Christmas Rant

Every year I make a gingerbread house with my kids. It's one of the highlights of the Christmas season... I think. It also drives me crazy since I'm a perfectionist and if you've every made a gingerbread house that's a bad mix. Throw in a 7 year old and a 4 year old and it's enough to make baby Jesus blush.

So typically I do it from scratch; mix the dough, cut the shapes, bake it, make own icing, etc. This year we bought a different house and have been neck deep in renovation purgatory which has drained the time and energy away from everything else (note it's been over a month since my last post). So I bought a gingerbread house kit, although with regret and a little guilt. The kit includes everything you need with all the pieces pre-cut and it just needs to be assembled and decorated with the included candy and icing. Quite frankly part of me feels like it's a stainless steel bed pan. Yes, it will do the job, but where is the love? Where is the love?

So this afternoon the kids and I tackled the commercial house and assembled it and decorated it. It looks like hell. The icing doesn't hold anything together. The candy is falling off. The roof opened up and swallowed the gumdrops lining the roof. The kids are thrilled and I am depressed. The pre-cut, sterile, gingerbread snowman and gingerbread man on the front lawn are looking at me with a smug glare. It matters not as I'm going to bite his incredulous head off in a couple of hours. I'm just hoping that this isn't some strange premonition and that all my renos are destined to end as the molasses laden house before me. I'm sure I'm going to go to the house on Monday and find that all the drywall has slid off the walls.

Here's the deal. I love Christmas and most of all I love the anticipation of Christmas. Part of the anticipation is doing all the rituals that herald the coming of Christmas day. The gingerbread house is a ritual and one that I will redeem next year with a love soaked, personable, homemade house.

I love Christmas. I love watching my kids more than anything get excited about Christmas. We propagate the myth of Santa with zeal and I love watching the kids put out the reindeer food on the lawn. It has sparkles so the reindeer can spot our house you see. I love putting out cookies and milk for the big guy. At the same time I also love hearing my kids talk about baby Jesus and in our house these two things are compatible. Santa brings presents, not salvation; gifts, not redemption. That's the baby Jesus' work and our kids are seeing that more and more. I think I am too.

My three favorite words are Grace, Mercy and Redemption. I can hardly speak them together without getting a chill and feel a little mist in the eyes. And this is the time of the year that those three ought to be on display more than any other time, and I think they are in many ways. I know I've experienced them in tangible ways this month more than the rest of the year from complete strangers. I hope that others have experienced that from me.

Merry Christmas to you and yours. May you enjoy friends and family over a good meal, good drink and good laughs. May you experience baby Jesus through those that you love and who love you.

The First Dent is the Deepest

I recall a word of wisdom from a legendary plumber in these parts when we were installing the sink in the drop-in center that I helped build about 4 years ago. After it was installed and the plumbing was hooked up I went over and tried out the taps. Yep, water was running, draining, doing everything a sink was to do. Then I noticed a healthy scratch in the brand new kitchen sink. "Wow, this sucks", I said out loud. I was pretty sure that the sink was damaged even before it was installed but now that it was in I wasn't about to take it out and return it. "Ah, it's no big deal," the plumber said. "It's like the first dent on your new truck. It hurts so bad at first, but then you don't even notice it after a while because the scratches and dents seem to come fast after that one." Now here's the money line: "You really want to avoid that first dent."

Recently Olivia has been experiencing a healthy dose of "girl politics" as they seem to be. Grade one. Geez they start early. We get a little bit of what's going on and, in many ways, it's just kids being kids and most of it is harmless. Unfortunately kids being kids means they're often emulating adults in their life which is likely a completely different post. Adults can be so
counter-productive to the health of children at times.

"You really want to avoid that first dent." What kills me as a Dad is that I don't have a clue when that first dent is going to made to my kids. It certainly isn't predictable and what leaves a mark for one person won't even leave a scratch on another. There's a distinct possibility that it's happened already. I just hope and pray that I wasn't the offending party without knowing it. And perhaps that's the worst part: you just never know even after the damage has been done. A sharp remark here, a poor thought out comment there and suddenly you're looking at the sink thinking, "now how did that get there?"

But we all get that first dent that leaves a historic mark on our souls. Looking back, maybe you can spot it and testify to the moment where the rest of the scratches and bruises started piling on. And if it was only the one, well, maybe we could heal up from it. But there are always more and more and they seem to somewhat get close to that original one, or at least that's how we tend to see it. Often depth and width of that first mark dictates much of how we perceive hurts in our lives.

I'll never forget a young girl that was a camper at a kid's camp that I worked at when I was 17. She was 15 and always, and I mean always, wore her sunglasses; inside, outside, sunny, cloudy, daytime or night it really didn't matter. At first blush you assumed she was desperately trying to maintain a aura of cool but after more conversation the true story came out. When she was little she had an uncle that consistently told her that her eyes didn't match the rest of her face. Eventually the dent started to hold water and she developed a rather intelligent way to compensate. In reality (or at least my reality and others at camp) she was a beautiful young girl with lovely eyes.

To try to put some lipstick and rouge on this pig, the good news is that the dents don't have to be a life-dictating force. We can always figure them out, which is really, really important especially if you parent small lives since our hammers can leave the biggest marks. Hmmmm, it's either end awkwardly here or keep on rambling. Let's leave it for another post.

80 somewhere but not here.

So we bought a house and are doing extensive renovations. Good angst can be expelled by smashing out a kitchen and putting your foot through drywall. Give it a shot sometime, reno or no reno. I'm in the bathroom today tearing out drywall and I'm on a two-step ladder reaching with my knife to score the drywall to limit where it breaks off when I have a keen recollection.

About 7 years ago we did renovations to our existing bathroom. My Dad was helping me put in fresh drywall on the ceiling. If you've ever placed drywall into a ceiling before, you know it's about as much fun as chewing tinfoil: it's gotta happen but you can't wait for the credits. So I'm on a stacking stool and my Dad is on a two-step ladder. We bring a piece of drywall up that is almost a full 4x8 sheet towards the ceiling. The plan was simple, brilliant and straight-forward. We put the piece up on the ceiling, position it and I would hold it up by myself while Dad put 2 or 3 screws in just to keep it from crashing. The drywall goes up and gets into position. That was the last successful part of the plan. Dad places a screw on the drill and starts to put it into the drywall. Misses the ceiling joist. Puts another screw on the drill. Misses the joist to the opposite side. At this point my muscles are experiencing serious acid build up. I work with people all day. My hobbies include fishing and playing guitar. I have a limited muscle mass. It's true now and it was certainly true then. Dad tries to take the screw out of the drywall. "Dad, just leave it. Try again", I plead. He places another screw on the drill and this one falls off just as he gets it to the face of the drywall. My arms are doing the shakes. Badly. "Hurry Dad. Hurry up. Hurry, hurry." I can still see him moving in almost slow motion to get another screw. 45 minutes later he finds one and puts it on the drill. This one goes into the drywall and into solid wood! But wait. Dad has screwed it too far and has broken the paper which completely takes all the strength away. At this point I have to reposition myself and I slip a little. Dad tries to catch the drywall and in doing so repositions the leg of his ladder over a hole in the floor. He goes sideways which causes his body to hit my stool which sends me flying like I'm ducking for cover in a gunfight. When all is said and done, Dad and I are on the floor, the drywall is in two pieces and the stacking stool has two legs going the opposite way they were designed to. I let out a couple expletives and just shake my head at the whole debacle.

It was Dad's birthday yesterday. He should have turned 80 except he passed away in May 2003 of a massive heart attack. He literally died in the middle of saying sentence.

Dad and I were not really very close, but I loved the guy and I know he loved me. I miss him. And when I stood on that ladder today in that half gutted bathroom I couldn't help but think of the old guy and I really missed him. He would be driving me absolutely nuts with this renovation and I would be coming home from working at the house complaining like crazy about him. Wouldn't that be a treat...

Away in a Manger

Every night at bed time at our house is a slice of Christmas. That's because I get to sing "Away in a Manger" as a bed time song to my 4 year old daughter, Grace. Ever since it made it's appearance in December last year it has been a fan favorite. It matters not to her that it's traditionally a Christmas song. For her it's like a comfy stuffy.

Two nights ago I was tucking her in bed and she was having a hard time. Grace cries buckets of tears when she weeps and this is often the end result of being very tired. As I pulled up the blanket to her chin she asked me the very familiar question, "Can you sing (sob, sob) Away in a Manger?" As I brushed away over sized drops from her cheek I of course agreed and began the nightly ritual. She stopped crying as she heard the first of three verses and when the last note was off my lips she gently said, "Goodnight Dad" and she was off, putting another day behind her.

I paused on the bed and wondered, how long will this work before a tired childrens Christmas song won't work? When will it no longer be enough to quiet the tears and usher her into a peaceful sleep? When will I not be enough to keep her safe and to chase away the scary moments and the moments that hurt so bad? I couldn't help but feel incredibly helpless and vulnerable. I'm not really into keeping my kids in a bubble, but the older they get the more safe it seems. With every hint that Olivia brings home from school about a school friend not including her I wonder if maybe isolating them completely wouldn't be so bad? Of course that's impossible and if not impossible then seriously irresponsible. The terrible beauty of life is that we're supposed to love and love hard with as few restrictions as possible. And that's where the cruel joke of love comes in: the more you love the more you lose. Sure the gains are marvelous, but eventually the returns on the investment are called in. To isolate yourself from others so that you don't love is safe, and in likely the most sane thing you can do. Teaching my kids to love with abandonment is only setting themselves up for heart ache. And there are times when heart ache seems to be it's own calling in life.

But where would I be without choosing to love? I certainly wouldn't find myself on the bottom portion of a bunk bed singing Away in a Manger when it's 30 degrees outside. What a shame that would be. Love is a double edged sword and there are times when that handle will turn into the blade and leave a mark, like it or not.

More later...

Melancholy

I've slowly been learning to come to grips with a cold, hard, beautiful fact of my life: I am a melancholy person and I currently am experiencing this truth. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy life and I believe I laugh quickly and with gusto and enjoy seeing others do the same. But it doesn't take very long for me to get to a place where I feel more deeply and feel like my guts are sloshing around in the basement of a sad house.

Life is beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. I watch my kids and I listen to them tell stories and say ridiculous things ("God is so powerful that he can carry giant lawn chairs." What?!?). I am able to sit on a lake and fish and watch my world. I enjoy relax in the evening with my wife and we figure out exactly how to save the world. Typically this occurs right around 11:00 at night. We call it 11 o'clock genius.

But life is incredibly tragic and seems to be more so for some than others. I could list off a small book of people I know who are fighting cancer at this very moment. These people all have family and loved ones who are hoping and praying that everything goes very well but who all know the possibilities on the other side of the coin. I just read an article on CNN about police finding a women who spent the last 17 years living in a shed. She was abducted by a couple when she was eleven years old and was concealed in a shed while having two children who were fathered by her captor. The kids are now 15 and 11 and were raised in a shed. "They are all in good health," Kollar said in response to a question about how Dugard and her children are doing. "But living in a backyard for the last 18 years does take its toll." Go figure.

These are just a few of the things that reinforce my melancholy self. Life is beautiful, but life is also incredibly brief (even if you live for your 80 years) and unpredictable. I wear that sentiment on my leg partly because I enjoy brilliant, inspirational art and partly to remind myself on a lazy Sunday afternoon to take my kids to the park and be ridiculous even when I would love to just be lazy. The blossoms are falling from the tree and we never really know when they're done.

So, I'm going to go to a party to celebrate my niece's upcoming wedding tonight. We're going to laugh, enjoy each others company, have good food and drink and hope for a wonderful future for them. Sometimes hope can be a rare commodity but I'll do my best to revel in it and stoke it's flame so we can all keep warm.

Grace and Irresponsible Love

There are times that Christians likely try too hard to stand up for... well, fill in the blank. I've been reading Brennan Manning lately and his offering, "The Furious Longing For God." Manning argues (convincingly I believe) that Christ was quite serious when He spoke of what would be the marking of a true disciple of Christ. That would be love in case you're wondering. Yes, I could provide the book, chapter and verse but it's past 1 in the morning and I'm a little lazy.

Manning is often criticized by talking too much about love and not enough about sin, judgment and hell. There is a tension for me as I read his work because there's a part of me that says, "but what about..." well, fill in the blank. It's that piece of me that has it ingrained that to be a follower of Jesus is to uphold the moral standard. If you've never read any of Manning's work, don't get me wrong, he is not a feel good, postmodern hippie looking for a tree to stroke. His words are challenging, beautiful and absolutely terrifying at times because he speaks of true discipleship and calls his readers to take Christ's words for what they are: truth and not just bumper stickers for southern gospel conventions.

Wouldn't it be a treat to be criticized for talking too much about love and loving too much?

"Mercy, there's a word you can drown in every moment." Remember that Mallonee guy I made mention of in the first post, well that's his line. It's haunting because it's true and it's the call of the follower of Jesus since mercy is the kissing cousin of love. Two things. First, I don't know of emotions can actually be cousins and second, I have no proof that they have actually kissed or even held hands for that matter. But I believe they have shared a long glance from across a smokey room filled with sinners and saints and all the beginners.

To wrap up this rant, I'm tortured with trying to understand faith and its relevance in our world. But as I continue to understand what the fundamentasl of faith are I have to start with Love. I'm not sure how many stories my faith house will have but if I don't have that foundation correct, what's the point? Really, what's the point?

Providence and a Corolla

It's just a car, it really is. 4 wheels, an engine and a robin egg blue exterior. And please don't suggest that there is a color more masculine than robin egg blue because you will lose that war, and badly I might add.

What I'm trying to figure out is if that Corolla came to me by, and represents in some way, God's grace in this world. I've been struggling with the way in which God works in our world lately. I have found my theological grid revealing less and less room for God working in the everyday in our lives. Not that I don't believe that God works in our world, it's just that sometimes I wonder if Christians sometimes attribute stuff to God that really isn't God at all and it's about stuff that God really doesn't care about. So I'm not suggesting that God "gave" me the Corolla. The reason I have a difficult time chewing that theology well enough to swallow is because of the incredibly horrible fact that the MAJORITY of humanity lives in such squalor and horrific poverty that I can't really fathom. In light of that it would seem rather trite that God would take the time and energy to deliver a car in my hands. However, I was tortured and consumed by vehicle hunting, especially the day Robin found me. That's the Corolla's name. It fits.

Theologians use a term called "common grace." Basically it means that there is a certain level of grace found in our world that everyone experiences and it is separate, yet linked, to the grace of salvation. It's kind of like the oxygen in the air and I hope that is a decent enough analogy.
Perhaps Robin is evidence of common grace. I'm struggling with understanding a car as divine appointment, you know? But maybe, just maybe Robin showed up because, and is evidence of God's grace in this tragically beautiful mess of life. Not God lining up events and timing for me to buy this car, but God's gracing permeating people and events enough that it worked out this time.

As I reread my post, I'm struck by a tension that exists and I don't know what to do with it right now. How about more consideration?

Bought a car, now pass the kleenex

I've been looking for a car for far too long with very little success (see previous post). Piece of junk after piece of junk with owners that seem to match (Ok, ok that's too harsh, but c'mon). Then after coming back from a late lunch I took the time to check online and low and behold was THE CAR. Wait for it...1994 Toyota Corolla, one owner, "too old to drive", 83,000 kms. Made the phone call, talked to a great old guy who is advertising for his 80 year old brother and owner of the Corolla. Julie and I load the kids in the van with a sweaty handful of cash and have an experience that is far removed from my other car hunting excursions.

We pull up to the house, grab Ivan and go over to see Vernon's car. This thing is almost a time capsule, at least on the inside. Small spot of rust that I made too big of a deal over. Ivan and Vernon are showing me this car, bragging about the condition. "The tires are three years old." I swear there is 95% of the tread on them. "Three years old", I said. They're brand new! I mean, do the math. 83k kms over 15 years is just over 5000 kms a year! I've done that in a month before! We do some intense negotiation and agree on a price. I have to take Ivan back to his house to get the safety and bill of sale for Vernon to sign. Ivan invites us inside and his wife gives my kids iced tea and cookies. We're sitting around the table like I'm a long lost son that Ivan didn't know about("Remember that night on the Peacekeeping mission in '74? Well, hello Dad"). Long story short we bought the car and it's now in our driveway, gently weeping because deep down it knows that no matter how well I take care, its better days are now officially over.

Here's the deal. This was an emotionally draining experience for me. I have a difficult time with seniors because I can't help but feel deeply tragic when I see them shuffling with a walker in a mall. Growing old means an ever increasing amount of loss. Loss of career, the home they've lived in forever, a license (Vernon was voluntarily giving up his license) among many others that contribute to a loss of independence. When I took the keys from Vernon I couldn't help but feel that I reached into his chest and took a piece of his soul with me (I put it in the glove box between the owners manual and registration). He was so anxious to make sure I knew everything about the car. "To turn on the interior light there is a switch on the dome inside." He was losing his car that he had taken care of so meticulously for the past 15 years. He was relegating himself to the bus and rides from friends and family. He just wanted to make sure that his car and me had a proper introduction.

It's just a car, but there is a lot of meaning for me wrapped up in this aqua import.

To be continued...

Dud Finder

So here's the thing. I hate car shopping. I mean, at first I think I really, really like it. There's all the research into finding the right car, looking at all the websites, blah, blah, blah. Then 12 hours later I realize that looking for the "right" car is like looking for a walnut in a big pile of poop. I'm just so tired of going to look at a "nice car with good body" and walking up to a vehicle that has rust and dents all over it. Ok, I'm picky and I know it, but c'mon. I wish I wasn't so nice sometimes. I firmly believe my gift is to find some of the most misrepresented vehicles advertised. If you ever need to find a dud, give me a call. I can sniff them out with the best of them.

My problem is that I place a great deal of pressure on myself to find the perfect vehicle. It has to have the ideal blend of fantastic shape, low kms, great features all for a price that comes up only once a lifetime. The problem is that car really does only come up once in a lifetime (and it was about 4 weeks ago but I missed it). Essentially I'm a heroin addict looking for the high of the first hit. Every time I sit down at my computer I start slapping my arm, my eyes start to twitch and I start grinding my teeth: "C'mon Baby! Make me feel something!"

What drives me crazy is how much I can let myself be defined by a vehicle. I oscillate between feeling happy and content with driving older vehicles all my life and lusting after something quite new and shiny with options that delight the senses. And I think I've noticed that I'm drawn to the latter when something else in my life is going poorly. It's like the idea of driving a new vehicle will complete me more. Apparently I've learned nothing from human history.

Capacity

I sit with people. A lot. I've heard many stories and many expressions of frustration, anger, hurt and pain in a variety of fashions throughout my eleven year career as a "people helper." What never ceases to amaze me is how people have this unbelievable capacity to hide their pain and crap from others. I'm not just talking strangers or acquaintances, but from close friends and family members. So often when people's darkness comes out the ones that know them best are shocked. We are able to hold things together long enough in certain situations that prevent others to see the heartache that is occuring. I mean, there's leakage. There's always leakage and if you think that there isn't you're fooling yourself. Our words and our actions betray us even when we think we're being oh so sneaky. It's like our bodies and our souls recognize when they are being ignored and they send signals to the outside world in the hopes that someone's radar will pick up the blips. It's just that most times we're all too busy to hear and to see and we don't take the time and energy to pick up on the leaks. It's usually not intentional, but... well that's for a different time.

I say these things for a couple of reasons. First, their just rattling up in my head and I think part of this whole blog thing is a way to get some of this out. Second, it's a reminder that the people I see, go to church with, have coffee with, am in community with and love are likely struggling with something. I'm just not noticing the leaks.

Post Number One

So, like probably tens of thousands of other people today, I've started a blog. Why would I bother you ask? Perhaps I'm the one asking that question. I'm somewhat hoping that there will be some catharsis involved here. I've always wanted to do more songwriting so perhaps I'm hoping that this will be a gateway to that end. A "priming the pump" sort of thing. Perhaps I'm waiting for someone and am a little bored. Content? Hmmmm. A little of this and a little of that I suppose. Comments on my perspectives on life, faith, family, fishing, music and, well, we'll see. There's no commitment here by the way. This might be over before it starts. I may not even have the courtesy to call back the next day even though I swear I will. We'll see. So what is it about putting your thoughts out for everyone (and chances are, no one) to read and experience? A soap box I guess that sits out in the great information highway, although that title is suspect. Misinformation would likely be more accurate but nonetheless it is what is. I'll do my best to not add to the latter label. "Audible Sigh" comes from a song and album name from the great Bill Mallonee (pronounced mal-o-knee). I spent 10 years pronouncing his last name mal-own-ee until I finally saw him live in a club in Minneapolis last year. Despite this I am a very big fan of this terrific songwriter who never has and, unfortunately, never will gain any sort of notoriety. He seems to be able to capture the pain and tension of living in a world full of heartache and satisfaction, sorrow and joy. There will likely be plenty of his crooning all over this thing as well as many other artists I admire. I don't have enough original thought to go around so I'll borrow from wherever and whomever I can.

As for who I am, well there's time for that later. Alright, let's get things started then. My appointment is almost here...