Monday, September 20, 2010

Forgetting my habits

I have read that it takes 60 days to form a habit. In other words, if you consistently do something for that length of time your internal systems sort of log it as a regular activity and encourage you to do it.


Unfortunately sometimes I forget to do my habits. That may sound odd but it is true. It seems that habits fade at a much more rapid rate than they are created. Losing a habit takes a week or two. Then you are back to disciplined rebuilding.


This all applies to positive habits. Good things you wish to develop are hard to create and difficult to maintain. Negative habits, or unhabits as I like to call them, are easy to create and nearly impossible to dislodge once they are imbedded. It seems to me that perhaps a bad habit is nothing except the lack of a good habit.


Thus, the problem is not that you smoke, but that you have not developed or have lost the habit of not smoking. Stop smoking for 60 days and you will have created a not smoking habit. Smoke for a week or two at some point after that and you will have to start over.


Over-eating is easy. It is an easy unhabit to start. It is a difficult unhabit to break. To break it usually requires disciplines like calorie counting, food quality, and portion awareness be diligently observed for the prerequisite 60 days. After that you have developed the habit of eating reasonably.


The other fun about habits and unhabits are the side effects. Unhabits carry numerous nasty life impacts. Overeating leads to obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes, and a difficulty climbing the stairs. Smoking leads to numerous lung complications, high blood pressure, and a difficulty climbing the stairs. Drinking too much leads to liver disease, relational problems, work performance issues, and at times, difficulty climbing the stairs. Watching too much TV seems to drain you emotionally, encourages many other unhabits, and… well it doesn’t seem to affect your ability to climb stairs.


Good habits have positive effects. Exercise makes you a lean, mean, stair climbing machine. Prayer clears your mind, gives you insights, and prepares you to meet the day. Then there are good things like bathing and brushing your teeth that not only help your health but tend to have direct impacts on your luck in love.


It is unfortunate that creating good habits is such work and creating unhabits is so easy. Why is this? To understand it, I think, requires the realization that our hearts we are basically broken. Inside all of us is a black hole that unceasingly howls to be filled. Like the musical character Pippin or like Solomon in Lamentations, we charge for meaningless pursuit after meaningless pursuit and find ourselves sicker, lonelier, and emptier than when we began. There are only 2 ways I know to forestall this chaotic internal collapse.


The first is an external focus, the more uplifting the better. Love, career, profession, family, and personal credo are great examples. We grab a hold of them and let them lift us away from the darkness within. They make us more than we are. They take us farther than we alone could go.


The problem with external focuses is they never really last. Love alone fades. Careers fail. Professions are proven to be less noble than we first thought. Family drifts away or disappoints us. Ultimately even the strongest man will bend his personal beliefs if they stand alone. All must fall before the internal vortex that swirls at our center. The yawning pit of our spiritual emptiness gapes and devours our life and at the end of our life, our soul.


Sin is not a single failing. It is a bottomless ocean of emptiness. What can be done then? How can we fill the void? There is only one answer and that answer is God. One of my favorite songs is Chris Tomlin’s “I Will Rise.” It’s a beautiful song but one phrase captivates me. “And the grave is overwhelmed.” The grave is sin. That empty, bottomless void at the center of my heart is what is overwhelmed. Imagine a mighty pit, more massive than Niagara Falls that is sucking down everything good and graceful around and in me. Then there is this rush of water like Niagara itself except intensifying each second. After a few moments the water is pouring so heavily into the pit that even bottomless it cannot absorb it all. The limits of its diameter, though in some ways measureless cannot absorb it all. So it begins to overflow. It flows out in all directions.


Now try combing that inward pressure with Love and it cannot fade because even when we tire the internal force keeps us moving forward. Careers collapse only to be buoyed up by old faithful geysers into unexpected windfall circumstances. Professions which sag under the reality of the world find their centers held up by the knowledge that you are working for Him regardless. Family forgives and forgets wherever God’s hand is felt. Slowly we are knit tighter even though we may be miles apart. Finally our personal credo is shored up by the concrete bedrock which is not our personal belief. No matter how we question or search a written code clarifies truth. We may fail, but there is no question that the code is real.


I find that whenever I begin to lose sight of God, the wind howls. My focus is lost. Unhabits become irresistible flotsam pulling me towards the now draining pit. Habits, great dams built to redirect me into stronger directions shatter. I am pulled inexorably towards collapse.


Ultimately there is one goal, keep my focus on God. Then the downpour begins again in earnest. Refreshing water hammers down and pushes outward with unmatched force. When that pressing energy is at my back, what cannot be achieved?

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Here there be dragons… Bite Down Hard!

I just got back from Dragon Con. What is Dragon Con? Dragon Con is energy. It is thirty or forty thousand fans of the future, of fantasy, of what could be. In that maelstrom of positive expectation you will find enormous, exciting, exuberant energy.
On Saturday morning the wilds of imagination walk downtown Atlanta in a parade of fantasy, fiction, and movie magic. The energy is fantastic as people line the road 2 and 3 deep to catch sight of their favorite characters. Pixies and fairies in skimpy outfits follow knights and goblins. A company of Ghostbusters complete with Ghostbuster cars follow a small army of howling zombies, monsters, and madmen. Groups of Star Trek Klingons escort various denizens of Shatner’s universe down the road. Warriors from Halo, Aliens, and the 300 charge down the street. A DeLorean souped-up to go back to the future drives by. At last, the 501st Legion, Vader’s Fist, tromps into view leading a massive wave of Storm Troopers, Sith, Jedi, and Bounty hunters.
After the road show, the denizens retreat into bowels of the hotels. The three main hotels and food court are connected. This creates an enclosed labyrinth of wonder. These caves of steel and concrete lend an Asmovian atmosphere producing one of the most wonderful people watching experience ever. A real He-Man walks by with a beautiful sprite clinging to one arm. In the central alcove is a lovely full sized stone statue of an angel. It is so perfectly rendered and still that you expect pigeons to fly down from the ceiling. Then her cell phone rings, and the illusion is shattered. T-shirts abound with funny quips. On the wall above the blood donations center is a nosferatu disparaging sign that says, “Come see us, the REAL blood suckers.” I wonder what the IRS thinks about that.
The con is filled with special guests, scientists, actors, musicians, authors, and dozens of other fields. They fill out the convention’s numerous panels, sign autographs, and generally make the convention memorable. Here is perhaps where the energy is greatest. In some panels guests discuss popular shows. In others every imaginable topic is discussed: politics, religion, dragon reproduction, and books.
I stumbled on an opportunity to go to the con two years ago. Last year something came up and going was impossible. This year things looked the same and in an unexpected surprise the opportunity emerged. I guess God knew I needed the recharge.
Dragon Con is an environment that encourages creativity and I came away feeling ready to write again. I have taken a three month hiatus, encouraged by a demanding job and relentless travel. What a joy to be excited to scribble down some ideas again.
I also, think I learned something else. I spend far too much time succeeding at life and not enough time enjoying it. Have you noticed that we hard driving personalities sometimes get so focused on where we are going that we forget to enjoy where we are. It doesn’t necessarily mean a difference in action so much as attitude. I am going to make a real effort to focus on the joy of the moment and less on the sorrow of the day.
Life is a fruit. It has all the flavors that you’d want. It’s sweet and savory. It’s bitter and sour. It’s salty and spicy. The succulent skin surrounds a core replete with juicy goodness. Don’t hold onto that fruit wondering where the bruises are. Grab a hold of life; and bite down hard! Let the luxurious skin slide down your throat. Let the meat fill your mouth with flavor. Let the juice run down your cheeks and drip on your shirt. Let people see the joy as you chew mouth full and smiling. Let them think, “He’s living his life to the fullest.”

Thursday, July 1, 2010

I'm maimed and intend to stay that way.

Oswald Chambers has an interesting interpretation of Jesus’ “If your hand causes you to sin cut it off.” He points out that it refers not only to your physical hand but more generally to “good” things in life. The hand is definitely a good thing. And yet if we cannot live a pure life with it intact, we must remove it from our lives.

This applies to nearly anything. Things and people who cause us to stumble in our walk must be removed to a distance where they cannot trip us up. This can lead to some peculiar situations and ones that make a person or a group of people seem legalistic, when, in fact, they have removed the offensive action, behavior, or limb only because of their own weakness.

In the south, people make fun of Baptists who traditionally are against drinking, and dancing, especially dancing. Why Dancing? Because dancing leads to sex. I know what you’re thinking. This seems extreme and is thus funny. But it’s actually based strongly in truth. Dancing is inherently a couple’s activity and leads to increased intimacy. Naturally this increased intimacy leads to a stronger likelihood of sexual interaction. The early Baptists limited dancing, not because it was inherently wrong or evil, but because it was a frailty they saw in themselves. It was better to eliminate the good thing then risk the bad result.

I have similar things in my life. Not dancing. I don’t dance because I move like and ogre with a groin pull. No I am speaking of things that were wonderful in their time but which I have had to severely limit: Playing Music, Playing Computer Games, and Eating Pizza. Each of these things has negative effects on me and so I have had to either cut them entirely out of my life or limit them severely. They aren’t bad. I don’t judge others who do them. Sometimes I envy those others. But they do not belong in my life.

My first love was playing music. I chose to play the tuba myself. I taught myself. I was successful and enjoyed it immensely. I can honestly say that I have from time to time felt that playing was better than sex. I have started and walked away from music twice in my life: once in high school and again in college. Each time, I found that it was an obsession that took more than it gave. After college I tried to play casually, but I just can’t do it. The cost is too high. The desire to chase an empty dream is too strong. Proverbs says that only a fool chases dreams. My Tuba lies unused and untouched in our spare room. I’m hoping that when we are all made new, perhaps God will see fit to let me play music for a few thousand years, but for now I have given up that dream.

I have been playing computer games since I was 12. They are, again, something I obsess about. I can easily sit and play a game for 10 or 12 hours straight. When my wife first met me, I had a house full of clocks with alarms to help me remember time was passing. I would lose myself in the games. How many days of my life have been lost playing computer games? I do not know. How many days have I drug my tired body through because I was exhausted from an all night gaming session? I cannot count them. It’s called sloth and it must go. I also discount real people for the game and that’s just not acceptable. This one is a little easier for me, because I don’t love computer games the way I do music. I’ve been able to back off and keep them in my life, but I now play them only occasionally and usually then as a family activity.

Finally, there is Pizza. It has been a staple food in my life. Indeed, at my funeral I think that Pizza and Chili should be served. Surely, at least 50 percent of my body is pizza and pizza sauce flows in my veins. The problem is I lose control. I just love the flavor, the taste, and the texture. It has to go. Now, I eat it when people serve it, but I no longer order Pizza for myself. I’m trying to end gluttony in my life, and Pizza is a stumbling block.

These are things I’ve cut off in my life. Good things but things that make me sin. It also reminds me that those who live a purer life are not judging me. Often times they are not stronger than me. They may in fact be weaker, but need strong boundaries to keep themselves from falling.

I’m maimed. I’ve cut off things I loved. I’ve amputated pieces of my life. But by pruning myself like this, I’ve allowed the other parts of my soul to grow.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

The road to the dentist is paved with good intentions.

I was grinding my teeth. I’m not sure what caused my abrasive mastication. Perhaps I was envisioning an encounter with an irritating co-worker; or, perhaps I was reliving a long wait at the doctor’s office. Whatever was going on, I was asleep; and I squeaked.

That was my wife’s claim. “Squeaky, Squeaky, all night long,” she said pointing to my choppers. “You grind your teeth.”

I knew I ground but was a little shocked at the squeaking. Surely that could not be good for my teeth. I decided to visit the dentist. He might be able to suggest some sort of mouth guard to preserve my teeth for a few more years.

The dentist’s office smelled like a dentist’s office. You know that awful scent of fluoride mixed with bubble gum mixed with the hot dry smell that can only be burnt enamel. The waiting room was further scented with fear as we patients considered our likely fate.

A little girl in the next seat tried desperately to convince her mother that she was fine and didn’t need a check-up. I felt the same way but my mom was no where around for me to argue with. I had decided to come to Doc Tooth’s Torture Fun House on my own. I sat and contemplated my feet wondering if I could convince them that I was ok and leaving was a better option.

My last trip to Doc Tooth had been several years before when my wisdom teeth needed pulling. They were hurting me; so I found Doc and asked for help. He was happy to oblige.

His grin was devilish as he said, “Most dentists would send this out to a dental surgeon, but me, I like pulling wisdom teeth. You know, I played football in college, so I’ve got the upper body strength to yank them right out.”

He leaned me back, put his knee on my chest and said, “Open wide!”

The device went in and the pressure on my chest increased. Doc wrapped both hands around the handle to get a stronger grip. Crack! Crack! Crack! The sound exploded from my mouth as my head jerked to and fro. Another one of those Faustian grins lit up Doc’s face as he pulled the bloody molar from my mouth.

“One More to go!” He exclaimed and dove back in.

Now I was back and re-living that wonderful memory. A door opened and a perky young sadist poked her head out and said, “Mr. Coussens.” She grinned and waved me in.

The condemned followed her to her chair, a torture device for the ages. She poked me, prodded me, and put sharp sticks in my mouth pretending them to be x-ray film. “Bit down on this,” she smiled, and I felt the cardboard slice into my gums. Finally, she had exhausted the immediate torture tools and announced, “Doc Tooth will see you in a moment.”

Have you ever noticed that the dentist office is a bit like a car repair shop? No matter what you go in for, they still want to lube your chassis and replace your pads. If you’re really unlucky they will have found a cavity, or six.

The hygienist came back and said, “Doc will be a few more moments, but I need to talk to you. You need a good cleaning and your gums are looking bad, we need to irrigate them.”

I rubbed my x-ray tormented jaw and said, “My gums are already pretty irritated, you really don’t need to do more.” Then I grinned to show that I wasn’t afraid of her.

She frowned back at me, “Irrigate, Mr. Coussens. It’s not covered by your insurance, but it’s very important.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

I had not yet learned my car lesson, “Will my wheels actually fall off or my engine blow up? If not it can wait.” Lacking that experience, I nodded dumbly at her.

Doc Tooth came in shortly after. He poked, prodded, and scratched. Then he said, “Well there are a few spots to watch, but no procedures today.” Pausing a moment he tried to cheer me up. “At least you’re not in pain.”

The pain was yet to come. After the cleaning and the irrigating I was ready to weep. When I saw the bill my eyes actually welled with tears. Later that night, I realized I had forgotten to ask the doctor about the teeth grinding. I think I’ll wait quite a while to get that solved.

Something in this experience did strike a note with me. Tooth cleaning is one thing; but heart cleaning is another. Each day we have an opportunity to meet with Doc Heart, whose real name is Jesus, and have him look us over. Mother isn’t there to prompt us; we have to go on our own. It can be painful. It can be more costly than we anticipated when we sat down in the chair. In the end though, we come out white and shining. Our smile is brighter. Our heart is lighter. Our lives are made whole.

Monday, June 14, 2010

The Death of the Fist Bump

I remember when Michael Jackson’s “Bad” hit the music stores. For Generation X, bad was good and cool was cliche. We loved our parents but they truly did not understand our culture or who we were. We barely understood it ourselves.

Bad went to Rad which later became Random. Each time the previous term became gauche and dropped out of common usage among the young. I never saw when Bad went bad or Rad deteriorated into nothing, but I believe I have spotted the death of the fist bump.

One night, as I was busily typing away on some manuscript or another, I heard my wife exclaim, “No way!”

I looked up at her and she waved me over saying “Watch this.”

She rewound the TV as I walked over and sat down. The evening news was on. The anchorman had made a spontaneous and slightly funny comment. Laughing, the weatherman leaned over and the unthinkable happened. They fist bumped. This wasn’t two athletes on the field celebrating a great play or two college men over laughing over beers. This was a pinstriped grey-haired regional anchorman and a double breasted white haired weatherman. The foundation of the fist bump was cracking.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; that wasn’t the first odd fist bump on television. Obama and his wife bumped on national TV after winning the Democratic presidential nomination back in 2008. Such national exposure could only serve to drive the practice into the hands of those who never had business fist bumping in the first place. In fact, in response to the Obama bump, Time magazine actually did an article on “A brief history of the fist bump.”

Ultimately, I knew I was watching the final days of this gesture when my friend, Lenny, walked into our men’s bible study the other night and bumped fists with every man there. I think I was the youngest fellow in attendance and I left my college days behind a decade and half ago. We all grinned as we amused ourselves with the youthful greeting.

What is in a touch? A pat, a hand shake, or a fist bump can go a long way to drawing others into your life. It is especially powerful in America where we Americans live in a world of relatively little physical contact. If you are not a hugger, one who comes up and gives unsolicited hugs, you could very well find yourself going for a week at a time with zero physical contact from anyone other than your wife and kids.

Part of this, I think, is because we are so self-absorbed. We can fake our way through a how-are-you-fine greeting without ever actually having to slow down and connect to the person. A handshake is a request for information. It requires focus and intent; offering one without focus is a clear and unmistakable insult. When a hand is extended in earnest and eyes meet there is an exchange that says, “Hello, you are important enough to me to stop my normal course, abort my hurried day, and stop to greet you.”

I remember my first day in Sunday school in 8th grade. I decided to go to church. I walked into the room and was introduced around. After the teacher took first honors, every young man in that room shook my hand and greeted me. The impression was powerful: This circle of young men really cared about me and they didn’t even know me. I was hooked.

As a Christians, we should try an experiment. Any time we meet someone, the first time for a day, every day, reach out to them physically. Smile and reach out a hand. Solicit a handshake or, if you can make it work, a fist bump. It’s awkward, because other than initial meetings most of us don’t do this. Our friends and co-workers will wonder what we’re doing as we’ve never done it before. Now here’s the opportunity, ask how they are doing and mean it. We won’t likely get a response, because they won’t expect it. The thing they will understand, however, is that we care.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Universal Complexity

I have a great respect for novelists. It is not only the length of the work but also its breadth and complexity that amaze me. We readers see only a tiny fraction of the writer’s world; we see the scenes viewed through a window frame. Beyond that frame’s limited scope the world is far larger. To have more depth than a cardboard cutout, writers create people and places that cast shadows across the rest of the story without coming into our line of sight. Often, the unseen part of the work is as big as or bigger than what we can see.

Fantasy and Science Fiction provide even greater challenges. Not only do the story elements have to be defined but, as the reader has no shared frame of reference, the author must create an entire world. Each detail preconceived by the author is a thread building a firm foundation for the novel. The deeper the world is understood, the more real the story seems.

Miraculously complex and beautiful worlds have been designed by authors such as Raymond E. Fiest, Isaac Asimov, and Anne McCaffrey but the master of the unseen was J.R.R. Tolkien. Tolkien’s tales are massively deep. Entire species and cultures are detailed. Maps and Music interweave the stories. Tolkien, a linguist, even chose to invent new languages to populate his world. It is hard not to attribute some of the stories power and longevity to its iceberg-like underlying foundation.

There is another author who exceeds Tolkien, the Author of life. I sometimes view God as a writer. It helps explain why he is omniscient. He is viewing history from the perspective of someone who has written and now is editing his great work. If he wants to remind himself what is going to happen on a certain date and time, he simply flips a few billion pages in the right direction. Like many writers, he chose to write himself into the book. In fact, he made himself the hero, riding in on a white horse to save the day in the last scene.

When I was watching Louie Giglio’s “Indescribable” the other day, it occurred to me that God’s back story trumps anything imaginable. The depth of the tale is bottomless. Our story has 9 billion main characters in the current chapter and God has noted each characteristic of each of these characters. He has written down for each and every person their height, their weight, their personality, their skin tone, their inseam length, and the total number of pores on their left pinky toe. The minor characters are equally well detailed including Fifi the French poodle, the large oak in the front yard, and the toilet seat cover in the third stall at the local high school. More amazing still, God has also defined the unseen world, Schoerdinger’s proverbial Cat. We may not know what lies in the box, but God does. God has defined and named the billions of billions of stars in the universe. In each one of these, he has defined the planets, the mountains on those planets, the dirt that makes up those mountains, and the very quarks that make up the atoms that make up that dirt. Nowhere will we turn up a rock or look into the sky and find a blank and ambiguous reality. God’s pen strokes crossed there long ago and it is only up to us to find the meaning behind the lines.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Flump

Have you ever noticed that only children and dogs can flump? Somehow they turn their whole body to jelly and deposit themselves firmly yet gently on the ground. Flump! It’s similar to dropping an armful of laundry on the ground; it just seems to softly plop into a pile. When I try to do that I certainly do not flump. I crunch, crack, or crash. I wonder if it is simply age or has something to do with innocence.

Flumping looks so relaxing, so carefree. It’s really too bad that we adults are denied the flump. Can’t you just imagine getting done with a long stressful meeting, going back to your desk and flumping? You would allow the cares of the moment to drain from your body while simultaneously expressing your utter exhaustion. My son can express a range of moods while flumping: exhaustion, exasperation, frustration, and even anger. Alas, flumping is denied to me. When I try, I flop.

The problem with flopping is it is too stiff. A stiff fall accelerates. Acceleration is bad. If I were to flop after a stressful meeting, I am certain that my chair would not survive. The chair wouldn’t flump either, it would crash or crunch or both. Why am I so certain? I have attempted to flump before and have flopped. I was at my parent’s house. My son, my wife and I were playing on the guest bed. My son was laughing at me as I went for an exasperated flump. As a result, there is a new bed frame in that room.

My dog is the flump-master. He jumps up on some piece of furniture and sniffs it. Then he circles twice and collapses into a neat pile. His truly amazing mastery allows him to simulate something between a mound of laundry and a puddle of water. Like laundry or water you can gather it up and deposit it elsewhere. What you cannot do is push it. Pushing on something flumped causes it to ooze around whatever you are shoving with and spring back into place when the pressure ceases. You can literally move 98 percent of my persistent pup's body only to have it dribble right back into place when you stop pushing.

Children have similar talents. Have you ever been holding a recalcitrant child’s hand when they decide to flump? Somehow that little body you are leading from the candy isle has put on 42 pounds and turned to the consistency of cooked spaghetti. Either the child’s hand is yanked from your own or he is left dangling, suspended like a hanged man, slowly rotating in the wind as his head lolls to one side. You try to pull the miscreant to his feat and say, “Stand up.” The only response is a cut of his eyes towards you and the continued spaghetti emulation.

Adults do flump in one way though. We can flump spiritually. We decide that we are where we should be and puddle in place. Then when a pastor or even God himself tries to push us along we refuse to move. We dangle spiritually. It often takes a total shift in our world before we get moving again. God picks us up and turns our world upside down.

I’ve spiritually flumped before, but now I am determined not to let myself become that relaxed. I want to charge forward, to keep chasing after God, and win the race he’s set for me.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Autopodophobia

One of my brothers suffers from gerentopodophobia, or the unreasonable fear of old peoples feet. While I imagine that this is not that uncommon a fear, it concerns me a bit. Once he gets to be older, it only follows that it will morph into autopodophobia, or the unreasonable fear of your own feet. This seems to me to be truly terrible problem. After all you can’t run away from your own feet!

Another concern is that such a weakness would be terribly exploited at family reunions. I have 4 brothers. The five of us and my dad are like a pack of wolves. Show weakness and the whole group piles on. It’s good natured, but it is still a little tough to take when your ears are being pulled in different directions and someone is gnawing on your tail. Foot fear would be ammunition that the pack would find irresistible. We are a cruel bunch. I can hear it now. “Hey brother, how’s business? Have you been getting your Foot in the door recently?” “I think your shoes are Toe-tally awesome!” “So tell me, is your kid following in your Footsteps?” The image is just not a pretty one.

Fraternal love, love between brothers, is mind-blowing. As the Word says, “It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down on the beard, running down on Aaron's beard, down upon the collar of his robes.” It is a love that soaks through and anoints.

Part of fraternal love’s value is its rarity. Sometimes petty differences and senseless fights come between family members. This is something we can heal but often do not. Sometimes it is the sword brought by our faith in Christ that separates us. This is harder. Prayer and faith are our only real weapons to win our brothers if this is the separating gulf. Whatever the reason, brothers unified in faith and love are rare and precious.

Another part of this love is that our siblings usually see us with clearer eyes than anyone other than our spouse, our kids, and our parents. Our brothers provide a special perspective as temporal companions who see the world through experiences linked to our own. Neither our fathers and mothers nor our sons and daughters can duplicate their contemporaneous coexistence with us. They understand where we are coming from.

Finally, they are not our spouses. We don’t have to find oneness in them. They are not our “neged”, the one who opposes us and completes us at every point. We do not have to impress them. In the end, there is no obligation of love save what tradition dictates and even that can be ignored. Thus, many do not feel the need to develop and maintain relationships with the most immediate of their kin and brotherhood suffers.

When all these factors are thrust aside, when differences are put aside, when intimate bonds are formed between brothers and sisters, the blessed oil begins to flow. It permeates life and allows for a high priestly anointing to stand over that family. Thank God for my brothers who lift me up, brighten my life, and sometimes bite at my tail.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Pandora’s Jelly Jar

I have a serious problem, I am addicted to eating. I just cannot seem to stop. I suppose it is understandable, I come from a long line of eaters. We aren’t just your average eaters either, we are semi-professional quality. You can actually hear the whimpering when we approach the buffet line.

I’ve heard that Erasmus, the 16th century philosopher, got it wrong. Pandora didn’t open a box, she opened a storage jar. This makes sense to me, though it begs the question was it a pickle jar or a jelly jar? While Pandora’s Pickle Jar does seem daunting, I personally think that it was a jelly jar.

Can’t you just see the scene when Pandora popped the seal on that jar? First, two giant purple hands squeeze forth from the orifice. Next an ugly, bibulous head pops forth. Quickly after, the enormous remaining bulk oozes from the opening and the beast heaves itself upright. The jelly jar juggernaut slogs forth and in its wake from the jar bounces forth all sorts of delectable pieces of death. Lollipops bounce after donuts. Pizzas roll after cakes. Little ginger bread men charged out towards the unsuspecting world.

Perhaps, before Pandora did her dastardly deed, healthy food tasted irresistible. Spinach tasted like candy and even that vile weed, broccoli, was undeniably delicious. But is it possible that when the great tempter, the demon of gluttony, was released from Pandora’s Jelly Jar, he changed it all?

Is it so hard to believe, in our country rife with obesity and metabolic disorders, that something evil stalks us? Something that is twisted chases us with cake and baby-back ribs screaming, “Eat!” Later, it sneaks into our darkened rooms and whispers seductively about chocolate and cheesecake. In the dark night, the great purple beast bubbles laughter as it fattens us for slaughter.

One of my goals for this year is to slay Pandora’s spawn; to close the lid on the jelly jar demon forever. My strategy is to run it to death. I figure that the obese jelly-spawn is still chasing after me when I run, panting and dripping purple goo all the way. When I get back, my appetite is suppressed. Obviously, the beast is too tired to come after me. I can almost see him sprawled on the couch snoring loudly. He later tries to come back with a vengeance, but it is far easier to resist when I remember running my heart out earlier.

We each face and fight our personal demons. It takes rock hard perseverance and the hand of God to strengthen us. In the end, though, the battle is already won; we just have to persevere and stand to claim the victory.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Fundamental Differences

There are times when the fundamental differences between men and women rear their heads. What follows is a story of one of those times.

Five of us sat together at a round table in a restaurant. My infant son was surrounded by my wife and mother while my father and I sat next to each other on the far side. We had just ordered dinner and were settling in for a wait.

My son can be a bit of a clown and a flirt, and today he was going all out for the ladies. He was throwing his head back and forth in his best head banger impression. After hammering for a while, he would stop to watch the women’s reaction. Smiles and little claps induced him to greater and greater efforts. My mom even did a little head bang herself which made him giggle. My father and I looked at each other, eyes rolling. The little fellow was messing with one of the universal laws of guydom: Showing out for women generally has one result, pain.

Sure enough, it happened. My son threw his head extra far back, chin pointing to the roof. He accelerated forward and slammed his forehead into the table with a smack, a loud, wood wounding sound that resonated throughout the restaurant. In that instant the universe split. Masculine and feminine perspectives came into such dire conflict that they stood out for all to see, like lightening in the night sky.

The ladies seemed to be in a coordinated dance as near simultaneous gasps were accompanied by a synchronized turn toward the little one. Faces knitted with concern. Murmurs of comfort and gentle hands surrounded his head and back depositing kisses to draw away the sting. My son sat in that haze of sympathy and comfort. His eyes welled with tears.

On the other side of the table the men had a very different and yet similarly synchronized reaction. Hands raised and fingers pointed with military precision. Eyebrows popped up in surprise. Mouths opened and out came torrents of laughter accompanied by knee and table slapping. No sympathy was here, only the common humor of men who laugh at their friends when they bring misery upon themselves permeated this side of the table. If the boy had not been so intent on the girls attention, he wouldn’t have wacked his head. He had received his just reward and that reward was to be laughed at by other men.

It is one of those fundamental differences in men and women, I think. For instance, women have “frenemies”, a concept so unnatural to men that we simply attribute it to that brand of feminine mystery that we choose not to explore. Men laugh at each other’s stupidity, and most women don’t understand that either.

Why do we laugh? Men appreciate strength. If we are mature we don’t care for blind, stupid, macho strength. We do, however, appreciate calm, powerful, masculine leadership. Why do we laugh? We laugh because we have all been there. We laugh because by laughing we let those in pain know that it’s not serious enough for them to worry about; they will survive. We laugh because they knew better, or at least they do now. For men, pain is sometimes the only road to wisdom.

The brotherhood of men is a funny thing. As we get older we understand when the pain is beyond normal enduring. True brothers, those who have matured, will stand beside a truly hurt man quietly enduring the pain with him. They will enfold him in prayer. God help any poor demon that tries to break through that covering of calm, powerful, masculine leadership. However, those same men will laugh at you when you deserve it and when you need it. The ultimate lesson is when you learn to laugh at yourself. When you can reach back and bring up that pain, turn it on its head, and lead others in laughter, you are teaching. In the shared pain and laughter we learn and we grow, and thus wisdom is passed on.

I thank God for the women in my life who comfort us when we fail and for the men in my life who laugh at me when I deserve it.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Hobbies

My friend leaned across the table and said, “I’m going to find a hobby. At our age a man needs a hobby.”

I was not really sure what was significant about our age which wasn’t so aged after all.
“Really? So what are you thinking of taking up?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He paused and said, “I kind of like to cut grass.”

I smiled, “Well I hope you have a big yard.”

He frowned at me. “I mean cut grass, trim the hedges, gardening. You know what I mean.”

I do know what he meant. I come from a long line of gardening hobbyists. My mother and my grandmother both find digging in the dirt soothing. I spent two summers and more working for the grounds department of Wake Forest University. Still gardening does not suit me. I just don’t appreciate the results enough to offset the toil in the soil.

This brings a question to mind. Do we really need hobbies? I know men who play sports, sail boats, and work on those same boats. Some fish, hunt, and hike. Others, who have a more indoor bent, play music, paint, sing, work wood, or play board or computer games. My wife knits. As for me, I write.

What drives us into these pursuits? They are often solitary, taking us away from our families. They rarely produce lasting gains. Yet we spend countless hours pursuing them. Somehow they feed the soul and drive energy into the rest of our lives.

A hobby is something we pursue for the pure joy of doing it. Pure joy is a rare thing indeed. Perhaps, that is what is so energizing about hobbies. They are things we pursue on our own without the tyrant of bread or money beating our backs for results. The greatest result is the joy of the pursuit itself.

Joy, I have heard, means grace placed within us. Perhaps it is the grace to face a tough workplace. It might be the grace to deal with a home filled with sickness or strife. Perhaps it is simply the grace to keep going in this dark world. The neat thing about hobbies is that they seem to let us mimic God’s ability to place grace within our souls. These pursuits are gifts to us that take our life and make it more abundant.

There is danger as well. Like any of our gifts from God hobbies can be abused. Ultimately our Joy must come from the Lord. No hobby has the capacity to fill the bottomless void in the human soul. I think this is why so often the boat or the computer or some other avocation breaks people. The poor soul pours more and more into a hobby hoping to fill up their emptiness and neglects their family, their job, or their health. In the end something fails and divorce, poverty, or sickness is the result.

Am I out of balance? The question is simple when I think about it. If I realized tomorrow that I needed to give up my hobby for my faith or my family, would I? If my answer is no or a hesitant, “but that is what keeps me sane” then I’ve missed the point. The hobby has become my God. Thankfully I can answer unequivocally that anything that gets between me and the Lord has to go. My family is next. No activity will come between me and those I love. Any hesitation at all in my answer would mean my hobby would have to go.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Nighttime Surprise

Parenting is tough. It often leads to frustration, pain, and tears. It brings the ogre creeping forth in the best of us. In the end we hope that we can do enough right to counteract what we did wrong.

Case-in-point, when my son was about 2 and a half, we were having problems with him getting up in the middle of the night. We would put him to bed and about 15 minutes later he would get up. He would slip down the stairs and pad over to where we sat in the living room. Giving his sweetest grin, he would say, “Can I have some water?”

Attempting to curb this behavior, we said, “No! You must stay in bed.” Then one of us firmly marched him up the stairs and deposited him onto his mattress. A few moments later we’d again hear the patter of little feet on the stairs.

After this had gone on for a while, it was time for us to go to bed. We reached the hallway between our bedrooms and heard our little one fumbling with his doorknob. I waved my wife towards our sleeping chamber indicating that I would take care of the problem.

I had an idea. It wasn’t a very good idea, but it seemed to make sense at the time. I crept up to the door and waited. Finally the boy managed to twist open the door. An impish face poked forth. Bright blue eyes over an ear to ear grin scanned the semi-lit hallway. I pounced.

I can only imagine what flew through his mind as the Daddy-Ogre jumped from the shadows with a loud “RAHR!” Yes, I literally said “RAHR!” My son’s eyes went from smile slits to huge terror filled orbs. His smile instantly flipped to a comic strip frown. Then his lips popped open and he screamed, “AHHHH” and sprinted directly into the doorknob. Covering his face and screeching an even more distressed “AHHHH” he disappeared into his room.

I stood stunned for a moment. I wasn’t sure what I had expected but that was definitely not it.

My wife darted from our room and said, “What happened?”

“I did something stupid”, I muttered as I pushed into my son’s room and flipped on the light.

In the middle of the mattress was a quivering lump. My wife ran over and scooped up the lump while peeling back the covers. When my shivering son was revealed, he stuffed his face into her shoulder and wept. She hugged him tightly. “What happened?” She asked me again this time with emphasis.

I explained my poorly planned solution, as she was trying to smooth away our little one’s sobbing. It took us nearly an hour to calm him and get him back to sleep. My wife contemplated his red face and quickly blackening eye. She then looked at me, shook her head, and returned to our room. So that is how, at the cost of a black eye and possible future therapy sessions, my son was cured of getting out of bed for a long time.

I smile every time I think of this story, even as I shake my head at my poor judgment. Parenting is tough, but rewarding. I thank God for my little ones each day. He is the perfect father and has entrusted these little ones to my imperfect care. I also thank Him for not jumping out at me with his best ogre impression (which I imagine is pretty good) and scaring me into running into a door when I’m bad. At least he’s not done that so far…

Monday, May 17, 2010

A little past SuckerVille

The plane jerked again as the wind pushed us suddenly downward. Behind me and to my right, a little girl screeched in pure terror. Glancing back I saw wide glistening blue eyes peering over clenched fists. She rocked and shuddered. Her father had his arms wrapped around the little one trying to comfort her, but her whimpers were spiraling up into an all out wail. Across the aisle, the girl’s mother leaned forward whispering, “Do you want a sucker honey?” The little one’s eyes flicked right and then she buried her face in her lap. Rolling his eyes, Dad muttered, “I think we’re a little past SuckerVille.”

What a phrase for immature, childish fear. How often do we find ourselves “A little past SuckerVille?” We ball up our fists and squeal in displeasure. God tries to comfort us, but we won’t listen. We insist on following our fear out into the dry wilderness. Once there God generally leaves us alone until we’re ready to come back. Like any good Father, he realizes that an emotionally strung out child has to calm down before they can be reasoned with.

Part of this has to do with our blatant miss-interpretation of our role with God. He is our Father, and like any good parent, He is more concerned with getting us to our destination than our happiness. When we ignore this and let our emotions run away with us, he waits until we calm down. When we are calm, He pulls us along on our journey. Sometimes we even think to ask and He reveals why we couldn’t have the thing we wanted. Then there are the times when He says, “Wait, you will understand someday.”

The other day my family was out walking when it began raining. I mean it, as we say in the south, “Came up a bad cloud.” The storm quickly deteriorated from spring sprinkle to a frog strangling deluge complete with crashing thunder and blinding lightning. My son, seven years old, and thus wise enough to doubt his father, was worrying. I asked him what had him concerned.

“I’m afraid of dying.” He cried with all the melodrama he could muster.

I smiled and replied, “What exactly are you afraid of?”

Gripping his throat he shouted, “Running out of oxygen.” He worried and fretted all the way to the car.

Now my daughter, 18 months and a bit of an adventurer, reacted quite differently. I was intentionally whooping and laughing, and she got the picture. So long as we kept Mom close, she giggled and shouted all the way to the car.

Both were in the same storm, but saw it in a very different way. My son’s big memory was “It was so wet I couldn’t see out of one eye.” I imagine my daughter will giggle next time she gets caught in the rain.

I want to shout and giggle through life’s storms. People may think I’m mad, but I think I will have quite a bit more fun shouting than worrying. What’s more, I hope it will keep me on this side of SuckerVille, where I am focused on God instead of my fear.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

2009 - A Great Year

Dickens started his great tale “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” So this year was for us. We were hard pressed on every side by emotional distress, financial disaster, and spiritual despair. Nearly crushed by the weight of it all, we endured. The Lord does not place on us burdens we cannot withstand. Indeed, I believe his discipline is for our strength; through it we become mighty in Him.

The story of this year starts in 2006. We were financially stable and tithing. We decided to buy a home. It was an impulsive decision, something we wanted, but for which we weren’t prepared. The costs of the home were more than expected and after a time making payments became difficult. One month, the decision came. There wasn’t enough money to pay both the tithe and the all the bills. It wasn’t even a question. God forgives, Visa does not. We only skimped a little but it was a slippery slope. Over time, our tithing sputtered and died.

I struggle to articulate the foolishness of our decision. There really is no excuse. We had both seen God provide miraculously in the past. He paid for our wedding, our reception, and our Honeymoon. He had Leta’s wedding dress created by a vogue-published designer essentially for free. He financed our move to Atlanta with someone unexpectedly showing up with a check for $1000 on the day we were leaving. He generously provided abundance that increased my salary over 300% in less than 10 years. Somehow though, despite it all, I still had not learned to rely on him. God knew it, even if I didn’t

We buckled down and made plan after plan. Plan after plan failed. In 2008 we saw the divine patience begin to give out. We had nearly $10,000 in out-of-pocket medical expenses and no salary increase. By March of 2009 my creative solutions had kept us afloat but we had accumulated nearly $100,000 in unsecured debt. We were in trouble and freefalling to the tune of almost $2,000 per month.

God was done waiting on us to see the light. He sent the final warning April 1, 2009. My company announced that they were merging with a major competitor. For the first time in years, my job was at risk. We put our heads together and tried to decide what to do. With pressure mounting on all sides, we approached our church for counseling.

Counseling was easy. We knew the first answer. Tithe. The second answer was pray. Now someone reading this is saying, “That approach wouldn’t work for me.” I’ve heard the arguments and have made them myself. It won’t work. It can’t be done. The money isn’t there. Our counselor dubbed our situation “the most hopeless case I’ve ever seen” and “only the second time in 9 years I’ve counseled bankruptcy.” I can’t tell you what to do I can only tell you what we did. We tithed; we prayed; and we looked for God to show us solutions.

God responded immediately when we began tithing. The money just appeared out of nowhere. It wasn’t enough to solve our problems. God wasn’t through with us but it was enough to show that He was there waiting.

Did you know that if you make over a certain amount it’s almost impossible to successfully declare bankruptcy? We were ready to do it. Give up everything and walk away. But a law change in 2006 said that I made about $450/month too much money to do so. The sticking point ultimately, again, came down to the tithe. Now we were wiser and refused to give in. We would not give up the tithe.

From May through November little positive happened. The collectors called and we waited for God to show up. I found that time especially difficult. It seemed to me that unless God provided a miracle, my only options amounted to total failure. It added up to being enslaved by my debt for the rest of my working life. Perhaps if we were careful and diligent and lucky we could dig ourselves out of our hole by retirement. It was truly slavery where all of our disposable funds would be absorbed by our creditors with no resolution. I told myself constantly that surely God didn’t want me to be a slave this way. I wouldn’t be a slave!

Nothing happened and I died a bit at a time. One day as I was reading the Bible I came across a passage where Paul told slaves how to act towards their masters and to become free “if they could.” It occurred to me that perhaps it was God’s purpose for me to live in slavery to debt. Perhaps by living a life of hope in that awful situation my testimony could shine for those who otherwise would not see it. God had asked others to live with worse. Financial freedom itself had become an idol to me and it was time to give it up. I resigned myself to the possibility of losing my future hopes and dreams if God had other plans for me.

As I let go of my plans and said “your will Lord”, God showed up. It was difficult and complex, but God changed the complexion of our problems. Tens of thousands of dollars were removed from the debt. What remained was restructured and we went from -$2000 per month to a little in the black each month.

Dozens of other things settled themselves. My job stabilized into essentially what I was doing before, except for an organization 5 times the size. I attained my PMP certification. Our medical expenses started disappearing. Most importantly, our lives were back in sync with God’s will.

Sometimes success requires a paradigm shift. Not only a shift in what you are doing but a shift in the way you see the world. The Christian Life itself is a paradigm shift. God is gentle with us and within our walk we find ourselves shifted again and again towards God’s unique perspective.