Writing Out Loud

>Gulp!< Conspiracy!!

I wanna know what’s going on with the beverage/food service industry these days.  Just the other day I ate lunch at Wendy’s.  The counter attendant took my order – a cheeseburger, fries, medium coke – and gathered all the food on a tray for me.  Then she grabbed the drink, a 32-oz soda.  I looked at the girl and asked, “is this a medium drink?”  Yes.

Now, back when I was a kid, 7-11 began marketing a bladder-stretching behemoth they aptly called the Big Gulp – a 32 oz bucket full of syrup and carbonated water.  Ya had to hold the thing with two hands!  My friends & I would fill our pockets with quarters, head down to the 7-11, buy some Big Gulps (usually a mixture of everything at the fountain), and settle in for a long session of Tempest or Asteroids.  The session was almost always terminated prematurely because of the digestive trauma caused by so much liquid ingested in so little time (the Charleston Chews & Snickers didn’t help either).  …And while I’m thinking back on being a kid, I remember McDonald’s selling soft drinks in 3 sizes: small/medium/large (something like 12oz/16oz/20oz, respectively).  Back then, 20 ounces was a BIG drink.  I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but the industry began selling a fourth size, extra large, weighing in at 32oz…now called a “medium” at Wendy’s.  Back to 7-11, I’m equally as fuzzy on the timing of the debut of the SuperBigGulp – 44oz, for those times when 32 ounces of pop was not quite enough to get you through.  Through what, I don’t know.  Hopefully not through a traffic jam. 

And I’m sure you’ve noticed the soft drink scam at the local Cineplex, right?  The old, “yeah, we’ll sell you this 20-oz ‘regular-size’ coke for 3 bucks, but for only pennies more we’ll sell you the 48-oz ‘value size.’ - a much better deal for you.”  I always want to reply, “yeah, but I want to see the WHOLE movie.” 

Between the king-size vessels and the free refills, I can’t help but get a little paranoid.  Why, tell me, why has America become this Soft Drink Nation?  I look around and see an overweight, over-caffeinated society, and lemme tell ya, I’m suspicious.  What’s IN those drinks, anyway?  Sure, we can read the ingredients on the labels…but what ELSE is in those drinks?  I wonder:  Why do we continue to watch bad network TV?  Why do we feel satisfied by simply throwing money at social problems instead of rolling up our sleeves and getting involved?  Why have we collectively stopped insisting that politicians be truly accountable for the decisions they make as our representatives? Why do we recycle our junk – buying at garage sales, then selling on eBay to make more money to buy at estate sales?  Why do we care what’s happening between Jessica and Nick? 

We’ve all heard the phrase ‘there must be something in the water.’  I think it’s more sinister than that, because I think there’s something in the soft drinks, and that means someone’s putting something in there.  I’m suspicious of the soda fountain, but I can’t stop drinking what it pours.  I think it’s an apathy potion.  Because while a part of me thinks we should do something about it, well, is it really that important?  I mean, 7^th Heaven is just about to start.  Nothin’ better than drinkin’ an ice cold Sierra Mist and checkin’ in on the Camdens.  Is there? 

Hmmm…but now I think about it, I wonder:  what’s in the french fries.

Connecting

I’m a pretty reclusive guy.  Quiet.  Now, ask my good friends or co-workers if I’m quiet and they’ll laugh.  I reach my comfort zone with people and they can’t shut me up.  But when it comes to reaching out to people, meeting people, I’m very reserved, maybe even shy.  But things are changing.

My wife & I have been living in our neighborhood a good 3 years now, and I am just starting to get to know my neighbors.  I’m talking about people who live right next door & across the street, people I see practically every day.  It finally started bothering me that I didn’t know these people.  And I blame my son for that.

 

I’ve found that parenthood opens doors for relationships with others.  I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and found a recent blog post by Steve McCoy that references the same sorta thing.  His son is joining little league, and Steve sees and opportunity to connect with others in his community. 

…And he threw a baseball at his son’s face…but really, he’s a nice guy, that Steve.  I digress.

Being a father has made me realize it’s important that I knew the children who live in my neighborhood; I realize it’s important that my neighbors know my son, so we can watch out for each others’ families.  Being a father has made it possible for me to bust thru those barriers I’ve set up for myself, to quit assuming I have nothing in common with the other parents on my block, to leave my safety zone and reach out in friendship to my neighbors.  And you know what I’ve found?  These are nice people, and I am forming friendships with a couple of the fathers despite the fact that they like sports and I don’t, and despite the fact that they know about cars and I don’t.  What I’ve found is that we are husbands and fathers, and that is enough to begin connecting with one another. 

The other night I sat outside with my neighbor across the street, talking until midnight about music, parenthood, and whole lot about faith, and I realized that God makes these connections for us.  He places us in our communities so that we can share our lives & experiences, our burdens & hardships, and most importantly, so that we can share our lives in Christ.  Because of our conversation, my neighbor is interested in visiting my church, so I gave him a recorded sermon last night.  He was excited about that – said he’s got a business trip this week and he’ll need something to help pass the travel time.  I’m looking forward to his return so that we can discuss the sermon.

Schmokin'

I bought a pipe.  No, not a “bowl.”  I threw out those things a few years ago.  A tobacco pipe.  My pastor made me do it.  Not really.  But he DID facilitate the purchase, accompanying me to the pipe shop and pointing out the different styles, materials, features, and considerations.  Very helpful.  It’s a rather handsome piece of work – I speak now of the pipe, not my pastor (but he’s not so bad, I guess) – and I’ve packed it a couple times now, for evening smokes on the patio.   

Pipes are rather conspicuous.  You can’t light one up without being noticed.  I mean aside from the process of filling the bowl, which is way more involved than taking a cigarette out of a pack, when you whip out a pipe, people notice.  These days, pipe smoking is a habit peculiar to a minority of people, at least around these parts.  So not only will you be noticed, you’ll get looks that say, “huh!”.  Heck, I’ve even looked upon pipe smokers and thought to myself, “well, who does he think HE is?” while secretly wishing I was cool and refined enough to smoke one myself.  Being neither cool nor refined, I feel rather conspicuous smoking a pipe even around other pipe smokers.

I’m still trying to figure out why I’m drawn to pipe smoking.  I used to smoke cigarettes, but having given them up years ago, I am always thankful that they are not a habit for me anymore.  I look at cigarette smokers and think, “man, they need to give that up.”  Years ago, I also smoked cigars once in awhile.  I have no attraction to that habit anymore, and find them rather obnoxious.  But pipes…well, they’re different, somehow.  Smoking a pipe isn’t about getting that fix.  I don’t think you’ll find any pipe smokers that are all jittery and crabby cuz they’re jonesin’ for a bowlful of aromatic tobacco.  And you can’t really take a 4 minute pipe break anyway.  Pipes tend to be more about taking time for reflection, enjoyment of the long pause, less about consumption and more about experience.  Almost like enjoying incense, but doing so more directly than just having a stick burning on the other side of the room.

What I DO know is my wife is not a fan of my pipe smoking.  And I know that if I’m smoking at home, it will be on the patio.  But that’s ok because that’s a great place to enjoy the evening. Well, unless it’s raining.

Oh, what kind of pipe?  It's a Design Berlin (db). 

...

My son is sick.  Sick, sick, SICK!  Isaac’s had a couple ear infections, some sniffles & coughs, but he’s got the stomach flu, and it’s bad.  Not that you really wanna read about this, but he’s filling his diapers at an alarming rate and has developed a rash that’s impossible to keep up with.   There’s been a visit to the pediatrician (early on), a phone call for more advice, a trip to the ER where they found him to be dehydrated and gave him IV fluids, a couple more phone calls to the pediatrician.  Most alarming is the mantra all the medical staff we’ve contacted: it’s just gotta run it’s course.  So it’s a waiting game, at my son’s expense. 

This is a time when I struggle to remind myself of God’s will, God’s plan, God’s timing, and while those ideas resonate in my mind, my heart is broken.  Until just a couple hours ago my prayers have been terse, spat out bitterly while Isaac cries, as I once again clean him up, irritating his skin and undoing any healing the ointment has achieved since the last diaper change – oh, 30 minutes earlier, at most.

As a parent, it is so difficult to keep an attitude of submission.  I get angry when my son suffers, indignant at the thought that it would be part of what God intends or allows.  “OK, make ME sick, not my little boy!” I think.  (I did get sick, by the way.)  I fall back on his innocence and ask God why he deserves this, forgetting that no one on this earth is innocent.  I think of my own flaws and failures and wonder in horror if I am somehow responsible for my son’s suffering, forgetting that I am responsible for His son’s suffering.

As I lay Isaac down for his afternoon nap I realized that I have not been praying properly.  My pride as Isaac’s father, his earthly protector, has gotten in the way of my communication with God.  I have failed to respect God’s wisdom and timing.  And so in a quiet moment, apart from my frustrations, I sent up a heartfelt prayer of submission, confession, an appeal for strength & patience, and Christ’s healing touch upon Isaac.  I realized that at this time, as much as Isaac needs physical healing, I need spiritual healing so that I can be his earthly protector and properly appeal to God on his behalf.

Spared for what?

Boy howdy, time sure does slip by, I tell ya.  It’s amazing that you even stop by here to see if I’ve written anything anymore.  I don’t blame those who’ve thrown up their hands in frustration and figured they may as well stop checking this blog.  Well, what can I say? 

I’ve just been coasting along, and days turn into weeks, which turn into months, and here it is almost Christmas when last time I remember looking up, I was answering the door for some trick-or-treaters.  And it seems all the worse this time of year, when I leave home in the dark of the early morning and return home in the dark of the early evening.  The sunshine goes unnoticed, as I lose those precious hours to the buzzing office fluorescents, ringing telephones, and 2-way radio chatter.  This time of year especially, I feel that my day consists of the morning fight with the snooze button, a shower, work, dinner, and falling asleep to the 10 o’clock news.  There are highlights in between those landmarks – a few spare minutes to play my guitar, crawling around and stacking blocks on the floor with my son, conversations with Nicole, Sunday worship…  Those are the brief, bright moments without which I would go completely mad.

So I’m thinking back to when I was in my 20's, specifically my mid-20's:  Nary a dull moment in those days, lemme tell ya.  I played in 3 bands, I played solo acoustic sets, and I was a regular at a couple local pubs.  It was a rare weekend that I didn’t have to play, and on those rare weekends, I was out watching friends play.  Those solo acoustic sets were generally weeknight gigs.  I rounded out the rest of the week by hanging out with the other regulars at the pubs that became the foundation of my social identity, smoking cigarettes and drinking far too many beers & shots until closing time, and sometimes even later.  I typically operated on 3-4 hours of sleep, and somehow managed to keep that pace for about 4 years.  Yikes.  It’s amazing I’m still alive to write about this.  Seriously.  And even more amazing that I encountered the police only 2 times – once for smoking pot behind a comedy club with some musician friends, and once for driving while nearly legally intoxicated (I blew 0.08, back when legally drunk was 0.10).  Those are not glory days for me.  Those are days I consider to have been reckless, dangerous to myself and others.  But the strange truth is that I was never hurting for inspiration.  Those were days were full, if foolish, and I never found myself wishing I had more time in the day.   

So now that I’m considering this, I wonder just what I’m supposed to be doing.  I mean, I was spared prison (I coulda killed someone on one of those drunken treks home), injury or death throughout several years of very risky behavior, and here I am now, feeling like the axel on a hamster wheel.  I certainly haven’t been continually granted my life and freedom so that I can fall into an uninspired pattern of living that puts my creative energy into such a holding pattern that it falls into stagnancy.  Certainly not, I hope. But why has my music room, the place I set up to indulge my creativity, fallen into ruin, becoming little more than a storage area for my stuff?  Why do so many of my plans and intentions fall into the hole I’ve labeled “Not Enough Time?”  I don't know.

These are big things to consider, so forgive me for leaving this open-ended. 

How Come?

The depth of the gulf coast disaster is becoming more apparent as more of the victims voices are being heard.  The aerial coverage is giving way to ground reports, triage areas and refugee camps are being infiltrated by reporters.  Sickening first-hand accounts of neglect, filth, rape, and death are coming out, and it is difficult to believe that this could be happening in the U.S. – the “beacon of hope,” the “light” to the rest of the world. 

As more reports come out, we see that for many the official relief effort did nothing to preserve the dignity of the victims, living or dead.  It is comforting to hear reports that grace has been displayed by the “unofficial” relief effort – the regular citizens who have opened their homes, provided food & water, and simply offered kindness & comfort.  But as the politicians point fingers at one another, the true light of grace will remain a pinpoint in the darkness of our society and the political game that trivializes the plight of the poor.   

Driving to work today with these thoughts in my head, I turned on the stereo and heard this song, by Ray LaMontagne: 

How Come

People on the street now / Faces long and grim
Souls are feeling heavy / And faith is growing thin
Fears are getting stronger /You can Feel them on the rise
Hopelessness got some by the throat / You can see it in their eyes

I said how come

How come

Everybody on a shoestring / Everybody in a hole
Everybody crossing their fingers and toes
Government man spin his politics till he got you pinned

Everybody trying to reach out to each other / But they don't know where to begin

I said how come I can't tell the free world from living hell
I said how come

How come all I see is a child of god in misery
I said how come

The pistol now as profit / The bullet some kind of lord and king
But pain is the only promise that this so called savior is going to bring
Love can be a liar / And justice can be a thief
And freedom can be an empty cup from which everybody want to drink

I said how come I can't tell the free world from living hell
I said how come
How come all i see is a child of god in misery
I said how come

Its just man killing man
Killing man
Killing man
Killing man
Killing man
I don't understand
Its just man killing man

..

As I watch the news coverage of the hurricane/flood devastation, I’m reminded of how comfortable I am.  I sat in the air conditioned break room today and watched the CNN coverage as I ate lunch, and I felt grossly privileged.  I know that tomorrow hasn’t been given to me yet, but I also know it is very likely that tomorrow will be like any other day – well, any other Sunday, in this case.  I will wake up in my bed, my wife will be there, and my son will be sleeping in his room across the hall.  We will get up and take hot showers; we will give our son a bath and giggle as he splashes around in the water.  We’ll get our things together and go to church, worship God freely in a safe environment, loiter in friendly conversation with the rest of the congregation, and then we’ll have lunch.  We will be safe and dry, surrounded by all the worldly comforts I am so used to that I almost forget.

I can lose all my blessings and privileges in a moment.  The circumstances of my life can change at any time, without warning, and I could be left in a desperate situation where even my most basic needs cannot be met.  As I watch the news coverage of the gulf coast, I see the faces of people in that situation.  They are hungry, thirsty, demoralized, exhausted.  For days, many searched in vain for even a hint of assurance that help was on the way, and they found none.  With civil order lost and all communication cut off, the victims of hurricane Katrina looked at a wasteland that used to be their home.  How does one retain hope & faith in these circumstances? 

I’m not writing this to cite Scripture about faith, or to expound on finding joy and strength in the most desperate times.  I am wondering myself how able I would be to hold onto my joy in the Lord if faced with these circumstances.  Would my faith crumble if my home and loved ones were swept away?  Would my resolve fail while rescue teams abandoned me to retreat from sniper fire?  Would an eternity with Christ be at the front of my thoughts while my neighbors perished before my eyes?  I want to answer these questions as a Christian should – I would stand firm; I would be consumed with joy in the Lord no matter what my losses. But after all, I am just a man – flawed, sinful, and blind.  In such circumstances, I would need my faith, but even more, I’d need the prayers of others.  I would need others to lift me up, to petition the Lord on my behalf, asking Him to reveal Himself to me, to assure me, to strengthen me, because I would not be able to assure or strengthen myself.  So that is my prayer for the victims of this disaster – that God would bless them with strength and a perseverance they never imagined possible; that God’s glory would be revealed in the selfless and heroic deeds of our neighbors; that the world will display a Christ-like attitude toward those who suffer.  I pray that people will contribute generously to the organizations that will help the survivors, but most of all, I pray that others will pray, for even the poorest among us can offer this most valuable deed.

What the???

Oh man, oh man.  Look at the blog, collecting dust, becoming a home to spiders and little roly-poly bugs.  Look in that corner....is that a half-eaten turkey & pickle sandwich from a gas station vending machine practically ready to crumble?  And look at the cobwebs all over the lampshades.  Yecky-yecky.

Excuses?  I got millions.  Reasons?  I got one.  The blog just plain fell off the priority shelf.  That's not really unexpected, I mean, look at the span of time between my posts and you'll see that the blog teetered on the edge of the shelf it was on.  It's still in one piece because it didn't have that far to fall.  Apparently.

Really, I'm just posting this because I happen to have a rare moment to do so.  I've been taking a bit of a flogging (figuratively speaking, of course) from a couple friends who are FAR, FAR more disciplined in their bloggin' habits. 

So, "hello" to my pal, the Weary Crusader.

And "yo!" to Pastor Joe, who doesn't have a totally cool blog name like "Weary Crusader."   (Not that my blog name is all that cool.)

I will try to write soon.  I NEED to write soon so I can get all this noise outta my melon. 

CdoubleU

Love Your Enemies and Pray for Those Who Persecute You

I was shocked to hear the report of the London transit bombings as I drove to work this morning.  From the safety of my car, I listened to the sketchy details the press had to offer as I drove thru suburbia to my office.  As the radio news played sound clip after sound clip of eyewitness testimony, I was struck by the tone of those who spoke into the reporters’ microphones.  I heard sorrow.  I heard sympathy.  I heard strength and resolve. I heard solidarity.  I did not hear bitterness, or anger, or vengeance.  Maybe it’s just too soon.  Maybe these are the voices of people who are coping and in-the-moment, and bitterness has not yet taken root because there’s just no time yet.  But I hope that’s not true.

All day today, I considered Jesus’ command to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us, and in the wake of such terrible news it makes more sense to me now than it ever has.  Obviously, it is important that we pray for the victims and their families and friends, for the emergency response teams, for the hospital personnel, the clergy, and anyone who had to witness the horror of death and injury.  And we must pray for the politicians, government officials and world leaders who are left to dig deep into their souls to find the appropriate official responses - responses that must reflect the well-being of the international community. 

I am sad for the people of Great Britain for I know that sinking feeling you get when your country suffers such a terrible wound.  Indeed, I am sad for the world, for London is merely a city in a global community.  We were all attacked.  But my deepest sorrow is for those that are so separate from Christ that they could not only conceive such an act, but carefully orchestrate it. I am unspeakably sad for those that have so completely turned from God that they would look on today’s events and see a successful mission.  When I consider Jesus’ words I realize that our enemies are the people most desperately in need of our prayers.  In spite of the atrocities they endeavor to commit, they are God’s children - they were made in His image - and they are utterly lost.  Only Christ can turn enemies into allies, and for this to happen, we must appeal to our Lord and Savior.  May our response to these attacks reflect the glory of Christ.   

"But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven; for He causes His sun to rise on {the} evil and {the} good, and sends rain on {the} righteous and {the} unrighteous.  For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same?  If you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing {than others?} Do not even the Gentiles do the same?  Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

Matthew 5:44-48 [NASB]

There Goes the Month

What the - - ??

I woke up today and it's the very end of June.  And I looked at my blog tonight and I haven't posted in over 30 days.  And I peeked into my brain and realized that I have nothing to say.  Or I should say, I have nothing pressing to say. 

So I'll say this:  I love my son.  Isaac's 4 months old and he's just the bees knees, y'know?  He's starting to connect with me.  He talks to me in a series of coos, squeaks, and screeches, and I do my best to speak his language.  It makes him smile...which makes me smile. 

>sigh<

I can't even write anything tonight, cuz I gotta get up early tomorrow.   Seems all spare moments are taken up these days by the necessities.  I'd sure like to pause and write for awhile, but the day's over too soon...again. 

Hasta lluego.