Life – Page 5 – A Work in Progress

People You May Know, and Bruised Reeds

Most of my adult life, something has bothered me. Enough that when I hear other people talk about it, it stirs me up quite a bit.

What’s going on with men these days?

The implication, of course, is that men don’t act like men anymore. Many see them as emasculated because they do not conform to how a whole bunch of people think a man should act.

How is that?

Based on stereotypes that have at least some basis in truth, men should be hunters, not gatherers.

They should always be willing to fight for things, and people. Yes, that does include actually fighting on occasion.

They should be strong, and strong-willed. They should never struggle with self-expression.

They should leave the nurturing up to women.

Cooking?

Nah. Maybe pancakes or barbecue, but nothing much else.

I suppose it’s true enough that men no longer conform to past ideas regarding manhood, fatherhood, and husbandhood the way a great many people think they ought to. They may lead, but by example rather than with an iron fist.

They may fight, but not always with fists (though yes, there could be a time when that sort of thing is called for. Or deserved—because there are people in life who desperately need a whuppin).

They may hunt, and provide, but not with a 30-.06 or a spear.

I guess I’ve always felt like one of those men who aren’t like a lot of others. I enjoy watching sports, but because I have a theatrical background, I also enjoy watching plays. I also like oldies as well as metal. I like Christian-themed music, too.

I like to cook, and I think I’m pretty good at it.

I don’t think I know everything, and I am not afraid to ask for directions, or help.

I have a hard time suppressing my emotions, and consequently, if things upset me in a particular way, I can get emotional.

I absolutely love talking to my wife about anything and everything. I love her and I always will. When I said ‘til death do us part, I meant it. So I hear men make mean-spirited jokes about their wives and it ticks me off.

Maybe I’m not normal—I don’t know.

A few months ago, I was on a jury panel, but I never got past the selection process, though I did get far enough to find out what the case was about: a local former teacher had been accused of 20 different counts of several child-molesting related events. It was so bad that a handful of people were dismissed from the jury because they didn’t think they could handle hearing testimony, or seeing evidence—some of which would be “examples” of various items witnesses had been shown.

Some thought they did not have the ability to render a fair opinion.

What I noticed was that when we walked in the courtroom, the defendant was standing there looking at everyone who came in with this little smile on his face. I didn’t get how anyone in that courtroom could smile.

Or how any man could refer to himself by that title and wreak the emotional havoc on these little boys emotional lives that whoever perpetrated these crimes likely did. I thought of my own limited experience with such things and the lifelong cracks in my own psyche it caused me.

I looked at that man—without even knowing if he was guilty or not—and wanted to choke him until he turned blue.

Never got the chance to be even questioned. About 40 of us were dismissed by the judge after a large enough pool was selected.

In spite of my own childhood issues thanks to some inappropriate family behavior, I wanted to be selected for the jury. I don’t know why, except to say that I wanted to be a part of justice for a person who’d been harmed in that way. Justice like I hadn’t seen myself.

Then I came home, and as my dogs and children were scrambling around the back yard, I sat on the patio and scrolled through Facebook, and I found this video, taken from a Poetry Slam competition. The young poet himself had been scrolling through Facebook much as I was, and had his childhood rapist referred to him by Facebook as “people you may know.”

Here is a video of his performance of the poem. I’ll tell you a little about what I think of it afterward.

The first thing that occurred to me was that I did not doubt this young man’s authenticity. At all. Perhaps names and situations were altered slightly (as things often are with art), but the pain he voiced from the depths of his hurting soul was as real as real can be.

There was a line where he says “no one comes running for young boys who cry rape.”

I think that’s probably true much of the time. Because that shouldn’t happen to boys. I would imagine there are people out there who think it can’t happen to boys. Because they should be able to fight back. Otherwise they wouldn’t be men.

The poet says at the end when questioned by his brother about that very thing (fighting back), “I am, right now, I promise.”

He fights back every day. He reminds himself of the people who love him, and who he loves. He reminds himself that he loves…himself. It may sound weird, but it makes sense.

Especially if you have a “wolf,” which is how he refers to his assailant. One of the worst things victimizers make victims feel is that they aren’t worthy of anything, especially love.

I may not have an assailant in the sense Kevin does, but I do have a wolf.

Sometimes, that wolf is corporeal, with hair, and bones and teeth.

Other times, he is ephemeral, with gossamer threads of my bruised soul and (formerly) broken heart hanging from his fingertips like he just brushed through a spiderweb.

Gone from my life (for the most part), but sometimes the wound opens yet again, and I really don’t want it to.

I don’t want to choke him (like I mentioned of the defendant in the trial–I’m not that kind of man), but I don’t want to have him over for a barbecue, either.

Forgive? Certainly, I can do that.

It isn’t the same as forgetting.

That’s impossible.

And while Jesus has given me life, and family, and hope, and a better way to live, I am not able to forget.

I’m not a poet (and I know it), but I believe God has given me an outlet to bare my emotions when such is necessary.

To give voice to my ire, my confusion, and to tell other people about the amazing and impossible things God has done in my life.

I do not doubt for a second, I would not be where I am today if my heart did not belong to him.

I think of two large scarred and callused hands a softball’s width apart. Between them is a torn and bruised piece of muscle—a gray lump of flesh.

The hands move about it slowly, molding, massaging. Giving warmth.

The heart begins to change. The gray fades, and eventually the heart takes on a deep, red…pulsing appearance.

Yet I am human, and sometimes the gray comes back, as it partially did when I watched the “People You May Know” performance video.

My fight is different than Kevin’s, but it is still a fight. I don’t struggle with depression anymore, not really. The battle is with my nature.

I have been delivered from my sin, it’s true.

But I am human.

Sometimes, it’s easier to go gray than ask those hands to hold your heart all the time–which would probably make things easier.

I am human. I make a lot of mistakes.

Yet because I have experienced redemption, I know that healing is there to be had.

My wounds may not go away forever, but the blood of the carpenter gives me more perspective than I ever had before I knew him.

Perspective to see that my scars aren’t going to kill me, because his wounds cover them.

Perspective to know that my wolf was probably acting out of his own pain, out of his own wounds. I could have been anyone.

Perspective to know that the comfort I received through healing of my own injuries can also comfort others, should they choose to hear and believe.

Maybe that’s even why certain things bother me. My wounds may not totally close, but that’s for a reason.

It’s how I can be used, perhaps.

Anyway, it’s how I have been used. God has also given me the ability to talk to people. I don’t know why, but they trust me, and are often willing to share fairly quickly.

Maybe that’s you, too.

Maybe you have a wolf.

Maybe you have scars.

Maybe you’ve never said his or her name out loud in context with your brokenness.

I would encourage you—no, implore you—find someone you can relate to in a personal way. A friend, maybe a pastor. It will probably be different for everyone.

Talk to them. Tear the hurt that’s blocking you from healing into pieces and talk to someone. Find a way to express what you’re feeling. I don’t know what that looks like for you. For me, those people looked like a guitar-playing, red-headed Irishman and Pastor from Pittsburgh and a Youth Minister from Yuma, Arizona.

I don’t think that’s a coincidence.

Like mine, your healing will probably not come in an instant. But it will come.

I promise you.

Like the man in the video, you may have to write a poem or maybe a song every day to remind yourself why you fight.

That’s ok, and worth doing.

Let me leave you with millennia-old words from the book of Isaiah, Chapter 42:3:

A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. In faithfulness he will bring forth justice.

Always, he will bring forth justice. It would be so much easier if the justice of man and God were the same. Healing would not be such a process.

But then God wouldn’t be God. We have to trust that he knows what we need, and will give it to us.

So we have to fight back. Every day.

I don’t know about you, but for me, healing comes first.

It’s part of the fight.

Social Entropy, Easter, and a Really Big Toilet

Everyone has an opinion, on that one point, I think we have to agree. Maybe not on anything else, but on that at least. Whether you want it or not, I’m going to give you mine. If you don’t agree with me, that’s ok. My mind is all over the place today, and in sitting here thinking about the state of the world, for some reason I remembered a concept we studied in a sociology class back in the 90’s, during my first try at college.

Social Entropy. Wikipedia explains it like this (since I don’t have my ancient textbook anymore):

“Social entropy is a macro-sociological systems theory. It is a measure of the natural decay within a social system. It can refer to the decomposition of social structure or of the disappearance of social distinctions. Much of the energy consumed by a social organization is spent to maintain its structure, counteracting social entropy, e.g., through legal institutions, education and even the promotion of television viewing. Anomie is the maximum state of social entropy. Social entropy implies the tendency of social networks and society in general to break down over time, moving from cooperation and advancement towards conflict and chaos.”

I think that explanation tells us what’s going on, but in my opinion, it doesn’t offer any real answers as to why. That’s where my opinion comes in.

To my way of thinking, it’s easy to arrive at the conclusion that the social structure and social distinction of country—our culture, too—is devolving, to put it politely. Going into the toilet, to paint another picture.

I think we’ve gotten to the point as a culture where only one set of mores are permitted by a large and “new-fashioned” group of people within our society, those being more aligned with moral relativism than morals. People seem to think now that morals are little more than pictures on walls. I think this is a load of crap, and I will tell you why.

Contrary to what a lot of people think, there are moral absolutes. If there weren’t, people would go around doing whatever they want, because they believe it to be the right thing for them, no matter what the cost. There’s no God, and thus no consequences for actions, because everything is permitted when nothing is bad or wrong.

What’s that? There are some things that are wrong?

Where do moral absolutes come from if there is no God? Certainly, there are those absolutes dictated by law. Killing people is bad. Stealing is bad. Keeping a dude in a leather suit locked in a treasure chest? Yep, wrong.

But why? Where do the legal standards come from?

In my opinion, from moral ones. There are things we just know to be wrong. I believe we are all hard-wired to make decent moral decisions. That’s how we were made. We come pre-bundled with the ability to choose good over bad.

Right over wrong.

But how? How is that possible? Is it something we’ve evolved into? How did we go from being banana-stealing, inbred, low-level primates into higher thinking primates who know right from wrong instinctively?

Here is my point, and you can take what you want from it, or leave it entirely.

We were made by a creator, and we were endowed with knowledge of a few things by that creator. How to behave in public and in private. How to treat people the way we would want to be treated ourselves. It isn’t right to take things from people just because we want them, including their lives.

Things like that, and many others.

With those endowments also came rudimentary knowledge of that creator. He made us. He wants us. He loves us. All of us (Before I go further, that really does mean all of us. Even those who don’t recognize the truth because they’re too busy trying to figure out how to clear out their ears from the big bang).

We are made to know our creator. We are made to know God, and love him. The world, of course, is the other part of God’s creation. And everything in it.

Where does social entropy come in? Glad you asked.

I think we were made to live together in community. We were created to worship together. To grow together in our knowledge of our maker, until the day we meet him face-to-face.

I think our journey toward social entropy and our metaphorical toilet began when we stopped recognizing that simple fact. We grew apart as a people. It happened slowly, and nobody noticed what was going on.

Now, we are a world full of people who don’t know each other, don’t love each other in every way that counts, and certainly don’t want to help each other. That sucks, but it’s what happened.

If we hear something we think will make ourselves better or easier, many times we will just do it, especially if it feels good.

In spite of the consequences, both legal and moral.

In spite of the inarguable fact that everyone doing what’s best for ourselves as we see it pulls us apart as a people, a culture, and a world.

In the words of the group Helloween, “we are credulous idiots.”

We are gullible, to be sure. But we are hard-wired for truth. We just have to be willing to receive it.

What’s that? Believing in God is also subject to credulity?

Nonsense.

Speaking for myself, belief in God, in Jesus, and in the Resurrection is the truth I came to that saved my life.

It gave me the ability to recognize the lies piled around me that obscured the truth.

God didn’t create evil, he created people, and gave them the ability to choose him, and recognize him for who and what he was.

Their freedom to choose him over themselves was also given. To choose absolute good over evil is also ours.

Sometimes—often—we make the wrong choices, both on a macro and micro level.

I also don’t feel like all the horrible things that happen on a global level disprove the existence of God. For me, those events are sort of an…alarm clock much of the time, both socially and spiritually. They remind us the world is finite, just as we are.

They remind us we have to make a choice as well.

The world is circling the drain—the toilet bowl, if you will—because so many of us stopped recognizing we aren’t in this life alone.

We don’t have to wonder how to live.

We don’t have to wonder why we are here.

We stopped believing there was a guiding light. We stopped recognizing there was truth.

We elevated ourselves to pedestal status.

We worship false gods, and real idols.

We forgot about God because when we remember we want to live differently.

That’s hard.

So we run away from God, and each other.

In our towns, cities, states, and countries.

Sometimes within our homes.

And a house divided against itself cannot stand.

A world divided against itself cannot stand.

Humanity divided against itself cannot stand.

We don’t realize that anymore.

And we’re falling apart.

We live social entropy.

But I have Good News.

There’s hope for the world.

There’s hope for us.

That’s because of what this coming weekend entails.

Our hope lies in the able hands of a carpenter, and in his death, burial, and resurrection.

But he’s more than a carpenter, to quote writer Josh McDowell.

He’s a savior, a redeemer.

He has good works for you to do.

His name is Jesus, and he’s waiting for you to call out to him.

Your life doesn’t have to be about entropy, social or otherwise.

Choose him, not the world.

Election Year

This might come as a surprise to some of you, but there’s an election coming up next year.

While we know most of the likely participants, there are still quite a few questions. There haven’t been any debates, and not a single vote has been cast.

Still, if you follow the news, you have a fairly good idea who the candidates will be. I could name the likely candidates here, but I am not going to.

That’s kind of my point.

They may be politically famous. They might take really good pictures, and have a lot of terrific ideas about how things need to change. They might even have plans on how to facilitate that change. Maybe they even have a catch phrase all ready for when their campaign officially begins.

But consider this: they are—before all that stuff—just people.

They aren’t angels, OR demons.

They are men and women. Fallible men and women. Susceptible to counsel, wise and otherwise. Susceptible to both media and public perception of themselves as candidates and people. Often even subjects to their own hype; up to and including the current CEO of the USA.

They make good decisions. Bad decisions. Sometimes NO decisions.

That is because they are people.

Like you.

Like me.

So all of this vitriol people spew this time of year when an election is coming is really the only thing about the whole process that is truly non-partisan. And it’s sickening.

Don’t demonize people because they don’t feel the same order of importance for things you do. Chances are, they aren’t willfully trying to destroy the country. They are simply trying to do the best they can subject to their own belief structure and counsel.

Maybe it isn’t the same as yours. That’s ok.

Likewise, do not overly laud them for often simply agreeing with something that is essentially basic common sense (or basic human decency). Or for that matter, saying they want to do something they may or may not be able to actually do.

Now, that is not to say we have to capitulate our collective wills to things we don’t agree with, or that contradicts our standards for living. I’m not saying that at all.

I’m just saying, can’t we—as grown men and women—find a way to disagree without falling into the political equivalent of kids pushing each other around on the playground and calling each other names?

For crying out loud—trying to explain the political process to your kids is more difficult and even embarrassing than having “the talk” with them.

For my part, that is why I try to just vote based on what I know to actually be true about candidates rather than what I hear. That is not always a two party thing.

So it’s ok to disagree. It’s ok to have a different opinion than your friends or neighbors politically. We don’t all have to vote Vader/Palpatine in 2024.

Just don’t be a jerk about it.

The Lucky Ones

It goes without saying there are a great many powerful verses in scripture. Everyone who reads the bible likely has a favorite or two. I’m no exception. So tonight—this morning, I guess—I was trying to figure out where to start, and what to read (I usually do my reading about 0330 to 0400, depending on what I have going on and how much work I have left), and I was listening to the sounds of the building around me.

The ductwork.

The refrigerator across the room.

That darn cricket hiding somewhere.

My breathing.

The occasional noise from outside.

All so familiar, and they remind me that some things about night shift are good. The solitude. The time for thinking, praying.

I consider that sometimes the familiar is OK, and that is where I turn this morning.

I turn to Luke 15, verse 20. Maybe my favorite verse ever.

20 So he got up and returned to his father. The father looked off in the distance and saw the young man returning. He felt compassion for his son and ran out to him, enfolded him in an embrace, and kissed him.

Is there a better verse to describe in a tangible way the love Jesus bears us? We, all of us, are prodigals. He waits for us to come back home. He scans the horizon for us. He’s patient, yet always he looks out in the distance.

When he sees us, he rejoices.

Even though we’ve sinned against him, and against God.

He runs to us, embraces us.

We run to him, too. Broken, hurting, steeped in lies about him and his nature. Lies about ourselves and our potential. Lies about our worth to our maker.

He greets us with scar-padded hands, and a kiss. The scars are from us, for us, and the kiss speaks of our worth to him, our value.

But.

We are all broken in our own way. Otherwise we wouldn’t need saving. Otherwise we wouldn’t need to be healed.

Sometimes it feels like nothing in our lives is fair—as if the things that have happened to us and around us are too terrible to endure. Sometimes they are.

We get bruised, and as I mentioned before, terribly broken.

The thing I noticed about myself eventually is that I needed to be broken before I could be rebuilt. That required the realization that I was, in fact, broken. Hungry and thirsty for righteousness.

All busted up in a way only Christ can heal. Thirsty for righteousness only He can bring.

Which makes me think of Isaiah, 42: 1-4.

“Behold my servant, whom I uphold,
my chosen, in whom my soul delights;
I have put my Spirit upon him;
he will bring forth justice to the nations.
2 He will not cry aloud or lift up his voice,
or make it heard in the street;
3 a bruised reed he will not break,
and a faintly burning wick he will not quench;
he will faithfully bring forth justice.
4 He will not grow faint or be discouraged[a]
till he has established justice in the earth;
and the coastlands wait for his law.”

I am no bible scholar, but I think this is a near perfect portrait of Jesus, many many years before his birth (of course, the suffering servant depicted in Isaiah 53 details the inevitable fate and terrible devastation and aloneness that awaits him, all on our behalf)

But I feel assured, because in spite of my brokenness—perhaps because of it—the justice spoken of is not the retribution or revenge some might think of. In my opinion, the best revenge is surviving. Healing. Carrying on.

Not letting the bricks thrown through life’s windows shatter anything more than glass.

Because a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.

That’s good to know.

Lately I’ve been feeling like a bit of a bruised reed again.

I’ve felt tired, of course. Exhausted in nearly every way. Broken in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. I don’t know if that will ever completely heal before Heaven.

But I think of those familiar few verses, and I find myself comforted indeed.

It’s just that it’s so easy to wander off. We wqnder while we wait for him, never realizing he is already there waiting for us.

It’s easy to stray.

Really easy.

Maybe it’s even normal. Maybe if we didn’t struggle, we would be doing something wrong.

But even more comfort lies ahead, because he’s standing there while we are a long way off, and he’s waiting for us.
Those verses describe the nature of Jesus, and what he has in store for us. He’s the waiting father, scanning the horizon for his lost son, lost daughter.

He’s the gentle hand, caressing our bruises and binding them.

Binding our hearts.

We aren’t too far away.

We aren’t too broken to be healed.

The picture right there? That’s us. That’s me, broken like that reed.

But not without hope.

Let me leave you with that thought, and this song:

Just Stop It!

According to a whole bunch of online newspapers and other news-sites, including Reuters and about a dozen or so others–two police officers were shot last night in Ferguson, MO, during a protest outside the Ferguson Police station. The Chief had recently resigned, and these folks were going bananas–though not as bad as during the Darren Wilson trial.

The police were on riot control, and were shot from a distance that no one seems to agree upon. One took a bullet in the shoulder, the other in the face. Both men are alive, though in serious condition.

These two officers were not fighting with angry and large young men. They weren’t choking anyone. They were likely standing still, and waiting to do their jobs in the event the protest “escalated.”

Clearly it did.

I get the injustice these people feel, though I suspect few to none of the protesters have done their due diligence regarding what they are carrying their signs for. Certainly none are mentioning (or taking into consideration) the commonality these events resulting in the deaths of African-American men all share.

They were fighting police–not really the wisest course of action.

These men and women who have maybe a second or two at best to make a decision that affects so many, including their own if they do not act accordingly, relative to what’s going on around them.

Don’t scrap with police. Sort it out later. Wouldn’t it be better to sort out the details later?

And sure, black lives matter. But so do police lives.

All lives matter.

And that hands up thing? From what several different reports show, that isn’t what happened.

But anyway.

I just don’t really understand how people can act in protest when they don’t really even know the whole story about something. I think it would be a fair statement to say many only know what they’ve heard, and feel they are protesting out of righteous indignation and a legitimate search for justice.

Which is not shooting policemen in the face when they are standing still and not fighting anybody.

How will that instigate change in their communities?

How will that find justice for anyone?

Also, how is shooting someone because they’re wearing blue any different from what they’re protesting; shooting someone because they’re black?

The world really does make me sad.

Clearly, there are still racial issues which need to be addressed. I think that goes “both ways.”

We learn so much from culture alone–whether it’s white people or black people we are talking about. We learn how to act around certain types of people–or how those people expect us to. We learn how and what to fear. We learn how to hate.

That’s for all cultures.

And it’s bull.

If we learned it, we can unlearn it.

The question is, how do we get the ball rolling?

Not with violence, from either “side” of the issue.

Not by fostering a social climate of fear and prejudice, nor one of hatred and a desire for Wild West-style retribution.

All lives matter.

All lives.

All.

For pity’s sake, stop all this nonsense. Everybody just breathe for a second.

Is it really worth killing anyone?

Best Laid Plans

I saw this video online last night where a guy did one of those epic marriage proposals. He filmed himself holding a sign every day for a year, asking his girlfriend to marry him. At the end he was standing behind her holding the last one. Pretty creative stuff. But it made me wonder: why does it have to be that complicated? It’s like a YouTube contest to see who can come up with the most Spielbergian way to ask someone for their “hand” in marriage.

What happened to just…asking?

I did have a bit of a plan for proposing to Jenny, but it was nothing like some of those YouTube clips. She was going to come to San Diego, and I was going to take her to Ruth’s Chris steak house, and then to Seaport Village. Maybe ride one of those carriages.

Then she told me her family was having their big Christmas shindig on December 22, which was the date I was going to do the deed. I thought about trying to reschedule all my shenanigans, but I wanted to do it before Christmas if I could.

Then I thought one of the things I loved so much about Jen is her dedication to and love for her family. And it seemed like the perfect place to ask.

So it came to pass on the afternoon of 12/22/2008, I was running a little late and they were waiting for me. I had to pick up the ring at Sand & Stone, where it was being sized. I got it, finally, and I remember going out to the car and fumbling as I tried to get the darn thing into my pocket and dropping it. I got to her parents house, and went into the bathroom for a second, where I dropped it again (thankfully, not in the toilet). I crammed the ring into the little coin pocket in my Levis and went out to the party.

Gifts were opened, and finally everyone was done. Jenny’s brother and his wife got up and were walking across the room. Her grandmother was sitting next to me, but I didn’t think she was paying attention. So I went for it.

“I’ve got one more present,” I told her, and fumbled the ring out of my pocket, nearly dropping it again. “I was wondering if you were busy for the next 50 years or so? ‘Cause I was thinking…wondering…if you’d marry me.”

I was timid, and awkward, and about as sincere as I’d ever been in my life.

She looked at me, then, and because that’s how I roll, I almost lost my stuff. Grandma make a little grandma noise, and I realized she’d been watching the entire time.

“Yes,” said Jenny, and Grandma clapped her hands. Just as I was putting the ring on her finger, David came flying across the room and dove between us. He didn’t like the mushy then, and still doesn’t. Except now John is the wedge.

Anyway, I thought that went pretty well. The ring stayed out of the toilet, and I got a wife out of it. I feel pretty lucky. I didn’t capture anything for YouTube, though. I just took a picture of Jen’s finger and sent it to a few people. Maybe I’ll do something more elaborate for our next big anniversary. Ten years. Coming in four years. We’re hitting 6 years this May.

Love that girl.

Who Is Your Mom?

I wasn’t expecting any emotional catharsis taking the boys to school and Ken and Linda’s house this morning. I was just thinking it would be the usual Monday drop off, and then I would go home and go to sleep, hopefully getting enough rest so the first night shift of the week would not set the tone for the rest of them.

But because life is weird like that, it isn’t what happened.

I don’t remember how the conversation between my youngest (he’s 4) and myself started. It probably doesn’t matter much with kids, because it’s usually video games and cars and things of that nature. As we drove down 24th Street toward Ken and Linda’s house, John asked me the question, “Who is your mom?”

I told him she’d died many years ago. And that her name was Lila Wilkins, and she had blue eyes and liked country music.

“What did she die from, Dad?”

“She had a bad sickness called cancer. She died on February 27, 1987. I was 18 years old.”

“Oh. Grandpa’s Uncle Dee died, too.”

I knew Dee had passed a week or so ago, and he’d probably heard Ken talking about it.

“He’s in Heaven. I wish I could see him.”

“You will one day, buddy. But hopefully not for a long time.”

“I wish I could see God.”

“You’ll see him, too. That’s what heaven’s like. You get to see the people you love again, that went before. And you get to see God and be with him.”

“He wears a white robe,” he told me. “Mimi says.”

“That’s right,” I told him. “And a gold sash, because he’s also a king.”

We pulled into Circle K because I needed some gas, and he dropped this truth bomb on me.

“Uncle Dee is home now,” he told me, in his matter-of-fact little 4 year old voice. “So is your mom.”

“That’s right,” I said, and had to try really hard not to lose it right then.

“What did she die from?”

“Cancer, buddy.”

“She bumped into a cactus?”

I didn’t think it was possible, but I started laughing and crying at the same time. If you think crying makes people ugly, you should have seen that. I had to have looked like a madman. I’d calmed myself down a little by the time I got to Ken and Linda’s, but then I had the brilliant idea to tell them the story and it started all over again. Oh well, they probably already thought I was a goof.

Kids, man. I found out a little later from my older son that apparently, there’s these cactus things in Minecraft that kill you if you bump into them. It’s a dangerous world out there, I guess.

Morning by Morning

I had to drive a good long way out in the boonies while it was still dark this morning—about 0330. I’m assuming it was still cloudy, because there were no stars, or moon. It was just really dark. I had my high beams on in case a donkey or a horse decided to play chicken—I wanted to give myself as much warning as possible. Thankfully, none of them decided to jump on my truck, and I escaped having to pick mane hair out of my teeth.

I accomplished my task in just a few minutes and started heading back. It’s a 45 minute drive back to civilization from the place I had to visit and I was mad because I had to listen to 93.1 on the way and that station makes me shriek every time I have to hear it for more than 10 or 15 minutes.

I don’t know if you’ve ever driven through the desert on a cloudy and moonless night, but all you can see is the swath your head lights cut through the darkness. That isn’t much at all.

When it started raining I had to swear a little under my breath because I hate driving in the rain, but then a thought occurred to me:

It might be raining now, but it probably won’t be in the morning.

Morning by morning, new mercies I see…

As I write this I’m glancing over my shoulder out the open door, and eastward as far as I can look, there is only darkness. The sun has yet to lighten the sky.

But I know the sun is just waiting for its moment.

I think life might be a little like that sometimes. There’s rain, and darkness, and it sucks to drive through that.

The thing about rain, though, is that it does eventually pass. Maybe it’s a couple showers. Maybe it’s a storm that lasts for weeks, months, or years.

I went through a period like that, and it wasn’t until it was over that it occurred to me the sun had just been waiting for its moment.

I spent several years as part of a ministry at my church in San Diego that spent quite a bit of time praying for (and with) people going through many different types of sexual brokenness issues. I’d always carried a bit of heaviness around that kind of thing myself, and while I did well enough in that ministry, it often made me alternate between feeling sad, and helpless, and sometimes even angry.

My life prior to joining that church had been pretty dark, even after I came to faith. It seemed like it was always raining, and I couldn’t shake it, no matter what I did.

Yet there was something about all those Monday nights spent in prayer. All the stories told, and the tears cried. All the breakthroughs experienced. Finally I realized they spoke to me so profoundly because while I was part of the team, I was also going through a refining myself. It took a lot of time. I was dealing with my own brokenness.

I would brush my arms through clouds like sticky cobwebs—they didn’t part.

But the sun was waiting for its moment.

It came in the form of a beautiful young woman from Arizona.

The woman who would become my wife brought the sun into my life, along with the realization it had been there all along. I just kept turning my face from its light and warmth.

I try not to do that anymore.

It isn’t that there is no longer darkness; there is. There’s rain, too. Sometimes a lot of it. Faith isn’t about not going through those things. No.

It’s about knowing—no matter how long the darkness or rain lasts—that the sun is just waiting for its moment.

Jesus promises it will come.

And look what happened.

When is Enough Enough?

I don’t always agree with the things said by Glenn Beck, but this seemed an apt enough way to describe those crazy kids of the Islamic State, especially after their latest adventure:

“It is time to wake up. This is the enemy of all mankind. Make no mistake, this is a global jihad and it has everything to do with “their” religion and their fundamental interpretation of the Koran.

Jews, gentiles, straight, gay, black, white, western, eastern, atheist, Christian or Muslim — it is time you recognize what you are up against, look it square in the eye and call it by its name: evil and a plague on mankind”

Burning a man alive–a fellow Muslim, I might add–in a cage is brutality of a level not easy to comprehend. I have heard people say IS is no different than any other persecution done in the name of a god. Often, the crusades are mentioned as a way to take Christianity to the same level as ISIS.

Not possible, I don’t think. And one big reason why is THEY’RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW. The Crusades happened nearly a thousand years ago. IS is employing every means at their disposal to get their message out–their comprehension and use of “Western” media outlets is extraordinary.

But it doesn’t legitimize their cause, or their desire for an Islamic caliphate. Sure, the methodology of the Islamic State is not representative of all Islam. They are radicals, without a doubt. Yet I would submit to you that “mainstream” Islam needs to not only issue strongly worded statements, but take strong action against these folks.

I’ve read recently that people are criticizing Chris Kyle for referring to insurgents as “savages,” but I would say to you that if anyone at all is deserving of that label, it is the members of IS.

Savages.

And the enemy of all mankind.

This is probably going to get a lot worse before anything changes. I don’t know what the answer is, but I am fairly certain it will involve the use of many different projectiles and combustive materials.

I think in this instance, force will need to be applied until there is no more resistance. Problem is, the specifics of this are difficult. How to distinguish one group of people who hate Westerners from another. Perhaps the answer lies in those people of Islam who do not wish to be lumped in with these beasts.

Words are not enough. There needs to be action as well, because talk is very cheap.

Think of me what you will. Yes, in this matter I am decidedly conservative. Perhaps even right wing.

I’m just not interested in turning the other cheek anymore in the sense that pretending the upscaling savagery of these people’s demonstrations of hate and evil are anything but that.

Evil.

The religion of peace, in my opinion, needs to crap or get off the pot. These IS folks need to be destroyed. It’s what they understand.

On Weight, and Crushing Your Larynx

Many years ago, I worked out for a time at the Bally’s gym in Mission Valley—for about a year, I think. For three of those months, I worked with a trainer named Andre, who I began to call Andre the terrible after a while. He was sort of like a Latino version of Stone Cold Steve Austin from the WWE, and I remember the first day I came in he asked me what level of motivation was I comfortable with.

I asked him what he meant, and he said how hardcore did I want him to be with my training. I told him somewhere in the middle would be OK, because I knew he didn’t want to see a grown man cry. He told me it happened more than I would think. It wasn’t that comforting.

Usually, I would show up for my sessions and he would weigh me in, and then proceed to cardio before weights. One time, I showed up and there was another guy there, too. Andre wanted to know if I would mind working out with another guy because he was double booked. I said ok.

I don’t remember the other guy’s name, but he whistled when I stepped on the scale. Jerk.

The cardio went well enough, and then we went to the weights. Andre put me on this butterfly machine, I think it was called. Something like that. The other guy went over to the free weights and started loading up a bar.

Andre stood behind me and barked in my ear while I struggled to bring my arms together in front of my chest. After about 30 seconds, I heard my workout partner yell “f—-!!” from the other side of the weight room.

The man had a barbell with what looked to be over 200 pounds pinning him to the weight bench like an insect.

“Are you trying to F—— KILL YOURSELF?!” Andre screamed at him. “What did I tell you about f—— free weights!?”

“Uh…”

“Use a spotter with that much weight! What if that f—— barbell crushed your larynx?”

I was thinking about that day this morning when I went to the Roadrunner for some caffeine. Andre was clearly no poet, but he had a really good point.

If the weight is more than you can handle alone, you need a spotter.

I thought about that today in the context of all the messing up I’d done over the course of my life. All the mistakes I’d made. All the sins I’d committed. All the people I’d hurt. I spent–no, wasted–so much time trying to get by on my own strength, when it was obvious that wasn’t enough.

Now, when it’s my tendency to dwell on the past and all the bad, it occurs to me the weight I’ve accumulated could crush me if I let it. I can’t lift it alone. I never could.

For most of my life, instead of looking for a spotter, I just loaded the weight on my barbell without thinking too much about it. There were times when it felt like the weight was indeed about to crush my “f—— larynx.”

I’d think about my past, and everything that entailed and I would quickly convince myself of my worthlessness due to how I’d always seemed to find stupid ways to get myself in trouble, and hurt people and even myself without giving it much thought in advance. I would do things because I felt it would benefit me in some way. Or because it would feel good, or make my life easier. Sometimes it even did for a time.

I was able to move past those times, thank goodness. Yet I would still think about them, and it would almost paralyze me when I thought what a f— up I’d been. Still was, sometimes.

And that was one of the most important things I learned about God. He’s a really good spotter. When you’re holding that loaded barbell over your chest, his will be the hands hovering over the bar in case you drop it.

He won’t just yank it out of your hands and lift for you. Not without asking, anyway. But when the bar gets too heavy—when the weight of sin and years and pain feels is so much your arms start shaking and you know it’s only a matter of time before you drop the thing—there’s help.

You don’t have to lift all of that weight yourself.

It isn’t always going to be some ethereal hand reaching down to yank 250 pounds off your chest. Sometimes the help comes in the form of a bald-headed, angry Latino personal trainer. The point is, when you’re dealing with a lot of weight, it’s a good idea to take a partner.

Use a spotter. That probably looks a little different for anyone.

Over the course of my life, I’ve been to a few AA and FA meetings. One of the first things they’d tell you to do is call your sponsor when you needed help.

I didn’t want to at the time, but I get it now.

Sometimes you don’t need to be touching that bar at all when you’re alone. I would think I was just going to lift this crap off my chest, when really I was on the way to crushing my larynx.

Maybe that’s happened to you, too.

Use a spotter when you’re lifting heavy weight. Maybe that’s a pastor. A sponsor. Or even simply a friend.

The weight of a lifetime of garbage can really pile up fast. Sin, mistakes, all the things you’ve done or been part of.

It’s heavy, man.

Ask for help. Being a tough guy doesn’t mean a thing if your neck has a barbell through it.

I think you’ll find that everyone, everyone needs a spotter sometimes.