No excuses

I am setting at my computer playing the auction house in World of Warcraft. I have already put on my pants and shirt, but no tie or shoes yet. Under the screen where my little gnome is gathering gold, and I imagine laughing maniacally, I have my blue plastic bowl of Magic Stars, read sugar, and black coffee. The kids are upstairs arguing and Shelly is in the shower. This could be nearly any day of my week.

I hear the familiar buzz on the ledge behind me. I know it is my phone, I even know who it is going to be. Jeremy is my first accountability check in of the day. He is doing, what I think of as a Herculean task, of going to the gym first thing every day. I grab my old, black phone, the text says simple, "I'm done.". I am really happy for him, and if I can be a little selfish, for me too. Accountability is about the relationship you have with each other and God, so we succeed together. I text back, "You rock! Keep up the good work."

It doesn't always work this way. This nearly exact scene played out last week, but the phone didn't buzz. So, when I realized the time, gave him until I finished my cereal and sent my text. "Gym?". For anyone who does accountability, you probably know when people don't check in. It is almost always they are dodging you. They haven't gotten to the excuse that they think will fly, so they are hoping you won't call.

It may not seem like it, but it is on these days you determine the success of your accountability. If you don't contact, you have let them fail silently. You have communicated you don't care. If you contact, but accept their excuses, you communicate that what they want to do, their goal, is not that important. This mean, if you are really going to do your job right, is you need to not accept weak excuses.

I don't get Jeremy's excuse until I am at work. I check my calendar and figure out how to adjust my day so that I can handle this with a break and I then text him getting permission to call him. This is important. If you can talk to someone when they are struggling, it is way more powerful than letting them deal with the coldness of text. He gives me permission and I walk down to the couch in the dining room and call him back.

I open by asking him how he is feeling, celebrate the success he has had over the last few days and remind him of the goal he asked me to hold him accountable to. This structure is intentional, it is to let him know this is his choice and he has proven he can do good, that he has already done good. He has, honestly, he's done fantastic. I then ask him about his day and why it won't work today. I do not argue with him directly. If I am forcing him, than it has too much dependence on me. I ask questions. Lot's of questions and have him plan for himself how he can be successful.

While I set on the couch made of fake green leather, looking around at the handful of individuals eating eggs or oatmeal, I think about if I am pushing too hard. I listen to the halting voice in the other end of the phone. He is thinking, which is good. Taking time to think, to plan is how you defeat that excuse maker at your core. Then it happens, as it usually does, he says I was making an excuse, I can go to the gym before I go to my Moms. I tell him that is great, that he will feel better once he gets that done and to text me when he get's it done, so I can celebrate with him.

You might think to yourself, as I once worried about, they must hate that. Nothing could be further from the truth. When you are held accountable, it gives those things you work meaning, it means you can share your success and it builds real meaningful relationship with those who share your success. It is the kind of relationships I believe God desires for us to have with each other.

Proverbs 27:17

Signs

The plot was hatched around a simple table. There was Tim, who in his zeal was trying to inflate plan into things we just couldn't do. Things which probably left the morally grey to not advisable. There was James, who didn't always get to hang out with us, but tonight he was here, charged by the prospect and ready to go. Last, there was me, I thought this would be fun and probably wouldn't get us into trouble.

It was the time of the presidential election of 1992. On every corner there were Clinton, Bush and Perot signs and the ads were in full force. While I've selected Perot as my candidate, I don't really understand anything about politics, it is just a game. To this end, I don't take any of the signs or ads seriously. The same can not be said of my boss, at work, who I have seen tell the various requesters that they, in fact, can not put their signs on Arby's property. I like her, but this has nothing to do with my desire to mess with her.

The plan is to gather up as many of these signs as we can and over the course of the night, canvas the small lawn under the stylized cowboy hat.

We watch the sky darken and refine the plan. We figure we need to select a candidate, it will make it that much more distressing. Every candidate would be annoying, but one candidate would make it seem like the boss wanted to throw their weight behind them. There was really only one choice. Perot. First, I would get a personal smile seeing all those signs for my guy. Second, he was already clearly not going to win the election. Last, Becky certainly wasn't going to be backing Perot.

The three of us load up into the grassy knoll, my Ford Escort, and take to the streets. In the first few neighborhoods we look in Perot signs are all but none existent. If we get any signs from in neighborhoods, it was a very small number. In the dark of the vehicle, we realize we need to change plans. Where we do see Perot signs is on the intersections of major roads. So, we take to the major roads.

The plan is this. I will drive to a corner with signs. Tim will hop out and pull up all the Perot signs and he'll hand them through the window to James. As the driver, I won't stop if there are cars around, but I will turn back so we can eventually get the signs. It is thrilling and fun. As the pile of cardboard grows we laugh and talk about the look on Becky's face. We imagine the cursing Fran will do when she is told to go out front and remove all the signs.

We just need a few more, but a car has settled in behind us, and I'm on the Joy road by Mettetal, where there is no good spot t turn around. James informs Tim and I it is a cop. My speed is good, but I watch it like a hawk. That and all the mirrors I can watch the cop through. I find out later, I'm not the only once twitching and watching the police officer. I am flooded by red and blue lights. Crap!

I pull over and tell James to cover the signs as best he can.

I am directed to step out of the car and directed where to stand with the butt of Maglite he has been illuminating me with. He asks me some very vague questions and the then tells me he pulled be over because of the twitchy kid in the back seat. Who, it turns out is after curfew, so I need to get his young butt home. I don't think the officer's language was quite that nice because he was annoyed.

He then, to highlight the point, shines his light on James and sees the signs his leg is over.

"What are those?"

"Perot signs."

"Are they yours?"

"They are now."

At this point he looks at me considering what to do. I don't know what his options are, but for a moment I regret my last response.

"Where did you get them from?"

"The corners of the roads. People leave them on public property."

He pauses again and decides to not push any further. I suspect I just become more trouble than the time he was spending.

"Get your young friend home and tell to quick gawking everywhere. And quit taking the signs."

"Yes, sir." I wonder if he knew how much I was sweating.

James went home and the signs stayed in my car.

Suds

It seemed I had been out of work too long and needed to be productive. I had not started at Blue Cross, yet, in fact I still divided my time between the east and west sides of the state. It was a weekend I was spending at my in-laws house, but it was quiet and I was getting stir crazy. The kids were gone, maybe at my parents, and the house was empty except for me. I settled on dishes.

I gathered the dishes from around the house, brining them to the sink. The window above looked to the pool in the back yard, which was covered, but no snow had yet fallen. I opened the door of the dishwasher to check to see if it was clean or dirty. I pulled back the half full top drawer and dipped my finger into the bottom of a coffee cup. No water, which probably means the dishwasher has not been run. I pull open the bottom drawer and I can see the fleck of debris on the silverware. Definitely dirty.

I turn back to the window, rinse the dishes I have gathered and complete loading the dishwasher.

It is funny how doing work, completing something worthwhile can make you feel good. While I enjoy this first hint of good feeling, I look under the sink for the detergent. I am stuck. My in-law have a water softener, so they by special detergent, which comes n large containers. So, under the sink I don't find a Cascade box or anything obviously marked for dishwasher use. Instead I find a few clear, purple lidded containers with powders inside and scoops. I select the one I reason is most likely the correct one, put in into the little cups in the door of the machine and start it up.

I move from there to the floor. I just plan to sweep a little and call it good.

It takes me a while to find the broom. I check the closet, the garage, upstairs and downstairs. Downstairs I see the mop and bucket, but no broom. I am stuck for a while, so decide I must have overlooked it. I go back to where I started, do a better search if the closet and there it is. In the corner hidden behind a press of coats and jackets, behind a large heave jar on the floor, it is there.

When I finally retrieve it and take the step back into the kitchen, I realize something is wrong. The bottom of the dishwasher is a waterfall of soapy suds. They have covered half the floor and are soaking the rug which allows the island to be pushed around the floor. The feeling of usefulness drains out of me. I have used the wrong soap, I have created a huge mess, I am not even sure what to do.

At first I think about stopping the dishwasher, but to do what? The soap isn't waiting in the door to be retrieved, it's filling the box and I don't dare open it. I figure if I shift it to rinse I can get it to begin cleaning the suds. I do and run downstairs to get the mop and bucket I just overlooked. By the time I get back up, there is even more suds.

I mop and I push water. I mop and I push water. I can keep the pool within three feet of the dishwasher, but it comes too fast to move it any closer. This is where my mother-in-law finds me. I explain what happened and I learn not only did I use the wrong soap, but I used twice as much as I should have. I assure here I'll clean the mess and she goes to the computer room.

The bucket slowly fills with black water, the floor looks way better than I would have expected and the dishwasher stops. I am frustrated. The initial happiness of doing something good has been replaced by failing at s etching so simple. I use the mop to push the bucket toward the bathroom, where I can dump it.

The wheel of the bucket hits the place where the carpet touched the tile a little too hard and bucket flips. I let out a a growl of frustration. Now not only do I need to mop this water back up again, but the blackness of it is soaking in the carpet. A jobless man who can't even run a dishwasher or mop a floor right.

It is twenty more minutes of work, with a mop and shop vac, before I have almost eliminated signs of the spill. When I am done and ready to go hide somewhere, my Mother-in-law offers a lunch of Panera. It is a small thing, but enough to make the day a little more right.

Asian Buffet

The kids are all in our red van in the parking lot of the church. Shelly is still in the church counting. This could keep her ten minutes or a half hour, but today we drove separately, because of praise team, so it doesn't matter. There is still some planning do. Lunch.

My parents stop me in the lot. We talk as we dodge cars of those who were quicker to get out of the building. Perhaps they are hungrier than us. My mom asks what we are planning for lunch. I tell her Shelly is counting and I need to get food. Her question, though, is really a clue telling me they want to go out to eat together.

In spite of the additional cost and us working to save money, this offer is one I find hard to resist. I tell my parents to wait and walk back into the church. Inside the church Amy and Shelly have deduced what is going on to the point that when I ask if Shelly wants to go out they give each other high fives. On one hand they have that annoying smugness, which I think should be my domain alone. On the other hand, it means we will be going out to eat.

In just a moment, after the several short conversations it takes get back out the door, I am outside my parents van. I let them know Shelly is almost done. We each have stops to make before we can eat, but we are on our way.

I can already taste the crab rangoons.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 21

Mr. Li heard the report from the speaker n his desk. One of the children couldn't be found and not the one who could turn invisible. It was her twin, who hadn't really shown any power before. Perhaps she could phase or select who could see her or teleport. In the research he had done on the device, in it's many years of existence, all of those variations had existed. She may or may not be stoppable, but he was convinced she would go that far with the rest of her family here.

He put the base on lockdown, just in case.

On the second floor of the base Savannah got her moment and ran down the stairs. It came just as the men, who were scowling at Sierra were getting orders. Mr. Li instructed them to stick Sierra into Shelby's room. Then Michael, who the girls thought of only as the big guy or strong man, was told to wait outside the door for furthers direction. Everyone else was to take lockdown positions.

Downstairs, Savannah located. She found Sarah, Mr. Li, the Flex and finally, the feather. Mr. Li and the feather were very close. That was where she needed to go. She remained invisible and listening as she found these things.

The door into the hallway she was standing in burst open and the Man, the one from her back yard was just a few feet from her. He had his gun out and was sweeping back and forth. Maybe looking for her. She could go back up the stairs, but that would be the wrong way. She could move away from him, but the hall was a dead end behind her. The remaining way, moving toward the man, seemed like it would probably get her killed.

She was frozen, but the man was not. Slowly he moved toward her. He was several feet from her, then just a few and finally so close she could touch him. If she moved, she would be heard, if she didn't he was going to bump into her with his gun.

In her hand had appeared a couple twenty dollar bills. Invisible, like she was, but she could feel them there. She tried to quietly throw them away from her.

If you have ever tried to throw not crumpled money, you know it doesn't fly very good. The green money appeared when it left her hand and fluttered spinning to the ground right by her feet.

The man stopped, the movement catching his eye. He didn't make a sound. He looked around from all the way back the way he came then to the ceiling, trying to figure out where it came from. Savannah swayed, but didn't move to avoid him. Finally, he bent down to pick up the cash.

Savannah had no idea what come over her, but her options seemed so limited, what else could she do? When the man. Was bent deeply over, reaching for the cash, Savannah raised her knee as quickly as she could directly into the face of the man. With his forward momentum and her adrenaline induced strength, the result was explosive.

Everything happened quickly. She crack of his nose breaking. The explosion if blood. His gun going off into the wall. Savannah running down the hall and through the door.

She still needed the feather, but she had no time.

Regret

All of you reading this have regrets. You have regrets about the years you wasted trying to be a big shot in a business only to be let go. You have regrets because you yelled at your children only to find out they really did their best. You regret no apologizing when you realized what you had done. You regret not using your gym membership and the extra dessert you had last night. You regret not visiting the hospital before your grandfather died. You regret the addiction that has it's grabbing fingers so deep in your life. You regret your pride and selfishness.

You even regret the fact that you have regrets.

I know. We take our regrets and wrap them in layers of denial. Deny that we even live a life that has regrets. We choose our words to put distance between anyone who might be looking and the regrets we have. I don't think I can bear you seeing me for who I am and you don't think you can bear me seeing you either.

Do you see what is going on? You hide because everyone you see is doing so much better than you, the real you, but the person you are seeing is hidden as well. It is a game of hide and seek where nobody is looking, but we need to be found.

Regrets are not the problem. It is hiding those regrets that is the problem. "Live a life with no regrets" is a foolish philosophy, which only leads you to the sad realization you can't do that.

Regret is good. Regret is embracing the mistakes you have made, not to justify them, but to look them full in the face so you can begin to change. Share your regrets is good. It is not about flaunting your misdeeds, but letting others see you are not perfect, that you need help and you can understand why they need help to.

I regret the time I have spent looking unmoved by my own regrets. Don't feel bad, this is a good thing. Looking this regret full in the face and seeing it for what it is today, is the medicine I need to let you see my regrets and how they move me tomorrow.

Man in the Dark

The addition to our home was only partially done, so the floor was still a pressed board sub-flooring and the switches don't yet have plates covering the wiring. The good new is, I have my own bedroom. The bad news is the path between the dining room and the hall is not open. So, I have a ritual to go make it to my bed room. I didn't always have this ritual, but a few nights before I saw a shadow which looked very much like a person.

I flip the first switch in the kitchen, illuminating the room. It is partially finished, cabinets in and drywall covering the studs. I walk quickly across the rough floor. I am looking around,but there is nothing tonight.

When I get to the switch on the other side, I don't flip it. I don't flip it because it will plunge me into darkness. I could flip the switch in the hallway, but there is no switch that goes to that light near my bedroom and my Dad frowns on lights being left on all night, so I don't. Instead I go right into my bedroom.

It was in here I saw him. Not all at once, no startle factor because, poof he's there. It was more insidious than that. I hear a light sound or stirring that caused me to look around the blues and blacks of a room lit by the moon. The closet is dark, dark enough the patterns are made of black on black. Then a look and the rounded shapes are about six feet tall. I am working out what it is that could make that shape. The shadow wavers, but doesn't step forward, just solidifies in my mind.

He is gone by the time I get to the light switch.

Once in my bedroom, I flip the switch in there and circle back to turn off the light in the kitchen. I am almost done. I am facing the door of my bedroom, the remaining light, when I turn off the kitchen light. In my room, I look the the floor and my bed. I look into the closet filled with only clothes and toys. I hit the switch and run, jumping into my bed. If the man is there, he stays hidden. I know, because I am watching.

Faith: Frustration to Blessing

I am blessed to live in an age with a snooze button. A button that, this morning, I noticed most at the point I could no longer use it, because I had to get up.

I am blessed that getting up is so difficult, even psychologically painful, because it means I have a warm comfortable bed to rest in and have been blessed with the ability to sleep deeply through the night.

I am blessed to have a reason to get up. It means I have to workout, using a program I am blessed to have, before getting ready for work to go to a job, which I am also blessed to have.

I am blessed come into an avalanche of e-mail and double booked meetings until 5 o'clock, as it means there is value in what I do and people would like my input. I am also blessed to have the ability to reject some of those meetings to free up my day a little, with no significant negative consequence.

I am blessed that in those gaps I can contact my accountability partners, catch up on a few e-mails, eat lunch and write this blog. I am blessed to live in a day of text, so those partners who are dodging my phone calls can get back to me when they are ready. I am blessed to have the capability to answer e-mails, which might have been better sent to someone else.

I am blessed to have a personnel meeting tonight, to do important and valuable work for the church. I am blessed that this work is challenging, as it is in that struggle, value is found. If it was easy, it wouldn't matter. I am blessed to have the ability to be there in ways not everyone can.

I am blessed to have a family which both understands the importance of my work, but also misses me in my absence. That if I had to miss dinner, which has happened before, they would want me there.

I am blessed to have friends that, when I am frustrated about a busy day, a crazy schedule, disappointment in other people bring me back to Earth so I can see all the good. Recognize that faithfulness and frustration do not belong together.

Have faith.

No easy button

I turn on the end table lamp in living room. Because of the shorts days of winter, the fact my living room is half underground and that the furniture is dark, it is already hard to see. I grab the blue Disney blanket and my iPad and head to the chaise lounge. It is time to add a few paragraphs to my book on accountability. In part I am driven because the first draft is almost done, in part I am driven because, in a twist, I am being held accountable to keep writing.

The couch wraps around me and I am tempted to turn on the TV or XBOX, I have a few moments while the kids are doing homework, but I know I shouldn't. I turn the iPad landscape and flip open the black cover. I find my google application and double click. After the ad, which I get because I refuse to spend the couple bucks to get the full app, I click on google documents. There it is the last chapter, as I have it so far.

When I started this, I was just writing about an age old tool of one person holding another accountable and helping them get better and better at reaching goals. I had, had some quick early success that made it seem easy. I had a recipe to give everyone success and anyone could do it and it was easy. I consider, before I write the next paragraph, how my own experience has evolved.

Steve, my first accountability partner after starting this process, has had major successes and improvements in his life. By his own account, he is at a very successful time of his life. He though, is not anyone, he has a special drive and insight and this hasn't been easy. He has worked hard. In this relationship, he also hold me accountable, he has helped me add exercise to my life. My success in this is limited. I do exercise three times a week, I have stepped it up with his guidance, but I haven't pushed myself as hard as I could or should. I cheat sometimes on the program. My success is limited by my willingness to do the work.

I have just restarted this kind of partnership with my wife. The first time we did this it got aborted because this is hard to do with your spouse. In our case, she is likely to let me off the hook while I am militant about doing what you say. This combination, when the goal is hard, can be disastrous. So, when we didn't get success and didn't want to add the work, we stopped. On our second attempt, we shared a mutual goal of hold each other to our Bible study, this is not hard, it is mutually beneficial and we have found success. It took work to get there.

These two are my morning calls. In addition to them, I have a couple of people that check in by text. Jeremy and Matt are working on very different things, but I see the same similarities in them. They have found clear success, but not everyday. They still have that part of them that wants to make excuses, even when they know it is not what they should be doing. These can be just forgetting the the moment or having a case of the "I don't want to.". It is hard work. The battle is not with me or the outside world, it is with themselves. At one point, I might have told them this would be easy, but that would be a lie. As long as you have a will to squander your energy, time and money, you will not find it easy to be efficient with those things.

Usually my last accountability call for the day is James. He is my second longest accountability partner, only a few days shorter than Steve. As I mentioned, he holds me to my writing. I like writing, but in many ways I am like my children who sometimes try to complain about what we are having for dinner, even when they like it. It is not that they don't like Spaghetti, but that they would rather eat pizza. My writing, even from this couch, is much like this. There is a child in me pounding the cushions crying to play games and watch TV. This has meant some lost days for me, days that I dropped the ball. His experience, I know from our discussions, has been similar. He has been very successful in several things at different moments, but it is hard work.

So, it is time to write, but it almost seems I need to make amends for my misunderstanding of what it was I doing. I do have a recipe that can give anyone success. I don't doubt this at all. In every case, with every person I talk to or text, success has been clear. It is something everyone can do, the range of people I work with are various educations, marriage statuses, ages, but that doesn't seem have much impact. What does have impact, though, is their willingness to do the work. My success and the success of all those in this program is mostly dependent on their willingness to buckle down when they don't want to.

Now, how do I find a way to express that?

New Storytelling

I look at my to do list, not the daily one I have in Remember The Milk, which reminds me of Bible reading and phone calls I need to make, but my broad one in Evernote. It includes things I'm hoping to do in the next few months, bake a loaf of bread (not in a bread maker), make homemade ice cream and a bunch of others. The one that catches my eye is write a story in Minecraft.

I have designed games and wrote stories for a long time. I don't know what it is about these activities I find so appealing, but I do. I have disks and computers in my basement that are full of stories I have written. It s common for me to run into print out of older stories when I'm cleaning out boxes packed long ago. As you probably know, I have a story that appears here every Friday.

In addition to these stories, I have game modules for Dungeons and Dragons that go back to middle school. Some of these are on my book shelf in the garage. In addition to the games I have bought, Empire, the board game I published, sits on the giant wooden shelving unit in my basement. The boxes of this game in my parent garage is a different story for a different time. My thumb drive has several versions of the game Domination, which I ran as a play by e-mail game for a long time. I also gave notes for a ton of games, Paradox, Curse of the Pharaoh's Tomb, Orcs in the Boardroom and others. It is in my blood.

So, my hope is to bring these two things together with this goal. Writing a story in Minecraft is part game, part story. It will be probably as close to computer game design, as the way I imagined it, as I will ever be. I sip a little coffee from my "I do the things the voices in my wife's head tells me to do" cup and consider what this is going to take and what set of story to tell. I am there, in the light of my desk lamp and the monitor, but I am not there at all.

I want the players dropped in a functioning city, walled. They should get jobs and live safely for a while. That is until they find out a man has been framed for murder and the clues lead them to a larger and larger conspiracy. The story need to unfold and draw them in, in needs to change the world and move them to supposing fantastic locations. By the end, the very operation of the town might change.

This is a tall order for Minecraft. I don't even know if I can tell the whole story there, but it seems worthwhile just to try.

I leave the walled city in my mind and start up my Minecraft server. I then start up the client and double click on multiplayer. I select my server and on my screen I hop into the world. A smile on my face, I pick a site for my city and begin clearing the land.

The best part of a story is not knowing how it will end.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 20

The angry men walked up to the first door, the one in front of Sierra's room and could see it had been damaged. Splintered wood bordered a narrow hole. "Who is in here?". The second man was the strong man. "The invisible girl," he said in a deep voice, "None of these are dangerous. That girl is in the safe."

The man used the barrel of his pistol to rap on the door. "Move to the back of the room and don't try to hide. We are relocating you.". The man then paused and thought about what he had said so far, "If you make trouble, I have permission to shoot you."

On the inside of the room Sierra considered her options. Turn invisible? Try to run? Try the plan? It seemed crazy. In her confusion, she obeyed. The door opened and she stood looking from the opposite side of the room. When they signaled, she walked into hallway, beside the strong man.

They moved down the hall to Savannah's room. The man rapped on the door, as he did before and gave the same warning.

Inside the room Savannah did not obey. She hoped Sierra would do her part. It seemed to be the only way. She move to one side of the door.

The man unlocked and started to open the second damaged door, Sierra lat out a wail and fell to the floor. She had seen a seizure just once, and trying to imitate it was very hard. She lurched back and forth hitting the walls. kicking. The men looked at each other and then to her. She probably went on longer than she needed to, but she wanted to make sure it worked.

When the men turned there attention back to the room, Savannah's room, they found it empty. The strong man tapped the headset in his ear, "We got one missing."

It had worked Savannah thought. When she took the breath as they stood outside the door, her body had vanished. She had her sister's power. While holding hands through the small hole, scared, she understood the power, she learned how to do what her sister could do.

She had controlled her fear long enough to walk, not run, from the men as her sister distracted them. She made it to the opposite end of the hall and walked down the stairs. She needed to get the feather and get it to her Mom and Dad. If they could take the right powers everything would work out.

This wasn't going to be easy.

Bad Boss

I'd like to think I am a good boss these days. I want my employees to do their best and feel successful. I am will to help or train those that work for me and if they need a skill I don't have I will send them to training. I fight for them, when they are unjustly accused, as sometimes happens, and try not to come down too hard when there is an honest mistake. I have not always been this kind of boss.

Beep, beep, beep, The fries are done, my foggy brain says. Someone get the fries, I mumble. I my mind I am in the back checking roast beef, shouting to the idiots up front who won't pull the fries. How can these people remember to breath, I think. In truth, the beeping is my alarm clock letting me know it is time to go to school. This happens when you've had a few days of classes then closing Arby's back to back. I figure it out, turn off the annoyance and do the things it takes to get ready.

The glass doors of the restaurant are greasy with fingerprints and the small hall beside the food preparation area is littered with used napkins. It looks like the afternoon shift has been sleeping. The lobby has just a couple people in it, but no one is in line. Kathy, the day manager, and Chiquita practically lay across the counter talking. Lenny is in the back doing dishes. The floor of the lobby is filthy, sticky spilled pop had gathered dirt, ketchup drips from the overfilled container on the condiment stand, there are at least two tables obviously not cleaned. I am tired and already crabby.

I burst through the side door to the prep area. The talkers stand up, up off the counter, and give me a courtesy, Hey. I type my code into the register, clocking in, and walk to the back to see how my evening is going to go. I used to like this job, but it has worn on me.

James, Murphy and I will be closing. It is a good group. The managers log stresses the importance of handing out receipts, especially in the drive thru. It doesn't say it, but I later find out this had to do with some thefts where an employee wasn't ringing an item up and then pocketed the money. They had just figured it out based in sudden inventory fluctuations, but didn't have enough evidence t even declare the problem.

While Lenny is finishing the dishes I give everyone else cleaning assignments. James, who smelled slightly of weed, and Murphy show up and we wait for the dinner rush. I move James to the drive through, where he will be for the night and explain to him he needs to give a receipt with every order. Any receipt not given out, you will either eat or wear. He doesn't have a problem with this crazy suggestion. It is either because he is normally good at handing out receipts, or he knows that arguing with my crazy requests won't do him any good.

I should pause here to say, I like James. Employees I didn't like got special cleaning assignments, like scrubbing the sugary goo from the back room floor by the boxes of pop syrup, or washing out the interior of the bathroom garbage cans, after the bag has slipped to the bottom. I set the tape beside his register, as a reminder. All things considered, wearing a receipt is not that bad.

Dinners is unremarkable. James hands out every receipt, we get the store looking good and I send the day crew home. This is my time.

I hang out in the office. I build a blowgun with a straw, a coffee stirrer and three toothpicks. The evening winds on seeming smoothly. Then it happens, I do my walk to collect the larger bills out of the drawer to put them in the drop safe. I hit the front, where Murphy has had only a handful of customers. A couple twenties. Even before I get to the drive thru, I see it. Half a dozen receipts, loosely stuck together, dangle from the printer. The drive thru is empty, meaning these are all mistakes. I grab them up, turn to Jim. He must see the fire, because his protest is weak.

"Eat them, or wear them?" I say through tightly drawn lips.

One by one, he swallowed them and I went back to the office.

Snow prints

Over the last few days I have gotten up and grumbled at the view out of my kitchen window. Is not that the view is ugly, in fact in many ways it is more beautifully than usual. It is not there is major construction, all of the landmarks are there, just as they have been. It is that their is snow. Snow needing to be shoveled, snow that will slow my commute, snow that makes everything colder wetter and sloppier than it would be with out it. The may be a sign of adulthood. My kids love snow, as I did when I was their age.

I remember a few distinct winters growing up. There was the one where the snow came so deep and fast that I couldn't walk through it. Because of my height at the time and the shoveling to clear the walks, I remember the front yard all being my waste or higher in height. I was stopped before burying myself alive trying to make a tunnel across. I remember getting a little bigger and being handed a shovel myself when I wanted to help. My dad always used a heavy iron shovel, so I could do much with it. I dragged it while I teed to walk in his foot steps. Hop, drag, hop, drag.

I never fully gave up walking in other peoples snow prints. Sometimes it is because I'm dress shoes and I'm trying to keep my feet from freezing. Other times it's just for the novelty, like walking only on the dark tiles in a store. Sometimes it's tiptoeing in the prints of my children. I've looked. I don't think most people do this, but I know SME f you do.

As you probably already know, my kids do. Not all of them, mind you and not one of them all the time. I have, though, spied the crossing a white canvas with a single set if track, hopping from print to print. Trying to leave no mark of there own, trying to only stay in the track left for them.

This is not easy work. First, people don't walk with the same gate. As a child, your kegs jus don't stretch the space left by adults and even if you can reach it, you rub the edges of the print. A game of operation where the nose lights up. If you touch the edge you are doing it wrong. Also, feet and shoes are all different size and shapes. So, you end up clipping the heel or pushing out the toe.

Fortunately, this game does not depend on perfection. In fact, as a child you won't even notice many of these things. As an adult, you look for a single perfect match, rather than thinking you can keep it up step after step. Satisfied to try your best and get better step after step.

As I loom out the window and think about these things, it occurs to me that walking in snow prints is much like the life of a Christian. It is not always easy, because the pacing feels wrong and our feet don't always fit. We need to not give up and be content to get better everyday, even if we can't do it perfectly.

"And whoever does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.". Matthew 10:38

Political Season

I want to start by saying this blog entry feels like giving into the very thing I hate. So, let me be the first to note my own hypocrisy.

My coffee sat hot before me, the curls of steam disappearing into my small metal desk lamp. I had completed my profiteering with Gringotts, my banker gnome in World of Warcraft and I wanted to burn a little more time while my van heated up. I didn't have time to do any work in Minecraft, so I hopped into Facebook for just a few minutes.

Blue and white, text and images rush my senses. There are the personal entries, news topics and prayer requests. Funny pictures and stupids please to see how many people read my posts. I never read those. But in between these, like grubs coming out of dead wood, are the political posts. I hate them. I probably shouldn't, I should probably rationally consider what people are saying, but they mentally nauseate me. Nearly all of them are pointing out flaws in some candidate, many of them are unfounded or unthought out. They only serve to remind me that I am not really convinced to put my support behind any of them.

I am perhaps more thankful for my DVR than I have been any year before. It allows me to largely avoid the deluge of political mud that is sure to be there. Those that I have seen don't encourage me. A black and white photo of the candidate to be vilified, always captured to make them look either evil or stupid. A serious voice and dramatic music tell you half facts on racism or losing rights or the government going bankrupt. Sometimes with a bold red word stamped over the face of the villain. The the leading question, "Is this what you want? Is this your leader?". In the short add it will stop there, but the long one will do the Wizard of Oz turn, giving you to good technicolor lively alternative. The one who cares for you.

At work, this can be just as bad. It is amazing how many political experts I have run into. This could be better, and I sometimes give it a chance to be. In the last presidential election, I spent some time talking to someone who worked for a local candidate. I would ask them questions which were to test the claims leveled against other candidates and question the philosophy of his candidates position. Here is what I found, he was a democrat, so he believed the claims of the democrats in general and his candidate in particular. To him, though, the claims of republicans were not to be believed and the default position you should have on them was one of distrust. This lack of parity meant he was never going to shift, even if it was rational.

I want to believe in a world where there is an open exchange of ideas, where people have thoughtful positions that they can explain, where they see the good parts in candidates they don't like and the weaknesses of their own candidates. I don't want to believe people blindly follow their unions or employers, organization who have a personal stake in being biased. When I read that Ron Paul is a racist or a simple Nobama or Romney is great or awful because he is a Mormon, what am I left with?

Best Roller Coaster Ride

As was the case with most youth groups in southeast Michigan, every summer we went to Cedar Point. I expect most of you know this, but for those that don't this is a Roller Coaster enthusiast dream. It seemed every year they put out a new ride and we were always there to try it.

This was my second trip to Cedar Point. About a dozen kids from sixth grade to high school piled into three cars and vans and made the two hour trip. I know that drive like the back of my hand now, but then I not only didn't know every turn, but I wasn't paying attention. The trip was divided into pre-breakfast, before we stopped at the Hardee's beside the turnpike, the boring part and signs and sights, when the advertisements are everywhere and you start to see the tops of the rides as you approach.

The day was fun, but I hadn't really ridden all the rides we had talked about in the car. The Magnum was new, so the line was long and I didn't want to spend much time there and we hadn't walked by some of the other cooler coasters. We had ridden the Blue Streak, the excitement of which was the fact that the bar didn't always lock and the seat belts were frayed. We had ridden the wild mouse and the Iron Dragon. It was fun, but not as thrilling as I had hoped.

Lunch had passed and we were walking across the railroad tracks into the turning path beside the Gemini. I don't remember who I was walking with, but they asked me if I wanted to go on. I told them sure, but I hadn't gone on it before. So, we got in line and I asked all the question you do about a ride as we got closer to the station. I learned that two coasters ran at the same time, a red and a blue. So it was part ride and part race.

As the coaster left the station, I thought about racing and victory and if we had chosen the right color. That went away, though when we climbed the hill, the tallest I had ever been on and at the same time the sky started to spritz on us. I looked over the edge as we near the top and the sky let go. It would be the last thing I saw this ride.

The rain that came down was a thick sheet of fast rain, which became a stinging, even painful, rinse as we rushed down the hill. My body was a mass of stinging cold. I couldn't open my eyes, because the rain stabbed my sensitive orbs when I tried. I had no idea what was coming, which way to lean or how long it would last. It was part water ride, part roller coaster, part blind voicing from side to side. It was awesome.

When we stopped in the station, the whole coaster broke out into laughter and applause. We had experienced something unique and invigorating. Alive.

I have ridden the Gemini many time since then. I have ridden taller and faster coasters, coasters in the dark and more powerful water rides. Through all of that, though, I have never experienced anything quite like that again.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 19

Shelby peeled away the walls around here. She wanted to know where everyone else was. Her room was small and plain with an air mattress, a bottle of water and a weird plastic toilet. It was boring and hard to hear anything from in there.

A single wall separated her from Sierra. In the room next door Shelby could see the layout was essentially like her own room. Her sister wasn't laying in the bed, like Shelby was, she was pacing. She would move the few items around the room and would then strike a pose that told Shelby she was thinking. She looked up at the ceiling and the walls. Thinking. Planning. She moved suddenly hearing something to the other side of the room, like she heard something.

There was a vent on that wall but low to the ground. Crouching on the other side of that wall was Savannah. She had managed to remove the vent on her side and talking Sierra through removing the vent on hers. A few minutes later they pushed their arms through the narrow hole, held hands and planned together. As Savannah talked Sierra looked around, although she couldn't see, to where Shelby was, then to where others were in the building.

Shelby looked from her room to the places Savannah had been directing Sierra. The first was a room quite a bit different than hers. It was down low a giant safe with thick steel and concrete walls and a complex door. Inside the safe was her cousin. Burn marks on the walls told Shelby, Sarah had tried to see if she could free herself. She couldn't. Resigned, she slumped on the floor up against the wall.

The next place pointed was a larger room. Inside Shelby could see both of here parents and Sienna. The we're in a giant hug on a larger, regular bed. Seeing this made Shelby happy. At least some of them were together. She watched as they talked. Something changed in the room as they talked and they suddenly pulled away from each other and started moving. The pulled mattresses off the bed, leaning them on the wall and started pulling the bed frame apart. They would take a piece and try it's heft in their hands. They were getting weapons.

A large office filled the last space Shelby looked. Mr. Li and three others sat around an enormous desk made of a reddish colored wood. In the middle of the desk set the feather. They talked and planned. Mr. Li pointed to a map and then pointed to the big man who had waited by the flex. He was explaining his role in something, but there was no way to know what.

The crash was loud enough it jarred Shelby away from looking that the planning bad guys for a moment. She looked to the room of her parents, thinking that they had bashed the door, but they were still pulling the room apart. She looked to Sarah, but she too had not moved.

A second crash happened. It was a little closer. She looked to the place Savannah and Sierra were at, they were using the large, hard plastic toilets to bash in the doors of their rooms. The doors were splintering and coming apart. Shelby returned to the office were the bad guys had been meeting. They were not there anymore.

They were coming up the stairs and they looked mad.

Caffeinated

My brother and I didn't often spend the night at Granny and Grandpa's house, but we enjoyed ourselves when we did. They day had been full of chasing each other on Big Wheels. We could get them going fast enough and cut the wheel quick enough that they skidded around the corner of the house, where the path from the back met the driveway. This unfolded into a dinner of Taco Bell, which we almost never got a home. I sat on the heater while we watched TV and stacked on a ridiculous number of blankets while I slept. In the morning, though was perhaps the most special moment of all.

I rose just a little before my brother. I can hear the murmur of the TV already on, so I pull myself from the stack of blankets and go to see what is on. I am disappointed it is the morning news. The only one up in Granny and it is not time for breakfast. I settle in beside her, it is not time for breakfast, but she is already sipping coffee. I am not interested in the news, but I am interested in the coffee. I can remember the exotic taste with milk and sugar. I liked it. In fact, I liked it so much it began my crusade to get more coffee.

My parents didn't drink as much coffee then as they do now and they were not big fans of their young child drinking coffee. So, while I tried, they diverted me to other beverages. On the other hand, my other grandparents and aunt Cy, could both be convinced to let me have coffee. I could never get it quite the way Granny made it, but I liked it just the same.

In middle school I really liked being at the adult table. I was ready to leave my brother behind and talk and play games with the big people. I can smell the slight mildewed scent of my Grandma's (as opposed to my Granny) house as we sat around placing words on the scrabble board. I was getting killed, of course, but I didn't care. My Dad would help me every now and then, but everyone playing knew the real competition was between him and my mom's mom. I don't remember is my Grandpa was playing, but he was there and drinking coffee. Black. So, I did the same. It was my first time trying this and it was nothing like my Granny's sugared variation. I remember thinking, this was pure, this is how men drink it. I drank a quarter of that cup before I doctored it.

The tan escort, called the grassy knoll by my friends, was loaded with my friends and crates of game books in the back. We were headed to Sills house, as happened on many weekend. Work had ended and it was game time. We had one stop to make before we made it over there. I had learned that his house seemed to never have coffee. If you asked the wrong way, you couldn't even get Kool-aid sometimes. So, I pulled into Dunkin' Donuts and walked inside. I got a dozen donuts, a variety to share with everyone, and a large cup of coffee for me. No cream, no sugar. Just coffee. Styrofoam cup in one had and a cardboard box I. The other I returned to car for a great night.

I just took the last sip out of my white and maroon ceramic coffee cup. The inside has a slight and permanent stain. The sound was a hollow clang as I put it down a little too hard back on the desk. Empty. I swallow the cold liquid and return to this blog. I try to evoke the memories from the flavor, but they swim away from me. I close my eyes, but it is too far gone. I move the cup to the far side of my desk, grab my water bottle and he'd off to the ice and water machine down the hall.

On Tears

Let me start by saying, the very pit of my stomach hates crying. I can't exactly pin point when this started for me, but for most of my life I have had this adverse reaction. My wife has lamented, "You don't cry." I completely do not understand this sentiment. The most common crying I hear is that of Sienna, when she is getting her hair brushed. She has, with certainty, told me I am a good hugger, not a good brusher. So, while Shelly brushes, I hug. I am working to make the crying stop. The crying of my wife and kids makes me sad, so I always want it to stop. Additionally, I don't want to bring any more sadness to them, so I don't cry.

I sit on the couch surrounded by my friends and family, but we are all lost in the sights and sounds before us. We have gathered to watch a movie and we have gotten to the point when you can't look away. Everything looks cripplingly bad, you know it can't end this way, but you don't see anyway out. Then, the girl you thought was dead blinks, or the reinforcements arrive or the main character suddenly uses a skill we had forgotten about from the first act. It jumps off the screen and hits me in the throat, it pokes me in the eyes and every part of me wants to give into the emotion. I even hear others starting to cry in the room. I swallow hard, rub my eyes and look around to make sure no body is looking at me. I'm not going to be caught with tears in this moment.

I don't remember how the news was given, or even what happened the rest of the day, but she was gone. In shaky voice, behind a veil of tears, my Mom had told us, my brother and I, that my grandmother had died. My impulse was to immediately run, try to escape the truth. I fled to my room, buried my face in my pillow and cried a loud, open mouthed, sobbing cry. I surrendered all control into the emotion of the moments. I called her. I never wanted to see someone so bad in my life and knowing I would never see her again was almost too much to bear. I couldn't even find comfort in the hope of heaven, I wanted her then. I wailed and color faded away.

I had been so blessed, but those blessing had been rattled. Shelly and I had twins and a house, but we were far from our family in Kalamazoo and I had lost my job. We made our way for a while, but I needed more than the spotty work I was getting. We had made meals of eggs and peanut butter sandwiches. Eaten poorer than I ever did in college. We could do that, what we couldn't do was pay the bills and keep up the house at the same time we staggered through. So, Shelly worked on the other side of the state, taking the kids with her. This meant they could be watched and we had a little more income and the family there would feed the three of them. It wasn't the first time she left, but I remember a particularly difficult one. I think I was watching Remember the Titans when it was time for them to go. I kissed them and waved as they backed out of the driveway and then drove up Westnedge Hill to the expressway. So, in that moment, feeling completely alone and failing, I cried. I wanted to go with them, to have my job back, to be the rescuer and I couldn't. The sun poured in the windows and the movie marched on, but I was too broken to enjoy them.

The kids were with their grandparents and Shelly and I had, had a fantastic weekend. We were not at Disney, not even in Florida, as you might have suspected. In fact, we hadn't even left the state. We were with our couples Sunday School class at a couples conference. This time was about us and about our relationship. We had a beautiful room, which had a little treat basket prepared by Myra Kay, the pastor Jeff's wife. Many of the couples were our friends and heightened our joy. We had been give homework to write vows, privately, for our spouse. I took this seriously. I tried to pick my word so she could read the depth of my emotion, which I so rarely show. I could imagine getting to the large room and exchanging these things and me reading hers, mustering my strength and her reading mine and crying. This is not what happened. We were asked to read what we had written to our spouses. This completely broke me. Not with the sad or pained outburst, which is so often associated with crying, but the dripping hot, shaking crying which come with being overwhelmed with joy. I read through cracked voice and blurry vision. No amount of deep breathing or eye rubbing could cover this. So, I cried and hugged and knew that she knew that I loved her.

Jigsaw puzzle

This weekend Shelly and I took Savannah and Sierra to Barnes & Nobles. For a while we were a Borders family, but since their close that building has become just a semi-lit empty shell. This is the first time I have been in a bookstore for myself in a while. It is a little strange, strange in a way that helps me understand what happened to Borders.

First I walk with the girls back to the section of books that have Percy Jackson, Hunger Games and 39 clues. They are in, they have the vision I used to have of this place. They don't see it the way I do.

I step one row up form them and look at the Dungeons and Dragons books. There are no surprises here, with the exception of the price they are trying to get for an oversized box that contains 6 differently shaped dice. I know about every other book there because I have a DDI subscription, which gives me this content on my computer, or through my iPad. I don't have any need for these books any more. I think about the flavor text I am missing, but am I really going to spend that much money for flavor text.

From there I wander to my favorite section of the store, clearance books. I have from this section books on history and weapons, dictionaries and collected works of Poe and Shakespeare. I look across these books, from interesting topic to the next, but they all had problems. They were either books I could get free from Project Gutenberg or the information was nothing better than I could get from a simple Google search or oversized tomes, which I have no place for anymore. There was a Sushi instruction and tool set box, which looked interesting, but our kitchen is suffering the same problem as my bookshelves, so I leave it.

It is then I look around. I don't need reference. I don't need fiction. I don't even need the cool pens and notebooks I used to fawn over. Not only don't I need them, I don't even want them anymore. It is a sobering thought.

I meet up with Shelly, she is looking at some Star Trek fiction, but the section is small and nothing really grabs her. Together we discuss what we will get. We have twenty five dollars between us. We start looking at the games and puzzles. I'm in a bookstore, with a gift card and I'm reduced to looking at things other than books.

Last night, after church, after we ate grilled cheese sandwiches, we separated the 2000 pieces one from another. We flipped them over and began to organize them. After some prying the kids away from the TV, we did this as a family. The six of us began recreating Michelangelo's ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Adam and God. Red and green robes. We didn't get very far on the puzzle, but I think it was a good use of the gift certificate.

Fiction Friday: Chapter 18

The men saw Mr. Li in the garage an knew exactly what that meant. He had specific instructions that he wanted to handled precisely the way he requested and he wanted to make sure the girls understood who it was they were dealing with. He stood calmly between his gunmen.

Inside the first car to arrive, the black SUV, the man located for a signal from the boss, letting him know he should get out. Mr. Li waited. It would be fifteen minutes before the second car arrived and he had no patience to repeat himself. The chameleon started to worry. He couldn't stand the wait.

He grabbed the handle to get out and tell the boss everything that happened. He wanted to explain why he had taken his power back there at the gas station. Explain that he thought it was the only way. Reduce the trouble he would be in for misusing the device. The older man, the one who once could locate, beside him grabbed his arm before he could pull back on the handle. "Li has not given the signal," was all he said. The younger man waited.

The kids in the back said nothing. They did not like the look of the Asian man standing outside.

The flex arrived in a few minutes. Mr. Li took a deep, measured breath. He raised a sink hand and gave the signal. The men of both cars opened the doors and stepped out of their vehicles. "Get the girls," Mr Li said. He could take care of discipline and make sure the girls stayed in line at the same time.

With the girls out of the car, Mr. Li started explaining what would happen. "Do not consider using your powers against us," Mr Li paused, his eyes falling on Sarah, the shocker. "You can not take us all out faster than we can kill you. Additionally, as you can tell," this time he stopped in front of Savannah, "your parents are here, but only kept safe by my word. If I come to harm, they will be killed."

Shelby craned her head in all directions pealing back the layers of the building her her mind, trying to reveal her parents. She found them in a small room made to look like a bedroom on the top floor. Savannah was also looking that direction. The others stared at Mr. Li.

"The device," he said holding out his hand. The chameleon stepped forward and placed it in his hand. "Thank you, William."

The young man turned, relieved, he thought he had escaped Mr. Li's wrath. Walking back to his spot, he didn't see he boss pull the large pistol from his shoulder holster. He caught a glimpse of the girls large eyes just before the explosion rang in his ears. To him the world spun and went black.

The body of the chameleon formed a heap on the floor. His wish faded from the wall in the gas station. Mr. Li spun on his heal and smiled, the message sent. "Take the children to their rooms and clean up this mess.".

Office cabinet

On the opposite side of my office is a six foot cabinet. It is a dull dark brown, steel cabinet with a single lock at the top. On the top are two things, meaningful toys. The first is a Superman bust, which has the S replaced with an L, from my boss who periodically calls me Leanman. This should be obvious, but it is not for my physical fitness, but rather my use of lean tools in project development. Beside the man of steel is Webkinz hedgehog, which is meant to resemble a BHAG. A BHAG is the mythical mascot adopted by Blue Cross to symbolize our Big Hairy Audacious Goal. The only their things on the outside of this cabinet are two paper hung on the side with rare earth magnets. The are both one sheets timelines for big projects. The one up top is for Performance Transformation, a project to improve what we can do with the people and money we have available. The second one is for an audit and update for a large group on the west side of the state, this project just finished up, and as often happens we are fighting back the trails of changes which follow the project because the group see this as an open door to cram everything through they can. We are directing them back to the standard process, but the phone still rings.

If I open the doors of this cabinet, I am faced with two shelves. They are mostly empty since my move not this office, in fact the bottom shelf has nothing on it. I remember how just a couple months ago, it was full of dated project binders, but these have since been emptied and those in good conditions, stored for reuse. The right half of the top shelf has a couple different things. The first in a mini-flowerpot with a gold band around the terra cotta vessel, which has a pink foam heart proclaiming Jesus Cares. The flower in the pot, is actually an ink pin wrapped in green, with leaves and topped with a yellow flower. This was a gift to me from my daughters half a dozen years ago. Behind this pot are a small collection of coffee cup. Most of these have been used at some point, but now they are back-ups to my usual cup, a Main Street Baptist Church cup. Both of the cups on the shelf are Blue Cross cups, one blue and one white. On the left side of the shelf is a black box marked Millennium Masterpieces. It is a 30 CDs of compositions by Beethoven, Bach and other classical masters. I periodically pull these out when I really need to have deep focus, but much less since my introduction to Pandora. Underneath this box is a stack of various awards I have received while I have worked here. With limited space, there is no room to hang them and most of them are not particularly remarkable. I keep them because I am proud. I leave them in the cabinet because I do the best I can to hide my pride.

The three filing drawers beneath the doored shelves, have also been misused since the move, a situation I hope to rectify, but don't have any set timeline to do it. So, it could be a while. The top drawer is absolutely packed full of plastic three ring binders of while, blue, red and black. Most of these have a plastic cover, which allows you to slip a page describing the contents. These are empty, as are the binders. They are here for my upcoming projects. I suspect I actually have more of these than I need, but I find it hard to throw out a binder with a clean exterior which has rings the still close tight and even. This is a drawer with promise. The middle drawer is currently empty and I have not yet decided what belongs there. I am happy for the space and I imagine it will fill as I close projects. The bottom drawer is a brightly colored jumble. You can not see it, but the bottom of the draw is completely full of mice and keyboards, power strips and computer cables, mouse pads and other spare parts. The reason you can see these thing is because the are covered with other more commonly used trinkets. There is the Christmas bowl and tray, which became part of the Whoville we created in December. Along the back are a couple rolls of different colored wrapping paper, which has been used more for decoration, than wrapping. I am not a fan of wrapping, it is why they make gift bags. On that thought, there are also a couple different gift bags in here. There is a plastic Twinkie man, from the first area I worked in here, after I referred to someone as having the mental equivalent of a Twinkie. The comment was misplaced, but I still like the toy. There is a brightly colored snake and brown spider. There are playing cards and empty tins, which I have a small collection of. There is an unopened blue slinky, which I will probably give away, but I haven't had the right moment and a blue and white umbrella.

There is more in there than I thought, but less than I will probably have at the end of this year. It seems in many ways, the spaces around me fill with things that tell the little stories that are easy to forget.

Location:Civic Center Dr,Southfield,United States

Two shall become one

Last night, after a busy day, I retired to the chaise portion if our way too comfortable, sectional sofa. Shelly lay beside me, with her head toward me and her body stretched out toward the opposite corner. We had recorded several Big Bang Theory's, a show we enjoy and recommend, and decided we would watch a few of them before we went to bed. You should know, in the event you take our recommendation, the humor of this show is largely nerdy, full of Star Trek, Magic: the Gathering, Dungeons and Dragons and World of Warcraft references. It has a nerds poking fun at nerds feel, which I relate to. Anyway, one of these references, I think it was on Star Trek came up with Penny, the non-Nerd foil, and Shelly looks at me and says, I like that, does that make me a nerd girl? The answer, of course, is Yes. It is just one of the things that make us perfect for each other.

Monday was a little bit of a rough day, in a small, but vexing way. I had a protracted call with one of my accountability partners and long time friend, which really challenged both my skills as an accountability partner and my value as a friend. When I walked through the door from work, Shelly was making dinner, Spaghetti carbonara, a dish she picked up from the Chew. We talked as the house filled with the smell of frying bacon. Apparently I have a tell, because when she turned to look at me, she asked me what was wrong. I told her. In fact, we talked about that and accountability for an hour or so before dinner. She helped me unravel my mind. The talk was deep and invigorating and productive. When it was done Shelly said we didn't talk like that often enough. She is right, it is just another thing that makes us perfect for each other.

At nine this morning I got the first text from my wife for the day. Most days we pass at least half a dozen texts between us. Keeping in touch while I am at work. It said Study and Reading done. This meant that she had completed her Bible study and bible reading. These are two different things. The study is from a work book and deals with a set of verses or chapter, which the reading is a program to read through the Bible in a year. Not five minutes before hand I had just finished mine, which is slightly differs, but also will get me through the Bible in a year. Do you know how awesome it is to have a wife that encourages me to stay in the Word of God and wants me to encourage her to do the same? I don't know exactly how common this is, it is probably private where is does happen, but I suspect it is pretty rare. Again, this is just another way we are perfect for each other.

We are surrounded by couples who don't talk, seem to work to hurt each other, who bad mouth there spouses, who embarrass them in public, who hurt them in ways they wouldn't hurt a stranger and we are mystified. As you know, we are not perfect people, we didn't do anything brilliant or thoughtful or even particularly Godly to make this happen. God, though, was looking out for us. He placed us together because he loved us. We are perfect for each other in all the ways I listed above not by accident, but by divine design.

It is this I thank God for today.