Not much good comes from a story that begins in the doctor's office. But mine is going to start there. After telling the story to a co-worker earlier this week, it made her feel as if I were somehow terminal. She later brought me into her office where she closed the door behind me (nothing good happens when you're called into an impromptu office visit, the door closes, and whispering commences) as she began to ask me how "sick" I really was.
I didn't even have a fever.
I had wheezing the afternoon at the doctor's office. A headache, a dull one. The day at school had been spent with my voice at nothing really higher than a whisper. I chose not to call out sick. Sometimes as a teacher, it's more work to call out than it is just to suck it up and go to work. I would have still been awake early and driven myself to work to hustle out some simple lesson plans that would not have been followed anyhow. Depending on the presence of the sub, I would have come back to school to a room full of fires to extinguish.
Before my appointment, the kids received their flu shots and my son had his check-up. I spent 15 or 20 minutes admiring my kids. My daughter in her stretchy jeans and boots, my son in his droopy shirt, in need of a haircut and his mind filled with nothing but the adventure of future conquests. He's small for his age, and his lineage is rote with blunt-legged and squatty rumps. I think sometimes that as long as he isn't overweight, I can live with anything. That's my brokenness, I know.
I was about five minutes late to my appointment by the time we were done. All I wanted to do was nap. The doctor walks in. "How you feel?"
"Great," I answered back. And the doctor seemed to pause and then gave me the type of look that meant to say, "Really? You're great, you say? Maybe I should ask again."
Up to that point, it was "S'all good." It's the epidemic written from The Sleeping Giant, a class I'm having the blessing to lead every Wednesday.
It's what most guys think anytime you ask them how they're doing. "S'all good!" Even if it isn't true, men will say otherwise. I have cracks on the surface of my life. The piles here among the house, the subtle reminders that things need repair. Our second vehicle's drive shaft literally ripped off the clutch. I can't even get it out of park. It sits there on my driveway. One day it will certainly have a flattened tire. The van we drive each day has taillight problems. Not good to know when you're upon the darkest season of the year. Fluid built up on the passenger side light. I repaired it, but perhaps the initial water caused a short because both lights are out.
My personal maintenance needs work too. Months ago I was supposed to have blood work done. High blood pressure was on the agenda. I failed to follow up. My ongoing affair with obesity continues to mark my life like a ketchup stain on a black shirt. You can scrape it away but there's still that stain everyone can see, metallic grease. I didn't follow up with my dentist this summer. My mind is a constant race of thoughts and agendas once the lights are turned off. The book I'm leading mentions that one reason men don't enter into Bible studies or church is that the men they view as "saved" are the men that seemingly have it "all together." Nothing could be further from the truth. If not for God, I'd be a walking jello--spineless and adrift.
So for all intents and purposes, I felt I answered honestly.
But there's some truth in how we interact with one another. Jokes are telling sometimes, as they reveal our true nature, those buried feelings that are awkward. Sarcasm is like that to. Sighs, blinks, the non-verbal ticks and looks that give away someone's thoughts when you're in a conversation. Perhaps it was God kicking me in the shins.
You sure about that, brother?
Well, I was. But now that you mentioned it...
Devotions. Prayers. Clean up the house. Sleep. Rest. Get better. Heal.
It's my RX for the future that lies ahead.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Embedded Glass
This past Tuesday at my weekly humbling soccer game, whereby my coaching credentials get shredded by each opposing goal after goal after goal, I had a player completely meltdown on the field. We gave up probably our 15th goal in 8 minutes and she turned and just started crying. Right there on the field. Huge Old Testament tears. For the first time in quite a while, in all the games I have coached, I had no idea what to do. I think deep down she must have felt some kind of disconnect with myself and what was going on in the field. After about the 5th goal, my typical peppy, encouragement-driven, energy-enthused leadership turned to sighs and inward groaning. I think at one point I stopped blowing my whistle when the other team scored. I might have even clapped sarcastically at one point. Even Reycina looked at me quizzically at one point and I was saddened to see that the seed of the coach-daughter relationship had been planted on shaky ground. "I should have kicked that ball, right?" I answered with a, "Duh."
Driving home I felt like I was explaining my behavior to the rear view mirror.
Just because I'm a Christian doesn't mean I don't have bad days.
I can't always be "on."
I know we don't take score, but then don't have a goal.
All were pathetic excuses for the behaviors of a man who simply fell short. Coaching isn't the only aspect that had begun to form thorns in my side. It's those teaching moments when you've spent 30 minutes talking about respect and you find three girls in your class passing a note amongst themselves calling one another "bitches." It's leaving church and hearing the kids talk about honor and serving one another only to fight five minutes later.
And when those thorns dig other events in your life seem amplified. My poor wife had this small, stubby bump on her foot this past month which was probably from an embedded glass she had stepped on. Every time she stepped she felt it. That's how those moments feel when they happen. Trivial events when pulled alongside and analyzed. Forgotten unless they were jotted down in some blog like this.
Like the initial stress of new questions and eyes of wonderment from a new kid coming in 8 weeks after school has started. The computers freezing at the moment of an observation. The parent at dismissal who hit a parked car three times but said, "It wasn't my fault." The back yard that is only 1/3 cut. Your daughter crying in the morning because she can't find her bookbag. Like each step feeling that embedded glass. It stings some but you get over it. But it's always there. That nag.
This past Sunday our pastor spoke about having that winning attitude. He made sports analogies which always resonate easily with men, especially with me. Being from Houston, I've been witness to sports failures and a culture of losing, from the Oilers to the Rockets and my beloved Astros. Only someone from Houston really knows the pain of the Warren Moon years, losing that game in Buffalo, choking in the playoffs. My brother and I reminisce during the Hakeem Olajuwon championship years with the Rockets. Clutch City. Rudy T. Mario Elie's kiss of death. And then the Astros who have taken losing to a new low. Swept in 2005 to the White Sox, Brad Lidge's hanging slider to Albert Pujols, the last few years when we've looked like a minor league team. My dad always joked to my grandpa that he was the "jinx" that kept us from winning. But that culture of losing had more to do with the futility of our sports team than anything my grandpa did.
But those attitudes of losing permeated throughout the city and into my own life growing up. You begin to outwardly express yourself in ways of the culture just to overcompensate for all your shortcomings. Losers complain. Losers make excuses and losers embed the glass even deeper with every step they take.
So when it came time for me to share my closest to Christ moment (those who have undergone the Emmaus walk know what I am referring to here), I had some digging to do. It didn't come to me at some epiphinal (sign of a good blog? Make a new word) moment this week that would have stopped the traffic of my being. But I found some moments. Like when the kids and I compared our square-shaped smiles in the rear-view mirror. Or the laughter I had with my fifth graders listening to "What does the fox say?" at indoor recess. It's the wonderment of a captured prey mantis in a pickle jar. It's the synergy of men who wear Star Wars shirts on the same day.
The automatic things we take for granted. A car starting. The taste of coffee. Lights that brighten a room at the flip of a switch. I wish men's ministry was that easy. Flip the switch and discard the failures of the past, that losing attitude. It's stepping in carpeted green fields instead of glass. The glass you don't see, the glass you don't feel until days later.
Driving home I felt like I was explaining my behavior to the rear view mirror.
Just because I'm a Christian doesn't mean I don't have bad days.
I can't always be "on."
I know we don't take score, but then don't have a goal.
All were pathetic excuses for the behaviors of a man who simply fell short. Coaching isn't the only aspect that had begun to form thorns in my side. It's those teaching moments when you've spent 30 minutes talking about respect and you find three girls in your class passing a note amongst themselves calling one another "bitches." It's leaving church and hearing the kids talk about honor and serving one another only to fight five minutes later.
And when those thorns dig other events in your life seem amplified. My poor wife had this small, stubby bump on her foot this past month which was probably from an embedded glass she had stepped on. Every time she stepped she felt it. That's how those moments feel when they happen. Trivial events when pulled alongside and analyzed. Forgotten unless they were jotted down in some blog like this.
Like the initial stress of new questions and eyes of wonderment from a new kid coming in 8 weeks after school has started. The computers freezing at the moment of an observation. The parent at dismissal who hit a parked car three times but said, "It wasn't my fault." The back yard that is only 1/3 cut. Your daughter crying in the morning because she can't find her bookbag. Like each step feeling that embedded glass. It stings some but you get over it. But it's always there. That nag.
This past Sunday our pastor spoke about having that winning attitude. He made sports analogies which always resonate easily with men, especially with me. Being from Houston, I've been witness to sports failures and a culture of losing, from the Oilers to the Rockets and my beloved Astros. Only someone from Houston really knows the pain of the Warren Moon years, losing that game in Buffalo, choking in the playoffs. My brother and I reminisce during the Hakeem Olajuwon championship years with the Rockets. Clutch City. Rudy T. Mario Elie's kiss of death. And then the Astros who have taken losing to a new low. Swept in 2005 to the White Sox, Brad Lidge's hanging slider to Albert Pujols, the last few years when we've looked like a minor league team. My dad always joked to my grandpa that he was the "jinx" that kept us from winning. But that culture of losing had more to do with the futility of our sports team than anything my grandpa did.
But those attitudes of losing permeated throughout the city and into my own life growing up. You begin to outwardly express yourself in ways of the culture just to overcompensate for all your shortcomings. Losers complain. Losers make excuses and losers embed the glass even deeper with every step they take.
So when it came time for me to share my closest to Christ moment (those who have undergone the Emmaus walk know what I am referring to here), I had some digging to do. It didn't come to me at some epiphinal (sign of a good blog? Make a new word) moment this week that would have stopped the traffic of my being. But I found some moments. Like when the kids and I compared our square-shaped smiles in the rear-view mirror. Or the laughter I had with my fifth graders listening to "What does the fox say?" at indoor recess. It's the wonderment of a captured prey mantis in a pickle jar. It's the synergy of men who wear Star Wars shirts on the same day.
The automatic things we take for granted. A car starting. The taste of coffee. Lights that brighten a room at the flip of a switch. I wish men's ministry was that easy. Flip the switch and discard the failures of the past, that losing attitude. It's stepping in carpeted green fields instead of glass. The glass you don't see, the glass you don't feel until days later.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
The Treasure that Counts
I love me some Indiana Jones. Besides the cultural impact the films have had on future directors and adventure films (despite the last clunker where Dr. Jones survived an atomic bomb while being hidden in a fridge), the opening night frenzy when it opened forever branded in my brain the era of the blockbuster. I remember waiting in a long line at Gulfgate Mall (there was a bridge that spanned the freeway, or at least it seemed that way) my mom and dad waited in. By the time we reached the box office the show had sold out. Incidentally we say "Lady and the Tramp" instead. But this blog is about adventure, treasure and what we hold dear. Talking dogs, while endearing, will have to wait another day.
Dr. Jones went to amazing lengths to secure museum artifacts. He braved snakes, Kate Capshaw's incessant screaming, Thuggee cultists, eyeball soups, German inquisitors, CGI-created fire ants, a precocious Korean child and even George Lucas. But one thing remained--Dr. Jones's sense of adventure was the one thing he cherished, the one thing he he treasured. Those that opposed Dr. Jones were always portrayed as snarling, greedy comic-book inspired villains. The nefarious Dr. Belloq who was in bed with the Nazi's or Mola Ram, who literally embedded his hand in the hearts of men; treasured their own power and possessions over the integrity of Dr. Jones. True as well, each artifact that sent Dr. Jones tumbling from a rolling boulder inevitably was followed by henchmen, villagers and scoundrels who valued the riches beyond the relic. The audience only saw the treasure's importance through Harrison Ford's transfixed gaze. If my son were holding any of the props now he'd have it buried in a toy box within hours. Someone on one of those pawn shows would have been haggling over the price in hopes of financing their dream vacation. A villager would shoot a blow dart in your neck just to get it back.
But treasures are relevant to the user. How many of us know someone, maybe even ourselves, that hold on to antiques and heirlooms in hopes of breaking the bank one day? At our Life Group this Friday, we were asked about the one thing we would move heaven and earth to retrieve if were lost. The obvious answers are our kids, our spouses, but I think what the question really wanted us to admit were the things in our lives that hold hostage our time, the things we stress out over the most. I confessed that my iPhone and BBQ pit were 2 possessions lately that consumed my time and thought. Sometimes it's my laptop, other times it's losing my wallet. Worry seeps in too. Is it worry that keeps me nervous for the entire 6 hour or longer roasting of meat? Is it worry that keeps me reaching for my phone, looking for that one "like" of confirmation, that one retweet that will compliment my life?
I know by this time in the blog I'm blessed to have minute, trivial worries. I am blessed to not be battling sicknesses. The bills sometimes cause some undue stress and that's also a lesson in my own spending habits. But the dumb things I worry about expose my sin more that ever, and it's apparent that God meant for me to hear them.
Like food. This past week I fell into the old trap of allowing food to dictate my mood. My wife makes lunch for the both of us every day (one of the perks of working together) and chose a spinach-apple salad for lunch one day. I wanted meat (which incidentally I had some steak left over anyways) and something more substantial. I made faces over her homemade sweet, honey-induced dressing. I threw a tantrum like a married man does, I stomp away and sigh. Then again during the week I made a comment here or there about what dinner consisted of. Here's my poor wife, treasuring me and the family by making dinner for us, and me complaining.
But worry is like that. Even when you presumably have nothing to worry about, it finds a way to seep back into your existence. I have parents at work worrying about how they're going to feed their kids next week when the government subsidies fold under the weight of this current shutdown. My friend is one of 2 working at the local airbase while the rest of the group is on furlough.
I believe some of the worry we carry as Americans is from the constant barrage of fear and consumption provided by the media and advertisers. Culture has placed these new norms on our lives, like a new car, 401K's, retirements in Tuscan villas and you-deserve-it vacations (anyone find it ironic all these Carnival Cruise ship fiascoes seem to be happening more and more?) and credit card purchased rewards. While our Protestant work ethic has given way to TGIF and I-hate-Monday mantras, the jobs that used to sustain our grandparents are no longer available. I hear from many Ohioans (Texans were different, but that's probably more cultural than anything) about how their dads retired from jobs they held longer than most marriages. Those jobs just aren't around anymore. Thus, the worry of upgrading our homes, the bombardment of bad news from tv and our own self-conscious feelings of inadequacy on all fronts feeds this constant worry.
True as well, men have always valued money. Greed was alive in well in Jesus' time and our own. We'll line up at the Gulfgate mall movie lines for hesit movies, gangster flicks, wall street hustle films and stories about addictions. But living a Kingdom driven life means we should treasure the things God treasures. Just think about the inception of Adam in the garden. God spoke all the world in existence. But for man he chose to mold him from mud. He breathed life into him. The birth of Eve is even more breath-taking. He chose to mold her from a man. That takes not only precision of a deity but the compassion of a maker.
One of my friends from group asked, "Am I building a fortress around my relationship with God?" The creator who took his time when he made us, perfectly in one shot, who chose us before we even existed knows our heart better than anyone. He knows we worry about so many trivial things, the useless belongings and aches of the world. But he loves us too much to simply let us be. He nags with love. He knows that once we find the treasure that counts we'll understand. I found a glimpse of that in an Oklahoma wheat field. I am beginning to see that in the glimpse of people I don't even know. Amid the lesson plans, bills, laundry and laziness, the yearn of God's heart beats on. So, what's there to worry about?
Dr. Jones went to amazing lengths to secure museum artifacts. He braved snakes, Kate Capshaw's incessant screaming, Thuggee cultists, eyeball soups, German inquisitors, CGI-created fire ants, a precocious Korean child and even George Lucas. But one thing remained--Dr. Jones's sense of adventure was the one thing he cherished, the one thing he he treasured. Those that opposed Dr. Jones were always portrayed as snarling, greedy comic-book inspired villains. The nefarious Dr. Belloq who was in bed with the Nazi's or Mola Ram, who literally embedded his hand in the hearts of men; treasured their own power and possessions over the integrity of Dr. Jones. True as well, each artifact that sent Dr. Jones tumbling from a rolling boulder inevitably was followed by henchmen, villagers and scoundrels who valued the riches beyond the relic. The audience only saw the treasure's importance through Harrison Ford's transfixed gaze. If my son were holding any of the props now he'd have it buried in a toy box within hours. Someone on one of those pawn shows would have been haggling over the price in hopes of financing their dream vacation. A villager would shoot a blow dart in your neck just to get it back.
But treasures are relevant to the user. How many of us know someone, maybe even ourselves, that hold on to antiques and heirlooms in hopes of breaking the bank one day? At our Life Group this Friday, we were asked about the one thing we would move heaven and earth to retrieve if were lost. The obvious answers are our kids, our spouses, but I think what the question really wanted us to admit were the things in our lives that hold hostage our time, the things we stress out over the most. I confessed that my iPhone and BBQ pit were 2 possessions lately that consumed my time and thought. Sometimes it's my laptop, other times it's losing my wallet. Worry seeps in too. Is it worry that keeps me nervous for the entire 6 hour or longer roasting of meat? Is it worry that keeps me reaching for my phone, looking for that one "like" of confirmation, that one retweet that will compliment my life?
I know by this time in the blog I'm blessed to have minute, trivial worries. I am blessed to not be battling sicknesses. The bills sometimes cause some undue stress and that's also a lesson in my own spending habits. But the dumb things I worry about expose my sin more that ever, and it's apparent that God meant for me to hear them.
Like food. This past week I fell into the old trap of allowing food to dictate my mood. My wife makes lunch for the both of us every day (one of the perks of working together) and chose a spinach-apple salad for lunch one day. I wanted meat (which incidentally I had some steak left over anyways) and something more substantial. I made faces over her homemade sweet, honey-induced dressing. I threw a tantrum like a married man does, I stomp away and sigh. Then again during the week I made a comment here or there about what dinner consisted of. Here's my poor wife, treasuring me and the family by making dinner for us, and me complaining.
But worry is like that. Even when you presumably have nothing to worry about, it finds a way to seep back into your existence. I have parents at work worrying about how they're going to feed their kids next week when the government subsidies fold under the weight of this current shutdown. My friend is one of 2 working at the local airbase while the rest of the group is on furlough.
I believe some of the worry we carry as Americans is from the constant barrage of fear and consumption provided by the media and advertisers. Culture has placed these new norms on our lives, like a new car, 401K's, retirements in Tuscan villas and you-deserve-it vacations (anyone find it ironic all these Carnival Cruise ship fiascoes seem to be happening more and more?) and credit card purchased rewards. While our Protestant work ethic has given way to TGIF and I-hate-Monday mantras, the jobs that used to sustain our grandparents are no longer available. I hear from many Ohioans (Texans were different, but that's probably more cultural than anything) about how their dads retired from jobs they held longer than most marriages. Those jobs just aren't around anymore. Thus, the worry of upgrading our homes, the bombardment of bad news from tv and our own self-conscious feelings of inadequacy on all fronts feeds this constant worry.
True as well, men have always valued money. Greed was alive in well in Jesus' time and our own. We'll line up at the Gulfgate mall movie lines for hesit movies, gangster flicks, wall street hustle films and stories about addictions. But living a Kingdom driven life means we should treasure the things God treasures. Just think about the inception of Adam in the garden. God spoke all the world in existence. But for man he chose to mold him from mud. He breathed life into him. The birth of Eve is even more breath-taking. He chose to mold her from a man. That takes not only precision of a deity but the compassion of a maker.
One of my friends from group asked, "Am I building a fortress around my relationship with God?" The creator who took his time when he made us, perfectly in one shot, who chose us before we even existed knows our heart better than anyone. He knows we worry about so many trivial things, the useless belongings and aches of the world. But he loves us too much to simply let us be. He nags with love. He knows that once we find the treasure that counts we'll understand. I found a glimpse of that in an Oklahoma wheat field. I am beginning to see that in the glimpse of people I don't even know. Amid the lesson plans, bills, laundry and laziness, the yearn of God's heart beats on. So, what's there to worry about?
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