twilk68

Strange and Interesting

Today is my younger son’s fifth birthday, and it got me thinking how strange and interesting life is. Mainly because I never thought I’d have any kids of my own. It just sort of never seemed like it would happen. I wanted it to, but I was nowhere near getting married. I wanted the whole enchilada, as they say.

For me, I always have. Even when I was younger. Maybe part of it was wanting the chance to give someone else the childhood I didn’t have myself. It was pretty much a mess, and if it hadn’t been for my sisters, I would have no idea what life as a kid was supposed to be like. I knew apathy pretty well. I knew about addiction, and depression, and mortal illnesses. I knew about physical and mental cruelty. I knew lots about fear.

My sisters taught me about love without condition. They taught me about feeling safe, and how it felt to be chosen first. All three of them were amazing at taking care of kids, and I will always be thankful for that. And my brother-in-laws were more father to me than my own, especially Philip. Dad died way too young, and before that he was worn out by life, and work, and functional poverty.

But I never expected to have a family of my own. Or a home—a real home. One with a foundation that was mine. And a door with panes of glass. Always wanted that for some reason.

My last…whatever it was ended badly a little more than a decade ago, and I went on a deliberate hiatus for a number of years after that. I came to belief shortly after Y2K, and built on that foundation for a few years as well. I needed to, or I was never going to be useful to anyone else.

The good of the hiatus part is that I was able to work on my heart issues, and what some might call my “core woundings.” It wasn’t fun by any means, but it was like…physical therapy for my soul.

And I needed it.

There came a day I wanted to try…getting out there again. I wanted to meet someone desperately.

I discovered I didn’t have much game pretty early on. None would probably be a better descriptor than “much” in this instance.

I fumbled around a little, and had very little success. A couple of first dates, and a lot of phone calls.

Then someone contacted me (I will always believe that was God getting my attention, and giving me what I needed, even if not exactly what I thought I wanted), and it began.

We emailed, and took a lot of those MySpace quizzes. We talked on the phone like smitten teenagers (and the funny things was, she was the first person I had been with since high school that was age appropriate).

I was all in, and I knew that after just a few weeks.

We were engaged December of the same year we met. December 22, to be exact. At her family Christmas dinner. Not what I planned, but given the value she placed on family, totally appropriate.

And I decided to move away from California, my lifelong home. I had always wanted something new—a fresh start. Nothing like moving to Arizona to be with your girl and her son to start things over again.

We married 9 months after we met. We got pregnant 9 months after we were married. And our son was born the usual 9 months after that.

That’s when I realized that even though I was living in a place I didn’t know very well—a place that was hotter than a monkey’s butt—I was pretty happy with life.

And that was strange, too.

We’ve been through plenty of difficulties of our own, but we’ve always laughed with each other. We pray together, and to this day I love holding her hand. And as far as I know, we’ve never went to bed angry at one another.

I was reaching into our living room closet the other day for something, and I turned my head and looked out the panes of glass in my door to the front yard, where there are trees. Two cars in the driveway.

I don’t know, man. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is. Having a home. There isn’t a white picket fence, but it’s a pretty good thing we have going here. I know I won’t be able to right all the wrongs done to me by having a family and trying my best to do right by them. But the healing of and in my heart has allowed me to forgive many things, and that’s a huge deal.

My life is full, and it’s completely not what I thought it would be, but everything I wanted it to.

Truly, I should not be here. But I am. Through addictions, through lots of things. I went through life feeling like an accident. But the truth is I am not.

I am here. God meant me to be.

I acknowledge that I only have life, and draw breath, and come home to hugs and kisses from my kids because of the presence of God in my life.

What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, but lose his soul?

I don’t know. I gained what feels like the whole world, and discovered my soul.

It isn’t just because of the house. It isn’t just because of the family.

I think…no, I know. It’s because my feet are finally on the right path. I still stumble, and sometimes even fall.

The fulfillment I feel in just…trying to be obedient makes it worthwhile.

And I get to come home to this insane enclave of kids, and dogs, and a wife, and it’s pretty awesome.

God is good, all the time.

And the funny thing is, he always was. It’s funny how much you hear when you actually listen.

Life is good, too.

It’s a Hard Heart That Kills

Back in February: “U.S. President Barack Obama on Friday described the deaths of three young Muslims gunned down in North Carolina this week as “brutal and outrageous murders” and said no one in the United States should be targeted for their religion.” No doubt to most people, that situation was a textbook hate crime.

In my opinion, there is no doubt the events of last week, where college students were asked if they were Christians, and then executed if they answered in the affirmative (though this man killed some other folks as well, there was no doubt some special viciousness reserved for those who claimed faith in Christ. Hard to imagine being the second person asked that question after the first was killed. It is, however, certainly a testament of faith). Still, you’d think the President would at least acknowledge this.

Or that a young man and former soldier ran at the gunman and tried to stop him. He could have gotten out of there, as he helped others evacuate.

He didn’t. He was unarmed, with little hope of success.

He still did something. That man is a hero.

Seriously.

Instead, the President (not to mention former Secretary Clinton) made the situation a forum for more gun control political speak. It makes sense, of course, with the election coming and all, but talking points are, after all, just talk.

Though there will be much more of that to come, no doubt.

Because guns kill people. We have to “get them.”

But it isn’t just politics, folks. Real lives are at stake. I was thinking about that—the tendency to politicize a tragedy to advance an agenda—and the logic confounds me. If so and so didn’t have such and such, he wouldn’t have done it. Or if so and so DID have such and such, he could have stopped it. But though these sentences have truth to them, it isn’t that simple.

Praying isn’t enough, I think the president said. He’s right. But neither is rhetoric. Nor is there any conceivable justification for stumping on the backs of murdered students, children, Marine Recruiters, or anyone else.

So stop trying. Have a little respect for the dead, not to mention yourselves.

Of course, guns do fall into the wrong hands. So do cars, for crying out loud. If you were determined enough to kill people—maybe even a lot of people—I think you would be able to find a way. Look at Timothy McVeigh, folks. He literally used bullcrap to take out a federal building. If someone is nuts enough or determined enough, and wants to kill people enough, he will find a way. It made me think of a line from the Bodyguard, when Frank says “If someone is willing to swap their lives for a killing, there’s no stopping them.”

Also, consider this clip from the movie “Full Metal Jacket, and note a short line in the middle: “It is a hard heart that kills.”

It’s a hard heart that kills.

A movie line, of course, but it rings with truth. And I believe the problem we face with guns, and killings (mass or otherwise) is a heart problem and not an access to firearms problem. I do understand the appeal of that argument, however. It absolves the person blaming the gun from personal responsibility.

And make no mistake, one chooses to fire a gun. A Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm, for example, has a 6.5 pound trigger pull weight, against a weight of 1.6 pounds for the weapon. It does not fire on its own.

Consider this excerpt from “The Gunslinger’s Creed,” taken from Stephen King’s The Dark Tower:

I do not kill with my gun, he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father; I kill with my heart.

And that’s where we are as a country. We kill with our hearts—our hardened hearts. We’ve got a national heart problem. At the root of having respect for life is the acknowledgment that all lives have worth. Not just minorities of one sort or another—one religion or another.

We need to start teaching the value of a human life, indiscriminately. All life is valuable, and worth more than jewels. We need to work on softening our hearts toward the plight of others.

All lives matter, not just black, or white, or gay, or transgenital, or octocurious.

Life doesn’t mean anything to so many people these days. Murder often becomes arbitrary. Or in some communities, almost a rite of passage (look at Chicago murder statistics if you don’t believe me).

We can make guns as hard to get as we want—we can take them all away and melt them into camping ware.

The change it would bring to the epidemic of violence in our country would be negotiable, at best. Because our hearts are stone toward people not like us. Not all the time, but often enough that things like Oregon keep happening.

And if those with left-leaning tendencies stopped to think about the situation, they would realize that so many people doing terrible things with a gun are more likely to get them from someone’s closet, or car trunk than from Bud’s Guns. Statistically speaking, it’s pretty easy to fact-check.

There’s no waiting period or background check on the black market. Or maybe the person concerned would not use a gun at all.

For pity’s sake, the United States wasn’t invaded because (roughly quoted) the enemy feared “every citizen would be hiding behind a blade of grass with a gun.”

Of course, there are people who shouldn’t have guns. There’s a lot of crazy out there.
But gun free zones featuring one security guard carrying a can of mace in an active shooter situation are about as useful as teats on a bull.

It would probably be great for controlling hippies fighting over a chia and watercress sandwich, though.

I never thought of myself as a particularly violent person, but I think I can say truthfully that if I was somewhere where my life or the lives of those around me were threatened I would do whatever I had to in order to protect those lives, or at least try.

I think anyone would hopefully do that in the same situation.

“I’m sorry, active shooter. I would like to confront you, but I believe only police and mil—“

I pray that if that day ever comes for me, I would have the courage of my present convictions.

I would want to have the courage of that second person who confessed Christ after watching his or her classmate shot in the head.

I would want to be the congressperson who voted to defund, even at the cost of shutting down the government.

Because forgive my hate speech, but all lives matter. I realize that in my heart and acknowledge it fully, because Jesus lives there, too. But because I am human, I realize the quandary.

I would still kill to protect my family. I don’t want to, but I would.

I would kill to protect your family. I don’t want to do that, either.

But I would.

That’s because to some people out there, no lives matter.

Let Your Glory Shine

The song “Let Your Glory Shine,” by Lincoln Brewster came on my mp3 player today, and it gave me a second or two of pause. The song begins with a short but lightning fast burst of guitar that just melts your face. Then he gets into the verse, which is pretty much straightforward blues/rock with a nice groove. Of course, then Brewster and the band go absolutely nuts after the bridge, and there’s another face melting guitar solo.

In the following video, Brewster tells the story of the song:

He talks about when he came from the secular music world (he played for Steve Perry, the original Journey singer) into playing worship music in a church, he always felt restraint, so far as his playing went. But it seemed like God was telling him to just play with what he was given to play, and in this instance, that was crazy guitar skills.

But the chorus of the song really tells the story.

“Let your glory shine, let your glory shine, let your glory shine through me.”

I’ve heard both pastors and worship leaders over the years say things like “church isn’t the time to showboat,” and maybe it isn’t. Perhaps a song like this IS more suited to a concert setting. But to me, that doesn’t meant the song doesn’t carry a valid message.

Let your glory shine through me.

Brewster also says in the “making of” video above, that “If I don’t give Lord everything, both musically and spiritually, then I’m not being obedient.”

He’s letting the talent God gave him shine (worth mentioning is that he always gives God the glory for what he’s been given).

That sounds OK to me.

Certainly, I’m no pastor, no bible scholar. Can’t sing or play.

But if there was something I could do OK, I would do it, and honor God with what he’d given me.

What that is, I’m still doing my best to discover. Maybe it’s writing. Maybe telling people about the Good News.

Maybe it’s simply my work. I would guess that’s it for a lot of people. Steven Curtis Chapman has a song where he says something like “do everything you do for the glory of the one who made you.”

Can I write and edit documents to the Glory of God? I think so—I hope that’s what I’m doing today.

But maybe it isn’t something so glamorous as typing for you, or playing ridiculously awesome guitar solos.

Maybe you drive a cab, or wash dishes.

Maybe you scoop dog poop in a park.

Or you could be a stay-at-home parent who spends a great deal of their time following children around and vacuuming Legos out of the carpet (you can do that, right?)

Try to think that in that moment, you are where God meant you to be.

Handing homeless people a meal, or stacking chairs.

Flipping burgers.

Making bouquets.

God put you there.

You can glorify him wherever you are.

I wish I could sing all the time. I’m the only one in my nuclear family who can’t, including my 4 year-old.

But that isn’t me.

Instead, I am spending my lunch trying to think, and write, and eat something from the roadrunner without getting some meat-sickness.

Then I will go back to Word, and Publisher.

I will write, and I will edit. And I will drop the mic when I am done for the day.

“If I don’t give Lord everything, then I’m not being obedient.”

Basic Human Rights 101

These two paragraphs from a New York Times article upset me so much I hardly know what to think about it:

When asked about American military policy, the spokesman for the American command in Afghanistan, Col. Brian Tribus, wrote in an email: “Generally, allegations of child sexual abuse by Afghan military or police personnel would be a matter of domestic Afghan criminal law.” He added that “there would be no express requirement that U.S. military personnel in Afghanistan report it.” An exception, he said, is when rape is being used as a weapon of war.
The American policy of nonintervention is intended to maintain good relations with the Afghan police and militia units the United States has trained to fight the Taliban. It also reflects a reluctance to impose cultural values in a country where pederasty is rife, particularly among powerful men, for whom being surrounded by young teenagers can be a mark of social status.

The article was in reference to the struggles soldiers are having with looking the other way while these Afghan chicken hawks rape and abuse young boys (occasionally girls). Domestic Afghan Criminal law? Please. This is a country that seems to encourage (or at least condones) the perpetuation of child sexual abuse as policy.

Really? These are our allies?

Isn’t not being raped a basic human right?

And while I’m thinking about it, just because these…men have always been a rapin’, does that mean they always should?

Does it really take a doctorate and a radio telescope to see when something is wrong?

If placating our “allies” requires allowing them to violate children because they’ve always done so, then we need to rethink our own military’s policy.

I spent several years witnessing first hand the terrible cost perpetrators of this “policy” exact on the victims of it (meaning rapists and victims–though domestically rather than internationally), and the closest I can come to describing how it makes me feel is rage.

And I know that makes my own faith–my own Christianity–sound feeble and hypocritical, but I could not ignore something like that. And I have nothing but respect for the soldiers who acted, and are going to lose their careers because of it.

I will just say it. It’s difficult for me to see the wrong in putting a beat down on a sack of goat crap like this Afghan commander. He’s lucky they didn’t kill him.

My response to all of this is there are some things in life that should not be compromised–one of which is the right of children to experience life at their own speed, and to not be subject to things like what our soldiers are told to ignore in Afghanistan.

Ignoring the screams of children is wrong, and the message this…policy is perpetuating is also wrong.

No, it isn’t the United States.

Yes, they should police these men in Afghanistan, in accordance with Afghan law.

They aren’t going to.

In my opinion, ignoring this crap is going to backfire big-time.

There has to be something we can do?

At the very least, the people entrusted with command of these men–as well as our commander-in-chief, should create a dialogue with our “allies.”

Because eventually, someone is going to go all “Marcellus Wallace” on these Afgan commanders.

Think it can’t get any worse? Wait a while.

The Falling Man

Of all the 9/11 images readily available, the ones that twist my guts the most are not the extremely graphic ones, though there are many of those available with the click of a mouse.

It would be fair to describe it as one of the worst days in American history, if not the worst.

There are two photos of Father Mychal Judge that are very powerful. In one, he is praying over (maybe administering last rites) a firefighter killed by a falling body. In another–after being killed by either another body or falling debris–the Father’s dead body is seen as he is carried out of the building by a group of firefighters.

He did his job, fulfilled his calling.

And he died.

The worst for me, though, are the images of people jumping from the upper levels of the World Trade Center. From the Windows on the World restaurant. From Cantor Fitzgerald. In fact, there is one well-known image of a large group of Cantor Fitzgerald employees standing in the broken windows of their workplace, and it’s almost as if they were looking over a cliff. I guess they were, in a sense.

They didn’t jump in sequence, but there was a rhythm to it just the same. Some of them held hands. Some tried to parachute, until the wind from their fall ripped whatever they held from their hands.

Then there was the image of a person who came to be known as the “Falling Man.”

We’ve all seen it. He’s wearing a white coat–like a restaurant employee–and he’s head down. His leg is drawn up, knee neatly folded. He looks almost peaceful.

Of course, the image is one of a series, and the rest reveal the chaos of his descent. But for that one frame, he looks at peace with things.

FILE - In this Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001 file picture, a person falls headfirst from the north tower of New York's World Trade Center. (AP Photo/Richard Drew) — FILE – In this Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001 file picture, a person falls headfirst from the north tower of New York’s World Trade Center. (AP Photo/Richard Drew)

There was nothing peaceful about it.

And when I think of 9/11, I think of that picture, and I agree with the “never again” statement.

And I remember.

The Esquire Magazine article “The Falling Man” surmises the Falling Man may have been food worker Jonathan Briley, though no one knows for sure. The article then says this:

“Is Jonathan Briley the Falling Man? He might be. But maybe he didn’t jump from the window as a betrayal of love or because he lost hope. Maybe he jumped to fulfill the terms of a miracle. Maybe he jumped to come home to his family. Maybe he didn’t jump at all, because no one can jump into the arms of God.

Oh, no. You have to fall.”

The Lifeguard

Here’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. Our country has some serious problems–both domestically and abroad. These are issues the executive branch is capable of handling, but for some reason has been choosing to act and/or negotiate from a position of weakness rather than strength, in both areas.

I think there are times when that sort of approach can be affective, but in this instance, it seems the greatest country on earth is approaching the head of the soup line with our palms up in supplication, asking if we can please have some more.

Do I think we should act like the playground bully and take more control?

Of course not.

I think our current USA CEO could even be a great president under better conditions–under peacetime conditions.

Except that in our current domestic and world situations,

IT ISN’T LIKE THAT AT ALL!!

There’s a war going on, and a pestilence made up of radical Islamic thugs and murderers spreading in the middle east.

Is the answer to keeping Iran out of the fray gently petting their back like a kitty?

Maybe not.

But letting them inspect themselves to determine if they are stockpiling nuclear weapons?

Have they proven themselves to be both truthful and trustworthy? Sane, even?

And what about the Islamic State?

What about our own country, for that matter? What is going on?

It seems as if life has no meaning beyond Webster’s definition.

People kill each other almost arbitrarily in places like Chicago, and really across America.

Young African-American men are killing cops, because black lives matter.

Cops are occasionally killing African-American men because they have been conditioned to fear them, and even expect the worst.

Stupidity, AND latent and active racism have a hand in both.

Here’s the thing, in my opinion.

Life is never easy, for most of us.

But it has value. Each life has value.

Black, white, blue, born or unborn.

How do we get people to realize that?

It’s there where I usually get myself into trouble.

It isn’t by preaching wrath.

I think it’s by preaching the love of Christ.

Not Allah, or Vishnu, or Baal, or anything like that.

Christ.

It’s a shame so many people don’t know that.

It’s a shame it often seems the government is working toward criminalizing people for saying it, in one form or another.

It’s my belief that if people knew what value they had to their maker, maybe they would act, think, and feel differently.

Maybe I’m being optimistic and naïve, but I think there’s always hope. It may be that my saying that in the way I have offends you.

I’m sorry if you’re offended, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

There’s just one way to find real peace.

It may not be popular.

It may be difficult (of course it is. Morality seems more vice than virtue these days). And moral relativism is a lot easier to achieve and maintain than a relationship with Christ.

Man, I don’t know what to tell you. I only know my own pain. I only know my own hopes, dreams, and fears. I only know the sources of my own scars.

And I only know that it wasn’t until I began a relationship with Jesus that I began to find relief.

I know that with the same certainty I felt when I knew I wanted to marry my wife.

Listen, folks, you don’t have to believe me. You get to decide the route your life takes.

We are all different, in almost every way.

But we are also all the same.

We’re drowning in a deep, dark pool, and we need someone to throw us a rope. Lots of people will, but only one rope leads to rescue.

Cling to that one with all your might.

Sunflowers

I’ve been up at the front exactly twice during an invitation at church, both times at my church in San Diego. They did it a little differently than some places I’d been. People would sort of hang out on the short steps leading to the stage, and if you wanted prayer, you’d come up and have a seat. Sometimes you’d do the same in the chairs. Seemed to work pretty well.

On the day in question, it was because I was a small group leader, and the pastor called us to the front to pray for or with people that wanted prayer. Typically, it was people involved in worship or ministry in some way that would be the prayers, but there was a retreat or something going on, and the pastor needed a little help.

Honestly, it wasn’t something I was terribly comfortable with at the time, because I didn’t feel…worthy, or qualified to lift anyone else up to God. I felt broken, and sort of…held together.

But the pastor called, so up I went.

I remember the first time, I sat nervously on the step, wondering if anyone would come to me—there were quite a few people sitting around the stage. I silently prayed that if someone did end up with me, that I would have the right words to say when the time came.

I felt like the kid in left field, asking God “Please don’t let anyone hit it to me.”

Shortly after that, I saw a pretty woman in her late thirties or early forties make her way down the aisle to where I was sitting. She was tall for a woman, and very slender. She had a bandanna tied around what looked to be a very bald head, and my first thought was cancer.

What I remember most is she looked very, very tired, and from what it looked like, had been sitting alone in the sanctuary.

She stopped right before me, and I slowly stood. She took both my hands in hers, and I could see the gentle sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Hi,” I said. “How can I…”

Before I could finish my sentence, she dropped her head toward her chest and the tears began to flow.

God, I prayed. What do I say? What do I do to help her?

You do nothing, was the sense I got. You say nothing.

So I didn’t. She was a little older than me at the time, but I just reached out my arms and I hugged her.

She cried on my chest for a good five minutes, and I just prayed silently in my head for her. Mainly that she could experience Jesus through her pain, and that I not ruin any experience that might happen. I never asked for healing. I don’t know why.

She lifted her head a minute or so later, and she just smiled a gentle smile at me, and said “thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said.

She stepped back and said, “I guess I needed that.”

“Me, too.”

She looked at me for a moment, and then walked back down the aisle, and out of the sanctuary.

I stood there for a moment, and realized I didn’t feel nervous anymore. I actually felt peaceful. I could still feel the woman’s arms around me, and smell the faint scent of Sunflowers (I think that’s what it’s called) clinging to my t-shirt.

I didn’t remember anyone holding onto me like that since I was a kid. Not in a romantic way, but still loving. Comforting.

Like I was a brother.

I realized it was me who needed the prayer, and in that moment, needed her.

And it occurred to me that maybe she’d been praying for me the whole time I was praying for her. Maybe she was crying for me. I felt like I got the most of the blessing.

That was the only time I saw her.

I don’t know her name, but when I think about God meeting my needs (which he does every time I ask), I always think of her, and of Sunflowers perfume.

And I think one of the funny things about God is sometimes you just need to show up, and let him do the work.

Heroes

I keep a sword behind my bed—two, actually. A pair of sheathed Roman-style gladiuses (or is it gladii?). Not much of an edge on either, but both have relatively heavy blades and nasty points. So while I may not shoot you, if you break into my house and try to hurt someone who lives there, you will either be killed and partially consumed by a Chihuahua and a dachshund, or stabbed in the head by an angry, middle-aged bald man.

Or that’s my plan.

The issue I run into is that I am not certain I could do it. I hope I never have to find out. That’s the thing about courage. I guess you never really know if you have it until you’re tested. I think these days, home invasion is the most likely situation in which that test would ever occur.

As I said a minute ago, I hope it never does.

When I think of courage, I think of people doing what has to be done in spite of potential danger to themselves—up to and including killing to protect those in their care.

I don’t think about senior-aged men deciding they were meant to be something other than what they already are, and then going on national television and suddenly becoming heroic for talking about their issues. Identity. Whatever.

Courage, of course, does not always have to be meant in a martial or violent sense, either. I think about people like Randy Pausch, maintaining his composure, and hope, and delivering his last lecture in the face of certain and eventual death.

I don’t mean hope of death passing him by, either. Randy had something he wanted to achieve before he passed, and he did, in spite of his illness.

That’s courage.

I think of my brother-in-law, John, climbing this…electrical tower thingy and bringing a potentially suicidal guy back down to earth.

That’s courage.

Or how about those Coptic Christians being marched down that beach earlier in the year, moments from literally dying for their faith?

Most definitely courage, and I can only hope to be as brave should something similar ever happen here.

Talking about how God gave you the wrong plumbing?

Not so much.

I guess in a sense, every boy wants to be courageous when the time comes. We all want to be heroes. What am I after with all this? I’m not sure. I guess I just hope that if and when it is necessary, I come through and do what needs to be done.

Until that day, I will just do my best to raise my boys to know that I am there for them, and will protect them and their mother to the best of all the abilities God has given me.

I never served, and never had the honor of protecting my country–I wish I had, now.

What I can do is support my country however I am able, and support those who do protect it with the best of all the abilities God has given me.

And I will hold all life as sacred, because God said to (and because I read Coleridge–the Ancient Mariner had some real problems) and because all life is sacred. All lives matter.

I think if I can do those two things, even when society tells me I don’t need to, or don’t have the right, then we will be OK.

Does that make me courageous? I don’t know.

The Song You Sing

Over the past week or two, I’ve written, rewritten, and ultimately discarded a post that’s been sticking in my craw like county fair taffy. In the end, I think I only need a few syllables. 17, to be exact:

All lives are the same
Created in His beauty
All matter to God

I think about life, and then Thoreau speaks quiet words into my ear:

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still in them.”

I don’t want to listen to him, because I got a “B” on my Civil Disobedience paper, and his sideburns are ridiculous.

Am I quietly desperate? I don’t know. I don’t want to be.

That doesn’t make his words any less true.

Do you really want to live the rest of your life with the song still in you? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Sing.

At my best, my voice is…not good. But in my own way, I carry a tune (even if it is in a bucket).

I just decided that it’s OK if people don’t like my melody—or don’t think I’m musical.

Maybe my music consists of letters instead of notes; bouquets of words, and sentences, and imagery.

I’m good with that.

All I want to say to you, whoever you are, is find your music.

It’s different for everyone.

It’s probably something else for you. Your music will sound different than anyone else’s.

It should–you weren’t designed the same as they were. You don’t have the same purpose, but be assured, you have one.

For my wife, it’s singing and pouring out her amazing heart for children.

Find your own song, and belt that thing like Andrea Bocelli.

Let me finish with these words from Psalm 51–about the most appropriate I can think of, given what I’m talking about:

14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God,
you who are God my Savior,
and my tongue will sing of your righteousness.

15 Open my lips, Lord,
and my mouth will declare your praise)

Certainly not my words, but they fit.

Listen, or How a Trip to Mexico Changed My Life

There’s a lot I can take credit for in my life.

My mistakes.

My screw ups.

Things like that.

The turn my life has taken over the past few years is not one of them.

More than ten years ago I was a believer, but I was a just-inside-the-gate-of heaven type of guy. I did as little as I could so that I felt “saved,” but had not really done much of anything with the Gospel, or myself.

I was neither financially, spiritually, or romantically viable. And probably some other viables, too.

I believe the saying now is a “hot mess.”

A former relationship had rendered me skittish about sticking out my neck in any real way, so I didn’t. I just sat back and waited for the next thing to happen.

It didn’t, even though there were a couple of opportunities with some really nice, really great women who probably would have made me happy.

Never tried.

My discipleship and spiritual life were mediocre, at best. I was part of a ministry that changed my life over around a five-year period, but that was due to God being glorious, and me at least being smart enough to stand out of the way and let God use me a few times. I almost feel like I had nothing to do with it. Maybe I didn’t.

Financially, I had a decent job that payed well enough, but I was utterly stupid about money and it amounted to naught. Plus, it was in the cellular industry and there was always a measure of uncertainty attached to it.

I made so many bad choices it makes me shudder to think of it now (not that all my choices now are perfect, but they are at least considered first).

I needed to get away, to think about things, and where my life was going. I needed to pray. I had what turned out to be a misguided feeling that if I could just meet someone, my life would be better.

Well, actually, that was true. Just not in the way I thought.

There were a couple of lame attempts at online dating that I really never expected to succeed. So they didn’t.

I considered what was wrong in my life, and why all that stuff was so hard.

I’d had a few relationships here and there, but they always went in the toilet after various periods of time.

Why?

I could not blame the women, not really. I had chosen to pursue them in most of the cases. And eventually I always just…face-planted.

I’d always had more female friends than male ones. I guess that was because of my childhood and adolescence, which I’ve written about several times. Not inclined to repeat any of that here. Anyway, it seemed to make things easier, but not really.

There was the feeling of being with someone in a “safe” way, but it also gave me the opportunity to take things in the wrong direction emotionally, which did end up happening once. Also, once physically, which was the biggest mistake of my life.

Also, it removed the risk of me meeting anyone else, because it seemed like girls weren’t all that interested in guys who hung out with girls most of the time.

Most importantly, though, it was not appropriate. I don’t believe now that God made us that way—at least not me. I copped out for a very large part of my life.

And then it came to pass that God allowed me a moment of clarity about my life, and the conclusion I came to was this one: I was never going to right my ship and my life if I kept doing the same things over and over again. It was clear I didn’t really know how to handle things—I’d never learned.

So that meant the “why” was because I had never asked what God thought about my relationships, or if I should even have one.

A day or two after that conclusion, I was fooling around online—watching YouTube clips and skimming around a couple of dating sites. I signed into MySpace to play some online game and saw I’d gotten an email from a young woman in AZ. I didn’t know her, but she was pretty so I didn’t delete it. I read it, though. I didn’t get any voice from on high telling me what to do.

So I kept skimming, and watching concert clips.

A short while later, I went to Mexico for a short vacation with two good friends (yes, they were female. No, there wasn’t any tension that way). We had a condo a few short steps from the Akumal beach.

(sorry for the gratuitous backfat shot–it’s the only pic I have that shows the view from the patio where I would sit and write)

I sat out there the first morning, and I read a little scripture and scribbled in a notebook. It became my habit over the next few days, between snorkeling, sightseeing, and drinking margaritas.

I think it was the second to last day when I wrote this:

“God, if you’re ever going to make something happen for me with someone, you have to make it really clear what you want (yes, I gave an order to the creator of all things). Because I don’t know what I want, but I know I don’t want this—this life—anymore. I don’t want to die, I just want it to be different.”

There were a few more things, but that’s the part that matters most for my purposes today.

Shortly after returning, I pulled up MySpace at work and wrote a reply to the Arizona woman who’d written me.

Her name was Jenny.

Everything flowed from that. From the beginning, our conversations were easy and authentic. Transparent.

It went quickly, but felt right from the very beginning. It felt like that clarity I’d asked God for.

I listened.

Jenny and I were married on May 16, 2009.

Today, we have two crazy boys, and we own a home. Things are looking up, and get better all the time. We worship and serve at First Christian Church–Yuma. We are leaders in the Prayer Ministry there.

The pastor is a Godly man named Jeff Elzey who is also a great guy. We are able to worship every week with our best friends and family, and that is wonderful.

Yes, there were quite a few bumps and a pretty significant breakdown along the way, but it feels like those things needed to happen now as part of my personal refining. And some pain was involved, but so was healing.

My life is full now, and fulfilled. Listening to God brought all of that about. Asking him to take control of that part of my life and my heart helped. Otherwise I would have discarded all the little clues he set in my path—never been great at grasping subtleties.

I love the life God has set before me.

I love my family, and all the friends I’ve made since becoming part of things at my church and in my community.

My job is better than it’s ever been.

I take no credit for any of it. I just think there are so many blessings in being faithful. Not perfect—just faithful.

Listen to God. Listen FOR God.

It will change your life.

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