That Space Big Enough to Let Love In

So tonight, my youngest daughter cried over a dollar. Now, this presumed dollar that she felt she wouldn't get stemmed from trying to find the black slip per I had been looking for. It really wasn't the dollar or the slippers (although my cold toes would claim otherwise), that caused her mini meltdown, as precious as it was. It had everything to do with time and love.

Daddy, sometimes you don't spend time with me. You and mommy are just mean. You don't love me.

She's seven, I should remind you, dear reader. But the knife in my heart cuts the same as if she was 20.

This past Sunday, the sermon series "Questions Too Big to Ignore" delved into answering, "What Makes a Great Parent." I had been lucky to arrive at church that Sunday. I was alone, which was a rare occurrence (my wife elected to sleep in and get the house and prep work done for our last day of soccer celebrations), and I had barely been awake 30 minutes. I thought the sermon series was planned to speak about marriage but was pleasantly surprised it was parenting. Sometimes I feel like the sermon series is just for me and everyone just gets to be in an audience of my own design.

To be honest, parenting has been one of my greatest gifts and an area where shame and my own self doubt has generally found a seat on my home sofa, slurping my diet coke and hogging my late night tv snacks. It was always a great story, the making of our family. The trials of miscarriages and the testing of our resolve rewarded when we opened our home to our future-to-be older daughter at age 10. Cruz was conceived months later, and Lisa just a few years away from being officially adopted, became a big sister. Reycina arrived like a miracle surprise 3 years later. Suddenly the Cordova family was a table for 5, not including the cats and one stupid dog.

I had no idea what parenting was. As a teacher, I had an idea of what it wasn't. I had seen too many kids at my previous school come through wearing the sores and scabs of their parents broken lives. Parents who slept with prostitutes in front of their sons, dads in jail, moms with several kids and none of their last names were the same, moms who rarely made conferences while their kids missed days upon days at school. Of course, other judgments come into play to. Rude kids who talked back, kids who constantly teased other kids, kids who always talked back.

I wasn't much better myself growing up. I was hard on my teachers, what we call now "high maintenance." If you allowed me, I acted like a class clown. When I didn't get me attention needs met, I acted out in sarcastic, rude ways. I wasn't terribly nice to other kids, unless you were popular. I'm sure my teachers made judgments then about my parents, but they didn't know what happened between closed doors. There was plenty of love. My mom sent her best to school each day, a kid with not just a notion of college, but with a reality that college was my future. A kid who knew how to behave around adults (shaking the hands of bank presidents and meeting countless friends of friends had its advantages) but didn't quite have a shut-off button. The kid whose mom continued to encourage even when he thought he'd never have a girlfriends, or that his sports writing career was over because I had moved high schools. A mom who didn't sugarcoat life by making excuses for my behavior. A mom who taught me it was okay to cry, more important to listen, and that family would always have my back. Although the blogs I have written have sometimes put some undue spotlight on my mom, I would have not been able to pull myself out of the deep self-hate I had before I met my future wife.

We've had some ups and downs behind the door of house Cordova. A hyper active boy who just recently threw his X-box controller at the wall in the basement causing a hole in the wall (thank you, Madden 15), but who just made the B honor roll in 5ht grade (all A's except for Language Arts). There's Milly who cries each morning because her top doesn't match her pants or because she thinks she's dressing for a ball gown every morning (I think she could be in a dress and stockings for 24 hours). This past week at her soccer game, I yelled from the sideline to her to stop kicking the ball up the middle (she's a goalie). She looked at me from across the field, that stunned look on her face, holding the ball in the air.

Where do I kick it then?

Not in the middle!

The sideline parents had a laugh on that one. The tone of the way I said it cannot be explained in the sentence in type, but it was one of those daddy/daughter moments that will probably become the nexus of some future sad bastard poem of my daughter's. I remember having similar moments with Lisa back when she was playing softball, when I envisioned my expectation onto her ability as a player. This is your chance to succeed, I'd always think, as if I could shake winning out of her like a bully shakes out coins from a kid hanging upside down. While Lisa and I had several car travel moments where we hashed out life, I had many times where I couldn't hold my tongue, and the criticism of my expectation reared its ugly head.

And while I was folding towels in my bedroom, standing in front of my daughter, it became apparent that my parenting skills that were preached on Sunday needed a lesson in application. One of the talking points about the sermon was to allow space in our hearts big enough to listen to what your children have to say. So God spoke to me through her tears.

Daddy you don't help me with my homework.
I don't get to snuggle with you but Cruz always gets to.
You're just being mean.

And while the details of her pleas become lost in the small details of our lives, the one thing that is clear, it's much more than a dollar. She wants my time, my love. She wants her daddy. Before share group I sat on the couch with her and snuggled like it was the first time home from the hospital. Just a baby with arms too small to hug me back, but just little enough to wield a tiny hand and grasp my finger.

The idea of parenting is so much cleaner and easier than the reality. The nights when they are sick and you're cleaning up vomit from your sheets. The twinge of frustration when I get  call from one of their schools. The times when you can't answer your college-age daughter's text without going into a mini-sermon. Times when your son has a tantrum in front of your friends.

Oh, but to experience the love from each breath they breathe. Earlier today my little one was dancing in the kitchen to a "Royal." She's oblivious to my watchful eyes, the smirk I'm giving as she shakes and twirls and pop-star preens in front of an invisible audience. She's my queen bee, that's for sure.

A Hug for the Panicked

I just sent my kids to bed after a night of playing mom. In her absence, I'm hardly an adequate substitute. My cooking is suited for comfort, outdoors and easy, while my wife's is more complex, seasoned. My wife helps with homework and juggles the whiny demands of my youngest daughter, age 7. Tonight, my son peeled potatoes and helped me cut them to make homemade French fries. He's wanting to work in the kitchen more and with my wife's help, he can make rice and a basic General Tso's. Reycina, my little one, helps cut fruits and other vegetables for salad. Before my kids went to bed we did a round of Candy Land, UNO and some devotions. I could tell Reycina was a bit emotional. Earlier in the day I received a call from the nurse at her school. She dropped a bowl of soup on her skirt, was embarrassed, and apparently was upset enough to cry uncontrollably like she's been doing. I ended up whispering a prayer to her over the phone during Reading so she could go back to class. She came downstairs twice after being sent to bed and I eventually relented to allow her to sleep in ours. I'm a shallow replacement for my wife (she's at some Scentsy/Pampered Chef/Fru Fru kind of party women attend on weeknights). I caved because I had no more hugs left in me. No more reassurances that the anxiety she feels will go away.

A few weeks back during soccer, I told her not to "panic" when she's playing defense. She likes to reactively kick the ball out of bounds when the other team attacks, and while it slows the other team down, we could have easily kicked the ball upfield to keep possession. She then used the word "panic" when we had a parent-teacher conference when she explained why she sometimes has trouble in math class. "I panic sometimes," she says, with the sincerity of a little girl who wants the nurturing and attention of everyone she loves. It's a funny use of the word, for both in soccer and in life, but her anxiety sometimes gets the better of her. In her mind the word "panic" fits, it made sense to how she was feeling.

I'm seeing the same panic in the world around me. We want to shut down the borders and flights from West Africa in order to control Ebola, and this after 2 confirmed cases in America. How many people live in America, in Dallas where the infection occurred? Millions. I play a game called "Plague Inc." on my phone which eerily plays out a scenario where you can infect the world with a virus (not so fun now that Ebola is ravaging Africa. Suddenly the sarcasm of death isn't an escape as it was weeks ago.) The setting on Expert closes borders when half the world becomes infected. America is in Berserk mode. Someone sneezes in an airport and we contain them in plastic, roll them in duct tape and start digging the mass grave.

ISIS is affecting our lives too. My mother in law was informed that our oldest daughter hopes to do mission work in Tanzania. In my mother-in-law's mind, my daughter Lisa will be infected with Ebola, get beheaded, sold into slavery or all 3. We shouldn't have even told her she was going. But in other corners of the world, military families are on defcon alert from ISIS supporters who could be targeting them or their families through social media. A beheading happens in Oklahoma. The media claims it was workplace violence, but the panic contingency has us believe more is at stake. Mosques are suddenly the target of gun-toting, flag waving Americans.

Which brings me to Ferguson, Missouri.

I wrote a piece on the death of Trayvon Martin last year which you can feel free to read to know where I stand. As a supporter of police (the new word being used lately is an "apologists"), it's hard to get behind the death of Michael Brown, a teenager. We know some of the facts, or at least we think we know. Brown and a friend were seen stealing cheap cigars and intimidating a nearby store clerk. The men were later stopped for jaywalking or blocking the street, depending on the report. Some claim the cop in question, was stopping Brown because he was the suspect in the same crime that was broadcasts on the wire (although others claim the storeowner never informed police of the theft). What reads like a case of stubborn pride and machismo on both sides erupts into a fight for a gun (again, there was false information that Brown assaulted the cop and broke the cop's orbital bone, which ended up being faked), an attempted arrest and ultimately shots fired. Eyewitness claim Brown had his hands in the air (leading to the chant, "Hands Up, Don't Shoot!" by protesters), while the cop claims Brown charged him. Seven shots later, Brown lay dead in the street. Four hours later, his body still lay there for onlookers.

Panic.

Other cops across the nation are coming under fire too. Busting the window when a man won't give identification, tasering him. Another cop shoots a man who was stopped for a seat belt violation. Why is it that people of color all have cop-harassment stories? Why is it a black man was arrested for reportedly being in his own home because the neighbor didn't believe he lived there (the guy was adopted by a white family). A man in Detroit shoots a drunken teenage girl who is banging on his front door. Panic. Every black man in a hoodie is a suspect. Panic.

When I first was driven to write a blog about Ferguson, I was infuriated with some of the logic and condemnation I was seeing on Twitter. The cops were racists, the sheriff is racists. Brown was a teddy bear who wouldn't hurt anyone and was starting college the next day (with stolen cigars to celebrate, perhaps). With the case dragging on into a second month and no indictment, it makes those thoughts pretty trivial. Why hasn't there been a grand jury indictment? If there are those that demand justice, why does it feel like it hasn't been delivered?

The Brown case seemed to rip open old wounds. What do we see when a young black man is walking the street? There are times even in my thoughts where I see a kid wearing droopy pants and wonder why he can't just pull them up. Many of my African-American kids at school don't smile much, and sometimes they wear the same kinds of clothes, baggy pants, a hoodie sometimes, a cap turned sideways. I see a kid. Would it be different if I was wearing a badge and it was past curfew in a crime-riddled neighborhood?

On Twitter, the hashtag #ifIwasgunneddown provided the public with the snapshots of young, black men in photos that showed them giving the finger, smoking weed or looking like a "thug" next to a picture of them in graduation gowns, or smiling with friends, holding books while walking to class. Just the other day two black teens were killed when they exchanged shots with cops after holding up a Dollar General at gunpoint. The first picture the media shows of the young man in question is one of a young man lost, another unsmiling menace that the public can now write off as a thug. I question why young men of any persuasion would be taking pictures showing the middle finger, or smoking weed, for anyone to see. I have ex students who parade their fingers on their Facebook walls, or they stand with friends holding cash fanned out like a good hand in poker, holding up signs that have nothing to do with peace. They snarl at the camera, the thug selfie. They post videos of neighborhood fights and openly curse and brag about shooting "haters." I've begun to work with students on social media and how the world will see them based on what they project. For my girls, one shot of cleavage and they are considered a "ho", and for boys, "thugs." Parenting is all but gone too. Single, overworked moms rationalize the portrayals of their young boys as a faze they are going through. But when young men they that look like them are killed everyday, and some by cops, more by other young men who look like them too, your camera is only capturing survival mode, posturing selfies. The boy who blew out the candles at their birthday party is a long ago memory.

Protests continue in Ferguson. In the men's study I'm leading at church, we are focused on Satan's tactics. Indeed I see Satan's handprints on many facets of my life. He has a firm grip on the lives of many of my school families. Poverty, strife, fatherlessness, the distrust of teachers or the school. I see Satan's grip on the attitudes of many people, including those in my church or workplace. FML many of them posts on their Facebook. "I'm going to hell anyway." "You only live once." "I hate my job."

Especially panicking. I think the anxiety we all face is from that lack of control we hand over to God. I'm to blame too. I bite my nails, pick at the inside of my mouth. I let anger fester until it erupts on a loved one. I freak out on a kid at school when they do something trivial. We consume so much filth in our lives, from the news, from gossip, from our uncertainty and distrust, that the only reaction we have left is sarcasm, dismissal, ridicule or panic.

 And tonight I feel overwhelmed. The news is noise in the background. More panic (now we're killing the dogs of Ebola patients). I don't have any more hugs for those that are panicking. I don't think I'd have enough anyway.

How Stagnancy Opened the Door

Humility

noun:  a modest or low view of one’s own importance

Do you think it’s ironic that I used to live in a town called Humble and it’s by far my worst quality? I didn’t get the joke until just now. Back when I lived in Humble I was a middle school student. I loved writing PG-13 short stories about GI Joe-type paramilitary groups that saved America from the Russians (Imagine what I would have done with the current state of the Middle East?). My parents were going through their own issues, and I know I wasn’t much help. It was one house removed before they separated. My greatest challenge besides surviving the bus every afternoon was finding the time to hang out with Kevin Hebert down the street and being picked first for kickball at recess.

Lately I’ve felt this stagnancy about my life, my Christian walk most importantly. At other times when I’ve felt this Holy Spirit tug, I’ve asked God to intervene, to open doors. And when you ask God to open doors, you have to be prepared for what comes next.     

One instance in my lesson on humility was having to say sorry. I’ve never been good at admitting my mistakes. My mom always seemed to know when I was up to something dastardly, and I always got caught when I least expected. My step-father used to tell me he “hated liars,” and I took it to mean he hated me. I was a liar. I lied about my intentions, I lied to others (sometimes willingly and purposefully and other times it was to keep them from the truth as I saw fit), I lied mainly to myself. My mom used to say, “You can lie to me but you can't lie to yourself.” I never had a comeback or sarcastic comment for that one. It abruptly ended all of my arguments. Being so far away from the first person who loves you enough to tell you the truth about yourself perhaps has had its effect on me. How many miles from Texas is Ohio?

These blogs have become therapeutic, however. It’s been a way to feel my way through this newfound Christian life of mine. Being this transparent also has its drawbacks. Some people, family included, have been unwitting pawns in my quest for righteousness. The more I share, the more someone else gets bombarded with my version of the truth. Sitting next to a friend and telling them you’re sorry, knowing that you hurt them--was my first lesson in humility. The apology stemmed from my people-pleasing personality. In order to get along with all walks of life, I’ve strived to be everyone’s best friend. I can chat up just about anyone, but it hasn’t always been authentic. Once authenticity was empowered by the Holy Spirit, I felt free. Still, the old self lingers. The old self likes the set patterns, the old drapes of the house, the chair with the wobbly leg.

The apology was barely uttered when my second lesson in humility began peering around the corner. While I won't go into specifics because it deals with work, let’s just say that I was knocked down a peg. I was put in my place. I’ve also begun to understand that God allows events to transpire to bring out the best in us, to challenge us, to help us grow. In essence, it was needed.

The last several years, I’ve had three different teaching partners. It has not felt cohesive since I came from Broadleigh. My partners there spurned one another on, child by child. one lesson plan at a time. I came into my wife’s school feeling that I had something to prove, and essentially have been on an island lifting the world up like some poor Atlas statue.

Before the year starts, every teacher receives their test scores from the previous year. This one was no different. Again, the scores weren’t indicative of the hard work or expectations I have for my class nor my students. For the past few years, the scores seem to be going down, each percentage an indictment on my teaching skills. It’s a stain on my career.

While I understand that scores aren't everything, I am intensely aware that the public and administration relies on those scores to evaluate my performance. It’s the nature of today’s educational minefield. Scores matter, even when I try to tell myself they don’t. So, along with those momentum-killing scores, I was dealt a professional blow. I was suddenly the teacher that couldn’t challenge my gifted students.

I drove home that afternoon with plenty of anger, but the biggest thing I felt was a quiet despair. I felt helpless. The rug had been pulled out from under me. God had allowed the door to open wide enough for the Holy Spirit to work. I needed it. Since then I’ve had other spiritual battles, and something tells me there’s more coming, but sure enough it’s brought me back to my knees. It has brought me back to my devotions, my daily time with God.

Humble, TX still has a place in my heart. My sister currently resides there. It’s grown so much from when I was a kid. The local movie theater is no longer there, but a mall houses the new one. The town of Humble has grown an identity on its own. Funny, a word that means to have a low opinion of one’s self is such a suburbanized city on its own, thriving to make a name for itself. For once, I feel like I know what it’s like to be the little indiscreet town you pass on the map to something greater, the dot on the GPS. Life lessons always bring me closer to God. Perhaps the destination is right on target. Finally.

The Cries of a Fence-Straddler

So much has been going on in the world that it's been hard to be blogless (new word alert). In this world of instant comments, blogs, twitter and social media, it's as if everyone who has an opinion can now give their assumptions, biases and knowledge on the public even if we didn't want it. There are times when I'm reading the comments to a news story where the comments are like watching a car wreck. I find myself glued to the endless amounts of sarcasm, witty barbs and insults thrown back and forth from strangers with smiling (okay, not always smiling) icon faces or names that represent some political ideology (teapartyxxo). And while I rarely comment on news stories or get into arguments with random Facebook users, I did respond to someone's comments about teachers recently that revealed to me my own biases and ideology. Most of the time I watch and observe, a quality I've refined over the years, lives and opinions scroll down my computer screen and wonder where people form their ideas. 

The most fervent of opinions are those found by Christians, or at least they purport to be Christians in the way they use scripture and those ever familiar Christian clichés that warrant responses upon responses. I follow Christian conservative organizations on Facebook, like the American Family Association, where ever post is shared and multiplied and commented on from atheists and Christians alike. Remember whey Chic-fil-A was coming under fire months ago for the comments by its owner (who, ironically I've read has just passed away) on traditional marriage? Every comment was someone quoting some random passage from Leviticus to fire and brimstone passages about sinners and repenting before the Lord. I mean, if you're going to post Leviticus as your argument of why you're mad at God, you're going to really try harder to get my goat. On the flip side, an all caps tirade about going to hell is not going to convert anyone to want to see Heaven either. I've felt that there is no middle ground anymore. Like the shrinking middle class, there is no room for fence-straddlers like me, who like observing and forming their own opinion based on the evidence of the situation. While I'm guilty of harshly judging someone based on their looks or situation, I comment as much as I used to.

Part of this is that nowadays, you're not allowed to have a vocal opinion if you are a teacher or someone in public office. If I ranted and complained about my students on Facebook or twitter, it's likely to be found by someone and the ramifications could be harmful to my career. As someone whose Christianity is forming my reactions, I don't plan on ranting and raving about my school or district anytime soon. Yes, I do complain (just ask my wife) but sometimes having the right to spout off doesn't always mean you should.

Luckily, I didn't have social media as a teenager. I remember that the most damaging thing we could do with our mouths besides gossiping was passing around notebooks where you could answer anonymously about other kids in junior high. The notebook, who knows what they were called, were dangerous in the eyes of the teachers and administrators. While we had fun commenting about girls' bra size and making lewd comments (sometimes with visuals!) and dreaming of people we were crushing on, our words only fueled the flames of low self esteem among the girls in the school, and to a different extent, the guys too. One kid got suspended for making one back in 8th grade and suddenly it wasn't cool anymore. We all went back to hushed hallway conversations. Gossip wasn't in writing.

My life has formed my ideas and biases too. I was raised in an opinionated family. My grandma sure had them. On African-Americans, on the wives her sons married, on how my mom was raising me too. My mom, while not gossipy or back-biting, had her way of building my self-esteem, even in its lowest depths. I could always count on being introduced to strangers feeling like a king, and being expected to have an adult conversation. It was training for life. My dads were more low key. Walk humbly and don't carry a big stick. While my step-dad and father were not necessarily meek men, they weren't necessarily pillars of intimidation either. It was always the opposite of the women in my life. Go with the flow. Don't make waves. No need to get into an argument when silent aggressiveness was so much better. My grandmother Cordova would have thrived in this new environment of social media awareness, but she was born two generations too soon. I could have seen her walking the picket lines with teachers, claiming proudly her heritage, injecting truth into every conversation.

Sadly, that's not the case much anymore. There isn't much civility in message boards. Language is becoming more foul. If you don't agree with a certain mindset, you are labeled a bigot, homophobe, sinner, troll or something far worse. Thoughts give way to rights. We are beholden to our opinions as if they matter in the grand scheme. Changing hearts or minds requires conversation, requires a sense of humility and an ability to listen. I think the next few blogs will be about current events and how they are shaping my perceptions. I don't feel the need to be right more than I feel the need to admit I'm wrong. I've been questioning the loyalties of my views. The world demands that we all listen just a bit harder. Pull up a chair if you're willing. I'd love to talk back and forth. In honor of my grandma, she'd love the conversation even if we didn't agree or see eye to eye. We owe ourselves at least that much. 



 

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.