m sure, many sleepless nights.  He’s a great dad.

Dad suffered a stroke last year.  We were blessed that he has nearly fully recovered.  It was then that I realized that my dad had become one of my best friends.  I now call him and mom nearly every day.  Most of the time I don’t really have anything to say that is newsworthy.  I just want to talk with him.  I know someday the time will come when I won’t be able to pick up the phone and call him anytime I get the urge.  These days have come to be precious to me.  Why does it take so long to cultivate the kind of relationship with our dads that allow us to be fully transparent and completely honest?  Perhaps it’s because about the time we realize just how incredible they are, we are so consumed with our own children that life just gets away.  I don’t know the answer, but I do know that I love my dad, and he loves me.  He’s just a man like me that did the best he knew to give me what he could in the time he had to make me the man I am.  He has told me often how proud he is of me.  But the real revelation is I’m proud of him too.

Here’s to you dad.  You did okay. 

Happy Fathers' Day.

Sitting At Starbucks

I love sitting in Starbucks.  In fact, I am right now.  My car is in the shop just a short walk from here and I am getting some work done while I sip my Caramel Mocha Frappuccino (add Chips) Grande.  Best $4 gift to yourself you could possibly give.  Sometimes it is really hard to get much done at Starbucks.  Most of the time when I get the cars worked on, I go to McDonald's.  Not that I can stand to eat there.  I know I won't get distracted.  I usually order a drink (NOT coffee) and use their Wi-fi.  And the people that come to McDonald's are not as interesting.  In fact they all look downright depressed.  I am not sure if going to McD's makes you depressed, or if ingesting the food causes degradation of the body as a whole leading to a general malaise.  Either way, the only people who ever seem to be genuinely excited to enter the golden arches are children, and that is because they are really there for the playland.  They neither pay for the food nor live with the knowlege of the implications of eating something that contains enough preservatives to liquify your innards, yet keep them from decomposing for up to 7 years.  I digress.  Let's see...oh yes...Stabucks.  I am always interested in the people shuffling in and out.  Right now there are two college girls, two ladies sitting just next to me, a lady in a camelhair business suit, a man in a white shirt and irredescent blue tie, two Emo high school students wearing all black, a mom who has let herself go a bit and should really put away the Christmas sweater, and me.  All of us drawn together by the inexhaustable yearning for a strong, bitter, overpriced cup of coffee served up by green and white draped smiling people from the land of Latte who only speak in hyphenated strings of flavors proceeded by the word Macchiato, Cappuccino, or Extra-Bold.  Would you like a receipt?  How about a loan?The thing I love is trying to figure out what all these people are doing.  Not as in getting a cup-a-joe, but really, what are they doing? 

The college students are dressed in sweats and running shoes that look like they came out of the Foot Locker boxes yesterday.  They both have their hair pulled up in loose pony tails and are not wearing makeup.  One talks a lot and the other nods with a sleepy look, costantly playing with her car keys and responding only after a long pause.  She then quickly takes a tiny sip of coffee that I am sure has long since gone less than lukewarm.  Neither carries a purse, but both clutch to mini pocketbooks with student ID cards displayed.  Next to me are the anti-students.  There are two ladies directly to my right at another tiny round table.  Once again there is one woman who is speaking quite a bit and who apparently has been harboring some rather ill feelings toward her current office mates.  I cannot make out most of the conversation, but it would seem everyone has been getting a piece of her mind.  The conversation has just ended and they are moving on, as have the lady in the business suit, the man in the white shirt, and the mom in Christmas garb.  Replacing them are a man in kakhis with a lime v-neck sweater and a brown fedora, and a young man on a mission for a very strong cup of coffee.  He has sleep in his eyes and trouble on his mind. 

It has become quieter now.  The green and white staff are cleaning the tables and floors as well as taking a moment to put their hands on their hips, make a sucking from a straw look on their lips, followed by a long, labored exhale. 

A new lady just came in with a tweed coat and oversized black purse.  She added two packs of sugar, half-and-half, a hot sleeve and lid to her coffee.  She dropped her wooden stir in the floor.  Picked up another and began to stir with it. I noticed how she intensely stared at the one in the floor and seemed somewhere between bothered and repulsed by it.  She looked around as if to find out if anyone else had noticed her dropping the stir.  Just then, a woman who had been making a lot of conversation, laughing and making the staff feel appreciated, dropped her coffee all over the place.  She leaned over with a dozen napkins attempting to clean up her mess.  Her coffee was quickly cleaned up by everyone around her and mopped up within 30 seconds.  She continued to smile, as did everyone else.  A good laugh was had by all.  I was glad the coffee spilled.  It showed me how real her personality was, and helped reveal those around her as well.

Every guest but the college girls and I have left.  Gradually the noise level has subsided.  The cold breath from the glass doors has been replaced by heat and a heavier smell of coffee in the air.  There is a Johnny Cash song playing quietly.  The whole building has changed.  I notice the hardness of the chair, the imperfections in the wall next to my table.  The trash can has coffee spills on it and there are crums all over the floor.  I notice a cobweb in the light fixture above my table.  Why have I never noticed those before?

You know, I really think people come to Starbucks for the community of the thing.  The ones that came alone and didn't connect with anyone left as quickly as they came.  They were on a mission.  One of several for the morning I assume.  Some came for community where they made themselves the focal point, spent their time complaining and looking for sypathy and confirmation.  I noticed the one doing all the talking also called all the shots.  When she was ready, they left.  One person actually livened up the entire store just because she was there.  Her spirit brought everyone to life.  No one cared that she also caused some messiness.  The college girls have finally decided to leave.  Each seems comfortable in the role she played.  Like a well coreographed dance, they collect their things and leave, continuing their conversation without pause. 

There's nothing particularly great about the store.  This one is pretty small comparatively.  It's kind of cold in here.  I could decorate better.  There are people here to whom I wouldn't normally connect.  Some I would even avoid.  I am really not comfortable in this chair anymore.  But I just can't keep from coming back.  Something in me overlooks the imperfections of Starbucks as an establishment and keeps me returning because of the community I find.  Some contend I would be better off with an immitation with more seating (so I am not forced to sit so close to everyone else), a flashier presentation, where I can get in and out faster and not have to pay such a high price for being there.  But as far as I am concerned, no other store has figured out the importance of community, closeness, simplicity, and the expectation going in that if I want something better, there is a greater cost to be paid.

Peace

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

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

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

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

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