F8 And Be There

Over the past few years there have been a number of commercials and movies which use some new freeze-frame technology which halts the action but allows the camera to continue panning, continually shifting the perspective while the intensity of the moment suspends. Lately I feel like that. It seems that I have this third party perspective from which I can see my person in the midst of life's intensity and chaos. I am in the middle of the frame and a million shards of glass are exploded into space. But there is no fear. In the midst there is a peace, a physical stillness, which transcends the chaotic. I know, at a root level, it will be OK.

Ultimately I think this is a good thing. I explained this phenomenon to someone yesterday and he thought it was not just symbolic, but the actual work of the Holy Spirit protecting me. I don't know. It may well be, but, at this time, I am leaning toward a more psychological explanation (don't get me started on the separation of Christianity and psychology (oh wait, I already did and there isn't!). But, to the extent they are complimentary but different, I think this is more a shift in my understanding of who I am and how I need to operate in this world.  In essence, I think that I need to be more focused on the security of being my own God-image bearer and less influenced by the whims of those around me and the noise of a secular world.

The thing I worry about is some level of disconnect. The truth is I have some near bi-polar issues. The chemical/biological distinction between genius and madness is fine. I choose to think that I am more on one side than the other. Some would say I err on the side I chose; others would say I err on the comparison at all and that I am far removed from either. In any case, I do consider the possibility that this is some mental deconstruction of self and that I operate in a bifurcated reality. But, in the end, I don't think so. There is a peace and reality which seems transcendent. As I understand it, that is somewhat anathema to mental displacement.

On a related note, a while back I was reading an article on one of National Geographics more prolific photographers. He related a story in which, for the 437th time, he was asked, "How do you take such amazing pictures?" He snapped back, "f8 and be there." While I understand that his answer was the result of the frustration of the oft repeated, somewhat imbecilic question, I find a lot of truth in the answer.

As a matter of fact, it has become one of my favorite quotes. What he was trying to convey was that a lifetime of artistic development and natural gift cannot be summed up into a sound bite of advice duplicate-able by anyone who happens to own a camera. In the end, talent, which I identify as technique developed gift, is important. If you don't know what f8 is in photographic terms, go do some learning. Acquire the basic skill set to intelligently approach the chore at hand. God gave you a brain; use it.

However, his comment is deeper than that. f8 was the technical. Be there is the action. All the technical skill and theoretic knowledge in the world won't do a bit of good if you fail to show up. So show up. Be engaged. Go ready to get the photo. Be there. Had he never been out in the field, none of his skills would have produced anything. We have to be actively engaged in life. If you are never out seeking opportunity to live, experience, and love, your relational skills are for naught. Active involvement is to technical skill what works are to faith. You know, the whole hollow gong and clanging cymbal thing ...

So, I hope, this growing awareness of self, separate from daily noise, is not a distancing from relationship, but a grounding. It is a technical certainty which should allow a more complete involvement with reality as I can assume the skill set sufficiently complete and focus more on the experience. Reality, relationship, and freedom are the 'be there' components so often missing. I really don't want to miss anything.

It'sLike Deja Vu All Over Again

Last week Wednesday we got pounded with about 11" of snow. It also became much colder and has stayed that way for most of this week. Yesterday and today we did eventually get above freezing and things are getting soggy and sloppy. I did get Jen's car off blocks today in the warmth. The battery decided that it was time to die and the tires were a little low, but other than that it seems that everything is in order.

We even got it down the still melting driveway. It's a fun car, quick but feels like riding on a rail in the corners. Both the truck and the car have 5 speed transmissions. It cracks me up to drive them back-to-back. The truck barely makes 60 in fifth gear. I got in the car today and drove pretty conservatively for the first 20 minutes (and until I got the tires above 14 psi). After taking off from the gas station, I headed north on 42. A few miles later I down shifted and cornered hard onto Cty A. It's a fun corner from that direction as it cuts to the right something beyond 90 degrees.

The car bit in and sling-shotted through the turn. I punched the gas and, with that classic Benz feel, the back end set it's haunches and powered through 2nd gear and I slipped into 3rd and dropped the gas to the floor again. I only had it down for a second or two when I remembered that the speed limits changed rapidly in that section of road and cops frequently waited over the top of the hill. I eased off but I wasn't all that worried as I was only in 3rd. I glanced at the speedometer and just started laughing. I was going about 62 mph. I was definitely not in the truck.

There was no cop and I just glided the last few miles home. I don't even think I bothered shifting into 5th. It just wasn't worth it.

But there were two things that were worth something. The sandhill cranes have been around for a couple of weeks in singles or pairs. Today I saw an actual flock of about 8. A little further down the road I saw an even more significant harbinger of spring. Door County is home to one of the densest tart cherry crops in the United States. The industry consumes unbelievable acreage, equipment, labor, costs, and water. At one level, though, it all starts with this; a single truck was parked at the edge of a cherry orchard and, while I never did find the man doing the work, a zig-zag trail of prunings showed both path and purpose, running back and forth across the width of the orchard, dead cuttings between the tree rows, marking dark against the remaining snow.

Albert Payson Terhune I Am Not

Not a great weekend. In the end, like most things in life, the trudging through is what sucks and, once emerged beaten and bloody but alive, there is some benefit found in retrospection. Stressful. I sat down once to try to write something but it wasn't happening. I know writers have their own fancy phrase, but I don't know about those of us who verbally doodle on the web. Therefore, to make it sound more noble, I admit it; I came down with blogger's cube.

Actually, I am being somewhat serious. I did have a very stressful last few days. And the stress sapped every creative impulse I had. Since it always helps to include a Seinfeld quote (and since George happens to be an enneagrammatic 6 like me), as George said, "I dug deep ... there was nothing there!" Stress is well documented as a health risk. It must also rank right up there as an intellect killer.

Interestingly, one of the things that kind of snapped me out of it was taking Sean Patrick to a groomer sort of place. Remember, this is Door County. What we actually did was take him to the house of the sister-in-law of a friend of ours. There we found a garage that had been totally claimed for dog care. It was not fancy, but it was clean, the owner was no-nonsense and helpful, and the entire setup was totally practical.

For $15 you take your dog there and get the use of all the facilities for cleaning. Since we don't have a decent place to wash Sean in the winter, and since I was starting to retch every time I smelled him, this place was perfect. Half the garage is setup like a man cave for dogs. There are cubbies for hiding, all sorts of different mattresses and cushions, and a flapper door to get outside for a run. I looked around expecting to see a velvet painting of a bunch of men sitting around scratching behind their ears but never did find it.

That half is separated by a floor to ceiling grid so that the other half, the half for cleaning and grooming, is safe from sudden help. Since this was our first time there, the owner helped us with the layout and function of the different stations. The first was an old bathtub set on a knee high platform and connected to a small step platform off one end. Sean was instructed to hop onto the small platform and then take the smaller hop over the edge of the bath and into the tub.

She had the faucets and mid length hose with a switched head all ready, and after checking for water temperature, thoroughly soaked him. She then proceeded with a full soaping up with lots of working in, massage style. About this point I started getting jealous. That was probably the high point however as he was shortly rinsed completely off and jumped back onto the small platform, onto the floor, over to and onto a larger raised platform and toweled off roughly. Then she turned on three heated blowers and each of us took one and worked him over from front to back and top to bottom again and again until completely dry.

Finally, she ran an undercoat comb through his hair and finished with some conditioner worked in with a topcoat comb. We have owned Sean since about 6 weeks old; I believe it safe to say he has never been so clean. No more retching. Yeah.

There was something about this process that was very cathartic. I think the care-taking was part of it, but I also think that something she said helped. If you know Sean, you know he is a very well behaved dog. We didn't pick him up to put him on any of the platforms nor did we hold him or restrain him at any point. He was extremely alert. In fact, when it came to the blowers, I'd say he was nervous. But he just looked at me an stayed in place until released.

Part way through, the owner of the shop commented on his connectedness and obedience. She asked who trained him and we explained that Jen had really taken responsibility for that. Not much more was said. That resonated with me, however, and brought some deep peace. I think what I felt was that sense of purpose you get not when you meet with some monumental success, but that you get when, after a long period of work, there is some proof that you are making progress, that you are on the right path, and that the steady, plodding, sole-wearing trudge is actually covering some ground. It's a quite encouragement and easily overwhelmed by the next tripping hazard, but God-given none the less. Thank you Seany and Madeline.

It Must Be A Friday

Again, hot in this room. I can't wait 'til it's a more formal office space. I love the feng shui of this room (and yes, I did have to look up the spelling for 'shui'). I love that it gets changing light all day long. It's on the west side of the house and is fairly low hung. In the morning it gets all the indirect light that falls off the high pitch of the north wing. In the afternoon its south windows (3 of them, 2.5' wide and 6' tall) blast full of light so bright that televisions and computer screens are almost useless. In the afternoon the sun falls invertedly across the floor, a ying to rotation's yang. By evening it has an oven warmth which feels like blanketed spiced wine.

It has guy's colors. The ironic part is that I got the basic idea from a Walmart paint chip. It has full trim from rough sawn lumber I got from 40' long packing crates from an Austrian paper-making parts manufacturer. The baseboards, window trim and crown molding are all 1 /14" thick with nail holes and splinter faced, unplaned, deal-with-it surfaces and edges just daring you to regret touching them. They are painted a deep, dark green, 2/3rds from olive to black. The walls are rough textured plaster over drywall painted a light khaki-green. The ceiling slopes from north low to south up, a promise of expansion and power, greatest over the height of the windows and the freedom outside. It too is rough, like a Portuguese lime crusted uma casa. It however, is painted light, an off white just this side of eggs, the antithesis of headly servility. The room is long to its width and strong.

I want it to be my place of creation. Not creation with my hands; that will be another building, a shop with different lighting, different purposes, and very different tools. This will be a place of creation of the mind and spirit and soul. This will be that place I retreat to in the late, late afternoon of Friday with a glass of scotch and Tab singing about his loss of innocence and sit, and be, and think, or not, and write, or not. It will be a place where you are welcomed if you know when to listen, when to talk, and when everyone should just shut up and feel the primordial beat, the basest and most guttural of choreographed rhythm, that all-American blood beat of blues.

I have work to do to reach that day. Each day seems to wake with its own ideas of what I should do. I don't want those demands. I want to do what I want to do. I want to unload last November's OSB from the snow covered trailer. I want Mark's drywall lift and I want Jeff's muscles. And if Jeff were here to help that would be great too. I want to lose myself in the monotony of plastering and flooring. I want the nervous twitch I always get when I check new wiring and expect a jolt. I want the real living room and the real kitchen finished. I want my office back. I want to be selfish and lock the door. I want to lose myself into the world of Carrollesque creative freedom. I want to see the blues from the other side.

Rob Bell And The Existence Of Relationship

I am sitting in a room, currently identified as the living room, heated to about 83 degrees and flooded with the last light of an intensely sunny day. I am told that the sun will set in exactly 14 minutes and I hope each lasts 5 times as long. In the meantime, it has a caloric punch that brings solar gains reminiscent of a hot July day, lying out on the boat, glistening with sweat, just waiting until you can't take it anymore and fling yourself off into the impossibly clear water, holding your feet up even though you know that the rocks in the 20' deep water are only illusionally 5' away.

Outside the air is cold, only about 24 degrees. A day before we were going to get Jen's 190e off blocks and onto the road, we got hit with cold, almost 1' of wet, East wind driven snow. We left the truck at the top of the drive as there is no way we would have gotten out of our overdrifted drive. I walked the north edge of the drive this morning to mark for John's son to plow. I am both embarrassed and impressed with how exhausted I was after marching 1000' in knee high, quick sand snow. The car will wait another week or so.

I have recently been asked a number of times what I think about Rob Bell's new book, "Love Wins". Truthfully, I haven't read it and, for reasons made clear by the end, I am not likely to. However, that is slim reason for me not to have an opinion. As a matter of fact, I frequently find that it is easier to have strong opinions when you don't know enough about a subject to grasp its intricacies.

Having a working knowledge of the book and an understanding of what he might be arguing, I offer the following thoughts. First, it must suck being a book length author in a sound bite world. How can you boil an entire book down to a 5 minute interview much less an attention grabbing headline. If all he said was what is found in the headlines, people are paying way to much for the book.

Secondly, if he is arguing there is no hell, he’s got some fancy answering to do. I am not saying this from some sort of expertise, but merely as an observant observer of observations (alliteration and redundancy; awesome). 

The bible seems to make clear that hell is real, hell is separate from death, and hell is separate from heaven. A few quick references should suffice. Revelation 1:18 and 20:14 reference death and hell as separate things. Matthew 11:23 clearly identifies heaven and hell as separate entities. At this point I am going to stop since the separate existence of hell both proves it's existence and seems tautological in its purpose. Again, this is not supposed to be an exhaustive study but merely an opportunity to make clear that if Bell actually tries to argue that hell is just a state of mind or some subset of life or death or even heaven, I would find it impossible to agree with him.

By the way, if he argued that I would have another, more interesting problem. If there is no hell,  why did Christ die? If his death automatically saves everyone, thereby wiping out the need for hell, what happened to free will? The whole gospel hinges on a gift offered and a gift accepted or rejected. Any good attorney understands this. A gift must have certain qualities. It must be freely given. It must be given with a release of control. Finally, it must actually be received. Receipt requires conscious acceptance. Conscious acceptance is free will; you may accept or reject the gift. If all must accept the gift since all benefit from it and do not go to hell, there is no free will and the gift is not a gift.

Now, there is another option regarding Bell's arguments. From what I know, he might be mis-represented in the press (in fact, he probably is by both those for and against him (isn't marketing wonderful)). It is possible that what he is arguing is that the whole pre-occupation of hell is a waste of time. Hell is what it is. The bible doesn't tell us that much about it. I know enough to know that I am not that interested in a visit. That's all we really need to know.

The point is that there are far more important things to be focused on than the exact nature of hell. In addition, the threat of eternal damnation, especially in this post-psychoanalytic culture, is not likely to be a relationally attractive call for unbelievers. Christ recognized this too. The number of times he talked about doing the right thing for positive reasons far outweighs the times he stressed doing the right thing to avoid hell. The message of salvation is fundamentally joy filled not fear filled. Out time is limited. Spend it the joy of Christ, not the fear of hell and the angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin type arguments we can get into and which can divide us. If this is the argument of Bell's book, then I wholeheartedly agree with him. However, by agreeing with him here, or disagreeing with him before, I logically end with no reason to read him.

Again, it's all about relationship. Relationship is all about who is in your sphere right now and what you are going to do with those relationships. If you have the energy to spend arguing about hell, you should direct that energy into celebrating and building those relationships instead. The joy of the gospel message is of more dynamic import than the fear of hell.

I have argued myself into a corner. I seem to be spending my time in this post arguing about the existence of hell and, as such,  I am violating my own instruction. I better shut up and go do some relating.  I wonder where Jen is?

I Join The Ranks Of College Dropouts

I technically did. Yeah, I know I went on to finish and do the grad school thing and become a famous blogger. But, 25 years ago to the day, I dropped out of college. There are those moments that define your life and this was one of them.

I started college as an 18 year old. I was going to be a Math/Physics double major. I did well in math and physics in high school. Actually, I did pretty well at everything in high school. The last thing I mean to do is cast a dispersion on my high school; it's not their fault that at that time there were more cows than people in Calumet County. I gotta tell you that when the Gehl's had their 9th child and the population sign could finally roll 1,000, it was a big deal. It's kind of like the first time your odometer hits 100,000 miles.

And I really mean it. I do consider my high school education excellent. I count Pat Eischenbach as that teacher who really made me love the process of learning. Terry Fondow was a leader, a man's man, and an excellent example for us boys. When no actual teacher would take the initiative to start a physics class (he was actually the principle)(and yes, for a while no physics was offered), he taught the class himself. I know that he was no idiot and I know that he didn't know physics well. I also know that he would go home after school and learn that which he was to teach the next day. Looking back now I see that there was a lot of group teaching that actually went on, but that in itself shows a quality not often found.

So I went to college. What I hadn't expected to find, however, were girls and cable TV. At home we didn't have a TV. All of a sudden there was a 24-hours-a-day gift of entertainment manna. And the girls! Somehow monied Chicago chicks had a more worldly component to them than those from home. My first semester was a learning experience but my grades suggested otherwise.

So I moved off campus, got a little more serious, and changed majors. Five more times. After Chemistry, Anthropology, Philosophy and Computer Science didn't fit, I became an English major. I think I even held out in this field for two semesters. And my academic grades did improve although my social grades took a serious hit.

I knew I wasn't happy though, and I knew I had no interest in sitting inside doing 'adult' stuff the rest of my life. So I convinced myself that the best course of action was to drop out. Ironically, as time would show, I was right but that is another story for another day.

My parents weren't going to go for the drop out thing without some careful planning, so I took some preliminary steps. The summer before I had worked in Door County and I really wanted to go back. I took off one Saturday and headed north. I met up with my boss from the prior summer but he needed no help. Instead, he sent me over to two sisters who did some commercial fishing. In his style, he called ahead and made introductions.

I drove the few miles over and met with them. They were very interested in my background and, when the more vocal of the two found out I was an English major, tried really hard to get me to go over to their other property to look at some books they had bought from a dead lawyer's estate. All first editions, I was assured. Worth a lot of money. If I saw them I would really like them and want to buy them, I was told. But she didn't know if she could sell them. They meant a lot to her and she knew she'd regret it if she sold them to me.

I was running out of time as I needed to get back home that evening. I somehow pried myself out of the invitation to book shop and queried about their need for help. Again the answer was fairly clear. Maybe in summer, but definitely not in late winter and spring. However, the ice was about to break in the bay. Possibly the Weborgs could use me.

Again, the obligatory call was made and I drove as fast as I could further north. My meeting was short, very gracious, and, best of all, fulfilling. They were happy to hire me as soon as I could move up.

It took a few days to get my ideas together enough to tell my folks. That too went better than I thought. I remember three things in particular; first, neither seemed surprised and I know my Dad commented that they knew I wasn't happy. The second was that he wrote out a page of recommended disciplines that he wanted me to practice and incorporate into my life. And the third was my mom taking me to an auction at the big tavern in Brandt where we bought some pots and pans and a set of silverware for me to take.

On March 23rd, 1986, I drove back up to Door County. I moved into the most run down excuse for a house you can imagine. While it technically had running water, it was all outside including the front-stoop shower stall that faced the rough gravel road that ran 20 yards in front of the house. The old man who rented it to me explained that it was totally understandable that there was no shower curtain as it would have just blown off anyway. And, as my father-in-law later commented, it pays to advertise.

Biblical Psychoanalysis; Are Christianity and Psychology Compatible?

What got me started on thinking about the issue of Christianity and  psychology was a brief discussion by Andrew Kuyvenhoven in his book, "Comfort and Joy". In it, as best as I can tell, he recognizes the advent of modern psychology, recognizes how advertising has developed to play on the principles involved in psychoanalysis, and even goes so far as to credit it with confirming, " ... the biblical teaching that evil is inside us."

Never mind that I disagree with this last comment entirely as psychology is largely neutral on the issue of evil and instead tends to simply find issues and bring them to our awareness (the morality thereof being for us to decide). What really struck me was the whining manner in which he seemed to wish for the good old days before modern psychology as if that, presumably simpler, world was more conducive to explaining the desires of the heart. As for me, I chose truth rather than simplicity.

One other quick comment; Kuyvenhoven is a terrific scholar and apologist and is deserving of much praise and deference. However, like any person stuck in a fallen paradigm, he includes moments of weak logic and understanding in some of his comments and even occasionally falls into the trap of arguing one side of the coin for one point and conveniently flipping the coin for another argument three chapters later. All said and done, he is well worth the read.

But back to my point. Kuyvenhoven represents a mid point in the approach of Christianity dealing with psychoanalysis. Many see it as a tool of the devil. The other extreme is a fascination with introspective psychology which borders on the occult. Where does common sense land on this issue?

Typically, a good point to start is with the Bible itself. I am not going to give an exhaustive recitation, but a few examples should provide some guidance. To this end, I think is appropriate to start with agape love itself. Agape love is an intellectual exercise that demands that we act with care, respect, and compassion to everyone. It is the complete opposite of an emotional response of love. By definition, it recognizes the passions that produce the other types of love. And, by definition, it acknowledges the full scope of the human psyche including our fears, desires, and motivations. It is modern psychology.

Two other examples of psychoanalytic self revelation are part of our regular Christian speak. The first is the warning of the plank in your eye and the splinter in another's. The best way to understand this warning is to view it through an exercise given by a counselor I saw some years ago. He asked this; imagine yourself going to a party. You enter the room and look around. After checking out all the people at the party, notice the one who rubs you the wrong way and for whom you have the most distaste. That person is the one who will share the most similarities to you. The point is that we have an immense ability to see the exact faults in others that we ourselves have. The teaching about the plank and the splinter is the exact same truth with the warning of it's hypocrisy and it implication of breaking relationship through hypocrisy.

The Lord's Prayer also includes a similar demand for deep introspection. We pray, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us". Besides the fact that such an utterance should scare us down to our socks, it is also a demand that we spend time looking deep into our own actions and motivations. Have we forgiven? Why? For what purpose? How completely? This is psychoanalysis 101.

There are reasons why we are called to delve deep into our own psyches as Christians. First of all, our primary relationship is with God. He created us. For us to more completely know ourselves is for us to more completely understand the majesty of his creative power and the depth of how we are image bearers. In essence, the more we know about God and the more we know about ourselves is the more we are able to experience fuller relationship with him.

Secondly, the more understanding we have about our own strengths and weaknesses the more we can let God work through our weakness for his glory and the more compassion and humility we can have towards others with whom we have relationship.

The truth is, psychology is a powerful tool. So is a chainsaw. A chainsaw can accomplish an amazing amount of work in a very short time. It can also cause an immense amount of damage in a hurry. The problem with psychology in modern Christianity is that of navel gazing. Life is about relationship. If our use of personal psychology leads us to  richer, deeper relationships, it is a tool well worth using. If the fascination with introspection feeds into an ever deeper spiral of narcissism, the tool has been effectively hijacked for mischief and is no longer good.

In the end you should celebrate your createdness. You are unique and the child of the King. The balance is in turning internal preparation into external action. I am guessing it was something like this to which Dickens referred when he had the ghost of Christmas present tell Scrooge, "Come in and know me better man!" In learning about himself, Scrooge learned how to care for others. Sounds like one of the basic concepts of Christianity to me.

I Feel Like Oprah

I want to comment on the issue on psychology in general and one book in particular, but I am both limited on time this evening and there is more than can really fit into one reasonable length blog post. So, I think I will write this in two parts, and, to make it much more exciting, I will write it backward. So, for tomorrow, a discussion on psychology and Christianity and, for tonight, an encouragement to read the book, "The Wisdom of the Enneagram", and to use it for the enrichment of your relationships.

I know a number of you are familiar with the concept of the enneagram and my thanks to one of you in particular who introduced it to me seven years ago. For those who are not, the basic concept is that there are nine primary personality profiles. Each of those types can lean more toward one of the adjacent numbers and each type also has three different instinctual variants.

The first step in reading the book is to read through the testing portion to determine where you fall in general terms. From there you can read more to determine the sub types that may apply to you. After that there is a great deal of information regarding the typical things that are your strengths, weaknesses, joys, fears, etc.. There is also a lot of information on the spiritual components that affect, develop, and challenge each type. Finally, there is commentary on the healthy expression of your type and on the warning signs for unhealthy behavior.

The thing I like the best about the book is that it includes that strong spiritual component and marries fairly traditional psychology with historic spirituality. However, I will say what I always do when I recommend this book; make it prove it's worth. Read the introductory information. Take the tests (I highly recommend taking it with someone who knows you well as most people, in my experience, mis-place themselves). Read the basic overviews of your type. If, by that time, you have not been duly impressed with the accuracy and insight of the authors knowledge, stop and sell the book on Ebay. Also, let me know as you will be the first one I know who finds it of dubious value.

It is important to know ourselves, and this book can really provide excellent information. However, that is not the primary reason I recommend it. Again I'll go back to the basics and, in Christianity, it's all about relationship. Here is where the book really provides a blessing. The effort you put into learning about other people in your circle of family and friends and discovering what really motivates them, what fears they have, what their blind spots are, etc... will allow you to relate to them and love them in a much more complete way. It is an excellent tool to develop your ability to more completely relate to those in your life and to be a blessing to them.

Two final things; first, in regard to my last paragraph, do not try to determine someone else's type. Incorporate them into the process and use their input to help them determine their type. It's not a parlor game but a tool for deeper relationships. Finally, be ready for change. If typical, you will experience real change in your own understanding of the dynamics in your own life. If you follow my advice to use it to better understand others, you will experience dramatic change in how you view and treat them. I know for me, once I knew better what made my family members tick, some of the things I had done needed to be completely discontinued and the polar opposite instituted. Fortunately, grace is abundant and blessings symbiotic.

I've Got A Horse Right Here, His Name Is Paul Revere ...

I recently re-watched the movie "Let It Ride". In short it is a movie in which a man has a very good day at the horse race tracks. Personally, I think it's one of the funniest movies I've ever seen, but, unlike potato chips, I don't recommend movies as movies seem to be one of the most personally idiosyncratic media forms I've come across.

In one scene, after the main character has established a clear lucky streak, he invites all his track friends to throw their money in with him. He'll bet it all, inevitably win, and split all the winnings with them. With this last comment, their enthusiasm completely fades and the drift off to the various corners of the bar to continue their incessant drivel about which horse will win, argue strategy over selecting a horse, console each other on their loses, and fuss about their bad luck.

It reminded me of a time when, in practicing law, I was met with client after client who not only expressed a need for help on a specific issue, but who all also complained about the basic totality of their existence. They hated their work, families, wives and husbands, housing, weather, future, past, present, fears, etc... After hearing the same basic story for the third time in a day and the 12th that week, I stopped the story of the man who happened to be in my office at that moment and challenged him to change.

I pointed out that he had been griping and moaning for the last 20 minutes, that I billed by the hour, and that, if his life really sucked that badly, maybe, instead of helping him with the one small aspect which brought him to my office, he'd get the most bang for his buck by following my advice to totally change. I pointed out that he didn't need to stay with his wife or kids, that he could, if he really wanted to, just get in a car and drive away from his house, church, job, boss, etc ... and that, contrary to what he had just been telling me about how stuck he was, he could actually change it all at that very minute if he wanted to. He was in total control if he wanted to be.

If I remember correctly, he actually grabbed his file and stomped out the door. I have mulled over that moment many times since. And watching this movie reminded me of it too. What is it that makes people so capable at delineating every wrong in their miserable existence, but so incapable at seeing their role in the continuation thereof?

What I decided then, and what I continue to believe, is that there is a level at which people like the misery. Actually, it's not so much the misery itself, but the fact that they at least feel something. So much of the average American life can be vanilla that it is very possible to lose the gift of emotion through disuse. It seems we fight against that by diving into that which elicits the strongest feelings and that seems to be pain. It may not be enjoyable to feel pain, but at least you know you are alive. Better to feel something than nothing.

Some years later, I caught up with the guy who had stomped out of my office. While he was more guarded in conversing with me, the basics of his life had not changed and I could find no sign that he had actively tried for any change. In the end, he felt safe in the world he knew even if he hated it.

I also see elements of this in people who try cutting and other physically destructive behaviors. In a world of confusion and frequent boredom, they have found an area which they both control (just as my office guy controlled his environment by not working on any real change) and a way to feel something real. Pain is real and can be a tremendous comfort.

While I point this experience out, I confess that I too have had moments (and may even now) in which I treasured the surge of misery more than the dynamic of change. To those who find themselves relating to this I have absolutely no advice except to state that you are not alone and that you have my full appreciative sympathy. While I would choose otherwise for you, the real choice is yours. However, if there is anything I can do to support the momentum of change, let me know.

In the end, that image of the smoky race-track bar and the same conversations being held over and over holds both humor and horror. This is a call to action. The safety of known pain is not better than the risk of celebration. In those immortal words, let it ride!

The Emperor's Nude Clothes

I suppose this could also be titled "The Great Divide" or something like that as I ultimately am writing about practice of grouping. People seem to agree that there are fundamental things which split us into different categories. I think the first is alive versus dead. I can't think of a more dynamic potential difference between two people. I think the second is sex. While there is a wide range of expression of human sexuality, the issue of being male or female is second only to being alive or dead. For those who choose to disagree with this, I would point out that the moment a child is born, stereotypically, the first announcement regarding the child is its sex. And, in one way or another, we carry our maleness or femaleness through our entire life and it affects every thing we do and every relationship we have.

The third great divider may not be expected. I argue that it is clothing. More than any other sensory clue, our costume identifies, separates, categorizes, and divides in immediate and profound ways. We certainly take clues from sound and smell and touch (and occasional taste), but our sight and how we see and are seen is the ultimate social message of who we are.

This is true for two reasons. First of all, we cloth ourselves. What we put on is a deliberate act and carries a message of how we want to be seen. Some might profess to not care what they wear but that fact, by definition, carries message about who they are and how they want to be seen. Some will be defined by what they wear; others will be defined by what they won't wear. So far, I am not suggesting anything other than the simple fact that what we wear is communicative. There is no ethical or moral component to my comment.

The second reason is that all dressing has, at it's root, costuming. Not only are we saying something about who we are, but we are also providing very detailed information about what we want others to see when they look at us. The costume of a doctor is different than the costume of a priest. The costume of a farmer is different than the costume of a cross dresser. While the variety is immense, we are socially fine tuned to observe the appearance of others and to assimilate that information into our relationships.

 
I believe there is an obverse example which shows this truth quite shockingly. The YMCA is very popular and we are blessed to have one in such a small community. I believe that over 50% of its users qualify for some level of reduced rates. When there is a group of naked men standing in the locker room it is very difficult to determine who fits what social profile. The janitor looks a lot like the restaurateur looks a lot like the organist looks a lot like the acupuncturist when all are without clothes. Sometime the best way to proof an idea is to try the opposite and here the importance of costume certainly shows.

In addition, all of us are privy to some story in which a person is confused for being above or below their actual economic station and they are shown exceptional service they did not expect or they are belittled at the local Porsche dealership or whatever. Actually, I wonder how many of us have daydreamed of walking into some high end store with a wad of cash in our pocket while dressed in ripped jeans. Then, after getting snubbed by the salesman, we would flash our wad and walk out in smug satisfaction knowing that we had taught the crestfallen jerk a lesson.

While there is no problem dressing the role you want, there is a problem treating people with differing levels of respect and agape love based on the judgments that socially flow from the categories into which they dressingly communicate themselves. Clearly running around nude would be the best solution although I would guess we would find some new visual indicator of status and position to present. We would also go out of business so that might not be as good an idea as I first thought. In the end, of course, costume dressing will continue and should. And, like most writers, I probably write what I need to read more than anything else. So, to me (and any others who need to join), this is a reminder to celebrate the personalities that drive the clothing choices and to enjoy the discipline of having equal empathetical responses to those personalities despite the divisions of clothing. It's a wacky and wonderful world.

If I Grow Up I Want To Be Just Like Hannah

Technically, I did say that at times in my life. I now know that "growing up" is not a given and not entirely to be desired. I also know that while there was basis in fact for the comment, some things have changed and the comment is more historical than current. But history really does help explain the present and an understanding of the present prepares for and enriches the experiences yet to come.

And it really is experiential knowledge that has the largest effect on what we know about ourselves and the world. Experientially I know that I am more insecure than I would ever admit to anyone other than all those who read this. But I am getting ahead of myself. Jen and I really pushed our kids to experience life. This was for two reasons; first, who wouldn't want to experience the things God has set out for us? Second, as mentioned, it is the most dynamic form of learning.

One of the things we did was brook no opposition to tasting things. Our sense of taste is amazingly powerful. Each culture has unique food items. What better way to learn about this world and other cultures than by eating and tasting? This is not to say they had to eat huge quantities of any one thing, but they had to try through tasting and through tasting they had to try to understand something more than they did 2 minutes earlier. We tried to redeem a phrase I never understood anyway and referred to it as having a "smart mouth".

Hannah was born older. She has always had a steadiness which allowed her to see and speak truth where no angel would tread. This included challenging my father after he declared that he would never try some new food which had been provided him.

"Why not Grandpa?", she asked. "Don't you want a smart mouth?".

Of course what my Dad heard was that he had a smart mouth (with the old connotations). This did not sit well with him and, as quickly as possible, I stepped in to explain that Hannah had a very different definition of that phrase. He insisted on pointing out that we should have thought about this potential misunderstanding before hijacking the saying, but I have since heard him use the same line with the reformed meaning.

Experiential knowledge continues to drive many of my kids decisions. It is here I find a smorgasbord of emotional responses. As of this time yesterday, Brynn was somewhere in greater Germany/Austria, Hannah down in some ditch called the Grand Canyon, and Lars, hopefully, holed up in a library in downtown Santa Fe studying. I have never been outside the country save once across the bridge in Sault St. Marie, and have never been to the American Southwest. I am jealous.

I really am jealous. But more than that I am excited for each of them and proud. I can't pretend that all the decisions made meet with my approval. But what does meet with my approval is that my kids are adults. And, as adults, they have made a lot of decisions, and, more importantly, have largely owned the decisions they have made. Win, lose or draw, they have dealt with the result flowing from their decisions. In this moment, I am struck by the desire in each of them for experiential knowledge and how their choices have reflected that desire.

I didn't go away to school. I haven't traveled much. I get a little nervous thinking of leaving the known environment. I wish I had the guts my kids have. I wish I had followed my own desires. I wish I had traveled. I wish I had risked more not less. I wish I had the richness of experience that my children have. I have had many opportunities and have most often chickened out. I would be a better person, a person with fewer fears, a person with a richer perspective, and a person with fewer regrets had I tried more, experienced richer, played riskier, and seized life more deliberately and vibrantly. I think many of my failures resulted from the subconscious rejection of my default behavior.

So this one is for my kids. I pledge to use your behavior as an inspiration for my future. I promise to default less and live more. In particular, I will follow your example to chose experience as the primal force of wisdom. I will do as I said, not as I did. If I grow up, I want to be like my kids.

Gideon and Books

As many of you probably know, and I am just infant-like beginning to learn, the world of publication, never static, is again changing. Borders has filed for bankruptcy and the best selling author on Kindle has no idea what an agent or publishing house is. That's OK. If there is a constant thread to this blog, I would hope that it is to focus on the principles of issues, life, love, purpose, faith, etc ..., and not get too bent out of shape with the historical moment as compared with historical truth.

Well, the truth here is that I have been working on the concept of Gideon's Fleeces for a number of years and a book on Gideon's Fleeces for about the past year.  Many of you already know about my ideas regarding Gideon and his fleece and many of that group have responded with their own experiences of having implemented Gideon's Fleeces into their own journey of faith. For those not yet privy, Gideon was a fairly mainstream Israelite during the time of the Judges. After receiving a message from God that he was to take leadership action on behalf of Isreal, he balked. Instead of direct obedience he asked for a series of tests before he would obey. Those tests took the form of a sheepskin fleece and dew. You know the basic story.

Gideon has historically been given a bum rap regarding his need for certainty and his basic unwillingness to believe that he was being called to action. To every one who criticizes Gideon, I encourage a life of stone avoidance as you will have no need to be throwing any. In Gideon I find the inherent resistance to God's grand plan for each of us (our will vs. his), the willingness of God to meet us at our pitiful level, and the Platonic "form" of communication lost at the fall.

By using "tests" or, as I think better, "proofs" to determine what God's plan is for us, we can both establish a communication with God, and also act with increased certainty and determination that we are acting under the umbrella of his purpose and blessing. This is a good thing.

Yesterday I met with the director of publishing services of a new publishing company based just outside of Grand Rapids. From that meeting, two things became clear. The first is that the chance of a typical author/agent/publisher relationship for a relatively unknown author is unlikely in the current market. The second is that there is a viable opportunity for both publication and also for the type of support (seminars, online presence, etc...) that would be necessary for these ideas to reach a broad market. One step at a time and we'll see where it ends up. In the meantime, the desire for self sufficiency and purpose which echo within these blog posts helps drive the vision for publication of this book. So, again, your encouragement has been a huge blessing.

The development of the book will be a repeated item within this blog win, lose, or draw. The point of both the book and the principles underlying this blog are truth and transparency. Come along for the ride and wear your mud boots.

Happy St. Pats. I had some of of the corned beef with a decent brick cheese and a glass of Bogle Old Vine Zinfandel while waiting for the brazed potatoes to finish. I then ladled the potato chinks onto a bowl of leftover ground beef and pasta sauce glop from the other night, added another glass of wine and retreated to my desk to write this. My advice? Keep the potatoes and glop and skip on the wine. I have really appreciated the Petite Syrah, Cabernet Sauvignon, and, especially, Merlot by Bogle. This zinfandel was overly sweet and fatty. I'd take a swallow expecting something significant and it just seemed to fade like a stale Twinkie. And I hate Twinkies. By the way, Sean likes his dry food a lot when you hide a piece of corned beef fat underneath the pile.

Thanks, Update, Short

Long day today and not enough time left for much. So, first of all, an update. On Sunday I checked the corn beef sitting in its brine. I noticed a few flecks of mold forming on the surface of the brine and the intensity of the smell of the brine had greatly diminished. I decided 3 weeks was enough, rinsed the pieces lightly, boiled them in fresh water for an hour, lightly rinsed them again, and boiled one piece for Jen with just cloves added, and boiled the other three pieces with cloves, bay leaves, and a chopped up onion. This second boil, again in fresh water, took about 1 1/2 hours 'til tender. Muy Bien.

Second, thanks. Your readership has really been an encouragement to me. At this time, we (and I mean that as this is, in my view, a community conversation) are rapidly approaching 700 reads from all over the world. Humbling. Probably goes without saying, but feel free to share the posts or links freely. Thanks also to all who commented, emailed, posted, encouraged, shared their own stories, or offered ideas for future topics. As I said, while I certainly get a self-centered enjoyment, there is a huge community component as well. I hope that through reading this blog few are offended, some are challenged, many are blessed, and all are engaged. Again, thanks.

I'll keep it short and present two tokens of thanks. First, a joke I thought of while driving today. Why was Moses afraid of slivers? He didn't want to get a staff infection! Second, because everyone loves cute (or at least should), a photo of kittens.

Chicken Soup For The Coyote's Soul

The other night I went out to check on the chickens and found that one of heavier breed hens had somehow managed to get herself trapped in some of the fencing and had then fallen backward into a small crevice between the fence and the laying box. By the time I got to her she was dead. Or at least that's what I thought until, after untangling her and put her outside on a snow drift, she gave a couple feeble movements. I went inside, tried to make some part of the process moderately enjoyable by taking a minute to pick the right gun, and then went back out and shot her.

I have an increasingly hard time killing animals. I have no problem with killing being part of animal husbandry or even sport (for consumption) killing like deer hunting or even varmint control or various herd management kills. It's not the philosophical so much as the emotional. But where does the one stop and the other start?

When I was in first grade my folks got a bunch of chicks as our first farm animals. The night after we first got them, their coop burned down and they all died. I still remember waking up the next morning, hearing about it, and crying hard. I think that was the first time I was aware of death in any sort of direct way.

As the years went by we got plenty of other animals and did plenty of butchering and the fact of death as part of life was fully experienced and appreciated. We did butcher the chickens and then rabbits, geese, pigs, cows, sheep ... One of my favorite times was wrapping the pork cuts in freezer paper in the kitchen and munching on diced pork loin, fresh from the hog, fried in butter.

And sometime later, as a teenager, I remember the first time I made the decision by myself to shoot one of the orphaned lambs that was clearly suffering and wouldn't amount to anything even if some miracle of life were given. It was profound and not fun. The edge of that wore soon enough though, and that pang receded somewhere below the conscious line.

 But then something started to change when I was about 35. By this time I had my own beef calves and chickens and still felt nothing in particular when butchering time came. It wasn't that I liked to kill animals, and I was certainly grateful for what they provided, but the killing itself was emotionally neutral and just a part of the larger process. I think the actual change started when our large, dominant, young border collie Karl decided to herd an SUV flying down the road that passed in front of our land. He lost. So did I.

Time passed as it almost always does. We continued to do some butchering, but I found myself a little more reluctant to get out there and do it when the time came. We also bought another border collie. And we got into horses.

The first horse we bought was an old Belgian mare that was a rescue case. Dixie was an awesome first horse as she had been trained to do everything, was extremely calm and careful, and suffered no fools. While she was no danger, she also would not respond unless you exercised good horsemanship. She taught us more than 10 other horses or teachers or seminars ever could. She was also the alpha mare and an excellent stabilizing herd leader for the other horses we subsequently bought.

Eventually she got cancer and at about 24 years of age (fairly old for a Belgian) really started to deteriorate. Our vet indicated there was really nothing to stop the degradation and that we needed to make a decision about euthanizing her. The vet could inject her and then we would have to bury her. The alternative was to get the guy up from an area mink farm. For a small fee he would come and, if the animal was still alive, kill it and use it as feed for the mink. If the animal was already dead, he wouldn't take it.

I opted for the mink farm route. First of all, most of the soil on our land is less than 1' in depth. After that it is bedrock. I don't know the last time you have tried to bury a 1,900 pound animal in 12" of soil. It doesn't work as well as might be expected. In addition, I have a problem throwing away a resource like that. You know, the whole Disney cycle of life thing. At least with the mink farm there would be some value to the death.

He came fairly early in the morning. This was mostly Brynn's horse, so she had spent some of that time with Dixie saying goodbye. I sent Brynn inside. The mink guy backed his truck up to where Dixie and I were waiting in an open spot outside the paddock. He dropped the lift-gate of the truck and reached into the cab to get his short barreled .22 rifle. I actually thought twice about my decision as I couldn't imagine him using that small diameter bullet humanely on an animal that large. I asked him about it. He looked at me with a little humor and a lot of humility. I think all he said was, "She won't feel a thing."

I don't think she did. I had been holding Dixie's lead rope this entire time and I had asked if I should stand back. I didn't want to get kicked or anything. Again, his answer was quiet and a little surprising. He suggested that I stand back only if I didn't want her to fall on me. I took a step back, he raised the gun with one hand, and almost before I would have thought he had sighted, pulled the trigger. There was the small, sharp crack, distinctive to a .22 and the horse just settled down and rolled on her side. There was no gasping or kicking or death throes. She just was dead. In the midst of a really crappy morning was this act of professionalism that really humbled me. He had respect for the reality of death. His respect commanded that he do his job well. And he did.

I thought about Dixie as I walked back from the still twitching chicken. For animals, Dixie was the one killed for whom I had the strongest emotional bond. I still miss her and wish that, Enoch style, she, one day, could have been no more. That's short sighted though, as I would have missed the blessing of the mink guy and his compassion. And I decided that, other than family pets, the distinction between where the philosophical stops and the emotional starts comes down primarily to who's finger is on the trigger.

The next morning I went out to check on the chickens and to throw the hen's carcass on the fence row for some skunk or raccoon or other scavenger to Thanksgiving on. I went to where I had left her. There was some blood on the snow and a few feathers. There were also two quick and careful sets of coyote prints cutting in from the southeast, rounding the hitching post near where she had been left, and marking smoothly back to the south, around the pile of old barn boards, and off to the west to the shelter of the trees on the west fence row.

Light! More Light!

We have arrived at one of my favorite times of year. I like December 10th. It usually marks the earliest sunset of the year. I like January 4th as it usually marks the latest sunrise of the year. They both also happen to be birthdays of two of my kids. I like December 21st and I like to start a large fire and drink mulled wine and have people over. While it has some pagan overtones, for me it is a celebration of the anticipation of seasons I love.

But this time of year, I get my favorite seasonal date. In fact, it is my opinion that Goethe was actually getting delusional but all excited about daylight savings time when he yelled out the title call because I love the spring daylight savings time change. I really appreciate that it is light out later at night. I am never bored with the instantaneousness of it. After the slow crawl of season's change, I wake one morning to find the world still dark and, later that same day, discover that I'm lying under my truck changing the oil at 7:13 in the evening and I can still see what I am doing. It's like a seasonal cosmic slap; a wake up call of light and shadow.

Mostly, of course, what I like is the promise of what's to come. Just like the rainbow promise, I find anticipation, security, love, peace, and care. And, by that bright sense of what's to come, I am more able to find purpose in the moment.

Do-It-Yourself Messiah Kit!

So I completely forgot to start the sourdough starter this past week and only realized my mistake today when I went into the sort-of-kitchen to make a couple loaves of bread. Instead, by cheating with a strong rye ale beer, I made bread that mimics some of the flavors without the preparation. I used my beer/herb bread recipe (which I don't think I've mentioned here but which is probably my best bread recipe to date) as the most basic starting point but really changed it around to come up with a great, savory, chewy bread. Basic ingredients are:

5 cups high gluten whole wheat flour
1 1/2 Tablespoons dry yeast
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 Tablespoon caraway seed
1 1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup pumpernickel rye

1 bottle New Glarus Smoked Rye Ale (a limited edition and a really good beer with a bite)
1/2 cup water
3 Tablespoons olive oil
1/8 cup dark mollasses

35 minutes @ 375 degrees

This spring break is a first for us. Lars is in Santa Fe, Brynn just emailed from Prague, and Hannah decided on Wednesday to go with three other UW-RF kids to the Grand Canyon for a hiking/camping trip. They left on Friday. So Jen and I are really at home alone and it's been since January 20th that any child was around. The other night, not doubt due to the high-life we now enjoy sans kids, we fell asleep at 8:00. Pitiful.

While the bread was rising I did a bunch of cleaning and organizing in the real living room area in hopeful preparation of hanging drywall once I get a chance to pick up a drywall lift from my friend Mark in Milwaukee. I think he reads this blog and I am hoping that by mentioning his name, he'll be so honored that he will drive it up here himself and save me the trip.

Where I had intended to head, though, was to mention the Messiah. I mean the musical one, not the flesh and spirit one. I have managed to leave a good amplifier and my best speakers setup in the living room. We can connect a laptop or Zen or whatever to it and it's nice to still have all our music even while things are in other ways chaotic. While poking around at the bread and the cleaning, I put the Messiah on, loudly, and sang, loudly.

I love the Messiah as part of this advent season. As a matter of fact, this is an open invitation to join me, in spirit or in person, for my annual critical Messiah listen. On the eve of Easter, after the day is otherwise done, I arrange the speakers and our "mine feets don't touch chair" for optimal sound and, after settling in, listen to the entire Messiah in preparation for the Easter Resurrection. If you are coming to join me, let me know ahead of time so I can setup properly for whomever will be there.

This is a serious listen though and not just another performance. First of all, the libretto is straight scripture. This is 'read the red and pray for the power' 101. Secondly, it's good music. I know there are some relatives of mine who pride themselves in being social deconstructionists and delight in dismissing the Messiah as either overdone, or not musically erudite, or overly showy, or having been writing for hormonal purposes. And I admit that I have a comfort with some of the same deconstructionist motivations. But not with the Messiah.

I will agree with a few of their comments to a slight extent. The Messiah has its musical strengths (like the aria "He that dwelleth in Heaven" or the last musical phrase of "All we like sheep") and also has its moments of weakness (like the first half of the Hallelujah chorus). It's admittedly true that it is typically done in an overly glossy way where the performance gets in the way of the music and words. But done right, as a total story, it is magnificent. And, as far as I am concerned, there is only one 'right'. If you have not had the opportunity to listen to the recording done by Christopher Hogwood and the Academy of Ancient Music, you have not heard the Messiah.


http://www.amazon.com/Handel-Messiah-Watkinson-Elliott-Hogwood/dp/B000004CXU



Get a copy. Do not just pop it on as background music (at least not the first time you listen to it). It's 3 discs. It takes a while. Get your self comfortable and set with equipment that can really allow you to hear it. This doesn't have to be much. If you load it onto your Ipod, go splurge for a pair of $20 - $50 headphones (not the in-ear type) and use that. It's a great way to listen deliberately. And that's what I am advocating. Listen deliberately. Listen critically.  This is Christ's story. This is the message for all men. This is the Messiah.

Who Doesn't Remember Their First Kiss?

I don't think I'll ever forget my first kiss. Actually, I don't think I'll ever forget the first kiss I remember as I'm pretty sure there are at least a couple kisses bestowed on girlfriends at an earlier age which I no longer remember.  I know, for instance, that I had a fairly serious girlfriend prior to moving from Waupun and, since I celebrated my fourth birthday down in Bloomington, I must have been two or three.  I also have a vague recollection of Nurse Becky, a fellow four year old from Bloomington.  Given that I was apparently so seriously ill that I needed the ministrations of that precocious nurse, I can only assume that at some point my condition required mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

But, in all truthfulness, I don't actually remember kissing either of those two beauties.  I do however remember being egged on by my buddy Dave to kiss his sister when I was fifth grade.  While some of the details around the event are blurred, I believe their family had come over for dinner.  Sometime later in the evening, the three of us were playing some game in the ping-pong room.  Even though Amy was a year or so younger than I, I found her quite cute.  And, by my own admission, I was pretty suave and debonair.  Plus, we had been making goo-goo eyes at each other for the past month.

Knowing of our mutual fascination with each other, and no doubt bent on using the inevitable combining of our family fortunes for his own benefit, Dave encouraged me to kiss her.  With some embarrassment, I remember that I was the one who required more encouragement that she.  But, eventually, the obligatory connection was made.  Since every fifth grader knows that a proper kiss is given with eyes tight shut, I followed protocol and ended up making a lip landing somewhere between her left nostril and right cheekbone.  I would guess that total elapsed time of actual contact would properly be described in increments of nanoseconds.  In any case, the deed was done.

I instantly felt a lurch in my stomach.  I knew what that kissing stuff was all about.  How I rued the fickle fate of hormones.  I should have known better.  I should have been able to resist the temptations presented to me by the gods.  I knew that kissing was for adults and not just any adults but lovers and not just any lovers but husbands and wives and, as any fifth grade biologist will tell you, husbands and wives are really moms and dads and moms and dads have kids.  Why, why was I so rash?  Why would I throw away my future on such an impetuous deed?

I hardly slept that night.  I knew I had to be honorable.  I knew I had to accept the responsibilities of my decisions.  I knew I had to marry her so that our child would not be born out of wedlock.  I knew I would have to face the embarrassment of being the only fifth grader with wife and child.  My only consolation was that my embarrassment would be short lived as I would obviously have to drop out of school and get a job to support my family.

This crystalline logic brought a new round of terror.  Who in their right mind would hire a fifth grader?  What marketable skill set could I bring to the bargaining table?  What job could I find within bicycling range?  And how would I get paid?  Should I just bring my piggy bank to my boss or was this one of those adult interactions for which I was woefully unprepared?

In the morning I woke up with a sense of dismal but focused purpose.  I had accepted my fate and knew how to find the answers to life's persistent questions.  I got to the bus as quickly as I could and, as soon as the opportunity arose, presented all my questions to Dave.  To my ultimate relief he both knew more about biology than I did and spoke on the matter with enough gravitas that I believed him.  Unfortunately, the stress of this whirlwind romance put a permanent kink in Amy and my relational trajectory.  Some years later however, using this now nearly familial knowledge, I instead made a move on his older sister.  Despite the fact that I now had a full additional two years of maturity and manliness, I still managed to crash and burn.  While the exact details are open to creative interpretation, I remember learning from her that the subtle nuances of age can be detrimental to romance.  Apparently it takes an exceptional high school sophomore girl to appreciate all that a seventh grade boy can offer.

That Time of Year

There are things I really enjoy about this time of year. Two mornings past, while drinking my cup of coffee and watching the morning news, a movement out the window caught my eye. Our house is in a bit of a transition phase (also known as building). Actually, we've been building it for the past 4 years. One transition that occurs every half year is that of re-purposing rooms based on which rooms are done, which rooms will be soon worked on, and which rooms will see no improvement for the foreseeable future. Since our house also goes through some fairly significant traffic changes, the number of occupants is also considered.

In our current state, what is supposed to be an office and spare bedroom is our living room. This is due to the fact that the room hopefully future known as the living room is more like a garage since most of the tools and other sundry items are stored there. As the kitchen area will also be in that same physical great-room, the current kitchen is in sort of large hallway since I haven't put up the wall that will separate the actual smaller hallway from the future mud-room.

Whatever. The point is that the room I go to in the morning to drink coffee and watch the news looks over a sweep of land to the west. And there, across the thin, snowed matted grass of last year's horse pasture, loped three coyotes. Two were nearer; the third was right up against the far fence row. They were pretty calm but purposeful. As they curved north and further west, they entered a section of less grass and more weedy, brush like growth. They became very difficult to pick out as their color palette blended perfectly with the worn out shades of 5 month dead vegetation. By the time they made it to the north fence row I couldn't see them, although watching the horses gave me near GPS precision of their subsequent movements.

A day later it snowed hard and wet and left us with 6 inches that is now melting in sloppy, cold, muddy washes and puddles. The snowfall was beautiful and may be the last of the season. And some folk are returning to the county with that burst of energy that reminds you to look and enjoy what truly is an amazing place to live.

All that said, this is not my favorite time of year. In fact, it is probably my least. First of all, I like summertime activities the most. Second, I like heat and, finally, I find this time of year the hardest to deal with in terms of cold and wet and wind and it's hard to care for the animals and its hard to work outside and easy things, like flying out the door to go see the sunset over the bay, just aren't worth the effort.

But this is so clearly a time of change. I saw the first returned sandhill crane a few days back (my personal symbol of God-blessedness), and you can see where the creek in town enters into the harbor by the blue ribbon of melt cutting through the ice of the bay. In a little over a month I'll be another year older (if you want to come to the party email me for my wish list), the sun will be up until almost 8:00 P.M., and the lady slippers will be preparing themselves to cheer on the runners for the park's annual half-marathon. Maybe I'll try the 5k this year.

Girls Are Relatively Beautiful

I must admit, as I write this I am more than a little frustrated. Again, some background is appropriate. I have two daughters. Most people seem to agree that they are vibrant, engaging and real. They are also beautiful. I mean empirically and physically, not in some nebulous, vague, feel-good way. I also am not saying they are the most physically beautifully  women in the world anymore than I would say I am as good looking as Pierce Brosnin. But they know their physical beauty and, for the most part, are comfortable with themselves.

The reason I state the above is that I know of what I speak having raised girls to a good place. The reason I am angry is that we as a larger society, especially those of faith, continue to preach a lie regarding the value of physical beauty. It is wrong and it is harmful. More importantly, it is a lie. And if there is one thing kids specialize in, it's smelling double speak bull shit. Physical beauty matters. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something.

First of all the true Christian perspective. God created each of us. To some he gave many gifts, to some few. To some he gave the gift of music, to others intellect, to others artistic expression, to others mechanical aptitude, to others the ability to nurture ... For most of us, we have been given a variety of gifts in various degrees. Included in this list of gifts is the gift of beauty. Some people are better looking than others. That's a fact and that's a gift of equal value to any other physical gift. The day we stop pretending otherwise, we will both stop being hypocrites and we will stop losing to the daily pressure of beauty presented in almost every marketing campaign of any type. We will also raise healthier children.

We don't pretend that a child with limited athletic skills should dedicate her life to making athletics her life's goal. We don't encourage tone deaf children to pursue music into their college years. We do an excellent job, for the most part, of identifying our children's strengths and cultivating them. Why do we consistently deny the reality of physical beauty?

The irony is that they know. So all we are doing, when we don't deal with the relative beauty of our children (just as we would do with the relative giftedness of mathematical aptitude), is undercutting our own legitimacy as believable authority and, worse, provide a totally conflicting message to the reality of the variety of human beauty that they see every day.

The actual thing that set me off on this issue was reading an article regarding a study in which they concluded that young women (average age 23) who posted a lot of photos on Facebook were more occupied with the idea and social value of physical attractiveness than young men who posted a lot of photos. The actual quote that totally frustrated me was, "The results suggest persistent differences in the behavior of men and women that result from a cultural focus on female image and appearance", with the implication that we are making no progress on some sort of artificial, PC driven idea that there could be equality in this area (and the unchallenged assumption that this would be good even if it could happen). What a load of crap.

There is a reason there are these "persistent differences". We ARE different. Like it or not, one of the biological differences between male and female is that males tend to be visual receivers and females tend to be physical projectors. Look at just about any human culture, regardless of time and location, and the power and importance of female physical beauty is always present. Sometimes it is expressed very different ways (including being in fear of female beauty and covering it up), but it is a universal truth ranging from Esther and Deborah and Zipporah to Elle McPherson and the latest cosmetic ad. Usually, if you want truth about humanity, look at the philosophy underlying marketing.

What is important is not that every girl be taught that she is as beautiful as anyone else (that's simply not true) or that beauty is not important (unless you are going to teach her that no gift is important). What is important is to be truthful, to celebrate the beauty of the entire person, and to encourage the gifts God-given to that child (and this includes encouraging the gift of beauty if that is one given to your daughter). Let them live in truth instead of the lie and confusion that physical beauty is either all equal or not important.In addition, dealing with this truthfully will allow your boys to celebrate their innate desire to look and find beauty in a manner which recognizes that it is one of many gifts rather than forcing them to struggle with the hormonal falseness that beauty is irrelevant.

Beauty matters, and for this I am grateful. Trust me, I am very thankful that my Dad thought my Mom was smoking hot. Especially sometime in '65. And I know each of you share this gratitude in your own life.