I'm having a grand love affair. I had read about this kind of love on countless books about grace, discipleship and finding your heart. I had listened to the testimonies of others and grew envious of their God stories. For the first time in five years, I was in love with Jesus.
The story this weekend (I've put this blog away for a week, so really it's been two weeks ago) and one I've been blogging about in the last few days, has been stories of transformation. Part of the God story I share (mainly with other Christians, in a safe environment) was my Emmaus walk almost six years ago. It was a time of priority challenges and awakenings. Until then, my answer to the question posed this weekend, "When was the first time you fell in love with Jesus?" was brought back to that Saturday night sitting in a Reynoldsburg church wondering what the feeling was that coarsed through my very bones.
The new heart that's been beating within me was not a love affair of my own doing. I felt love, I witnessed loving acts, I've felt the presence of love amongst friends. My own self doubts and persistent past always left doubt in my mind. When I left the Emmaus walk, I was under the spell of the realization that God has been pursuing me long before I could remember. He had this grand plan for my life that up until now had been unknown. I was able to look in the mirror for the first time knowing that I was deeply loved and there was nothing I could do about it.
My past would seep into the cracks on a consistent basis. I fought back with Bible studies, fellowship, serving on missions and praying. It wasn't necessarily the guilt of my past sin, but it was the routines and lazy habits one builds up over a lifetime of conscious disregard that it became difficult to make the changes needed to live that life fulfilled. I struggled with pornography, and worse, I couldn't make daily devotions and prayer part of my everyday life. I had seasons (a favorite Christian comment) where I was on fire, followed by the murmurings of a lukewarm heart. My life looked like an EKG of faithfulness.
When I went to Oklahoma last year, it became another seminal moment in my love affair with the Lord. However, it answered the burning question of doubt that always seems to arise when bad things happened, when events beyond my control could not be explained. Does God allow bad things to happen?
Standing on ground zero, it became apparent that God doesn't need bad things to happen to us to force us closer to him. If that were the case then the good things in our life would bring us closer to him as well. But we give credit to luck, karma, friends, chance, destiny and fate. Bad things, disasters, sicknesses, deaths, it can happen to anyone and everyone. There's no lottery on bad events. While cancer might not ravage my body now, those that I love who suffer from it provide me a chance to love on them and to walk alongside them. If I don't get the job I want, but a friend does, you celebrate with them as if it were your own. To walk into the life we're meant to live, we must do so in everything. Even the mundane ritual of ordering food through a drive-through is a chance. Someone is always watching us.
* * * * *
Is it okay to be thankful for the failures in your life? Perhaps failures are what reminds you that we aren't perfect. Perhaps it's a reminder that we do need intervention in our lives.
Back when I was in Houston in community college, I met regularly with a writer's group. We ate Chinese food every week and dissected poetry. There was a trust involved in that circle. I trusted that what criticisms came from that eclectic group--a gay man, a Native American woman, a homemaker, a college student and future professor of literature--weren't personal. Any edits and suggestions were for the good of the work. Getting published was a goal for each of us. We wanted to write words that mattered, that spoke for our emotions in ways we couldn't do face to face.
Now every Wednesday I sit among a group of Christian men. We challenge one another, we laugh, we criticize constructively. The trust involved is much the same. We had a guys event the last weekend. Today was a meeting to discuss what we need to work on to become better. Failures were listed, but feelings weren't. In some way those meetings at that Chinese restaurant paved the way for these small groups. Who knows the great tapestry of our lives? Every instance and experience matters in the long run.
I forget this when I'm struggling to get my son dressed each morning. For my son, each moment is magnified to hyperbolic degrees. I raise my voice, he hears a scream. He strikes out in a baseball game, he suddenly feels he's never going to get a hit. This newfound resilience I've found in me is seemingly absent, or at least untapped in him. I use my words carefully. I grew up in a time when sarcastic barbs and pokes about my physical failings were targets for mockery. I heard how big my nose was, how fat or lazy I was, how bad my attitude was. But that's what made us tough. Was it better? Many adults I know all seem to have been raised in similar families where teasing and toughing up were part of their everyday lives. How many have heard, "toughen up," "shake it off," or "get over it.". Sometimes I say the same things to my fifth graders. Perhaps the kids in my life are
more resilient than I give them credit for. Perhaps the struggles they exhibit are manifestations of our wounds we inflict on them.
Perhaps they know, my son included, how many various hat we try to wear with excellence each day. Father, youth volunteer, men's ministry member, Husband, teacher, friend. How does one do each job effectively? Can it even be a realistic goal? We constantly sigh and wonder where the time goes but I know there is waste among the gold. There's not much time to wallow. I'm yawning now. It's late. I have emails to send and thank you cards to pen. It's another chance to use God's immense vocabulary for his glory. I don't think I have enough pens, or blog space, to write them all.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Monday, March 10, 2014
A Heavenly Polaroid
Nothing is coincidental. While we cannot always see the
intricacies of our lives, those chance meetings, the decisions that change our
paths on a daily basis or the people that move and weave within the tapestry of
a lifetime, there is a divine hand in our epic narrative.
This isn’t a typical Monday for me. I’m on my last day of the SYMC where the theme
has been “Stories of Transformation.” Today
was a field trip for my fifth grade students at the downtown Audubon
Center. It’s the first time in months
the temperature has been above 60. While
my students will be looking at the different species of birds and ripping roots
out from the ground, I’m trying not to leave my workshop for a pee break
because I drank an extra-large coffee. I’m
at a roundtable discussing the multiple roles we play in ministry and our lives
(I can’t wait to blog about that subject!)
I’m anxious somewhat.
After this class, we convene for our last general session. Each session has been worship filled, musically
uplifting, and heavy on my spirit. The
best kinds of service are the ones that convict you.
And this morning brought it back to the garden. We each have a story, an epic narrative that
God has explicitly written on our hearts.
Every epic adventure has been manifested by the choices we ultimately
make. When the spirit interceded on our
behalf, the story can truly be lived out in epic fashion. There’s a song, “God bless the broken road
that brings me back to you.” While I
have some theological problems with the message of the song (my sin is
justified because in the end, I found my true love), I do believe that God
redeems all. So despite the stupid
decisions I’ve made in my life, and sometimes continue to make, there have been
people placed in my life whose lives I can speak into simply because of those
experiences. Did I want those
experiences? No. But the brokenness of my life is helping to
transform the healing in someone else’s.
A student, a man coming to bible study, one of our junior high kids and
some unseen person I have yet to meet.
In a sea of 2000 people this weekend, you begin to point our familiar
faces. How is that even possible? Who designs such intricate quilts?
In one inspiring worship service, we were witness to a photo
of the earth from the Hubble telescope.
The earth in which wars have been waged, where people are oppressed and
thrown into sexual trafficking, where we crave materials and idols, is nothing
but a blue dot in a vast universe. A vapor.
Our lives are a vapor. A
blink. But within those wistful vapors
there is embedded the roots of love that is too powerful to overcome.
Yet, there are times, when the destructive narratives in our
lives threaten our spiritual growth.
This is the portion of the epic of my life that I feel have yet to
conquer. Old sins, guilt, the words of
failure I tell myself in the mirror.
None of them are true, but they’re plausible, so those beautiful
narratives get stuck in plot changes we try to direct. In a sense, those weeds grow within our
heart, and when we try to uproot them with our own strength, we are bound to rip
out something valuable. So we grow our beauty
around those weed patches, trying to overlook them. We get so busy and we get so frustrated that
ripping up our own weeds seems like the only respite. It’s pride not to ask for help. We’re the alpha-volunteers, the leaders.
But what I learned this weekend is that Jesus is the only
gardener qualified to pull the weeds out of the garden of our lives. He’s the only one who has the experience to
deliver the ultimate plot twist.
Transformation.
Moving to Texas was my first visible sign of Jesus pulling out those
weeds. Would I have found Jesus in Texas? Perhaps, but I don’t want to relive a life
where there’s a doubt. Moving out of Zanesville
was another. Later it was changing job
locations, the decision to adopt, and then the deus ex machina was that Emmaus walk. It was like an explosion from an Indiana Jones
movie. You’re awed and floored. But you want more. So much more.
And God is happy to keep pouring into our lives. He doesn’t save us and then walk away. He’s always creating newer versions. Sequels
and reboots. There’s cross over TV
specials when we meet others. Subplots
are explored and revealed.
I told our youth pastor this weekend that it was such a
relief to be around so many genuinely nice people. How fulfilling to know that there are so many
youth pastors and volunteers in all places of America that are pouring truth
and love into the lives of children.
Seeing the book cases packed up, people giving each other hugs reminded
me that it was over. It’s another mountaintop
that God reveals to us like some heavenly Polaroid, but to remain is selfish
and unloving. We must share our
lives. Our love. Our witness.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Chiseling the Doubt
Transformation. The word of Friday night. It's the word of my life, truly. It's the theme of this weekend's Simply Youth Ministry conference for youth workers. I'm exhausted. Like I said a few blogs ago, there's no way you can "overfeed" your spirit. But there are times when the emotions and breadth of what you're listening to become overwhelming for your heart. It's that near crying moment. You know everything your hearing has some profound truth, that each word and phrase was meant exactly for you at this very moment.
The day started just the opposite. Snooze after snooze. Although the first sunny day in months awaited, I slept in. That turned into a frantic search for my son's clip-on tie for his Young Gents meeting he has in school. His pants were on the floor, inside out, and when I slapped them in the air to straighten out the wrinkles like I would a carpet, I realized there was a grass stain on the knee. That led to a decision to wear jeans. You would have thought I was torturing my son. Jeans and a long-sleeve shirt.
I was met at school by students who aren't even in my classroom who want to avoid the substitute teacher they know is waiting for them by hiding out in my room. I could literally have 50 kids all crammed in one room, all wanting to sharpen pencils, organize my desk and tell me silly stories from their lives. The bell rings, I'm in the hallway and doing my usual walk-in-A-line routine. I end up face to face with a new student who isn't backing down. These are the mornings that I wonder why I work with kids. They want confrontation. It's the one thing in which they can excel.
My own students are walking on egg shells. There was some disturbance the day before when I took a half day. I can see the look in their eyes. Like they know in their one moment of impulsivity they have disappointed me. I craved that look as a new teacher. Now I just want them to relax.
But before the morning was done, the decision to stay in that moment of moodiness that typically would ruin my day was taken from me. I pulled the new kid aside, talked, apologized, invited. That's my true self. It's the easiest part of my day that does not involve decimals or cause and effect charts. I can read the face of one my most trying students. I've brushed him off this week. Stop whining. Put your big boy pants on. But the words of motivation come easy, and the face looking back at me changes. That's my true self.
The day went through its paces. I ended up splitting a class up just after diffusing a fight. I leave one room unattended to help with another unattended group. I'm mad about kids who throw the hollow tennis balls that fit on the table legs across the room. I have films and team building games ready. Then everything is in lockdown mode. Now I'm the teacher that punishes the entire class which in turn ends up punishing me.
This day has played a familiar beat. Step out in faith, the target on your back becomes larger. I've had some of my worst denials just before reaching a mountain top experience. I've walked away from great moments of grace and faith to the doubts of my mind when I'm alone on the couch. Perhaps it's the scenery. The same place I sit every night and ponder the day, processing the tv noise, sliding the images of my phone friends up like some digital scroll. It's the same place where I've given up. The place where food becomes therapy.
It was this same couch where I told my wife that perhaps this was the last year for me as a youth worker. Men's Ministry is still calling me. Every outburst from my son in some ways becomes this totem pole in the middle of my house that displays all my parenting fails. I'm busy. Let's not carpool tonight either, I told her too. No friends. No anyone. Just me and you, babe.
But those thoughts too were the doubts. Not good enough. Not thin enough. Not important enough.
All that feeling quickly changed being crammed in the back seat of a mini-van on the way to the conference's opening night. Upon arrival the layers of doubt begin to be chiseled away. Laughter bursts through my sediments like dynamite. Our group is a few feet away from the sound stage's subwoofers. The band begins and the music is at once haunting, melodic, hymnal, sprinkled with bit parts trombone and violin. The last time I felt music like that was last year in Oklahoma. Soul stirring.
More laughter. Hugs from old friends. All the questions I had going in are slipping from me, exfoliated by grace. I'm praying in a room of 2,000 people. At one point across the stage I can see one youth worker dancing alone in the aisle while everyone around him was sitting. No care in the world. And here I am still wanting to complain about my schedule, my needs.
The message is one of discipleship. Do we as youth workers spend so much time telling the kids what to do that we don't actively imitate God, allowing them to see a practical, real-life living? Stories of transformation. Stories of hope. I want the ceiling of my life to be the floor of a future generation. Wow, what a phrase. I'm exposed once again for a fool. The spotlight is one me again with God showing me once again that there aren't any puppet strings attached to my frame. Instead it's a pair of hands. I'm here, they call. I've been here. Have you forgotten?
So the devil didn't win tonight. I came home with my stomach hurting from the laughter one has with friends. My wife is making late-night lunches for tomorrow. I'm high lighting tomorrow's sessions, double-checking my options. God already knows what I'm going to learn over the next few days. One thing is for certain, the heart that beats for Him is "overfed" once more. A heart can be overfed, in my opinion. This allows it to drip grace with every step. Be a difference maker. Leave a legacy. Transform.
The day started just the opposite. Snooze after snooze. Although the first sunny day in months awaited, I slept in. That turned into a frantic search for my son's clip-on tie for his Young Gents meeting he has in school. His pants were on the floor, inside out, and when I slapped them in the air to straighten out the wrinkles like I would a carpet, I realized there was a grass stain on the knee. That led to a decision to wear jeans. You would have thought I was torturing my son. Jeans and a long-sleeve shirt.
I was met at school by students who aren't even in my classroom who want to avoid the substitute teacher they know is waiting for them by hiding out in my room. I could literally have 50 kids all crammed in one room, all wanting to sharpen pencils, organize my desk and tell me silly stories from their lives. The bell rings, I'm in the hallway and doing my usual walk-in-A-line routine. I end up face to face with a new student who isn't backing down. These are the mornings that I wonder why I work with kids. They want confrontation. It's the one thing in which they can excel.
My own students are walking on egg shells. There was some disturbance the day before when I took a half day. I can see the look in their eyes. Like they know in their one moment of impulsivity they have disappointed me. I craved that look as a new teacher. Now I just want them to relax.
But before the morning was done, the decision to stay in that moment of moodiness that typically would ruin my day was taken from me. I pulled the new kid aside, talked, apologized, invited. That's my true self. It's the easiest part of my day that does not involve decimals or cause and effect charts. I can read the face of one my most trying students. I've brushed him off this week. Stop whining. Put your big boy pants on. But the words of motivation come easy, and the face looking back at me changes. That's my true self.
The day went through its paces. I ended up splitting a class up just after diffusing a fight. I leave one room unattended to help with another unattended group. I'm mad about kids who throw the hollow tennis balls that fit on the table legs across the room. I have films and team building games ready. Then everything is in lockdown mode. Now I'm the teacher that punishes the entire class which in turn ends up punishing me.
This day has played a familiar beat. Step out in faith, the target on your back becomes larger. I've had some of my worst denials just before reaching a mountain top experience. I've walked away from great moments of grace and faith to the doubts of my mind when I'm alone on the couch. Perhaps it's the scenery. The same place I sit every night and ponder the day, processing the tv noise, sliding the images of my phone friends up like some digital scroll. It's the same place where I've given up. The place where food becomes therapy.
It was this same couch where I told my wife that perhaps this was the last year for me as a youth worker. Men's Ministry is still calling me. Every outburst from my son in some ways becomes this totem pole in the middle of my house that displays all my parenting fails. I'm busy. Let's not carpool tonight either, I told her too. No friends. No anyone. Just me and you, babe.
But those thoughts too were the doubts. Not good enough. Not thin enough. Not important enough.
All that feeling quickly changed being crammed in the back seat of a mini-van on the way to the conference's opening night. Upon arrival the layers of doubt begin to be chiseled away. Laughter bursts through my sediments like dynamite. Our group is a few feet away from the sound stage's subwoofers. The band begins and the music is at once haunting, melodic, hymnal, sprinkled with bit parts trombone and violin. The last time I felt music like that was last year in Oklahoma. Soul stirring.
More laughter. Hugs from old friends. All the questions I had going in are slipping from me, exfoliated by grace. I'm praying in a room of 2,000 people. At one point across the stage I can see one youth worker dancing alone in the aisle while everyone around him was sitting. No care in the world. And here I am still wanting to complain about my schedule, my needs.
The message is one of discipleship. Do we as youth workers spend so much time telling the kids what to do that we don't actively imitate God, allowing them to see a practical, real-life living? Stories of transformation. Stories of hope. I want the ceiling of my life to be the floor of a future generation. Wow, what a phrase. I'm exposed once again for a fool. The spotlight is one me again with God showing me once again that there aren't any puppet strings attached to my frame. Instead it's a pair of hands. I'm here, they call. I've been here. Have you forgotten?
So the devil didn't win tonight. I came home with my stomach hurting from the laughter one has with friends. My wife is making late-night lunches for tomorrow. I'm high lighting tomorrow's sessions, double-checking my options. God already knows what I'm going to learn over the next few days. One thing is for certain, the heart that beats for Him is "overfed" once more. A heart can be overfed, in my opinion. This allows it to drip grace with every step. Be a difference maker. Leave a legacy. Transform.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
The Voluptuous Italian Woman (That Struggling Trust)
There's the opening scene from Fellini's classic film, 8 1/2, that comes to mind as the ideas of this blog begin to fester and swirl between my brain and my fingers. The lead actor, Marcello Mastroianni (playing, essentially, the director himself), finds himself in some surreal traffic jam where the heads seem to be missing from the passengers of a crowded bus and voluptuous women (and voluptuous Italian women too) are but a seat away for us to ogle and fondle. The car's interior begins to fill with suffocating smoke. No one seems to be really noticing the man trapped inside of his car, writhing to escape. They see it happening but are paralyzed to act.
Suddenly, he's floating above the cars. Higher he soars, as if he's drifting towards heaven itself. It's then we see Mastroianni below, sitting causally at the beach, tethering a line in the sky. The line he's pulling is not a kite but the man himself. Pulling, tugging, at himself from achieving the lofty goal of transcendence, of becoming one with God.
Then free fall. It's one of the most disturbing openings in a catalog of great foreign films I've seen over the years. I haven't seen the film since I was in college, and I see the scene now on some grainy youtube screen and I remember the feeling I had then. Artistically, I had wanted to become a poet, a writer, some beatnik that toured colleges speaking from a microphone in dusty-floored townie bars, the guy that had the Great American Novel tucked away in the bottom drawer of his antique desk (isn't it always in the bottom drawer in those movies about writers? Why can't it be sprawled on their desks in broken chapters?) I related to the film as some craving lad who was seeing his window of opportunity shrink with every passing day in a class full of writers 10 years younger, saying everything so much more eloquently than my own. Fellini was making an autobiography by way of farce. While making his masterpiece, he becomes the leader of a circus. Tethered by writer's block, creative differences, the lustful looks of (voluptuous Italian) women.
The priorities have changed since then. Films have passed through my eyes that sometimes they run together. I see films through a different lens, but I still feel like there's some part of me flying through the clouds, only to be yoked back by some force that wants to keep me submerged, marooned on some lonely Mediterranean beach.
Discussing this feeling with a friend tonight allowed me to place some of this feeling into perspective. Two days prior I was sitting on this same table that I type this blog, reading the Bible, watching my kids read theirs, feeling adequate in the moment. This is what grace feels like. These are the blessings God provides you when you trust, when you're faithful, when you submit.
Then today happened. The tethering guilt of some past sin pulls you back down to earth. It's not anything new, just me in a different set of clothes. A younger me, a more immature me. The old me.
And a chain reaction begins that breaks the trust. For the record, the trust is not in my belief or awareness of God's power or grace, but the trust that I lose on a daily basis. That struggling trust.
There's many sayings I could quote now about being dead to my old self. So why is it that we resurrect our old selves like a re-run of a favorite zombie film? We know where heaven is, can point to it like some dog on the hunt, and yet we can't shake the coiling line of our own guilt. I joked tonight that it must be a Catholic thing. My upbringing on tortillas, Hail Mary's and a bleeding-foreheaded Jesus portraits evoked these feelings that went skin deep.
And that logic follows a linear path. One sin will be multiplied upon you. Eye for an eye. Sin for sin upon you.
So simple things like the hum of a talkative room begin to itch more that normal. Outlandish occurrences befall the room. All around you are a swarm of kids, crying, running through the halls, emotionally diseased. Your sin is so much a stain that it affects even the ones close to you.
Theologically, I firmly believe that one cannot lose his faith. Then why do we (I) work so hard on wanting to lose it? I spoke with a parent of one of my students today on this topic. After a similar day of headaches, he said that he too was on the mountaintop the day before, only to fall back down an avalanche of circumstances. "Overfed," he coined it. Besides the awkward laughter of knowing that you simply cannot overfeed yourself on God's love between the two of us, he had somewhat of a point. My trust failed me, not the sin.
I also hold firm to the notion that being mediocre is how the devil truly wins. Being right below the proverbial "bar" like we're playing some game of monotonous limbo is what keeps us mediocre. The devil doesn't have to shame us in front of a congregation. He just wants us to not even want to participate for fear that we'll be caught with our zippers down.
Each day I pray there's a target on me, and most of the time I'm peering down the scope of my own rifle at my naive reflection. I'm committed to climb this mountain, but damn if the avalanches, frostbite and jagged rocks that make me want to set up camp. No need to trek further.
This past Sunday my son experimented with an emerald green can of spray paint. He wrote, "Cruz was here," on the side outside backyard fence. I didn't believe him, but when I saw it I wondered what he must have been thinking. Later, he realized I had posted the incident on Facebook. "I didn't want anyone to know about it," me muttered. "Then don't use green spray paint!"
I spend so much time trying to make a splash that I forget that I'm already unique, loved, wanted. The old beatnik dwelling inside fights his way onto blogs at times, sometimes in the fifth-grade level poems I model for kids in class. The stardom is different, some pious Christian stardom.
And back to the dead to self. I read more and more about waking my dead spirit. I was dead and now I'm free. This means the atrophied disease of my former self resides in my blood stream. It's the struggle of all of us who challenge ourselves to want escape from that car that fills with smoke, awaiting the time when we fall asleep at the wheel. Waiting for our us to drift off onto the county road into the abyss.
Suddenly, he's floating above the cars. Higher he soars, as if he's drifting towards heaven itself. It's then we see Mastroianni below, sitting causally at the beach, tethering a line in the sky. The line he's pulling is not a kite but the man himself. Pulling, tugging, at himself from achieving the lofty goal of transcendence, of becoming one with God.
Then free fall. It's one of the most disturbing openings in a catalog of great foreign films I've seen over the years. I haven't seen the film since I was in college, and I see the scene now on some grainy youtube screen and I remember the feeling I had then. Artistically, I had wanted to become a poet, a writer, some beatnik that toured colleges speaking from a microphone in dusty-floored townie bars, the guy that had the Great American Novel tucked away in the bottom drawer of his antique desk (isn't it always in the bottom drawer in those movies about writers? Why can't it be sprawled on their desks in broken chapters?) I related to the film as some craving lad who was seeing his window of opportunity shrink with every passing day in a class full of writers 10 years younger, saying everything so much more eloquently than my own. Fellini was making an autobiography by way of farce. While making his masterpiece, he becomes the leader of a circus. Tethered by writer's block, creative differences, the lustful looks of (voluptuous Italian) women.
The priorities have changed since then. Films have passed through my eyes that sometimes they run together. I see films through a different lens, but I still feel like there's some part of me flying through the clouds, only to be yoked back by some force that wants to keep me submerged, marooned on some lonely Mediterranean beach.
Discussing this feeling with a friend tonight allowed me to place some of this feeling into perspective. Two days prior I was sitting on this same table that I type this blog, reading the Bible, watching my kids read theirs, feeling adequate in the moment. This is what grace feels like. These are the blessings God provides you when you trust, when you're faithful, when you submit.
Then today happened. The tethering guilt of some past sin pulls you back down to earth. It's not anything new, just me in a different set of clothes. A younger me, a more immature me. The old me.
And a chain reaction begins that breaks the trust. For the record, the trust is not in my belief or awareness of God's power or grace, but the trust that I lose on a daily basis. That struggling trust.
There's many sayings I could quote now about being dead to my old self. So why is it that we resurrect our old selves like a re-run of a favorite zombie film? We know where heaven is, can point to it like some dog on the hunt, and yet we can't shake the coiling line of our own guilt. I joked tonight that it must be a Catholic thing. My upbringing on tortillas, Hail Mary's and a bleeding-foreheaded Jesus portraits evoked these feelings that went skin deep.
And that logic follows a linear path. One sin will be multiplied upon you. Eye for an eye. Sin for sin upon you.
So simple things like the hum of a talkative room begin to itch more that normal. Outlandish occurrences befall the room. All around you are a swarm of kids, crying, running through the halls, emotionally diseased. Your sin is so much a stain that it affects even the ones close to you.
Theologically, I firmly believe that one cannot lose his faith. Then why do we (I) work so hard on wanting to lose it? I spoke with a parent of one of my students today on this topic. After a similar day of headaches, he said that he too was on the mountaintop the day before, only to fall back down an avalanche of circumstances. "Overfed," he coined it. Besides the awkward laughter of knowing that you simply cannot overfeed yourself on God's love between the two of us, he had somewhat of a point. My trust failed me, not the sin.
I also hold firm to the notion that being mediocre is how the devil truly wins. Being right below the proverbial "bar" like we're playing some game of monotonous limbo is what keeps us mediocre. The devil doesn't have to shame us in front of a congregation. He just wants us to not even want to participate for fear that we'll be caught with our zippers down.
Each day I pray there's a target on me, and most of the time I'm peering down the scope of my own rifle at my naive reflection. I'm committed to climb this mountain, but damn if the avalanches, frostbite and jagged rocks that make me want to set up camp. No need to trek further.
This past Sunday my son experimented with an emerald green can of spray paint. He wrote, "Cruz was here," on the side outside backyard fence. I didn't believe him, but when I saw it I wondered what he must have been thinking. Later, he realized I had posted the incident on Facebook. "I didn't want anyone to know about it," me muttered. "Then don't use green spray paint!"
I spend so much time trying to make a splash that I forget that I'm already unique, loved, wanted. The old beatnik dwelling inside fights his way onto blogs at times, sometimes in the fifth-grade level poems I model for kids in class. The stardom is different, some pious Christian stardom.
And back to the dead to self. I read more and more about waking my dead spirit. I was dead and now I'm free. This means the atrophied disease of my former self resides in my blood stream. It's the struggle of all of us who challenge ourselves to want escape from that car that fills with smoke, awaiting the time when we fall asleep at the wheel. Waiting for our us to drift off onto the county road into the abyss.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Bumper Stickers on a Coffin
There was a moment today when I actually raised my arms in exasperation at my repeated attempts to guide one of my students to redoing his HW he had done incorrectly.
"Why would I want you to FAIL?"
I'm sure having my arms up in the air and the tone of my voice really sent home the message that I cared. Obviously, being in the moment sometimes delivers the opposite effect.
Like this past Thursday on Valentine's Eve, when I was mad with my wife for being out late with our son (isn't it all about routines? We think our kids go to bed should equal some sort of merit badge) and the next morning I find a gift on my work tray. Shamed!
Imagine Joshua, newly anointed the head cheese over the Isrealites as they entered their promised land. I'm sure he had to been thinking, "Do I really have to lead these stiff-necked people? I mean, come on Lord, they pretty much put Moses IN THE GRAVE."
Leadership is not always what it's cracked up to be.
This past Friday I went back to team building for my fifth graders. We first rated 8 aspects of our life (mentioned in this great TED talk about "Hacking your Education"), like Health, Exercise, our Relationships and how we manage stress. I challenged them to focus on one aspect of their lives that they could begin making an impact today. And we also challenged ourselves to work on the aspects of our lives that would be the hardest to change. Anytime I do these team building exercises, inevitably it requires me to make a self-evaluation of my own life.
What kind of leader am I? What kind of leader do I want to be? Better yet, what kind of leader is God calling me to be?
We place our concerns in front of the Lord's will. I'm no exception. I take a parenting class mainly because I'd like to think that the imprint I'm making in my son and daughter's lives are making some kind of impact. And that's another fallacy--my imprint. God didn't allow us to have kids so that we could imprint them with our agendas, stresses, garbage and baggage. We are all dysfunctional to a point. My son has my temper but he has his mother's love. My youngest daughter has my personality and her mother's sense of awareness. Our eldest has even picked up our stress management tips for life (for example, we like to freak out!).
So tonight in parenting class we used Play-Doh to make an object that symbolizes our kids. I tried making a trophy, because my son treats every activity as if it is his last. In his world, participation trophies are for suckers. First place is all that matters. We then were told to ball up the Play-doh, squeeze it as hard as we could and observe.
What resided in our palm was the imprint of our life on them. You could see the lines of our fingertips in the imperfect, malleable clay. That's what we do as parents. We twirls our girls in the air when they dress like a princess and we use words in situations that aren't always in balance. I know that I've gotten more excited knowing Cruz wanted to play baseball than wanting to work on a Lego set. It's those subtle cues that we take for granted. Our kids misbehave and we wonder why they acted the way they did. They choose a sport or activity we tried or accomplished back in our days and we rejoice. Anything that doesn't fit that mold gets a hesitant, "Oh, yeah?" as if we are questioning their decisions.
But we are only the conduit of God's will. We seek and place our identity in so many things, things we allow ourselves to get trapped in--by gender, religious affiliation, race, creed, sexual orientation, the neighborhood we live in. None of that really matters in the end. You think someone is going to put bumper stickers on my coffin, one for each of my interests and associations. One for my church home, one for living in Texas, one for being a Buckeye, etc. Imagine being a kid and having all that weight of expectation thrown upon you?
I've self-reflected enough on my own childhood. That's been blogged about before. I don't look back on those days too much anymore. I've forgiven, or at least I've told myself that, but more importantly, I've begun to turn into a new facet which is more reliant on the future. What legacy am I leaving for the kids? What eternal practices will make the difference in their lives long after I'm gone?
Another point I picked up on in class are the several identities we carry throughout our everyday life. We have our church friends, we act one way at work and we act differently in front of our families. I'm guilty of this too. Some of my Christian friends are just as nutty as I am. We're constantly joking and being borderline inappropriate. Laughter has always been my pipeline to God. If I couldn't laugh every day, or if that joy of laughter were somehow taken away--that would be a personal hell. At work I strive to carry the light into dark places. I'm surrounded by Christian co-workers, but sometimes we're hustling from one project to the next that we rarely focus on anything but test results and discipline. One could argue that God is absent from our schools because the very people he has instructed to lead--the Joshuas--have forsaken him for lesson plans. We've convinced ourselves that busyness equals productivity, that "too much on our plates" is some new world badge of honor that wins you nothing. Other times I feel stunted by the fact that I want to yell my love of Jesus to the rooftops but fear losing my job for being some zealous nut. Will the students understand that the activity we will do on Friday will be centered on their self-identity, even when I can't even mention that their true identities have already been emblazoned on their hearts before they were even a thought?
I guess this is why I wear Christian themed t-shirts, and drive the van with the personalized license plates that sound out "De Colores." I have officially placed my identity in outward Christian projections. I do want others to identify me as such, but do I always have the confidence to do the same when I'm not dressed in my threads of conscious?
And all the while God is waving His arms in front of me like some Holy Spirit filled balloon man outside of a used car lot, saying, "But I don't want you to FAIL, but you keep doing the same thing!"
Or he taps us on the shoulder when we doubt as says something to us like, "Red Sea," in a manner that suggests why we even question his might. "Did I mention manna, too?" God is there giving us that I-told-you-look of a dear friend that loves you enough to tell you the truth.
Other times he reminds you that leaders come in all shapes in sizes. They are the guys who are "twinning" with jr high students because he wore the same hoodie. Or the text messages you get from complete strangers who want to know when the next offering of men's programming is going to start. Or the hug from a friend and the conversation you have about your past week. You've seen them not a few days before at church but you can't wait to hear your last name called from across the hallway in that in-joke, playful manner that you understand.
"Cor-doooo-va!"
It's time I start listening and return the call.
"Why would I want you to FAIL?"
I'm sure having my arms up in the air and the tone of my voice really sent home the message that I cared. Obviously, being in the moment sometimes delivers the opposite effect.
Like this past Thursday on Valentine's Eve, when I was mad with my wife for being out late with our son (isn't it all about routines? We think our kids go to bed should equal some sort of merit badge) and the next morning I find a gift on my work tray. Shamed!
Imagine Joshua, newly anointed the head cheese over the Isrealites as they entered their promised land. I'm sure he had to been thinking, "Do I really have to lead these stiff-necked people? I mean, come on Lord, they pretty much put Moses IN THE GRAVE."
Leadership is not always what it's cracked up to be.
This past Friday I went back to team building for my fifth graders. We first rated 8 aspects of our life (mentioned in this great TED talk about "Hacking your Education"), like Health, Exercise, our Relationships and how we manage stress. I challenged them to focus on one aspect of their lives that they could begin making an impact today. And we also challenged ourselves to work on the aspects of our lives that would be the hardest to change. Anytime I do these team building exercises, inevitably it requires me to make a self-evaluation of my own life.
What kind of leader am I? What kind of leader do I want to be? Better yet, what kind of leader is God calling me to be?
We place our concerns in front of the Lord's will. I'm no exception. I take a parenting class mainly because I'd like to think that the imprint I'm making in my son and daughter's lives are making some kind of impact. And that's another fallacy--my imprint. God didn't allow us to have kids so that we could imprint them with our agendas, stresses, garbage and baggage. We are all dysfunctional to a point. My son has my temper but he has his mother's love. My youngest daughter has my personality and her mother's sense of awareness. Our eldest has even picked up our stress management tips for life (for example, we like to freak out!).
So tonight in parenting class we used Play-Doh to make an object that symbolizes our kids. I tried making a trophy, because my son treats every activity as if it is his last. In his world, participation trophies are for suckers. First place is all that matters. We then were told to ball up the Play-doh, squeeze it as hard as we could and observe.
What resided in our palm was the imprint of our life on them. You could see the lines of our fingertips in the imperfect, malleable clay. That's what we do as parents. We twirls our girls in the air when they dress like a princess and we use words in situations that aren't always in balance. I know that I've gotten more excited knowing Cruz wanted to play baseball than wanting to work on a Lego set. It's those subtle cues that we take for granted. Our kids misbehave and we wonder why they acted the way they did. They choose a sport or activity we tried or accomplished back in our days and we rejoice. Anything that doesn't fit that mold gets a hesitant, "Oh, yeah?" as if we are questioning their decisions.
But we are only the conduit of God's will. We seek and place our identity in so many things, things we allow ourselves to get trapped in--by gender, religious affiliation, race, creed, sexual orientation, the neighborhood we live in. None of that really matters in the end. You think someone is going to put bumper stickers on my coffin, one for each of my interests and associations. One for my church home, one for living in Texas, one for being a Buckeye, etc. Imagine being a kid and having all that weight of expectation thrown upon you?
I've self-reflected enough on my own childhood. That's been blogged about before. I don't look back on those days too much anymore. I've forgiven, or at least I've told myself that, but more importantly, I've begun to turn into a new facet which is more reliant on the future. What legacy am I leaving for the kids? What eternal practices will make the difference in their lives long after I'm gone?
Another point I picked up on in class are the several identities we carry throughout our everyday life. We have our church friends, we act one way at work and we act differently in front of our families. I'm guilty of this too. Some of my Christian friends are just as nutty as I am. We're constantly joking and being borderline inappropriate. Laughter has always been my pipeline to God. If I couldn't laugh every day, or if that joy of laughter were somehow taken away--that would be a personal hell. At work I strive to carry the light into dark places. I'm surrounded by Christian co-workers, but sometimes we're hustling from one project to the next that we rarely focus on anything but test results and discipline. One could argue that God is absent from our schools because the very people he has instructed to lead--the Joshuas--have forsaken him for lesson plans. We've convinced ourselves that busyness equals productivity, that "too much on our plates" is some new world badge of honor that wins you nothing. Other times I feel stunted by the fact that I want to yell my love of Jesus to the rooftops but fear losing my job for being some zealous nut. Will the students understand that the activity we will do on Friday will be centered on their self-identity, even when I can't even mention that their true identities have already been emblazoned on their hearts before they were even a thought?
I guess this is why I wear Christian themed t-shirts, and drive the van with the personalized license plates that sound out "De Colores." I have officially placed my identity in outward Christian projections. I do want others to identify me as such, but do I always have the confidence to do the same when I'm not dressed in my threads of conscious?
And all the while God is waving His arms in front of me like some Holy Spirit filled balloon man outside of a used car lot, saying, "But I don't want you to FAIL, but you keep doing the same thing!"
Or he taps us on the shoulder when we doubt as says something to us like, "Red Sea," in a manner that suggests why we even question his might. "Did I mention manna, too?" God is there giving us that I-told-you-look of a dear friend that loves you enough to tell you the truth.
Other times he reminds you that leaders come in all shapes in sizes. They are the guys who are "twinning" with jr high students because he wore the same hoodie. Or the text messages you get from complete strangers who want to know when the next offering of men's programming is going to start. Or the hug from a friend and the conversation you have about your past week. You've seen them not a few days before at church but you can't wait to hear your last name called from across the hallway in that in-joke, playful manner that you understand.
"Cor-doooo-va!"
It's time I start listening and return the call.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Essentially Airbrushed
For the record, I don't have it all together. I'm not perfect. I eat the wrong foods and my kids act up in the most embarrassing places. But you probably didn't know it by looking at me, or most likely, from any of my Facebook posts in recent months.
I read a great blog the other day that at first caused me to think the link was meant for people like me. I fell into the blog's trap though, and the sin of vanity. But I am guilty of posting positive things for my "friends" to see. Of the 900 or so people who I've friended on Facebook, and the 300 or so who follow me on Twitter, I don't have a close relationship with but a handful of them. There's been studies that say the human brain cannot possibly carry more than 150 people for you to care about, and probably even remember the names of, much less 900. Am I faking it when I tell people that I love Mondays and decry the inevitable declarations of TGIF whenever I hear them? Am I being truthful when I post a selfie on Instagram or that perfect filtered picture of my daughter on her way to school in the morning?
The blog in question's thesis are the lies in omission we deliver to the public. I watched a video this past weekend at a youth conference I attended with my junior and senior high kids from church that also challenged the notion of how we live these simple, disconnected versions of real lives through social media. The thinking goes, we have allowed ourselves to think we are lonely, therefore we strive for friends, followers, likers and chatters that will make us feel connected even when connection is far from what we truly are. The message was for the youth in the audience, but it might as well have been for me too.
We choose to post what we want to post. We can essentially airbursh the pictures we post because they only show the truth we want others to see. About 5 years ago I made a conscious choice to "go positive" on my social media accounts. It's about as easy to do as walking past a buffet full of food and not wanting four plates. Sometimes.
You see, all that positive energy and smiles are all attributed to God, even when they have been attributed to my own luck or own deeds. A few weeks back a visiting pastor called it having a "Jesus smirk." Why should the joy I've been given be kept in some unlit basement? God calls us to be the "light". The best way is to beam the smile I kept under lock and key for over 20 years.
Perhaps I a making up for lost time. I complained and grumped so much of my young adult life away (and ask my wife, I still complain plenty) that I felt I owed God. Despite these best intentions, none of my positive energy, good deeds or offerings mean anything to Him. He wants our heart, and my heart is sometimes wrapped in the acknowledgement of others.
You don't think I'll count the amount of readers of this blog? Or that I have counted the number of likes a picture of my family receives? Perhaps it's arbitrary scoreboarding, considering you don't have control of the numbers game on Facebook. But social media is all about the love of self. Instagram is our life in pictures, vine for those small seconds of what we want you to witness, Facebook to make you popular, twitter for the mindless thoughts and feeling of community, and snap chat for the risque pictures we don't want shared with the world. It's all self congratulatory.
If I was "real" on Facebook and post every detail of my life it would probably go something like this:
My son wont stop crying that he lost his iPod charger. It's been 15 minutes and I'm already late for work. He complained all last night to get his homework done. 8 back to back pages of math and spelling and reading every week. Poor kid sits all day and does homework all night. Don't these teachers have a life? Wait until I email the superintendent.
Why am I spending another snow day on the couch. I did not work out, but I did not cave in to the unopened bag of Fritos in the cupboard. I sent my kids to bed without a kiss, a prayer of having them brush their teeth. I wish I could just look at nudie pictures of busty women and stay up until 2 am.
I'm totally not wanting to attend bible study tonight. I didn't read and I have nothing nice to say after I yelled at some kid today at school. I have a belly-full of fries I engulfed on my way from work that I didn't want to share or my family to know about. Will anyone grade my stack of papers? Will it be awful if I left my back yard gate open and the dog ran away?
I know there's a contingent of people who would undoubtedly "like" this life. I have actually unfollowed friends for posting these types of posts. Am I being unreal by choosing to turn my ears from the noise of their lives? Should I be more of a Christian and give them some upbeat words of encouragement, or better yet, a super Christian by "praying" for them? I've been told that Christians live in some bubble world to distance themselves from the sinful world around them. Perhaps there's some truth to that.
I read recently about American journalists in Sochi who have met culture shock face to face. The hotel rooms in the city are deplorable at best. Brown running water, curtain rods broken, a lack of toilet paper and homes turned into a make-shift lobby. Does it make our country look worse for complaining about the necessities we have taken for granted? There has been lots of talk about how Sochi has scrubbed the streets clean of homeless and blatantly hack into computers and cell phones of tourists. We expect every country to be like America wherever we go. We are stunned at how other countries treat gays, women and children. Sochi seems like a Russian version of China, where the smiling faces hide some ugly truths underneath.
The world would have us believe we have some choice in the matter. Super Bowl commercials bring out the craving consumerism in us all, make us want their products when we don't even need them. I have directv, which allows me over 400 channels of entertainment at my fingertips. I've changed the channel during the Grammys but I willingly watch violent shows and simulated sex. My life can be DVR-ed and fast forwarded at my whims.
I don't know any way to be. As a teacher, there are some things I can't post legally. I don't complain about my student's parents or kids but my wife knows otherwise. I don't always use my time wisely and my body is beginning to show the symptoms of my lifestyle. There was actually a stretch of 3 or 4 days when I didn't post a thing because I knew I had that vitrol that wanted to spew on everyone who would listen.
And that's what free will is all about. It's a choice. A choice to live differently. To make a mark. To change the channel and edit out the distractions. So I'm going to continue to edit the problems and own up to my mistakes. That's my brokenness too, in that I want others to see. It's a twisted form of fellowship all of us strive for in one way or another. Mine is just louder than most.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Symphonic Honey
Typically, when you ask someone if they have family back in their hometown you expect the same two answers. They still reside there, like mine in Houston. Or they moved away. Rarely do you hear what I received from a parent at tonight's conferences: They all moved here (to America), moved away or were killed.
Killed. Yep, it's not something you hear everyday.
The parent in question is from Rwanda. I've seen enough documentaries on HBO and art-house films to know that in some parts of the world, pursuing any kind of dream other than survival is not something many people in America understand. I can debate what constitutes poverty in America now, but one thing is for certain, no one is coming down the street in a van full of blood-hungry children wielding machetes in downtown Columbus any time soon. Just the thought of that either makes you cringe or it makes you scoff.
Little revelations like these are the twists and loops of working with children. Despite the title of "teacher" it's really a lot more than that. I plan lessons, sure, and I deliver knowledge in an (sometimes) engaging way, but for the most part I'm an emotion wrangler. I juggle disputes, I perform psychological surgeries, I douse drama with smiles and I redirect the off-track minds of kids from 9am until 3:45.
Lately, the ritual of my job, the tasks that must be performed, the day to day motions, have all been placed as my primary focus. I took a step back in the personality department and the dividends of my investments have begun to take its toll. Kids were taking things personal, my stress level was up, their performance was stagnant.
It's a reflection of my personal life as well. When you neglect God throughout the week when it really matters, those instances seem more magnified. My volume level has been on 11 with my kids at home, and while I tend to justify my rants with the same argument all teacher/parents make--that we constantly repeat ourselves all day and the kids don't listen--it still doesn't solve the problem of why my daughter likes to scream and run through the house or why my son has a hard time each morning getting dressed.
At least the family dog has, momentarily, stopped pooping in the house.
And then this Sunday happened. Our church's lead pastor is on sabbatical so the typical rotation of his sermons are somewhat in flux. We brought in a guest speaker (Dan Webster of Authentic Leadership Inc.) who ignited the dormancy of my heart. Too bad we had maybe 1/4 of our crowd not in attendance from the persistent winter weather.
There's lots to share, but the first attention getter was what it means to leave your mark. He asked us to imagine we were back in our high school. What place would you show someone that was significant to you? He showed us a picture of two indentions in the brick where a kid ran his motorcycle head on and committed suicide. Apparently he was trying to get his girlfriend's attention.
I don't have any of those visible marks at my high school. I remember someone spray painting Nimitz (where I attended as a freshman) and you could still see the visible remnants of some old vandal's announcement. There's no blood stains from some horrible accident, no suicides that I can remember. All the deaths that occurred happened off campus. Crosses on roadsides mark the teenager who once lived.
Most of my late high school years were spent running from anything remotely authentic. I would have to say the place of my greatest impact, or the place I felt was the most important to me was Mrs. Crow's newspaper class. I spent my lunch periods there and spent many times goofing around with friends, enjoying the privilege we had to walk around the halls, and actually worked towards producing something we thought was worthwhile.
Journalism was my life back in high school. I did not get into theater classes my freshman year (and they had their classes at the same time as yearbook and newspaper) so newspaper was the next best thing. I loved the vibe of the upperclassmen. The freedom of not having to finish some random assignment or to listen to lecture. Mr. Echols played classical music and let us be creative.
When I switched high schools, I thought all my journalism dreams had come to an end. I was the Sports Editor who as a freshman dropped a scoop that our football coach was leaving before anyone else outside of the football players knew. My mom even had a conference after a few weeks of school over my lackluster attitude. Eventually it all evened out. There was a plan after all.
It was the place I had some of my best compliments, showed the first sign of leadership and the most humbling experience when Mrs. Crow realized I had edited down some stories without hacking any of mine. I talked way too much about sex and not enough about life. But, in essence, the only remnant of my existence there are old newspapers that are collecting dust in some box somewhere. Maybe even not.
As far as my Texas years were concerned, I left no marks whatsoever. I can drive by old houses and old neighborhoods that left marks on me, but nothing tangible that says that I lived my life in such a way that others took notice.
I used to think often of death as a young adult. Not necessarily about suicide, but the thought of "who cares if I was dead?" I used to envision my soul hovering over my funeral. Who would attend? Who would cry? Who would scoff?
There were two funerals in my youth, one for my beloved Uncle Richard and my great grandmother. My Uncle Richard touched so many lives. The funeral and visiting hours were parts social gathering and part reunion for many friends and family. My mom tells me a story that a friend of my uncle's had not known he had passed, and when she found out, she screamed aloud. Think of that. Would someone finds out you have died, will they roll their eyes or scream in shock?
My great-grandmother's was culturally significant. The mourning of old viejitas formed a symbiotic relationship with the cries of the mariachis. Everyone was speaking Spanish I could barely decipher. I saw cousins who if I would see now, would remember them only in their 20 years-ago faces.
I want to leave a mark that scars someone's heart. A mark that burns for the heart of Jesus. Perhaps that's what motivates me in my moments of doubt. Not that I want some grand funeral, but that the people I loved, lived and laughed with are sending me off to my real home.
Recently, my step-father's dad passed away, Grandpa Joe. I knew enough of my step-dad to know that Grandpa Joe was a man of presence and respect. He had the kind of voice that sounded natural in your ears--like a symphonic honey. At times of family gatherings, he would sing spanish tunes I never knew the lyrics to, but didn't need to because they were being acted out on the inflections and face of its creator.
I think God will sing for us one day in all the glory of a Spanish-singing Texan. It will welcome us home. It will remind us that the pain of our lives, the trivialities, are gone. That's the concert I want a ticket to.
Killed. Yep, it's not something you hear everyday.
The parent in question is from Rwanda. I've seen enough documentaries on HBO and art-house films to know that in some parts of the world, pursuing any kind of dream other than survival is not something many people in America understand. I can debate what constitutes poverty in America now, but one thing is for certain, no one is coming down the street in a van full of blood-hungry children wielding machetes in downtown Columbus any time soon. Just the thought of that either makes you cringe or it makes you scoff.
Little revelations like these are the twists and loops of working with children. Despite the title of "teacher" it's really a lot more than that. I plan lessons, sure, and I deliver knowledge in an (sometimes) engaging way, but for the most part I'm an emotion wrangler. I juggle disputes, I perform psychological surgeries, I douse drama with smiles and I redirect the off-track minds of kids from 9am until 3:45.
Lately, the ritual of my job, the tasks that must be performed, the day to day motions, have all been placed as my primary focus. I took a step back in the personality department and the dividends of my investments have begun to take its toll. Kids were taking things personal, my stress level was up, their performance was stagnant.
It's a reflection of my personal life as well. When you neglect God throughout the week when it really matters, those instances seem more magnified. My volume level has been on 11 with my kids at home, and while I tend to justify my rants with the same argument all teacher/parents make--that we constantly repeat ourselves all day and the kids don't listen--it still doesn't solve the problem of why my daughter likes to scream and run through the house or why my son has a hard time each morning getting dressed.
At least the family dog has, momentarily, stopped pooping in the house.
And then this Sunday happened. Our church's lead pastor is on sabbatical so the typical rotation of his sermons are somewhat in flux. We brought in a guest speaker (Dan Webster of Authentic Leadership Inc.) who ignited the dormancy of my heart. Too bad we had maybe 1/4 of our crowd not in attendance from the persistent winter weather.
There's lots to share, but the first attention getter was what it means to leave your mark. He asked us to imagine we were back in our high school. What place would you show someone that was significant to you? He showed us a picture of two indentions in the brick where a kid ran his motorcycle head on and committed suicide. Apparently he was trying to get his girlfriend's attention.
I don't have any of those visible marks at my high school. I remember someone spray painting Nimitz (where I attended as a freshman) and you could still see the visible remnants of some old vandal's announcement. There's no blood stains from some horrible accident, no suicides that I can remember. All the deaths that occurred happened off campus. Crosses on roadsides mark the teenager who once lived.
Most of my late high school years were spent running from anything remotely authentic. I would have to say the place of my greatest impact, or the place I felt was the most important to me was Mrs. Crow's newspaper class. I spent my lunch periods there and spent many times goofing around with friends, enjoying the privilege we had to walk around the halls, and actually worked towards producing something we thought was worthwhile.
Journalism was my life back in high school. I did not get into theater classes my freshman year (and they had their classes at the same time as yearbook and newspaper) so newspaper was the next best thing. I loved the vibe of the upperclassmen. The freedom of not having to finish some random assignment or to listen to lecture. Mr. Echols played classical music and let us be creative.
When I switched high schools, I thought all my journalism dreams had come to an end. I was the Sports Editor who as a freshman dropped a scoop that our football coach was leaving before anyone else outside of the football players knew. My mom even had a conference after a few weeks of school over my lackluster attitude. Eventually it all evened out. There was a plan after all.
It was the place I had some of my best compliments, showed the first sign of leadership and the most humbling experience when Mrs. Crow realized I had edited down some stories without hacking any of mine. I talked way too much about sex and not enough about life. But, in essence, the only remnant of my existence there are old newspapers that are collecting dust in some box somewhere. Maybe even not.
As far as my Texas years were concerned, I left no marks whatsoever. I can drive by old houses and old neighborhoods that left marks on me, but nothing tangible that says that I lived my life in such a way that others took notice.
I used to think often of death as a young adult. Not necessarily about suicide, but the thought of "who cares if I was dead?" I used to envision my soul hovering over my funeral. Who would attend? Who would cry? Who would scoff?
There were two funerals in my youth, one for my beloved Uncle Richard and my great grandmother. My Uncle Richard touched so many lives. The funeral and visiting hours were parts social gathering and part reunion for many friends and family. My mom tells me a story that a friend of my uncle's had not known he had passed, and when she found out, she screamed aloud. Think of that. Would someone finds out you have died, will they roll their eyes or scream in shock?
My great-grandmother's was culturally significant. The mourning of old viejitas formed a symbiotic relationship with the cries of the mariachis. Everyone was speaking Spanish I could barely decipher. I saw cousins who if I would see now, would remember them only in their 20 years-ago faces.
I want to leave a mark that scars someone's heart. A mark that burns for the heart of Jesus. Perhaps that's what motivates me in my moments of doubt. Not that I want some grand funeral, but that the people I loved, lived and laughed with are sending me off to my real home.
Recently, my step-father's dad passed away, Grandpa Joe. I knew enough of my step-dad to know that Grandpa Joe was a man of presence and respect. He had the kind of voice that sounded natural in your ears--like a symphonic honey. At times of family gatherings, he would sing spanish tunes I never knew the lyrics to, but didn't need to because they were being acted out on the inflections and face of its creator.
I think God will sing for us one day in all the glory of a Spanish-singing Texan. It will welcome us home. It will remind us that the pain of our lives, the trivialities, are gone. That's the concert I want a ticket to.
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