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Twenty to Life

I was held hostage. For weeks. Months. I was in a Siberian prison on suspicion of being an international spy. They don’t have any WiFi in Siberian prisons.

That didn't really happen.

You may have guessed that.

Actually, I do feel as though I’ve been held hostage…by life. Nothing has seemed to go as planned lately. Everything I do to help strategize my days and weeks has fallen by the wayside as I run to catch up.

I vowed to myself last night that it would stop…today. Beginning today I would be in control. Today is my day off, and I have a plan to spend a beautiful day with my parents who are visiting from Ohio and relax at home in the evening with good food, a good movie, and my loved ones.

I don’t know that any of that will happen. But, when I woke up this morning I realized...it doesn’t need to.

I was supposed to sleep in this morning.

I generally have trouble sleeping when all of my airways are blocked.

I was having a dream where Chilean terrorists had taken me hostage, and had sent me to be tortured for information. My torturer, Ryan Seacrest (no, I’m not kidding), thought that blocking my airways might be a good way to get me to talk. I calmly tried to explain to him that covering my nose and mouth makes it very difficult to give up much information, but, well, my mouth was covered and it came out as that strange gurgling sound I tend to make in dreams when I try to speak.

Well, I woke up to find that Ryan Seacrest, the Chilean terrorist thug, was actually my dog. In mornings, of late, Webber has taken to crawling up alongside me until his shoulders are level with mine, and then he throws is head sideways overtop of me so that my face is buried in the folds of white fur that are his neck. This is his passive-aggressive way of telling me that it really is time for me to get him some breakfast. I try to tell him that covering my nose and mouth makes it very difficult for me to get him any breakfast because it could kill me, but, well, he’s a dog and I think it sounds to him much like the gurgling I make when being tortured by Chilean terrorists.

Actually, he probably understands me perfectly but thinks, “Well...it’s working so far.”

So, I got up and gave him some breakfast, and I realized. This is life. Everyone says, “Life is what you make it.” I don’t necessarily think that’s true. I think life is what you make OF it. Now, perhaps, that’s what “everyone” has meant all along, and I’m just an idiot, but if they don’t put in the word “of” much less capitalize it for emphasis, how am I supposed to know? I assumed they meant that you had to go out and make life happen, which, now that I think of it does make me an idiot because life happens just because you're living, right?

Anyway.

Sure, I will take steps to simplify my life and not let it take me for a ride, but more importantly, I think, I’m going to choose to enjoy what comes no matter how far outside my plan it might exist. And hopefully I’ll live to blog about it.

(Um, I wrote this last Monday. Just got around to posting it. Obviously, things did not go as "planned.")

Convention

I begrudgingly push my barbeque chicken salad to the side. Begrudgingly because it is far more exceptional than you would expect from a food court salad, but I don’t have time to finish it. I just snuck another bite…. I will do that from time to time. But I can’t devote myself entirely to the consumption of the salad because bigger things are happening. Normally, I would have plenty of time for the salad, (or I would make time because it is really that good) but I had an experience that I am going to have trouble putting into words that ate into my two-hour lunch today. I’ll come back to that.

Donald Miller just took the stage. I’ll come back to that.

I am at the National Pastors Convention. Don’t ask me how I ended up here. Regardless, God has me here, and there is no question that this is where he wants me. After all, Donald Miller just took the stage.

I am the punk in the back of the room tapping away on his laptop. It can’t possibly appear that I’m paying attention, but I am, and I need to do this. I need to capture in a moment, in words, what God is doing in me, and if I wait, I’ll wait…and wait and the words will never find life, and they’ll die, and with them will die the remembrance of what God is teaching me, and with that will die what God is doing in my heart. So, I type. But I’m still listening.

Zondervan, a Christian publishing company, is sponsoring the convention. They’ve got a bookstore set up here at the conference, and…now hold onto your seats…everything is fifty-percent off. (Did you sense the subtle sarcasm? If you’d heard me say it, it wouldn’t have been even remotely subtle.) Despite the rock-bottom, Wal-Mart-esque nature of the prices, a similar sale at Family Christian Stores would not usually reduce me to a ravenous chimpanzee in a banana tree. (I tried to avoid the “kid in a candy store” cliché there, but I’m pretty sure my metaphor was less than effective.) But…I am that chimp. I find myself running from table to table devouring the cliff-note versions of the books that I can find on the back covers. I gather them up in my arms and I’m ready to march to the checkout. Why? What is wrong with me? I have never been “that guy!” But I am hungry (not just for my salad, the smell of which is beginning to nauseate me). I am hungry for knowledge. I am famished for wisdom, and God is letting me be a glutton. Afterall, I’m sitting in a seminar by Donald Miller.

I expected this to be the highlight of my day, but God had better plans. (He always has better plans. Just once, I want to come up with the plan. Like, “Don’t tell God, but this year we’re throwing him a surprise birthday party!”) I was sitting in the general session this morning, when Josh called me outside and he and his dad explained to me that we were going to see a man named Dennis Kinlaw, a former professor at Asbury Theological Seminary and a respected Biblical theologian.

We stepped into the elevator and my primary thought was, “I wonder how long this will take. We’re supposed to break for lunch in half an hour. “ Once on the eighth floor, we found our way to our open doorway and found a man, laboriously rising up out of his chair. A smile broke upon his wrinkled face as he made is way towards us, hobbling due to his injured knee, extending his hand in warm greeting. And, suddenly, we were immersed in the blessing that God has bestowed upon this man.

We sat in the presence of this Mr. Kinlaw for an hour and a half as he mused on the wonderment he still finds in the depths of God’s word. Despite his failing body, his mind is sharp. As he began to speak about the theology of the holy Trinity he leaned forward in his chair, his hands became animated, rubbing together in a furious rhythm, a smirk found its way the surface of his lips, and the giggle of a child erupted from his throat. And from his mind poured forth wisdom, mesmerizing wisdom. And God gripped my heart and my throat went dry in thirst for knowledge and understanding, wisdom and truth. Lunch was forgotten.

When we finally excused ourselves, not from desire but from necessity, we had little more than forty-five minutes left for lunch. Regardless, Josh and I made our way directly to the bookstore to purchase Mr. Kinlaw’s book in hope that in some way we may recreate what we had experienced. Please understand the weight of this…buying a book trumped eating. That’s big!

And now I am sitting in a seminar by Donald Miller. I am immersed, and I only want to go deeper. God is preparing me for something, doing something in me, using me. Use me. Whatever your purposes, God, use me.

This is far too long to be a blog. I'm sorry. Brevity is not necessarily a gift of mine. I'll work on it.

(By the way, I threw away my salad. Room temperature, barbecue smelling piles of limp lettuce. No thanks. I have too many food issues for that.)

The Zoo

As your primary source for all the latest in celebrity gossip and earth-shattering Hollywood news, “the state of things” brings you the latest: Forget the Golden Globes, and all the pre-Oscar buzz, I’ve got the scoop…Jason Mraz goes to the San Diego Zoo! That’s right, you heard it here first…Mraz likes the monkeys!

Yes, I was visiting the San Diego Zoo the other day with Karen and my in-laws, just calmly watching the gorillas as they did…well…nothing. That’s when I looked over and noticed the guy in the plaid pants which looked suspiciously like pajama bottoms. I continued to stare, for no apparent reason really, I just do that sometimes. Then, he turned around and my stare quickly became the furious blinking, eye-bulging kind of locked-on-target stare that I’m sure most celebrities receive just as their long-time stalkers have them cornered. I jabbed my elbow into my wife’s armpit (she’s considerably shorter than me) and discreetly whispered, “I think that’s Jason Mraz.” At which, she called back at the top of her lungs, “WHAT?” Of course she couldn’t hear me due to the incessant screaming and clamoring of the unwieldy crowd of riotous toddlers who were trampling one another in an effort to get closer to the glass because someone had innocently mentioned that they may have seen the medium-sized gorilla’s eyes move. Anyway, without a further explanation, I wrangled the camera and strap from around my wife’s neck (I heard some sputtering and gurgling, don’t know what that was) and went off in search of Jason, who had extricated himself from the frenzied gorilla viewing area and was making his way down the Zoo’s monkey trails. (Sidenote: The Zoo considered calling their newly constructed monkey exhibit Monkey Entrails but there was concern that the extraordinary cleverness of the name may be overshadowed by its ominous connotations and settled instead for, Monkey Trails.)

So, I chased Jason and a girl, who I assumed to be his girlfriend rather than his sister due to my observation of their “condition.” They appeared to be attached at the lips. This must be a recent medical development because I imagine it would have been hard to get much of a singing career started had this manifested itself earlier in life.

As I followed behind I warred within. My hero worship prodded me to rush up to him, thrust the camera into his girlfriend’s hands, and demand that a picture be taken with Jason and me. But I was worried, I don’t know what kind of people Jason hangs out with, what if she steals my new camera? Simultaneously, my intense desire to be Jason’s new best friend made me want to stay as calm and respectful as possible and not come across as one of those raving-mad, lunatic fans. See, I’ve always harbored this belief that if most famous people only had the chance to meet me and realize I was alive we would all become best friends. Anyway, my passionate desire to be liked combined with my crippling lack of mettle in such situations left me standing in the middle of a faux Asian forest amid the taunting screeches and leering, laughing faces of hundreds of monkeys with a pretty lame story and a picture of Jason’s back which isn’t even worth posting.

The moral of the story: Don’t be a pansy.

Christmas time is here...

Date decorating began: November 23rd
Lights: 1,400
Trees: 7
Stockings: 4
Christmas songs on my iPod: 179
Christmas movies I own: 12
First, “I can’t wait for Christmas”: March 5th
Christmas songs composed about my dog: 1 (set to the tune of “Jingle Bells”)
Current level of “edge”: -3

I revel I Christmas. I don’t know what it is exactly…maybe everything. I love what it means and I love how it is celebrated. My love of Christmas has been instilled in me since I was little; my parents have always loved Christmas. I have fond memories of hunting for the Christmas tree on a farm in Michigan in the most beautiful snow I’ve ever seen. (My father would call it a “Hollywood snow”.) Memories of passing out the gifts, piling them higher, next to a crackling fire. Memories of sweets and coffee in the mornings and the embraces and kisses of family before carting off to bed. Perhaps everyone holds these same idyllic memories, a page taken from a Rockwell existence. Still, they are special to me. I will hold on to them and recreate them for my children. I want them to experience the same warmth, anticipation, and contentment the holidays have always brought me.

I’ve always loved Christmas. For several years, up until the age of probably ten or so, I would inevitably wake up in the wee hours of Christmas morning, groggily find my way to my parents room, wake my mother, and sit with her in the bathroom until daylight. Why you ask? Such was my anticipation for the morning that I’d work myself into a frenzy, my stomach churning, my mind racing, until I’d made myself sick. So I spent many a Christmas eve and into Christmas morning curled up on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, my head in my mother’s lap as she stroked my hair and shook her head in bemusement at how I’d come to be the little person I was. Today she laughs about these nights spent together; I doubt they were very funny at the time.

Nonetheless, morning would come, my mysterious illness would melt under the sun, and my day would be filled with smiles and laughter. As we age, we lose touch with childhood. I remember things now over which I used to mull for hours in fascination. How does the caterpillar become the butterfly? How does the moon stay where it should? And lesser things, smaller things, things I’ve forgotten about completely. I don’t wonder about these things anymore. My wonder has melted away like my illness. But Christmas remains intact, or as much as it possibly can. I keep it safe. I keep it close to my heart and guard it carefully. And then, once a year I reach into my little hiding place and pull out the heart a little boy, I place it in my chest, and I am filled with gladness and joy and…wonder!

Merry Christmas.

Hello?

My posts have not been the most frequent of late. I don’t flatter myself, thinking that you’ve been checking on a daily basis, praying as the page loads, hoping today will produce a new post… but, nonetheless, I have been a little light on the news.

We’ve been doing this “little thing” at church called “Night of Light.” It is the Christmas production at Skyline Church and it is actually nine nights of light. We’ve spent a great deal of time and resources getting ready for this behemoth of a show, and it is now upon us.

When I arrived for my first day at work on June 1st of this year, my very first meeting was regarding Night of Light. The show had already been in the minds of the folks here for several years, but it had been decided that this was the year to pull it off. Let me explain what I’m talking about.

The whole show is outdoors (because we can do that sort of thing here), and it begins with a holiday festival of sorts. At 6:00 each Friday, Saturday, and Sunday the doors open to a festive area complete with thousands of lights, a children’s choir, a giant movie screen playing old Christmas favorites, and a forty foot Christmas tree. As you turn to your right, there’s Santa greeting the children. As you continue through the festivities you’ll find food galore, a huge holiday craft faire, an Elvis impersonator singing Christmas tunes, aerial acrobats, and a 150 ft. sledding hill. (Yes, we brought in real snow.)

After about an hour of holiday festivities, you’ll walk up a grand staircase to our upper field. You’ll see grandstands set up facing a sheer rock wall, at the base of which rests a recreated Bethlehem village. As the show begins you’ll see our choir nestled into a ledge on the hillside, and you’ll meet the innkeeper who will guide you through the night’s events. He’ll tell you the story of the very first Christmas and invite you to witness the arrival of the angels, the shepherds, the magi kings, and of course, the child. And as all this happens, the rock wall will glimmer with the glow of 3,600 lights, which illuminate to create various words and images across the mountainside.

And then, we do it all over again because we have two shows each night.

I’ve been in charge of the drama and have been helping with various aspects of this huge undertaking. The rewards have been plentiful. People who are wary of the church are finding their way here. People are meeting Christ, and turning to Him. Response has been incredible.

I sit here, tonight, overwhelmed by what God is doing through this show. He is using our feeble attempts to His glory. And I am staggered.

So, that is why my posts have been sparse. I’ve been busy, but I’m not complaining. God is doing big things, and I have the honor to play a part.

Old Home Week

A month ago yesterday Karen and I went to a wedding.

I meant to bring this up much earlier, but shortly after we got back life snuck up behind me, clubbed me over the head, and dragged me off to the city of Responsibility. I was there for several weeks, forced to stare at calendars and lists and perform only those tasks that appeared upon them. I got out early for good behavior, but I’m still under a probation of sorts. I’ll have to go back a few times in the next weeks to check in.

Anyway, Karen and I went to a wedding. Chad and Jeryl were both good friends of ours at IWU and we were asked to be a part of the wedding party. So, we trekked back to Indiana to celebrate their union. It was a good thing.

We visited with family and friends and by and large wore ourselves out. But I had forgotten what it is like to be surrounded by old friends. The predictable rhythms of conversation. The unguarded nature of ideas and words. The ease of laughter. These are things I had forgotten in the transient world in which Karen and I have been living.

We also returned to the Midwest at peak color. The landscape was vibrant, alive, fresh, painted with fall’s palette. We didn’t take a moment for granted.

The wedding was great. It was a reunion of sorts. Embraces, exclamations, laughter…cheer rang throughout every corner of every room. Love reverberated, bounding, rebounding, filling each room with glowing smiles, like the warm, comforting light of flickering candles.

Then I saw the photos. I was emailed a link to the website of the photographer, Tec Petaja, where I was able to see a selection of photographs from the event. The pictures are fantastic, but as I looked through them I noticed that in nearly every photo I seemed to stick out like a sore thumb, always creating a black hole of attention that forced me to look at myself. Mind you, I was not the groom, nor the best man.

Now, at first I assumed this was vanity. Surely, my narcissistic nature just drew my eye their automatically. I chastised myself for being so egotistical.

But then my wife saw the photos. Her first comment was something along the lines of, “My eye went straight to you. In every photo you’re doing something completely different than everyone else.” Now, I’d like to think that is just because her eye is naturally drawn to me as well, but I won’t flatter myself.

In actuality, I think I was “that guy.” I’m not okay with this. This event was not about me, and I’m afraid I made it about me. For instance, here’s a photo.


If I were to have the opportunity to hang this photo in a gallery, I think I would title it: “Donkey.” Or maybe “Too Bad It Wasn’t Lost In The Mail.” Or perhaps “The Donkey Show.” Any of those would be appropriate.

I am sorry if, by chance, I was actually as obnoxious as I appear. I say this without even a hint of sarcasm, which some may find difficult to believe, but I hope I didn’t do anything to take away from that day. If I did, then I am truly sorry.

Vacation

Took a trip to the edge of the earth. Tripped. Fell off. Life flashed before my eyes. Pretty pitiful. Hung by my pinky finger, for hours. Climbed back up. Terrifying experience. A few weeks of therapy. Sorry no postcard. Not much to see.