Miners, Makeovers, and Lives Reconnecting

* I’m super-pumped!  I’ve been invited to be a guest contributor to the Presbyterian Church’s (USA) mission efforts.  Their Mission Crossroads program does a monthly podcast called “God’s Mission Matters.”  It’s a great resource for anyone in the short or long-term mission field.  Anyhow, my job is to augment the podcast with a written piece focusing on popular culture.  Here’s a draft preview of November’s article. *

No doubt you have heard last month’s news regarding the rescue of the Chilean miners.  After two moths trapped beneath the surface of the Earth, thirty-three very happy, smelly, dirty, grateful men broke through the darkness into the waiting arms of family and trained medical staff.  The story is the stuff of Hollywood movies.  Tragedy and uncertainty all wrapped up in a happy ending.

Before the miners had made it to the surface, I was lucky enough to catch a story on NPR that focused on the miner’s wives.  As you might imagine, the women were distraught beyond belief.  To help the women through their anxiety and grief, they dispatched a team of experts to help them.

Beauticians.

Apparently, the lack of sleep and unimaginable stress wasn’t their only concern.  The dry air of the Atacama desert was wreaking havoc with their hair.  Their skin was dry and flaky.  Their tresses were parched an unmanageable.  Forget post-traumatic stress.  They had split ends for cryin’ out loud!

Of course, I am being overly dramatic.

The reporter in the story interviewed some of the hairdressers.  Not surprisingly, they viewed their role as that of counselor.  They were there to listen.  To comfort.  To support and sustain.  All the while, choosing the right cut to accentuate high cheekbones or bright smiles.

The wives were in a different position.  Every fiber of their being wanted to lend a hand to the rescue effort, yet there was nothing they could do to help.  But what they could do was make the pending reunion with their loved ones as special as possible – as if it needed any sweetener.    This was one thing they could control.  They took pains to choose a look they thought would be flattering, yet not change too many attributes of their appearance as to shock their spouses.

Now imagine you are one of the miners.  You are going through one of the most agonizing waiting game anyone could imagine.  As one , Mario Sepulveda  would explain it, “I was with God, and I was with the devil.  They fought and God won.”  The only words to describe what you’ve been through involve a Heavenly battle between good and evil.

Meanwhile,  less than a half-mile above your head, your wife and her friends are getting makeovers.

This only proves that it’s not the physical space that creates the distance.  It’s the experience.  So different.  So unexplainable.  Still, I can only imagine the exhausting joy that the families are experiencing now, growing together through separate experiences now shared.  Lives reconnecting.

And so it goes with mission work.  Certainly, I cannot be so bold to say that volunteer service in God’s name in any way matches the struggles of the miners.  Not even close.  That’s like saying my experience as president of my high school mathletes club qualifies me for a race for the White House.  But the analogy is worth exploring.

All of us who have embarked on mission work can attest to feeling at a loss for words.  How can we explain what we’ve just experienced?  Truly connecting with the divine.  It’s like trying to describe the taste of air or the smell of your own nostrils.  It has moved us.  Changed us.  Shaped us.  Tranformed us.  We want to shout it to the rooftops.

But we just can’t tell you what “it” is.

And when others ask us about our journey, they ask questions that seem so far removed from the depth of the experience.

“So, what was the food like?”

“Did you get to bathe?”

As if a description of rice and beans, and occasional mystery meat might be a window to the soul of service.  Such encounters can leave the missionary feeling misunderstood and alone.  We’ve been changed from the inside out.  An extreme soul makeover.  Tranformed.

They merely got a haircut.

And this can be very frustrating.  Until we remember something.

Though our insides have changed, our outside looks exactly the same to everyone else.  So everyone else seeks to understand as best they can, using references that would have applied to the person they knew before.  This support can seem so awkward.  Like getting a makeover while the lives of loved ones hang in the balance.  But that is where we must begin.  Because we have to recall what it is that changed us in the first place.

We were changed because we were willing to go outside of ourselves to experience another culture.  Another perspective.  Someplace foreign.  Only to find that God was there waiting for us in the faces of strangers.  Sharing a common love.  Nurturing one another.  Learning from one another.  Perhaps getting more out of the service than we have given.

The entire experience is about community.  Building mutual respect.  Sharing equally.  All in the name of God.

And so when we return, the mission continues.  We must have the courage to go outside ourselves to experience another perspective.  Lives reconnecting.  Finding God anew in the faces of people who now seem strange.  Sharing a common love.  Nurturing one another.  Learning from one another.  And allowing ourselves to get more out of the service than we can give.

Then, and only then, will we truly be transformed.

Dilemmas and Dream Crushing

* Warning:  The following post is rated PG.  *

I’m a Dream Crusher.

That’s right.  A Grade A, number one killer of hope and inspiration.

Santa Clause?  Fake.  Easter Bunny?  Come on.  Tooth Fairy?  I used to think so, until I saw my grandpa take out a whole mouthful of teeth every single night and place them by his bedstand.  The guy never had so much as a penny to show for it.

It’s all bunk.

If you think that’s mean, we’ve only scratched the surface of my capabilities.

Eight years ago, after being laid off from my job when the dot-com bubble burst, I started my own business doing training and development work for corporations.  In the early days of self-employment, I spent a lot of time prospecting, but not a lot of time generating income.  During this time, Gabby worked as a manager at Dell, Inc. and supported us.  That year, my gross profits amounted to the value of an eight-year-old BMW.

Without air conditioning.

Or doors.

Gabby didn’t particularly love her job at the time, but she was good at it, and it brought us a nice income.  After coming home from our mission year in Guatemala, it wasn’t all that surprising that she didn’t rush right back in to her work helping to make millions of dollars for a large, global computer manufacturer.  Something in her gut told her she was meant to do something else with her life.  Unfortunately, unlike Gabby herself, her gut didn’t provide many specifics.

Eight years later, I’m the main bread-winner, and Gabby is the main child-rearer and all-around magician of our lives and schedules.  She volunteers.  She helps with my business.  She keeps us all sane.  Our existence as a family is generally very joyful and stress-free, thanks to my wife.

But her gut is still talking.  And it’s starting to get into the details.

Gabby has always had a way with people.  She is kind and generous.  She wants to be a helping hand for others, even when that help is kind of messy.  In fact, I think she prefers it to be messy.   She also remembers how she would have given her right arm to have had some medical training when visiting small villages during our year in Central America.  Both of us recall countless opportunities to truly change a child’s life for the better, had we only known how to provide basic care.

It’s pretty obvious to you where we’re heading with all of this.  Whether it’s divinely inspired, or simply a result of eating too much dairy, her gut has finally spoken.  She wants to be a nurse practitioner.  Caring for patients.  Healing the sick.  Doling out prescriptions.  Trying to make health care a better place for all of us.  Honestly, the miracle here is that it took seven years to figure it out.  This call to service that started as a seed years ago is finally germinating into a full-on desire to commit herself to helping others sustain the most precious gift we’re given by the Creator.

Life itself.

The good news is that we live in a city that boasts one of the finest medical training institutions in the country – Vanderbilt University.  They have specialized Family Nurse Practitioner programs that would allow Gabby to take an accelerated track to earning an advanced degree that fits her skills to a “T.”  Unfortunately, there are no other programs of this kind in the city where we live, and it costs as much as a new  8-Series BMW.

With a chauffer.

Holding a briefcase full of money.

Bring on the Dream Crusher.  Call from God?  Nope.  I think it’s the dairy talking.  For the past week, I have been visibly antsy when we talk about this latest turn our lives have taken.  Rather than display excitement that Gabby may have found her true calling in life, I am agonizing over the price tag.

I know.  I’m a barrel of laughs.

This must simply be too purposeful for me, the Accidental Missionary.  Dedicating your life to service.  Finding a way to make your work something meaningful.  Developing yourself so you can help the Great Physician do the work that miracles miss.

We’re now facing what my friend Joe would call an honest-to-goodness dilemma.  A dilemma is not a choice between two alternatives where one is obviously right.  No.  A dilemma is a choice when both seem to have equal merit.  Think of how many people those tens of thousands of dollars in tuition payments could help.  Then think of how many people that trained medical professionals can help.  Especially ones who feel called to work with underserved populations both at home and abroad.

It’s a dilemma.

But is it?

It’s only a dilemma in the way I have defined it.  It’s not like we would liquidate our savings and give all of our money away if Gabby decides not to pursue this calling.  Could we?  Sure.  Would we?  I’m a little to “of this world” for that to happen.  At least not tomorrow.

What if we don’t have enough for retirement?  Lord knows our mission year set us back quite a ways.  When you make $260/month, there’s not a lot left over for savings.  Or even Ramen noodles.  Now, with Gabby staying at home with the kids, we’ve gone from being DINKs (Dual Income No Kids) to SITCOMs (Single Income, Two Children, Outta’ Money).  As Gabby will tell you, staying home and working for the kids has a great benefits package, but the pay sucks.

And what about those kids?  We should help support them by saving something for their college education, right?  This new plan could slow down our savings there.

And what about our life as we know it?  There would be lots of changes.  Scheduling hassles.  Gabby studying at night.  I might have to scale back business travel to be around for the kids when Gabby needs to be at school.

When we get right down to it, it’s only a dilemma because I am scared.  Scared of losing the staus quo.  Scared of sacrificing a good chuck of our retirement nest egg.  Scared of debt and the stress it can bring.  And I worry about all of this even though we haven’t even made a decision, she hasn’t even applied to the program, and we haven’t even investigated all of the alternatives.  Gabby even admits she may take her first prerequisite and realize it’s not for her.  I’m worrying ahead of schedule.  It appears this is the only thing I do that doesn’t get a healthy dose of procrastination. It’s premature Dream Crushing.

And why am I worried?  I view money as security.  It’s one tangible way that I can maintain some semblance of control in a chaotic world.  It affords us comforts and flexibility.  If I have it, then I can conceivably handle anything the world throws at me.

If I don’t have it, then I have to rely on, well…

God.

Sounds like a dream.

Kids, Cops, and Breaking the Jesus Rules

I love my kids.  More than words can express.

Please remember I wrote that.  Because I’m getting ready to do some Grade A complaining about them.

If you haven’t met them, allow me to paint a picture.

Jake is four.  Audrey is two.  They both talk incessantly, and at an extreme volume.  We’re not talking about a little bit of chatter and the occasional scream.  That’s other peoples’ kids.  The annoying ones.

With our kids, we’re talking about the “if-I-hear-that-kid-say-another-word-I’m-going-to-rip-off-his-tiny-little-fingers-and-pierce-my-own-eardrums-with-them” kind of loud.  I have inflicted pain upon myself just to get away from their high-decibel yappers.  Nearly suffocated myself under a pillow.  Hot.  Dark.  Sweaty.  Lack of oxygen.

It was worth it.

Gabby recently picked me up from the airport after I had been on a business trip.  Jake and Audrey were doing their normal Abbott and Costello routine, turned up to 11.  They were giving me a migraine, so I pulled out all the stops.  I offered them a special treat if they could be quiet for one minute.  Just 60 seconds.

Their longest silent stretch was four seconds.  I timed it.  Four seconds.  Though they were in the back seat, they talked as if they were trying to have a conversation in the front row of a Miley Cyrus concert.

Impressive.

Gabby and I have found that the only real relief is to join in the conversation before they start to argue.  My recent tactic is to use our traffic time as an opportunity to teach the kids their numbers.  There are numbers everywhere.  Even out in the middle of nowhere.

“Tell me what numbers you see, kids?”

“There’s a three!” yells Audrey.

“That black and white sign says fifty-five, daddy!” shouts Jake.  “ What does that mean?”

“It means you can only drive fifty-five miles per hour, son.”

On a recent trip to Ohio, I was unfortunate enough to get pulled over for speeding on I-71.  My excuse is that I was distracted by the kids and their incessant blathering.

The cop wasn’t even in his car.  He was just standing beside his cruiser holding a radar gun.  He waved me down while I was still a tenth of a mile away.  It hardly seemed fair.  Kind of insulting, really.  If I’m going to break the law, I’d at least like for you to give me a good chase, like an episode of Cops.  This was the police equivalent of a self-checkout at the grocery store.  I pulled up right next to him, rolling my window down. Audrey screams from the back,

“Daddy!  Why is that police man standing at our window?!”

I know it sounds like an innocent question, but it was incredibly embarrassing.  I am avoiding eye contact with the officer, who is looking down his nose at me with great disapproval.  I was going 20 miles over the limit.

In my defense, it was a speed trap.

How to respond to my two-year-old?   I had a couple of options.

Option A:  I could confess my traffic violation in the presence of the nice police man.  This alternative gave me the willies.  I grew up Catholic, and the idea of confession scared the holy shnikeys out of me.  By the rules of God, you’re supposed to do your first confession in the 3^rd or 4^th grade.  Must be in the Bible somewhere.  Anyhow, I played sick for an entire semester of Sunday School to avoid it.  I was confession-free until the 8^th grade when my Catholic guilt finally got the best of me.  By then, I had accumulated four more years of sins, which equated to an additional 45-minutes in the humiliating, non-sound-proof booth opposite Father Mikliska.

Confessing is not my strong suit.  What was the alternative?

Option B:  I could answer “I don’t know, Audrey.”  Thereby, leaving it up to the nice police man to tell the kids what a menace to society that I am, and how I had placed their lives in jeopardy with my reckless behavior, and how if I speed too much they can lock their daddy up in jail.

I chose option A.  Stopping just short of Jimmy Swaggart tears, I played it soft,

Menace:  “Well Audrey.  The police man pulled me over.”

Jake:  “Why daddy?”

Menace:  “I was driving too fast.”

There goes my chance at pleading “no contest” or arguing that his radar gun was mis-calibrated.  Thanks kids!

Jake:  “Why were you driving so fast?”

Menace:  “I don’t know, Jake.”

Audrey:  “What’s he doing?”

Menace:  “He’s writing me a ticket.”

Audrey:  “A ticket!?!?! ”

She said this with unbridled enthusiasm, confusing this ticket with the slip of paper that allows you to enter an amusement park.  Or the colored slips of paper they give out at the YMCA with bible verses on them.

Menace:  “No Audrey, not that kind of ticket.”

Jake:  “What’s it for?”

Menace:  “It tells what I did wrong.  It tells me I have to pay a fine.”

I would have bought them matching Ferraris for their 16^th birthdays just to get them to stop talking.  There is no way that would have worked.  Jake, still yelling over the howl of an imaginary jet engine called out,

“What’s a fine?”

Menace:  “Daddy has to pay money to the police department because he broke the rules.”

Jake:  “Oh.  That’s not good.”

Menace:  “No it’s not.”

Jake:  “Why were you driving so fast?

And so continues the circle of questioning.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gabby smiling.  For once, she didn’t have to be the bad guy and comment on my driving.

Now Jake has a new number game.   First, he looks at all of the speed limit signs and reads them aloud.  Next, from his prime viewing angle in the right rear passenger seat, he compares the posted speed limit to what he sees on my speedometer.

“Daddy!  The speed limit is 45 and you’re driving 60!  Slow down!”

“It’s OK Jake.”

“No it’s not!  You’re going to get a ticket!”

“OK, Jake.”

And so it has been for every single car trip since I started teaching the kid his numbers.  I almost wish he were an imbecile who just sat around and ate Elmer’s glue.  But no.  He’s Rainman.

This past Saturday, we were coming home from a shopping trip.  The car in front of me was driving very slowly.  Far below the speed limit, in my opinion.  As it exited the highway, it straddled both left turn lanes.  I couldn’t pass him, and the light was green.  So, as soon as he got over far enough, I sped around him and tried to make the light.  It clicked to yellow.  To stop, or not to stop?

Traffic laws state that stoplights have seven colors.  Green.  Yellow.  Yellow-pink.  Yellow-orange. Yellow-red. Just-Turned-Red.  And Been-Red-For-Awhile.  You may proceed with caution with all colors except Been-Red-For-Awhile.  Look it up.  I promise.

As I drove through the “Just-Turned-Red” light, Gabby gasped in disapproval.

Jake:  “What happened?!”

Gabby:  “Daddy just drove through a red light.”

Jake:  “You’re going to get a ticket, daddy.”

Menace: “No, I’m not going to get a ticket, Jake.”

Jake:  “But you broke the rules!”

Menace:  “I know Jake, but no police were around to see it, so I’ll be fine.”

I see Gabby wince.  She gives me a look that spoke volumes.

Is that really what you want to teach your kids?  That it’s OK to break the law so long as no one is watching?

I am not proud.

Then Jake verbalizes what she’s thinking.

Jake:  “That’s still bad, Daddy.  The next time you see a policeman, you need to tell him what you did.”

Menace:  “I will, Jake.”

The next day, I neglected to take the kids to their second straight day of the “Music and Molasses” festival.  First, because Gabby and I were worn out.  Second, because there are a slew of mounted police at the festival, and I would have had to confess to every last one of them, lest my yapping kids rat me out.

But this begs the question.  Are there some rules that are OK to break?  Just because something is against the rules doesn’t automatically make it bad, right?  And vice versa.  Just because something is legal doesn’t automatically make it moral.  For all of us, this is a tough call.  Navigating the gray area.  And, if you’ll allow me to go out on a limb here, it can be even tougher as a parent, when your every waking moment is being watched by a tiny little person that will likely emulate anything you do.   I’d rather teach them how to count.

Take this example.  Let’s say I wanted to start a business selling drug-free urine to people who were having trouble passing the good old fashioned drug test.  Guess what?!  In all but 13 states, it’s not illegal.  In Tennessee, they’ve outlawed synthetic urine sales, but you’re free to sell all the real pee you want.  Still, if Jake and Audrey became budding entrepreneurs and wanted to start selling their own “liquid gold,” I’d probably advise against it.  Not against the law, but it doesn’t feel right, either.

And what about this one.

A few years ago, Gabby and I volunteered with a group called No More Deaths.  They leave bottles of water, sometimes even 55-gallon drums full of water, in the desert in an effort to stop the deaths of desperate immigrants illegally crossing the border.   Hundreds of them die each year crossing the deserts of Arizona, literally baking to death.  Seems like the humane thing to do, right?  However, these humanitarians have been arrested for littering.  Granted, all have been acquitted using the defense that “How is giving a dying person water illegal?”  Even so, the debate rages on.  I know what side of the fence I fall on that argument, and I know what I would tell my kids about this one, but I’m not naïve enough to think that my position is shared by everyone, even my close friends.

So, which rules should I follow?  Which rules should I bend or break because I think Jesus would do it, too?  That’s a pretty tough question to answer, especially since the Hebrew-In-Chief  isn’t here today to weigh in on the drug-free pee debate.

Something tells me he might not give me a straight-up answer.  Instead, he’d speak in a parable.  He’d probably save a good one for me.  Like the story of the man who did everything right, but Jesus asked for one more thing, “Sell everything you have and give it to the poor. Then follow me.”

Oh.

Can you run that by me again?  I think I’d rather just obey the speed limit and limit my littering, thanks.

Living by the Jesus rules?  That’s the tough stuff.  The guy doesn’t give you a lot of wiggle room, does he?  He’s always there.  Reminding.  Prodding.  Challenging.  He wants me to put my money where my mouth is.  Literally.  But that’s easier said than done.

And that’s why  I think he’d probably describe me the same way I describe my kids.

“I sure do love him.  More than words can express.  But he’s a lot of talk.”

Pizza with Einstein

This weekend I am reminded that one year ago, I competed in the Urbanathlon.  It was one of those things I wasn’t sure I could do.  One of those things that makes you nervous.  A real challenge.

“What’s an Urbanathlon?” you say.

Well, the Urbanathlon is a 12-mile footrace through the streets of Chicago, complete with “urban obstacles.”  This includes running through and jumping over monster truck tires, climbing monkey bars, hurdling beams that are five feet off the ground, running the steps at Soldier Field, jumping over taxi cabs, and scaling an 8-foot wall.  Apparently, these are all things that Chicago’s urban population must do while walking to school or work.

Glad I don’t live in Chicago.

I had seen an advertisement for it in Men’s Health, the magazine that sponsors the race.   Making small talk, I made the mistake of telling my brother Jeff about it during a family gathering.

Stupid.

As my sister says, Jeff “looks like somebody won him in a raffle.”  The guy belongs on the cover of Men’s Health, or featured in an ad for underwear.

I, on the other hand, once drew a stick figure of myself on the cover of the magazine, and own lots of underwear.  Some of it could even be called “vintage.”

As soon as I mentioned it, my brother got really fired up for the race, and I got caught up in his enthusiasm.  He said, “Man, that would be really fun!  I have an old fraternity brother who would be up for it, too!  We could do it as a 3-man relay team.  That means each of us would only have to do 4 miles plus obstacles.”

Jeff’s fraternity brother, Todd, makes my brother look like Chris Farley when it comes to fitness.  When my brother called Todd about the race, his reply was,

“I don’t know.  I usually don’t do races that short.”

And he was talking about the full 12 miles.

Todd is an adventure racer.  You may have seen them on TV.  These are the nut jobs that team up with other screwballs to try and cover as much rugged terrain as they can in a 12-24-hour period.  Using only a compass and a map, they hike through mud, carve their way through dense brush, bike up mountain trails, scale cliffs, raft on rapids, and set their own broken limbs.  I believe they get bonus points for eating  granola made from twigs and burrs, and starting a fire using only some wet bark and the heat of their steely-eyed gaze.

After some coaxing, Todd was in.

We arrived in Chicago the evening before the race.  We registered, checked into our hotel, and went out for a meal.  As is the common wisdom of all elite athletes, we opted to do some “carb-loading” before the race.  This consisted of 3 slices of deep dish pizza for each man, and 3 pitchers of beer shared among us.  I’m fairly certain that this is the same pre-race meal eaten by Lance Armstrong when he is out in Chicago with his fraternity brothers, and he’s preparing to watch the Indy 500.

When we awoke the next morning at 6:15am, it was a tropical 36 degrees outside.  I say “tropical” because the air felt as moist as the inside of a dog’s mouth.

When he’s sucking on ice cubes.

Five minutes before race time, it was 39 degrees, and sleet was falling from the sky.  Luckily, I was responsible for the first leg of the race.  This meant that I would be able to work up a sweat on my four miles of the course, while my brother and Todd waited patiently, freezing their pectoral muscles off at their checkpoints.

As worked up as I was about the race, it ended up being a non-event.  About two miles into the run, I found my groove.  The monster truck tires were a large, yet manageable bump in the road.  I got a second wind just as I arrived at the checkpoint to make the hand-off to my brother.  I passed him our timing chip, and he was off like a rocket.

When it was all said and done, we finished 76^th out of 405 in our age bracket.  I wish I could take credit for our top 18% finish, but I was the slowest member of our team.  Given the fact that I was also the youngest member, it’s even more pathetic.  My brother ran like a gazelle and worked the monkey bars like Curious George.  Todd ran the steps at Soldier field like he was riding an escalator.  He literally left it all on the course, stopping just 20 yards shy of the finish line to deposit his breakfast at the feet of a lucky spectator.  I think I’d rather catch a foul ball at a baseball game, but I guess that’s the kind of souvenir you get when you watch an endurance race.

Afterward, we decided to celebrate with some more pizza and pitchers.  The place we found was a bit like Cheers, with regulars coming in just to hang out.  We found a table surrounded by televisions, ordered our food, and discussed the morning’s race.  As you might expect, our conversation focused on Todd’s over-the-top performance.

As we spoke, a guy lumbered in.  He looked like a homeless Albert Einstein.  He was disheveled, with his long wool coat bearing stains from long ago.  He carried a shoulder bag filled with knick-knacks.

The regulars saw him coming a mile away.  They didn’t make him leave, but they didn’t respond to his small talk, either.  It seemed that he was their bothersome gnat – something annoying to be tolerated.  He attempted to start up a conversation with a few folks, but was ignored.

He approached the bar and ordered a beer.  When the bartender brought him his glass, he paid for it using a handful of change.  In my head, I repeated my mantra:

“There’s no such thing as ‘worthy poor.’  There’s no such distinction. Everyone is worthy.”

All the while I wondered how many handfuls of change this man had poured into a pint glass.

Our pizza arrived, which distracted me from the man.  When the waitress laid it on the table, it was the size of a cheesy manhole cover.

We were dishing up our first slices when the man walked past our table with his glass of beer in hand.  He paused and asked, “How are you boys doing?”

“We’re fine,” we answered, all hoping the conversation wouldn’t get long and awkward.

“That pizza looks good.  I love the stuff.  Lemme’ know if you don’t finish it.”

We made some reference to being from out of town, enjoying the Chicago-style pie, etc, etc. etc.  He said a few more things and sauntered off to a booth twelve feet away.  He sat there sipping his beer, mumbling from time to time, singing along to the jukebox, and watching people come and go.

The bartender came over and asked, “Is that guy bothering you?”

“No,” we replied in unison.  “He’s fine.”

“Just let me know if he gets to be too much.”

We chatted some more, laughed some more, and ate until we nearly burst.  I looked down and saw we still had a couple of slices left.

For some reason, my mind went back to my childhood.  I saw an image in my head of my mother.  She was scolding me for bringing home a stray dog, which I had lured onto our front porch with pieces of ham.  He was a good-sized dog, too.  Like a German Shepherd.

“You feed a dog like that, and he’ll never leave.  It’s just trouble.”

Sure enough, that dog got into a fight with my little dog.  Treated him like a chew toy.  I thought he was going to kill him.  Luckily, I was able to scare the dog away with some yelling and a well-aimed tennis shoe.

But Einstein wasn’t a dog.  He was a human being.  A human being who liked pizza.  From a purely mathematical perspective, it just made sense.  We had two slices.  He had none.  We didn’t need any more food.  He did.

I approached the bartender and asked for an extra plate, napkin and fork.  He didn’t say a word, but gave me a knowing look.  The same one my mother uses.  And my wife.  It must be in a book somewhere.

Faces of Disapproval, by Ima Woman.

I loaded up the pizza and carried it over to the man.  He was scribbling something in a notebook he had pulled from his knapsack.

“Oh!  Thank you so much!” he said.  “That is very kind of you.  It looks delicious.”

“Yes, it’s really good.” I said.  “Enjoy.”

As much as I would have liked to create a connection with this man, the reaction of other people in the bar made me question this.  If they had been so pestered by him, there must be something about him that makes him a bothersome guy.  So, I cut our conversation short, and went back to our table.

My brother, Todd and I watched some more football and enjoyed another beer at the restaurant.  We were basking in the glow of our 76^th place finish, and killing time before our flights.  As we chatted, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.  The man stood up from his seat and approached up once again.

Oh brother.  What have I done?

Einstein came over to thank us for the pizza.  He made small talk, asking us where we were from.  Why we were in town.  When we were leaving.  We talked for a couple of minutes, wondering where this conversation would lead.  He would ramble a bit about random subjects.  There were lots of long, awkward pauses.  Then he said,

“Do you mind if I take your picture?”

He swung an old camera off his shoulder, and held it in his hand.  It looked like a toy from the Nixon administration.

“Sure!” We answered.

It was dark in the restaurant, but as he clicked the photo, there wasn’t any flash.

“So, where should I send it?” he asked.

“Send it?”

“The picture!  Where should I send it when it gets developed?”

We all sort of looked at each other.  Should we give him our address?  Maybe not.  I thought it might just be safer to give out a fake address, like the girls I used to meet in high school who would give me their phone number.  When I would call it, it would be some bank’s time and temperature information line.

Todd grabbed a napkin.

“Sure!  Here you go!” and he wrote something down and handed it to Einstein.

The man thanked us again, and went back to his table to finish his meal.  When he left, we asked Todd what he had written.

“I gave him my mom’s address.”

“What?!”

“Yeah.  We’re building a house now, so that’s where my mail is getting sent for the time being.”

We all joked how there wasn’t any film in that guy’s camera.  How it was all a ploy to get personal information.  Now Einstein was going to show up at Todd’s mom’s house someday, looking for some pizza.  Worse yet, he would steal Todd’s identity and ruin his credit.

Stupid.

When the man finished his meal, he simply waved and walked out of the restaurant.

Fast forward three weeks.  I am seated at my computer and receive an email from Todd.  The subject line reads:  “You won’t believe this.”  I flashback to Todd giving his address to Einstein, and half expect that his mom has been abducted.  I gotta’ check the police blotter in Springfield, Missouri.

But when I open the email, I see this:

A photo.  A note.  And a homemade business card.

I was floored.  We didn’t even think the guy had film in the camera.  Heck.  We didn’t even think the camera was real.  Now, here it is.  A dark, blurry picture of three friends who didn’t have a clue about the guy behind the lens, who calls himself “Z.”

I had gone to Chicago to do one of those things I wasn’t sure I could do.  One of those things that makes you nervous.  A real challenge.

And that’s exactly what I got.  But it wasn’t about the race at all.  That’s the way God does it sometimes.

I saw a side of myself that makes me nervous.  The side of me that judges.  The side of me that gets it dead wrong.  The side of me that misses seeing Jesus in others because I have simply forgotten what He looks like.  Ordinary.  Carpenter.  Vagabond.  Loner.   Radical.  Blessed.

Child of God.

Built To Last

Ten years is a long time.  There are many durable items that testify to being “built to last” that can’t survive intact for more than a decade.  For example:

• Snow tires
• Cheap roofing
• Exterior paint
• Weather stripping
• Egg Beaters (even from the freezer.  Trust me)
• Gift cards from JC Penney (don’t even get me started)

Exactly ten years ago today, Friday the 13^th, 2000, I met my wife, Gabby.  Luckily, the event was chronicled by a professional photographer.

It started like this…

No, that is obviously not us.  That lovely couple is Jason and Candice Hicks.  They chose to get married on Friday the 13^th, and invite us.  Jason was a former college roommate of mine, who moved to Austin, TX.  He worked as an engineer at Dell.  That’s where Gabby met him.

I know what you’re thinking.  If you meet someone on Friday the 13^th, you should probably just call it quits after the first date on principle.  Nothing good can come of that, right?  But, given that our friends were courageous enough to commit their lives to each other on that date, then we could at least share dinner and a movie.

When we got to the wedding reception, I noticed Gabby right away.  She was incredibly hot, in a sophisticated way.  Great smile.  Great haircut.  Nice ears.

Note:  Apparently, at this same time, Gabby was checking me out.  Her assessment was slightly different.  She told her friends, and I quote,

“He looks cocky.”

She arrived at the reception with three other folks, Summer, Dev, and Jeannie (pictured here L to R).

I automatically assumed she was there with Dev, due to her level of hotness, and the fact that Dev can bench press a Volvo and drink protein shakes fortified with nails and concrete.

Undeterred, I asked around about the hot chick.  The first person I questioned was this guy.

I know.  He doesn’t look like a trustworthy source.  My analysis skills had been slightly dampened by two glasses of wine.   That’s my friend Jamie.  An Irishman who worked diligently this night to live up to the Irishman stereotype.  The open bar helped.

Jamie said, between sips of lager, “That’s Gabby.  She’s been dating some guy for 8 months.”

Problem solved.  I gave up on the idea of Gabby, and immediately moved on to plan B.

Dancing like an imbecile (pictured here).

After a few more beverages, I decided to ask Gabby’s friend Summer to dance.  In retrospect, this probably was not the wisest move when trying to woo a woman.  To this day, I still hear about my questionable decision making skills.

As the evening progressed, I was approached by Jamie once again.  In his lovely Irish accent, he informed me (shocking!) that his previous assessment of Gabby’s relationship status may have been incorrect.  In fact, she had recently dumped the guy she was dating, and, had Facebook been around back then, her status would have been “Available, but not looking.”

But something told me she might be easily persuaded to dance. (pictured here)

I plotted my next step, which involved showing off my latest dance move.  I call it “Rhythm-less Man with Broken Arm”.  (pictured here)

I use it to take women’s attention away from their own groove.  You can see how well it’s working.

Finally, the music slowed, and I made my move.  I was nervous.  Sweaty.  Talking too fast.  Hoping that the rapid-fire words would shock her into submission.

I guess it worked.  I don’t remember the song.  Only that it was very long.  “Stairway to Heaven” long.  “Bye, Bye Miss American Pie” long.  And like most conversations, the length of the song was amplified by our awkward chatter.

But it didn’t matter.  I was hooked.  (pictured here)

Who else has a picture of the night they met their wife?  How lucky can one guy be.

The rest of the story goes like this.  We left the reception early to go dancing downtown.  Once there, I thought she left me, so, I asked Summer to dance again.  The problem?  Gabby had only gone to the bathroom.

When she returned, she asked, “So, do you want to dance with me, or with Summer?  ‘Cause we’re friends, and I don’t want to play those silly games.”

“I wanna be with you,” I answered.

And that’s how it remains.  Summer married a guy named Tim, and they have two beautiful boys.

As for Gabby?  The next day, I dragged Jamie along with me to meet her friends for lunch.  Two days later, I sent some roses.  Three months later, I was moving to Austin.  I tell Gabby that it was because I had a new job there, but she knows the truth.

Accidental?  Maybe so.  But whether it’s accidental missionary work, or accidental relationships, some things are just meant to be.  Sometimes you meet someone who makes you a better person.  Someone who challenges you to be more than you could be alone.  Someone whose giant heart teaches you about friendship, generosity, love and service.  Things that are built to last.

And today, I’m just thankful.

Bad Dogs, Death Alley, And Lessons Learned on the Farm

Let me make this perfectly clear.

I am not a farmer.

Sure, I had a Fisher Price Little People Farm Set, complete with plastic cow and sheep. Unfortunately, I forgot to feed them and they were sent to live on a real farm at a day care center somewhere nearby. I also forgot to tend the crops, and the neighbor kid turned the plastic field into a skateboard ramp.

Needless to say, when someone chooses to spend their days toiling in the Earth, herding cattle, or milking goats, I just don’t get it. They are self-selecting hard work. And it’s hard work you have almost no control over. You could plant the best crop in the world, and it could get washed away by a terrible storm. You could provide top-notch feed for your cattle, and they could still catch Mad Cow disease and die. Or worse yet, they could actually survive, maybe with just a mild case of Slightly Irritated Cow disease, and you would be forced to do more arduous labor, butchering them and turning them to burger.

Yes, I’m lazy. This typing is hard work for me. I think I’m getting a wrist cramp.

But farming? That’s real hard work, with no guarantees. That’s what makes my brother-in-law Owen such a curious specimen to me.

About seven years ago, he and my sister-in-law moved their family from suburban Houston to a farm outside of Columbus, Ohio. They went from mowing a postage stamp yard, to owning a 10-acre farm. Gone were the neighborhood pool and bike riding on the sidewalk. They were replaced with a creek-fed pond and horseback riding.

The land is absolutely gorgeous, especially now in fall. The weather cools and the trees look like exploding tubes of paint, every shade of red, orange and yellow. Behind the house, the ground has a gentle roll, fading into forest along the creek. Next door is a field of soybeans. Across the street are stalks of dried corn as thick as the hair on Alec Baldwin’s noggin.

But even Owen will admit that the idea of the farm was quite different from the reality of the farm. When they first moved, they casually named the place “Harmony Hills Acres” or something like that. Several months later, we arrived for a visit. He joked with me that they should change the name to “Chaos Reigns Ranch.”

Runoff from the nearby animal farm was causing thick algae to form in his pond, making it challenging to keep it in use as a swimming hole. Some of the roosters were sexually harassing the hens. Turkeys would get out of their fenced-in area. They had to buy an Epi pen due to a series of bee stings suffered from a honey harvest gone bad. The goats found their way into a storage area and ate the vast majority of their cardboard boxes. Not the contents, mind you, just the boxes. All that remained were random semi-stacked cubes of stuff, spilling out onto the floor. Apparently, goats can be finicky.

And then there’s Bear-Bear.

Bear-Bear is a three-year-old Australian Shepherd. He’s the kind of dog that makes vets want to prescribe Prozac.

From the moment Bear-Bear stepped on the farm, he was trouble. He would bark incessantly during the night, for no apparent reason. He would chase cars. True to stereotype, he also chases the mailman. Last winter after an ice storm, he ran out in front of the garbage truck as it came barreling down the road. The driver, not wanting to kill a family dog, slammed on his brakes and nearly skidded into a ditch. All the while, Bear-Bear stood his ground like a protest student in Tienamen Square.

Bad dog.

Random animals were turning up dead, like a bad horror movie. Baby chicks. Roosters. Turkeys. Rabbits. Nothing was safe. It turns out that nearly all of the murders were committed by Bear-Bear, doing a Freddy Kreuger impersonation. A darn good one.

Since no one wants to eat a chicken that already has dog bite marks in it, the victims of Bear-Bear’s killing spree ended up buried in a place on the property that the kids referred to as “Death Alley.”  It became quite a cemetery. Lots of plots. No headstones.

Had Bear-Bear been mine, I would have sent him to “live on a farm,” as they say. The problem is, he was already on a farm. Even Owen was inches away from putting the pooch on Craigslist, but for some reason, he never pulled the trigger.

And I’m speaking figuratively, of course. Please don’t call the PETA on me.

Several months ago, we went to the farm for a visit. When we arrived, Bear-Bear barked at us from behind the fence, temporarily constrained from chasing cars or chickens. In the latest attempt to rehabilitate this devil dog, Owen had tried an old farmer’s trick, tying Bear-Bear’s latest kill, a duckling, around the dog’s neck in hopes that the ever-present smell would drive him nuts, and he’d never want to do it again.

It didn’t seem to be working. Bear-Bear eyed my children like an NFL lineman stares down the #4 Value Meal at Mickey D’s. Probably due to the fact that we pull out every trick (and treat) in the book to keep them quiet on a seven-hour road trip, so they were sweating pure high fructose corn syrup from their pores.

Anytime I went in the back yard, Bear-Bear would accost me and try to push his way through the gate, so he could chase God-knows-what or dig through a garbage can. I would use my size 11 to not-so-gingerly move him out of the way. I considered taking him for a long nap back in Death Alley.

Bad dog.

Perhaps the worst thing about Bear-Bear had nothing to do with him at all. He was now the only dog left on the farm. Owen used to have another dog. Another Aussie named Paco. With sincerest apologies to my own current and childhood pets, Paco was perhaps the best dog in the world. A loveable, huggable, loyal companion that seemed to anticipate everyone’s needs for thirteen years. He was like Radar O’Reilly from M.A.S.H., only with a cold, wet nose.

Unfortunately, on that summer trip, Paco had to be put down. He developed a kidney infection that couldn’t be cured, even though Owen would have spent a mint to save him.

And now, Bear-Bear is all that’s left.

Worthless.

When we pulled out of the driveway after that trip, I knew that was also the last time we would see Bear-Bear. There is such a thing as too much hard work, even for a farmer. And Owen had tried every trick in the book.

Fast forward three months.

This past weekend, we went to Ohio once again, to enjoy fall color on the farm. When we pulled into the drive, we were greeted warmly by the family. The whole family. Even Bear-Bear. I half expected he would have been shipped off to Timbuktu. But here he was. But he wasn’t jumping. He wasn’t barking. Just an excited greeting, and licks on Audrey’s face.

Was this the same dog?

We took our bags inside and enjoyed some laughs and good conversation. Bear-Bear came into the house with us. Granted, his paws were a little muddy, but he behaved himself for the most part.  I still held a grudge, though, like the guy at the 20-year reunion who meets up with the bully who used his Fisher Price Farm Set as a skateboard ramp.

The next morning after breakfast, we walked outside, and there was Bear-Bear again. I half expected him to jump on me and knock me over like a bowling pin. Instead, he licked Audrey’s face for a small taste of her breakfast, and then left her alone. Then Owen noticed something and began calling to him in a low tone, “Os, Os, Os…” (Oso is “bear” in Spanish)

Bear-Bear sprung to action. The goats had miraculously gotten out of their pen. They had gritted their teeth and powered through the electric fence. All to eat the same variety of grass that was in their pen to begin with. But they were sure to spread more destruction. No boxes are safe with them around.

And then, quick as a yellow light, Bear-Bear jumped in front of them, herding them back into the barn as they baaahed in disapproval.

When Bear-Bear was done with his chore, he came bounding back toward us, happily. Then Owen chimed in.

“Yeah. Who woulda’ thought? After all that I’ve been through with this stinkin’ dog, chasing cars, killing chickens, nearly causing a garbage truck to drive off the road in an ice storm. All I had to do to break him was to pull another old farmer’s trick. Hold him in my arms, lay him on his back, and carry him around like that for a while. Now he listens to everything. He’s an awesome herding dog. He can’t stand for those goats to be anywhere besides where they are supposed to be, and he pretty much leaves the chickens and ducks alone. He’s not perfect, but he’s learning.”

I joked how that was the exact technique that Gabby used to get me to do what she wanted around the house.

Then I looked down at Bear-Bear. He was sitting patiently, looking up at Owen, waiting for his next call to spring to action.

“Yeah. Glad I didn’t give up on him,” Owen finished.

And that’s why I’m not a farmer.

It takes commitment. There is no giving up. Me? I have a closet full of excuses, and a rented storage unit packed with “should have’s.” Those are tools that have no use on a farm.

Because here was a dog that spent his life chasing rabbits down random trails. Making a mess of things. Irritating neighbors, mailmen and bus drivers. Destroying lives and property. Apparently doing all of those things because he didn’t understand who was in charge, and didn’t really know who to listen to, so he just listened to his own tiny brain. Didn’t do him a lot of good.

Then, the farmer picks him up and holds him. Day after day. Legs splayed in the air. Totally vulnerable. Totally unable to move, lest he fall to the ground.

Then one morning, he gives up the fight and gives in to the idea that he’s not in control. It took all that effort for that Australian Shepherd to realize that he wasn’t built for self-serving behavior. Nope. He was built for service. Even his name says so.

And that’s my prayer today. To let go. Give up control, and just serve without question. Till then, I’ll be here in the farmer’s arms, laying on my back, still flailing madly, praying to God he doesn’t give up on me. ‘Cause I know I’ve got some more to give.

And a lot more to learn.

Cups of Sugar, Connectedness, and The Heavenly Library

When I was a kid, one of the most cringe-inducing phrases in my house was “Scotty?  Come here!  I need a favor!”

Ugh.

I would stubbornly set aside whatever mission-critical project I had going – usually making faces in the mirror, practicing the Moonwalk, or defacing friends’ pictures in the school yearbook – to go help Mom.  She would be standing in the kitchen, elbow-deep in some recipe that she was anxious to get on the table by 6:00.  In my house, dinner time was 6:00.  Every night.  Not 6:01.

6:00

I don’t care if you just broke your collarbone, suffered a ruptured kidney, and collapsed a lung while playing “Tackle The Man” with your friends.  You’d better have your buddies drag your sorry carcass home by 6:00, and then be ready to use your one good arm to help set the table.  So sacred was the 6:00 ritual in my house that, much to Gabby’s irritation, I still get a little antsy if we aren’t setting out the plates by 5:58.

But enough about my neuroses.  Back to mom.

Mom’s request was usually due to some poor planning in the food prep department.  She’d be on step 4 of an 8-step process to make some crazy pie, cake, or casserole of questionable origin.  That’s when she’d realize we were fresh out of some key ingredient.

“Could you go to the neighbor’s and borrow some sugar?”

So, armed with an empty, stainless-steel measuring cup, she would send me to survey the neighbors in search of whatever we needed.  I don’t know why it bothered me.  Maybe it’s because I felt like I was intruding on someone else’s space?  Maybe I just lacked confidence?  Maybe I was just afraid to ask?

The funny thing is, it didn’t matter whose house I was visiting.  It could be Mrs. Cunningham, the mother of one of my best friends.  A woman who I saw nearly every day.  A woman who once picked me up from school when I was sick.  A woman who loved me enough to warn me not to eat that plate of Long John Silver’s fish sticks after she picked me up from school.  A woman who still loved me even though I puked up those fish sticks all over her new carpet in the hallway.

No matter who I went to beg, I still felt nervous, even though I was never turned away.  Whether it was Mrs. Cunningham, Mrs. Lewis, or Lamar, the truck driver from across the street, they always welcomed me in and gave me what I needed.  Then, I would take the hour-long walk home, stepping painfully slowly like that Tim Conway character from the Carol Burnett show, trying not to spill a single granule of sugar.

Ah… the memories.

One day, I hope to pass on the joys of the “ingredient walk” to my own children, much as I have already passed the mantle of “can you bring me the remote?”  Handing down the tradition of household chores ranks just below “Seeing my kid cure cancer” as one of the pleasures of parenting.

But things seem a bit different today.

Is it just me?  Our neighborhoods seem more spread out.  Our houses are bigger.  Our lives even seem busier.  I never remember needing a day planner when I was seven.  But today, you can buy one at Target with a Thomas the Train theme.

This all makes us appear to be a bit more distant.  Those tight neighborhood relationships that happened by accident now must happen on purpose.  In the past, living close by someone meant you were close to someone.

Though I’m much more confident now, I feel more intrusive than when I was six.  Borrowing a cup of sugar would seem odd, somehow.  Borrowing a lawn mower or a Weed-Eater?  I might feel like I needed to bring a contract with me.  It’s not that people are any less generous than before.  It’s just that we seem less connected, even though we’re connected by technology more than ever.

I now carry my mailbox in my hand.  I literally make phone calls to friends from my pocket.   We can download e-books.  This whole concept makes me feel old.

And I’m only 37.

That’s right. Now you can get your Judy Blume in digital form.  But it’s not the same.  A good book, especially a kid’s book, is like a fine wine.  Wine is more than just grapes.  It has hints of oak, citrus, and gooseberry from being aged in just the right barrel.  A good book is more than text.  It needs to have hints of stale milk, kid sweat, and shepherd’s pie from being aged in the school library.  That’s the book experience.

But I lost it long before I had my smart phone.

Before we went to Guatemala, Gabby and I were living in a bit of a bubble.  Or, shall I say, a bigger bubble than we live in today, complete with a man cave.

We were DINKs (Dual-Income, No Kids).  As DINKs, we actually had “extra” money.  Today, we’re SITCOMs (Single-Income, Two Children, Outta’ Money).

Back in the DINK days, we would go out on dates and eat at restaurants that didn’t have neon menu boards or place mats you could decorate with your own crayons.  We would have genuine conversations.  We would go shopping, often at book stores, where we could browse the shelves for hours on end.  We would find interesting titles and add them to our home library.  We had shelves of books.  If someone told us about a really cool author, we’d just go out and buy their latest novel.

Then something happened.

Like that “Frozen Man” that they discovered in the arctic not long ago, we rediscovered that Prehistoric relic called the public library.  And it was like we’d stumbled upon the greatest discovery since canned beer.  What makes it so great, you ask?

The library is where yesterday lives.  The yesterday you love.

If you haven’t been to a public library recently, I would highly recommend a “Stay-cation.”  New libraries can be quite palatial, filled with story times, children’s plays, and special events.  It’s kinda’ like Disneyland, without the rides and somewhat frightening, mute, globe-headed cartoon characters.

And the smell.  I wish they could bottle that smell.  The smell of books.  I love it.  It brings back memories.  Good memories.  In fact, it’s hard to think of any bad memories of the library.  Probably tough to find anyone who hates the library.  Or the smell of the library.  It’s probably because we associate that smell with something Heavenly.  Something bigger than us.

Consider this:  If the library could talk, what would it say when you rang the doorbell?

“Hi!  Come on in!  Want a library card?  All you have to do is prove that you live somewhere nearby.  No application.  No drug test.  No judgment.  You’re a member, just because God put you on the planet.

If you’re homeless, come on in and use our computers.  In fact, we have folks who will help you find a job if you want one. For free.

Need help doing your taxes?  We have folks to help. For free.

Want to hear a story?  We’ll read one to you.  Or, you can read one yourself.  But there are limits.  You’ll somehow have to make do with only 25 books at a time.

And one DVD.

And three books on tape.

But if you don’t return them on time, there are penalties.  Ten cents per day, to be exact.  We can’t have people just running off with all of our stuff.”

I can’t even get a piece of bubble gum for a dime anymore.

There is something very comforting about this.  In today’s world, where we often lament the loss of connectedness, the loss of grace, and the loss of sanity, there exists this place that stands in stark contrast to it all.  It’s a living reminder of the virtues of generosity.  Trust everyone.  Give outrageously.  Expect nothing in return.  Do it not because you have to, but because making yourself and all you have available to everyone is just the right thing to do.

This is how we love our neighbors.  But it’s not just in the giving.  It’s in the sharing.  Not only do we give of ourselves to help someone else, we also open ourselves up to receive.  There is something very closed and protective about refusing hospitality.  We must not only give of ourselves to help others, but allow others to give to us, and through their own giving, feel the fullness that comes from offering without pretense.

Recently, Gabby took Jake and Audrey to have “lunch with friends” again at the soup kitchen.  They arrived early, and had the chance to chat with the folks who were already there.  Jake and Audrey both brought games with them.  Jake brought tic-tac-toe and a card game.  Audrey brought a wooden puzzle.  They sat and played with their new adult friends who were waiting for lunch.  Making friends.  Making connections.  Sharing.

As they were leaving, a man approached Jake, holding a toy truck in his hand.  Definitely a bit unexpected.  You don’t expect to see a homeless guy with a kid’s toy.  Looking toward Gabby he asked, “May I?”

She nodded.

The man just thought he would like it.  A homeless man.  Giving a gift.  Not wanting anything in return.

Jake lit up like the Griswold’s yard display at Christmas.

So did the man.

And there is our community.  Giving.  And receiving.

It’s powerful.  It’s Heavenly.  It’s Divine.

So, my prayer today is that I can be both the giver and the receiver.  To answer the knock at the door, or better yet, anticipate it.  And to knock on the door myself from time to time.  To ask and receive.

To borrow that cup of sugar.

Sounds pretty sweet, doesn’t it?

Scott’s Saturday Chili Explosion

You know how some smells can bring back memories no matter where you are?  I don’t know about you, but I have some time-tested scents.

The smell of a fire in the fireplace takes me straight back to Oklahoma winters, laying on the floor of the living room with my legs perched on the hearth, warming my feet after playing outside in the snow.

The musty, earthy  smell of a grocery storage area takes me back to walking the aisles of the day-old Wonder bread store when I was a kid.  The whole place kinda’ smelled like that.  It was a happy time when bring home a loaf of cinnamon bread was a real treat.

And then there’s the smell of banana chips.  Back at Surrey Hills Elementary school, the janitor had this industrial-strength cleaner, which is probably now banned in all 50 states due to the fact that it caused kids to grow extra limbs.  Anyhow, the sole purpose of this pungent, banana-scented cleaner was to clean up after anyone got sick on the commercial-grade carpet.  So now, anytime I smell banana chips…

Well.  You get the picture.

After yesterday, I have a new memory smell.

Chili.

This week was one that begged for a weekend.  I was busier than busy.  I was stuck on planes.  I was feeling run-down.  Saturday was going to be the cure-all.  We had virtually no set plans.  The freedom felt intoxicating.

I woke up on Saturday filled with expectations.  This was going to be a perfect day.  Gabby and I were going to start the morning by volunteering with the kids, helping tend the community garden at our local middle school.  Next, I planned to come home and do a quick furniture repair project to fix up a friend’s table that was damaged in this summer’s flooding.  Then, I’d make a batch of chili.  When the weather cools off, I look forward to making vast quantities of soups and stews and storing them in the freezer to keep us fed through the winter.

To cap off the day, we were planning to head out to Arrington Vineyards in the evening.  Take the kids out there, meet some family and friends, and lay out on the grass with a picnic while listening to our buddy’s jazz band.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it?  Perfect, in fact.

But that’s not how the day would go.

Breakfast went well.  We were able to mobilize the kids and get them out of the house quickly.  This is no small feat.  We planned on working at the garden all morning, yet another opportunity to teach the kids about service.  We arrived to volunteer by 9:00.

Audrey started whining at 9:01.

She asked to go to the bathroom at 9:02.

No bathrooms nearby, so, at 9:03, Gabby held her aloft behind the car while she peed in midair to avoid a repeat of the “zoo pee debacle”.  Yeah.  Don’t ask.

The kids proceeded to get filthy while Gab and I worked.  I spent an hour or so shoveling dirt, sifting through it to extract old Bermuda grass, and dumping the dirt loads into raised beds.

By 10:15, the Audrey was losing it.  Rather than subject the rest of the volunteers to our screaming, whining kid, we left around 10:15.

I started my little furniture project at 11:00.

By 11:21, I had mis-cut four table legs trying to be creative, and ruined all my materials.  A huge waste.

At 11:30, I gave up on the project, berated myself for screwing everything up, and went in to contaminate my wife’s good mood.

By noon, we had finished lunch, and I had successfully irritated Gabby.  She left the kitchen while I made chili. Here’s where things started to turn the corner.

Every artist has a medium.  Some use pastels.  Others use water color.  Oils.  Sculptors work in stone.

Me?

Ground beef.

By 2:00, I had concocted what was sure to be the world’s best batch of chili.  By the smell alone, you could be transported back to some pioneer’s chuck wagon.  Minus the nearby scent of manure and open latrines.  I took one last taste of the brew, and hit the couch to watch a little football.

After a short nap, I woke up and realized we needed to get the kids ready for the evening entertainment.  Time to mobilize again!

Before dealing with Jake and Audrey, I had to clean up the kitchen.  I went to my pot of chili and loaded it into four, quart-size Tupperware containers.  I labeled them all with the date and the contents, to distinguish them from the current supply of spaghetti sauce in the freezer, and tomorrow’s batch of chicken tortilla soup.

It was a good-sized load of chili, but we were in a hurry.  So, I balanced the four containers and began the journey from the kitchen, through the living room, and eventually out to the garage refrigerator.

Unfortunately, the door to the laundry room passage into the garage was closed.  So, I cradled the four containers under my arm like a chili newborn and opened the door.  Once I had the door open, I let go of the knob and reached for the stack of Tupperware.  As I brought the mountain of chili out from underneath my armpit, the Earth started to spin at twice the speed it normally does.  At least that’s my excuse.

I zigged.  The Tupperware zagged.  And time froze.

Two of the containers were airborn.  In an attempt to save the plummeting  chili, I released the grip on one of the safe quarts that was still in my hand.  Unfortunately, I am not a ninja, so my less-than-cat-like reflexes served only to punch the falling container toward the washing machine, while the newly dropped one fell unfettered to the hard tile floor.

If I had a video, I imagine it would have looked like that episode of The Office where Kevin’s brings his famous chili to work.  Absent of a true visual, allow me to explain.

The resulting impact was a steaming-hot, rust-colored explosion of liquid gastro-intestinal distress splattering in all directions like some edible Fourth of July fireworks display.  Sauce sloshed onto my pants.  Beans peppered the wall like cover fire from an automatic weapon.  Chili oozed out in every visible direction.

I may have said a bad word.

Gabby heard me and came rushing in, “Are you OK?”

Then she saw what had happened.  I was fuming.  Again, mad at myself.  Then the kids came running over.

“Daddy, why did you do that?!”

Gabby wisely told them, “Kids, let’s leave daddy alone right now.  He’s busy.”

She went off to grab some spare towels while I surveyed the damage and speed-dialed BP’s emergency response team.

Chili was oozing underneath the washing machine.  Sauce was splattered everywhere.  Kidney beans and ground beef were caught in the air conditioning vent covering the floor.  The whole room smelled like a Frito Pie.  If I had my wits about me, I probably could have seen the outline of Jesus’ face in the resulting spill.

Or Jim Caviezel.

But I wasn’t paying attention to that sort of thing.  I was more concerned about the mess I had made.  I spent the next 30 minutes scooping beef and beans into a bucket, cleaning out the vent, and sopping up the orange-y sauce with towels.  I moved the washer and dryer to see what was happening underneath.

Imagine, if you will, 18-months worth of laundry room dust-bunnies swimming in a pool of chili.

Appetizing.

I put the finishing touch on the room with a bleach-soaked mop and cleaned myself off.  Powerful scent, the chili and bleach combo.  Needless to say, we were a bit late getting to the Vineyard.

The Vineyard was a nice distraction.  It took my mind off of the day’s disasters.  After a short, yet wonderful evening listening to jazz while eating a picnic in the cool fall air, we arrived back home.

Eager to wash the smell of failure and stupidity off my body, I took a shower while Gabby unpacked our cooler.

Clean and dry, I put on some comfy clothes and walked toward the living room.  Gabby and I planned to watch a bit of TV before bed.

On my walk to the couch, my foot slipped on a wet spot and I nearly fell on my keester.  The floor was soaked.  I wondered, “Why would Gabby have mopped the hallway?  With water?   It’s a wood floor?”

“And why does it smell like chili again?”

“And laundry detergent?”

Then I turned on the light.

The hallway was covered in a half-inch of water.  It was rushing in from under the doorway into the laundry room.  Gabby came over again.  “What’s happening?!”

We looked in the laundry room, where Gabby had started a load of towels just 15 minutes before.  The chili-soaked towels from earlier in the day.

The wall behind the washing machine was soaked.  Apparently, when I had moved the washing machine to clean up the chili mess from before, I had forgotten to connect the drain back to the pipe in the wall.  So, for several minutes, our washing machine had been spewing light orange, chili flavored waste water onto the back wall of our laundry room and out into our hallway and closets.

And the rinse cycle was just beginning.

I quickly shut off the machine, and we got to work on the damage.  Forty-five minutes and seven towels later, we finally had it under control.  We had to pull up the carpet in the closet, and bring out a fan to dry off the area.  We just hope the floors don’t buckle.

So, let’s get a scorecard for the day, shall we?

Volunteering cut two hours short.

Furniture repair materials ruined.

One mostly wasted pot of food.

One chili explosion.

One minor flood.

And the smell of chili still lingering in the air.  The scent of expectations unfulfilled.

Sounds about right for a Saturday.

What had started as a beautiful day filled with promise turned into a reality that was quite different.  It happens sometimes.  In fact, it happens most times.  We get these grand ideas about how our day might turn out.  How our career might pan out.  How our kids might choose to live out their lives.

But expectations aren’t reality.  Expectations are a man-made measuring stick by which we judge our own success or failure.

Sometimes expectations are useful.  They propel us forward to achieve goals we might never be able to reach otherwise.

Other times, expectations are poisonous.  When they cause us to question our own worth, or our own capabilities.

I remember very well our missionary experience in Guatemala.  I went into the situation hoping – no, expecting – to change the world in a year.  I would touch hearts.  Make my mark on the world.  Maybe even save a life.

In reality, I spent a lot of time with Guatemalans, sharing God, and learning just a little bit about what it is like to live in poverty.  The experience wasn’t nearly as productive as my expectations.  But was that bad?

No, it was just different.

Whether I’m examining my service or my Saturday, I have to recognize that what is most important is the heart with which I approach them both.  Whatever the situation, if I bring the best of who I am and contribute the best I know how, then the results are those that God intended, whether they meet my expectations or not.

And, that experience will teach us something.  So long as we look for God’s hand in whatever it was, rather than focusing on the mess we’ve made.

And so, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go enjoy a bowl of chili.  The only one left.  The smell reminds me of a Saturday.  A Saturday that turned out just like it was supposed to.