Mesmerized

Last week I was picking up my oldest daughter Jazmine from swimming at Central Arizona College after a long day at work; something that’s been part of my routine for over a year. Everything was as it usually is – arrive, park, wait, and – depending on how early I am – wait some more. I love being able to pick her up but my schedule doesn’t match up perectly with hers. In the past I’ve just laid back my car seat and watched something like The Office on my iPod to kill the time. Recently however, due to the slightly cooler weather, I’ve been walking around campus listening to music via Pandora on my phone. There is a little bench next to a big tree that’s perfectly positioned for me to meet up with Jazmine when she finally exits the pool. I’ve sat there many times before, but on this particular day I decided to lie down on the cement bench and listen to my music while I waited. As I rested my head back on the bench a beautiful piano piece from my favorite composer, Ludovico Einaudi, started to play. As I lay there, listening to this incredible pianist manifest heaven on earth in my earphones, I realized that the tree I was laying under was absolutely incredible. Seriously, it was something out of a Tolkien novel. Why had I never noticed it before? An enormous gnarled trunk gave way to twisted brown, gray, and white peeled branches that stretched upwards towards the clouds. Giant notches wrapped around the base of the tree, taking the shape of fairytale creatures — entombed mid-climb by a blanket of chaffing bark. The bright green leaves at the top swayed perfectly in step to the music as if each one were dancing a choreographed part created by  Ludovico himself. I inhaled deeply, coming to terms with the perfect simplicity of that moment. A perfect moment in the same spot I’d sat before many times, in the middle of a dusty community college plopped down amidst a barren desert. A place I’ve sometimes sat and stressed about life. A spot I’ve often texted my wife, complaining about how Jazmine’s swim coach is keeping them late again.

So, what was different this time? What took the moment from normal to extraordinary? My perspective – both literally and figuratively. I was literally looking at the tree from a different angle; lying down on the bench. I was viewing parts of the tree I had missed so many times before. I’d missed the mystery of it because I had failed to really even look at it with any intention at all. Figuratively my perspective on that day was different as well. I was looking for beauty. In fact, I was expecting to be mesmerized as soon as I started Pandora on my phone and stepped out of my car. It’s one of the many things that God has been teaching me. To view the world as I did when I was a child – observing the magic and miracle of it all.  There is mesmerizing beauty everywhere. You just need to be open to looking at things differently, and expecting to find it – even in the middle of a dusty community college, even in the middle of a stressful day, perhaps even in the middle of a tragedy – should you be strong enough to seek it out.

As I’m writing this, it’s the evening of the due-date the doctor had given my wife and I for our third child. He or she would have been born on – or around – todays date; had there not been complications early on in the development and had the miscarriage not happened. True, this has been an absolute tragedy – one like I’ve never experienced. Standing by my wife’s side as she endured what goes along with such things. Not being able to do anything to help but just hold her trembling hand is the hardest thing I have had to do in my entire life. Group hugging two angel girls and attempting to explain to them that the baby sibling they were expecting has already gone on to heaven was the second hardest.  I’m fighting back the tears just to get through those sentences. Yet, through it all God has used it – as He often does if we let Him – for good. I’m not implying that there was anything beautiful or mesmerizing about that initial situation or the process. In fact, it was quite the opposite. However, there has been beauty in the healing and the growing. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve allowed myself to be mesmerized by it.

This tragedy strengthened our marriage. Hope and I are coming up on our ten year anniversary in less than a month and I know now without a shadow of a doubt that we can, that we will, endure anything that comes our way as a couple. There is incredible beauty in that. This tragedy drew us closer together as a family. We’ve had to rely on each other, to trust each other, in ways we’ve never had to previously. This tragedy strengthened our relationship with God. We’ve had to lay everything down at His feet, often finding peace only by falling into His embrace. I can’t put into words how comforting the spirit of God can be, even amidst tremendous pain and suffering. To feel completely at peace, even if for a just a few moments during an event like this, testifies to the tangible and active existence of God in the lives of his children. It’s beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s true what they say, that His strength is made perfect when we are weak. Despite what we had to go through to get here, I’m tremendously thankful for those moments and the growth that they have brought us.  

A few days ago I was driving my youngest daughter Dakota somewhere. She had had a pretty stressful day and even getting in the car was a task. She was complaining about something that had happened at school as she crawled up into the back. She fussed as I buckled her. A few minutes down the road I noticed that I hadn’t heard her fussing, and tilted the rear view mirror slightly so I could see what she was doing. To my surprise she had rolled the window down. The warm wind was blowing hard on her face, causing her hair to swoop backwards and up towards the rear of the car. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and she had a huge grin that curved up around her cute chubby cheeks. Dakota got it. She had decided to choose a different perspective by rolling the window down and allowing herself to be mesmerized by the music and the feeling of warm wind embracing her face. In that moment, everything was perfect for her – even though things had just previously been frustrating. I imagine she would have stayed that way forever, had I just kept driving and driving.

Tonight, this blog is that warm breeze for me. It’s the tree that I’m choosing to lay underneath, instead of passively sit next to. As Ludovico Einaudi plays his piano, this time through computer speakers, I’m wiping the tears and instead choosing to end this blog with my eyes squeezed tightly shut and a huge grin on my face – anticipating beauty, expecting to be mesmerized from here on out.

Losing my religion…

I know the title is a bit shocking, but it drew you in right? It’s an appropriate title for this post, but you can relax, as it probably doesn’t mean what you’re thinking.

Some of you may have noticed that it’s been a while since my last post, months in fact. Well I assure you there is a reason for that – and it’s only partially due to laziness. Most of the reason for my absence from the blog is due to this post. What I mean by that is I knew in my heart that the subject I approach in this post needed to be the next one I wrote. I haven’t been sure how to frame it up, so I haven’t blogged until now. I’m still not sure I will be able to do justice to what’s in my heart. In fact, I know I won’t do it justice. How can you possibly fully explain in a single blog post conclusions you have come to based on years of conversations, insightful reading, experiences, self-reflection, and direction from God? You can’t. So I’ll do my best with the format I’ve got. This is not an attempt to convince you that my opinions are correct or that you must follow my lead. My intentions instead are to simply share what’s going on in my life with my friends, family, or anyone else who stumbles upon this blog.   

You may or may not have noticed, but I’ve been dealing with some pretty big changes in my philosophy on life over the past year or so. In previous years I thought I had quite a bit figured out. I prided myself on being passionate about things that I believed mattered tremendously – only to find God, little by little, teaching me that they didn’t hold nearly as much weight as I had assumed. Things I held dearly in the past began to matter less to me. My worldview started to flip upside down. Even how I interacted with my own religion began to change in significant ways. Let me explain what I mean.

About a year and a half ago, my father used the term “extremely conservative” to describe me to someone; and for good reason, as I was at the time. In fact that would have been a valid description of the way people viewed my political allegiances for several years previous to that. Many of you who know me would probably agree that when I believe in something and get behind it, I can be very passionate about it- most recently manifested in my Android phone marketing  :P. So, due to the fact that I believe many conservative principles are what’s best for the prosperity of our country – my own children included – I was passionately (“extremely”) conservative. Because I believe that some of the liberals biggest agenda’s deal with things spoken as of sins in the bible, I was passionately taking a strong stand for God on the opposite side. It’s what good American Christians do after all – passionately supporting God, the Republican Party, target shooting, and bumper stickers that cleverly tie all three together.

I commute over two hours a day, and this time was often spent soaking up conservative talk radio. I listened for a good portion of my day to passionate people talking passionately (often angrily) about things that matter to the prosperity of our state and our country. I didn’t always agree with everything said, but most of it I did, because of my world view that was supplying the context to which I was applying the opinions. Sometimes I would find myself thinking that there must be a middle ground somewhere between the two extremes on political issues, but often ended up on the far right view of the subject. Let’s be honest, for a passionate person the extreme is a whole lot easier and – embarrassingly – more fun to support and debate.

I have a good friend named Phil who is a passionate liberal. At first glance, we were polar political opposites. Yet we remained good friends despite our disagreements on many issues. We would discuss those issues, discussion would turn to debate, debate would turn into argument, arguments would turn heated, and when we finally realized things were getting out of hand we’d use humor — typically involving an offer for a hug or a your-face joke, to lighten the mood. That’s when we’d start looking at the issue from a reasonable perspective; bringing things like logic, empathy, and compassion into the discussion. To my surprise, many of these issues that rose to the level of heated arguments landed – when emotion and allegiance to party lines where stripped out – with both of us meeting somewhere in the middle. Each time this happened, I began to realize how unreasonably dualistic my views had become on the surface. I’d noticed this before, encountering similar feelings after becoming disenfranchised with political leaders I had once been passionate about. People often assumed that I was for certain issues or were fans of certain political figureheads, when in-fact in many cases I wasn’t.

Another of many insightful experiences came later with a conversation that I had with my good friend Jason. He asked me how I felt about the death penalty. Without thinking very deeply I told him I was for it, in certain cases. Part of my support was based on the party line, and once again part of it was based on my world view that depended more on what I thought to be best for the country and my family than what the bible had to say on such matters. Jason immediately noticed the hypocrisy in my answer, and called me out on it “Doesn’t the bible teach that murder is wrong?” he asked? “Yes” I replied, but then jumped quickly to how it’s more about deterrence and not being able to afford keeping people in jail forever. I realized the flaw in my argument as it came spilling out of my mouth. I was giving more credit to what was good for the country and myself than I was to the teachings of God. God, as we know, had a different plan for criminals and murderers – he changed their hearts and turned them into apostles, disciples, and followers of Christ. Paul is a great example. In his earlier years, Paul made a career out of violently hunting down and sometimes killing Christians. Instead of making sure that Paul got what he deserved, God decided to change his heart and use him to write a good portion of the New Testament. Like it or not, that’s how God works. I believe there is a place for justice in society, but I was allowing it to supersede the teachings of God with my insufficiently hashed out opinion.   

Although I’m not Catholic, I make it a practice each year to give something up during Lent. This year, I gave up something I had given up before – talk radio. However this time it was different. Instead of replacing the talk radio with music, I popped in the bible on CD for my two and a half hour daily commute (thanks Merritt!). Something incredible happened – I was no longer able to push back the creeping belief that there is so much more to what God has called me to than passionately supporting a political agenda. In fact, other than a few issues, I found that the bible is pretty ambivalent to most of either party’s talking points. I don’t mean that as a jab to anyone who is a gun toting republican or a Birkenstock wearing liberal, I really don’t – as I still believe these aren’t bad or “evil” things in and of themselves. In fact, I’ll say it again; I believe many conservative principles make the most sense when thinking about the individualistic prosperity of America. Yet, there’s the catch; Jesus did not call us to make our country more prosperous than others. Nor did he call us specifically to be prosperous ourselves. I was finding that although Republican and Christian had some true touch points, they by no means where attached at the hip. These are all things I knew deep down already, but for some reason it’s as if I was hypnotized for years into ignoring that point. I want to be clear again, I’m not implying that if you are political, prosperous, or you care about the prosperity of the country that you are doing anything wrong as a Christian – that’s between you and God. I’m simply explaining why it is no longer where I want to focus most of my energy and time. And then there’s that whole thing about the left supporting things the Bible teaches as sins. While I agree on that in some cases, abortion for instance, I am starting to realize that in many other cases I was spending much more time focusing on the symptoms (behaviors) than the disease (hearts). What good is it to simply stand up against a behavior when the one exhibiting the behavior is pushed further away from God in the process?  

The undeniable truth I couldn’t escape is that in my case politics was taking a much higher place in my life than the actual activities that Jesus called his believers to – learning more about God, loving everyone, feeding the hungry, helping the hurting, clothing the naked, and most importantly bringing God to a world desperately in need of him. By spending my time engulfed in politics instead of the Bible, I had made it my religion. By passionately arguing one sided political points more than passionately telling people about God, I had made politics my god. By treating people based on what they believed instead of who they were (children of God), I was denying others of the love of God. By falling into the sometimes hypocritical conservative clichés that push people further away from God, I had let down God.

The great thing about coming to this realization was that it meant I still had time to change, and that’s what I started doing. Lent ended, and I didn’t turn the talk radio back on. I am staying aware of the issues, but I’m not pouring my whole heart out into them. I’ve got much more important things I want to focus on now, some of which you’ve been reading about in previous blog posts. I am losing my religion, my religion of politics, and at the same time finally finding God. I am not turning liberal, but I am moving center, and stepping back from the political world. I may register independent, I may not, but I do believe if I had to be categorized into a political group right now, that’s where I’d fall. I will consider the teachings of Jesus to cast my votes and join debate when applicable, not the teachings of the Republican Party or even evangelical Christianity as a whole.

I won’t lie; the fruits of these changes have been incredible. I’m on fire for God and people like never before. I have felt an incredible weight lifted off of my back; or more appropriately my heart. Politics hasn’t been the only area I’ve been making changes in my life, it’s one of many, and the combination of everything goes beyond explanation. God is teaching me things on a daily basis and then reinforcing those teachings through scripture, conversations, sermons, podcasts and literature. I’ve recently found tremendous peace through several major trials that would have likely broken me down just years earlier. I’ve taken all of that energy and passion I was exerting on politics and focused it on growing closer to God, my family, and my friends – and I couldn’t be happier. God is teaching me that he’s got an incredible narrative written for my life that can play out now that we’ve finally landed on the same page. I hope to keep you informed of all of it through this blog and our relationships. Thanks for taking the time to read this, and I hope if not anything else that you’ve got a better idea of the man I am today and a deeper look at the God I love. I hope to get back to consistent blog posts now that I’ve gotten this one out of the way – so keep an eye out for those!

Matthew 25: 34 – 36

“Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; ³⁵for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, ³⁶I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”

The Abercrombie Parable

The other afternoon I observed something on my drive home from work that has been bothering me ever since. About twenty five miles south of town I make the transition off of the I-10 freeway onto the 387, which heads east even further into the desert. On a typical day, there would be nothing noteworthy at this intersection. There are no gas stations, or any facilities for at least twelve miles in any direction – just strips of yellow and white painted pavement contrasting the otherwise barren desert landscape (see a picture I took of the intersection above). Normally, there would be no reason for anyone to be there who was not just driving by on the way to somewhere more relevant. Yet there, in the middle of nowhere, was a young man.

He stood straddling the edge of the dirt and pavement; his bare toes poking out onto the road. He was shirtless yet had designer blue jeans and nice belt on – something I would expect to see in an Abercrombie and Fitch ad perhaps, but not here. His statuesque pose was very much like the iconic Superman depiction – clenched fist on his hips, elbows angled outward, blankly staring out into the intersection. Blankly staring at what? I thought. And why?

I only had about thirty seconds to process the scene as I made the turn from the interstate onto the highway. I looked again at his clean bare feet, and found it unlikely that he had walked there twelve miles or so through the desert without shoes. I scanned the landscape for his shirt and shoes or a broken down vehicle – nothing. This twenty something man – his short curly blond hair blowing in the wind – was well groomed and did not give the impression that he was homeless or hitchhiking across America. In fact, I was taken aback by how he had no interest in flagging me down, or even making eye contact – both things I assumed someone looking for help or a ride would attempt. He just stood there with his fists on his hips and stared off into the distance as I rounded the corner and pulled off past him.

My first thoughts were that this was some sort of social experiment – intentionally designed to challenge the social norms and observe reactions. I’ve done similar things before in the form of flash mobs and assignments for sociology classes. While it’s possible that this was the case, the remote and unpopulated location seemed a bit extreme. Other explanations quickly started coming to mind as I drove off down the street. I wondered if he was on drugs. I questioned if he might be suicidal – as is often the case with a freeway pedestrian mix. I watched in my rear view mirror to see how other drivers were responding. I wondered if anyone would stop and ask him if he needed anything. They didn’t. As I continued to drive I had a slight urge to turn around. I subconsciously kept that urge at bay with excuses. “That’s exactly what the joker wants” I thought. “I’ve got to get home and pick up my daughter from gymnastics.” “If he needed something, he would have asked”. The excuses continued to flow like a mountain spring until I drove far enough away that I only needed one – “I’ve gone too far. By the time I got back he would be gone or someone else would have already stopped”. At that, my urge to return began to subside, and I completed my commute home.

That evening when thinking about the strange occurrence, I remembered a story I had read earlier this year about a group traversing a high mountain peak in Nepal. The group had been anticipating the mountain climb for a long time and, for the man writing the story, it was an especially important one – as he had attempted it six years earlier and was forced to give up on account of altitude sickness.

As the Swiss group made their way up the mountain, they encountered another group of climbers carrying someone down the mountain towards them. The hikers from New Zealand had found an Indian holy man – a Sadhu – laying and trembling in the snow on the side of the trail. The man was very sick and suffering from hypothermia. The group had brought him down to the nearest group below them, but was angry that they had wasted precious daylight and told the Swiss group he was now their problem. The Swiss group helped the Sadhu by clothing him with extra clothing from their packs. Noticing that there was a Japanese group not far behind them, the man telling the story suggested that they should ask the Japanese to take him down on their horse. Leaving two of his group members behind to have that conversation with the Japanese, he continued on with his guides in an effort to get over the pass.

Later, after a time of victorious celebration at the summit, the Swiss man noticed the rest of his group coming up to meet him. As he ran up to congratulate them on completing the climb, he realized that one of them was very angry. “How do you feel about contributing to the death of a fellow man?” his friend asked. “Is the Sadhu dead?” he inquired. “Not yet, but he soon will be”. His friend went on to explain that when they got down to the Japanese group they refused to spare a horse or the time to help the Sadhu. They needed the horse for the items they carried on the hike. Instead, they carried him down to a rock in the sun and left him laying there. The remaining Swiss climbers were forced to climb back up to the summit or be stuck on the mountain with no guides, supplies, or shelter, and would likely have died themselves.

I remember the storyteller writing about dwelling constantly on the situation after he got back from that trip. He never found out what happened to the Sadhu. He realized that making the summit wasn’t nearly as important as he had thought at the time, and he wished he had handled the situation differently.

I don’t know what happened to the young man on the side of the road. Perhaps a car full of his giggling friends picked him up and took him home so he could get started on his Sociology 101 paper. Perhaps he sobered up. Perhaps someone else stopped, found out he was thinking about stepping into traffic, gave him a hug, and convinced him to get in their car. Although we were not on an icy mountain, and he was obviously not suffering from hypothermia on that spring day in the desert, I can’t help but see the parallels to the Parable of the Sadhu. Though the situation may not have been as life threatening, there was possiblity – no matter how small – that it was. The cycle of excuses I went through in my mind was eerily similar to the excuses each of the hiking groups espoused. I don’t have time. He’ll be OK. He’s not my responsibility. Someone else will help him. I’ve gone too far to go back.

An important part of getting past these unfortunate tendencies to mind our own business and not to concern ourselves with the “issues” of others is recognizing our westernized affinity for it. I am working on it myself, and it’s a continual process. My hope is that someday my nature will completely change and I will find it easier to stop and inquire than to drive away – excuses flying – and assume everything is fine. After all, perhaps one day I’ll be the man shirtless and shoeless on the side of the highway – wondering why everyone just keeps staring and driving by.

Science Vs. God – an alternative view

Science and God are two subjects that are rarely used in conjunction with each other. In fact; in most cases when these two subjects are plotted against each other it is in an attempt to illustrate how they conflict. Many religious scholars and followers argue that science can’t be correct on subjects like evolution. Alternately, many scientists and atheists argue that religious documents like the Holy Bible can’t be correct, and use concepts like evolution in an attempt to disprove them. My belief is different than either of those positions. I believe that science can actually support the concept of a supreme being that intentionally created the earth and all that inhabits it, and that denying such possibility could stifle meaningful debate on the subject of God’s existence.

One of the main things that scientific research has shown us is that the world around us is full of patterns and complex processes. This can be observed in anything from a water molecule to human DNA. The patterns are reoccurring, and the processes all work perfectly together to perform very specific tasks. I look at all of this complexity and I see intelligent design, not chaos. In fact, I am often baffled that a scientist could be exposed to all of this data and still propose that the earth and everything on it was unquestionably one big happy accident – started by a collision of floating rocks. Then again, who is to say that God didn’t get the creation process rolling by smashing a couple of rocks together himself? Of course, some scientists attempt to explain all of this complexity with intricate theories and assertions, but at some point they start seeming like the ones having to rely on faith. Meanwhile, believers in God, an afterlife, and those accepting of the unproven are ironically hailed as “closed-minded”.

What are the chances an accident authored the pollination process, birth, or the physical and mental development of a human being? Does our blood clot as a random part of this chaos, or was it designed that way so we don’t bleed to death every time we receive a little cut? Is it more likely that humanities amazing capacity for love and hatred, beauty and ugliness, art and destruction, are random electrical responses with no deeper meaning or evidence of some greater outer struggle between positive and negative forces? If they are meaningless and random, is there truly any reason to practice what is considered good ethics or morality? Could we really condemn a man like Jeffery Dahmer as much as we have if we all resided to the idea that there is no creator, and therefore no deeper set of universally moral standards?

I believe that the Christian bible’s recalling of the creation of the world is compatible with the scientific view on evolution that took place over a long period of time. I am not implying that this view on evolution is irrefutably how things happened – I was not there after all – I wish only to assert that it’s possible the two set of beliefs can work together. In the first chapter of the Holy Bible (Genesis), it is explained that on sequential days God created several things including earth, the beasts of the earth, and man. I do not believe these days to be literal 24 hour periods. I do believe these verses were intended to illustrate the sequential order that things were created, and to establish that they were, indeed, created by God. Genesis does not elaborate on “how” they were created. It does not say that God snapped his fingers or twinkled his nose and after a poof of light the animals or humans appeared. Is it not possible that God used a creation processes which left behind evidence of the patterns and timeliness that science has uncovered? I believe that God could have taken thousands of years to create man and the earth as we know it today – especially when you consider that our idea of time is unlikely something that a deity would be affected by. Second Peter 3:8 states ‘A day is like a thousand years and a thousand years is like a day.’ This verse is not being used in the context of the creation of the world but it does illustrate that the God of the bible is not constrained to our seven days a week 24 hours a day calendar. Why would he be?

As I think more about these concepts I am reminded of people like Josh McDowell; an outspoken agnostic in college who decided to prepare a paper examining the historical evidence of Christianity in an effort to disprove the religion. Josh became a Christian during his research for the paper. Instead of finding evidence against the beliefs of Christianity, he continually uncovered evidence that supported them. Josh is now one of the leading voices of Christianity.

Like Josh McDowell, I too took my first real steps toward God because I believed the evidence supported his existence. There then came beyond that, of course, an incredible spiritual relationship with God that transcends any ‘evidence’ that can be seen, touched, or done justice by a paragraph in a blog – read by someone who hasn’t experienced it yet. However, even without taking into account that relationship, I believe the argument for God’s existence would be strengthened if believers accepted the possibility that scientific evidence can actually support their beliefs, not just be used as a tool to tear those beliefs apart.

I know that it is unlikely science alone will ever fully affirm creation or give undisputable evidence of God – as spiritual concepts cannot be wholly explained or understood by worldly wisdom. I also know, just as it is written in the scriptures, that in the end every knee shall bow, every eye shall see, and every tongue will confess – but I’m convinced that there is more we can be doing to reveal the truth of God’s existence to the world before that glorious day. Opening our minds and hearts to thinking in new ways – assuming they don’t directly conflict with scripture – is one step towards that realization.

Commute

OK, so haven’t been able to blog a lot this month because of school. So, why not combine the two? The following is an essay that I wrote this week for an assignment. It’s an allegory that compares my insanely long commute to the way I was living earlier in life – hope you enjoy it… my apologies for the length – you can thank the word count put in place by my teacher.  (Make note that you can scroll down and read the footnote references when you come across them)

Beep-beep! Beep-beep! The first impatient cry of my alarm clock serves as an unwelcome reminder that I can only play whac-a-mole(*1) with the snooze button one more time before tumbling out of bed. It’s 5:20am on a Monday morning. Although I don’t have to be at work until 7:30am, and don’t have any unusual responsibilities before work, it’s still necessary for my day to kick off this early. Beep-beep! Beep-beep! That’s it, no more snoozing. I’m a commuter. I drive about 135 miles a day, 675 miles a week, just to get to work and back home. I spend approximately the first hour and a half of each shift just working to pay for the gas it takes me to get to there and back. Recently on one of those ‘powered by caffeine’(*2)  drives I came to the conclusion that my commute, in many ways, is an allegory for the kind of life I was living in my teens and early twenties; before I got right with God, married the love of my life, and got my act together (in that particular order).

I walk out the front door, locking it behind me since the rest of my family is still fast asleep – as every non-vampire should be at such an early hour. It’s 6:25am. As I get into my white-ish 04 Isuzu Rodeo SUV, I hardly notice what a mess it is. This vehicle has become purely a commuting device to me – the equivalent of a walking stick I may use on a hike and hold onto for the next hike, but only because it’s just the right height. The creeping crack on the windshield that should have been replaced months ago; the bug guts overlapping other guts of bugs that very possibly came from a generation of bugs before them; the previously white paint now a shade of light brown due to the miles and miles of blowing desert embraces; the empty Gatorade bottles on the floor in the back, and the bright green and yellow yogurt stain on the floor mat – all indications that the vehicle is not getting the care it deserves.

In many ways this carelessness and neglect is representative of how I treated my body during my teens and early twenties. As long as an action brought me the pleasure I was seeking or got me to where I wanted to go, I jumped at it; with little regard for my health or safety. I shoveled fast food into my face and sucked down five sodas a day. I started smoking cigarettes when I was fifteen, and by my 18^th birthday I was smoking over a pack a day. I was reckless, often putting myself in situations that branched out to four potential outcomes – physical harm, jail, both harm and jail, or escaping the first three outcomes by sheer luck. I wrestled with drugs and typically ended up pinned down in the middle of the mat by my addictions. I treated my body then just as I treat my white-ish commuter today – as an ends to a means.

After driving on county roads and highways for about 27 minutes, I pull out onto the I-10 at Casa Grande and head west. It’s 6:52am. In an effort to know if I’m going to make it to work on time, I have certain checkpoints clocked – this is one of them. As long as I hit the on-ramp by 6:55am, which I have this morning, I should be OK – assuming no major accidents. As I accelerate up to my “ticket-safe” (*3) cruising speed of 83, the first thing I notice is the bounce. For some reason at about 75MPH my vehicle starts to hop very slightly. So slightly in fact that other people who don’t drive my SUV on a regular basis might not even notice it. I know, I’ve tried. It’s enough of a bounce though to keep me slightly on edge for the first five minutes or so of the faster speeds. This is with good reason, in my opinion, as I’ve had over five blowouts or flat tires during this commute in just the last couple of years. Although my tires have been checked out since I first noticed it, and though the problem has not worsened in thousands of miles, I still feel a passive loss of control when it starts and think about the potential of a tire blowing as I’m driving 83 MPH down the interstate.

Earlier in life I suffered with Panic Attacks. For some of what turned out to be the worst months of my twenties, I was constantly afraid that the next attack (what I thought early on was heart attacks) was going to “blow”. Sometimes there would be little indications before an attack. Just like with the little shake in my vehicle, I was so tuned into my body I would notice tiny flutters in a muscle, or even faint irregularities in my breath. Of course, most of these were just little things that the human body goes through on a regular basis; but when you think you may die at any moment, you tend to pay more attention. The mistrust of my mind and my body during these months bears an uncanny resemblance to the anxiety I have about the bounce in my SUV.

It’s been over five minutes at 83 MPH now, and I’m as used to the bounce as I’m going to get on the drive. I’m coming up on Casa Blanca road, which just happens to have the only gas station in the middle of a 25 mile interstate stretch. Luckily today I have enough gas to make it to work. On other occasions I’ve rolled into that station with my car running on nothing but unleaded prayers. As I pass the gas station, I encounter one of my greatest frustrations – people who drive slowly in the left lane and refuse to get over. I absolutely despise it. I don’t hate anyone, but if someone put a gun to my head and forced me to pick someone to hate, the slow left lane drivers would be up for consideration. You’d think at the very least the flight portion of their fight-or-flight response would kick in when they see a big white-ish SUV coming up behind them at a much greater speed – well, you’d be wrong if you did – and there I go again, disengaging the cruise control and having to pass on the right.

During my teen years I was constantly getting in my own way. Just like these left lane drivers couldn’t stick to the ‘slow drivers keep right’ rule that was designed to keep everything running smoothly, I refused to listen to others, even to my own inner conscience, and often ended up in trouble or hurt even though I knew better.

I roll by on the right and offer a slightly disappointed shake of the head to the driver. It’s 7:09am, and as I get closer to town the natural desert landscape is violated by billboards. At first it’s just a few advertising things you would expect to see on the Indian reservation I’m driving through – an Akimel Smoke Shop billboard and one for the Wild Horse Pass casino. The closer I get to town however, there seems to be a billboard every twenty feet. I realize that – although I must have passed these advertisements hundreds of times before – I didn’t really know what was on them. Someone had paid tons of money to let me know how incredible their product was, and not only did I not care, I didn’t even notice.

Looking back, God had planted subtle messages like “You are neglecting your loved ones” and “that addiction is controlling you” on the side of the road for me to see, but I was intentionally turning my head the other way as I drove past. Fortunately, sometimes God allows us to smash into those billboards – due to texting while driving or some other negligence – and stare plainly a their messages as they topple over and smash face down on the broken windshield of our cars. This happened to me several times. On one such occasion I was staring straight into a billboard that showed a young kid I knew – dead at 15 as a result of his addiction. It was at that moment that realized what a slave to my own addictions I had become.        

It’s 7:13am, and I’m at the last and most important checkpoint. This checkpoint is important because it requires not only checking the time, but what can sometimes be a make-or-break decision. The interstate changes from cutting through the desert to splitting the city, and that means heavier traffic. If I’m at this checkpoint by 7:15, I should be OK, but only if I make the right choice to either stay on the interstate or get off and take a more difficult, but reliable, route. Staying on the interstate could payoff big. If traffic lightens up quickly, as it sometimes does, I will arrive at work early. However, if it stays backed up the entire way, as it often does, I will be at least a few minutes late. If I get off the interstate, it requires going slightly out of my way and through the town Guadalupe, which means dodging stray dogs(*4) and dealing with 25MPH limits. The Guadalupe choice holds no risk as it always gets me there on time, but it’s more difficult and has no potential for easy payoff. Deciding which way to go at that last minute has become somewhat of an art for me. The lazy devil on my shoulder entices me to stay on the Interstate and hope for the best. My heart and mind tell me that sometimes you have to work for the results you want, even if it means playing Frogger(*5) with stray dogs.

When I was younger I always wanted things to be easy and fast. Although I held jobs, I really didn’t know what it was like to get the feeling of pride that comes along with working hard for something and obtaining it honestly. I was selfish and stubborn. There were many times when I would cheat or even steal to get what I wanted. I stayed on whatever the given situations’ interstate path was no matter what, even if that meant scratching other cars as I forced my way through or pulling off to the gravel along side of the freeway; speeding ahead as other drivers honked and flipped me off.

This morning I chose the Guadalupe path, and the dogs were surprisingly sparce. It’s 7:29am, and I’m arriving at my destination in Tempe, at my place of employment. I love my job. I am passionate about the work I do and the people I do it with. Knowing this makes my long commute easier to handle. In many ways, that’s how I feel about where I am as a person today. Just like my place of employment is not my final destination in my white-ish SUV, I am not at my final destination in life. I have stopped at many scenic overlooks and great bed and breakfasts along the way. Where I am now; with God, with my family and friends, with my career, writing, and school, has made the entire commute of life worth it – even the bumps and yogurt stains. The best part is – despite potential hang-ups – I know that greater miles are still ahead.   

(*1) – Whac-A-Mole is a game found in arcades in which moles pop up out of holes and the goal is to “whac” as many of them as you can with a mallet. As a child I was OK at this game, as an adult I’m pretty much incredible.

(*2) – “Powered-by-caffeine” is a play on the “Powered-by-Honda”, often seen as stickers on sportier cars and bikes to show what’s under the hood. On some days the caffeine in my system is more detrimental to getting me to work than what is under my SUV’s hood.

(*3) – I’ve been told on numerous occasions that as long as you stay under ten miles over the speed limit the cops will normally not waste their time pulling you over. Based on the amount of miles I drive and the numerous times I’ve passed a police officer going eight miles over, I’d tend to agree with that assessment. I am not however recommending you do this, and will not be held liable should you find that to be incorrect.

(*4) – The Town of Guadalupe is like a little slice of Mexico in between the cities of Ahwatukee and Tempe. The people are mostly Mexican, the street signs are in Spanish, and – just like in Mexico – stray dogs run the streets.

 (*5) – Frogger is an old Atari video game in which a frog tries to hop log-to-log-to-alligator across a river without falling in. I often think about this game as I watch the dogs in Guadalupe maneuver past the cars to make it across the street.

On Memory

I’ve come to the conclusion recently that fading memories are like slowly drowning loved ones. At first, there is a strong arm reaching down, a firm hand intertwined tightly with the fingers of the memory as it looks up, hopefully, from just underneath the surface of the water. As time passes, and if the memory is not revisited, its hand starts to slip loose of the grasp. One at a time, the frail fingers pop out, and the hopeful glances from under the surface turn to icy stabs of despair. Eventually, it’s possible that these memories will slip away and seem beyond grasp – sometimes will actually be beyond grasp – sinking ever deeper into the murky abyss of the mind. In my case, that last scenario defines many of my childhood and teenage memories. I remember the major events, or at least most of them, but when thinking back on my past there is often a lack of detail, and innumerous blanks that need filling in. Recently I’ve begun the journey in my mind of doing just that – excavating the details and attempting to revive whatever it is that should be taking the place of all those blanks.

I recently read an essay by E.B White, the author of Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little. In that essay, “Once More to the Lake”, he describes recalling memories in the following way. “It is strange how much you can remember about places like that (speaking of a lake he visited as a child) when you allow your mind to return into the grooves that lead back. You remember one thing, and that suddenly reminds you of another thing.” White’s interpretation is a fairly good representation of what I’ve experienced on my journey to get back the lost pieces. For me, those “grooves” have started with the details I do easily remember of the places and events of my life. Beginning with the familiar details, I’ve been following these grooves as they branch out, inch by inch in some cases, to details and experiences I  did not recall previously – to my drowning loved ones – in a desperate attempt to pull them back to the surface.

The house I spent a good portion of my childhood in is one of those places I’ve lost pieces of. Some details of the house, as well as many of the non high impact events that took place in or around it, seem casualties of the broken camera in my mind. I know that these years in particular hold many memories just waiting to be rediscovered. So, just as I’ve done with other places from my past, I’m starting with the details I remember. The street was N. Thistle, the city was Flagstaff Arizona. The house sat in the middle of a low lying neighborhood called Foxglenn. I call it a low lying because the elevation it sat in was much lower than anything around it. Driving in required going down steep roads and driving out required driving back up. Sparsely wooded hills surrounded the area like a moat, but unlike a moat these hills invited people in – begging them to slide in on a snow sled, stay for dinner, or even look into purchasing a home.

This lower elevation made the rainy season frustrating for adults and exciting for children like me – who would jump at the chance to race makeshift paper and cardboard boats down the rushing streets. I loved riding my BMX bike against the current, staring down at my front tire as I rode, watching how it split the oncoming water in a way that gave the illusion I was going twice as fast. My tire was the staff of Moses, my flooded street the Red Sea. Riding like that – through those flooded streets – is a memory I haven’t thought about in over fifteen years, yet it brings me tremendous joy to recall it. Just as EB White suggested, the groove that started with the neighborhood led me to it.

So that’s how it works. This is how I’m getting the missing details of my life back. One quick writing session, eight hundred and fifty words, and I’ve rescued a memory – a drowning loved one. Although it wasn’t leagues under the surface of the water – I didn’t remember the sensation and joy of riding my bike through the flooded streets until intentionally thinking about the details of that neighborhood. By writing the memory down, I’ve guaranteed that it will never again be lost and in need of a strong arm to pull it back to the surface. Later on I’ll continue down that groove, perhaps to the surrounding woods. Not all my memories, you see, are as playful and innocent and as the one I’ve recalled today. Still, I need to remember them all, the good and bad, whether they bring joy or offer nothing more than a chance for understanding and healing.  I don’t have a choice in the matter really – no more than the choice I would have to rescue a loved one who was drowning right in front of me.                 

 Do you have fading or lost memories in need of rescue? Drowning loved ones with arms outstretched towards the surface, wondering why you aren’t reaching down to pull them up? If you do, I recommend giving these methods a try. At least for me, riding the grooves and writing down the results has been very beneficial and even exhilarating.  If you have other methods of memory rediscovery you’ve tried, or other interesting ways to describe the process, I’d love to hear about it!

One Thousand Cups of Tea

Last week I stumbled across a concept that caught me as significant – although I wasn’t exactly sure why at the time. I made note of it, and hoped after further analysis it might be worthy of a blog post. Well, I did get back to it, and I believe it is.

The small group I was meeting with at the Bailey House (A coffee shop /compassionate ministries facility my church owns) landed on the subject of relationships in our discussion. Specifically, we were talking about how people are more willing to have meaningful dialog if you have established a good relationship. Joe – one of the members of the small group – told a quick story about a friend of his who was either from Morocco or had spent time in Morocco, I can’t recall which at the moment.

He explained that in Morocco, most acceptable conversations are limited to very literal, non matters-of-the-heart discussions. The weather, for instance, how a meal tastes, or mention of a new pair of shoes. That’s not to say that the Moroccan people don’t have deeper conversations, they do.  However, there is a saying in Morocco that deeper discussions, like sharing with a friend they drink too much or asking someone if they believe in God, are not acceptable until you have shared one thousand cups of tea.

That was the extent of the story, and we moved on from there. Like I said though, I felt that there was more to it, and jotted down a note to think about it further. When I got home I couldn’t stop thinking about the concept of the one thousand cups of tea. At first I felt bad for the people of Morocco if that was indeed an unwritten rule they let guide their relationship. I mean, one thousand cups of tea, really? I Googled how many days the average person is alive, and found the answer to be 25,000. So, even if they had tea with someone every day for their entire lives – moving onto someone new every 1,000 cups –  they would only reach that limit with 25 people, and ironically wouldn’t have very much time left to actually have those deeper conversations with the qualified friends. Especially considering the years spent at both ends of life doing little more than mumbling and filling diapers. Of course, as I thought about it more, I realized that the point of the saying was actually deeper itself than the ‘cups of tea punch card’ that I was envisioning Moroccans walking around with in their pockets.    

 After Googling the concept, and finding very little reference to it, I came to my own conclusion. I believe that the thousand cups of tea is not literal at all, but is instead illustrating a point, and a beautiful one at that. Matters of the heart should be reserved for those who care; those who have dedicated the time to develop the relationship; those who are not expecting anything in return; those who have – or would be willing to – share one thousand cups of tea.  Just as the Bible declaring we should forgive each other 70 x 7 times doesn’t actually mean that after 490 times of forgiving someone we can write them off, the one thousand cups of tea illustrates the tremendous dedication necessary for meaningful relationship, and the deeper dialog that comes with it.  

After coming to that conclusion, I decided to read more about Moroccans in specific reference to tea, to see if there was anything more to the saying. What I found was both unexpected and very interesting. For Moroccans, tea is much more than just a drink – in fact, it’s considered an art. There is a great deal of respect and effort that goes into the entire tea making and consuming process. I won’t get into the details here. But for example when tea is made, that same tea is served three times, each instance after a specific amount of time has passed. At each serving the tea tastes different due to the aging process. There is a saying that expresses this – The first glass is as bitter as life, The second glass is as strong as love, the third glass is as gentle as death. When thinking about tea as an art form, I realized that the ‘one thousand cups of tea’ concept was even less shallow than I had initially thought. It meant that these experiences leading up to that moment when the relationship was deeper didn’t have to be as meaningless as a discussion about shoes or the weather. In fact, in sharing a highly respected work of art, it was so much more than that. It could be compared in our culture perhaps to one thousand indie films, one thousand museum visits, or even one thousand bottles of fine wine. Of course I’m not recommending you pick up thousands of bottles of wine in preparation to live this out in your own lives – despite the antioxidant benefits. Whatever the American equivalent, I believe the art piece makes the saying even more meaningful.

In conclusion, I believe that with this concept the Moroccans are really just putting into words the importance of true relationships, and the dangers of trivializing them.  We all have our own guidelines on who gets in and who doesn’t. We all have certain things we look for in someone before we are willing to take their advice or open up to them about matters of the heart. For me, it’s as simple as trust and respect. If I trust you and respect you, then you have the right to talk to me about anything. I may disagree with you, but I’m open to the conversation and will approach it with an open mind. So, I’m curious, what is your ‘one thousand cups of tea’? My hope is that in some way this blog brings you and I closer to meeting our limit, perhaps if even just by a few cups.

Intro post (*aka why-this-blog-might-not-be-lame)

I once had a friend tell me – ironically just as I was starting my last attempt at a blog – that people who blog have too much time on their hands, and they assume their lives are exciting when they are not. Anyone who knows me, and in particular my schedule, can vouch for the fact that it has been many years since I have been accused of having too much time on my hands. As for my life being exciting, well, I am more excited about it every day. However, the purpose of this blog is not to brag about my “exciting” life and, therefore, potentially make you bummed about your own. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’m hoping that we can learn from each other, laugh together, and maybe even grow a bit from the shared experience.

As a writer, I prefer to get my thoughts down in text, no different really than my friend who was critical about bloggers, getting his thoughts down in the comments section of my first blog. A bit ironic perhaps, but the point is that I am learning and growing on a daily basis. I’m gaining insights from my experiences at school; work, with my family, reading books, and exploring my relationship with God. For my own benefit as a writer, and as a lifelong learner, I’ll be hashing out some of those thoughts here. You’re welcome to read along, join in on the conversations through the comments section, or even pop in to write colorfully about why you think blogs (or bloggers) are lame. I’ll do my best to make my posts meaningful and semi-short in an effort to not waste either of our time. Thanks for stopping by, and I encourage you to stick around. My first non-introductory blog entry will be coming in the next few days.