The climbing tree

The roots stretched like long thin fingers gripping the packed earth around the sandbox. As we leaned over the edge, focused on Matchbox cars or Star Wars figures, we could feel the knuckles of wood beneath our knees. They felt like immobile stones wrapped in skin. It was the skin of a hardened laborer, thick with callouses and scars, with ridges and cracks. There was no need to look at them, we knew the by feel.

We couldn't see the path of the roots, but we knew hub from which they all radiated. She was just a few feet from the chain link fence which lead to the back, backyard. At her base you could see more of the knuckles of root than anywhere else, but these were different. Smoother, worn that way by the K-mart tennis shoes of by brother and I who seemed to be around it so often, and lighter in color than everything above it.

The black bark of her trunk was fascinating. It would hold the dampness of the morning dew until deep in the morning and it was not uncommon to find the dried, yellowed husks of cicadas still holding onto the wrinkles of wood. We would hide on the far side, either from being found or from incoming fire from a stick-gun. It became a perfect obstacle during a game of tag. It was a place to lean and think when life seemed unfair.

At about head height, the truck made its first divide, making smaller trucks and a few branches. A couple of these branches were a little larger around than baseball bats, and curved up into the canopy of the tree. Strong, but grab able. Never moving, even when we bounced on them. These were the access to the other world, the place where you left the earth and looked down on those who had no idea you were up there. You could climb as high as you dared, or rest in a crook.

When you looked in the chaos of gray branches and green leaves rippling in the breeze, you could almost see the children who came before. High in the tree, peaking out from towering boughs, you could see the glimpses of movement. They were there, but not. Like shadows in a dark room, you could never quite point them out, but you could feel the connection to them when you climbed. The leaves whispered in the wind, giving them voice. "Up here." "Can you see me?"

Standing on one branch, balancing with another, we would crane our necks and try to look around obstacles which kept these ghosts out of sight. The children of the tree. Perhaps if we climbed just a little higher, a little closer, she would share her secrets.

First Wrestling Meet

In high school I joined the wrestling team because of my friend Tim. This is kind of an odd thought, as in those days we often had a sometimes contentious relationship, but he was definitely my link in. I don't remember the conversation, but I do remember the practice.

The.group of us Canton High School wrestlers filled the halls of the athletic and band building, called Phase III. We were a stream of runners. None of us wore shorts or tee shirts or any of the things you would think yo keep cool. In fact, it was just the opposite. We wore sweat clothes in layers, with hood pulled up. The idea was to be as bundled as possible to sweat and burn fat and cut weight. I wore two sweatshirts and long shorts underneath sweat pants. It was hot. Maybe the hottest I have ever been. The sweat burned my eyes and my pace was pathetic and lurching. This was awful.

When the coaches felt we had run enough, we entered the red matted practice room. We parred off and began sparring. This was not completely unfamiliar to me. It had been a few years, but this was like Judo, which I still had muscle memory for. We would get into a stalemate and one of the coaches would tell us what to do in that situation. I learned how to use my leg as leverage to drive off someone who was trying to trip me. I learned how to do a fire mans carry. I learn how to flip someone who was turtles up and how to resist being flipped. It was hard and sweaty, but more fun than running.

Wrestling and Judo are similar in the fact that you a grappling and unbalancing and staying in almost constant contact with your opponent. They are, though different in some fundamental ways. Judo is largely built around moves where you hold your opponent away from you, hands often gripping the front of the gee and pushing away. Wrestling, though, is made of moves where you are very close, sometimes locked in a kind combat hug, or driving an opponent down with the weight of your body. It looks and feels very unnatural, but it is a kind of balance chess game. Don't expose your kegs, don't turn your back, don't get pushed out.

I was never particularly strong, or a great wrestler, but I did ok. Additionally, I had one thing which made me a valuable commodity, I weighted only 125 pounds. There was one kid in the weight class lighter than me and one other my size. Then their was a little gap and many more boys in the 140 and up. This meant in the upcoming meet, my first meet, I would be wrestling varsity. No JV, which was kind of a big deal to me.

The day came and as it turned out, I had to wrestle one weight class up, meaning all that weight cutting, fat burning was for nothing. It probable didn't do that much for me anyway (at that age). I was in my singlet and carrying my headgear. I saw my first match was against Troy.

It started normal enough, he in his yellow and I in my red, both looking lanky and ridiculous in our spandex and bulky headgear. We started in the standing position, grabbing shoulders, leaning in to keep our legs away. He was a little taller and a little heavier that me. I wasn't going to beat him with a traditional slow wrestling match, but he was exposed. He was leaning in in a way that makes perfect since to a wrestler, but it is leaving yourself open in a Judo match. I could use his size and lean against him. I leaned down, dipping under his arms, but shifted my grip to the wrist of his right arm. I spun, putting my shoulder under upper part of his right arm. Then I pushed off with both feet and leaned forward. This had the effect of causing him to leave his feet, I flip completely over me and landing hard on his back at my feet. I dove on him, locked him down and won the match.

My second match of the event was against the current state champion for the weight class. I lost decisively, brutally and quickly.

Speaking March 6th

On Wednesday, March 6th, Pastor Jeff is going to be out of town. I'll miss him, of course, but that is not my biggest concern about this day.

In the corner the heater, which looks like a small fireplace kicks out the heat. I sit in one chair and he sits in the other, both in front if his desk. I get the feeling Jeff likes to get out from behind the desk as often as he can, turn down the authority, turn up the compassion. We've been talking about some the ministries of the church, some new ideas and new people we would like to get plugged in. There is a lot to do, lots of good stuff, but it is not too intense. He then, with a casualness which masks the request, mentions he'll be out of town and asks if I would like to speak.

Now, this is not the first time I have been asked, and I have spoken before, but it is nerve wracking and intense every time. I am not prepared. Retired pastors and Greek scholars sit in that audience. There will be friends who have seen the less pleasant sides of me. Jeff sits across from me, leaning back and comfortable. There is a smile, maybe even a smirk, on his face. Perhaps he sees the wheels spinning in my head, the excuse center trying to throw on the breaks. I hear my mouth say, "Sure."

From the point I committed to this every study, every word, every thing I read or listen to goes through a new filter. The "can I speak about this" filter. I try to think of the points, the audience, the hook and questions. I pray and meditate. I don't have a solid answer, yet, but I've got about three ideas I'm juggling.

The first thing which came to me, came as a spin off from A walking conversation with Reuben. We were talking about denial and the way Christians deny God. With their time, with their talents, with their witness, with their relationships, etc. then we talked about Peter's denial and how we are like Peter, saying we'll stay until death while we are safe, but mess up when challenged. We talked about how we deal with looking at the face of Christ, when we see him again after the rooster crows. We talked about the way Christ forgave and charged Peter and how he does the same for us.

The second message idea came from a few different ideas which have been spinning around in my head on faithfulness and the roll of money. Starting with Able, what made his sacrifice worthy was the fact that he gave the first and best. We don't think about is that first born was the produce of his livelihood, giving it up presented a risk and it was a sacrifice of the best, which he would not have. This kind of sacrifice before God is very clearly what God wants, and it is carried in different formats in the old and New Testament. We are still called to give our first and best, to give sacrificially to God. This mean money and this means time. Not either or, but your faith can be measured by the money and time you give to God. This would step on toes and needs more research, but it is a real truth of what we are called to do, today.

The third potential message comes from my Bible study this morning, which included the passage in Mark where Jesus heals the young girl. It is at this spot where he cast out the demons from the insane man, which kills a herd of pigs and caused the locals to ask him to leave. He has come back and a woman, who had been bleeding for years, touched his clock and was healed. Then he is presented with this family mourning because their daughter has died. You can imagine the courtyard full of mourners and the father who tells Jesus she is dead, that he is too late. Jesus then hushes him, tell him she is merely asleep. This causes the family and mourners to laugh, not in jest, but at the ridicules nature of Jesus claim. He is not slowed. Instead he walks into the room and tells the girl to get up, which she does to the amazement and relief of her father. Imagine this and think about the most famous resurrection in the Bible, that of Jesus himself, a resurrection which believers are meant to spiritually undergo so they can walk in a new life. It make me think that often people give up on the things which God has called them to do, after they let the frustration linger too long, their idleness, lazyness, pride, go to long and they finally declare that part of their walk dead. I can see Jesus leaning into the ear of this broken and defeated Christian and saying, "you are not dead, only sleeping, now get up."

I don't know what the final lesson will be, but I am working on it. Pray for me. Also, if you happen to be in the area, I would appreciate your support. I'll speak at 6:30 at Praise Baptist Church in Plymouth.

Eater's Lament

By now my diet quandary should subside.
Refrigerator dim upon my frown,
Long shadows from the eclipsed light can't hide,
The tide of want and need in which I drown.

Cheese Doritos peek down from on their perch,
Thin Mints, frozen,in my mind do beckon,
Ice cream, willpower depleting, does lurch,
Alone and tempted, scarce can I reckon.

I tell the lies I must to be fulfilled,
One splurge, one day, three days won't make you fail.
I chew and tear and taste and cry, heart chilled.
Tomorrow judgement finds me on the scale.

Rotten Fruit

If your circle of friends and family is large enough, you will find there is always someone who is fighting with someone else. I don't mean disagree, you can disagree without fighting, I mean resorting to the nastiness of not talking to, but talking about, the inflation of pride and the utter disrespect for the other. This can happen is small ways, with quiet distain, or big, ever the top, yelling matches. I've been in them and some of you are in them right now. Let's talk about this.

The prideful, sinful, self does not want to be told he (or she), is wrong. So, if you are fighting with someone right now, before you go any further, please set yourself aside. Pray for a moment. Take a breath. I don't want the half a dozen of you involved in your various fights, to turn the venom towards me. I love you, or I wouldn't bother.

You fight, you complain, you offer derision, because you are not gracious. You replace graciousness with selfishness. It is our sinful nature to do this, we can do it without thinking about it, but this kind of pride destroys us. Graciousness is key component of relationship building. If you are not gracious, no relationship will last.

So, what is graciousness? Thomas Jefferson wrote, "Take things always by their smooth handle." By this he means for us to imagine a situation as hot pot, which you have to take hold of. Now, you can grab it by the hot sides and bottom, but you will come away blistered and worse for the wear, or you can take it by the handle. Nothing changes except for your approach. Graciousness is just that, not letting some misspoken word, some poor timing, some accusation, result in you getting burned, instead you offer the benefit of the doubt, you forgive the mistake or indiscretion, you grab the handle and skillfully, lovingly, deal with your friends and family.

As Christians we have additional call to be graciousness. Think for a moment about the fruit of the spirit, the product that Christians are called to produce. Galatians 5:22-23 says they are "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control," nearly all of them having a direct link to graciousness. You can't shout on the phone to somebody and exhibit either gentleness or self-control. You can't gossip in love or kindness. You can't demand an apology in patience or joy. I would suggest that if you can't be gracious some of your fruit has turned rotten. You are failing to set a basic Christian example.

It is not too late. You may have dug the hole you are in and are not sure how to get out, but I promise you it is not as hard as you think. The first thing you need to do is extinguish your pride. Odds are you made a mistake or two, own them. You are not perfect, no one thinks you are. Second, extend the first apology. It may be that more than one apology is owed, but you should be the first, tell your friend you were acting wrong and you would like to start over, or repair the damage or just say you are sorry. Give them the love Jesus gives you. Give them the forgiveness and patience. Third, don't expect them to behave the same way you are. They may still be interested in drama and fighting, even so, be gracious.

Happy Valentine's Day

Some of you probably clicked the link to this blog entry expecting me to have a small diatribe on St. Valentine's Day. Perhaps, you thought I would call it a Hallmark holiday, or point out what a waste of money and calories flowers and candy are. At least one of you, you know who you are, were hoping I would write about the mysterious third century Roman saint, who gave us at least the name of the day. As a note, the rest of you are relieved I am not. Maybe you even thought I would poke fun at this heart filled, pink and fluff day. I'm nit going to write about any of those things. Instead, I thought I would write about something a little more personal.

It was Wednesday, the day before Valentines Day, at 3:30 PM. I had to go soon, so I could make it appear as if I was changing nothing about my schedule. The thirty minutes should give me time to hit the Jeweler, then if they didn't have what I was looking for, transition to plan B. My mission, if I chose to accept it (and I did), was to delight and surprise Shelly. Isn't it awesome to do that for someone you love?

I pull into the lot of 14Kt Jewelers and make my way inside. Not only is this shop strategically placed between work and home, but it is my wife's favorite jeweler. Do you know how wrong that is? Who has a favorite jeweler? I guess it is the kind of person who wins jewelry by guessing the karats of the stones by look alone. In my mind I see the classic 50's robot gyrating and flailing its arms saying, "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."

The store is empty except for one young lady, I think the daughter of the owners, but I am not sure. I tell her I am looking for Black Diamond earrings. My wife saw a pair she liked a lot over Christmas, and I acted completely uninterested in them ( you can never start too early preparing for these sort of mission). The lady looks at me and asks what kind. I tell her studs and she says they don't have anything like that, but they have these. Her hand waves over the top of the glass cabinet and inside I see a selection of multi stone earrings with black and white diamonds in gold settings. I can tell they are not in the range I am looking for. Time is ticking away, though, so I tell her how much I am looking to spend. I can almost detect the laugh she is holding in. She opens the back of the case and says, I think these are the least expensive ones we have. They are $1500. I practically run out of the place. Favorite Jeweler.... I think I figured out why I was the only customer there.

I check the time when I get back to the car. It is a little after four. I call Shelly, as I always do when I am getting ready to come home and let her know I will be on my way in a few minutes. We talk for a few minutes and I get back onto the road. There is something my wife likes almost as much as sparkling things and that is flowers. So, I know I'll end up passing the house, but I know Sparr's will be open and have what I am looking for.

The lot is more crowded than the jeweler, meaning three cars and every other customer in there is also a man, probably husband's of wives who are now on plan B. I am immediately greeted and asked what I would like. I tell her a dozen roses and she asked which kind. She stares into the glass fronted refrigeration unit full of different colored roses, I stand beside her for a moment considering my options. There is a nice purple-pink one I think Shelly will like, by the petals are not as nice as some of the others. I select red, of coarse, and the interrogation begins. Do you have a nice vase? What temperature should these be kept at? How can I make sure they won't wilt before the morning? I need to know how I can hide these, as they certainly won't be as easy to conceal as a small box. Not below 45 degrees, so the garage is out.

I pull out of the lot, gift in hand still hatching my plot. Get everything to the back of the car. Let Shelly leave for church first, then transfer everything downstairs. It can't just go anywhere downstairs, it needs to be hidden. Behind the old computers I have down there. I stop and get a card, a perfect one that tells her how much I love her and how I thank God for her and head home, putting my casual face on.

It works like a charm. She leaves first, I transfer the goods, she doesn't stumble into them over the course of the night. Even in the morning, I get up first, prepare the water with the powder, snip the end of roses and arrange them. I sign the card and put them together on her desk, for her to see wen she turns the corner to cone down stairs. It says I love you.

Sure, it may not be my holiday, but when I think how good it feels to make my wife happy with some flowers and a mushy card, I can't help but think it is ours.

Middle School Flowers

Last night's dinner conversation was dominated with one topic, flowers. This is a drastic departure from our usual dinner conversations, which is dominated with trivia and challenges, Disney and U.S. Presidents. We didn't even get around to asking which Disney characters share their names with flowers, or which President planted the White House rose garden. Disappointing.

This isn't to say it wasn't interesting. Savannah shared that her friend was getting her a friendship flower, excelling at ignorance in this topic, I asked what a friendship flower was. She said, with a glare over her glass which inferred I had just asked the dumbest question in the world (an inference I will certainly prove wrong, by asking a yet dumber question), "Friendship flowers are for friends and Love flowers are for people you like. Duh." It was like she took my dumb question and decided to trump it with a useless answer. She can't use that technique. I've mastered that technique. Before the train got out if control, "No. What makes them different, how do you know one from the other?" Yellow friendship cards and pink secret admirer cards, was I learned.

Apparently this friend bought sixteen of these yellow carded signs of friendship and friend of Sierra's even stepped up to the plate and bought a secret admirer one, the poor deluded fool. We asked her if it was for her, to which she gave a strong no, then a less defiant probably not. Because we are sick, mostly Shelly, we asked about getting a card from someone tall, dark and wrestlely. Blushing achieved, we moved on.

I told the kids I went to school before flowers, so we didn't do that, but I am pretty sure that is wrong. We probably did do that, well if by we I mean not me, but people at my school did. I am not sure why I, the paragon of middle school studliness would have no memory of this, or how all the girls who were wooing me would have missed this opportunity to show their love, but alas I was left flowerless. Perhaps they didn't deliver to band room, where I ate my lunch with my friends who played Dungeons and Dragon's. Who knows? Clearly this is an enduring mystery.

My wife made it clear they did do the flowers at her school, I could see by the liveliness in her eyes she could still almost reach out and touch them. It was as if the big white bucket had been plopped down in the center of or table, nearly smashing our spaghetti. Then, with pouty lips, "I didn't get any." "I didn't get any either," I tried, thinking my own unbelievable rejection would somehow ease the newly opened wound. Dang you, middle school flowers. She wasn't having any of it. She knew why I didn't get flowers, but instead she said, "You don't like flowers. I never get flowers." Woe now, just woe. It is not about the liking of the flowers, its about the girls who sent the flowers, but for some reason they couldn't find me. Also, I get you flowers. I actually said that last part, so "I get you flowers."

It was then my wife look away from the imaginary white bucket, full of flowers for other people and looked into my indignant face. She smiled, like you do when someone has missed the point. She then took my hand, which was resting on the corner of the table. "You do get me flowers," she said agreeing to my protest, "but I had to get married for that."

Young Valentines

One box of Knight Rider and one box of Transformer Valentine's Day cards set before me. Tomorrow was the day, well not Valentine's Day, but the day we would have our class party. I should have filled out these cards already, but I hated this part. I hated all the writing.

Truth be told there was only a few people I even wanted to give cards to and only one girl. The rest of the class was just cover for Vanessa. Schoolyard, plausible deniability. Enough to deflect any accusation, but she would still get the message. For a moment I imagined her straight blonde hair and how she playfully ignored me. A game she never seemed to tire of.

I opened the boxes to see what my options were. Her card would have to be first, it had to be just the right card. It needed to be the "BE MINE" of cards, rather than the "YOU ROCK" or "LET'S READ". Who thought putting "Let's read" on a Sweetheart was a good idea? Anyway, I splay the sheets of six perforated cards before me and see what I have. Bumblebee and Optimus Prime, KITT and Michael Knight, but what were they saying. "It's Valentine's Day," would be perfect for the cover cards, but no good for Vanessa. "Happy Valentine's Day," was better, but not really the message I was going for. "Valentine's Day. Roll out." Clearly a friend card.

The I saw it. The perfect card. The black car was turned at an angle so you could both see the red light on the front and the drivers side door. Sitting on the hood is one of my TV heroes, in a leather jacket and jeans looking super cool. It would be years before I thought about him as the Hoff, but he was just Michael Knight at this time. He was looking right at the person holding this card, with a point which said I see you and the words over his head which said, "Be me Valentine." Clearly Vanessa's card.

I popped the card out carefully, I didn't want to tear it. Behind the "To:" I wrote Vanessa and then I paused. I could put something clever where my name was supposed to go, something like "Your Secret Admirer" but the ruined the cover and I was pretty sure I couldn't spell admirer. Also, truth be told, it was only a secret because she liked to ignore me so much. Nope, needed to stick to the plan. I wrote my name. I should have gotten a sticker or something to make it stand out, but the only stickers I had were Garbage Pail Kids. Two problems with that. One, even as an elementary schooler, I knew sticking a puking or acne covered kid was the least romantic thing one could add to a card. Second, who would ruin a Garbage Pail Kid by pealing the sticker off the back, I wasn't an animal. So, I signed my name.

I had sat there for a half hour filling out my first card, but it had to be right. Just right. In twenty more minutes the rest of the cards were done, the only real thought given was making sure none of the boys got the other cards that looked like Vanessa's. No Louis I don't want to be your Valentine. I am not a girl.

I imagined how this one card could change everything, how she would see through the party and see me, really see me. I imagined how delighted she would be to have gotten such a perfect card, delighted enough to break her silence. I slept the sleep of hope, that sleep which often proceeds the crushing reality of an elementary school boy.

The highlight of the party was the cupcakes.

Lord Sazet's new quarters

The attendant stood nervously before Lord Sazet. He was nearly the same height, but something about the way the boss carried himself, made him feel small, almost insignificant. He feigned looking at the data pad while he watched Lord Sazet finish his teleconference. He talked about planetary operations, controlling markets in whole sectors and suggested the removal of the highest ranking officials as if he was ordering a meal. Casual. Controlled. With Lady Mazet gone, he would likely run the house one day, so even this, a simple review of his quarters, had to go well. A tone rang out drawing the attendants attention, the conference had ended meaning it was time.

"Xad," Lord Sazet said with a smile, "How is your wife and daughter?"

It had been six months since he had done any work for Lord Sazet, but he seemed to know him, know his name. Even know of his wife and daughter. Had he ever mentioned them? How had he known of them? "They are fine, sir. Is there anything you would like to do before we inspect your new quarters?"

Lord Sazet stood from his chair, straightened his suit and pulled his top knot tight. His slipped the data pad he had been using into the top drawer of the desk and looked at the cup, a crystal tea cup, which only by the faintest discoloration could you tell it had been used. "Please send for housekeeping while we are out. You know I can't stand all this clutter." Only the tea cup kept the surface of his desk from being immaculate.

Housekeeping called, the two of them took the elevator to the nearly top floor penthouse which Lord Sazet had acquired with his position. In the elevator Xad placed the datapad he was carrying against the dataport, underneath the numerical keypad beside the door and, access granted, the car moved toward the refurbished penthouse.

When the doors opened the lights automatically came on in the foyer. It was a square room of marble floors surrounded by mirrors and frosted glass. In the room, already in position, was a security officer. He stood at attention and said nothing. His only break in protocol was a small nod to Lord Sazet, which, for the moment, he would forgive. As requested, there was no place to sit in here. Any guest not brought into his residence immediately could wait on their feet. "Very good," he said simply.

A click could be heard from the frosted glass wall opposite the elevator, just beside where the guard stood, and the door, an invisible sliding door, slid left revealing the space beyond. The room was massive, with twelve foot ceilings, fifty feet of windows on the far wall, six separate seating areas, a fireplace and a bar, which was stocked with the most expensive spirits and wines available. The couches and chairs were hand upholstered with fine black Corellian leather, which he had hand selected to go with the bluish, white Kuati marble. He looked around the room. Lady Mazet's fireplace had been brought here, just as he had instructed, a token memory of his former boss. She loved that fireplace, it was only fitting he should have it.

Xad stood silently as Lord Sazet smiled, a genuine smile, and ran his green fingers over the mantle. He watched him look to the strategically placed security cameras and to the positions of the doors to the other parts of the penthouse. Then his smile faltered, and his violet eyes became those of a hawk. Slowly, he stepped around the couch by the fireplace and made his way over to the bar.

"Whose collection stocks this bar?" Sazet asked walking slowing towards it across the massive room.

"Yours, Lord Sazet."

"Did you inspect this bar before it was stocked?"

"Yes, Lord Sazet."

He had gotten right up to the bar. "Do you see this?" He asked pressing his finger into the faint blue wood of one of the overhead cabinets. It had been polished to a shine, the gold hinges looked perfect, it was as spectacular as a cabinet door could be.

"The wood you ordered, which I think goes nicely with the... " Xad shut his mouth when The Lord turned toward him. He burned with embarrassment.

"Do you not see how the gap on the left of the door is smaller than the right? Do you not understand what that means about the construction of this whole piece? Why would you bring me here to show me this, if it was not done? Why would you waste my time? Why risk my goods, my.." Sazet closed his eyes and withdrew his jabbing finger.

"Sloppy, Xad." Lord Sazet was done, he was not going to look at any more. He turned on his heels and walked back towards the foyer.

He stopped when he got to the frosted glass door. "Please send the name if the craftsman to my quarters." Then, he was gone.

Free will? Predestination? Yes.

I like reading and discussing even dissecting scripture, but I wouldn't catagorize myself as a theologian. In fact, sometimes I have made a statement and been chewed up be armchair theologians. So, I post this with a little reservation, imagining all the theological holes which I might not be aware of. I post this as my thoughts on a tough subject.

One of the most major divides in theology is the free will/predestination divides. Armenians believe that we have free will, we choose at accept salvation, we can resist God. Calvinists believe that we do not have free will, our lives are predestined, God chooses us and we can not resist him. I am pretty firmly in the Calvinist camp, but I understand the appeal of the Armenian position. I feel like I have free will, I feel like I am choosing my actions, I feel like I made the decision to accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior. The problem is, of course, I don't think scripture reads that way, it actually even explains the feeling by saying we choose him because he first choose us (see Ephesians chapter 1).

I've been mulling on this for sometime and it seems we might have created this division to aid our own understanding. It puts God in a box we understand and can get comfortable with. I'm beginning to think these views, at least as I understand the are incomplete.

Let's think about the nature of God for a moment. We know he is all knowing, but what does that mean? It is not limited to what was, what is and what is to come. See, he not only knows that but he also knows the outcome of every choice which was not made, every cascading combination of possibilities. He knows what was and what could have been, what is and what is not because of our set of choices, what will be and what could be. If you can imagine how small now is on a timeline where the past and future stretch out to the horizon, now imagine how unique our timeline is in the panorama of all possible timelines. All knowing is infinite.

The second nature of God I want you to think about is all powerful. We think about that in terms of the good he brings to our lives, but that is such a weak view compared to what is actually going on. See, since God is all knowing and all powerful, he not only knows all the timelines and choices he knows, but he also has the power to direct which one will take place. Then, even if he chooses to let a set of events run their course, because he knows exactly what will happen and it is not harder for him to change it than leave it alone, he is choosing that timeline. He can't not choose something. Additionally, he chose that something at the beginning of time, because he already knew everything.

Ok, let's set that aside for a moment while my brain cools down and talk about film. Pretend for a moment you are a film maker who is caught in a Bill Murray Groundhog's Day scenario, where you live the same day over and over again. On each day you get to film a couple having a conversation, which because of little changes changes every day. You don't interfere, the conversation is natural, but if you move where you park your car it changes. Anyway for 1000 days you record, tweak and record. Then at the end of the 1000 days, you get to select which footage is the footage you will move forward with, which conversation will they actually have. Now consider for a moment, are you controlling, or pre determining, what the day after Groundhog's Day looks like for this couple? It seems clear you are. On the other hand, did this couple make choices in their conversation, respond to each other by their own choice, or freewill, if you will? It seems they did.

Now, imagine God again, the all knowing and all powerful. He, by the virtue of these very traits is in this very situation. Like a director of a super, all time Groundhog's day, where only he knows what all the other options could have been. Clearly, he has to choose the timeline, the path the world will take. But, just as the couple made their own choices, so do we. We are responsible for actions, we have free will as much as it is possible. We have Responsibility for our sins and obedience. Yes, God knows the choices we will make, but the choices are ours.

First Fan Fiction

I don't know what it was about Mrs. Eckler, but I loved having her as a teacher. It may have been how different she was Mrs. Hammond, my fourth grade teacher from the year before, who seemed to always be unhappy with me. It may have been that feeling she gave you, which made you feel like you could do anything. It may have been that I had started to like reading and writing, which were subjects she was really excited about. Mrs. Eckler, and her fifth grade class shaped a part of who I am.

I remember a little bit of how this started. The teacher had come in, wearing a brown dress suit with a white blouse and I think a big shiny brooch. She had a milk crate, which she sat down I front of her on Alison's desk as she, herself, sat on a stool. Without much explanation, she withdrew on of the books inside and started reading. It was a clever story about a ladybug and an ant. It seemed a little young for us, but we liked it. It was then she told us that this book had been written by a fifth grader, it was the winner of the Young Author's competition, which we would be participating in.

That's right, I had just been told my book could be published. I would get to write it and illustrate it and, if it was good enough, it would be the story teachers across America would read to their students to introduce the Young Author competition. I was interested in that, but I had my doubts.

That day we were asked to make lists of ideas. I wrote down story ideas about bugs and aliens, dragons and dogs. Also, at the time I was reading the Xanth series, by Piers Anthony, so I wrote an idea of a character who didn't have a power in a world full of people with powers, which is the premise of the first book of the series. When I met with Mrs. Eckler this was the idea we settled on. I would be writing a Xanth story, I got started right away.

Over the next few weeks, we outlined a story and started drawing pictures, started writing sentences and really laying out the book. Each step of the way, the teacher would set with us and play editor, give us more details, explain why that happened, could you draw a picture of that, what is the resolution. Also each step of the way, she would tell me how much she liked my story and how I could win. This might have been the first major project I was genuinely excited about.

I presented my story, a story of a ten year old without a power, who was picked on by all the kids who had good power. That is except for one friend, a girl, who had the ability to talk to insects. They get in trouble because of a mean prank, where they were dumped into a thorn bush, where they risk being trapped or being cut up trying to get out. It is then the boy learns his power, which is controlling plants. They escape unharmed and then cause vines and bugs to torture the bullies.

When I was done reading, the class applauded and the teacher to me I had done a good job. I only came in third in the class, but I was hooked. From that point on when someone asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, I would say, with no pause at all, "be a writer."

Pharmacia

I pulled into the lot beside the large old building. Unlike the offices, which I had previously worked in, offices which constantly looked new, this had the architecture and wear of age. As you drove by the front you could see where the building had once read Upjohn, the company it had been two mergers ago. In those days this was a Kalamazoo company, not a Peapack, New Jersey company with a Kalamazoo plant.

I nearly got swept up in that move to New Jersey. While I packed and traveled and helped my team get set up there, Deb, my boss, was making job offers for me to join them. It would be a promotion, in the company, not just a contractor, making considerably more money, but.... It was in New Jersey. Despite my initial temptation, I said no.

With Deb and Ben, Kathy and Tom all moved, my job was ending. I was in the specialist category of Employment Group, what a horrible name, which meant they sent me to more unusual jobs. This one, their first technical writer position, is what brought me here. I used my contractor badge at the side door and walked into a strange environment.

The office I came from, doing research for Managed Market Intelligence, was carpeted and glass, full of sun. This, though, was completely different. The side door opened into a windowless hallway, which ended in large wood doors. The wall had plaques which were twenty, thirty, fifty years old. The kind with dark wood and a face of tarnished bronze beside a few words. Even the plant in the corner, surrounded by dim light, seemed old. I took the stairs down, but only a few feet in I already felt lost.

The white rock stairs, with black strips of grit to keep you from slipping ended in a smooth concrete floor. The doors at the bottom opened into a wide, very wide, wide as a street type hallway. When I stepped into it I was stunned. Because I didn't know it was here, it took me a minute to take it in. The top of the hallway, easy six feet above my head, was not a ceiling at all. It was pipes, water and gas, wire for electricity, phones and computers, ducts for heating and air returns all packed so tightly, you could not see a ceiling through them at all. They were labeled with block text and bundled. Some showed age, paint being pushed off by the rust beneath and others were clearly new. They seemed to run the length of the hall, but it was too long to tell. From this spot, I could not see the end.

If the ceiling was static chaos, the hall was moving chaos. Yellow lights on moving vehicles could be seen in the distance, people walked, some in jeans, others in white Tyvek suits on either side of the hall. I noticed a yellow stripe on either side noting the pedestrian areas. In addition the the mother vehicles there were three wheeled bicycles, some with giant baskets, others pulling tool chests, moving about. Everyone out here was going somewhere else. None of them noticed this crazy underground environment they were moving through anymore.

It occurred to me, I had somewhere to be too. I was supposed to meet me new boss, Frank. Second area on the right. I had no ideas how I would know one area from another, but I started on my way.

First Ministry

This weekend I had the honor to talk with, and hopefully help, a young couple who have taken on a challenging ministry in our church. I didn't, but I just wanted to hug them. Ministry is hard and uncertain, it wears on your heart and makes certain things like a raw nerve. Moreover, your first ministry, first major ministry where you are over a group, is the worst. You have big groups of problems, which you have never had to consider or solve, and you have problems you don't even know you have, sometimes it seems you can do nothing right.

I remember in one of my early ministries, serving youth, we were working to lock down our weekly meetings and at the same time we were having attendance issues. I went to the church early, which was quiet because nothing else was going on, and made sure I was ready for the kids. The time ticked on and no one came, I should say no one was their on time. So, I shifted to making a sign which said, youth cancelled because of lack of attendance. At ten minutes after the starting time, I posted the sign and drove home. I didn't know how to handle the situation, the missing kids, the lateness, my own desire to do something else.

I think about my frustration in that moment. I was mad at the church which didn't support me, the parents who couldn't get their kids there on time, or couldn't be bothered to bring them at all, I was mad at the kids who never seemed to be able to remember anything. I didn't want to give them anymore of my time than I had to. I needed someone to come along side me, not the church leadership which eyed my youth with suspicion, some who had been where I was and could advise me.

I can imagine this person setting me down and stilling me had from writing the note. They would look at me and ground me. Ask me who I was serving? If I'm serving God and if I'm serving youth, than why does that change because of a little bump. The councilor would tell me to pray, then to start calling the kids, talk to them, remind them, see if they were on their way. Use the time to fix the problem, rather than avoid it. The councilor would also tell me to work more closely with the church leadership, my perceived distrust was made worse by our separation. No councillor was there.

While I talked to this couple I thought of conflicts I had with parents and pastors who treated me according to my age, when I was young, and how indignant I was. The mother who thought she could tell me that her 13 year old daughter had the right to smoke, so long as she stepped off the church property. The father who stormed out after I pointed out he was choosing football over his child. The pastor and parent who called me at night to ask me why I didn't teach any lesson, which unfolded into a long conversation spurred on because his daughter hadn't been listening and couldn't tell her Dad what we talked about. I wasn't doing anything wrong, I thought to myself, why can't they trust me? Will I ever get that respect? Shouldn't these people be supporting me? Why am I under attack?

The councilor might not have changed the outcomes of these situations, but would have talked me through what was going on. Helped me understand and deal with these people who were not trying to hurt me, it was never about their support. He would have reminded me to think about the home the smoking girl must be in and the importance of giving her structure. He would have reminded me that this father could participate in other ways, and it did me no good to question the love he had for his child. He would have encouraged me that any pastor or parent should be applauded for asking his child what they learned and becoming concerned if it looks like no lesson was giving. It was no big deal to share the lesson with him and thank him for the love he has for his child. There is no need to let paranoia and worry reign, when there are better ways to handle these situations. Again, no councilor was there. I was older and more prayerful, so they turned out better, but these situations vexed me.

I don't know if I said anything to this couple which was specifically useful. They have many of the same kind of problems I have had, they have many of the worries and concerns I have had, they feel unsupported. I hope I made it clear the church and church leadership is supportive of them. I hope I made it clear, that I was supportive of them. I don't know, though, if I did that very well. More important, I hope they understand that if they will let me, I will be that councilor for them. I will help them through the struggles which will certainly come.

Samaritan woman (from American woman)

Samaritan woman, get a drink for me
Samaritan woman, trouble follows thee
Ladies of the village, they keeping score
They don't wanna see your face no more
Not at this well simply passing through
I come with good news meant just for you
Now woman, I'm here just today
Samaritan woman, listen what I say

Samaritan woman, get a drink for me
Samaritan woman, trouble follows thee
That water won't hold you until four
Drink what I bring and you'll thirst no more
No longer need to be stigmatized
Messiah stand before your eyes
Now woman, I'm here just today
Samaritan woman, listen what I say, hey

Now woman, I'm here just today
Samaritan woman, listen what I say
Ladies of the village, they keeping score
They don't wanna see your face no more
People praise the spirits means
My glory has not been seen
No longer need to be stigmatized
Messiah stand before your eyes
Samaritan woman, get a drink for me
Samaritan woman, trouble follows thee

Go, tell what you've heard me say, soon will be my day
Now go go go
I'm gonna leave you, woman
Gonna leave you, woman
Bye-bye
Bye-bye
Bye-bye
Bye-bye
Take this good from me
I bring good for you
Time to be lifted is drawing nigh
Told you what I'm gonna do
You know I'm gonna leave
You know I'm gonna go
You know I'm gonna leave
You know I'm gonna go, woman
I'm gonna leave ya, woman
Goodbye, Samaritan woman...