Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Sweeping the Egg Shells


It’s true that there is no sense worrying about the next day because tomorrow will worry about itself. This past spring I was worried about tomorrow based on the failures of the day. In my conversation with my principal I stated that last spring, I came home, napped, ate and did nothing else. It wasn’t until June was over that I finally began to realize that enough was enough. Was I going to do this to my body again? How will weighing over 350 pounds affect me this time? In my 40’s no less.

This school year hasn’t been the madness that was the spring. The Fall season isn’t typically a time for renewal, but for a school teacher, Fall means crisp new bulletin boards and cellophane-wrapped loose-leaf paper. Its new shoes, clean desks and fresh dry erase markers. I have 31 kids this year, one over my contractual limit. I had 33 at one point in September, but two students were sent to overflow schools. My one boy who left told me, “Thanks for being a great teacher for 6 days.”

It’s amazing how something can change in the matter of days. People move in and out of your life. The schedule offers no mercy for teachers, and even more so as a parent. There are objectives to reach and lessons to be learned. This is true of parenting as well.

I was thankful that school ended last spring simply because there weren’t any more chances for my son’s school to call us. No more tantrums with “unfair” teachers and “stupid” rules. Our home life was manageable, to a certain degree. I didn’t know that the bad habits that I had established as a parent months before, even years, would manifest itself so disastrously this fall. While school was being managed, nothing would prepare me for what was to come in September.

Any parent of an oppositional defiant kid knows how difficult it is to reign in a child who simply won’t be governed. Any parent of an ADHD child also knows the challenges that impulsivity and self-control have on your home life. We have both. A nasty cocktail of emotions and defiance. When your son runs out the house and into the neighborhood because he doesn’t want to do his homework, what would you do? Do you make a scene in the neighborhood? Do you begin to chase him and hope that he cowers on the curb like our dog would when he escapes from a hole in the fence?

The evidence of our struggles mark different areas of our home like a minefield. There are holes in the basement walls. In the living room, our ottoman sits lopsided. One of its stump legs has been broken from too many body jumps of a kid who thinks leaping from the couch is an Olympic event. Another jagged hole sits like a portrait behind the recliner. Upstairs my son’s room door doesn’t close all the way because the hundreds of slams went against the manufacturer’s intent.

A visitor wouldn’t know about the invisible egg shells all of step around the house. No one knows the screams and tantrums we’ve all had to deal with, on a constant basis, for the past several weeks. The questions of authority, the cries of unfairness.

Yesterday, I had to slam the door of the van and lock my door to keep my son from screaming at me. The problem? Does it matter? It was the only time in my life where I was happy to leave the house. I remember sneaking peaks at him in kindergarten, hoping he was doing well. I’ve coached him in several sports to keep him near. I followed his path when he first began to ride his bike, allowing him to feel grown up to go freely on his own, but still young enough to need me.

I went to school. Our class sang silly songs. I laid on the floor in the hallway to play a game with a reading group. I taught my ass off and succeeded, like many classrooms across the nation. But when the bell rang and it was time to leave, I felt anxiety of going home to my son. Who thinks this way? What parent doesn’t want to be with their kids?

When teachers call their students’ homes, they speak with the voice of someone at their wit’s end. Sometimes they hear a voice on the other end that is just as clueless as to the behavior of their child. It’s a voiced helplessness. Inner city kids get bad raps for this. They curse their teachers out. They throw things. But when those behaviors are happening at home, there is no one to call to ask for advice. There is no one on the other end of the line who just listens and feels just as astonished as you are.

So I called the only person equipped to help.

I date all of my devotions. On days like these, when there are no foreseeable answers to my problems, I find gaps between the dates. A week here, a few days here. It’s a reminder that I need to have that conversation on a daily basis. It’s not just saying “Yes” to Jesus every day, my salvation, but it’s also about connection. I noticed it had been 24 days since my last devotion. I had been filling my time with reading, tv binge watching, playing apps and flirting with a pornography addiction. Nothing in that last sentence will make me the father I need to be for my home.

Sure enough, God sent me to Philippians 3. Forget what is behind you and strain toward what is ahead. Press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God is calling me heavenward. Then James. Consider it pure joy when you are facing trials because the testing of faith develops perseverance.

In my commentary I read by J. Vernon McGee, he states that patience is the fruit of the Holy Spirit. How does one attain such fruit? “Patience comes through suffering and testing.” He goes on to say that there is much confusion, strife, turmoil and criticism in today’s church because many of its members have not fully matured. They are still babes in Christ. My church is my home. “God must send us trouble so that we learn patience.” I know there’s a lot in that one statement. On a theological level, you may disagree with McGee. But in my case, perhaps this is what is needed for all of us in our home to grow. We are babes no longer.

So today was a day of doctor’s appointments. Adjustments to the calendar came in the form of much needed rain. Otherwise we would have had practices for both of my kids, and a perfect excuse to not change anything. My son isn’t happy with the rules, but what kid is. It’s time to earn some privileges, and it’s time to sweep the egg shells out of the home. I know it already will be another test. He screamed earlier about how unfair it all was. I stayed patient. I didn’t raise my voice.

Tomorrow starts a new day. Doesn’t it always? I’ll say “Yes” to God and wear the clothes of a mature man. At least outwardly. The true test of whether or not I can dress in the true maturity of a growing Christian remains to be seen. But it won’t be another 24 days until I ask God to help again. I don’t have the time to wait.

 

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Properly Equipped

Today, my son is spending his last full night in Texas. He's been there with my uncle and other family members for almost a month. I've been seeing the pictures my mom is posting, and we've kept up with all the ceremony of the event through text messages. This is the longest time he's been away from home and despite the hugs, kisses and photos, this will not be the last time he sees his Texas family. Goodbyes are sometimes like that. They carry more resonance because we want to preserve the moment. We know that the feeling of having our loved ones near us wanes after time, despite the phone calls, text messages and pictures. The smell of them around, the sound of their voice, the sound of their laughter--it all fades in time. And when it returns, it's the greatest sound we've heard. It's like picking up your favorite book, rereading a chapter and capturing that feeling of nostalgia within the pages. Every time my family visits Houston, it's much like this. It hurts to leave, and we make a mini-ceremony of the last day. But when I see my mom again after months away, it's just as sweet as when I was living there.

Some goodbyes feel like forever. On the various mission trips and work camps I've been a part of, saying goodbye is exhausting. We take huge group pictures and we hug the people who have changed our lives--all the while thinking we were changing theirs--because the distance between us feels so far. I have a friend that says he cannot wait to spend time with them in eternity. Human life is hard when you cannot keep all the people you love in one room. The families and friends I met in Oklahoma, Arkansas, Illinois and just recently in southern Ohio, have a special place in my heart and by knowing Jesus, my heart continues to grow. I think it grows to fit these special people in our lives, our loved ones.

I spent another week away from home on a smaller mission trip this last week in Wheelersburg, OH. The trip had its typical beats--the nights spent in a church classroom, aching mornings and dirty shoes--but the emotions and people you meet are anything buy typical. We were minutes away from a swollen Ohio River--thanks to almost a month of continuous rains here in Ohio--and surrounded by steep hills and tree-lined mountains.

We had a wheelchair ramp to build, and I began the week in worried anticipation. I have always felt that I am not prepared for work camp. I shy away from any kind of labor that demands the use of a tool. The thought of building a ramp with a group of junior high students had me second guessing myself. We did run into our share of obstacles--circular saws that skipped, running out of supplies, the rain that made the yard a soupy mess--but the main one was my attitude.

I had made the decision to leave the volunteer youth staff a few days heading into the trip. It was a difficult decision that I had been wrestling with for several months. My wife and I have been serving the youth in our church in some capacity for several years. Ultimately, it wasn't the forced conversations I sometimes had with the junior high kids on Sunday mornings, or the sense of frustrations I had when the same boys would rather play with bottle caps and Styrofoam cups than to actually open their Bibles that had me step away. These last few months have been spiritually dead for me. As I distanced myself away from my Lord and savior, it became increasingly difficult to serve the students, to serve anyone, without feeling the need to clean up my own self. Each Sunday, without the proper equipment of prayer or humility, I found it harder and harder to serve them.

On the last day, it became increasingly harder for us to finish. Our saw conked out, and the energy one has on Monday is all but gone on Thursday. The kids become more listless, as I did too. We found ourselves waiting for supplies, tools, wood, more water. Finally, it became time for us to make a decision on the crew as we were nearing the time for showers and dinner. At one point, my friend tells me, "I know you want to see this through," and I honestly wanted to just leave. Like literally drive off. That wasn't the goodbye God had in store.

There were 3 of us that finished it out. A good friend with a helpful knowledge of carpentry work, a high school kid who was our student leader and myself. We lopped off and edged up the corners, cleaned up the site and rounded off the edges. It was the best work I've been a part of in most of my adult life. With the attention we paid--we finished just before 8pm--we didn't get to take many pictures. My phone died and the camera was back at the church. Even the homeowners, who had been witness to the last day from the porch swing, left prematurely (her sister was having her 70th birthday party celebration). I find it ironic that on the day of goodbye, when we line up for the grand group picture, we were unable to solidify the memory in media form. We simply swept up the deck and made our way home. The satisfaction of goodbye would be for another crew that day.

The last Sunday I spent as a youth volunteer went much the same. My friend offered some very kind words, heartfelt, and there was clapping, lots of clapping. But in the end, I left the youth room like I do on most Sundays--down the grass onto the parking lot and back to the church to get the kids.

Perhaps that's why it doesn't feel like one of the goodbyes I mentioned above. This one feels more like a hyphen, a pause before the grand finale. I know that in mending my heart to serve my family, God will provide a path back into youth ministry. So I'm not going to share any pictures of fond farewells, dear reader. I will not quote my favorite book or end this blog on a philosophical question. My next mission is just ahead and it's nearer to me that a trip to somewhere else. It's home, my wife, my kids, my heart. God owns all the proper equipment. And I can't wait to get started.

Monday, July 6, 2015

The Metaphor of Geese

I'm admitting it now, I was obsessed with a goose. A momma goose to be precise.

Each spring the area from my home and my daughter's elementary school sees a spike in the geese population. We have a series of small, intimate open fields and retention ponds. We used to have ducks when we first moved in the area. They were brazen. They would fly into my pool in the early spring before I began cleaning it and adding chlorine. But the geese have moved in and kicked the ducks out.

And each spring the traffic slows when the geese cross the roads, and my kids and I gawk at the little geese babies waddling in the front of the school. By summer, most of the geese are gone and life returns to normal.

Typically we don't get close enough to see any of the geese hatchlings (let me stop now and remind you, dear reader, that I did not search geese.com to get all the pertinent and factual information or terminology regarding the Canadian geese population. All geese naturalist can send me an email) or their nesting places. Except this year. Our babysitter had relocated to an apartment right down the road, transitioning from her home until the house in South Carolina is finalized. In early May, we noticed one particular momma geese. She never moved from her location at the end of the curb. She looked like she was sitting on a treasure there among the mulch. Sure enough, our babysitting friend, Danielle, let us know that momma geese was indeed sitting on a few eggs.

But there was a caveat. Momma goose had been sitting on those eggs for some time. Perhaps the eggs were duds. Knowing that the momma goose was hell bent on staying there with her babies gave me some room for thought on an otherwise busy end of the year. School was nearing its end. Both kids were in their respective sports--my son was starting baseball and finishing lacrosse while my daughter was halfway through her soccer season--and both my wife and I were barely above water. But that momma goose. She got to me.

Everyday we came to get our daughter, it was a chance for us to stop by momma goose and evaluate her progress. She didn't move from her perch, and one of the reasons why we thought her situation was desperate was because there were other goose families in the area prancing around and flaunting their Darwinian prowess. Baby geese everywhere. Stumbling over curbs, stopping traffic, being cute. And then there's momma goose, all alone.

The one detail we noticed when we snapped the picture was that there were feathers. I wanted to lift up momma goose just to see what was there. What would I see? Eggs waiting to hatch? Hollow eggs? Eggs cracked open to reveal some grisly feat of nature?

I had this complete blog ready for you, dear reader, of how this momma goose and her relentless pursuit for a family. Somehow this was a metaphor of my own life, my own stubbornness to leave old habits die. Each day I came home, exhausted, and I'd open this here computer I'm typing with now and begin. And each time I stopped. Too many distractions. We had practice almost every night. Dinner, homework, lesson plans. In some ways, that momma goose was like my life too. And other lives. We've all found ourselves unwilling to give up even though everything around us is moving on. What about my past was I unwilling to let go? Momma goose wasn't forthcoming with any answers.

Weeks went by and rain or wind or cloudy skies, momma goose was there. We noticed the other baby geese in the vicinity were getting older. Baby geese were now becoming awkward teens. Their stubby legs weren't as cute as they dangled from their fur like twigs. Their yellow feathers were becoming less bushy. No one likes a teenager, not even nature.

My wife had looked into our goose problem. Apparently there was still hope. The period of time between laying and hatching could span up to 3 weeks or more. By the end of May, the subject of my blog changed. What if momma goose was right all along? She's sticking it out to the very end. The daddy goose was no where to be found (typical, right?) but she was holding down the fort. She would prevail. What a great blog that would have been for the end of the school year. Oh how it would have aligned with how I was feeling in school. A teacher ready to give up to a renewed sense of purpose. I could hear Arsenio Hall in the background, "Praise the lawd!" 

At one point, momma goose stood up, spread her wings and allowed us to see the gifts she was preparing. How magnificent they were. God's creation, just awaiting their lives. Who was I to say the eggs were duds. Hope reigned.

Sure enough, a week or so later, we saw momma goose had left the nest. We grew alarmed but she had left the area covered in feathers and leaves. That's one smart momma goose. The one variable that allows the geese to thrive here, especially in the Ohio suburbs, is the lack of predators. Dogs are leashed and categorized. If the geese had populated the area before, perhaps there would have been snakes and wolves and all sorts of nefarious Disney creatures looking to eat. Suburban sprawl has all but eliminated the predators. Most ecosystems in Ohio have no threats to scavengers like possum and squirrel and offer no deterrent to geese.

And the day finally came. The baby geese had arrived. We didn't care if we were late to work so we snapped a few pictures of the celebratory event. Sure enough, daddy goose had come back to the fray. There they were, five baby geese looking cute, stumbling up a curb, following their destinies.

Our family did survive May. My daughter's soccer team turned on their winning ways and won our bracket tourney. My son's lacrosse season ended without much fanfare and baseball was up and down but overall fun. Our school years ended with hugs and smiles, like they always do. Despite testing and the rigor of an everyday job, teaching students always ends on the relationships you forge.

What of momma goose? Her nest was quickly mulched over and gone. Most of the geese population have moved on. It's quiet in the suburbs again. Cars speed through intersections and our pool is full of chlorine. Summer has already transitioned into July. June for me was fairly lazy. It was part feeling sorry for myself and part vindictive relaxation. July has come. It's time for me to start stumbling over curbs, following the lead of my God once more. You see how this blog turned out? It's all a metaphor. Even a momma goose's story.


 
 

Monday, June 29, 2015

Two Sides of the Rainbow: Thoughts on Gay Marriage

It's interesting to see the dichotomy of newsfeeds and comments on Facebook. Little did Mark Zuckerberg realize that when he designed and created his social media platform that it would evolve into a political machine. Professions are lost because of ill-advised posts and pictures, words are taken out of context and the "news" is skewed towards our political leanings. In a span of a few hours, I can read left-wing diatribe/op-eds from Media Matters and Addicting Info and right-wring manifestos from Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck. It's not really news anymore that we ingest. Much of it is in the form of entertainment, sure, that's what drives ratings. But the news, regardless if you are right or left leaning, conforms to our worldview. The news serves us a heaping platter of info wrapped in our assumptions and stereotypes so that we aren't challenged into thinking otherwise. This has been even more evident in the current Supreme Court decision on same-sex marriage.

I have been reluctant to share my thoughts on the matter, simply because there have been some great reads that are much better than mine, and mainly because I didn't want to make a knee-jerk reaction to something so sensitive to many. To simply wrap up a lifetime's worth of thoughts and biases toward this topic in 160 characters or less is not only counterproductive but insensitive as well. In order for me to completely have an opinion, and to speak with love I must be able to go back and look at my own history. It is only by looking through this lens that I can start to apply my walk with Christ and what the world seems to want me to feel on the matter.


Like most families, I too have gay family members. The ones growing up in my life were confined to one particular group of cousins. Out of the 5 boys, two of them are gay. Both lived in contrasting styles. Cousin X (I'm saving his name because one day he can tell his story) lived with a man (we jokingly called him "Roberta") at the time my family visited him that Thanksgiving when I was a freshman in high school. Up until that point, being gay in my life was one of ridicule. Boys openly called one another faggot when we teased one another, or we referred to anything effeminate as "gay." It was a slur, and I understand why it's a slur now. You didn't want to be "puto" growing up in a Mexican family. Cousin X challenged this worldview.

To me, living a gay lifestyle meant you were flamboyant, sick with HIV or a derelict of society. X held down a relationship with a man, held a job, and could cook better than my mom. Except for the borderline x-rated jokes (especially at the expense of my step-father, who acted like he was going to catch the "gay disease" by just being in the house), it was like being with any other member of my family.

Later, when I was in and out of college, Cousin X moved to Houston (he was living in San Antonio at that time) and ended up working with me at the Harris County Toll Road. I was to keep his lifestyle secret (hence the nickname of his partner "Roberta" came into good fortune when talking about his life) for no exchange other than having an inside joke no one else seemed to know (except for the one gay guy who worked with us who was more out and wanted everyone else to know). X and I became friends. We went to the movies together, we enjoyed the crude humor of Howard Stern (his book, "Private Parts" had just been printed) and most of all, I was able to ask Eddie questions that made me curious. How did you know you were gay? Were you always gay?

X had once been married as well (I think in some sense, to extinguish the fact of his life he was trying to suppress), and when he came out to his father, he was met with understanding and love. Of course, I cannot speak for my cousin X, and his story is his own, but to me being gay was a choice. He was married, had sex with a woman, and found that sex with a man was better. There's wasn't Lady Gaga in the background telling me he was just born that way. And X never argued with me if I felt otherwise. While I was not homosexual, he never tried to persuade me otherwise. That was the other thing about gayness that was prevalent growing up, that all gay men were pedophiles and opportunist. Hang around with a gay man, you were sure to turn gay yourself.

X's brother Y was also gay, but he lived his life much differently. Y had a partner too, but they were outwardly more dysfunctional. Y lived more out as well. He had a nude picture of a man on his fridge like one would have magnets. Need a drink, see a penis. A very large penis. Y was the first to take me and my wife to a gay bar. It was there I realized that gay men at a bar are just happier than straight men at a local bar. I sipped Mike's Hard Liquor and sugar and YMCA wasn't blaring on the radio in a continuous loop like I had thought. And Y drank like no other. My family, who has a rich history in the art of liquor and beer, has nothing on him.

So I had these two views on homosexuality. One flamboyant and one reserved. One's choice vs one's seemingly uncontrollable vice. This went against my worldview on anyone gay. There was a kid my freshman year who was out when it wasn't okay to be out. He wanted to dress for PE in the girls' locker room. Everyone teased him but he came right back at them. He had effeminate ways and I looked upon him with general disdain. I never took the time to get to know anyone else on a personal level who identified with being gay. One man who worked with my mom cross dressed and was "crazy"--in terms of his lifestyle. Crazy being you drink and party all the time. I never was in the position to allow myself to get to know someone homosexual on a regular basis. It's not like I avoided anyone gay either.

Later, when I became a teacher, I was able to work alongside gay teachers and administrators. As an adult, the immature slurs and general disdain was smoothed over by my own self-conscious attitude towards my own actions and because I knew in my heart I was not to treat others with that type of disrespect. Becoming Christian, there was never a sense of "I must condemn homosexuals" wherever I went kind of feeling. It wasn't a priority. I had my own sin to worry about.

So when the Supreme Court upheld same-sex marriage, I had mixed feelings. I don't personally agree that marriage is between man and a man, or a woman with a woman. I wont use this blog to lay the framework from the Bible. That's not my job. Just saying the word "Bible" will probably illicit some kind of reaction that will either be positive or negative. You see, I know there are many that will use the Bible's words to justify just about anything--and both the righteous and the atheists will do this. This wont be that blog. That being said, this is what the Supreme Court's decision means for me in my household.

One, before I agree or disagree with someone on Facebook, I'm going to look within my own marriage. I believe that humans have destroyed the sanctity of marriage. How many divorces and annulments will we perform before we realize that wasn't God's best either? Growing up, there were so many movies and tv shows that put marriage in a bad light, it's any wonder why gays even want the hassle. I don't think many Christians can say anything when their churches are filled with divorced men and women, those having affairs and those living in sin before marriage. Cause guess what, homosexuality isn't the only sin in the Bible related to sin. It's ANY sex outside of marriage. That means no masturbation. That means no hook ups, no affairs, no living together before marriage. Many Christians are silent on this matter. We have a high-school nephew who is having sex with his girlfriend. This isn't God's best, in any form or fashion. When we see him we love him like if he wasn't living this way (and he has other behaviors that falls before God's best as well), but I do joke with him in a biting sarcastic kind of way. It's my one way of suggesting that what he's doing should not be looked upon with favor. Other people in the family will not say anything to him. As Christians we are so capable of allowing our loved ones to live in sin, and not just the sexual kind, but rail on and on about homosexuality. How many of our loved ones are we willing to lose to sin simply because we don't love them enough to speak truth in their lives, and conversely challenging ourselves to live better.

So allowing homesexuals to marry doesn't threaten my marriage. You know what does? Looking at porn, of which I have and still am not completely free from. I know I have a sin that will probably be with me forever. Being married means that I must extinguish that sexual sin. If I can't drop porn, and I'm betting many men who posted on Facebook recently about gay marriage don't either, how can we condemn someone else?

As a Christian, my marriage must be an example to the world that living into God's best. The problem is many on the outside see our lifestyles as not making a difference on the world around them. How many husbands love their jobs more than their wives? How many husbands are not the spiritual heads of their households? I've seen silly memes about how can we get so enraged over two men getting married when celebrities are married in divorced within days. But guess what, no one in their right mind should be basing their marriage on that of a Hollywood celebrity.

What else threatens my marriage? Not loving my wife like Christ loved the church. I'm not always a willing servant towards her. I don't always put aside my selfishness for her needs. No way I'm making some diatribe when I can't even be a better husband on a daily basis.

And lust. Lust threatens my marriage. My lust for a perfect classroom who pass all their tests so I can have a better evaluation. My lust for women I see on a daily basis, regardless if they are in yoga pants. My lust for food to satisfy my cravings. And same-sex marriage is a threat?

Perhaps gay marriage will only make Christians decide once and for all where they stand? Will they decide to love and work on their own marriages, making them the epitome of grace and servanthood. Or will they point fingers while their own marriages suffer? I know that the only way to be the best witness for Christ is to be willing to die to my own desires each and every day. I don't expect non-Christians to understand my feelings towards God and what God calls me to do. The Bible is my playbook, my outline for a life best lived with love. If this makes me a bigot in someone's eyes, that's their judgment. I hope churches can live on their standards without being forced to adhere to something they don't believe in. The Muslims in America don't have to, so why the outcry towards Christians? I know the issues are deeper than baking a cake for a gay wedding too. But I think that if I were to ask Eddie about this, he would say, "I'll bake my own ----ing cake."

God calls all of us to live to his will. This is a call to live a different kind of life. I try to surround myself with the types of influences that can challenge me to be at God's best. I grew weary more than ever this past year, but I'm not ready to throw in the towel. The Supreme Court decisions, and quite frankly, those of our president, governor, mayor or city councilman, don't carry much weight compared to what I read in my Bible. Marriage isn't a right to me simply because it takes two to marry. We don't have a right to much when God can snap his fingers and end us, end me. I wont let a Facebook rant come between me and my eternal gift, the gift he offers freely for all of us. Time to start dying.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Invitation to Canaan

In Greek, the word for "sin" is amartia. It literally means "to miss the mark." It's an archery term that refers to missing the gold. It's not missing the target, it's missing perfection. I was reminded today at my son's baseball game that missing the target and missing totally are two different things. Such is sin.

I'm thinking of it like darts. It's that lime green section right around the red target. Looking closely at a dart board you see where the marks hit the most. There's little dots covering the middle red, or the ring around it. It shows accuracy. I would see a Christian happy with those results. Then there's the holes you see on the outer edge of the board. Some holes are even on the wall (at least they did on my garage). What the hell happened that day? Lose you temper? Yelled at the kids?

Too bad sin isn't so easy to clarify, quantify and categorize. The world makes sins easy to forget by labeling them a disorder or a problem.  It's the whispers of gossip we pass from friend to friend.
He's got a gambling problem. We have clinics and support groups for the various addictions we face, from sex to drugs to alcohol. And if calling them disorders and problems don't erase the word sin from our vocabulary, we call some sins crimes. Crimes can be categorized and given a consequence. I have found that I try and base my sinful nature on the back of someone else's sin. It's not as bad as that guy, I think. It could be worse, I say. But to God, we all fall short.

My son struggled on the mound tonight. His small misses were within the strike zone. He knows that throwing the ball right down the middle is not smart baseball, unless you can throw it by them. My son is a nibbler. He watches the pros eat up batters with off speed pitches and hitting their corners. He had a few full counts on batters, walked two and lost a 10-pitch at bat battle by giving up a 2 run double. His worst miss was the first play of the inning. The first batter hit a comeback up the middle, and like most of the season, my son handled it and readied his throw. But instead of hitting the target of his friend's glove at first base, he threw it high. Eventually the runner scored.  Had he made that play early on, maybe he would have made it out of the inning. We just never know sometimes. Even in life, we make mistakes, some huge ones, and we get to wonder if you made that decision or made that change, how would have the rest of the day been? I've always been fascinated with the idea that the stench of sin can linger longer than we ever expected. Sure, we are forgiven by a just and powerful God. And we certainly aren't perfect. But do the sins we have ultimately lead to other events in our life that can stymy the blessings that God has in store for us? I believe God has given us those answers.

Early in the season, my son made the comment that another pitcher on the team "sucked." He's been vocal other times too about an error a teammate makes, always seeing fault in others. The umpires he saves for his biggest rants. After tonight's game, he vowed to never pitch again. Even God is out to get him. When rain threatened a potential cancellation, he said, "God hates me." Do I believe God is sending a message to my 11 year old? I don't believe God wants us to suffer, but I do believe he allows our actions and tongues to lay the red carpet for fate to intervene.

God has always had a plan for his people. The first people to see this were the Israelites. God promised them the land of Canaan, the land flowing with milk and honey. The Israelites, as you might know, didn't accept this with one accepting free cash. They mumbled, they grumbled, they grew restless and provoked God's anger when things didn't go their way. In Edwin Cole's book, "Maximized Manhood," Cole describes 5 sins that kept them from Canaan.

Lust.
Fornication.
Idolatry.
Murmuring.
Tempting Christ.

I don't have the blog length to go into all of them. I know eventually I will be journaling and giving some perspective on how they apply to me. But I learned something new on the last one. Cole explains that we tempt Christ when we expect God to intervene and bless us even when we fail to live up to the salvation he has given us. We want the pleasures of sin and the benefits of God's grace. This is contrary to God's will and inconsistent with his character, Cole says. We demand that God provide another way to the cross without having to live a life of discipline.

We cheat in our business dealings and wonder why the business isn't doing better. Children reject "the godly counsel of parents" and wonder why their lives aren't better. We demand social programs from our government, and from the pulpit too, but no one wants to live with the discipline it takes to make a lasting impact that could change a life forever.

I always thought tempting Christ was what Satan did to Jesus when he was in the desert for 40 days. In some ways we do the same. We live one way during the week but expect God bless our endeavors. Reading the book is like being hit with darts to the heart. I've been questioning God's plan for my family since this winter when faced with adversity. I want God to "fix" my family troubles but I'm not willing to do the hard work it takes, the devotions, the prayer, the living the right kind of life. When school was tough I questioned whether or not God was with me, but I was unwilling to make the proper changes in my life to allow God to work.

It's clear God allowed me to lay the red carpet of my fate. He's letting me run my mouth, letting me build my house on pleasures and disobedience, thinking that I'll get blessed on the back end because I play the part on Sundays. It's hard to admit defeat. Instead I have buried my head in my phone, my plate of food, my complaints.

I've been mad at God for so long, not realizing that God could care less about the hoops I jump through to impress others and myself. He wants my heart, not my stack of books I've read on Christianity. He wants my submission, to give over the control of my life, not a spreadsheet of boxes checked that make me an outward Christian.

God never said following him would be easy. However the doors of opportunity reveal the red carpet towards a new life. That's the life I want. That's the life worth living. It's an invitation to Canaan.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

The Fear of Speech

For most Americans, the notion of the First Amendment has long been lost in some history book liner notes. I vaguely remember something about a list of freedoms. Freedom of the press meant you could publish anything disparaging about the government you wanted without fear of reprisal. The freedom of religion simply meant that the King could not dictate the law of the land, and since American was breaking free from British rule, this meant they didn't have to bow down to the whims of the King and the church. The freedom to assemble meant new Americans could protest peacefully against taxation perhaps, and the freedom of speech was the right to disagree with the government without fear that a redcoat militiamen would quarantine your home.

The news propagates this fear of losing our freedoms. There are wars on women, Christmas, religious freedoms and lately, speech. While the attention given to ISIS by many of my friends on Facebook warrants attention, the beheading of Coptic Christians in Egypt has nothing in common with a department store saying, "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Today, someone who is pro-life is bemoaned for stifling the reproductive rights of women. Saying that you believe in traditional marriage means you're labeled as a bigot and anti-gay. While we surely have freedom of speech against our government, we seem to have less freedom of speech when it comes to disagreeing with your neighbor.

My son's definition of freedom of speech means he can spout off any opinion, especially those that he does not agree with. He is realizing, slowly, that he cannot say, "This is stupid" towards his teacher (or "this teacher sucks" too), especially within earshot of what he calls the "classroom snitch." He blurted out one afternoon that his teachers were "working him like a slave," failing to realize the insensitivity of the remark and the loose comparison between homework and manual forced labor. He doesn't quite understand that he cannot call his friend a "douche" even though that friend agrees to be called such. He also doesn't';t realize that saying, "these nuts" when he answers a question could get him looks and a few days in detention.

I too learned the hard way that the freedom of speech stops upon those that disagree and those that appose. I was silenced during my years as a sports writer in high school, when the football coach and the principal felt that my words were disparaging and lacked the proper blind's-eye hoorah that a school-run newspaper should have. My Michael Jackson "Thriller" album was taken from me when I was in elementary, because my parodies of his hits were way ahead of their time, and were not appropriate whatsoever for an elementary school environment. Even the note that I passed to a good-looking girl back in junior high detention disparaging my principal's hair piece was not considered free speech. I went from an after school detention to an in-school suspension.

Perhaps this is not what the Founding Fathers were thinking with the First Amendment. Do you think they would ever see a world of ours today, where we have unlimited access to social media? Where we can say just about anything without reprieve? But in my profession, teachers have to be careful about what they say for fear of losing their jobs. I have unfollowed plenty of people on Facebook for complaining and being negative that weren't teachers, but if I went on Facebook and railed on my kids about how awful they were or made remarks about their parents, I'd be reprimanded, perhaps even fired. If my political leanings do not adhere to the mainstream liberal view, I could be made into a scapegoat for why the educational system is wrecked. I cannot post pictures of me having beers in a bar. I cannot post racy memes with sexual overtones.

I wonder if the Founding Fathers knew that the speech they were protecting would be first ran through the filter of common sense. While I could post about the things above, and I've seen them every week on the news from teachers across America, I choose not to because those things are not part of my character. Why should I be protected from the effect of powerful words, when my own conscious should be the first indicator that what is about to be said is wrong.

It's written somewhere in the Bible that I haven't been reading enough of as of late, that man cannot tame the tongue. How evident is this today. Someone smarter than me devised that every YouTube video, every news story and every blog can have a comments section. Just read a comments section today and you'll lose hope in humanity. Along the way for advocating our freedom of speech, we have elected to stop worrying about what we should say. We may have the right to say it, but should we?

So if you've been watching the news, the American Freedom Defense Initiative held a cartoon contest for the best depiction of Muhammad. Any depiction of Muhammad is considered blasphemous in the Muslim world, to the point of death. Of course the event was made to incite and draw attention to themselves. Nothing like a group of flag-waving, Bible fearing, white-only Texans decrying the "peaceful" religion of Islam by being intolerant themselves. The contest drew out the crazies, as two jihadist stormed the event in hopes of killing the people inside. The two men were killed by an off duty cop but the yellow tape wasn't even rolled up when the media took hold of the narrative. The promoters were hoping this event would draw out the radical Muslims--in Texas no less!--in the hopes that this would prove to the world that indeed the radical Muslims were even more evil here in America than the ISIS beheaders an ocean away. But the media attacked the promoters instead. Did they bring it upon themselves by inciting the jihadist? Did they provoke would-be killers into crossing the line. They get what they deserved, many seemed to say.

For the first time in a long time, I felt that old liberalism creep back into the fray. Would my opinion now contradict other decisions and opinions I've had before? For instance, in today's world, a woman who dresses provocative would be subject to more looks, perhaps even unwarranted attention that another woman who wasn't dressed provocative. To even attempt to explain this scenario is now considered slut shaming. In the same breath, we decry the increase of young girls wearing yoga pants in high school and protest the archaic and outdated dress code policies of schools across the nation and point fingers back at the boys who take second looks. So where does it stop? Are we going to the point that girls are not to be told anything about their dress code in fear of offending them, and blame the boys for their perverted hearts? So instead of addressing decorum and manners, on both sides of the aisle, we allow our standards to whittle down out of fear that we will be called a bigot. I would hope there are young girls who choose not to dress in yoga pants simply because they can wear something that doesn't draw attention to their bodies because guess what, their bodies shouldn't be the very thing that matters most. Now the flip side is more evident in our society. Women who dress this way are taking ownership of their sexuality. In some circles, even pornography is considered empowering. Really?

The promoters had every right to stage an event that would incite negative reactions. Although I doubt they thought it would bring out actual murderers, their point was muzzled by their methods. When we fail to take in account the other side, we wont be opening any ears to our cause. Of course it is alarming that jihadist are so fanatical that they would decide to take that kind of action. But I'm not praising the promoters for pointing out that killers live all around us.

Let me say for the record that it would have been a horrific scene if that off duty cop hadn't acted heroically. We'd be talking about something much different. That should be a concern, and while the media may try and distract our attention, the debate on the should we of the argument must be addressed. Should women be catcalled and abused because they have on tight clothes or short shorts? Of course not. I don't buy into the "they-had-it-coming" arguments because that's a slippery slope. But we have to realize as a society that what we wear, what we buy, the tattoos we print on our arms, the music we listen to, the people we choose as friends, our viewing and entertainment habits and what we say on social media will draw attention to us. And in the end, before we choose that shirt from the closet, or before we do whatever pleases our whims, we must start wondering if it's the best for others around us. Everything matters. We are more prone to provoke than to offer mercy and grace. I doubt this is what our Founding Fathers intended. I think they would punch us in the mouth.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Black and White

The first time my students saw the picture of Emmett Till's beaten, bloated, disfigured face, their reaction wasn't one I expected. Typically we react to something disturbing with jokes. There's always someone in a crowded movie theater of a horror movie who blurts out something sarcastic to ease the mood of the room, to make everyone remind themselves that it's just make believe. Reality is a bit different. It's tough to see those old black and white photos. Black and white photos are the indicator of authenticity.

My fifth grade students have seen the PBS documentary, "The Murder of Emmett Till," for the past two years. I usually wait until completing chapter 22 of "To Kill a Mockingbird," just after the jury convicts Tom Robinson of raping a white woman. It's always the best part of the book, reading those courtroom scenes, trying to channel my inner Gregory Peck. 

Emmett Till is not widely known by my students, and I didn't know much about him until I got into college. His story echoes the lynchings of the south, again punctuated by those grainy black and whites, a crowd of unidentified white men surrounding their catch. His story is an effect of what Atticus Finch calls, the "evil assumption" that all Negroes cannot be trusted around white women. I first saw this in the lives of some of my friends and their parents. "What would your parents do if you dated a black guy?" "Kill me," was always their response. (Jokingly, my mom always told my sister that if her black boyfriend looked anything like Eddie Murphy, so be it.) I also witnessed this through my own family. My step-father's had several wounds from his sisters dating outside their family's comfort zone. Because one husband was abusive and left his kids, all black men were not to be trusted.

This irrational fear harked back to the film "Birth of a Nation." D.W. Griffith's cinematic addition to what was then a masterworks in film making was peppered with a story line where the KKK were the heroes. In stilted black and white, accompanied by the simple melodramatic composition of all silent films, were images of men in blackface. Black faced men who perpetuated the stereotypes and biases I was familiar with almost 80 years later in Houston. Black people eat fried chicken. They're lazy, they're scary and good white folk seen to be saved from them.

The young Emmett Till, brash and free spirited, didn't understand this irrational fear still existed in Money, Mississippi. The details are still murky, but the story is he reportedly whistled at Carolyn Bryant. Fearful she was getting a gun in retaliation, Emmett and his cousins left Bryant's store in a hurry and didn't say a word to Mose Wright, Emmett's uncle. When JW Milam and Roy Bryant, Carolyn's husband, arrived several days later in the middle of the night and kidnapped Emmett, it must have been a shock that many blacks feared would happen to any one of them. In fact, when Mose gathered a search party to look for the missing Emmett, who had already been killed, they looked down by the river in the familiar place blacks always searched when a loved one was missing.

The story of the trial is infamous too. Sheriff Strider, the archetype of all backwoods, southern racist cops. The ironic city motto of Sumner, where the trial was held, that read, "A great place to raise a boy." The town where black men were afraid to answer news reporter's questions about Milam and Bryant's innocence. Sheriff Strider, who hustled the members of the Chicago media and the NAACP into a small room and said, "Hello, niggers," each day.

But the story switches to the courage of Emmett's mother, Mamie Till. A mom who had only the ring on her son's finger to identify her son's body. She requested that his viewing be an open casket. It was reported that almost 1 in every 5 people had to be escorted from the grotesque scene of Emmett's bludgeoned face. But the visceral scene proved important for many in the community and the nation as well. "We were under attack," many thought, and here was the proof.

Emmett Till's death and aftermath did not occur in a time of social media we have now. The photo was jarring enough for all America to awaken to something that was beginning to brew. Just a few months later, Rosa Parks refused to move on that Alabama bus and the rest is history. There was no one that filmed Rosa's defiance with a camera phone. In Selma, and in protests that turned violent in Birmingham, all of America was privy to what many African-Americans knew all along, that the system of segregation had serious flaws.

Today, there are budding journalist with an eye on each arrest. How many fugitives will be shot when the hand that arrests them reaches for their handgun instead of a tazer? Ferguson erupts. Now Baltimore. There is an underlying issue that gets pushed aside through the images of looting and burning cars. The investigation into the police tactics in Ferguson unearthed a justice system made to foster a revolving door of burden on the citizens, predominantly African-Americans. Harassment, tickets, arrests. During my stint with the court system here in Columbus with my expired license, I did not see an overflow of black men in court. It was about 50/50. But imagine this is part of your life in the town you reside. Always looking in the rear view mirror, worried that eye contact with a police officer will give you away (indeed, Freddie Gray's "crime" was running away from law enforcement after a similar confrontation).

Is the justice system stacked? That's today's open debate. But the same irrational fear whites once had for blacks has now been turned. Do we have an irrational fear of cops?

There's been a video making the rounds from the streets of Baltimore, of a mom who is corralling her son in an effort to remove him from the protests. She's yelling and hitting him upside the head. Would Mamie Till have done the same to any of her kin on the streets of Chicago after her son's death? Mamie took a different stand. She continued to speak for the NAACP and took her case all the way to the steps of the white house. President Eisenhower and J. Edgar Hoover did not even act, nor speak  on the injustice of that case. Similar feelings run through my mind when our president, a black man, refuses to get on the world's stage and condemn these very acts of riots (he finally did just today).

The media wonders why there is so much anger in the streets of black America. These youth are all searching for something lost years ago--the absence of their fathers. The brave men and women of the Civil Right's Era were moved by the injustices, yes, but don't forget the movement of God. The youth of yesterday attended church, they organized in church. How can you rightfully discuss Martin Luther King Jr. without bringing up the importance of one's faith.

I'm not sure how much faith these young men have anymore. With their father's gone, their mother's exhausted, where can they turn to when the pulls of life turn desperate? The scenes are so strikingly different. The march on Selma, arm in arm in harmony. In Ferguson, a line of men screaming obscenities and launching homemade molotovs. In one scene in Birmingham, dogs attack protesters, others are showered from a fire hose. In Baltimore, a line of armor wielding cops being peppered with stones. The color photos I search for on the internet for our essays this week seem so surreal. I almost expect them to be in black and white, a flash from the past that reminds us all of our sordid histories, the way we turned from justice. Sadly, they will be the pictures for a new generation. How will my grandkids look back on today's events? I doubt it will be as simple as black and white.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Trusted Random Male Adult

After spring break, most teachers can be heard saying, "It's all downhill from here." There's this sense that every lesson we've taught them goes by the way of pollen from a dandelion. In some sense this is true. The kids seem a bit louder, a bit more mischievous. But we as teachers lower our guards as well. We aren't the same teachers we were when it was August, when we were stricter with the rules. We smiled less. Already in my building some teacher has written the inevitable countdown of days until summer. Like the rites of passages that my fifth graders endure and partake, so thus are the ones for teachers.

Every spring my fifth graders have the puberty talk. The nurse comes in to set the standards about appropriate questions and the privacy of the room. We separate the girls from the boys. The girls get booklets and tampons (at least that what they've given them before), while the boys always receive deodorant. Once the talk is over, the kids come back to their homerooms, hiding their materials and looking down at the floor. There's typically one boy of mine who will mock the proceedings and spill the beans about what we learned, and there is usually one of my girls who does the same. 

This year the video we always watch was discarded in favor of a newer one made from Always feminine products.  The older video follows the story of a young kid who is having the "talk" with his older brother about pubic hair and the need for more showering. Another has a young boy talking with his mom about boners. Typical stuff. My students muffle their laughter when the word "penis" is uttered.

This year's video was a bit more upbeat. There's some singing and dancing. Instead of following certain characters, we have a group of kids, both girls and boys, who enthusiastically ask questions into the camera that are answered by some off-camera expert/narrator. When it comes down to the end of the session, the girls are given the advice to talk with their mothers or another trusted woman. Next a young boy comes on screen. "Who do I talk to when I have questions?" I'm thinking the first person the narrator will suggest is their father. Instead I was surprised by the answer.

Step-father.
Uncle.
Grandpa.
Trusted Random Male Adult.

Just where are today's fathers? Did we suddenly skip a generation where fathers simply became grandfathers. Did all the fathers die, leaving behind their brothers? Were the step-dads left to pick up the messes of a broken marriage?

On the news, as the media chases the van of Hillary Clinton, presidential hopeful, I have begun to sense the next narrative of our country. It's the women's turn, they will say. More than that, the questions each side will be presented with have already been driven home. The Republican candidate are asked about abortion and attending gay marriages. Hilary's toughest question this past week was whether or not she wanted guac in her Chipotle bowl.

But herein lies the conundrum. We are getting exactly what we want, exactly what we deserve. In the time before Jesus, the Isrealites wanted a ruler, a king, like their sister nations around them. God warned them that the king would take their sons into war, take their daughters as concubines, take their first fruits as tax. No amount of reason would deny the people a king. So God gave them what they wanted--broken men, corrupt men, men whose wills were not of Gods.

Look at today. Our wills have now splintered off from God so far, they aren't even considered Satan's any longer. So many wheels in a machine, all spinning towards one inevitable conclusion--death. I hate to get so defeatist in this blog, but my death awaits too. More so because my will doesn't always coincide with God's either.

The redeeming factor in all of this is the Bible is filled with stories about men (and women) trying to go about their lives on their own. Sometimes men did not see their own qualities and asked for help when God would have simply sufficed. Moses didn't believe in himself, so God granted him Aaron. Like who needs a sidekick when God is raining down plagues? Sarah laughed at God when she was told she would have a child in her advanced age. Abraham, who probably began to doubt God's word as well, took it upon himself to lay with Hagar, his servant.

We've been telling God all along--we got this, but we have no idea what we've wrought upon ourselves. We bitch and complain about gay marriage and gay v Christian bakeries. We're so insistent on what is considered an abomination we've failed to realize all the other way we've become abominations in the eyes of the Lord. You think he's happy with how we've conducted ourselves within our own families when today's father would rather be watching tv or coaching instead of opening their son's bibles?  We moan about marriage being between a man and a woman, like God intended. But did God intend for quickie marriages in Vegas? We can click and scroll through the pictures of celebrity weddings, then scoff when their marriages end in the matter of months. We turn a blind eye when members of our own families marry for reasons that go way beyond God's best. But we're worried about gay marriage? We've lost the argument years ago.

There is a simple beauty in seeing the love of a man towards his wife. I'm sometimes stunned with the amount of love a father can give his own kids in my presence of some friends. So easy and natural to be that vessel of love that God intended. I sense love in the sounds of the men at church who decide to sing, or raise their arms in church. You know how many men stood around me without singing? Why stand before your God in mute somnambulism?

Even when I'm not at my best, the God lenses I try to see my world with don't ever go away. There's nothing I could do to have my old life back. Nor do I want it. Sometimes I try to have those old feelings, the thoughts that brought my world down when I wanted everything my way. It's the hardest thing I know to give my life over to God. If a Christian tells you otherwise, well, I'd like to hear their story. I'm not saying it's not easy to do right. Many times I want to do the right thing. Other times it's so much easier to get a second glance at the woman walking by. It's easy to take a nap and not interact with my own kids. The ease to which I try and make my life simpler is the sin itself.

This past few weeks I've been praying that God begins to change me. I need help walking that narrow path. I've made it harder because I've disconnected with some of the friends or rituals that make my life unique. Sure enough one of my students this week comes to me during library to ask me some questions. She's part of a program we have at school for leadership of which she's filling out some questions for their next meeting.

Mr. Cordova, can people change?
Mr. Cordova, how long does it take for someone to change?
Mr. Cordova, what does a person have to do in order to change?

It was Jesus in the form of a 5th grade girl, asking me the rhetorical questions I so desperately needed. You've already changed, Mr. Cordova, don't you see that?

And this week at church I got the chance to teach again in front of the junior high kids. The topic? Community. Who do we go to when the times get tough? Who are those that are willing to walk alongside us when we think God isn't able to answer our prayers? I looked around that room and found myself back at home. This is the change I have sought all along, staring right back at me.

I believe that change begins in a man's heart. I don't know how many people God will surround me with, how many students I get a chance to help find themselves. Waking up tomorrow will be the best sort of gift anyone can get. It means another chance. Another chance to live and affect the change in my own circle of influence. I can't feed 5,000 but I can listen, one person at a time.



Thursday, April 9, 2015

Expiration Date (Healing has no Deadline)

So today I became an official licensed driver (again).

As many of you know I'm not a teenager nor did I have my licensed suspended for some misdemeanor offense. My crime? I let my license expire. Like way expire. 6 months expire. And for the last month I've had a life lesson as I've tried to navigate through the process of getting everything renewed, which included my license plate tags as well.

I haven't always been good with deadlines. Obviously for a man who lets something go that long, it's become almost easy to look the other way when it comes to meeting certain requirements. Even back when I was in high school, I can't say that I was great with homework or due dates. Like lots of every other kid I knew, I blew off homework and studying until I needed to get serious. It cost me some grades early on as a freshman. Not taking my grades seriously, I failed almost all my classes and was ineligible for sports. Not a happy house I went home to for a few months.

I worked hard to get my grades up to par after transferring to another high school. When it wasn't my grades I procrastinated on almost everything else, much to the frustration of my poor mom who was always cleaning after me, and my step-dad who probably felt I wasn't worth the time. By my third high school, I had done just enough to get by. When the class or subject interested me, like journalism and my writing classes, I gave more of an effort. Probably never 100 percent effort. I don't think I ever knew what that was. I surely didn't give it in sports, and I surely did not give it in other aspects of my life. I knew it was not a way I was ever going to be successful. Despite my step-dad's blue collar profession, he regularly gave all he had at work and even more when he was involved in sports on the weekends. My mom was a hard worker too. It wasn't like she napped all day and smoked cigarettes on the porch. 

By the time I got into college, I knew my work habits would eventually catch up to me. When any of my classes became tough I slacked off even more. Eventually I dropped out after only a semester. I couldn't juggle the demands of my first ever girlfriend-distraction, school and work. My first trial as an adult was an all-out failure of epic proportions.

I knew that my tags and license expired this past August. I initially gave it some priority on my typical "I'll-get-to-it" calendar. Once school started, I never gave it another thought. The one thing that has changed about my driving habits is that I don't really speed or drive recklessly. I stayed away from having tickets as of late even when I was averaging 2 citations per year. Speeding here, not wearing a seat belt, a few rolling stop sign run throughs too. But I've been pretty good lately. But when your tags are expired it's like a beacon of light to a cop driving behind me.

I took a day off to take care of the license renewal. When I arrived I was told that since it was expired I needed to have a birth certificate, social security card and a utility bill to get them renewed. I had everything but the birth certificate. I tried locating a copy at home, going through old files to no avail. I eventually sent a request through to my home state of Texas, paid 20 bucks and was told it would take up to 3 weeks.

3 weeks later, with my birth certificate in hand I went back to try and renew. In that time I had sent in my payment for my traffic violation in the mail. More on that later. With the extended time I needed to get that birth certificate, the license had now expired over 6 months, which meant I had to start from scratch and sign up for a driver's test. It also meant I could not renew my tags.

Later that week, my attempt to pay my ticket through the mail came back. I now had a warrant for my arrest because I did not appear in court. In my defense, the cop did not check the must appear in court box on the bottom of the ticket. So my poor wife who's been my taxi for that time now has to drive me downtown so I can get this ticket taken care of.

I don't know if you've ever been in traffic court, dear reader, but not much has changed. Long lines, bailiffs who silence the crowd with please-keep-it-downs that sound more like demands, and all kinds of chances to people watch. One woman in front of me was taking a selfie and posting it on Instagram. Various individuals wearing hats that were told to remove. Young men having to pick up their pants. A woman wearing a hijab was continually going up to the bailiff and the prosecutor to ask questions. I think she was in some kind of hurry. A woman in her pizza delivery attire, looking very stressed and late for the day.

I sat up close to the front row so I heard all the whispers and "crimes" of the defendants. It gave me a time to creatively wonder why they were there, only to realize that many of them were in the same boat I was in. I didn't realize how many non-licensed drivers there are in Columbus. Some had suspended licenses too, which meant heavy fines or jail time. I started to freak out about my own fines, which was a lower misdemeanor that carried a possible maximum 1000 dollar fine. I'm texting my poor wife who had went back home and was now circling downtown waiting for me to finish.

I finally received good news when I was given a continuance to finish getting my license and tags renewed. That week prior I had went to get a permit. I had to take a computerized driver's test. I'm sitting in there with teenagers and I freaked out a bit at the thought of failing the test. I missed a few questions about weight requirements on the road and how many cars I need to be behind another driver. Permit issued.

With my permit in place, I was able to get my tags renewed. I was dancing in the parking lot. This morning I went back to take my driving test. I had to review a chart to make sure I knew what the maneuverability portion of the test was. Thankfully I didn't have to parallel park but I did remember my first time ever driving test as a teenager. I failed that day (that's another story!) and I was sweating today. I made sure I used both hands when I held the wheel. I stopped completely at stop signs and looked both ways before crossing. I put my blinkers on way before I needed to. When it was my time to drive through a set of cones, I did okay. I actually hit one driving back through one, but I did better on my second run. I felt as nervous as the teenagers had been that morning too. One girl's mom was there who gave me a congrats. Her own daughter was taking her test that day too. Nothing makes you feel younger like taking a driving test.

I was able to get my license renewed shortly afterwards. I felt like the kids I saw with their parents, embarrassed to show my picture to my youngest daughter when she wanted to check if I had properly smiled.

There's more chances for renewals and deadlines at work this year. My teaching license is due this year as well, and like my typical self I'm running towards the finish line on fumes. I'm 2 credits shy of renewal, which means I have to take a class in May to get it done. Nothing life doing it the hard way.

In all this time I've had to wait in lines and wait for my number to be called, I've taken lots of time to find that silver lining. I decided not to post on Facebook cause I didn't want to seem like I was complaining. Overall, the system worked for me. No one was rude. No one was impolite. But I did understand what some people have to go through being in court that day. A little empathy hurts no one.

I know there's a lesson about change in this story too. It just so happens that I have been reading a book called "Christian Atheist" by Craig Groeschel. Of course I came across the chapter titled, "When You Believe in God but Don't Think You Can Change" right as I'm going through all this. The book's theme is that we believe and we go to church and check the boxes, but when it comes to allowing the true work of God to take place in our heart, we act much as if God doesn't exist like an atheist would. Even though I am not the same person I was when I became a Christian, I get myself into these ruts. My past has been a yoke I have yet to allow God to have. I'm great at praying for others, or believing in the power of Jesus to heal others, but when it comes to my own life I have yet to fully give control once and for all. I still cling to bad habits like high school love letters. Craig says in his book that for me to allow God to be God, to do things in His strength instead of my own, one must can the excuses, cut the ties that bind and surrender. He points to the story of the paralyzed man in the book of John.

When Jesus realized the man had been by the pool at Bethesda for a long time, he asked the invalid, "Do you want to be healed?" The man didn't answer with a resounding yes! You'd think he would have, but he says, "Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me." How typical is that for us too. God is continually reaching down to cure us of our addictions and hangups. "Do you want to be healed?"

Yeah but I know have others to heal so don't bother.
Yeah but my sin is too great. Why would you?
Yeah but I can't change who I am even if you would heal me?

Maybe this time I will allow the work to work. Renewing the license leads to a spiritual lesson in renewal. Who knew?

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Life's Renewed Curriculum

I'm really not a great teacher.

And I'm not sure I'm still in love with it.

In 2011, I was hired after my first interview. I had a third grade class. There were 4 of us on the same team, a veteran and two young ladies who were new to teaching like me. The school was as inner city as you could get in Columbus. The neighboring apartment complex was nicknamed "Uzi Alley". When we first walked the streets to make home visits, there were more boarded up apartments than livable ones. I've had enough memories there to write a book. September 11th attacks, sexual harassment charges towards my partner and a removal from the school, lots of yelling on my part, 2nd grade teachers who had to teach in the library because we didn't have enough classrooms, a new principal, a student from Africa who knew no English and lots of other things too. I had a kid run away from the classroom, from the school!  I learned a lot about myself that year. I was passionate about making myself a better teacher. Personally, my wife and I were trying to have our own family with no results. I had a house, my very own house!  I was a certifiable adult.

I taught five more years under 3 different principals and an ever-changing curriculum. I had a rock star team for several of those years, but slowly we were split up. I started a soccer team I hated to leave once my second child. Heartbreak followed by miracles. We suffered through miscarriages more than once until we ended up adopting our oldest daughter. From zero to three in a heartbeat. I accumulated more stories for another book. Insubordination towards my principal, affairs between teachers, arguments with staff during meetings or in the halls, arguments with parents, a curriculum that had several detours, restarts and blowups.

But somewhere along that line I think I lost something. For the first several years, I would watch the kids leave the school on the last day and weep. Sobbing right there on the front steps like some big crybaby. I used to complain about the summers and if I could have gotten into the school in July I would have.

At my new school I became a new teacher all over again. I taught 5th grade this time. A new ballgame. They ran me that year, for a bit anyway. A couple of months in, they split my class. I taught a 4/5 split for two years and it challenged me once again to juggle the demands of 2 grades. Sometimes the fifth graders were so high it was tough keeping them on task. I became a Christian right around that time, too. Suddenly I looked upon this gift I was given, this ability to teach, as a mission field. It wasn't about the test. It was about relationships, fighting the culture, inspiring them to think outside the box.

Other priorities took precedent. Family, a commitment to serve within my church, sports with my own children. Teaching became a job instead of a mission. The consistencies of teaching--the kids, the curriculum, my teaching partners--became inconsistent. The surge towards testing has left a stain on education. The curriculum changes come seemingly overnight. This new initiative towards PARCC places demands on all of us. My kids are taking on-line tests that require the kind of skills that take practice. You know how many times I get the kids in computer lab? Once a week for one hour. With this testing, we haven't been in the lab for over a month. And because our librarian is needed as a proctor, our students haven't checked out a new library book in over a month.

Recently, I've had a spate of discipline issues. In February I attributed in to the lack of consistent schedule and because we were stuck inside. While I always felt I was self-reflective about my teaching, I wasn't in terms of my management. I'm laid back compared to my counterparts. Kids in my room sometimes sit on their desks. They take off their shoes when they silent read. We have tons of opportunities for group work, projects and experiments. Sometimes we're loud. We know silly songs and dances. I like to think that by allowing the kids to have some freedom, they can truly learn the way they want to. But sometimes that freedom is enough rope to hang themselves.

So this past Friday I became the first-day-of-school teacher again. We reinforced the rules, separated groups, went to zero noise. They raised their hands when they wanted to sharpen their pencils. The only way I can keep some of them from getting into drama or to complete their work to their best ability, I have to be literally be monitoring them 24/7. Something cool happened when I buckled down.

The kids responded.

My suspicions of the kids who were copying came to fruition when I saw them struggle while sitting alone. Without all the discussion, the kids who value more structure thrived. Two of my students actually came up to me and said they liked it that way. When I did hear talking, I heard conversation with numbers, about strategies. By the end of the day, I left smiling. I didn't sigh when I boarded the bus students. I didn't have that Friday Night Blues face as I left the school.

I know that the need for discipline is the true lesson in all of this. When I have time for myself, I don't always choose wisely. In the classrooms where my teachers didn't seem to care, I carried on all sorts of nonsense. I gave answers to my friends on tests, I listened to my cassette player (remember those?), I passed notes and doodled. It had nothing to do with how interested I was, it was all about the lack of structure. Same thing with my home life. My diet needs consistency. My faith walk needs consistent maintenance. My kids need love and support too. Discipline.

I'm not sure when I'll know I've become a great teacher. I think it's the same thing about life. How does one define oneself as a great person? A great Christian? A great father? I'm none of those. But I'm striving towards. When I think I've made it there will be a new test, life's renewed curriculum. Perhaps at the end of the year, I'll weep again, counting the days until August when I can return.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Our Mistaken Jupiter

There are enough metaphors about the onset of spring that I wont try and come up with one now. All you need to know dear reader is that there are fresh mud tracks in the house from our saturated back yard, a bucket of baseballs lies empty next to a brand new bat. Our trunk is full of strewn lacrosse gear (the one thing I didn't get at Sports Authority the other day was a bag!) and we've traded in our hoodies for jackets. Today, despite the all call for school wide indoor recess, I strolled the non-detentioned fifth graders outside for some fresh air and it felt like redemption. Of course, the entire time I'm surrounded by students who just want to chat. Why aren't you playing? Instead they are asking me questions like, "If you had a chance to choose all brothers or all sisters, what would you choose?" how many languages we all speak (me? one), our love of author James Dashner and comparing New York dad (who wore a suit) to Ohio Dad (who works in a factory, no suit).

The other night, my wife piled us into the van and swore she saw Jupiter. Instead, she realized it was the full moon. It looked like I was driving straight into it, she had said. Winter feels like that sometimes, like you're driving into the moon.

I know my son is happy spring is coming. He just started a new sport, lacrosse, and it's unique for me because I know nothing. Of course, he's not the biggest kid but he's learning, hustling and improving--the signs of a player. February was a tough month for him, and us as his parents.

He started the month in detention for his use of language on a Mad Libs website. Remember Mad Libs? Those flip pads with silly stories with blank lines that asked you to write in random nouns, adjectives and verbs to make sentences like, "Four cats just rescued a dandelion from the Empire State Building while farting." Classic literature. Not having learned his lesson, he was caught passing notes to a friend with more bad language. More detention. The school was also reporting that he was getting more aggressive towards substitute teachers. He claimed he was fighting for his freedom. I told him he can quit the Ghandi act and do what the sub said.

We tied the foul language to Vine videos he was watching on youtube. I was too lazy to fight with him about taking his iPod up to his room. Not only that but when I scrolled though his Safari history my heart dropped when I saw porn sites, semi-nude pictures and questionable pop-up ads. The generational sin had reached down to my son, all under my watch. I felt sick. We went into defcon mode and changed his iPod habits and worked on changing the settings which are almost impossible. How convenient that as a parent you have to basically say no to something like a phone, tablet or device that allows internet access. The devices work with codes but the same code you would use to swipe open a phone is the same code that allows you to bypass the restrictions like website or music ratings and blocking apps. Parents are not a thought in the minds of these businesses that target kids.

At home, my son's behavior went from bad to worse. Without access to his electronics, he revolted. At one point he began undressing after dinner because if we were going to "take everything he had" then we could have his clothes too. One night, he donned his hoodie and stood defiantly in the back yard and refused to come inside. In the snow. 25 degrees. I did not go after him. If I had I would have been the talk of the neighborhood. After about 20-30 minutes I went down to the basement, took an old x-box game out of its case and threatened to snap it if he didn't come inside. He chose to come inside. The battle was one, but the casualties of war were evident.

After consulting with our doctors again, and some serious night on my knees in prayer (which included a talk with my lovely sister), much of my son's transgressions were due to the change in schedule. With all the snow days last month we chose to not medicate him. We dealt with him at home when he got squirrely, but we enjoyed his appetite. Now that the sun is beginning to shine again and school has been back in session he is back more to normal. At least normal in the sense of being hyperactive, attention deficit and oppositional normal can be.

My class has been equally difficult. I haven't worked a full week since January when you add in snow days, sick days and my own children's sick days. This last month has been rife with rolled eyes, attitude and mumbling defiance. But being a teacher is in essence a parent's role. You slack on discipline and you have to put your foot down to maintain control.

Did I mention we have been testing over the past month? My fifth graders are taking a new round of computer based standardized state tests. The curriculum has been hard to nail down as the changes continue to come from the state like a script from some bad movie that needs rewrites. Today we took the math portion of the test. Almost over 2 hours staring at a computer screen. No talking, no teaching on my part. I get to spend my morning handing students keys to go to the bathroom, sharpening pencils, restating directions and telling kids to turn around. Thank goodness for that college education.

There are glimmers of hope. It's spring right? Reminders that God is there. Yesterday two of my science students presented their scale models at the city Metro Parks function. I was not able to join them because my son needed to be picked up from robotics class after school. I hustled out of school, drove down to his middle school in the rain to find out he did not go (which he failed to tell me). I raced home to get Milly and then raced to the Metro Park. I walked in during their snack intermission. But luckily I was able to see them present to the city suits, take some pictures and talk with their parents. Proud teacher moment.

This past Sunday, my son went to one of those trampoline/jump places with the church youth group. He was so excited to just play. In one corner of the facility was dodgeball. The warning outside of the fenced area read, "Children will be grouped by size not by age," with the underlines just like I had them here for emphasis. When my son first went to play, he was playing with some small kid. Just the two of them. Dodgeball it wasn't. By the time the rest of the church group joined in, the teenager monitoring motioned my son to get out and said, "You're a little too small for this." He patted his head as a form of remedy for his broken spirit.

I could see the defiance welling inside my son. He threw his hand up. He walked down the stairs to me, and while he wasn't crying he was bummed. There weren't any words exchanged. I didn't even know what to say at that moment. We just stood together listening to the sounds of laughter. I really don't even know who was leaning on who. That's when our youth leader walked down to him and called him up. Apparently, Mr. Sean had vouched for him and he was allowed to participate with his group. Sweet redemption. These are the times when the groans we give to God are heard just as clear as the prayers. He knew what we needed at the moment and he sent Mr. Sean. Well played, God, well played.

There are several metaphors about parenting. I wont retread them here, nor am I eloquent enough to originate some new profound thought. One day my son will be driving and seeing his own mistaken Jupiter. The road ahead will be unclear, but the end result will be as beautiful as the rising full moon. Groans as prayers. Perhaps even a drive with his family, shoeless and excited to see the night sky, even knowing their parents are sometimes wrong, a full smile on their faces.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Breathing Movies: Thoughts on Manhood, Faith and "Boyhood"

 I haven't been able to get my mind off of "Boyhood." It's one of those movies that I instantly want to watch again just to catch the different nuances you miss the first time. I know part of this was that it reminded me of being in Houston, as the film was made there and in Austin. Director Richard Linklater is a Houston native, and he captures the mood so well that the setting is always its own character in each of his films (see "Dazed and Confused"). The second reason has everything to do with my faith.

Being a moviegoer first, then a Christian, has irrevocably changed my viewing habits. When I was in high school, my mom once told me that I only watched movies that had guns and sex. She was mostly right. I secretly loved our movie dates when I was free to cry during "Steel Magnolia." Becoming a Christian changed a lot of my habits. I denounced horror films from the get go, and for the most part I've stayed far from them. Sometimes I DVR an older film I've seen before just to see if it gives me the same reaction it gave me as a kid. Now when someone is slaughtered on screen it doesn't seem so cool.

I'm currently wrestling with R-rated comedies. It's sad when the world around me cannot distinguish a Christian from a non-Christian. So why am I watching "Bridesmaids," or "The Hangover" and it's sequel (I stayed away from part 3), or "Ted"? So there are some I see and some I don't. I always feel like I'm trying to live this life of duality. It's not really working. Same thing goes for my tv show watching.

So of course I inject my faith onto the movies I see. "Boyhood" gained notoriety for filming scenes over a 12 year span, following the life of Mason Evans Jr, his sister and his mom, played beautifully by Patricia Arquette. It resembles Michael Apted's "7Up" series in that respect. Those that haven't seen the film may want to stop and see the film for themselves. There are certain scenes that I will spoil if you read any further.

The film begins in 2002 where we meet Mason, his sister and mom Olivia. Early on, Mason sees Olivia and her boyfriend fight. It ends up being a theme throughout the movie. She tells her boyfriend, "I would love to have some time to myself! I would love to just go to a fuckin' movie!" Poor Mason also hears statements like "mistake". Olivia's search for something more transports them to Houston, where she can attend college.

There are several scenes of transition for Mason as he enters new school after new school. In junior high, he's told by another student, "Welcome to the Suck." There are little scenes here that would otherwise be throwaway scenes. Like Mason's sister arguing with Olivia about going to school when they don't have clean laundry, Mason entering class without a backpack, or notes being passed his way after he gets a haircut.

Mason's biological father, Mason Sr., is played by Ethan Hawke. When we meet him he drives up in a single man's car, black and sporty. He takes the kids bowling and curses while they eat pizza. He doesn't answer Mason directly when he's asked if he's moving back to Texas, or if him and Olivia are getting back together. Ethan plays him well, as the type of guy who is too "free" to become tethered to any kind of responsibility. He's like the perpetual guitar player in a smoky lounge still trying to swing a record deal.

While attending school, Olivia meets Professor Welbrock who takes an immediate fancy towards her (as Mason is awkwardly witnessing). The two end up becoming a blended family. While there are moments of harmony, there's a melancholy tone that wont let go. We notice it at the dinner table when Olivia and Bill are talking about taking the kids "next time" to Europe, or when Bill makes a scene about the kids not doing their chores before their father arrives for visitation. Later in an act of pure spite, he takes Mason to the barber to cut his long hair so he can look like a man and not a girl.

Bill has other demons too. We frequently see him at the local liquor store. at first it seems casual, later he's hiding his liquor behind the liquid detergent, and by the end of their relationship, he's defiantly pouring shots during a family dinner. After yelling at the kids and smashing glasses, he turns to Mason and says. "You don't like me very much, do you Mason? That's okay, neither do I."

The abusive relationship ends up with Olivia taking the kids. Bill's kids must stay, watching from the top of the stairs as the woman they called "mommy" and their brother and sister leave. It's the first of many heartbreaks. Later, Olivia is being grilled by daughter Samantha. What's going to happen to them? Where are we going to live? Arquette, after trying to answer her daughter's pleas finally breaks down. "I don't have the answers for everything!"

Mason eventually does get to high school. The men in his life don't so much better. There's a high school teacher who tries to convince Mason that art wont pay the bills. Olivia's third husband is a military, tough guy type, who also drinks and reminds Mason that his real father didn't stay but he did. Mason's friends aren't much better. On an overnighter with a group of boys, they begin grilling discussing slutty girls and attack each other's virginity.

When we finally get a decent manly influence, it comes by way of Mason's dad. Eventually he "grows up," remarries, trades in the bad-ass-mobile for a mini-van, has a baby. When Mason turns 15 they take a trip to his wife's family home. It is there that Mason receives two gifts, a suit and a Bible. It feels so odd in a movie that has no trace of spirituality or mention of religion. But I think that's intentional. Mason Sr. jokes about Mason being baptized in the nearby pond. Mason's face when he gets his Bible isn't one of appreciation. It's almost mockingly absurd. Strange how the family with the Bible seems so odd among a group of humanists and non-believers.

"Boyhood" not only captures the times convincingly, it brazenly shows us male culture and its affect on male youth. While Mason makes it to college and has a typical movie ending with the hippie roommate and the too-cute friend (complete with sunset soliloquy), you have to wonder how he will fare beyond his adolescence. It's saddening to know that there are too many Olivia's out there, who stake claim in the outward appearances of men who have no heart for God. How many Mason's are in college who have no idea of the plans Jesus has put forth in their lives?

Let me state that I don't fault Linklater for his film. It's truly a remarkable feat of movie making. I felt much the same way about "Boyhood" that I did watching NBC's "Parenthood." You're not a true "Brave"rman without the heart of God. But I digress. If anything my faith connects me with the characters I watch even more so. How many Olivia's are in my own school system? How many Mason's are in my classroom?

Scout Finch in "To Kill a Mockingbird" says she doesn't love books because how can one love breathing? She had been reading before she could remember. the same goes for movies. I don't remember a life before movies. How can one love breathing when it's just part of your life? Now they've just gotten better with the heart of Jesus.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

My Experiment with Exodus

If you're reading this blog, dear reader, it's because I didn't delete the paragraphs I had been trying before this one. All my blogs are self-therapeutic, my feeble attempt to answer the God questions I have in my life. Some of them get answered, and some lead to more demanding questions. Nevertheless, they also offer a trend of sorts, an EKG of my life since I became a Christian. There are moments of mountainous highs, and there are moments in the valley. This February has been more of a valley.

Tonight I was again left with my questions and a moment to reflect. Even though the youth event was going on in front of me, there I was asking myself why I felt detached from the situation. Where was my heart? As the music played, the answer came as swiftly as my tears. The heart is there. The Holy Spirit is there. It's you who doesn't think it's there.

I continue to have these spiritual experiments with God, where I see just how far I can go "on my own." Most of the variables I use change. Sometimes its food. Let's see how many pounds I can gain! Sometimes its with my medicine. Let's see how my mood swings can go from zero to 100 in a matter of minutes! Who needs anti-depressants! Other variables are more devastating.

On February 3rd of this year, I opened my Bible to read 2 verses from my devotions. One was from 2 Timothy 2:1-6 about enduring hardship. The other was Matthew 5:13-16 about being the salt and light. I didn't open my Bible again for ten days.

Among the highlights of those ten days: My son ends up spending almost 100 dollars on the X-Box buying game packs (the one thing I liked about our games growing up, there weren't all these extras to buy. Nothing to suck a kid into wanting more and more. Not nowadays). He gets it taken away. My paycheck ends up short that pay period. When I went on my mission trip, I did not have enough personal days to cover my absences. So I was docked 2 days of pay. We're stressed financially, moving money around to cover our needs and arguing about what we don't need. My son ends up getting in trouble at school too. An in-school suspension. The pressures of my own job (well-documented on my last blog) increase and my wife's as well.

Those ten days were by far the longest I've had in quite some time. My exodus from my devotions disrupted every facet of my life. There are some things I'm not telling you, dear reader, the arguments, my viewing and computer habits when I as alone, closing the door on the Holy Spirit when it tried to intervene.

When I ended the latest experiment on Feb 13th, I was not the same. True to form, God was the same. That day's devotion? Psalm 119:17-24.

Open my eyes that I may see.
I am a stranger on earth.
My soul is consumed
Remove me from your scorn.

Those were the lines I wrote in my journal. Amid that passage was God reaching down and pulling me from the muck. Again, he held my hand. Even when I thought I didn't need him, He was there to rescue me. However, I still wasn't ready to listen. I was reluctant to pray. I knew I needed to pray. I knew that there needed to be submission on my part. Still, I was reluctant. Petulant. Stubborn. I wanted to revise the experiment. Check the boxes. Go through the motions.

Starting my devotions did not unleash the heavenly armies down on the Cordova home to heal every one of us. Financially we were still recovering. We hosted a fundraiser for our oldest daughter Lisa, who hopes to make it to Tanzania this summer. School was still crazy. My son, who was still grounded from getting in trouble that previous week, got in trouble again. 2 more days with in school suspension. That day's devotion? James 3:1-12.

The tongue is small but makes great boasts.
No man can tame the tongue.

God, again in all his glory, is directly intervening in my life. My son is in love with curse words, much like myself back at that age. The downside of today's technology is that there is so much at the fingertips for our kids to become exposed to. As a parent, I dhad relaxed my standards. The X-Box was first. Parenting by game console. At night he had access to YouTube videos on his iPod. I wont even repeat the words he was writing on paper but I will say that they have become a teaching tool in our home.

Slowly, the effects of the experiment were beginning to waver. On February 19, God spoke again, this time from 2 Corinthians 4:15-18.

All this is for your benefit
Therefore do not lose heart

February 20th, Hebrews 12:1-5.

Let us run with perseverance.
Fix your eyes on Jesus
The Lord disciplines those he loves and punishes everyone he accepts as a son.

I passed the Bible over to my wife that day. We're both sitting here with tears in our eyes. This life is difficult. This life is tough. But amid the battle that I choose to fight alone, there come lessons for survival. We need each other, that's for sure.

And the kids? Now that my son has been off electronics, he's been creative, playful with his sister. There's a mess in her room from all the blankets being used to build a fort. There are Nerf darts all through the upstairs (both of them have been battling ISIS).

My heart? It's doing just fine. I drove around a group of 8th grade girls to their destinations today despite some of the messiest road conditions this month. My wife asked me if I was stressed. No, I told her. I have a job to do, to get them there safely. I will drive as slow as I need and keep my eyes on the road. This weekend was their weekend. A weekend where God is asking them to breathe in his grace and breathe out his praise. It's a good lesson for me too. One breath at a time. One verse at a time. No more experiments.