The List Is A Lie

You’re not going to believe me when I tell you this.  But that’s OK.  I can take it.  And I realize that by sharing this nugget I may bring disappointment to your lives.  I may even betray the trust of every reader of this blog who is in a committed relationship.  So be it.  It has to be said.  I am compelled by the laws of nature to reveal what I now know.  In fact, I share this information not to hurt you, but to enlighten you.  So today I tell you, dear reader…

The list is a lie.

You know what I’m talking about.  Male or female.  Married or single.  We all have one.  Some of us discuss our lists among close friends.  Others of us keep the list a secret.  Our list tells so much about us.  Sometimes embarrassing.  Sometimes surprising.  Always entertaining.

The Celebrity Crush List

My wife and I have a pact.  If anyone on my Celebrity Crush List shows up to the front door and asks me to go out with them to dinner, she must, by the Law of Husbands and Wives, allow me to go.  Even if I have to pay.

Reciprocally, if I were to die in a freak accident, I must, according to the Law of Husbands and Wives, bless the new marriage of my wife to anyone on her Celebrity Crush List.  Even if my lifeless body has yet to cool.

Yes.  This stuff makes for fascinating table conversation.

The lists themselves are quite interesting.  For guys, a “published list” usually includes your run-of-the-mill supermodels, singers or actresses.  These are the safe names to debate during a Guy’s Night Out at your local sports bar.  No chance of ridicule.  For me, this includes:

1.  Ashley Judd

2.  Halle Berry

Then there are the list-dwellers who are known by description only.

3. That woman on Modern Family who plays the wife of the guy who used to play Al Bundy

But every guy’s list also contains a surprise entry.  The name that they are afraid to share for fear of being ostracized from the pack.  Usually it’s some obscure local celebrity, a non-sexy lady, scientist, politician, childhood crush or cartoon character.  These names rarely surface, unless by mistake.  For me, this includes:

4. Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Elaine from Seinfeld)

5. Ellen DeGeneres

6. Wonder Woman

7. Julia Child

To my wife’s credit, all of these women, save for Ellen, have dark hair just like Gabby.  Still, with the Julia Child reference, Gabby has a fear that any mildly attractive, scantily-clad woman showing up to our doorstep holding a moist chocolate cake could be cause for concern.

A girl’s list, on the other hand, has no constraints.  They’ll share the names on their list with anyone.  There are no secrets.  After watching The Last King of Scotland, which is a fantastic film, I noticed that our Netflix became populated with all sorts of utterly unwatchable movies starring James McAvoy.

Guess who’s on Gabby’s list.

*  I can do pouty, too, James.

The best part about her list is that there isn’t a single beefcake to be found anywhere.  Like all my women with dark hair, her list is a veritable Who’s Who of skinny, pasty white guys.  And women, unlike men, seem to understand that such a list can be populated by less-than-attractive people, proving the sitcom cliché of pairing a beautiful wife with a very dopey, dorky husband has basis in reality.  I give you Exhibit A:  Gabby’s List.

James McAvoy (whom you have already met)

Jon  Stewart (whom she calls her Jewish TV Husband)

David Sedaris (whom she calls her Jewish writer husband)

Ira Glass (whom she calls her Jewish NPR Radio host husband)

Michael Vartan (whom I had to look up on Google.  Probably converting to Judaism)

Gabby has all of these fellas on speed dial in the unlikely event that I get run over by a combine.  She’s a practical gal, after all.

Just last Thursday, I had the good fortune of getting a free upgrade while traveling on business.  They booted me up to First Class.  Lucky me!  It is no doubt due to my frequent travel and doe-eyed flirtation with the ticket agent who thought I looked like Anthony Michael Hall.  You know.  Farmer Ted from the movie Sixteen Candles.

He’s probably on her list.

I settled into my seat in 5A, feeling a little guilty as I sipped my pre-flight Diet Coke that the attendant so graciously brought me.  I learned that you can work up quite a thirst waiting for all of those poor schlubs to make their way back to their seats in coach.

Just when it looked like every passenger had boarded the plane, one more lonely soul walked in.  She looked familiar.  Her eyes darted back and forth between the overhead bins as she looked for a place to store her rolling suitcase.  She wore a pair of khaki casual pants, an orange t-shirt, and a gray hoodie.

Must be someone from Gabby’s Mom’s Club. I thought.

Three men jumped from their seats in First Class to help her hoist her bag into the bin.  So eager!  As they did this, she quickly turned her head toward the floor, looking for something.  She darted just past my row, reached down, and picked up something.  Then I heard her say to the men.

“Thank you so much.”

That voice.  Where have I heard that voice?  Oh… my goodness!  It can’t be!

That’s right.  The woman I thought was a member of my wife’s Mom’s Club was none other than Ashley Judd.  The Ashley Judd.  Famous actress.  Spokesmodel.  Wife of a Formula One racecar driver.  Numero Uno on my Celebrity Crush List.  Within stalking distance.

I think I aspirated an ice cube.

But she wasn’t standing on my doorstep asking me out.  Instead, she stood there looking very normal.  Like someone I might ask to borrow a Wet Wipe on the playground.  But it wasn’t her appearance that dealt a crushing blow to my Celebrity Crush List dreams.  No.  As Julia Child would attest, looks aren’t everything to me.

It was what she was holding.

A dog prop.

I’m not sure what your stance is on animals, but I’m one of those guys who believes that dogs are meant to be dogs.  Outside.  Fetching sticks.  Eating dry kibble.  Sleeping on the floor.  Dogs aren’t meant to go shopping.  Or to day care.  Or the spa.  Or be carried in purses.

And here was my dinner date clutching a tiny doglet in her famously beautiful arms.

I envisioned my night on the town with Ashley Judd.  We would make small talk.  I’d ask her about her movies.  She’d ask about my family.  I’d ask her if she was going to finish her dessert.  She’d say no.  I’d stuff my face.  She would be enamored by my healthy appetite for sweets.

Then she’d pull a dog out of her purse.

I’d get annoyed and irritated.  She’d start asking about my obsession with the number seven.  I’d take offense.  She would ask why I was so defensive.  I would then tell her how I thought her dog belonged at home in her back yard.  She’d get upset.  I’d take seven drinks of my Fresca and leave.  Only to arrive home and find Gabby criticizing Michael Vartan for never scrubbing a single toilet in our entire house.

Ever.

‘Cuz that’s how the list works.  It’s all a lie.  The fantasy can never measure up to the real thing.

And the real thing is what we have.  If you’re in a relationship, it’s likely messy.  And exhilarating.  And irritating.  And peaceful.  And mundane.  And joyous.  What makes it work isn’t the fact that it fits so nicely into some sanitized package.  No.  What makes it work is the commitment.  The no-holds-barred giving of yourself to another person, heart and soul.  It’s knowing all of each other’s quirks and loving them.  Even the annoying ones.  Because that’s what makes the love of your life the love of your life and not someone else’s.  And remembering the beauty of being accepted for who you are.  Getting a small taste of the love God promised, served up by your soul mate.

But it’s even more than that.  It’s feeling lucky that you get to walk through the world, sharing it with someone else, and learning, growing and changing together.  For better or worse.  In sickness and in health.  Till death do you part.

And so here I am.  Off on another business trip.  But I won’t be here for long.  Headed home tomorrow night.  Upgraded to First Class with God-knows-who.  Soon to be seated back home on the couch, snuggling up next to my wife.  Watching some unwatchable James McAvoy movie.

Happy.

Settling For The Same Old Fantastic

My mom was so excited, I could hear her about to wet her pants over the phone.

“We even met some of your new neighbors.  They have a little boy that is Jake’s age.  And the best part?”    As the suspense and bladder pressure built to the point of bursting, she blurted.

“They’re hispanic!”

Ever since her first grandchild was born, my mother’s dream was to have all of her kids live close to her.  She now envisioned us becoming best friends with some random family in Nashville.  For all we knew, they could be militaristic Guatemalans who had once tried to exterminate the Mayan family we lived with during our missionary year.  But the fact that we could all read the menu at a fancy Mexican restaurant would be the tie to bind us together forever.  This was mom’s big selling point.

But we weren’t biting.  Mom and dad moved to Nashville in 2002 to live near my sister and her family.  My brother followed a couple years later with his wife and two girls.  Gabby and I were the lone holdouts, and we showed no signs of moving from Austin.  Too many friends and too much love for the city that prides itself on being “weird”.

Unbeknownst to me, my mom would drive through random neighborhoods in Nashville looking for homes for sale.  One day, she found a really cute one, so she parked her car out front and prayed that Gabby and I would one day move in.  While the Neighborhood Watch director was calling the authorities, mom was calling the Big Guy upstairs, praying for a miracle, and accosting the neighbors.

Call it coincidence.  Call it Divine Intervention.  Call it an 862 mile umbilical cord.  Around this same time mom was pulling out the rosary beads on Ramble Wood Circle,  Gabby and I both realized living close to family was more important than anything Austin had to offer.  Over the next six months, we were somehow able to sell our house in a very down market.  The amazing thing is that we were still offered more than the asking price.  When it came time to buy in Nashville, the house that mom had prayed over was still available, with a greatly reduced price.  We moved in on October 19^th, 2008.

Apparently when Mom prays, God listens.

The house only needed some minor renovations, including re-seeding the lawn where her knees had worn the grass down to bedrock.  We soon met our Mexican neighbors, Rich and Lyndsey, who turned out to be a couple from the U.K. with very thick Irish and Scottish accents.  Mom may have some impressive spiritual connections, but don’t call her if you need a dialect coach.

“Scottish.  Mexican.  What’s the difference?”  she said.

We became fast friends with the Williams family, and our kids loved playing together.  They helped ease our transition to a new city.  We missed our wide network of Austin friends and the familiar faces.   Every day I would fondly recall something different that was now lost to us.  No more birthday parties with friends.  No more Town Lake.  No more Tex-Mex food.  Amy’s ice cream.  Sixth street.  Waterloo Ice House.  All a memory.  We tried to find replacements, but it just wasn’t the same.

To heal the heartache, we spent lots of time outside in the cul-du-sac with the neighbors, talking about life, laughing at our children, and making future plans.  We hosted backyard barbecues.  Our kids shared toys.  They were all a true blessing in our lives.  Especially Rich and Lyndsey.  Every story they told was peppered with the U.K. colloquialisms “fantastic” and “brilliant” which made everything sound… well… fantastic.  They were our silver lining.

That is, until they decided they needed to be close to family as well.  Less than a year after we moved in, they moved back to Northern Ireland.  Just a stone’s throw from Cancun.

We were sad to see them go, but couldn’t fault their reasoning.  After they left, we moped around for quite a while.  Jake missed his buddy next door.  We missed the energy they brought to the neighborhood.  We spoke often about the good they brought to our lives.  And even though our favorite Tex-Mex restaurant from Austin decided to open its first “outside Texas” location just 20 minutes from us, resulting in literal tears of joy streaking down Gabby’s cheeks,  it just wasn’t the same.  We fondly reminisced about the good times we had together with our old neighbors, realizing that it was just a season of our lives.

But the good thing about seasons is that they tend to come back around again.

Just this past weekend, Rich had an opportunity to return to Nashville for a business trip.  We hadn’t seen him in well over a year.  He was traveling without the rest of his family, but we used the opportunity to “get the old gang back together” for a neighborhood barbecue.  We invited a bunch of friends over and grilled copious amounts of charred animal flesh, at Rich’s request of course.  I guess finding a tasty baby back ribs in Ireland is like finding a Leprechaun guest starring on “Sarah Palin’s Alaska.”  I also dug out a really old recipe for sausage balls that I used to eat as a kid.  I loved the things.  They turned out OK.  But not the same as I remember.

For a few hours, it was just like old times.  Rich and I chatted about family, work, and regular life stuff that makes you feel like a regular person.  Things were as fantastic and brilliant as always.  I half expected him to turn around and walk into the house next door.  The house he used to own.  It would have felt so normal.  In fact, the new owners came out to the cul-du-sac to celebrate his homecoming with us.

“Would you like to come in and see the old house?”  they asked.

Rich thought for a second.

“No.  But thanks for the offer.  I appreciate it.”

I was kind of surprised at this.  I would have wanted to go check out my old house.  Especially if I was invited in.  No worries about being the creepy guy who knocks on the door and says, “Uh… can I come in?  I used to live here.”  The new owners gave you a free pass!

When we asked Rich about it later, he summed it up for us.

“It would have been odd.  They asked for some of our furniture in the contract, so we left it for them.  It was a win-win.  But now, to go back in and see the place.  Our furniture with someone else’s things in it.  Our walls, painted a different color.  Our house, but with new people living in it.  It just wouldn’t be the same.”

Smart guy, that Rich.

I’ve been back to Austin and visited once or twice, hoping it was just like I remembered it to be.  But it wasn’t.  Friends have moved away.  Things look different.  It’s just not the same.  I went to the Nashville Chuy’s hoping the food would taste just the same as it did back in Austin.  But they don’t serve Gabby’s favorite salsa.  They don’t have live oak trees in the outdoor patio.  It’s just not the same.  And I make sausage balls in a vain attempt to recapture a taste from my childhood.  But it’s no use.

It’s just not the same.

Every time I try to relive something that is past, it never fails.  I walk away with a twinge of nostalgia mixed with disappointment.  Sadness for days gone by.  So why am I surprised?

Rich has it right.  Why go back?  Memories are the gifts of the past.  Happiness and joy in concentrated form, with all of the mundane and ordinary stripped away.  Trying to rewrite all of that is like being back in junior high making a mix tape for the girl you had a crush on.  You would overwrite an old cassette with new music, but every time you did it, the quality just wasn’t the same.  The whole exercise not only brings about a shoddy result, but it diminishes the vividness of the original.

Maybe I should just hang on to the memories as they are, and rewrite the present instead?  Filter out all of the negative and focus on the fantastic and brilliant in every moment.  To do so would certainly be revolutionary.  It might change the way I see the world.  Less moping and worry and stress.  More hoping and joy and peace.  What might my life be like if I took that view?

One thing’s for sure.  It just wouldn’t be the same.

If The Shoe Fits?

A few weeks ago on a business trip to Minnesota, my favorite dress shoes finally gave out.  I had purchased them over ten years ago, around the time I met my wife.  The shoes held tremendous sentimental value.  They also held about a pound of adhesive between the sole and full leather upper.  I had sniffed so much rubber cement in previous attempts to fix them that I started having visions of appearing in an after school special on the dangers of “Huffing,” getting a personal visit from Nancy Reagan telling me to “Just Say No.” But walking into the hotel, my toe caught a curb and the sole fell off, leaving me with one dress shoe and one moccasin.  Time for replacements.

I went to one of those massive shoe warehouse stores where you can buy everything from steel-toed boots to clown shoes.  I must have tried on a dozen pair.  Nothing fit quite right.  Not like my old favorites.  The whole exercise took me back to high school when I worked in a shoe store and I would try desperately to help all the ladies find just the right pair of Naturalizers to accommodate their bunions.  The manager used to tell me,

“You want to know the secret to selling more shoes and getting a big commission?”

“Sure!” I answered.

“When you’re slipping on the shoe, just give the old ladies a gentle calf massage.  Works every time.”

I stifled a gag.  “Ewwww.  Isn’t that awkward?  Rubbing a perfect stranger’s calf?”

“Not if you don’t make eye contact.”

Needless to say, I never earned that big commission check.

Back at the big box shoe store, I continued to wander the aisles, and not a soul offered to massage my calves.  No one even offered to let me select from the questionable grab-bag of loaner dress socks.  I was alone.  On a mission.  But I was failing.

I started to lose heart, choosing loafers at random.  I just wanted something that felt good and didn’t look like it came from Liberace’s closet.  I spied a pair of very plain black shoes with a slightly pointy tip, but not so pointy that I looked like a genie.  Without much of a thought, I slipped them on my feet.

* The shoes.

Angels sang.

I took a few steps, and it felt like I was walking on pillows of marshmallows resting on a bed of Twinkies filled with goose down.  Yes.  It was that soft.  But not so soft that I felt like I was going to wrench my knee.

I took one of the shoes off and replaced it with the best of the other clod-hoppers.  Had to do the comparison test.  I slipped on the opposing shoe and proceeded to walk down the aisle looking as if I had been injured in an obscure farming accident.  While embarrassing, this exercise confirmed for me the pure awesomeness of the shoes.  I had to make them mine.

Then I looked at the price.

Ouch!

These would be the most expensive pair of shoes I had ever purchased.  Even with the “Big Deal.”  Granted, I am a cheap skate when it comes to clothing.  It probably comes from wearing a lifetime of hand-me downs.  Working through my sister’s dresses was an especially painful period.  Still, the frugality wore off on me.  I have learned to accept the fact that I will never be the most fashionable guy in the room.  But these shoes were calling out to me.  I was sure it was the voice of God.  Or a salesperson.  But who’s counting.

I threw caution to the wind and bought the shoes.  They made my feet feel like they were encased in velvet.  A kind sales clerk with a voice straight out of the movie Fargo rang up the sale.  I told her I was from out of town, and she replied with, “Well.  Good nooz fer yoo!  No tyax ahn shooz in Minn-ah-so-tah.”

No tax?  Bargain!

I proudly wore them out of the store, their leather soles slip-sliding along the carpeted floor.  Once outside, I found a patch of sidewalk not coated in snow and scuffed up the soles so I could walk without fear of tripping.  After scuffing the soles, I put them back in the box and traded them for my tennis shoes so not to get them all messy in the slush and salt of the parking lot.  Back at the hotel, I slept like a baby, dreaming of my lovely new shoes.

It wasn’t until the next day that I noticed something wasn’t quite right.

I had left my room and taken the elevator to the lobby.  As I walked out of the elevator, I could swear I heard a supermodel sauntering in stilettos through the hotel’s grand entry.  Either that, or someone was firing a tiny handgun.  I looked down in horror to see that the noise was coming from my shoes.  And it was loud and high-pitched.  What had been a black velvety dream the night before had become a walking nightmare.

Maybe it’s just the flooring?  Maybe the marble tiles are loose? I thought.

I tried to walk a bit lighter, but this only made it appear as if I was trying to sneak up on the bellhop while doing an impression of Neil Armstrong’s moon landing.  When that didn’t work, I sped up, which echoed the sound effect of a woman in a murder mystery trying to escape an oncoming attacker.  Men looked up from their newspapers in hopes of seeing a really hot bombshell rapidly hip-swaying through the lobby.  Instead, they saw a panicked girly-man hustling toward the exit.

Disappointing on so many levels.

I made it to the car and froze momentarily.  Not from the cold, but from the shock of my shoes.  How can I walk around in these all day?!  I am a man.  My favorite meals involve charred animal flesh.  I stink, even when I’m not sweating.  I watch sports.  I can belch my high school fight song.  Both verses.  I pee standing up, unless it’s pitch black in the middle of the night, then cleanliness trumps manliness.  It’s practicality over pride.

I removed the left loafer to double-check the brand name inside, half expecting to see a label that read “Fashion Gal” or “Sexy Trex.”  Nope.  A man brand.  And no metal tap shoes on the bottom either.  Just a hard leather heel, probably filled with blasting caps.

But I had no choice.  I thought about returning them, but how could I do that?  For one, I had already scuffed the bottom of the shoes like crazy.  And second, what was I going to say?  I can hear it now, sheepishly approaching the counter.

“Um.  I’d like to return these shoes.”

“OK.  What’s the reason for the return?”

“They make me sound like a woman.”

“OK.  But are you sure it’s the shoes?  I overheard you talking  on your cell phone, so I personally think it has something to do with the fact that you know lots of show tunes, care about your shoes, and giggle like a fifth grade Brownie at a sleepover.”

I wouldn’t be able to deny her assertion.  She’s right on the money.  Gabby is considering hiring our beautiful friend Shannon (A.K.A. “Uncle Shanny”), who has a man laugh, to come teach Jake how to bellow like the big boys lest he be shunned on the playground.  Still, I would go parade around the tiled entry of the store and holler,

“I sound like a girl wearing high heels!  Close your eyes and you can’t distinguish me from Marilyn Monroe, sister!”

* My shoes sounded like Audrey’s “Clickety-Clacketys”

But I never returned the shoes.  They were mine.  Thankfully, the training room I was teaching in was carpeted, and the company cafeteria had enough ambient noise to muffle my “clickety-clackety shoes”.  But every time I walked on the hard floor, I could feel the anxiety bubble to the surface.  Especially when I was walking through the airport later that day.  I turned a lot of heads from gate 15 to 36.  I projected that everyone who was talking on a cell phone momentarily interrupted the conversation to say,

“Do you hear that?  It’s a guy!     No!  I’m not even kidding!”

Going to the bathroom was (and still is) the biggest challenge.  Every men’s room in the country has hard tile floors that echo like the Grand Canyon.  When I walk in, my “click-clack” immediately cuts through the silence.  The guys in the stalls think that a very overdressed cleaning lady has wandered in unannounced.  I know this because they all begin to cough loudly to alert her (me) that the space is occupied.  Never fails.  I can’t imagine how confused they must be when they overhear me stop and use the urinal on the wall.  Baffled for sure.

I find it funny how something as simple as the sound of my feet hitting the floor can make me self-conscious.  It’s such a small thing.  I like the shoes.  I like the way they look.  Love the way they feel.  Yet Gabby and I went out Sunday after church, and I felt compelled to change my shoes because they made a higher pitched sound than the heels she was wearing.

It’s no wonder then how hung up we can get about going against the grain of the more crucial norms of society.  We put a lot of pressure on ourselves.  To have the great car.  The big house.  The great job.  The well-dressed and well-mannered kids.  The biggest party.

To do more.

To earn more.

To be more.

It all seems so important.  Especially when every time we turn on the TV, pick up a magazine, or listen to the radio, someone is confirming for us that this is what we should be striving for.  Chasing a dream that someone else defined for us.  So when we don’t get there (and who ever does?) we beat ourselves up, stress ourselves out, and keep trying harder.

So today, as I slip on my shoes, let every step I take be a reminder.  To remember that all of that extra noise is just nonsense.  Time and energy spent pushing  myself in the wrong direction.   What I forget is that when it’s all said and done, I can never be more.  I am as God created me.  With all my failings and faults and funny sounding shoes.  Simplicity in complexity.  And what God wants most from me is to own all of that.  To embrace my quirks like a badge of honor.  Wear them on the outside.  Front and center.

And to keep walking.  Comfortably.

How Losing My Virgin-ity Strengthened My Faith

With Ash Wednesday fast approaching, I find myself reflecting upon my church upbringing.  You see, I was raised Catholic in Oklahoma.  Until Guatemala, it’s the closest I ever came to feeling like a minority.

For every Catholic in the sooner state, there are roughly five Baptists.  If religion were a basketball team in Oklahoma, Catholic would be the assistant trainer, taping ankles with rosary beads and working out sore muscles with a chrism oil rub down.

In fact, you are twice as likely to find someone calling themselves “non-religious” as you are to find a Catholic in Oklahoma.  And this is in a state that has seen its share of God-fearing moments.  Just think of it.  The Trail of Tears.  Check.  The Dust Bowl.  Check.  The Oklahoma City Bombing.  Double-check.  Still, even those claiming no faith at all outnumber the Catholics.

Because of this, I got used to feeling a bit outcast growing up.  Tested in my faith.  There were certainly peaks and valleys for this malaise.  The whole Lenten season leading up to Easter was perhaps the grandest of the peaks.

I clearly remember a trip to the grocery store on Ash Wednesday when I was eight years old.  I was perusing the cereal aisle, drooling over Cookie Crisp and Fruity Pebbles.  Unfortunately, the only cereals we were allowed to have in my house were those that resembled the floor sweepings from a cabinet shop.  Nutritious.  Full of fiber.  Tasteless.  As I reached for a box of Frosted Mini Wheats, I was trying to think of a way to lure mom to the dark, sugary side of breakfast.  Right then a woman approached me and tried to wipe the “smudge” off my forehead.

“Herman, I think this kid’s been playing in the barbecue pit?”

Rather than explain the ritual, which I really didn’t understand anyway, I acted like I had to pee and quickly walked away.

And then there were Lenten Fridays.  If you’re Catholic, this meant no meat.  Early on in my grade school career, the school system gave an honorary nod to Catholics and made every Friday a “fish stick day.”  Unfortunately, by third or fourth grade, that policy was withdrawn and I was considered a lunatic for trading my Little Smokies for an extra helping of green beans. This did, however, create an enormous amount of good will which I cashed in for choice seats on the bus.  In retrospect, many of the meat items in school cafeterias today would technically qualify as “soy slurry pressed and formed into meat-like shapes.”  I digress.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Catholic religion.  I’m not a practicing Catholic today, but I still catch myself making the sign of the cross after a prayer – especially when approaching a truly monumental situation.  My wedding.  The birth of my two children.  Preparing to grill a slab of baby back ribs.

I find the tradition and ritual of the Catholic faith to be a beautiful thing.  The smell of incense makes me nostalgic.  Gregorian chants calm my soul.  All of the pomp and circumstance surrounding the communion table fascinates me.  A priest teaching a Jesus 101 workshop back in college told me and a few other trivia-seeking Catholics that during communion, the bread and the wine actually become Jesus body and blood.  So much so, that it cannot be thrown away.   It must be consumed.  He recounted a story of church protestors, angry with something the Pope had done, coming forward to receive the bread and wine, and then spitting it out right there at the altar.

In response, he simply knelt down, picked up the remnants, put them in his mouth and swallowed them.

There are two key takeaways here.  First, this ritual and tradition holds deep meaning in the Catholic church.  Second, if you’re thinking of becoming a Catholic priest, read the job description very carefully.  There are more than few “gotcha’s.”

Upholding the rich tradition of Catholics never doing anything half-way,  fifty scholars, translators, linguistic experts, theologians and five bishops have spent the past 17 years revising the New American Bible, the text owned by U.S. Catholic bishops for prayer and study. Tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, a new edition of the Bible is coming out.  My guess is that you probably haven’t pre-ordered a copy at your local Barnes and Noble.  If you’re looking to update your library, you may want to make note.

The last edition was published in 1970, but there has been some significant research done since then, and the Catholics, wanting to stay current, have been poring over original manuscripts, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and archeological findings.  Sounds like quite an undertaking to me.  Their goal was to improve the accuracy and accessibility of the Bible.  So, based on the most recent information available, they have made some changes.

For instance, the previous version contains the word “booty,” which refers to treasure.  Noting that “booty” in today’s vernacular conjures up images of Jennifer Lopez’s abundant backside, they have now changed all references to “plunder” or “spoils of war.”  Also gone are the giggles from every kids’ Sunday school class.  Look for another revised version after Sir-Mix-A-Lot comes out with their comeback album titled, “I Like Big Plunders.”

Also changed is Proverbs 31:10.  The passage used to be titled “The Ideal Wife.”  Now, it’s called a “Poem on the Woman of Worth.” This change was made so women everywhere could see the Bible reflect the fact that they are measured on their own merits, rather than the perspective of their husbands.  I think Gabby will like that one.  I frequently tell her what an “ideal wife” should look like, and she promises to fulfill that role when I can take up the mantle of “ideal husband.”  This is highly unlikely to happen unless I can overcome my fear of rodents, and stop shrieking like a child when I accidentally walk through spider webs.

I’m not sure how you feel about all of this, but I’m OK with it.  Updating the Bible to reflect the times in which we live.  Personally, I encourage it.  Language is constantly evolving.  The original Bible was written in Hebrew and Greek, and arguably in the vernacular of the day.  One the people could best understand.  So, it stands to reason that we take a fresh look from time to time to assure that the original intent of the passages matches the words we now use to describe it.  But the biggest change in the 2011 edition has nothing to do with making the language up-to-date.

It has to do with accuracy.

And it’s a biggie.  Hold on to your Papal Tiara!

Isaiah was a prophet.  The great forecaster.  The predictor.  In today’s words, we Christians might call him the Al Roker of the Bible.  In Isaiah 7:14, he writes “the virgin shall be with child, and bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”  We Christians point to this scripture as proof that folks knew Jesus was on the way.  It foreshadows the coming of Christ.  A once in a kabillion kind of miracle.  Tough to miss.  Spotting Jesus’ birth to a virgin mother is like spotting me as the only caucasian member of the University of Tulsa Gospel Chorus back in college.  I was always the one swaying in the wrong direction.  There’s no denying it.

But in the latest edition of the New American Bible, the Isaiah passage has been rewritten.  It now reads:

“the young woman shall be with child…”

Young woman?

A footnote in the new Bible provides a bit of clarity.  The Hebrew word “almah” which translates into English to mean “maiden” was later translated into the Greek word parthénos which translates simply as “virgin”. So, scholars say “almah” may, or may not, signify a virgin.  The research is inconclusive.

Wow.

Is this an important detail to anyone else?  Seems like a big one to me.  Isaiah predicting a young woman giving birth is like Al Roker predicting that it might rain, somewhere in the United States, sometime this week.  Kinda’ takes the “oomph” out of the prophesy if you ask me.

What is most significant to me is that the people who are responsible for this revision are the ones who have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo.  Why would the bishops and Biblical scholars want to change something that might cause their flock to doubt what some see as a foundation of the Christian faith?  It seems like it would have been easy to let “almah” lie for another forty years.  Take it up in the next revision.  But they chose to do it now.  Make the change.  With conviction.

I’m left with a couple of potential responses.

I could fight it.  I could argue that the scholars are mistaken.  They don’t know what they’re talking about.  I could look for alterative translations.  I could even deny it.  Heck.  Even if they are correct, that doesn’t mean that Mary wasn’t a virgin.  It just means Isaiah wasn’t very detail-oriented.  The kind of guy who would forget your birthday.

But that’s the reaction of a defensive faith.  A faith that takes the Word at face value.  And defending the Word in such a way would mean I would still be making burnt offerings, swearing off shellfish, and owning slaves.  It’s a scared, stagnant faith without room for growth.

Or,  I could embrace the change.  I could question.  I could doubt.  I could wrestle with the faith that has sustained me for years.  I could use this doubt to spur me to an even deeper knowledge.  An even deeper understanding.  Go on the offensive.  Ultimately arriving at the point where I know I can never know it all.  Still being happy in that space.  For it is a space where faith is alive.  Where the Word moves and changes and transforms.

With all of the options before me, I think I’ll choose Door #2.  I’ll let the Living Word live.  Let it move and breathe.  Let it be part of a conversation rather than a passive voice.  It’s risky and confusing and hard to grasp.  But I think that’s what the Catholics intended.  Indeed, what God intended.

For a faith untested is really no faith at all.

Righteous Anger

My wife left me this weekend.  Ran off to Louisville to attend a planning meeting for a group of volunteer alumni.

She does it a couple of times a year, getting together with former missionaries who once served the poor and outcast all over the globe, and now work as artists, social workers, or pastors who find a way each day to make the world a better place.  It’s righteous work.  Very inspiring.  Just being around these folks gives you hope.  I, for one, am proud of my wife, who gets to use her abundant talents of organization, inclusiveness, and collaboration to help them all keep the fire burning.

But she left me.  Alone.  With the kids.  What kind of mother does that?

A highly intelligent, perfectly sane, rational mother.  That’s who.

I travel for work.  A lot.  I’m gone an average  of 2-3 days per week, so Gabby gets plenty of “quality time”’ with the kids.  And Gabby, being the giver that she is, simply wanted me to experience the joys of parenting without having to share my children with anyone.

And I did enjoy Daddy Boot Camp.  The part I liked best was being on the good side of the parenting double-standard.  It seems that anytime I go in public with my kids, whether picking up groceries or getting an oil change, women can’t take their eyes off me.  No.  I wish it was because I had abs of steel and biceps like swollen grapefruits.

It’s because unsupervised men who can keep their own children alive for 24 hours are considered miracle workers.

* Michael Keaton as Mr. Mom.  My Hero.

Women smile at me.  They wink.  Some say, “Good job, Dad!”  Others will even introduce themselves and say, “Wow.  You are such a good father.  So involved.”  This happens without fail.  I’m convinced that Audrey and Jake could be lobbing live grenades into the clown’s mouth at the drive-thru fast food joint, and the ladies would look my way and say, “How creative!  Encouraging role playing games!”

But, if Gabby is out with the kids and Audrey has jelly smeared on her face, these same women are speed-dialing Child Protective Services with complaints of neglect.

Even with the double-standard benefit, the downside of the joyous Daddy Boot Camp is the accompanying exhaustion, frustration, and relative insanity.  Take Saturday morning, for example.

We left the house at 8:00 to go to the YMCA.  There, the kids got to play in the KidZone while I ran 3.27 miles (note the “7″).  Afterward, we came home, got cleaned up, and took my niece to work.

Then we took a trip to the post office, where the kids helped people toss their packages into the giant rotating hopper while I bought stamps.  Total blast.  Lots of smiles from the ladies.

Next, I told the kids we were going racing.  We went to Home Depot and spent nearly an hour jumping from one riding lawn mower to another, making fake racecar noises and irritating all of the shoppers.  Not a single tractor was sold, but there were nearly a dozen imaginary fiery crashes.  The department manager asked if he could take our picture “to capture the moment,” he said.  I’m sure it is now posted in the break room with a big sign above which reads:  WARNING – THESE PEOPLE CAUSED DISMAL SALES IN LAWN AND GARDEN.

* The Dannemiller Clan:  Happily Irritating Home Depot Sales Staff since 2011

When the great tractor race was over, the kids wanted to go to the zoo.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten our zoo membership pass, to which the children replied, “mommy never forgets the zoo pass.”  We added that to the long list of other items mommy never forgets, including:  water bottles, hair clippies, Handi Wipes, crackers, ice packs, books, blankets, Band Aids, and Proof of Insurance cards.

Not to be deterred, I improvised.  The ASPCA was having its regular dog adoption at PetsMart.  So, we spent a half hour whipping the poor caged dogs into a frenzy.  Then the kids went inside to “watch the sleeping goldfish at the bottom of the tank” and tap on the glass walls of every mouse, hamster, and ferret home in the place.    All of the animals have since been prescribed Xanax to settle their nerves.

Afterward, we went to the park until Audrey announced to the entire playground that she had to pee, at which point, we ran to the car and drove to “Old McDonald’s” to use their restroom.  Once inside, we consumed some burgers and fries before going home to enjoy ice cream.  Though the kids were all hopped up on greasy food and frozen treats, they played together like angels.  To reward them for their incredible, loving behavior, I offered to clean up their toys while they enjoyed lollipops at the kitchen table.  It was only 2:00, but I already felt like it was 10:00pm.  Exhausted.  How does Gabby do this all the time? I wondered.

But it was a perfect day.

Until.

“Time for nap!” I called out.

There were grumblings, but they meandered back toward their bedrooms.  Then Jake asked, “Daddy, do you know where my orange plane is?”

“No.  I don’t, son.”

“I think it’s outside in the car.”

“I can get it later, Jake, but right now, it’s time for nap.”

“But I want it!”  He said, his voice raising.

“Later, Jake.  You don’t need it right now, because it’s time to rest.”

My four-year-old son started spinning around and flailing his arms as if he had just been set on fire and was trying to extinguish himself.

“But Daddy, That’s NOT FAIR!  (crying)  I’m NEVER going to listen to you!  I’m NOT TAKING A NAP!”

Then came the stop, drop and roll.  Plus screaming.

I remained calm, and spoke in a slow, low voice.  “Jake.  You need to get in bed.  It’s time to rest.”

More flailing.  I think I even heard “I hate you.”

“Jake.  This is unacceptable.  I’m going to give you one minute to calm down.  Then I’ll be back.”

I left him in his room and walked down the hall.  The whole time I was replaying my morning.  The tractors.  The animals.  The ice cream.  The candy.  They give dads medals for stuff like that.  And here I was, being berated by a four-year old.  I couldn’t believe it.  He was still screaming his head off.  Kicking the door.  I should have taken some deep breaths.  Counted to ten.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I marched in his room, and through gritted teeth said in a very low voice.  “Jake.  Get. In. Bed Now.”

More kicking and screaming.  I grabbed him like a sack of flour and stood him up on his feet.

“LISTEN TO ME!”

Who was this guy talking?  Jake was, shall we say, surprised.  I don’t get angry often.  But it happens.

Then I did what all good parents do.  I laid a guilt-trip on my four-year-old.  The kid can hardly put on a pair of underpants without supervision, and here I was, playing psychological mind games.

“Jake.  I took you to ride the tractors.  We saw puppies.  We went to the park.  Ate burgers.  Ate ice cream.  Ate lollipops.  Did you say ‘thank you?’  No.  Now you’re kicking me?  And screaming at me?  How do you think that makes Daddy feel?”  Then I pulled straight from the book, Overused Quotes of Parents by Hugh R. YourMom.

“If this is how you’re going to treat me, then maybe we just won’t go do fun things anymore.”

“Now get in bed!”  I picked him up and plopped him on his mattress.  He was no longer screaming, but there was lots of crying.  It was not my proudest parenting moment.  The yelling.  The manipulation.  The grabbing.

Anger.

But in this case, it didn’t do any good.  My kids don’t respond to anger.  But if it didn’t work the first 46,000 times I tried it, that doesn’t prove anything.  Better give it one more shot, but louder this time!

So the result was a crying kid and a guilty dad who wished he had made another choice.  Don’t get me wrong.  Kids should be respectful to their parents.  And anger isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Heck, even Jesus got angry, right?  But anger comes in two distinct varieties.  Jesus always chose the right one.  Me?  I’m not so choosy.

The first variety is what I call Selfish Anger.  Selfish Anger is the anger I feel when others don’t recognize my worth as a human being.  When I’ve been wronged.  It comes after I believe someone has “gotten the best of me.”  When someone cuts me off in traffic.  Or cuts in front of me in line.  Or doesn’t say thank you when I give them a lollipop.  This anger stems from the fact that I don’t believe people are treating me the way I deserve to be treated.  A lack of respect.  Don’t they know who I am?

What’s ironic about this kind of anger is that it tends to run counter to what God has taught me.  In fact, it kinda’ spits in the face of God.  Indeed I’m worthy of respect, but my value doesn’t come from how others treat me, or how I am seen in the eyes of others.  If someone treats me like royalty, or treats me like dirt, it doesn’t change the fact that God loves me just the same.  I have worth because God made me.  Flesh and bone.  So all my selfish anger is wasted effort trying to regain something I never lost.

The second kind of anger I’ll call Selfless Anger.  This is the anger you feel when people aren’t honoring the worth of others.  This is the anger you feel when you see injustice.  When people take advantage of the poor, or the sick, or the elderly.  When people don’t respect the basic human rights of others.  “It’s just not right!” you say to yourself.  “Someone should do something!”  It’s the anger you hear in Naravanan Krishnan’s voice of how he felt when he learned of the poverty just outside his door.  If you don’t know who he is, you gotta’ see this video.

Everybody “gets the best of” Naravanan.

The sad part is, my Selfish Anger often trumps my Selfless Anger.  My blood was boiling because my four-year-old threw a tantrum after I had given him ice cream.  Yet, I’m only mildly miffed when I hear that the government is cutting home heating assistance for the poor, or that there are thousands of homeless in my own city.

What the heck is that?

I think I need to prioritize my anger, because when I think of all of the things recently that have made me mad, far too many of them are about protecting myself rather than protecting those who have no voice of their own.

So let that be my prayer today.  When tantrums come, and insults fly, and others cut in line, may I simply let it go and show love.  But when I see injustice, I pray for anger.  The kind that motivates.  The kind that heals.  The kind that moves mountains.

Cause I want everyone to get the best of me.