The Flashing 700

By the end of this blog, I'll still be uncertain whether or not to hit the "publish" button.  I've had those blogs before, and before I started journaling my ideas and thoughts for anyone to read, I typically would wonder if the posting I was about to send onto the web was really worth all the trouble.  In allowing people, sometimes strangers, friends, family members, into my life in this way I undoubtedly open myself up for scrutiny, criticism.  Anyone who has been reading these over the years knows I don't hold much back.  In this instance, the feelings presented in the upcoming paragraphs have everything to do with the changes and subsequent reactions of congregation members at my church.  This blog is as much for me to understand the deep feelings of people that I know, trust and love as it is for those that I don't know.  It's a call for peace, it's a call for action.  It's a plea for myself to narrow my prayers towards the essentials behind any church--to bring others closer to Jesus.  It's a wake-up call for my friends.  If I could speak in front of the church, I'd do it.

Let me give a brief background.  Over the past several months our church has gone through some changes in personnel, leadership, and membership. We've even been renovating the halls and rooms.  Some of these changes have been wrought with plenty of hand-wringing and second guessing.  Members have left, declarations have been made in both public and private.  Rumors abound, emails have been sent and meetings have been made.  Over the course of these changes I have gone through my own character study.  When our youth pastors left (a husband and wife team) I panicked, I admitted.  I let other's opinions of those leaders that were left behind influence my own thoughts.  Instead of following the call of service within the youth, I felt myself questioning every decision that was made.  Every kid who I didn't routinely see on a Sunday gave my thoughts vindication. 

Of course the kids are leaving because they left.
Who made that change?  I bet it was...... 

Instead of loving on the leaders I was called on to serve and help, I was secretly, sometimes openly undermining the very direction we were trying to take. And for that I'm sorry.

And right there, dear reader is when I decided to change my conscious.  It happened slowly at first.  I saw myself on the outside looking down on the conversations I was having with my friends.  Was I fueling the fires of dissent or was I lifting those concerns to my heavenly Father?  Were my complaints valid or were they simply just the whining of a typical American Christian who felt entitled to an answer?  It's like looking at front page story from "God's Plan" and then writing an editorial about the twists and turns of the narrative.

So let me say first that being a member of church does not always entitle us answers.  Just because you pay your tithe (and let's be serious, I'm one of those members who have yet to hit the 10% plateau.  For those that do, does it give them more say in what happens in board meetings, on what the pastor will preach about on Sunday?) does not mean that you are obliged to check in the yes or no box on some grand approval list.  As American Christians, me being one of them, we fell as though our "rights" are always under attack.  Some company doesn't say "Merry Christmas," or someone believes that God has been taken out of our schools means we are being persecuted.  Let me just say this, God is clearly evident in schools, each and every day.  He's there in the hearts of the believers, like me a fifth grade teacher, and in the hearts of the lost and the redeemed children that walk those halls each and every day.

Where was I?

Perhaps people are not used to change.  Not everyone has my life experiences.  I attended 12 different schools and moved almost every summer.  I'm sure we have members of the congregation that live a few miles away from their family home, where the grass has grown in the same direction for over 20 years.  Maybe that's why when congregation members leave, they feel as if "something's wrong."  We project our Christianity upon those members who are not with us any longer.  Some were friends, but for me, most of them were friendly faces I saw when I entered the building.  Some had huge pocket books I'm sure.  Maybe they didn't.  Does it mean that their new church has more grace to offer than ours?  Does it mean their congregation are all in arm together singing about how Dr. Pepper can change the world while "Age of Aquarius" plays in the background?

And when people leave churches, they don't always broadcast it for everyone to see.  Some claim they aren't being "fed", while others may feel like there is a lack of leadership in the current administration.  Being involved in education, guess how many changes I have seen in my 12 years as a teacher? 

2 buildings
5 principals
3 Reading programs
3 testing initiatives
4 different sets of Basal readers
2 superintendents
30 kids a year.  And ever year I lose maybe 4-5 kids, maybe get that many new students in.  Kids move from charters into public schools and vice versa.  Kids who I expected to see the following year moved. Did it suddenly mean that I was to blame?  Hardly. 

This morning there was a reminder of just how much the members of our church are letting one another down.  The numbers "700" flashed on the digital screens just above the worship team.  700 means the nursery needs help.  In a church our size, why is it that we lack enough volunteers on any given Sunday, to serve our children?  Why is it that we have the same 3 or 4 guys who help park the elderly and direct traffic each and every Sunday?  Seriously, there are only 4 guys qualified to do this in a church of 2,000?  Why does my table talk team comprised of jr. and sr. high students, still need volunteers? 

There was a church member who left about a year ago.  He was involved in Emmaus, he greeted people in the lobby, he served meals, served on mission teams.  When he left I remember thinking, that's one guy I hated to see leave.  Other friends of mine proclaim that other "strong" Christians are leaving.  I'm beginning to wonder that that means.  Does strong entail they tithed more than the average and gave willingly to other missions and causes?  Does strong mean they raised their arms during worship?  Does strong mean that their prayers touched the heart of God more than mine? 

And this is where the conviction hits my heart.  If I'm so strong, If I'm the leader I want to be in my church, why cant I lead others towards the needs of the church?  There's 6 guys who meet in room 226 each Wednesday, studying together, mapping out new ideas and dreaming of a thriving men's ministry.  And to add another?  It would be like twisting the arms of the righteous.  Everyone's busy, everyone has an excuse.  Maybe that's why 700 blares like an indictment upon the congregation on random Sunday mornings.  Perhaps we should fly our church flag upside down, which signifies danger.  Help us, we're a church who wants to grow but we're unwilling to dig deep, unwilling to sacrifice, unwilling to serve because someone doesn't call us back, someone uprooted a bush from the courtyard, or someone changed the bulletin to a two-sided card stock glossy postcard.

So once this blog hits, I know what it will ask of me too.  I will continue to serve in jr. high ministry because I love the children more than I love any leader, curriculum or youth event.  I was given this love simply because my wife and I chose to take a leap of faith and volunteer almost five years ago.  I will continue to meet with my 6 men in room 226 each Wednesday, simply because I feel that the fire God has placed within my own heart is not meant just for me.  This grace and love is not meant for me.  I have no right to claim it and keep it under wraps, to keep it in the safe confines of my wonderfully loving Life Group, or to keep it within the pages of my steno pads I slip between the pages of my Bible. 

I challenge you too dear reader.  Are you just sitting comfortably in your church seat, watching the paint dry (and literally with all the changes, you can do this), serving when it's convenient?  Will you challenge other members of your own congregation when they begin to sigh and complain about a change or decision within the church walls?  And if leaving is the answer, will you enrich your new church with your presence, gifts and talents, or just post on Facebook how great the worship team is, how the sermon makes you feel?

This is not an our church only issue.  It's a heart issue.  My heart needs changed.  This is why I serve at my church.  This is why I will continue to serve, sometimes, and especially when it isn't always convenient.  The flashing 700 is burning a hole in your retinas.  Dim its call by being a leader.  Stand up with your pastors.  Ask the right questions.  Above all else, love.  Love publically and especially when no one is looking.  I need you to make me a better Christian.  I am not the only one who is broken, who needs help putting their life back together.  Are you willing to say no to a fellow member of your congregation, me, them, the ones who sit around you?  I invite all responses.  Don't let that 700 call in your life go unanswered.   

Flip, Splash, Repeat.

 No one on vacation posts pictures of themselves washing clothes from some hotel.  We always get the food porn, beachside locales and exotic lighting pictures that make us swoon with envy.  But the longer you're gone, the higher the pile of laundry gets.  It's inevitable.  I think we wear even more clothes during vacation too, as if the change of wardrobe reminds us to take another photo with that we-have-fun-in-this-outfit smile.

My family has accumulated quite a pile of laundry on this trip to Texas.  We even bought new clothes, which meant even more laundry because the one thing about new clothes is you just have to wear them.  I like the smell of a new shirt, the itchiness of the fabric.  My wife likes to wash hers first.  My mom's plumbing has had some issues in the last few years, which makes it harder to use the washer at her house.  So, we've been "slumming" it with our trips to the Washateria these last few weeks.  Each time, it has unloaded a levy-busting amount of ideas, thoughts, daydreams and inner conversations.

I'm no stranger to doing my laundry at a self-serve.  I never knew anything else growing up in apartment complexes and the name "washateria" went along with all the other tex-mex coined places I visited.  We ate lunch in a "cafeteria," and got our bread from a "panaderia", tacos from a "taqueria" so of course the laundry was done in a "washateria." 

From the time I was begrudgingly accompanying my mom to one or having to use one out of necessity when I was older, all washaterias are pretty much the same in design.  One of the places I remember quite often was located on Aldine Mail Route.  It sat between a convenient store and a video rental.  Besides the locale, it wasn't much different.  Each washateria has a small arcade room or area.  Typcially it's Mrs. Pac-Man (almost always with the speed button so you could outrun the ghosts) or Galaga.  I preferred the star-war sounds of Tempest, but this place had an old Tron arcade game, which you probably couldn't even find anymore.

There's always a soap/fabric softener dispenser with some name like, "Soap Station", where you place a few quarters and out pops enough liquid detergent for 2 loads.  There were coin machines that would break nothing higher than a 20 dollar bill (who gets a 50 broken into quarters anyway?) but that were as sensitive as motion detector alarms in the Pentagon.  Somewhere someone is uncrinkling the dollar bills from my mom's purse from the 80's.  Every washateria provides dry cleaning too, so there's someone on staff to change bills or to sell small bags of fritos and lollipops.

Perhaps it was the lure of the leftover coins I fished from the quarter roll to play games, or the feeling of reaching into an industrial sized dryer to pull out your clothes, but it was always this place where the desperate come to live.  And believe me, we weren't in a "desperate" zone.  Not having a washer in Houston was not something that placed us on some poverty list.  It just never seemed like anyone else at the washateria wanted to be there.  Maybe it was the women I saw in too-big t-shirts (what is it with some women that perpetually have blouses or shirts that when they bend over, expose their breasts?) or the barefoot children who were always running or crying or eating candy with red kool-aid stained hands.  Going to the wash meant no babysitter was ever available, and the more kids you had, the louder they were, automatically meant you were destined for an afternoon doing laundry.

And in each washateria, the atmosphere feels humid and tepid.  It's as if the air conditioner is losing an ongoing battle with the dryers.  There's a smell of bleach and water dripping from unseen pipes.  The floor never looked waxed (with the amount of foot traffic in those places, did anyone ever consider another color other than white?). 

The washateria on mail route was the place I would see a girl my age from time to time.  Once, a girl from high school was there with her mom.  Her hair was in a ponytail and without her makeup or Rocky Mountain Jeans I could see her freckles and they way she would look at home on a typical Saturday afternoon.  It became a place for my first fantasies and the only place I had the courage to speak to a girl I always saw at school.

Later, when my wife and I moved to Zanesville, the washaterias were called Laundromats.  This place had a table to comfortably read a book from which was different from the norm. I used to sneak looks at the owner's daughter, probably still in her high school years, but pretty enough in that Ohio-country-girl way that make men wish they were older.

Typically, every washateria I had ever been always have a row of seats that were bolted to the ground, always yellow and slightly contoured so that it felt like you were sitting in a cereal bowl.  I'm not sure why the chairs in these places are so secure, as if a roving band of marauders came through the city, stealing chairs from businesses. 

So all these memories and emotions came flooding back on these trips to the washateria.  Coming home to Houston does that already.  Is that the same road where you.....  Wasn't that the place where.....  Remember the place where you....  It's as if each road, freeway and destination is attempt to exorcise some past sin.  I'm sitting there with my wife and my kids begin begging for quarters to play games, they want snacks, they are asking questions about when we are going home.  Later my little girl is pushing around the laundry carts like she's a pro.  Her days of future laundry have yet to be written.

There's a story somewhere in the tumblings.  The calcium deposits on most of the larger machines have barnacled themselves around the place where liquid detergent is deposited.  The second time we went washing, the place was dirtier, used.  The Asian couple who owned the place (I have a theory that there are classrooms in American embassies somewhere who train future Asian Americans on how to properly run a nail salon, a dry cleaner or a washateria business) followed us around with a broom and told us which machines were out of order.  We had clothes all over the place.  My wife didn't even want to sit in any of the chairs, as if something would stick, like stepping in gum.  I read a fifth grade mystery novel while the machine squealed, hissed and rumbled. 

I have a few days left on vacation here in Houston.  It has been a whirlwind of hugs from relatives and food.  Too much food.  There's been elephants in the room during some of the get-togethers, and like the little Asian lady at the washateria, I want to wispy up beside (wearing flip flops and sliding them along the floor.  What's the sound for that?  Wispy, right?) them sweep up the bitterness, tell them what machines to use to get their lives in order.  Other times it's been rewarding.  When the little cousins are playing together I get a view of what my life was like when I was younger, when play meant everything, when the attitudes of the adults simply had no regard to what we were doing in the moment.  And I see glimpses of the past.  My cousin Christian, all of five years old and full of determination, plays and sounds like my uncle Jesse.  "Christian, can you flip off the diving board?" 

I don't know.  Let's see.

And then flip, splash, repeat. 

My son has been different here too.  We did not bring his medication with us to Texas, an accident on my part, thus it's allowed him to have an appetite, be in his element with the loudness, the spontaneity of living on vacation.  My uncle wants him the rest of the summer, and there's part of me that thinks my son will call me one night, "Dad, I'm staying in Houston.  Send my games.  I'll see you next summer."  We all went to a water park this past weekend and Cruz, my son, was momentarily missing.  My cousins all went out en masse, found him sitting next to a lifeguard, no panic.

I wish I could tether myself to those feelings.  The confidence of Christian, the calm fortitude of my son.  This trip is therapeutic.  My sister says that we all need to face ourselves, our pasts, from time to time.  This goes against some of the advice I get from bucks.  Stop fishing for old sin, let go of your past.  Inevitably, I do fish.  My sister didn't mean, come back and remind yourself of your past sin.  If anything, it's a reminder of how far I've come.  The challenge is getting to the next place, standing on solid ground no matter where home is located geographically. 

I'm excited to get our older daughter from her training in Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri as we swing back to Ohio.  Can that life be accomplished?

I don't know.  Let's see.

Flip, splash, repeat. 

The Imprints of Grease

Imagine if you will, a boy helping his father in the garage on a Sunday afternoon.  A boy young enough to be interested in the wonderment of a car engine, the bulkiness of the chrome and how the alien wheels and fans merge into one seamless system.  A tool box sits beside dad, the grease prints of work dull the metal shine.  The boy watches as the tools twist and tighten.  He doesn't know the name of them but he understands the general idea.  Sometimes the tools jump from his father’s hand which elicits curses while the metallic shout reverberates in the garage.

Years later, the boy is now a young man.  He still doesn't know the names of all the tools in the box, but he knows their function.  He knows which ones are for electrical purposes, which ones loosen bolts.  The engine itself still remains a mystery.  Liquids are topped off but the squeals and murmurs of the engine provide little clues of the diagnosis.  To replace engine parts are like organ transplants.  There’s a distrust once something new enters the body.

Now as an adult, the man has grown and sought his own knowledge.  There’s a class providing the man is taking where he learns the intricacies of the engine.  There are names for every tool in the instruction manual.  The squeals and murmurs are listed in alphabetical order in the troubleshooting index guide.  The imprints of grease that his father passed down to him are no longer a mystery.  Now the man can share his knowledge with his son.  The passing of chrome tools from one palm to another.

This story, in various forms and details, has been like my Emmaus walk.  While you may find out about the walk here, and my initial feelings when I was a pilgrim, I've been thankful to have been called back to serve as an assistant table leader, table leader and assistant lay director. 

Christmas mornings mean so much more to me as a father.  There’s a preparation involved.  The shopping, the late night wrapping sessions that my back doesn't always agree with.  As a child we awoke to the mystery and build-up of seeing presents under the tree.  Later as a young man, the gifts became more meaningful, the amount of gifts lessened.  There’s a preparation involved before each walk—8 meetings on Thursdays where a group of men pray, preview talks and hash out the logistics of the weekend.  There’s a similar energy to being this kind of parent.  Through all the missed keys of Amazing Grace (despite the joy of God in our hearts, on this particular walk the Holy Spirit had not yet quite gifted us with a singing voice) and meetings that ran late, the gift of grace was being tucked away, wrapped, only to be unveiled on a specific time.

Serving is also a humbling experience.  I remember thinking there was no way I was going to be able to not have the attention focused on myself.  I’m the loud guy in the room.  God had something else in mind, however.  I was grouped with a table leader who was my opposite, a man of few words.  I've been a table leader twice, which upon the responsibilities of being an unspoken leader, also comes with speaking in front of the group.  The jitters and nervousness were reminders that I could not do this on my own strength.  Each talk, “The Priesthood of all Believers” and “Changing Our World,” was a learning experience.  Each book I was reading at the time—God’s Politics by Jim Wallis (a little bit more progressive than I had realized at the time) and Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas—provided a framework for the message I was to deliver.  More importantly, God placed specific pilgrims at my table to challenge my judgments, perceptions and hang-ups. 

I didn't understand why God had placed THAT particular guy at my table.  The introvert, the young kid who loved to eat his lasagna between two pieces of garlic toast, the piano player who struggled with sexual sin so much that it seemed like his Bible kept flipping open to every specific verse that pierced his heart. 

And while I’m serving, God is continually pruning my life.  I leave burdens each time I serve, and my yoke feels a little bit lighter.  While on my first walk I asked the Lord to enter my heart, each walk since then gives me a chance to chisel away the doubt and fear that creeps in and tries to destroy.  Sometimes as Christians we look upon our hearts and see the imprints of grease we've leveled upon ourselves.  We fish for the same sins or a familiar phrase from our family—our biggest wounds always involve the family ion one way or another, don’t they?—unravels our spirit. 

But God is faithful.  This last walk I gave the “Christian Action” talk—helped by books “The Art of Neighboring,” “Fight,” and “The Sleeping Giant”—and again I was blessed with the nervousness that comes with public speaking.  I never feel comfortable in a suit, but on days such as these it becomes a moot point.  I once wore someone else’s shoes on accident my very first time speaking, and it’s true that I’m stepping into the shoes of other great Christian men before me.  Ones who held on to that small wooden cross and stood at the same podium, driven by the words of the Holy Spirit.  The symbolic baton passing has no fingerprints but those of the maker.  They are His words anyway, His pilgrims and His presence.  Every time someone says “yes” to Him is like Christmas morning on steroids.  He gets to see us open that gift of grace, wide eyed and childlike.  Welcome home.  Welcome home.  

De Colores.  

Love in the Periphery

ADHD lives in this strange paradox land.  You think having a kid with ADHD means you’ll have a son who will make noises all day and never be able to concentrate.  This isn’t always the case with my son.  His focus is intense to the point of compulsion.  He can sit through an entire Astros baseball game and tell you each play and at bat of his favorite player.  He can play Minecraft all day if I’d let him.  He remembers being slighted or not picked for certain classroom incentive or awards since he was in first grade.  He asks these overly detailed and sport specific questions during football season, or wants to know who holds the record from the most fumbles to the tallest volcano in the world.  This is why when he his asked more than once to do something, he screams, “I am!” or claims we were yelling.  In his mind, he is doing what he’s supposed to do.  Don’t blame me if I stopped to pet the dog on the way.  This intense focus, coupled with impulsive anger, erupted into the perfect storm. 

This year my son was one of 29 players who made the evaluation process for consideration on the 10u all-star team.  Leading up to that day, and the days that followed, were met with some anxiety for my son.  He tends to ask these detail-specific questions on most anything, and this was no different.  He wanted to know who else on our team had made the cut.  I had to tell him not to divulge that he made the 29 to his teammates.  “They might be jealous?” he asked.  “Well, we don’t want to make it sound like you’re bragging.”  

After the try-outs, he lamented not having a great performance.  While he hustled and gave his all, I think the size and ability of some kids caused him some doubt.  “I had a horrible tryout,” he said once it was over.  Then the questions.  Who’s going to make it?  Will they still pick me?  Why didn’t they let us take grounders (there was no fielding station like other tryouts)? Why don’t they have 2 teams so everyone makes the all-stars?  Then the declarations.  If I don’t make it I’m quitting baseball.  I’m going to punch the coaches in the face if I don’t make it. Finally, the excuses.  The coach was in my way (he missed a potential pop up that fell just before his dive).  It wasn’t fair.  

These situations are always learning experiences for me as a father and for him as a son.  I start with worrying about ourselves.  I tell him the coaches have to evaluate all the kids and not just him.  Yes, your hustling matters.  If you don’t want to play baseball again, fine, but we’re not quitting this season.  Who told you that life was fair?

On Tuesday came the big reveal.  I had found out via email that he had not made the cut that morning and elected to wait to tell him until the evening.  I thought of my reaction to his reaction beforehand.  And when you play these what-if scenarios they don’t always go like you plan.  They always have that sitcom element to them.  So when he jumped from the coach and began screaming and cursing I had no idea of what to do.

My first reaction was don’t laugh.  Whatever you do, don’t laugh.  My second reaction was heartbreak.  Immediate heartbreak.

What?  That’s not fair.  I worked my fucking ass off.  I’ve been the best person on my team every year.  I’m quitting.  I worked my fucking ass off!  I didn’t get to play up (he tried out to play in the 10’s when he was 8 and he didn’t make the squad) because I’m small.  Don’t you know how that makes me feel!

He wished death upon the coaches.  He cried.  He stomped upstairs and screamed.  He slammed his door.  Came back down and screamed some more.  Again, teachable moments. 

He sat with my wife and I.  We talked about how the process was fair.  Everyone trying out doing the same skills.  God made you perfect.  I avoided the dreaded “God has a plan for you,” suburba-Christian saying.  We will not be wishing death upon the coaches.  We will continue to play hard this year and show them that you’re a leader.  Do you think Jose Altuve (his favorite player who stands about 5’5” on a good day but leads the majors in hits this season) made his first all-star team?  I told him the story of Michael Jordan not making his high school team.  Hugs. 

As a family, we made the decision to seek further counseling and therapy for our son.  A new round of medication has already been administered (from Vivance to Intuive).  Because of the hurtful words he says about himself, we are also adding a dose of Prozac to help with his mood swings and depression.  The counseling sessions have gone well.  We are following through with the doctors as much as we can.  As a teacher I know the impact of medication for hyper kids, but with the history of our family, we would be remiss if we did not start seeking the help of professionals. 

That’s not to say the prayers or help from supportive friends has diminished.  One thing I’m learning is parenting is not a job one does alone.  I teach students with single moms and broken families.  I’m married and we both have careers and we still struggle.  But, when I don’t pray and if I keep all my frustrations within the confines of my conscious, how much change do I really expect to make in my son’s life.  It feels refreshing to speak openly about him to the people who love him in the periphery—the choir teacher at church, our Life Group, and other adults in our lives who have been making an impact on his life. 

There’s a fear in parenting.  Like the feeling you have when you’re told that your Army daughter could be deployed after she completes her AIT training.  Or the fear you have when your son is having a meltdown at church and everyone is watching.  There’s also a fear of our pasts.  While I do not subscribe to the feeling that we our cursed based on one family’s past sin, I do know that sin is generational.  The brokenness and undiagnosed mental issues exist in both my wife and my family.  While I cannot change the past or perform some kind of DNA surgery to take out the “bad parts,” the parts that make us hurt, I can be proactive.  So if it’s prayer for healing, I’m going to burden my knees.  If it’s doctors who have been given a gift of intellect and knowledge of the mind, that too.  If medication helps, I’m leaving the pride.  I’m down for circumcising my own heart for the benefit of my son. 

There were two moments over the past week that happened with my son that remind me that God lives in his heart, and that God will not forsake me in this trying time.  They both involved the prayers of a 10 year old boy.  At dinner, he thanked Jesus for allowing him to try out for the all-star team and to give him the chance again next season.  The other was last night.

Dad, you want to hear my prayer I made?  I said, “Dear God, please help me play for you.  If I win (the upcoming playoff game) I give the win to you.  If I lose I give the loss to you.  Amen.

Heartbreak.  Immediate heartbreak. 

    

Ish-Ness: The Tattoos of a Life Well Lived

There’s something about Christians, my self included, in that we can be ripe for parody or satire.  Among any group of people within an organization or common interest there are always terms and common phrases that anyone outside of the group would know nothing about.  They are like Holy In-Jokes.

Let’s take the phrase, “Traveling Mercies.”  Anytime a Christian goes on a trip, they ask or are given a prayer for traveling mercies. There were a few times I herd the word mercy growing up, namely my dad.  Whenever he spotted an attractive woman—and I mean anywhere, apartment complex pool, grocery store or on a tv show—he’d say, “Mercy,” in such a way that it felt like a grope, a mind-undressing and sexual connotation all in one breath.  Marvin Gaye used the term in the classic song, “Mercy Mercy Me” to draw attention to the ills of society on the late 60’s and early 70’s. 

The Dictionary of Christianese says that traveling mercies were first derived in the 19^th century for church workers who were about to embark on a long journey or mission trip.  Somewhere along the line, affluent, suburban Christians took claim to the term as a way to bless vacations, road trips, weekend getaways, and especially when someone was late to a Bible study. 

Maybe this is why I’m having such a hard time with the phrase.  Since the summer has arrived, my Facebook and Instagram accounts have been inundated with a spike of vacation photos, check-ins at out-of-state eateries and selfies from road trips.  When someone in your family or a neighbor went on vacation before you had to see it on their slide projector or waited for them to pull out the Polaroids, or later, the 100 page photo album.  Now, social media has conveniently rubbed our faces in American excess, and there’s nothing more prominent than vacations and lake outings.

These too are ripe for parody.  The image of the bare belly of a bikini-laden body, stretching to her feet where the beach or some other Corona-inspired landscape awaits in the foreground (even better when we see the person’s pierced belly button).  The close-up of the Starbucks mocha latte whipped cream soy drink, the selfie facing the bathroom mirror, or the group photo around a city landmark that designates we-aren't-normally-here.  Nothing says Christianity quite like tanned bodies, pierced navels and pictures of excessive food buffeting. 

At first, the novelty of the photos and posts was a way to bring myself to the action, even if I was sitting at a desk teaching summer school.  You felt in some way that the happiness of your friends was something they wanted you to partake.  I have to confess now that I’m beginning to feel bitter.  These judgmental thoughts of mine have been directed at anyone from old high-school friends to people I see at church.  I even blamed our family history—my mom nor my mother-in-law can foot the bill for the Cordova family vacation.  I had to find the root of my problem.  I prayed, I sought out help from my share group, but inevitably I kept scrolling through a feed of materialism.  Suddenly I was becoming one of those Christians that I would typically blog about.  Shouldn't I be happy for my friends and acquaintances as they sat in front of a resort swimming pool?

I do confess, dear reader, that is hasn't been easy to rid myself of these thoughts.  I know I have been guilty of these same sins of ignorance.  When I blast a photo of ribs or a brisket I’m smoking on the grill, is it demeaning to those who barely have enough food in their fridge?  When I take selfies with my son at a baseball stadium, is it showing up those who can’t afford to take their kids out to a ballgame because ticket prices have gluttoned?  In my prayers and reflection, I've began to understand that despite the plank that protrudes from my own eyes, I have much to be thankful for.  God has provided for me with exactly what I need.

Years ago, my wife and I took a marriage course.  Each week we watched a video of suburba-Christians share their experiences, frustrations and troubles related to the time they didn't have for one another.  Listening to the discussions afterward about how couples were balancing their budgets for weekly date nights and yearly getaways made both my wife and I feel inadequate.  Our budget as new Christians hadn't really been established.  Tithing was not something we were fully trusting God with (and to be frank, I didn't want to, and sometimes still am reluctant to deprive myself of my wants), and we were still one foot in the world and one foot in the church.  So each week we felt like targets, walking in with our McDonald's cups and t-shirts, among this group of suburba-Christians (what I mean is the slacks, dress, uptight look).  We were labeled the “ish” family (and we are great friends with the couple of coined us such, the only other “normal” couple in the bunch).  Meaning when we made a time commitment for something, it was to start at 5-ish instead of 5 pm. 

My entire house is indicative of my ish-ness.  Our wood paneled floor has a few spots where it has slid out of place or the edges have lost their trim because the kids have continually ran them over with the feet of excitement.  The outdoor exterior trim needs repainted.  Our deck needs stained again and our garage resembled a thrift store back lot.  The lattice that surrounds our pool is missing pieces from various storms.  Even after several hundred dollars in repair for pumps, pipes and hoses, my pool water remains a distinct cloudy blue.

On Father’s Day we had one of our ish-ness get-togethers.  They always begin with a pool invite.  Or sometimes we already have kids with us so we invite more.  The grill gets lit, the wife begins her kitchen chopping and assembly.  Other friends are invited, they bring what they have and there isn't a particular schedule.  Everyone is fed, the kids swam till dusk.  The evidence of our fellowship is found on the water droplets that lead to the bathroom and the deflated juice boxes that litter the trampoline.  There were no travel mercy prayers performed but the Holy Spirit was present.  Days like these are proof that I’m thankful for my everyday, ordinary, sleeping,eating, going-to-work, and walking around life.

To coin another Christianese phrase, I’m not just “blessed” simply because I believe.  Believing in Christ does not stamp act my admission to heaven.  We, the priesthood of believers, typically say we are blessed with our jobs, salaries, 2-car garages and our vacations, too.  It does not guarantee that turmoil, danger or defeat will not exist in my life.  As the last 5 or 6 years can attest, the enemy continues to pursue me just as diligently as my Father.  In times of my closest mountain top experiences, sin has always been waiting for me when I shield my eyes from the brightness of grace.

Perhaps that’s why my ordinary, walking around, eating (lots of eating) life is what is meant for me.  I surely will not become rich by teaching fifth graders how to perform the order of operations.    Nor will I earn badges for sleeping on air mattresses in the summer months at work camps or mission trips.  My blueish pool water, the flooring of my home, the chipped exterior paint—they are the tattoos of a life well lived, a life worth living, a life in worth. 

The Demanding Risk: Arkansas Mission Blog 2

Last night in our last chapel visit of the mission trip, our youth pastor used the term, “real life” when describing what we would be coming home to.  I’ve heard this expression on every spiritual retreat and mission trip, and I think unintentionally it tells us to expect our lives to become mundane once we return from the mountaintop. While it wasn’t used in a negative connotation, I believe that we, as broken individuals, sometimes revert to the everyday life we live as some form of trial.  Can we stay on the mountain top?  Is it even realistic to think so?

When I came off my Emmaus walk years ago, I remember coming home to my wife who had quite a week with the kids, her mom and everything in between.  Here I was, mentally exhausted but ready to lay a gauntlet of Jesus’s love.  I went to work the next day, and while I was exuberantly excited, I felt stymied somewhat because I couldn’t just pick up my fifth graders and give them a huge hug.  “Real life” for me meant God was going to blast open the gifts I had—a sense of humor, friendship and personality—without ever necessarily saying the word “Jesus” in every conversation.

Last summer was a summer of mountain top experiences.  I had served on the Oklahoma tornado efforts.  The trip solidified the notion that God does not need to bring us to our knees with a disaster to find our salvation.  It’s what comes next, the healing, the restoration of both self and home.  On both that trip and in Arkansas, I worked with teams from Missouri, Tennessee and Oregon.  There were vans lined up at the mission control, each group in matching t-shirt.  There were Baptists, Methodists, Catholics and Presbyterians.  None of the doctrinal differences seemed to matter because we were all focused on one singular mission. 

Most notably, what I didn’t see also cemented the notion that to follow Jesus means that everyone benefits, not just you.  There were no vans from the Central Ohio Atheists Club, no t-shirt that read “Team Wiccan.”  On the fence outside of Plaza Elementary, there were no signed mementos from The Georgia Islamic Society or from Buddhists International.  Not only are there no regrets for following Jesus but when we are called to live His dream for us, it benefits those that truly need help. 

This trip was especially emotional considering we were directly working alongside a youth group from Louisiana.  The group of 12 students was led by our former youth pastor and his wife.  There were still wounds in our church, saintly scars, from their move.  Rumors persist in church like viruses, and they run more rampant in a group of Christians because we stand so publically righteous.  It seemed each day there was a new reason for their departure.  Was it church infighting?  Was it from a lack of creative control?  At that time, our church hired a new executive pastor and we, as a church, had been going through various changes that didn’t sit well with the congregation old guard.  He was the likely culprit for every change and church schedule disruption.  We all needed a face to blame for the hurt we were facing. 

Old members of the congregation had been moving from church as well.  Was it all a coincidence?  I think as church members we feel two emotions when someone decides to move their membership.  What have I done wrong or Who made them leave.  Since we love a good story of brokenness we don’t come to realize that leaving a church doesn’t mean it reflects badly on us.  Some people switch churches every couple of years.  Some move.  Many feel they aren’t “being fed” which is a backhanded way of saying they are too lazy to serve or get involved. 

Even this trip had plenty of background noise.  Were we not going to Arkansas because we might see our old youth pastor there?  Were we only going because of their involvement?  This was a gut check to me as well.  Was I attending this trip because I would get a chance to see old friends or was the call to serve strong enough to draw me, even if I was going with total strangers?  The first day or so, sitting all together, somewhat awkward, I had this feeling there was a faction of congregation members back home ready to pounce on us for working alongside them.  I felt like the love I wanted to share was somehow only permitted for Methodists, specifically Methodists that were stamped, approved and background checked.

By the end of their stay (they left a few days prior to us), we all felt like family.  It was so hard saying goodbye to my friends, old and new.  Heaven was being denied to me once again.  I was like Moses looking down upon the Promised Land, denied entry, only to watch his loved ones populate the land.  I was bummed that day forward.  Bummed because my selfishness wanted to keep all the people that I love close to me.  Bummed because someone back home would object to the grouped mission trip.  Bummed because I had to go back to “real life.”

So what is “real life”?  I compartmentalize so many parts of my life, and it felt like even more so this year I kept people at a distance.  Work was demanding, church leadership was demanding, coaching was demanding.  But had I made it that way because of my lack of faith or were they truly that demanding?  The couple we helped on our last day surely had more demanding issues.  Their log home had been completely obliterated.  Only a gazebo was left standing, directly behind their property, and the single-wide trailer that housed another family member.  Their property sat on the top of a hill, and you could see the skeletal remains of the new school in Vilonia that was to open in the fall.  The metal beams were clawed over the now defunct main hallway, walls were folding over like some tremendous weight had befallen them.  Windows sat ghostly open.  According to Gary (the homeowner), the desks and building supplies had all been purchased.  Seventy new teacher contracts were signed, and among them were probably teachers who had ended contracts with other schools.  Perhaps they had moved to commute closer to their new job.  The contractor was one month away from fulfilling their obligation, only now having to rebuild on its own. 

What was demanding on Gary and Karen Seeds that day?  Wondering where the communion elements were located for church service this Sunday.  Their church, the Vilionia Methodist Church, had also been damaged.  Their new Life Center, two months brand new, demolished.  Apparently, someone had placed those elements in a black bag which was now resting in “Pod 1, Pod 2 or Pod 3,” Gary said.  It brought a chuckle to some of us.  Your house is gone and the one this you’re looking for is buried in a storage pod. 

We were able to talk with the Seeds’ family that final work day.  We learned of how they met back in Danville, Illinois (apparently he thought she was another girlfriend of his when he got into her car to “cruise” the block and the rest was history).  Karen was an ice cream maker—“my freezer is somewhere in that field ahead,” she pointed—and Gary was a retired railroad engineer. 

Our “real life” is the life we live now, in the mission field or in our workplaces, our homes and at church.  We make it real by being authentic.  Sometimes it means you’re open to be hurt, by friends who leave momentarily, or for the heartache you see in others.  But that’s what God calls us to do.  He wants us to live a “real life” that surrounds itself, consumes itself, with love.  When you live a life of love there is risk involved.  It’s a demanding risk, but so is love.  I’m looking forward to “real life” again. 

Among the Remnants of Objects: Arkansas Mission Blog 1

There’s something completely different going on in my heart this time around.  So last night when our former youth pastor asked the question, “Why are you here?” I wasn’t able to quickly find an answer.  So why did I choose to spend a week in Arkansas doing tornado mission work?  Why did I choose to go to Oklahoma last year?  Those answers, and I’m sure the results, will be completely different.  That’s the great mystery of devoting your life to a God who’s full of surprises.  The God that knows my weaknesses, my faithless moments and the tears of struggle I shed when I try and carry my own troubles.  No matter what I try to do, spoken and unspoken, to defiantly deny (which is what sin is, isn’t it, a flat-out denial of what we know to be true in our hearts) His love for me, there comes a moment when the realization hits home. 

I’m on my third day of relief work here in Arkansas.  I’m having a blast.  We traveled Monday with a group of 17 youth and five adults.  Many of them participated in the Oklahoma trip last year, others I know from church or having worked at last summer’s work camps.  We met a crew from Louisiana that is headed by our former pastor and his wife.  We’ve been in the business of moving scrap metal, wood, tearing down fencing and clearing debris from a wheat field (for those that know me, we had another wheat field experience in Oklahoma).  The work is constantly blanketed by oppressive humidity and layered in our own sweat.  In Oklahoma, we were not among the neighborhoods that were wrecked, so the smells of the decay were lost among us.  This time, the smell of mildew and rotting refrigerator food has had an overwhelming effect.  It’s at times disgusting and comical.  I’m afraid to move a bag of trash for fear that some mystery juice will seep out of a peephole, or that a rat or snake will spill forth awaiting to macabrely dance me to shrieks. 

I’m still not used to seeing this type of destruction.  Being up close to wreckage is unlike anything someone could experience.  Support beams uprooted and bent, metal garage doors crinkled like paper, insulation in tatters as if a gigantic yellow lab had been shedding hair among us (which is funny since we met up with Maggie at one site, a yellow lab who shed at each stroke of her back).  We played games of “Guess that object,” many times today.  Radiators, a barbecue grill, smashed toys, a section of a soccer goal—all were contestants on this day. 

I always try and get a sense of the life or lives that have been touched by this wreckage.  How can you assemble someone’s life, their personality, from the remnants of objects?  A button pin of a youngster, the covers of rain-beaten books—from a “how to talk to yourself” book to cookbooks—VHS tapes, a headless weed eater.  My mind cannot “inception” the twisted metal back into reality.  It’s gone and the envisioning cannot fully happen.  I couldn’t imagine waking up every morning to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, or driving down a street where your neighbors are no longer around (or any longer living), where the familiar road you traveled and the stops along the way to work have been shifted by some seismic mind game. 

It’s clearly evident why I’m here, however.  Tim spoke of one’s life being fulfilled when one pursues God’s best in their lives.  What a profound and simple statement.  He didn’t say, “Make sure to be good,” or “Don’t do this or that.”  What are some of the things I pursue?  They are not always God-related.  Some of them are work related and many of them are selfish.  But all the times I have chosen His plan it’s been proven to be prophetic. 

And this type of work is just that.  Who wants to spend a week digging through reeking trash?  Who wants to take downhill and uphill treks to drop off steel?  Who wants to wade through a wheat field so someone can harvest their crop (in Oklahoma) or feed their cows (Arkansas)?  

Am I better off for going?  My two last weeks have been pretty crazy here in Ohio.  I finalized my 11^th year as a fifth grade teacher.  Another new principal awaits, and cleaning my room the last day was something I wasn’t looking forward to.  Cleaning my mess is an ordeal to be avoided at all costs.  Cleaning a huge, destroyed-home mess is not.  Crisis prevention at home as my wife and I wade through the unplanned surprises of our son’s behavior.  Lately, naps, punishments, prayers, beer and throwing my hands in the air have been the ways I have dealt with my son’s mood swings.  I look at a hunk of metal that I cannot possibly carry on my own and I have friends that will help me lift.  I don’t ask for help often, and on trips like these, help is a must.  We took shifts today while we worked to beat the heat.  Still, we have one with a fever and a van load of kids were blasted emotionally by the heat. 

I spoke with Ms. Falk who was telling me the story about the neighborhood where we were working.  Seven people sought shelter with a thirty minute warning of imminent danger.  Two men, sons, across the street chose not to and were among the 17 dead in the town of Vilonia.  I spoke to the woman she had taken in after the destruction.  She sat in the truck, smoked her cigarette and talked about how her furniture was completely lost or broken apart.  There was a weak resolve in her voice, a woman in her 70’s, her husband already passed years ago.  But the resolve was there.  Some are more defiant.  Neighbors spiked American flags from the remnants of their driveways, the flag of Arkansas, state pride, Arkansas strong.  It’s times like these that can make you or break you.  Miss Lonora, whose trailer home was completely demolished, plans to rebuild for the third time.  Her 29 year old grandson left town and vowed to come back when she got “a real place.”  He survived the tornado despite being thrown out a window of a trailer home that had been flipped over twice, where the only structure that remained was the tile flooring. 

My life is not in shambles, but from my attitude lately you’d think it was.  I needed a perspective check.  Maybe the reason I came was to escape responsibility that I know awaits in Ohio.  Maybe this trip was exactly what I needed after not calling for God’s help in months.  Maybe the reason has yet to be revealed.  What’s certain is that through the remaining week my mind and actions will revolve around God.  What’s certain is that I’m sure there will be some surprises along the way, like there always are.  I’m amongst a group of teenagers and I feel young, all up until I sit and become reminded of my aches.  And I’m among friends too. 

I told one today that despite them moving out of Ohio, it’s like when we see one another you pick up right where you left off.  You don’t ever get a chance to do that when people leave your life.  Death happens and sometimes there’s regrets, reliving those last moments.  A family moves from your lives and soon a new neighbor arrives.  I moved every year as a kid growing up, so I constantly said good bye to friends, only to never really get the chance to say what I really felt, or at least a hug goodbye.  That’s a slice of heaven.  The minute we return to glory, our loved ones will look upon our faces like we had never been gone.  And you’ll catch up as if you had seen them yesterday.  That’s friendship.  That’s God’s true intention for our lives.  None of the awkwardness of what to talk about.  None of the shame of having regretted some offense. 

I’ll return home soon to see my familiar surroundings.  I know that eventually I will notice the flaws, the cracks in the cement or the garage that is full and needs to be cleaned.  But I’m first going to catch up with the wife and kids.  Hug them as if I’d been gone for days, and loving on them as if there had been no separation.