Middle School

I hated Mr. D's class. You had to do everything so exactly. Your name, class and hour needed to be in the top inch and left inch and a half of the front page of any paper. You couldn't just put yor name on the top.

Armstrong, my math teacher, wasn't much better. Algebra was boring. It wasn't hard and he seemed to spend a long time saying the same things over and over again. An unpopular girl had made me a replica of the teacher out of paper. It wasn't a great piece of art, but it was funny. He looked like a nerd. I moved him across my desk and was shocked to see this evil teacher's on me, on the replica of him.

"Are you playing with paperdoll?" he said loud enough for the complete class to look at me. I could feel my face burning. My words stuck in my throat. The teacher relished in letting the moment stretch out. I was in mental gridlock and embarrassed torture.

My mind thought of my friends. Former friends. Yesterday they had explained to me that they did not want me around. I wasn't there friend anymore. They didn't start by telling me anything. Every seat at the lunch table was suddenly taken. I had to sit somewhere else. When I tried to talk to them, they didn't respond. They treated me like I was invisible. I was so hurt, I couldn't even really understand what was going on. I thought it was a game. It wasn't.

When I finally got Dan to talk to me, it turned out they didn't really like me. I had been mean. A jerk. Looking back now, they were probably right, but in the moment I just wanted back in. I didn't know what to do if I had no friends. Lunch was just the beginning. Every free moment was a reminder that what I used to do, I couldn't anymore. I was lost in the maze of middle school.

Now, my teacher was embarrassing me in front of class. One more reason people wouldn't be friends with me, my former friends could make fun if me, my life was bad. I would play sick the next few days. I would rather lay in bed then risk this again.

Those days passed. My friends forgave me. I didn't become the boy who plays with dolls.

Middle school, as a parent, is not much better though. You have the same helplessness as you did back then. The answers you have don't seem to work. All the wisdom and logic in the world don't make middle school make since. I have seen my daughter leave her friend at a park to figure out how to get back to her house with two bikes. Not because she was mean, but she has that special brand of adolescent selfishness. I worry about my other daughter who has a girl in class who picks on her, making those around laugh at her. I try to give her the best advice I can, but mean kids are mean.

I know God is in control, but I can't help but want to make it better. As a parent I want my kids to be good at making friends, not be mean, not have people be mean to them. I don't want them to hurt like I did. If I could make them able to know the things I know about people, make them more aware of the friends they have and how to make new ones, I would. I can't, though. So, instead there is part of me that feels like the boy who had lost his friends and was embarrassed by his teacher.

2

You would think that this would be the moment. There are grandparents on the couch beside him. There are grandparents on the floor taking a home video. There are friends on the couch a little ways away. In front of the TV are giant boxes wrapped in bright colors and cartoon characters. His parents new house has become a stadium for his enjoyment, but they don't understand him at all.

Jadon is two. It is his birthday. He doesn't really understand it is his birthday, or why all these people are over. He doesn't understand why his mom and dad look at him on this day with a sense of blessing, happy he is here. He doesn't know that they want it to be as perfect a day as can be, just to reflect the level of joy they have for his presence.

This is special for them in a way he can't quite grasp.

When he is older, he may look back and remember the love in this room, the people crowded around celebrating his life, but now they are just kids that are taking his things or adults that want him to perform. Fortunately his new word, "No" seems to stop both, at least a little.

His chair is pulled to the center of the carpet, where his mom tells him to sit. "No" he says, can't she see that he is busy playing with his screwdriver. She then pulls a back from behind the stack is boxes. "No" he says not really caring about the bag. Bags get brought into the house all the time after all. She grabs him, he says, "No". Then she shows him something in the bag. Wait, that might be a toy, he thinks. I suppose I could sit in the chair.

Jadon pulls the fire truck from the bag. Alright, sitting in the chair was worth while, he thinks. Why didn't they start with the toy? The bag was a confusing ploy. Now that I have the truck, I mean they did just give it to me, I should play with it. Out of the chair he prongs, but he need to twist to get out of mom's grasp. For a few moments he pushes the truck around on the cardboard box it is still attached to.

"Come site down, Jadon," his parents are saying. "No," he says. I playing with the sweet truck you just gave me he is thinking. Jadon looks and again they are holding a bag. Big people must really like bags, he thinks. The boy from church gets to play with my toys while I get to look at bags with my mom? I don't think so.

By the time the cake arrives, Jadon is completely done. He sits against the wall saying "No" to every comment passed his way. His parents plead. He says "No". They demand. He says, "No" with an ugly face. Even the brightly glowing fire on top of the cake is. Not enough to change his mind. He parent shift tactics. The big guns. "Grandma is going to blow out your candle.". Normally this ploy would work, but by this point Jadon couldn't care less.

Sienna and Jacob needed up blowing out the candle. Jadon didn't budge.

It will be years before he realizes why parents insist on torturing their children by giving them a parade of toys only to tell them they can't play with them. By the time he understands, he probably won't even remember. That's ok. For those of us that we're there, we can tell him.

Fiction Friday: Chapter Four

Sierra looked at the quill in her hands. It suddenly seemed powerful, maybe even dangerous. She didn't hold it that tight and she held it away from her, out where she could really get a good look at it. If this was one of her books, there would soon be trouble.

The words on the wall seemed to radiate a golden light. It made the air seem magical. Savannah was drawn in quite as deeply as her sisters. Her nature club had found the greatest treasure ever. She snatched the quill from Sierra's out streched hand. They tussled back and forth as they argued.

"My club found it!"

"I helped."

"I'm the president."

"It's half mine."

Sierra pushed and made half grabs at the quill. Savannah held the feather away and deflected. Eventually, she kicked Sierra in the leg. Had this been one of her little sister's Sierra would have pounded them. Had it been a stuffed animal she was fighting over, she would have torn it in two. She did not like to be kicked. She wanted to punch Savannah in the nose, but instead she said, "Fine you can try first.". They both ignored the stack of twenty dollar bills Sienna and Shelby were counting.

Savannah faced the wall. Her curly hair formed a wild halo around her head in the unnatural light. Sierra watched, arms crossed, waiting for her twin to fail.

"I wish for unlimited wishes," Savannah wrote. The words straightened and the sunk into the the wall. No more wished she guessed.

Sienna had just written money. Perhaps it needed to be shortened, "Wishes" she wrote. It also disappeared.

She also tried, numbers of wished, a genie in a bottle that can grand wishes and a wishing ring. With each failure she became more frustrated, while Sierra looked more smug. Her tongue was in her cheek and her eyes said, "You should have let me go first."

"Let me try," she finally said. Savannah could figure out what she was doing wrong, but she didn't want to waste her wish on something small or stupid. In thought, she handed the feather over to Sierra.

"I wish I could turn invisible," Sierra wrote. The words righted themselves. They took on the same old looking writing as Sienna's wish and became solid on the wall.

Savannah eyes bugged out of her head. Why was Sierra always so lucky? Shelby and Sienna stopped counting. The all looked at Sierra. Sierra held out her hands. Nothing happened. What did it feel like to turn invisible? Was it like lifting your arm? How did you make it happen? What were you supposed to think about?

She deeply breathed in imagining the air in her lungs was all of her substance. All of the reason you could see her was trapped those air pockets. She then blew all of that substance out, imagined she was fading and disappeared. Not just her body, but the clothes she was wearing, the quill in her hand. Everything was gone.

"Sissybug?" Sienna said.

"Your turn," Sierra said while still being completely invisible. The quill appeared in Shelby's hand. Then, to add an extra level of spite, she kicked Vanna and ran out of the shed.

Savannah tried to chase Sierra in the yard, but it is very hard to catch someone you can't see. At one point she even picked up a stick swinging it in wide arches hoping to get a lucky shot it. The redhead girl in the neighbor's yard thought she was crazy.

Shelby had the wall and the quill all to herself.

The Art of Marriage

In Sun Tsu's Art of War he has a few topics he really pounds home as critical for the success of an army in a conflict. Now, I'm not going to say marriage is war, I would like to be able to sleep safely tonight, but there are certainly some interesting correlations.

The phone is ringing. I expect to see "Toll Free Call" on the caller ID which will mean I don't answer. Instead, it has the name and number of Chris and Colleen. My mind kicks into overdrive, while I don't answer the phone. It rings again. In split seconds I weigh my options. I'm not deciding if to answer. I'm deciding what t tell my wife. "Colleen called yesterday," I shout up to the kitchen, where Shelly is. Practitically before she says hello I can hear her telling the person on the other end, I just told her they had called. This is not an intention deception, but I'm not sure intent really matters.

"All warfar is based on deception." - Sun Tzu

I am stunned. We've been talking about what to have for dinner and my wife, in way of temping me to go pick something up, has just told me she has money. I am stunned not just because my wallet is empty, but because it seems it was just the day before when circumstances were completely revered. I had just gotten a little cash in my wallet. I had to get a few bucks for a card going around at work and I grabbed an extra twenty for me. I got home from work and my wife was headed to the dollar store. She is a fan of the new one they put in around the corner from us. With a bat of the eyelashes and assurces she only needed to get a couple things, she left with my twenty bucks. I don't know what was going on when she got home, but I didn't ask and she didn't offer the change. Now, with cinfused eyes, I'm looking at her. I'm listening to her bribe me with the change of my own money. There is no illusions about what is going on. What is most sad is that we both know this is going to work.

"Use the conquered foe to augment one's own strength." - Sun Tzu

Or this one

"Supreme excellence consist's of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting." - Sun Tsu

I've looked here three times. The table before me is not that big. Sure, it has the kids homework and plastic cups half filled with water on it. I've found rements of Shelby's chocolate cereal. I've found homework graded last week. I've found a pair of earbuds with one bud broken. What I haven't fond is my wife collection of keys on a pink ribbon that she assures me is there. I keep believing if I just look hard enough, I'll find them. Being a man, I already have a reputation for not being able to find things. I look until I can't stand it.

"Have you checked your purse? Your pockets?". I ask in a less than flattering tone.

"I thought they were on the table," she says. I'm getting the look that says, I'll go find them myself. Up the stairs she starts. She thrusts her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirts and then, sheepishly, she slowly extracts the keys. The keys that have been on her the whole time. The keys I just gained white hair looking for. "I found them," she says.

"When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away. When we are far away, we must make the enemy believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy." - Sun Tzu

Again, let me make sure you understand. Marriage is not war. It is just amusing how closely Sun Tzu's document on war can offer good advice on marriage. To this end, I've taken my final one of his quotes and modified it slightly to offer spouses some good advice.

"The spouse will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight."

My wife is clearly a strategist.

Starting 2717

This is going to sound a little cliche, but I don't feel like I found Project 2717, I feel like it found me. There was sort of a collision of events in my life and the lives of my friends that became the springboard that form this accountability program. Don't think coincidence, think God.

Blue Cross had provided me a professional coach, Milt. I wasn't sure what to expect. I feared I would either get an all business, all numbers pencil pusher or an overly feely, beat your drum in the woods guys. Milt was neither. He was perhaps the wisest person I have interacted with at work. I developed a quick connection to him. In the first session we had talked not just about work, but about applying these same things to church and family. It was clear that this was not just his job, but a ministry. In the few session we had together I learned about my weaknesses and shifted my approach when dealing with people and developed a desire to help people in the way Milt had helped me.

It was amazing how just having that second set of eyes, helped me focus and could direct me to solve my own problems, rather then being the answer guy. Real accountability, holding me to my own standards.

I arrived a little early for my haircut, and I was glad, because it gave me a chance to talk to m friend James about the successes I was experiencing with Milt's help and talk to him a little about his own success. My eyes were looking at the party store beside the hair salon, but my mind was on the events that had impacted him. He has had some significant health improvement over the last couple years. But the catalyst was one small thing. His company changed where they needed to park, adding a long walk to and from the lot at work. He hated it at first, but knew there was nothing he could do about it, So, he adjusted his attitude. As the walk got to be easier, it cascaded into other life improvements and that single event cascaded into many other successes.

The small things Milt was teaching me gave me success that grew into other successes. The small change James had to endure became a group of successes. Success begat success.

The third part of the puzzle was my friend Steve. I was pained by him, for him. In the time I had known him, he was at the lowest point I had ever seen him at. He was depressed, didn't feel very successful at work or in his marriage or at church. It seemed there was nothing in his life was going well. I felt bad enough for him, I talked to my wife and other friends about it.

I had one of these conversations with James. Probably in the way to or from work. I think I suggested to him I wanted to coach him. Now, you need to know something about James. he loves to push people. Not in a mean way, but if you hint you should do something, he's the first to say why don't you. When it came to Steve, I didn't have a good reason not to. It was clear I was the right person at the right time. 2717 was about to start it's first round.

When I talked to Steve on the phone I told him that there was something I needed to ask him about, but I didn't have time at the moment to go into it. Part of that was because I needed to prepare what I was going to say. I was nervous.

I thought about the process. I realized I needed to give him a success. A clear, not deniable success. I would tackle it as coaching.

Steve did not immediately agree to anything. In fact, he stopped talking on vent long enough I hung up on him. I don't know what caused him to go silent, but I suspect it was because in his depressed state he feared I was setting him up, or he had no choice or some other mind locking fear.

A few minutes later he texted me. The project had begun.

Over the time we have worked together, Steve has racked up successes in every area of his life he felt defeated in. I have done amazingly little. I touch base with him, but he sets the goals, he does the work and he earns the successes. All I am is that voice that tells him good job and hold him accountable to what he wants to do anyway.

Now, he does the same for me. I walk two and a half to three miles, three times a week. Improving my health. He holds me to it. I sharpen him and he sharpens me. We are friends in the way God intended.

This success is not isolated, I have reproduced it a few different ways. God gave us the proverb for a reason. The book I'm working on will try to give someone starting out all the tools they need to start and develop these relationships.

Sumatra

The evening has turned out better than expected.

While we waited for a seat at the Ironside Grill the guys all stood just outside the doors talking about the circumstances that brought us together. Strangers walked around us while we talked about D & D and World of Warcraft. Not the last of these conversations that would take place. In the lights of the street we shifted topics to our families and church. The four of us made a small circle.

The girls were making their way through the slow streets of Plymouth. They were originally connected through us, but they had developed a friendship of their own.

Steve was holding the buzzer that would let us know when the table was ready. It went off almost an hour after we had taken to the street, but the time went fast. The guys went in and sat down, while we were waiting for the women. In the dim light of the room, lit by numerous TVs and colorful light boxes, we talked about how to sit at dinner. We opted for a guy's side and a girl's side. While I enjoyed the flavors and and smells of my pizza, it was hard not to notice the flow of conversation at the opposite end of the table. Topics of motherhood and children flowed easily. The food, while good, didn't matter. The conversation at my end, while maybe not as meaningful, flowed just as easily.

Now, here we are. The air is full of music. Steve has somehow taken our badly out of tune piano and made it sing. I can also her my wife singing. Others hop in, but they do the quiet singing of the unsure. They have sung rock tunes, some Broadway and now, the area where they both have the most experience, praise music. It is not just good, but stunningly good. One of those performances that makes it hard to reconcile that it is happening live in your house.

In the kitchen James and I chat about coffee while a pot brews. So far he has described his experience with the beverage as muscling through. Every cup he has had, before that night, was bitter. I know just the trick. While Steve does what he does best, I do what I do best. I have ground a Medium Roast Sumatra, good flavor and low acidity. I use slightly less than normal grounds in the brewing, this will make sure the flavor is not too aggressive, if it happens that Sumatra is not his thing. He has not one, but two cups out of that pot. It makes me happy to share the experience with him.

Larry and Dixie talk to our girls, who are likely at the table because the fudge is there. Savannah regales him with facts on Presidents and Sienna spouts crazy thing that make Dixie smile. Downstairs away from the noise of the piano, Megan, the most recent Mom and Amy, the mother to be are talking. I have no idea what they are talking about, but given my gender I'm fairly certain I'm not supposed to know.

In this moment,it seems everyone can shine. We are happy with ourselves and happy with each other. I love these people. They are my family that can't live with me all the time. Normally, I would make myself busy playing host, trying to improve everyone's experience, but there is no need. Instead, I sip my coffee and feel blessed.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 3

"It belongs in a museum," Savannah suddenly said.

"What?" Sierra asked.

"Maybe Henry Ford would like it. I think its old."

"We just du this out of the dirt. I'm pretty sure anything we find back here," Sierra said pointing around the yard, "Is our to keep."

Shelby looked back and forth to her twin sisters who were arguing. She thought for a minute, then grabbed the feather and took off. She ran to the opposite side of the yard, but the yard wasn't very big. Sienna chased her and laughed. She didn't know what she was doing with it, but thought it might be fun for a game.

For the next few minutes, Shelby made laps around the yard. She would let Sienna get close, then she would really run zooming away from here. Savannah and Sierra didn't run. Savannah followed her at a quick walk, while Sierra flanked her. Soon she was cornered beside the house.

"I think we need to find out what it does!"

Savannah's fingers were digging into her arms. Sierra's had was on the feather tugging to get it away.

"What's on your hand?" Sienna asked.

Everyone stepped back for a second and Shelby held out the hand that had held the tip of the feather. A gold stain crossed her palm. It seemed to be a thin pool of metallic liquid. Like a gold mercury. As the watched, it slid across the skin of her hand, then appeared to dissolve or sink it. It was hard to tell, but there was no sign it had ever been there.

"It's a quill," Savannah said.

Sierra tapped the tip of the feather on the brick of the house. It left a gold dot. But soon that dot disappeared to.

"It really does belong in a museum," Savannah said.

"Can we draw with it?" Sienna said.

"Dinner's ready!" Dad yelled from the back door.

In a few minutes they hid the feather in the shed and went in to eat dinner. In just minutes their plates were cleared. They didn't even want to play the trivia game that usually occupanied the meal. Sienna and Shelby were done with their chores, but Savannah and Sierra needed to load the dishwasher after dinner. It wouldn't take long, but their younger sisters would get out their first.

"Don't touch it!" Savannah warned.

"Can we go back out and play?"

"Ok." Mom said with a questioning look. She wasn't used to them going out to play this much.

Sierra was the first one out after her younger sisters. She could see them with the feather in had, drawing on the wall inside the shed. She drew a gold face on the wood wall. The ink seemed to adjust itself, taking the rough features of the drawing and slowly perfecting them. In a couple minutes Shelby's happy face looked just like her, smiling back. Life like. Then it dissolved in the wood.

Then three and then four of them spent the next hour this way. They would take turns doing a crude drawing. The ink would make it exactly what they had imagined then it would sink into the wall. Castles and Dragons, Phineas and Ferb, trees and family members each took their turn in gold ink.

When they tried words, they were amazed at how the ink would correct the spelling and make it look all fancy before it would disappear. Everything they wrote looked so perfect. Sienna liked doing letters the best. She wrote her name, the name of her school, the name of her dog, that she liked pizza and so on.

It was when she wrote the word "Money" it all changed. The ink flowed on the wall, expanding into several words. "I wish I had lots of money.". This time the ink seemed to solify, understanding what Sienna wanted and never disappeared.

The girls waited for it to disappear or do something else for a long time. It stayed written on the wall.

"Daddy's going to be mad we wrote on his wall," Sienna said, starting to get tears in her eyes.

"We'll fix it," Sierra said, taking the quill from her.

Sienaa was hopeful, but worried. Daddy didn't like for his things to get written on. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her shorts. There was something paper in there.

Absentmindedly she pulled it out to see what it was, it was three "monies". Sixty dollars Savannah told her. The girls looked from the folded bills to wall and back.

"Do you have anymore?" Sierra whispered.

Dust and Echoes

It was two hours before the guys would arrive, but the preparations had begun. The couches had been turned around in the front room. Tables had been set up in front of one, the other had a space for the projector. Hawk had started bringing a projector a couple weeks ago the wall in the front room made a perfect screen. Power strips were ready on each side.

Next I would need to prep the great room. This room was a little easier, my TV would be one of the screens used. The fireplace was big enough to hold a couple of the televisions. With an extension cord and a power strip, the power was completely ready to go.

I followed the power with network wires, a giant spider, crossing two rooms with yellow CAT-5. The the ends of the wires pointing to where each of the XBoxs would go. Not 360s, these were original XBoxs and the game was HALO.

Laptop was set up on the counter with most recent ranking changes and ready to sort teams. Beside it was the most important item of all, Swiss Cake Rolls. I wouldn't open them before we got started. Part of the ritual. According to the rankings, Ghost had retained first and Penguin second place. This was no surprise. We played 10 games last week, fairly balanced between red and blue teams. It was still 45 minutes before anyone got there. I sped the rest of the time playing the single player campaign.

In about 15 minutes the house goes from being me, to the twelve guys of the league. We're standing around the laptop waiting to see the teams it makes. Ghost and Archangel are on my team, it should be a good night. Here I am Spider. I don't have great aim. My specialties are getting the flag in stealth and driving the Warthog. The guy who worries about the house not selling in Kalamazoo is gone. Everyday life, everyday problems don't need to exist here. The biggest problem we will have is if the salsa Cica brought runs out or team are so imbalanced that football on the longest is an abusive slaughter.

The time goes by so quickly. One game bleeds into the next. The data is all recorded on the computer. I'll post statistics on Monday and through the week we'll debate about the ranking system. We leave not wanting to stop and spend the week anxious to get back. This feels like it could last forever. This bubble we could duck into for a time, shielded and with each other.

People move. XBox live gives us the illusion we can capture this from home. Time passes. We try other games, but not everyone can buy them. The league becomes an Xbox clan and the clan slowly ceases to function. There is no bang, it just rolls to a stop.

There is a part of me that longs for these days again, not just the memories evoked by a lone Swiss Cake Roll. There is another part of me that is satisfied with what was and realizes those moments can never be recreated.

The perfect

Let me start by saying this blog entry is going to be a little unorthodox. For some of you, I suspect it will not be your cup of tea. My hope is though, through this little experiment, some of you will relate or at least understand what I am talking about.

There is something in me which is a quest for perfection. I don't mean spiritual perfection or some illusion that I can be perfect, rather is a drive to want to make certain things perfect. This is that moment when you taste a really good food and say, what would I add to this. How would I make this even better. I've done this with not just food, but events, presentations, and recently writing.

In my mind I imagine the perfect item being completely overwhelming, you can't look away. It causes an epiphany, opening your eyes or taste buds to things never before imagined. If the perfection of God could destroy the onlooker, than a perfect sentence should at least destroy someone's ability to respond to it. Yet, while this is a quest of my mind, I normally write fairly plain, not particularly remarkable sentences.

"Sadness has a certain beauty."

A perfect sentence would not be vague.

"Joy is the beauty of sadness."

Not clear yet.

"Sadness reminds you of the joy you will experience on the other side."

It should be richer.

"The beauty of sadness is emerging from the fog of sorrow, into the light with the beads of moisture fresh on your cheeks."

It should not be confusing and should be better at showing.

"Astounding beauty is found in the man draped in the black fog of sorrow, because he causes us to see the future where he stands with inky tears in the radiance of the sun."

It should touch the audience.

"You stand in the sun with a smile so real it beckons people with the hope of touching pure joy, but I can't help but notice the shirt, wrinkled where my arms held you as you wept."

Fishing for Cookies

It was early in the morning, too early for me to normally be up, but my brother and I were going fishing with my Grandpa and Uncle Snip. I was still young enough that I was jolted with energy just thinking about the day, pre-coffee I call it. The sun was not yet up. In the grey of the morning the older men packed the truck while my brother and I got in the way.

My grandma was up to help get us ready, see the men off and give us a little food for the day. She made some sandwiches for lunch and gave my brother and I crayons and paper. She helped round up some of the last minute items. Most attention getting to me, though, was the cookies.

Just before we left she produced for the four of us a large clear bag of giant chocolate chip cookies. They were bigger than my hands and you could see the goodness of the soft, numerous chips. The image of these cookies overwhelmed my mind that day, from the moment I saw them.

We had packed long enough. My Uncle Snip was a small, thin cranky man, who had no issues expressing his discontent with pretty much everyone. Overtime I heard about his deadbeat neighbors, his family members who didn't take care of their kids and the ridiculousness of Christmas. I can still see him in his white t-shirt, cigarette in his mouth, ready to ask of if we were going to pack all day. He could have stayed home if he wanted his time wasted. He would have hard it, but there was something about his rants I always liked.

That put us on the road, where I could draw pictures of us fishing and eating cookies. This lead to me asking when we be eating the cookie and how the cookies would be divided. When the adults were done with this line f questioning, I moved onto my brother. I discussed when I thought we would be able to get to the cookies.

Shore fishing is not kid friendly. After about fifteen minutes the fishing rods have become boring. The fish wouldn't bite and there were some very strict rules about waiting for fish. You can't talk loud. Don't keep casting. Don't throw rocks in the water, it scares the fish. Quit figgiting. There is only so long you can sit on the sandy soil waiting before you have to do something else.

I'm not sure how long it took, but soon Justin and I were playing beside the shore. Finding sticks and rocks. Trying to build castle. We didn't go far and for the first part of the morning, everything went smoothly. Then something in my mind went back to the cookies.

I reasoned that lunch must be soon and I wasn't sure how many cookies were in the bag. This was a problem, because it meant I didn't know how many cookies I would be getting. So, I wiped my hands off on my jeans and made my way to the truck. I dug the cookies from there hiding place and looked at them. In the bag it was hard to tell exactly how many there were and even if I have known my division wasn't very good yet.

It never occurred to me that you shouldn't set fresh cookies on filthy pants. What occurred to me was the curve of the seat made it so the cookies kept sliding into the crack, which made them hard to count. So, I would balance a couple stacks on the edge of the vinyl seat the others would be in a couple stacks on my legs.

I had adjusted the stacks a few times. The cookies were spread around me in the truck I was in a sort of cookie heaven. My idea of bliss was not shared by my Uncle.

When he saw what I was doing in the truck several things happen. Instantly, I realized what I was doing was wrong. This was before even the first word was spoken, because initially Snip had lost the ability to speak. As I think about it now, it was almost like he needed a reboot. Initially, his mouth moved, but there was no sound. Then partial sentences. Finally, he entered full rant.

I got the cookies beck into the bag, with only a few contaminants. I was evicted from the truck. The whole time my crimes were being recounted by my Uncle and now my Grandpa. My mind though wouldn't let go of one thought, "Three cookies apiece".

Oh Crap Bar

The little red car sat in the driveway waiting to pick me up. To be honest, I had no idea what was going to happen. Granny Dee had offered to teach me how to drive and I took her up on it. I didn't know what I would learn, but I expected it would be fun.

This wasn't my first time behind the wheel. My Mom and Dad had taken me out in the church parking lot and on short trips around the neighborhood. I had been the student driver for the three trips during driving class. This, though, was different.

I think it would be safe to say, Granny Dee was always on the edge. She is not the laid back, grandmotherly woman you might be imagining by her name, a name I gave her in my younger days. She told stories of cross country road races, said things a little too boldly for many people and seemed to have lead a life of adventure. I would not be surprised to see her in leather on a motorcycle. Even as a teenager, I thought she was pretty cool.

I walked down the steps and I could see her already sitting in the passenger seat. I was taken aback for a moment, but then got into the driver's seat. She couldn't teach me to drive if I wasn't driving. So, I drove. She directed to to go to a nearby parking lot where I could get used to the car.

So, I practiced parking, going forward and reverse. The basics while we talked. "We called that," she said pointing to the handle above the passenger door, "the oh crap bar. Well, not exactly, but close enough. As long as I'm not grabbing that, I'm not worried.". From there the conversation took off and she talked about how I couldn't worry her, she was too tough for that, and I settled in my mind that I would get her to grab that bar.

When there was nothing more to be learned in the parking lot, she instructed me to drive away from town, where there are dirt roads and farm fields. I turned a quick corner, glancing at her hands, she said calmly, "you'll want to accelerate in the corners.". I depressed the brake a little to hard and she talked to me about steering into a stop. Still her hands didn't move. I gunned it, throwing up a tail of dirt behind the car, she did say slow down. "The police sometime sit there," she said pointing to a little flat spot beside the road, "you're good go go.".

I don't know how long we drove for, but the afternoon passed quickly. Throguhout it she gave me calm advice as I acted foolish. It was a blast. When we returned to my house, we planned when she could teach me to drive again.

We went out a couple more times and she never did grab that handle.

Soccer League

The wind blows across the open field cutting into the watching parents. This is the price for being a parent in the fall league. After you get home it takes a while to heat back up. We are watching the under 12 Praise Baptist Church Leviathons play.

Earlier in the day we watched the Pee Wee's, Sienna's league. By the end the cold had them moving in slow motion, and everyone was ready to go. We got to go home, have lunch and make it back for Shelby's game. That is, we retured right after we stopped shivering from the earlier game.

Unlike the Pee Wee's, where you laugh as much as you cheer, the older kids are starting to show some talent. Today we are playing the green team, we are abut equally matched with them, so it is a good game. The wind plays havoc with any airborne ball, but the kids do a good job of running it up and down the field.

I call to most of the kids, but like any father, I'm most interested in how Shelby is doing. I should note that she is nine, so could be playing in a younger league, but she wants to compete with the big kids. The older players can outrun her and out maneuver her right now, but she fights and makes some plays.

The ball is at the opponents end, between the wind and our play it has been down there a good share of this half. Shelby is playing forward. The ball is to the right of the goal, several of the players are fighting over it. Shelby gets Away from where the balls is being battled over and positions herself in front of the goal. This is a good set up for us. Shelby hasn't scored a goal, yet, so this a good set up for her too.

Thne it happens. The ball bursts from the kicking kids, angling slightly away, but in front of the goal. Shelby wheels with the ball and gives it a kick toward the net. Airborne it spins, quick in the moment, but slow in my mind now. It's moving toward the opposite side, which is good. I think it's going into the corner. What a kick!

Then it hits the post.

This happens all the time. Shots like that produce goals. I'm still very proud. I can't tell you,though, how much I wanted that goal to go in. Probably more than Shelby did.

When the game was over I told her what a good job she did. How she played that just about right (follow through would have converted that to a goal). How she's getting really good. She's tired of hearing it. Everyone has been telling her that, she says. I get the feeling that while I really want her to score a goal, she doesn't care.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 2

Sienna heard what Savannah had said and immediately starting running toward the garage. Her long blonde braid whipped back and forth. Shelby, who was getting ready to tell Savannah she couldn't tell her what to do, Saw this as a problem. She ran to get ahead of Sienna. They bolted across the long grass. They half tripped over the chair where Sierra had been sitting and then smashed right into her back.

"Back up!" she shouted at them. She was annoyed.

Neither were listening to her. They pushed on the door and tried to get around her. Sienna knocked her book out of her hand, putting a little scratch in the owl on the cover. They shouldn't have done that. With a quick motion she yanked the door closed again and pushed both back away from her.

"Momma said to play. Go play.". Her teeth were clinched like she was going to hit one of them.

"We need the shovel, Sissybug," Sienna explained.

"It is a spade, actually," Shelby said putting her hand on her hip.

Sierra was unmoved by the pleas of her sisters. At least they weren't pushing on her anymore.

"We found something," Shelby said, "and we need the spade to dig it up."

"Fine," Sierra said moving out of the way. She was curious, but wasn't going to be drawn into some stupid club.

The spade did a much better job than their fingers. The soil around the apple tree was thick brown dirt with lots of roots. Savannah had watched enough Discovery channel to know you dug around an object, but never into it. You used brushes and things for that. All four of the worked. Had the parents looked out the window they would have seen the curly blond hair of Savannah working beside the darker long hair of Sierra. It didn't happen often, but for the moment they had the same interest.

About a foot down they could see what it was, a giant, fancy feather. A peacock feather. The point was somewhere deeper in the earth, but they didn't dare pull it into get it free. The blue and green plume stood upright in the hole before them. It seemed like the oddest thing any of them had seen. Sienna thought the bird must be around somewhere. Shelby didn't know how the feather got there, but was sure Sienna was wrong. The older two just kept working. They knew this was something special.

Then all at once, the feather was free.

From tip to tail the feather was two feet long. The feathery part seemed to resist dirt, it looked clean. In fact, it almost looked shiny. The blues looked like pieces of sky and the green made you think of the deep forest. The rib that ran down the center of the feather was think and seemed to have a pattern of black and gold. It was the tip that was most unusual. It had been modified to end what looked like an old style, gold pen. The kind with a split in the middle.

the girls just stared. It was amazing. How did it come to their yard? How old was it? What should they do with it? For a long time they guessed at the answers, speculating on what this thing meant. None of then could have imagined the truth.

Reality Road

I sat on the carpeted stage at the front of the church. I just couldn't muster the energy I needed. The cast, looking back at me from the pews, didn't know their lines and most of them were late. I didn't know how we were going to get the rooms finished, I couldn't seem to get the help from the year before. I was missing the sound effects and had dropped the ball on asking Wayne, like I had planned. On top of that, I wasn't feeling well. At least my suffering would be short, the performance was in a couple weeks.

In spite of my desire to go home, I got to my feet, forced a smile to my face and opened our presentation practice with prayer. I knew what was needed. I needed to stay strong, lead with confidence. I knew it would be OK, but wasn't feeling it.

"Take your places, I don't want to see any scripts.". The mismatched cast, of young and old exited through the back doors to get to their starting spots. It would be a night to push me to my limits, but we would make it through. The class room and the street scene needed a lot of work, I had to confiscate a few scripts and there were scenes we couldn't even do because of missing people.

I taped the sign on the door directing people to the entrance of Reality Road. Because thus was a walkthrough presentation, ending in the sanctuary, we needed to guide everyone to the church's back door. It was opening night and not only had the church been transformed, but so was my attitude. As always, the church pulled together, the rooms looked great, the cast was in great form, I felt blessed. God had used the last couple week to refine my character.

I walked through the building turning off lights, putting last touches on the scenes. The lights were on in the throne room. It was jaw dropping. The white and gold lights filled the rooms. The book of life floated before throne, which was fifteen feet above where the audience would be watching from. It was hard to remember this was just a simple church most of the year. I had hope that God would be with us tonight.

I seemed to be in a non-stop prayer all day.

When Shelly's Dad came to see the presentation. I expected he was there, like many family members, in support of Shelly and I. He was a nice guy, but he never really seemed that interested in the things of God. I expected he would say he liked it, but not really "get it". I instructed the cast not on to pray for him. Angels and demons alike knew he was going through. They petitioned God.

I don't know exactly what happened that night. I certainly don't know the conversation the took place between God and my father-in-law. What I do know, though, is God got ahold of him that night. He was changed. All the work, the sweat, the struggles were worthwhile. This is what we were here for, what we had hoped for.

Even thinking about it now, I feel loved by God. He didn't need me to do any of these things, but I'm so glad he chose me.


Romans 5:3-5 Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.

We have a problem

The meeting ended a little early. This was a good thing, not just because I was going to have lunch next, but because it was awkward being in the small room with Jania. She knew that something was wrong, but I had not had time to gather myself to tell her. She knew I removed her from a big part of her work and told her we needed to talk yesterday, but she didn't know the details.

I could feel the uncomfortableness of the conversation in my stomach.

I closed my iPad and got to my feet. I would be first out of the room. "We can talk now," Jania said. "Crap," I thought. I sat back down and let everyone else leave.

My mind was racing. I had to be honest, but what I had to tell her would be a kick to the gut. I'd like to say I played it cool, but I was awkward and uncomfortable. After the first few minutes, she told me she could tell I was "soft peddling," and to just be straight. With a breath I told her, her quality was so bad it was impacting the enterprise, her performance was too slow to explain it, she was cutting out of work early and she seemed to be too distracted to do her job. I told her, I believed in her, but I needed to know she could do the job. I wanted to feel like I was doing a good job, but I didn't. The room felt too small.

"I just don't want to lose my job," she said and it made me think of her kids, who drive her crazy. How she was a single mom doing the best she could. What would she do?

It sent me back to the little conference room of Data Constructs. Joe in his little button up shirt sat across from me. What did he say? I couldn't get my head around it. He was explaining why my key didn't work anymore. How I wasn't going to have a job anymore. How I had gone from being the guy who was going to train hotels around the world, to unemployed. I was nauseous. How would I tell Shelly? We already didn't have any money.

That feeling is still so ugly. Every once in a while I check, with hope, to see if Data Constructs has closed it doors. I didn't want to do that to anyone.

"I don't want you to lose your job, either," I said.

Victory Lap

I was glad to have the notebook paper and pens. It kept me from having to look at my mom. She was holding her own, looking strong, but you could see the tension around her eyes and in her cheeks. The room had family and people from church. They talked and laughed. I loved them, but I didn't really want to participate.

Straring at the blank sheet of paper I had a decision to make. Twenty Four or Nine? If I picked twenty Four it would be me razzing my Dad. He, like many NACSAR fans, loved to hate Jeff Gordon. To give him that number would evoke that friendly fighting that was much of a staple of who we are. On the other hand if I picked nine it would be the number of his guy, the one he rooted for. Nine had been the number of Bill Elliott, who he had rooted for, for years. Later that number went to Kasey Khane and my Dad's allegiance went with it. This number graced a fair number of my Dad's t-shirts.

My friend, Pastor Jeff, arrived. He was here to pray with my Dad before he went in. We talked, but I don't remember much about it. I kept thinking, "Where is he? What will he look like?".

I finished the number. Twenthy Four.

My mom rose abruptly. They had just told us we could see him before he went. We couldn't all go see him at once.

I got tape from the nurses desk and went with my mom to see him. His normal shirt and jeans had been replaced with a gown. I think he had a tube under his nose and an IV, but to be honest that detail is a little hazy. I remember sneakily taping the number I drew to the rail of his hospital bed.

There was no normal conversation. How are you doing? No. What are you up to? That's not right. I hoped the awkwardness of the situation would be replaced by a little talk of NASCAR.

I pointed to the paper. I let him know it was Gordon's number. He protested, but it was half hearted. He was tired. I didn't know it, but the man before me, my father, was changing. We were changing.

It felt like this man, who was always in charge, wouldn't be told what to do, wouldn't be bent to the whims of anyone, was suddenly out of control. His heart had betrayed him. In that moment, I didn't have any need to razz him, no need to fight. That wasn't who we needed to be. I just wanted him to be okay.

Our time ended and I remember looking back and seeing that twenty four taped to the rail. It wasn't drawn that well and it hung just a little crooked. My dad hadn't even removed. I thought to myself, "I picked the wrong number." and went back to the waiting room.

Project 2717

The morning air is only slightly chilled, but it should be a warm day. The glass on the Montana is frosted with moisture. I put my laptop and lunch in the backseat, the iPad comes with me to the front.

I start the car and open a new log in Evernote, a note taking application. I don't go back in time to note warming coffee or doing Bible study or running dailies with Shelly, all of which I did before I left. I note the time and write, "Drive to work and James call"

This is my regular routine.

I dial with some nervousness. I didn't write the section in the book I was supposed to yesterday, an item I have asked James to hold me accountable. Additionally, I sent him a text to do a quick check yesterday and the answers were not as direct as I would normally like. I prepare my questions. I prepare to encourage him. I prepare to say I failed.

In case it is not clear, I don't like this. I would rather talk about a podcast, or TV show, or gaming, but this is important. He is not going to be looking to beat me up, or criticize. James is there to remind me of the things I want to accomplish and help me stick to getting it done. This is the same thing I do for him. We are replacing our private failures with shared successes.

Because this is an accountability partnership, I can't share with you the details of our call. I told him I dropped the ball and he listened. I asked him the questions and got down to the details. Together we planned on how to do better. The uncomfortableness washed away and we used the failures of the weekend to make changes. I hang up ready to write. I have been sharpened.

(ESV) Proverbs 27:17 Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.

I think it would be fair to say this verse has been a driving factor for my life for several months. My morning call is one of four sharpenings I will have today. I have grown to realize that I, and most people I know, fail at things they want to do. They do this in the name of privacy. It saddens me a little. So, I'm working to change this.

I don't know how often, but periodically I will be posting on here sections or snippets of a book I've been working on; the same one I dropped the ball on this weekend. It is called Project 2717 (right now) and is written with the intent of helping people build relationships to break out of the failing cycle. I know for some of you this might not be what you are here for, but my hope is to show you how 2717 has impacted me and in turn might help some of you.

Breaking In, the second night

The rope was not hard to find. Clothesline from my garage. So, a few days later the group of us was headed off to finish what we had started.

The trip over we were getting ourselves psyched up. We started with what could be down there. The tunnels? Remains? Some kind of treasure? We knew there was something there and as we approached in dark cars, we let our imaginations run.

Soon, though, the conversation turned. We had been there a couple nights before, which meant the police might be on high alert. We would need to park in a better spot and we needed to be even more cautious. It was at least $400 dollars each if we got caught. We needed to be like the wind. I looked around my car, a tan escort, there was no way we were going to be like the wind.

We arrived excited by the prospect of discovery and scared we were going to get caught.

We parked in the parking lot beside the one we had parked at a few nights ago. This one gave us a little more distance and was darker. It was also raining, which seemed to be good in terms of not being seen or heard. We walked near the trees and bushes watching to make sure we were not being watched.

When we got close enough and no cars were on the road, we ran to the pole barn in back. We walked in and immediately started looking around. Is someone here? Has anything moved? Is it ok to do this? We determined it was, so we moved back to the hole.

I pulled the rope out of my backpack and began tying it to the pole. The group talked about who would be the first to drop. It would need to be someone who could climb back, who wasn't likely to get hurt and preferably someone fairly light. There were a couple of us who fit the bill, but I said I would go first. I was scared.

It is not easy to figure out how to drop into a hole without a wall or ladder to help you. Every aborted attempt caused my heart to race even more. The cop would be here any minute I thought, but I didn't want to fall to the concrete floor below. I hung my legs into the hole using the pole and shifted to the rope. I shifted my weight and fell for foot before catching myself with the rope.

My hands hurt, but I was ok.

At first it was pitch black down there. The only light I could see was from above. Slowly, though, my eyes adjusted. I could see something, a hole or door, at the far side of the room I was in. It was much larger than a normal door. There were plants poking through. The room was the same size as the one above. My mind was starting to put in together.

"Guys," I asked, "can one of you walk down to the end of the building away from the house."

One of them did and what I had just suspected turned out to be true. I wasn't down in an entrance to the tunnels, or some treasure room. I was now on the first floor of a barn, having done a Tarzan from the second. A bust.

My decent seemed, to me, to have made a lot of noise, so after just a few minutes I knew we needed to go. We returned the way we came with just one hitch. Halfway across the street a car was suddenly on the road. We were in it's headlight. Cops! I thought and broke into a run. My friends ran around me.

We made it into the lot from the first night, but we kept running. We needed to get to the cars. Across the lot, into the next, then I her a thwack from behind me. I see my friend Tim on the ground. Come on, my mind is screaming, but he's holding his throat.

In the dark of the lot he had missed the fact a chain separated the lots, which meant he ran full speed into a throat level chain. He was OK, but stunned. I went back.

Every expectation from that night did not happen. No tunnels. No police chase. So, you might think it was a complete bust, but I can't help but feel differently about it. This was something that seems to happen so rarely. This was an adventure.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 1

Summer was ending, but the sun was still hot on the girls who had been sent to the backyard. Their parents didn't do this often, but today they had pushed Mom right to the edge. They knew by the tone in her voice there was no point in arguing. Even Sierra, who seemed to resist a little more than the others, kept her comments to herself.

The yard wasn't that big. Weeds grew up from the cracks in the patio and the grass needed to be cut. The dog, who spent the most time out here didn't care, but everyone else would have rather stayed inside. The plastic house was too small for anyone but Sienna, who was six and the apple tree they used to climb was mostly dead.

Savannah was the oldest, by all of two minutes, and when she wasn't trying get her sisters to leave her alone, she was trying to invent a game or start a club. She tried to make the best of every situation. Today, after being tossed outside, she decided to start a nature club, which she had appointed herself president. She found a stick she was using as a walking stick was using to both search for leprechauns and exaggerate her talking.

Sierra was the only sister not in the nature club. She didn't really do the "club" thing and she especially didn't do the club thing when Savannah was president. She sat on the patio reading her book. She would have preferred to read inside, less insects, but in fifteen minutes she figured she could sneak back in. She, like Savannah, was twelve and getting ready to return to middle school.

Shelby had dirt across her face and was arguing with Savannah about the nature club they had just started. Shelby thought she should get to use the stick too, while Savannah thought she should have to find her own. The discussion ended when a few kids came into the backyard behind their yard and shelby started talking to a redheaded girl she didn't know. She seemed to get along with everyone, except her sisters.

Sienna played with a few small rocks inside of the plastic house with a pink roof. Apparently, the rocks were talking to each other. The biggest rocks were the mom and dad, the others children. After a few minutes she got board with that and went to see if Sierra, who she called Sissybug, would play with her. Sierra, who was not at all drawn into the charm of her six year old sister, told her she should go talk to Vanna.

Savannah was shooing Bailey away from something. It was in the hole at the base of the apple tree. She couldn't see what it was, but there was something there. The rotten wood had broken away revealing something. An iridescent, dark blue something. A mystery object. Her sudden attention to this spot had first drawn the dog, but a moment later her two younger sisters were there as well.

The part they could see looked like it might have been a fragment of colorful cloth. It felt really soft. They didn't want to pull on it, afraid it would break. So the three of them got down, real close and started to dig with sticks and their fingers trying to be careful not to ruin this mystery object. It seemed to almost be growing out of the ground. It even had a kind of central stalk the held the colorful plumes. After a few inches, the digging slowed way down.

"We're never going to get it out," Shelby said rubbing a little more dirt on her cheek.

"Inside the garage, on Daddy's work table, there is a little shovel," Savannah said like she was solving a puzzle,"Go get it."

Breaking In, the first night

It felt like this was the riskiest part of the adventure, at least in turns of being stopped by the police. The two cars the group of us brought were parked the darkest part of the parking lot, but there was still too much light for my liking. This was illegal, but to my high school mind didn't feel that wrong. We couldn't park in the driveway of the abandoned house without drawing unwanted attention.

The excitement was high. Like we were on the edge of a cliff. We didn't really care about the abandoned house, we were here for the tunnels.

The Northville Tunnels were legend in my school. This winding maze of catacombs were used to connect the dozens of buildings on the campus of an insane asylum. None of us had been inside, but we had heard the stories. Graffiti on the walks, a ruined library, a bowling alley. This was an underground ghost town.

Around the buildings with broken out windows was a tall fence that clearly said no trespassing. Also, it was known cops patrolled that fence. None of us was brave enough to get to the tunnels by crossing it. On the other hand, it was known that some of the neighboring houses, where the staff lived, had access to the tunnels. The dark building across the busy street from us we thought might be such a house.

When the traffic cleared we bolted over the pavement and to the side of the house. Behind some overgrown bushes we found the door unlocked and already open. Quiet as I could I gave instructions. Don't be loud, be careful where you step and no flashlights on the main floor.

My heart was pounding.

The floor was thick with dust and every room smelled like mold. This place had been out of use for a long time. It felt like it could fall in on us. A small stained mattress was in one of the rooms. Someone took a lone ace of hearts from the floor of the kitchen. Not much here even for souvenirs and definitely no mystery doors to the tunnels.

Time was ticking, so I quietly rounded everybody up. Before we went back to our cars, we decided to check out the back. A big, almost industrial, pole barn was back there. In we went.

The place had a concrete floor. It was mostly empty. A few unmarked 55 gallon drums. I would suspect this place could have been used for a large tractor or bulldozer, but there were no signs of them. Strangely, what there was, was a four foot by four foot hole in the middle of the floor.

Soon the group of stood around this hole speculating. Had we found it? What ever was down there was big. There was a room down there, but you couldn't see the walls. It had a dirty concrete floor, like a basement or a tunnel entrance. There was a structural pole beside the hole down, but there would be no way to get back up. None of us had a rope.

Around that hole, that fall night, we agreed to ourselves, this was one stone we couldn't leave unturned. We would come back with a rope.

The happiest place on earth

The drive has been long, but my energy is refreshed. It the back of the Flex the girls are talking about every sign we see. Tinkerbell advertises Wishes. Goofy is headed to Typhoon Lagoon. We see signs for Epcot and Hollywood Studios. I think to myself, that used to be MGM. Sienna is excited to see pictures of Pluto, Minnie and of course, Mickey. Shelby races her to name their names.

At some point the signs stop looking like the rest of the world. They are purple, red and white. In the car, this is a sign we have arrived. We finish the trip to the resort looking for the landmarks. The Tower of Terror. The Swan and Dolphin. The Big White Ball (a giant 960 sided die that hold Spaceship Earth).

Check-In goes quickly. We get our keys to the world and we are on our way.

This is fun. No one is fighting. Everyone is excited. Even an overfilled bus can't dim our spirits.

I can't compete with my wife, but I love Disney. This isn't for the logo covered clothes, the Mickey stamped silverware, the Pin Trading or the fireworks shows. My like of each of these things hangs on my real reason I love Disney.

We make it through the bag check without incident. We walk by the giant mouse head of flowers, pausing long enough to decide we don't want to get pictures with Mary Poppins. It is then under the train station, through the tunnels where you can pick up a map. We don't need a map. We navigate between vending carts and more character lines. We walk far away from the bronze statue of Roy and Minnie.

Some first timer points at Roy telling his family it is Walt. I want to, but I don't correct him. The moment is coming.

We turn the corner and our pace drops to a crawl. They are all looking past the balloons, past the photographers. They don't even hear the one trying to flag us down. They don't seem to smell the fudge being cooked in the candy shop or hear the music from the speakers all around us. There is no chaos.

The castle has them. I reminds them that they are here to play and have fun. It fires their imagination into thoughts of wild rides and meeting the characters they watch on TV. They are the princesses of the world. They can feel the magic of being exactly where they want to be. It could not be more right.

This is it, my moment, too. This is why I love Disney. In that moment, while they watch the castle, I watch them. While they experience the magic of the place, I experience the magic of giving the joy.

For all of us, this really is the happiest place on earth.

Robinson Crusoe

As I have been working today, I have been listening to a podcast, The Jefferson Hour. For many reasons I quite like this podcast, even today when no one is portraying Thomas Jefferson. Today they have engaged my mind with a discussion of the classic Robinson Crusoe.

For those who don't know, Robinson Crusoe is the tale of a middle class man who uses his wealth to take an adventure and ends up shipwrecked for 28 years. It deals with topics of natural man verses civilized man, value of wealth and finding yourself in isolation. More importantly, this experience causes the main character to really discover God.

This is where my mind leaves the podcast and begins the wondering it often does when left to it's own devices. What if it was me? How would I survive? How would I be entertained? How could I be found?

At this point I am both in my office and on the island. I can't smell the salt in the air and feel the desperation. I can experience the joy at finding food and almost weep at the loss of my family.

Why would God do this? I have faith. I love him. I want to serve him. Why would God shelter me not only from those I love, but even my very service to him. It seems the isolation of a believer doesn't make any sense. Faith without others seems wasted.

There is something in that thought that draws me back to my desk. The island having served it's purpose. God hasn't cast me to some far away place, taken me from my family.

When I choose to let it go to voicemail, not stay a little longer, not open up, not participate, not help others, it is not God I need to look to for answers, but myself.

Don't be late

I work with many different people in my work, church and private life and I am an observer of people.  I have, over the years, developed certain beliefs about these observations, which I think are true.  On of them has to do with timing.  The timing of someone's arrival will very often tell you what they think about the meeting or event.  Early people are excited to be there, can't wait for it to start.  Late people would rather be doing something else.

This is a source of disputes sometime among couples.  If the wife is ready to go at the same time the slow moving husband is just getting in the shower, in may be he doesn't share your zeal for you parents.  It is likely that the argument that ensues may be in the language timeliness, but that is a mask on interest.  When my wife tells me she hates being late, I know it is not really about being late.  When I observe how that statement is made selectively, I am not really commenting on her willingness to be late sometimes.  We too have linked this idea of timing to expected enjoyment.

There are certain things you should never be late for.  Any man who is late for their wedding, should probably consider weighing their options.  They are not going to be seen as the cool guy with casual timing. No, they are going to be seen as the poor, dumb idiot who has just earned for themselves a multi-decade complaint.  Every argument in that household is likely to end with, "you didn't even make it to our wedding on time.". This is a stick that just won't break.  Needless to say, I was not late for my wedding.

Our wedding had some hang ups that we still talk about.  It rained, which is lucky we're told.  We tell that to the bride anyway, so she is less stressed about the rain.  It doesn't work.  Shelly's Aunt called her to tell her no one was going to make it because the freeway was backed up.  Hot Tip: Don't call a bride on her wedding day to tell her that her lifetime of planning this moment is going down the tubes.  If you are stuck it traffic and you feel that compulsion, throw your cell out the window.  I mumbled or stumbled over a portion of the vows.  I may have requested richer or richer.  What I wasn't, though, was late.

To be honest, I don't remember much about the day before the wedding.  I know I had stuff I had to get done and I was getting it done.  But at this point, as I look back, these are actions through a cloudy lens.  What I remember was being the most excited and nervous I had been in my life and wanting to be there.  I ran to the store with robin actions because my brain was going, "Your getting married.  Don't forget your getting married.  You know what time to be there don't you.  Your getting married....". Let me tell you, it's hard to think about much else when your head is clocking at that speed.

At the soonest possible moment I could drive to the church I did.  I wasn't thinking, this will save years of fights, or thus is my opportunity to shine, or any of those deeper more methodical thoughts.  That part of me was on vacation.  What I was think was WooooHoooo I'm getting married.  I get to spend my life with my best friend.  God must really love me.  I was in the midst of a mental happy dance.

My first clear memory of that day was turning into the drive of Main Street Baptist Church.  I round the corner and the bridesmaids are getting out of a vehicle, which my wife was in.  I was early, very early.  That is when my brain started a new chat, "Your soon to be wife is going to kill you if you see the dress early!  Get out! Abort! Abort!". Into reverse I went, back down the drive, but not before she saw me.

To this day, along with the bad news phone call and the rain, my too prompt arrival is a matter of wedding discussion.  I just hope she remembers this mistake for what it was, a moment when her husband was overwhelmed with the excitement of being with her.

Attack Squirrel

One of the benefits of having children is there are times when they make you laugh. If you play your cards right, you can engineer a few more of these moments. Now, I'm not sure of the moral implications, so I probably should make it clear that I can't condone the engineering part of the following story.

Friday I got home from work a little early. My timing was such that my older two were getting off the bus at the same time. Sierra was talking to her friend and Savannah, having spotted me was quick walking in my direction. Her hands were full and she was adjusting her awkward backpack. She wasn't thinking, not even a little bit, about the tales of attack squirrels my father and I used to tell her roamed the deck where he feeds the birds.

The game was we would tell her that was an attack squirrel and she would tell us it wasn't. She was much more resistant than her sister, so Sierra was the one we decided the squirrels were trying to get.

So, I'm watching Savannah pick up speed. She's passing by a yard surrounded by a chain link fence. Sometimes there is a dog that suddenly comes out from behind the bushes startling you. So, it is not much of a surprise when she springs, not unlike a startled cat, to the far side of the walk. I don't hear the bark, but I chuckle a little, thing I know what happened.

I go inside the house.

In a moment Savannah walks through the door and with a laugh I say, "That dog in the yard scare you.". "Did you see me jump?" she asks. She then tells me the details I missed. She was walking by the fence when suddenly something moved to her left, on the fence. In was, in her words, a fat, angry squirrel ready to jump on her. She didn't wait. She reacted, springing to the grass and letting loose a frightened scream. Payoff.

Apparently, this ninja-like maneuver was enough to cause the squirrel to change it's mind. It darted away from her.

A better parent would probably have a little chuckle and be done. Not me. I'm already planning what to say the next time Vanna and I see a squirrel at the same time. I'm thinking something like, "He's eyeing you." or "He looks real angry." or just a simple loud, "SQUIRREL" with embellished finger pointing. Whatever I choose, if you are a witness, you'll now know why.