What if?

There is a voice inside of all of us, with a tone so familiar, so seductive, we can't help but listen. When the voice speaks, we listen. We lean in close and tilt our head at the perfect angle, so we don't miss a single syllable and listen. When the voice speaks from the pulpit of our heart, we listen,

What if I give up all that great food and still gain weight? What if I loose my job? What if my kids hate me when they are grown? What if the food I am eating gives me food poisoning? What if a stranger comes into the house and the dog doesn't bark to let me know? What if there is fire? What if my car breaks down? What if I'm forgetting something important? What if I can't see the hurt and people think I don't care? What if people are laughing at me?

The voice is so clever. So creative. So, exacting to hit right where I am exposed. How could we not listen?

The truth is that voice is us. It is that part of me that reminds me to grab an umbrella when it might rain or fill up on gas when the car is low, it has just gone a little haywire. So, if that voice is me, than the "what ifs" are mine too. Are tired of the fruitless what if? I am. So, it is time to change the script. It is time to consider the what ifs you want to be asked. Time to ask the what ifs that move us from hiding and sheltering, to reaching out and growing.

What if today is the day your boss is looking to reward you? What if today was the day your body would find that comfortable healthy balance between food and exercise? What if today is the day you, and only you, can fill the needs of your closest friend? What if you were suddenly going to find a reservoir of strength, hope, money? What if you could do what you loved, everyday? What if your friends admired you, cherished every minute they had to be with you? What if today was your day to be a hero? To save the day? To amaze? To bring tears of joy to someone?

Creating

Last night Shelly and I settled in after a long day on the couch watching Ironman. We love these kind of movies, superheroes and super villains. We similarly settled in to watch Thor or Avengers. Ironman, though, has a special place in my heart. Yes, he's cool, has great toys and is quick with a comeback, arrogant in a way you would hate in real life, but is just lovable on screen. But, what I really love about him, is he is a creator. Some would say inventor, but he more than that. From the cave in his origin story he creates an opportunity for freedom, with old weapon parts, crafting his first suit. Later we see him refining, surrounded by the robot helpers, he also created and JARVIS an AI, which he also created. In the second movie, he appears from the back of his plane with a plate of gourmet food and when Pepper asks if he made that, he asks where she thought he had been the last three hours. This makes so much since to me. He is a creator.

I love creating. I don't have the seemly endless resources or genius for creating fictional technologies Tony Stark does, but I feel that spark.

A blank page and a fresh black pen is an endless opportunity to tell a story. There are no limitations. A short story about a mechanic who refuses to work on the one car that means the most to him. A novel able four girls who get powers from a discovered artifact. A vampire story, where the vampires are monsters who would rip the arms off of anyone who would suggest they might sparkle. From the simplest of tools, these people and places spring to life.

I wipe down the counter and turn on the oven to prepare my workspace. I set up my iPad and read through the steps to create a pasta dish I have never made before. I gather the vegetables and the spice. I remove the fat from the chicken and cube it, trying to imagine the size that would fit nicely into the mouth of an eater. I put water on the back burner, salt it until it tastes like the sea. These things are nothing apart, but as you combine them and heat them, add and extract flavor, you create not just a meal, but an experience.

I flip the Trukk over so it sits on the untainted boarding planks and engine block, I am looking at the primed, paper white, undercarriage of the hand sized vehicle. I pull out paints of white and black, a steel color and brown. I imagine how the underside of an actual vehicle would look and I try to simulate that. The parts the deepest in I just used black on, so it looks like there is more beyond them. I paint piece to look like hardened aluminum and pitted steel. I paint some of them, as if they have been painted and others with just spots of oil leaking through the joints. I want to bring from this lump of plastic the feeling it is real somewhere, that if you had a small enough wrench you could change the drive shaft.

My wife bakes, scrapbooks, crotchets and quilts. My Dad likes to draw and write stories. My mom creates costumes and games for the preschool she works for. My kids pretty much all have scrapbooks, some write stories or create games. I can not imagine what it would be like to not create, to not creatively combine things to make something new, to not want to construct an experience.

One of the basic questions children will ask when you talk to them about God, is why did he create us? When I think about the joy the can be derived from creating a simple story, or a meal, or even making plastic look like metal, I don't have any such question. He's a creator. The creator.

The Gaming Bug

One week ago, at this time, I had just arrived in Dallas. I was on the same labored flight as my friends, James and Megan. Boarding was delayed. We were delayed on the runway, while they rerouted us. We waited while they shuffled us in the planes to take off. While in the air, they rerouted us again, perhaps failing at dodging the turbulence, which at one point gave me the distinct feeling of weightlessness. When we touched down, it was a couple hours later than we expected, but Larry, who suffered some setbacks as well, arrived at nearly the exact same time, so Matt could round us all up and DIAF CON south could begin.

It felt like exhaling after you have held your breath for a long time. The relief of sitting all together, or nearly all together, in silver Odyssey. We were on our way to Matt's house, the venue for the Con, as he talked about the plans for the day and the weekend. I know I talked and engaged and discussed, but my memory is of the feeling. We are here. Something special is about to begin.

The scenery outside of the car slowed. I saw a new brick wall, no time for the rough edges of the red hardened clay to soften in the rain. A long cement name plate, a foot tall, has been set into the wall. It say's "Avalon." Appropriate, I think, for a group of games who are not unfamiliar with virtual knights. Matt turned into his neighborhood.

He pulled directly into the garage of a house, which to me looked very much like the others around it. We tumbled out of the van, grabbed our gaming bags, what you might call carry-ons, and entered the house. Tasha, Matt's wife, met us in the kitchen. A couple of his kids, the boys, stared not sure what to make of us. Kevin, Matt's long time friend and co-host, who had flown in the night before, stepped from the back room. I held out my hand, me default greeting, Kevin ignored that and gave me a hug.

We broke out the Chic-Fil-A we had purchased and started with a common meal around the kitchen table. Beside us was a table of games, Ticket to Ride, Pandemic, Fury of Dracula and many more. It was stacked nearly two foot high and it grew, as we purchased games, through the week. As the meal wrapped up, Matt brought out gift bags of Magic Cards, several games, d20 necklaces and a poster for the Con. As the meal ended we couldn't take it any more, we broke out our first game. We played games until midnight. Then, for the next few days we played games back to back from nine in the morning until midnight. It was like a never ending celebration. Fun, but exhausting.

On Tuesday night I was sharing the first meal I had had with my kids. Shelly picked me up from the airport the night before and at had taken the day off, both to recover and spend some time with her. Anyway, we ate the pizza we ordered quickly, so that all the chores could get done and we could.... wait for it.... play games. You might think I would have had my fill, but that has not been the case. We played Noah (a card game where you help Noah load the Arc) and Catching Fire (a game based on the Hunger Games series).

Strange packing

I have what may be the nerdiest collection of friends imaginable. They can argue about the merits of which gun is best in the event of Z-day. They can explain the history of the Star Wars Universe, and therefore both hate and love George Lucas. They will play nearly any game which is available to them and pick the best to share with the rest of us. The will role-play a Half Giant Barbarian or meticulously try to beat what might be an unbeatable game of Pandemic on Legendary. They will get excited about doing research on a silly topic and debate about some philosophical nuance. In short, they are awesome.

The problem is most of these people don't live near me, nor do they live near each other. They are from Texas and Florida, New Mexico and, of corse, Michigan, Virginia and Illinois. So, most of the time when we set down it is through our computers using Ventrilo or Google Hangout, where it is as good as we can get, but it is not the same as sitting around the same table.

This weekend is the second time all that is changing. Last time James and I invited everyone from around the country to our part of the country to play some games together. This time, starting Thursday, Matt has invited us to Dallas.

Unlike last time, this leaves me in the strange position of asking what should I bring.

On my computer desk right now is one obvious thing I need to bring, that is the Orks which have now all been assembled. They are sitting right now in battle groupings, Boyz and their warboss in the Trukk which will carry them. A couple groups of Boyz led by nobz. And a few Deffcopptas, ready to harass my opponents. They make up an army three points below the point limit. While they are ready to fight, they are not yet ready to be transported. Plastic container? Cardboard? Baggies? How to bring them and keep them undamaged and not make them too big to be carried on is the question. I don't like the thought of them being tossed into the underbelly of an aircraft, having a ton of stuff stacked on them and then getting caught in the cargo door.

What to bring in addition to these, though? I recently bought Pirate Fluxx, which I think we could enjoy, so probably that. I have a bunch of Magic the Gathering cards, do I bring those? Ticket to Ride? Pandemic? I know there will be a copy there, but what if more than four people want to play? That doesn't even consider my role-playing books, other miniatures or painting supplies. It feels like Christmas where I have to wrap my own gifts.

Last night my wife asked me if I was planning to wear shorts while I was there. It took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about. I have thought a lot about packing, but virtually none of it has been about what I would wear.

By a Rodian

It is not done and it needs work, but I thought I would share. This song is a little something for my Star Wars loving friends. It is sung to the tune of Willie Nelson's On the Road Again.

By a Rodian -
Stopped in Mos Eisley by a Rodian
Sent by a Hutt who wants to see me meet my end
And I'm in Mos Eisley by a Rodian

By a Rodian
Driven in by the Tatooine sand
Seedy place lightened by the Max Rebo Band
Stopped in Mos Eisley by a Rodian

By a Rodian -
And I'm in Mos Eisley by a Rodian

By a Rodian -
If Chewie was here you wouldn't get in my way
I joke like we're friends
So you don't see the blaster pointed your way

Shot your way
Killing the Rodian.
Flee from Mos Eisley for the Rodian
Sent by a Hutt who wants to see me meet my end

And I can't hang out 'cause of the Rodian
Greedo the Rodian

Beer and Cigarettes

This is one of those stories tat has been on my last to tell for a few weeks, but the sheer stupidity, ignorance and even illegal nature of what took place, has prevented me from sharing. Now with a set-up like that, I am certain many of you will be disappointed as nothing really happened and the actual risk was small, but the specter of what could have happened still lingers.

My family had made the eight hour drive to West Virginia, spent the night at my great grandmother's house, then made their way to our campsite in the middle of the Monongahela Forest. This would be the location for a family reunion, which would draw dozens of cousins I didn't remember, and then my first cousins and second cousins, who I was pretty close to. I particularly was looking forward to hanging out with Ray, who was a year older than me and always seemed cool. He seemed so much more a man of world, knowledgable about girls and parties, guns and danger, all those things which were a mystery to me. I didn't have the taste for risk he did, but I loved the few days I could hang onto his coat tails.

We met up almost immediately. Justin, my brother who had just turned twelve, Ray, my cousin who was a year older than me at fifteen, and I. Of course, we looked to Ray for guidance on what we were going to do and he began to ask us about things like drinking and cigarette. I don't remember the details of the conversation, I don't remember him being pushy, but I remember not wanting to look uncool. So. when he asked if we were interested in trying these clearly forbidden things, I said yes. I had, at this point in my life, never even considered trying either of these things, because of the message which my parents had pounded into my head, but somehow it seemed to be important, now.

So, how were three minors, who all had church going, straight arrow, parents going to get a ride, a buyer and the cash to buy these things? I had no idea, but Ray knew who would buy for us. I suspected this was not his first time.

I always loved my Uncle Haven. He was my grandmother's younger brother who seemed to always be happy and fun to be around. It was clear he was different than most of the family, but it took me a long time to put the pieces together. That he had spent time doing interior decorating and floral arrangements, didn't mean anything to me. That he seemed to be a perpetual bachelor, with long standing roommates, also didn't really click in. I remember actually having someone point out these things and I dismissed them as just Haven.

Haven would not have participated in the kind of giving minors alcohol shenanigans which were being purposes, but his friend Bill, who was probably in his twenties at the time, was all aboard. It makes me a little nervous to think why an adult man, would provide alcohol to three children in the woods, but that is exactly what he agreed to do. He agreed to drive us, buy the beer and cigarettes and find a place for us to try them. How Ray knew he could be convinced, I don't know.

Bill ran into the store while the three of us waited out in the car. I don't know about the others, but I was nervous, not of Bill who seemed to just be one of the boys, but of these things we were not supposed to have. I knew we would get caught, or our parents would know when we got back, or some other dire thing would happen. I was curious what they were like, but scared of the consequences. Bill returned with green bottles, a six pack, of Heineken and pack of Marlborough's.

He peeled out of the parking lot, tires squeezing and we were on our way. Trying to find the right spot. Off the beaten path. He sped over the hills, causing us joy as we lifted off our seats, while he laughed and looked. Then, we were there.

Even before we left the car, we passed the cigarette around. It was, in a word, stupid. I could pull the smoke into my mouth and blow it out, but it did nothing at all for my. I thought I might look cool, but I had no idea what was addicting. Bill said I wasn't really drawing it in, I guess he meant not my lungs, but when I tried that I nearly immediately coughed, why would I irritate my throat. So, they took the cigarette from me and we got out of the car. I assume my brother tried the cigarette in the car too, because I wasn't really looking out for his best interest, but I don't remember for sure.

We sat in the grass under the light covering of trees and Ray opened the bottles of beer. He drank one, Bill drank one and I told him Justin and I would share one. It was horrible. It tasted worse than I could have imagined, it seemed to me like licking wood while you small something which has turned a little bit. To say I sipped it would be generous. Every splash which crossed my lips I wanted to spit it out.

We probably spent thirty minutes, maybe and hour, there before Bill suggested we probably wanted to head back. In the grass between Justin and I sat the half a bottle of beer that remained. I couldn't help but think I just wasn't cool enough, I couldn't enjoy these things I was supposed to enjoy. This was a waste of time. On the way back to the campground, I starter end worrying about Mom and Dad. Fortunately for all of us, they never asked and we never told.

Eleven Headless Orks

Right now, as I'm eating my carrots with my left hand, I am rubbing a hard numb, bump on my right index finger. I am not injured, I know exactly what it is and it causes me to smile. It makes me think of my desk at home.

Most of the time my desk is pretty clean. It is small and even a little clutter seems to cover the whole thing and I often need to have a place to sit a book or my iPad or the Darth Vader coffee cup, which I use as a stand for my webcam. So, it is rare anything on my desk, except for the button which causes Scar to proclaim he is surrounded by idiots, draws the attention of the kids. Over the last couple weeks, though, that has not been true. On Friday my nephew, Nick, asked just to look at all the stuff on my desk.

Probably for as long as I can remember, partially because I am a boy and partially because I can appreciate a megalomaniac, I have been trying to amass an army. This has taken a dozen different forms, but the most recent is growing flood of inch tall, green skinned, leather clad and rusty gun wielding Orks. It is a portion of this army which has been placed and organized on my desk. The portion which I am getting ready to face off against my friends who have also been amassing their armies.

If it was just a matter of buying these miniatures, I don't think I would enjoy it as much as I do. Sure, I could by these things pre-built and painted, but they would never feel completely like mine. They would be a mercenary force. So, I've been building the Boyz (a kind of Ork) I need to flesh my army.

When you buy these figures they are in bunches of pieces on dark gray plastic frames. If you have ever built a model, you have an idea what I am talking about. They are unformed, waiting to be put together. Nothing, yet. This weekend, I opened a box of eleven Orks in this incomplete state.

Saturday, I used a tool, which is like a wire cutter, but the blade it turned so you can cut very close to a flat surface, a sprue cutter, to separate the Orks soldier bits from the rest of the plastic. I organize them into tins. Heads in one and chests in another. Legs and right arms and left arms. Then a tin just for all the little extras, like stikkbombs and armor plates. There is an infinite combination of ways these can be put together. Every combination a choice I can make, a way to take them from generic bits to something which is mine.

This takes pretty much my free time on Saturday, so it is not until Sunday evening, yesterday, that I begin assembling the bits. I start with a black stand, which I glue legs to. You can tall from the position of the feet the way the Ork is facing or moving. You can imagine the ways they might twist and turn. It is from these legs, everything else is built. From there, you add the chest or torso piece, some I put on straight forward and upright, like they are standing. Others I lean forward like an action pose and others I twist a little bits, swiveling to a leading foot, or looking behind. I like to drop a little of the special glue that wields the legs to the torso an move it into a position which looks right. Once this is done, you find a right and left arm which go together and capture what you are trying to do with the rest of the body. Last night I limited my option to shootas, which is a medium gun Boyz carry, some right handed, other left. This part is tricky, because you need to keep the gun low enough it won't interfere with the head, but you also need to make sure the open bracing hand can slip underneath the front of the Shoota. To make this a little harder, these parts of very small, and have to be held while the glue sets.

This is where that spot on my finger also certainly came from. It is the extra glue from the wield between a shoulder and a chest. It is where I had to end last night. So, right now beside a rusty looking Trukk, flanked by dirty, axe and chainsaw wielding Orks, sit nearly a dozen dark gray Shoota Boys waiting for their heads, a little paint and a chance to show some Space Marines what they are made of.

Let's Play a Game: April 2013

1. F+H=C, KUM, CN, FxM+H=B, V2.0
2. Mount Pleasant, Savannah, Gilsonville, Washington, Toccoa, Spartanburg
3. Cast Iron Skillet, Mandoline, None, Salad Spinner, Roasting Pan, Ice Cream Freezer
4. Scallops, Mushrooms, Crabs, Cheese, Squash, Duck
5. Who is the central figure for questions 1-4?

Scaring people

I don't know what it is, but there is something inside of me which truly enjoys seeing people get scared. I have spent hours on YouTube just looking for videos of people playing Slender (look it up) or people putting fake spiders on sleeping people. I laugh in anticipation, just knowing what is going to happen. A few weeks ago the kids showed me these Brazilian videos where they get unsuspecting people on an elevator, which breaks down and while the lights are out a ghost girl appears. The lights flicker, the people scream, sometimes trying to get behind their friends and I laugh until I am crying.

This love isn't limited to video watching. Even more than watching strangers get scared, I love scaring my own family (and friends if they are available). When I hear the girls coming down the stairs, I spring out from behind the corner at the bottom, I walk silently behind the person washing dishes only to let out a blood curdling scream at the back of their head. In the summer I like to play a game with the youngest called rock or spider, where I drop one of the two into her open had. When she is jumping up and down, hand flailing with the "get off, get off" motion because of the piece of bark which hit her in the palm, I laugh too hard to speak.

As a note, I don't scare my wife that often. She hits harder than the kids and it's hard to defend yourself when you are crying with laughter. Nothing stops laughter like a retaliatory throat punch.

This love is not new. In elementary school I had a good friend named Geoff. We had had a great day at his house. Dinner, computer games, playing with cars outside and shooting pool in the basement. On top of all that, I got to spent the night. I rolled out my sleeping bag on the opposite side of the room, but I thought about the ever fun scare in the dark. We talked a little, but I kept it to a minimum, knowing I couldn't move and talk at the same time. It the silence that fell between us, I had to control my laughter, already knowing what was going to happen, but not wanting to be labeled a nut bag.

Then I was on the move. I slid out from the side of my green sleeping bag, through the zipper I had intentionally left undone. I moved slow, trying to prevent even the smooth material of the bag from crinkling. When I made any noise I wound stop and count to one hundred before I moved. If he heard me, it would be over. Three times I stopped and counted before I was even free of the bag, but I knew it was worth it. I could hear his rhythmic, oblivious breathing. I crossed the room very slowly. Every sound I stopped. I slid on my elbows and toes inch by inch until I was beside the metal frame of his bed.

For good measure I lay on the floor beside Geoff for another count making sure he didn't know I was there. Then I sprung into action. I hopped to my feet, I made a half hearted yell (trying to not wake his parents), leaned over my friend and shook the narrow bed and then him. He breathed a little heavier, but otherwise had no idea I was there. He rolled over, pulling the blanket up over him. No scare, no laughter, no nothing. I walked back to my sleeping bag, not blithering to be quiet, and went to bed.

Mystery Anxiety

Philippians 4:6 do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.

My normal state of being does not include any anxiety. Yes, I have a wife and four daughters and a job with a lot of responsibility, but these things don't make me anxious. Problems come up, I solve the problems or the problems resolve themselves, and I move on. I have a reputation from my team at work for not worrying about anything, even presentations to Senior Executives or to hundreds of people. It just doesn't bother me. I get what anxiousness is about, but it is fairly alien to me.

In the last couple days, though, something has changed or happened, or I don't know what, but it is odd. I've had anxiety for nothing. Not, I have no anxiety, but I have the feelings of anxiety, but there doesn't seem to be any source. My chest has that stirred up, sickening tingling feeling you get when you are ready to fight, or an in a fight with someone, my head has that nagging feeling you get when you have forgotten something, but I don't seem to have forgotten anything. My thought race preparing for arguments I'm not in and can't imagine having, unless I start them. Over stupid things, with people I don't need to argue over stupid stuff about.

Because of the holiday, I have been around friends and family, my church family and others, but I haven't said anything. How do you start that conversation without feeling a little weird? This is the kind of stuff which drives me crazy when I am on the otherwise... So, you are worried about nothing, perhaps you should try not being worried. Is that anxiety helping you? What am I supposed to do for you? I've got a list of critical thoughts and comments for people plagued with non-problems. So, I've kept quiet.

This morning I had a call with one of my accountability partners, who I consider a bit of an expert on the topic. He would deny this, but he has the experience, even if it is at a different scale, I don't. It makes him a kind of safe person to present this sort of thing to.


The long and short of it is this, there is no point is trying to find the source, anxiety is not rational. You can handle genuine problems without anxiety (which is what I normally do) and you can create anxiety over imagined problems or nothing at all. The best course of action when you feel anxious is to stay the course and keep moving forward, sort of like the best recipe for failure is success. Trite, but true. Talk about it. It is a little like a release value to say I'm feeling anxious. I hate this one. I hate feeling of weakness and vulnerability which goes with admitting you "feel" anxious, yet even in the few minute conversation I had with him I started to loose some of the anxiousness. As I write this, I can feel it lifting too. You would think denial would be the better option, but it is not. Lastly, but probably most importantly, pray and have others pray for you. This is a human weakness which God has given us. It is not so we will stay weak and anxious, but we can find confidence through God. Let his strength replace our frailties.