Category: Life

CTE Sucks

I used to think that football players these days weren’t as tough as they used to be, what with all the new rules now in place that prohibit various types of hits, and protect players from certain types of injuries.

I’m beginning to realize that tough has nothing to do with it. The NFL is getting it right with protecting these men. There have been several incidents of suicide from former players over the past few years, culminating in the death of Junior Seau on Wednesday from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

One commonality amongst some of the players who have died over the past few years—not just from suicide—has been chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), thought to be brought on by traumatic brain injuries such as concussions, which are extremely common in the NFL.

I’m beginning to thing much more is going to have to change in the way of protecting these men. The eyes of the public are beginning to open to CTE, and it’s my hope that athletes do not continue to die this way, or have their lives and cognitive abilities shortened because of these injuries.

I’m ashamed to say it took the death of a local sports hero—no, a local legend—to make me realize that. I realize it now, though. And as much as I enjoy football, something has to change.

Kicked in the Nuts

Last Wednesday morning I woke up feeling completely spent–like I could sleep for about a year and it wouldn’t be enough. It seems like the alarm clock has been going off at 0400 forever. I went out to the living room like I usually do to do my reading, but this morning I could hardly stay awake enough to do it, so in the interest of not dozing off and waking up at 0600 when Jenny got up, I decided to just get ready for work earlier instead.

That woke me up, but it didn’t get me any more focused. I gave up and left for work. I asked God to give me a little better perspective on my work. I’ve been having a problem being grateful for what I have, and growing almost resentful about all that I have been missing in regard to my family and my kids. I listened to XM63, The Message, while driving to work, and the last song I heard before I drove up to the gate really kicked me in the nuts—it was by Mark Schultz, and I think it was called “He Was Walking Her Home.”

It made me think about my wife. I hope we have 80 years together, but even if we don’t, after a little while, we’ll have forever.

After getting to my office, I decided to listen to more music on the way to my test site, so I popped in my ear buds, and put the Iphone on shuffle. Got kicked in the nuts a bunch more times:

1. What Love Really Means by JJ Heller

2. Glorious Day by Todd Agnew

3. Give Me Words To Speak by Aaron Shust

4. Washed by the Water by Needtobreathe

5. Where I Belong by Building 429

6. God by Stryper

7. Come to the Water, by Matt Maher

8. Alaba el Padre by En Espiritu y en Verdad

And because my Iphone is crazy:

9. Big Ten Inch Record by Aerosmith

I think it’s going to be a good day.

Indiana Wilkins and the Temple of Prose

Everyone has different gifts.

This is something I have heard a great deal over the course of my life, especially since moving to Yuma. I married into a family that was extremely gifted musically, and I am not…similarly gifted. I can carry a tune enough not to embarrass myself, but I am not the lifelong singer my wife and her father are.

As if that weren’t enough, they can also play. My wife plays the flute beautifully, and Ken plays anything with strings and several without. Jenny’s brother John is an amazing rock drummer, and my 7 year old son is already a better drummer than I would be if I lived to be a 1000 years old.

I can’t bang a triangle at dinner time.

That used to bum me out a little because I felt like I would fit better in the family if I could play something. I would see them up there playing and worshipping and I would feel like I was missing something.

And then I realized this is my act of worship; writing. I sing my praises through a keyboard instead of a microphone.

God gave me a decent enough brain, and the ability to turn a written phrase—and I do not have the fear that many do to speak in front of people, thanks to 4 years in the drama class of the incomparable Ed Hollingsworth.

So this is what I do.

I write.

I speak my mind to a captive audience of perhaps two or three readers. What I was meant to do? This may be part of it, but certainly not all of it.

Now, approaching my mid-40’s, I find myself heeding the still, small voice, and doing something I would have not even considered the possibility of just a few short years ago, prior to marrying the amazing Jennifer Wilkins.

I’m going to bible college.

Where that will take me, I do not know with any kind of certainty. I do know it is the right thing to do, and the obedient one.

So I will read, and study, and write—unfortunately, this will mostly consist of essays. And the occasional short burst of something like this, time permitting.

The adventure continues…

Six Arms

Work has been a little tough lately. Not so much the job itself—I feel pretty comfortable performing all the tasks assigned to me. This particular test, however, has been a great many hours, and the end of it is a long way off. Consequently, I have been pretty tired, and when I am tired, it is easy to think negative thoughts, and sometimes forget to be grateful for all I have been blessed with.

The other night I was driving home after a 13 hour workday, and all I could think about was that I was hungry, and wondering when I would be able to go to sleep. I knew there were likely a couple things to take care of at home—including catching up on reading for my New Testament class—but none of that interested me.

I parked my car, and realized with a start that I was allowing negativity to consume me when really I had been absolutely flooded with blessing. I had a job when so many people in town didn’t. I had a family that loved me when many were alone. I was going to go inside and eat dinner and sleep in a bed when so many were homeless and hungry.

I asked God to remind me of my blessings, and help me to find a way to glorify Him with my work. Then I got out of my car and walked to my front door.

I stood in front of the door and gathered my thoughts for a few seconds. As I opened the door, I heard my wife’s voice say “Daddy’s home,” and I walked inside.

“Dada,” said John, standing right next to the door. He wrapped his arms around my legs, and then lifted them to me. I scooped him up. David came over and hugged me around my middle. Then Jen put her arms around me and gave me a kiss.

Thanks, God, I thought.

Of Sons, Oysters, and Self-Image

I have been struggling with my older son.

It’s my fault.

The struggles have been myriad, and are mainly due to baggage I brought with me from my previous life. We became a family in 2008, and he was 4 at the time. He’d already had 4 years with my wife’s awesome family, and had learned about many things I had no idea about growing up.

He grew up with the best Grandparents probably ever, and they did all they could to help my wife teach him how to be a man, using all the tools given them. I cannot think of a better example of the sort of man I would want my sons to be like than their grandfather. He loves God, and serves God, and does not put himself first. He takes care of his family, and he took care of mine, too, for the first year of my marriage.

That baggage I was talking about. What I brought to my marriage and new life as father to a 4 year old boy was the lessons I’d learned about parenting from my own father. He was very old school, and had some particular ideas about what kids should be like, boys especially. These ideas I brought with me to my marriage, and it didn’t matter that I told myself I was not going to be like him. I was. So when my son would do things any little boy would do, I held them up to my father’s standards for me. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until fairly recently.

I have to find a way around that. I am not my dad, and my son is not me.

It wasn’t that my dad talked about how he expected things to be—he didn’t talk about much at all, except to get pissed about things and yell every once in a while. I could just tell what he seemed to wish I was like based on the things he liked to do, things I would tag along for because I liked to be with him, but never really got a taste for.

He liked to sail, and I got seasick constantly. I sailed with him, though, because I liked to be around him and I wanted to get to the point where he wanted to be around me. I don’t know that he didn’t, but I also don’t know that he did, because he never talked about it, ever. I can’t recall a single occurrence of my dad talking about feelings—his, or anyone else’s.

I assume he loved me because he was my dad, but he never told me that I can remember.

I don’t want to be that guy—that father—so I try and be as vocal as I can with the boys about how I feel. I am not sure how much the baby understands, but I want him to know from the beginning how I feel. So I tell him. I tell them.

Still, it can get frustrating sometimes, because whether he knows it or not, my older son brought some things into our family as well. I believe his age when we met (4) until maybe a couple years from now is one of the times in our lives when we form the core parts of our personality. It is when we are the most malleable and just soak up things like those big, round sponges you see people use in bathtub scenes in older movies.

Anyway, what my son brought to this particular table is also not his fault. He brought what he does remember (not much) of his father, who was not much of a father at all, and does not deserve to be. Not of this boy. This boy is good, and should be treated as such.

Sometimes I wonder, though, if my son does not remember this man at times, and expect what he remembers from me.

Another thing is that all the things I love so much about my wife are also present in this strong, willful, resourceful, and very intelligent young man.

This means there are times when we butt heads. From what I understand from my wife, this is exactly what she was like as a child.

What occurred to me this morning was that if I want things to be different—and if I want him to be different—there are certain things I must and must not do.

The first thing is that I must be different.

If I want him to be more generous, I need to teach him about generosity, not how to hold onto things.

If I want him to be more loving of other people beyond himself, I need to teach him about God, and the message of Jesus.

If I want him to be respectful of myself and others, then I need to do the same, starting with him.

If I want him to speak in a kind manner, then….well, so do I, even when I don’t feel like it.

And the truth is, he will learn from me, whether I purposefully teach him or not. So will the baby.

That being said, I believe serving God with my whole heart is a good place to start. So is prayer. Neither of those things will change God—they will change me.

Because I believe the way a boy looks at his father is the way he looks at God. He won’t necessarily mean to, but he will. That’s what I did, and that’s what was at the core of many of my preconceived notions about Jesus and what I meant to Him.

I don’t want my sons going through the same things about me.

The truth is that because he did not tell me, I have no idea what I meant to my father on earth. It is not the same with my father in heaven.

He tells me through the love I receive from my wife and my kids when I am worthy of little but dismissal at the very best.

He tells me when He guides me beside the still waters.

He tells me when he restores me from the callow and broken thing I once was to the broken but healing man I am today.

What will I tell my kids about that? How will I tell my kids about that?

How will I not? I have to. Kids respect truth. They understand it. If I want them to understand who I am today, and understand how I got there, then they need to know the whole story.

That’s how God will reach them.

Anyway, I guess what I have to do is just love them both the same, and treat them both the same, and show them God loves them, too. I will show them by leading my life in such a way they have no doubt who my father in Heaven is.

One more thing, and this is really a comment about self image, which for me was powerfully negative early on in my life. It was that self-image that drove me to find any way I could so that I would not have to look at it, or myself. Only God could really alter that image in any sort of real way, and one day did.

This was a very clear picture I got several years ago, and I wish I had the artistic skill to draw or paint it. All I have is words.

A roughly callused but gentle hand holds an oyster in an opened palm. The shell is hard and covered with the slime and sediment the bottom of the ocean brings. It is cracked slightly open, and a small amount of water smelling of the sea leaks from within.

Another hand appears, holding a short-bladed knife with a curved blade. The blade is inserted into the slightly opened oyster, and slips around the edge, forcing the shell open little by little. Finally, it pops open and sits in the hand as if it were waiting for something.

Resting on top of the oyster’s flesh sits a small object, which on first glance looks like a pebble, or possibly a chunk of shell. It’s also covered in a thin layer of slime, peppered here and there with grains of sand and sediment.

The hand gently lifts the object from the shell, and discards the remains. Slowly, it begins to clean the sediment and slime from the object, filth that took a lifetime to accrue. A soft glow begins to appear as the truth of the object is revealed, and in the end, it is not a pebble at all.

It is a small and shining pearl.

A pearl of great price.

I know that won’t make much sense to a lot of people, and that is OK. It makes sense to me. I think the key to understanding my kids, and having them understand and learn from me the way I would very much like them to is helping them to understand where I came from, so they can understand where they came from.

I hope I can teach them that.

I certainly plan to try.

Of golden delicious apples and caviar

Whitney Houston died last week.

Sad, to be sure. But certainly not unexpected. As most of the world was made aware, she’d been struggling with her addictions demons for many years, and it seemed a certainty she would one day succumb to them.

I’m not here today to comment on Whitney Houston’s demise beyond that. I was just sitting here thinking today that I really don’t get our fascinations with celebrities, and celebrity deaths.

Let them live and die in peace. Really.

My God, just look at those gossip rags in grocery stores. And we really lap that stuff up.

One thing people seem to forget all the time is that yes, most celebrities are wealthier than we will ever be. Indeed it is difficult to imagine wealth to such a degree that if you want anything, all you have to do is pull a wad of cash or a limitless credit card out of your fanny pack and you are rolling in it. The thing is they are still people, just like anyone else.

They step into their 1500 dollar jeans every day just like I step into my 19 dollar Walmart specials. They pee in the morning, and sometimes they might even blow their noses. Maybe not Betty White, but certainly everyone else.

The point is, when does it stop?

I’m wondering when it will get to the point we see a story like:

School teacher uses bathroom stall next to Twilight star Robert Pattinson.

Phoenix, Arizona

Yesterday, a 10th grade history teacher named Carlos Jackson entered a Carl’s Jr Bathroom with an urgent need to purge his “lower quadrant.” Before he could close the door to his stall, he saw faux teenage emo vampire douche Robert Pattinson enter the stall next to his wearing a pained expression on his pasty white cheeks.

“It was really bad,” said Jackson. “It sounded like that noise a pumpkin makes when it falls off a ten story building and explodes on the ground. But it smelled like golden delicious apples and caviar. He asked his assistant to hand him a stack of 20’s to wipe with”

You know that kind of thing is coming.

I would prefer that we just let them live their lives, and I will enjoy the entertainment they provide. I don’t want to know them, and I do not care who they marry, or if Miley Cyrus is seen riding a goat down Pennsylvania avenue singing Party in the USA.

Maybe if we don’t allow ourselves to be consumed by their celebrity, they will not feel the need to be consumed by the world.

They will not live (and die) for our adoration.

They will not become golden calves.

Of Bullies and Drama

There’s been a lot said and written about bullying—both cyber and otherwise—over the past few years, and much of that was in regard to young people experiencing it in such a way that they ended up taking their own lives.

There was the Rutgers student who leapt from a bridge in New York after he was cruelly “outed” over the internet by his roommate. Also the Irish girl who was so piled on by other students in her high school here in the U.S. that she sought out a rope.

I don’t want to take anything away from either of these situations, because both were horrible. Yet I feel it would be remiss not to mention it is not just gays and high school students who dated the wrong boy who are bullied.

Fat kids are bullied, too. And skinny kids. Poor kids, or kids who wear the wrong clothes. Kids who are from the “wrong” side of town, whose house might not be as nicely made as other, more well-to-do students.

Nothing is so cruel as a teenager who for some reason thinks the only way he or she can reach the proper level of popularity is to prey on weaker kids.

I saw some of that when I was just starting high school, but in one respect I was a lot luckier than some of the other kids going through the same sort of thing.

I had an older brother who was probably worse than any of them would ever be. Who taught me about what real cruelty was, and did so much to destroy my self-image that nothing these 9th grade amateurs could come up with could even make a dent in my already trashed psyche.

I learned how to be a victim from the best.

I had a cast on my left arm nearly to my shoulder for most of my freshman year. Usually, most kids left me alone, but for the first week or so after it happened, it offered me some small measure of celebrity because I was able to relate the story of the break over and over again. It made a sound like a large carrot stick snapping, and I got to where I could describe it pretty well. Soon, though, I was just another poor and overweight kid who wanted desperately to disappear into the swirl of activity that high school was.

But I remember there was this one kid in my 9th grade Geography class who sat directly behind me and thought it was great fun to kick or punch me in the small of my back. I suppose he wanted to get a response from me, but he never did. I didn’t tell on him, but I never made a sound to acknowledge the blows, either.

The teacher was this tiny old German Jewish lady—a sweet little grandma—that knew a lot about the world, and probably much of cruelty. This same guy that liked to pick on me, along with a “friend,” one day cut a small swastika from masking tape and stuck it on the lens of the classroom projector, so that when Mrs Kohls turned on the projector at the back of the class, a large swastika was displayed on the movie screen at the front.

I don’t remember what she did after that, but when I walked out of the class that morning the swastika guy accosted me just outside the door. I didn’t say anything to him, but just shoved him against the wall and walked away, directly to the counselor’s office.

I didn’t do anything to speak up for the teacher, or even for myself, really. I didn’t have any fantasies of coming back to school strapped and exacting my revenge on my tormentors. I just wanted to get away from them. So I made up some dumb reason, asked for a transfer to another class, and got it.

I was sick of hearing about how my clothes looked cheap, and how I should be going to a different school. I was sick of hearing that my hair was too long, or too shaggy, or that I was a pussy because I didn’t stick up for myself. It wasn’t necessarily that I was afraid to–I’d just never learned how.

I often wondered what he and others got out of mistreating me and other kids that weren’t cool enough, or weren’t something enough to be offered the same respect and freedom from cruelty that the majority of the other kids received.

I never found out. And thinking about Mrs Kohls now, I really regret I didn’t do anything in the class when those two shitheads did that thing with the projector, or do anything afterward.

What I did find was drama class, and a room full of other kids who didn’t fit in anywhere, either. It was a big, really diverse group, and more importantly to me, none of the “cool” kids were in it. I had never been so happy to be anywhere in my life.

It was that class which helped me to realize that I was not alone. There were other kids who were poor, or funny looking, or had scars. I didn’t know any gay people at the time, but I would guess there may have been one or two of them there, too.

I realized that it did get better, and I never ended up on a rooftop with a rifle or thought seriously about ending my own life. I was lucky in that regard because I am well aware now of the cost of feeling that way—like you’re alone, and there is no hope at all.

There is hope.

I didn’t know Christ then, but I had a small circle of friends that through their presence in my life lifted me up above the nonsense I was going through, and the careless cruelty of other teenagers. It was enough.

Again, I was very lucky.

If anyone at all is reading this, maybe you’re like that, too. Maybe there’s someone who likes to try and make you feel like you’re nothing, and you never will be. Maybe they hurt you physically, and maybe it’s just words. Either way, the pain is all too real, and sometimes feels like it’s more than you can take.

I am fully aware how hard it is, but I promise you it will not endure forever. There is an end, and things do—really do—get better. Talk to someone. A friend, a family member. A pastor, a teacher. Just talk to someone before you take any steps you cannot come back from.

You are here because God wants you to be. You matter, and are loved.

Let me say just a few more words in the way of an epilogue. After I got out of that class, I never experienced any more bullying. I huddled with the other “drama geeks” and we circled our wagons to protect us. It worked.

I did have one more interaction with the geography guy and his buddy, though. Now, I don’t believe in Karma, but I do believe we absolutely reap what we sow. It certainly happened in this case.

About 5 or 6 years after graduation, I saw the back kicker’s buddy bicycling around El Cajon on a little boy’s BMX bike, with his t-shirt tucked into his back pocket. He looked like what we then called a “sketch monkey.” That would be a tweaker today. We didn’t speak, and all I could muster up in the way of feeling was a weak “too bad for him.”

Shortly after that, I was in the Santee Vons picking up a few groceries, and saw the back kicker himself bagging groceries in my line. He didn’t look as bad as the other guy, but he had quite a few miles on his odometer. When I got up to the front of the line, as he slipped my things into a bag, he looked at me and gave me an almost-robotic sounding “How you doing?”

I couldn’t tell if he recognized me or not, but I recognized him. I looked in his eyes and responded “I’m doing fine.”

I realize that I should probably not have found any satisfaction in how those boys were doing when I saw them after high school, but the part of me that had been hurt very much did, and wanted to say not only “I’m fine,” but also “that’s what you get.”

When I think about it now, I realize that rejoicing in another’s misery–no matter how seemingly justified–is never the right thing to do. I was wrong to be glad at the lots of those two young men who had made my life so difficult. Sometimes I wonder what happened to them.

I wish I had a tidy epilogue to wrap things up, but all I can really say is that I am not now who I was then, though that person still lives within me.

I hope anyone who reads this that’s been picked on, belittled, hurt or abused in any way just hangs on for a little while longer. And then longer still. Change takes time, for everyone. And you’re stronger than you know.

Thinking….I do that sometimes….

I always expected to get more and more conservative as I got older. I expected by the time I was in my 40’s, I would probably have to start a new politcal party because of how hardcore I would be.

Strangely, it has not worked out like that at all.

As I’ve gotten older and experienced more of life, the little things that used to really get stuck in my craw don’t really bother me as much anymore. Growing closer to Christ and learning more about my place in His heart has really helped with that, too.

I used to read and hear things from way on the left that would make me want to just choke someone out. I eventually came to realize that errant thoughts and misguided motives are as common as true and righteous ones, and both sides of the political spectrum are guilty of both.  I also realized that me telling someone that is not the same as them realizing it themselves.

In other words, people sometimes need to learn about things the hard way.

And while it is still true that I have nowhere else experienced the condescension and smugness that I have from Liberal folks resting comfortably on their self-righteous laurels, I do my best to not let it bother me anymore, though every now and again I still get upset.

I’m redeemed, not perfect.

I hate injustice as much as anyone.  I hate that unbiased media coverage does not exist.  I hate prejudice against someone based on ethnicity, or who they pray to, even if I don’t do the same. I hate when people resort to violence against those weaker than themselves. I hate being talked down to by people that seem to think they are the source of all wisdom because they have a graduate degree and voted for the other guy last time we hit the ballot boxes.

It’s so interesting, though. I didn’t have my temper disappear all at once, and indeed sometimes it still reminds me that it’s there. It just gradually faded into something quite manageable as the little things stopped becoming big things, because at the end of it all, none of that left and right wing shit really matters.

I also was blessed with more and more self-control as I got older (and less and less hair, as it turned out), which is really the second best thing that ever happened to me, next to meeting Jesus and my beautiful wife.  I realize that me flying into a rage or making my spleen explode is not going to help anything, and if I am who I say I am, then people are not looking for me to follow Jesus and be sincere about it.

They’re looking for me to fail, or get red-faced pissed and start screaming at people, which has flared up a few times in my family.

Not wanting to be typical has also helped me with my self-control.  Something else about some of those more liberal folks I’ve noticed over the past few years: they almost seem consumed by rage and bitterness every now and then, especially when things don’t go their way during an election, or if someone was to criticize their voting choices. I don’t even remember what that felt like. It’s good to have some peace.

Maybe this won’t make sense to anyone but me, and that’s OK. I’m just sitting here on my lunch break and thinking that the world looks a lot different when you don’t have as much of it smeared on the lenses of your glasses.

What Christmas is All About

You’ll hear a lot this time of year about what Christmas means to various people. There are those who ignore it utterly for religious or other reasons, but I think it would be fair to say most people observe the holiday to some degree. When you’re little, it means you get presents, and time off from school.

It’s similar as an adult in the sense that there is usually some time off from work involved, even if it’s just for a day or two.
People think it is about spending time with your family, and is one of just a few days where everyone will get together for any length of time.

Others recognize it as one of two days to attend some sort of church service (the other being Easter, of course). Or, to use a name coined by Ricky Bobby, the celebrate the coming of ‘sweet baby Jesus.’

All those things are true, but sometimes in the rush of everything going on this time of year, it is so easy to get caught up in all the nonsense associated with Christmas we forget the real truth of it.

I don’t think I could say it any better myself than this clip does, from the very old school “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

Of Myspace, Beaches, and Early Mornings

I wrote this a while back, but my 13th wedding anniversary is coming up in a little while, so I thought I would share it again, for those who might be wondering how on earth I ended in Yuma. It goes like this:

My sister was introducing my wife and I to a bunch of people the other day, and each time she did, she added “they met online.” There’s truth to that, but like most things, it’s a little more complicated than if we met on Eharmony, or something of that nature. It was more like this:

I met my wife in 2008, and prior to that, had not been involved with anyone for a number of years. This was largely due to a promise I made myself to not stick my neck out romantically anymore. I was tired of having my guts torn out (the fact that this happened several times was also my fault, but that is a story for another time).

Still, I really wanted to meet someone, and having a family was something I’d always wanted. My parents were gone way too young, and I had longed for the chance to be the dad I never had as long as I could remember.

With that in mind, and with the encouragement of a couple of trusted friends, I decided to try one of those Christian dating sites. I only ended up meeting three women in person in the few months I tried to do it. One woman got her dog’s butt kicked by my Shepherd, Cattle Dog mix. Needless to say, we never got any farther than Starbucks. That one was troubled by my lack of a past–whatever that meant. Probably it was because I had not yet confronted a great many of my issues, and hadn’t gotten much into being transparent. And there weren’t many sparks flying.

The second I met at some North Coastal mall place, and knew immediately she wasn’t for me. Attraction is not everything, but it’s something, and there wasn’t much of that going on at all. I actually ended up getting to say “it’s not you, it’s me.” I felt like every bit of the a-hole I thought I would, but I still said it.

The third try was still in the late-night phone call stage when I began to get a little closer to another woman that had been dating a friend of mine, but they had broken up some time past (outside the 6 month mandatory waiting period, of course. I was not about to break the bro code). She was pretty cool, and that fact that I already knew her was a plus, too.

And then one day, I was about to leave for a vacation to Mexico with a couple of good friends. For some reason, I felt compelled to log onto Myspace, which I had not done in a while. I saw that I had a couple of messages in the Myspace inbox–one regarding a blog I’d written, and the second from a young woman in Arizona that I had never met. I gave her email a passing glance, but did not reply to it.

I went on the trip, and it was pretty awesome. We had this little condo about ten feet from the beach, and for the week we were there, I would usually get up some time before my friends, and spend 30 minutes or so doing my daily reading and journaling out on the condo’s little rear patio, looking down at the white sand and startlingly blue water.

One morning, I remember praying and pleading with God that if He was ever going to make “it” happen for me, that He please do it soon. And I asked him to make it very clear to me what His will was, because left to my own devices, I was likely to make an errant choice, which I used to be famous for. I don’t even think I read my bible that morning–I just prayed. I gave all the built up crap in my heart to Him, because I didn’t feel that I could carry it for another day.

And I told him that I wanted desperately to have just a chance to be the father I didn’t feel I’d had, and the husband I thought I could be if I continued to follow the promptings of the Holy Spirit.

We got back from Mexico a day or two later, and I went back to answer the Myspace email from the girl in Arizona. She lived in Yuma, which I knew almost nothing about. She’d somehow found my page, and thought that based on most of the things I’d written we had a great many things in common. And it’s only a little thing, but at that time, we both had Psalm 139 quoted in its entirety on our pages.

So I wrote her, and she wrote back again. We emailed, and emailed, and then began to talk. We had more in common than either of us had initially thought. We wanted the same things for our lives, and both had the same hunger to know more about Jesus.

It soon became apparent that this was the “very clear” will I had prayed for that morning in Akumal.

The day we met was something that will stay with me forever, probably, and is one of the three most significant days of my life. For all intents and purposes, that was the first day of the rest of my life.

Happily ever after? It sure looks that way for now.

When I think about all the…things that happened in my life leading up to that day, I have to say that I wouldn’t change any of them, because if I did, I wouldn’t have these people in my life:

I don’t know if I really even have a point to all this, except to say that I am glad that things didn’t start happening in my life when I wanted them to, when I thought I was ready. My life did not change until God prepared my heart to receive the blessings He had prepared for me. When He knew I was ready.

Anyway, meeting those people yesterday made me think about this, so there you go. If you wanted to know how I met my wife, this is it from my perspective. If you want to know Jen’s, you’ll have to ask her. Forgive me for the gratuitous backfat shot, but the picture was taken from that patio where I finally ran into some common sense.

It really was a life-changer.