The Bell

Imagine for a moment you walk into a dark room, the edges are all shadow and slow movement, concealing the wall or corner, if such a thing is there. You only see them in the edges of you vision because they are not the centerpiece. There is a feeling of electric energy here. Silence that yearns for sound, causes you to imagine the space being filled. Silence which makes your breathing seem irreverent.

The center of the room is illuminated by lights reflecting off of the brass and curves of the enormous bell which is hung there. You can smell the sweet oil used to preserve the wood at the top. It is a beam which is thick and carved and seems to look down on you. The wood itself is designed to keep the vibrations of the bell pure and unbending. Attached so as not to mute or cause rattling with the vibrations. Carved and polished to make it clear their importance, but also that this thing which is bigger then you is for you.

Beneath the beam, attached, but a work of art itself hangs the bell. You could stand inside the dark alcove beneath it, and feel metal surround you with out touching it. You imagine how the structure might make it so you could hear your own heartbeat. A womb. From the outside, where you actually stand, you can see the pure, unblemished metal. Made in a single perfect cast. No crack or crevices. Tapered walls. Even the etching has been done with the softest chemicals, so the precise thickness, that perfect sound is preserved. You imagine how this room must feel filled with the presence of it wringing, you feel you pulse just us you imaging the deep sound shaking your sternum and spine. Breaking something loose in you. A life. The anticipation, the hope is something of joy. It is more unspeakably beautiful than the bell itself.

One can not write and do any justice to the ringing of the bell. You stand transfixed, the hammer in your hand wavering in excitement and fear long before you strike. When you do, the deed, in all its magnificence, is done.

The tone lasts for longer than you imagine possible. You know that you can not strike it again and with that thought the hammer is gone. The note though, the perfect pitch, still bends around you, caresses you, lifts you into an ocean of sound. Euphoria. Then it happens, you notice the sound and the echo begging to collapse, the roar deadens just slightly. You have less immersion than you had before and as that thought hits you, the sound grows ever more slight. You are loosing it, the perfect beauty is evaporating. The sound lingers, but now it causes you pain, longing and loss. You have been changed and that thing which changed you is no more. The power dims and it is place a longing which is even greater than that which you had before the sound had been heard at all. Now you know what is not there.

You look upon the bell and weep.

Unlocked

I read a myth once, I think it was of Odin, but I couldn't find it in a quick google search, so I'm not sure. Anyway, the person involved was obsessed with gaining wisdom, so obsessed that we was willing to try unusual tactics to find more and more of it. If it was Odin, he gave up an eye for it. Anyway, this person hung themselves from the boughs of a dead tree, by the ankles, and as he swung he could see how the shadows of the branches made different patterns and how those patterns could convey meaning. It was the birth of runes. Those marks the gave power, warded off evil, gave warnings or just allowed people to record history. They unlocked this hidden power, made a plain service useful, able to convey something, to speak when no speaker was present. It was a kind of magic.

Even though I don't have all the details of this myth, it stuck with me because I love the idea of what is going on here. Runes which can be read to give the reader something new, or written extend what and how you could communicate. The story had fictional magic elements, but the truth is there is a very real magic which goes on in construction of words and letters. Every time I write I flirt with this ancient magic.

In its most simple form, writing is illusion. I can distract you from you day. I can cause you to see things you never imagined before. Lincoln and Hitler having a West Side Story Dance Off, where their stylized knife fight is observed, and sung about, by Eva Braun and Mary Todd Lincoln. Not new? How about the discovery that everything you know is a thin illusion, props to hide the observers who are waiting to see what you will do when one by one everyone near you vanishes until you are alone, cradling a phone which rings and rings, but no one picks up. This though, these though illusions I have unlocked for you, I think, are the weakest kind of writing magic.

The more powerful use of this magic is the power to unlock myself. Untangle the nest of threads, conflicting thoughts and rival ideas that debate each other in my mind, producing a kind of mental gridlock which has caused me to just step away from time to time. When you take the time to write these ideas out, the pull from each other, separate and align. It is as if the thread has to pull though the narrow hole of you pen and it needs to be clean, unknotted to make it. Then, once you have poured you blood and ink onto the parchment, the truth bobs to the surface. A wisdom from the shadows.

Sometime, though, the lock is not mental, it is emotional. How do you work through the anger and betrayal you feel when people turn on you, lie to you, act in a way which lacks any grace, when you desperately need grace. My wife, and most women I know, would fall into their friends, find the support, express their sadness. Bond and grow and move on. This is not my way. In fact, thinking about doing that kind of activity makes me uncomfortable. These moments lock me, I hold back, I dive into my own head. The better answer, though, the one I need when I'm really stuck, comes in the form of letters and verse, an exercise where I can pour myself onto the page, then dive into the thoughts there and while I refine them, I refine me. Healing. Find the way to express what I feel, who I am, untangled, unlocked.

There is wisdom in holding up the mirror of your words. There is also wisdom in sharing it. Not the illusion runes, which are fun as well, but the revelation where someone can feel what you feel, walk where you are, be you for just a moment, even while they are not you.

When my friends have talked about deep issues I almost always suggest they write. It might not work for everyone, but it is the tool I know. A key that opens many locks.

Change?

Do you want to change? If you are like most people, this probably a complex answer. On one hand, from that remote position where you can look down on your life, you would probably say yes. You would be in better shape, you would finish that schooling, you would get a better job, you would read your bible more and watch TV less. You would be a better husband or father, host or employee. On the other hand, you are comfortable with your life, if you weren't you wouldn't live it that way.

You hate the scale, but like being able to eat ice cream. You hate your job, the trap it feels like, but like knowing you will get a check every two weeks. You wish your kids would talk to you when they have a problem, but you like being able to go to the garage or into the den or into your headphones to tune them out. Of course you would change, but you enjoy the way it is enough not to.

Think about those times you have changed? The new job that came because you lost the last job, which generated that flurry of resumes and interviews and finally, a new position. You quit smoking when a hard cough left a napkin covered in red and even though you realized later it was pizza sauce, the fear it gave you caused you to crush your last pack and drop it in the garbage disposal. You got to the point you had urgency. Urgency is the key to unlock change. If you don't feel the pressure, the fear, the consequences of not changing, odds are you won't.

So, do you want to change? Pile on the urgency. How do you do that? For starters you can quit. I realize that seems dangerous, but that is kind of the point.

The biggest change I have probably made recently was losing weight. Have have made other changes, of course, but that one really required me to make a change. So, how did I get that urgency? First, I did the research, what is the impact on my life, both quality and life expectancy? It was clear I would live longer if I lost weight! years longer. Additionally, even if I stayed at my then weight of 242 pounds, my knees legs and back would wear out much quicker, reducing what I could do and the pain I would experience trying to do it. My weight was killing me. I'd like to say that was enough to make the change, but it wasn't. Ice cream will swallow these thoughts very quickly. Urgency, but not enough urgency. Second, I asked a friend, who was also provoking me, to hold me to some diet and exercise standards. I agreed I would report to him my weight, which would make it clear if I was doing what I said I would do. This meant, if I cheated, even if no one else knew, he would know. I gave him permission to be mean to me, not let me off the hook. I hate failing. This was the trick. This was enough urgency. Yes, it was uncomfortable, but I am happier, much happier with my weight today than I was two years ago.

Now, what about you? How do you plan to induce your own urgency? I recommend first looking full in the face the consequences of where you are at? Second, give someone else that knowledge, and permit them to check you, maybe even be mean to you. If you want to change, you need to be made uncomfortable. No urgency, no change.

100 Americans

I have often thought what fun it would be to create a representative panel of the United States or the World. To select them so that they are like and like minded to millions and then place them in a pool where they can have the conversations that the teeming masses can't have. It is hard to conceive of this, but imagine a room of 100 Americans, people selected because they best represent their 3.1 million people portion of the population. No limitations on age, economic status or religious views. No biases. This is a sample of who we are.
- 72 are white, but nine of those would tell you they are also Hispanic, which leads to some confusion on a census forms.
- 13 are black, I would say African American, but one of those is also Hispanic.
- Of the 15 remaining, three check more than two boxes for race and six identify as other.
- There are five Asians, although it is hard to imagine them being one group.
- There is one, and only one, Native American, he is the only representative from New Mexico.
- California has 12 representatives and Texas has 9. New York and Florida each have 6.
- Most of the states have two, three or four represtatives, but 15 have to share their representation with others.
- There are 22 Roman Catholics and five Southern Baptists, three Methodists and two Jews. Most people are the only one of their particular faith there.
- The two atheists and three agnostics seem to get along just fine. None appear to be over 40.
- 20, of those selected are too young to hold a job. These range from the single new born to the 7 middle school aged children (4 boys and 3 girls)
- 67 of them could be in the workforce, though 7 don't have jobs right now.
- 13 are probably retired. There appears to be just one 80 year old man, but there are three 80 year old women.
- 1 woman is pregnant. 3 have had abortions.
- 39 of those selected own guns. None have had a close family member hurt or killed by a firearm.
- 4 are homosexual, though none have been married. Two men and two women. They all live in major cities.
- 52 are currently married and 16 have been divorced. Five have been widowed.
- 1 would be categorized as super rich, an ivy leaguer. 12 live below the poverty line, most didn't complete high school, which hurts their prospects.
- None will be president, play in the NFL or be recognizable on the big screen.

God's Call

In Sunday School, last Sunday, we started class with a question which might, to some of you seem alien, or theologically unsound. The question was this, "What is God's call on your life?" I wasn't asking about the generic commands or the general call of Salvation, my question was what specific things is God calling you personally to do.

Since then I have had a conversation about this with a Christian friend of mine, who doesn't really hold to that terminology. He is much further in the camp of people who view God as distributing talents and gifts, but then also gives us the liberty to serve where we choose. This difference of approach created an interesting conversation, but no real debate to speak of. What it did for me, though, is cause me to challenge this assumption and thought I would walk through this with you.

Before I move forward I should note that the belief in God's personal call to a believer is not a matter of salvation. There is no requirement you believe in or a prohibition against believing in God's personal call. One does not become a better Christian by holding to this belief, nor should this be a cause for any kind of division. I am not going to convince to believe differently about this than you already do, I'm just hoping to share in detail how I view this.

There are at least fours calls I believe God has given me. In each case the way I came to them is unique, meaning different than the others and in each case I believe that God placed me in the moment, with the skills and gifts needed and the guided me to worship him in taking up these responsibilities. I don't think they are optional, I think refusal to do them is sin. While not as gradios, I think my obedience in these things is in the vein of Paul, who was call to plant churches among the Gentiles or Moses who was called to free his people from Pharoah. Just as God was specific in the people and things he wanted those people to do then, I believe he is just as specific with what he wants me to do.

I have never been called by the voice of God coming from a burning bush, nor has he struck me blind in my disobedience. In fact, my first call came when I was pretty poor excuse for a Christian. It came in the form of a letter from Shelly, before she was my wife. It is highly unlikely she felt her words were anything divine, but it was here that God began calling me to be a good husband. I did what any poor excuse for a Christian does when God tries to meddle in their life, I ran, denied, rejected the idea. I didn't make it very far. In short order my heart had softened and the prospect of what could be took hold. Ultimately, as you know, we were married.

The second call, as I would look at it, followed the first. It came with much less choice, as does sometimes happen. I'm reminded of the story of Jonah and his call to preach to Nineveh. It is one thing to talk about having children, it is a very different thing to realize in just a few months you will have not one, but two children. It that moment you have to call the babysitter to tell them you are going to be a while because they have twice the work at the sonogram they expected, you can feel the water pull you into the big fish. I call you to be a good father.

The third call, which we talked briefly about in class, was a call to teach. Specifically, to teach an adult Sunday school class. This one came in parts and pieces, which fell together. First, I have a love of Biblical study, the history, the language, the deeper meanings and the obvious truths. I have had this for a long time. Years ago, I was placed in a class with Wayne Dudley, who loved many of these same things, used lots of commentaries and was a teacher I really respected, I would even say a bit of a mentor. The issue I had was, as I sat in class there was part of me that wanted to run in certain directions, talk about certain things, I wanted to and felt like I was supposed to teach. I didn't though, want to leave his class. One day, after church he pulled me aside and asked if I would be willing to take over the class. I don't remember what I said or how the conversation went, but I knew this was the moment. I knew God had been preparing me for this. While it was slower than you might expect, this was the birth of a call a long time coming. I started teaching.

The forth call, is one to serve my church. We are all called to serve God, but this is specifically to serve Praise Baptist Church and the people who come there. I am not called, at this time, to be a Pastor, although there have been moments I have been called to preach. I am not called to handle the finances or do much with the facility. What God has called me to is making sure people are given an opportunity to serve, that I assist the Pastors in their various roles, that I minimize social issues, which happen in churches, and guests are welcomed and loved. I am called to make sure we remain faithful and responsible. I am called to be a servant to the people of the church, for the benefit of the church, to Honor God. This is an evolving call. It moves with the times and has placed me in different rolls. Deacon, personnel team, mediator. The title is second to the service and that is what I think a call really should be. When it comes to the things God calls you to It matters more what you do, than the honors you get for doing it.

I don't know with certainly that you should all feel the call of God. I don't know that he works that way with everybody. He certainly doesn't have to. So, if you are not happy with that idea, do away with it. For me, it is how I understand my relationship with God, it is how I measure my obedience, it is how he is made personal to me. That is what is important.

Dibs on Second Thanksgiving

Second Thanksgiving started out reasonably well. I suppose I need to pause, before I have even gotten into the meat of my story to explain what I mean, for those of you limited to a mere one Thanksgiving. Because my wife and I live just minutes from both of our parents, two doors down from my in-laws, and each want to have a Thanksgiving meal with us and we've never braved the tricky waters of alternating years, or denying one or the other of this obvious pleasure, each year at the end of November we get both Thanksgiving and Second Thanksgiving. This Second Thanksgiving is with my family the following Saturday, which sometimes allows my Aunt Cy and Uncle Mike attend, although this year it was just us. We were having manicotti, one of my favorites, I brought the supplies for herb bread, Shelly had made a chocolate eclair cake. Her choice for a dessert was largely driven by my Dad, as his birthday fell between the two Thanksgivings and it seemed she should make something he would like. This very nearly got messed up by Shelby, who in a matter of fact fashion stated G paw (as she sometime calls him) likes banana cake. It was her mother's confused look and question, "he does?" that broke her and saved the day. It turns out she just wanted banana cake and where G paw is concerned, the ethics are fuzzy. So, we made it there banana cake free and ready to celebrate.

We arrived while my Dad was at work, although he would be there soon. Savannah and I worked on the herb bread, Shelby and my Mom stuffed the noodles, the others got the table ready and relaxed. We talked about the shopping trips my Mom had taken the girls on, part of the pre-Christmas tradition, about First Thanksgiving and how the Christmases would be handled this year. My Dad arrived with 40 minutes left on the oven timer.

The meal was very good, but not hugely eventful. After the seating assignments were given, that is. The girls argue about who well set beside Grandma, G maw Shelby would say, some also want to sit by Grandpa. None argue to sit by me. We talked about Thanksgiving trivia, in which I mangled the names of both the Captain of the Mayflower and other ship which was meant to take the journey. Christopher Jones and Speedwell, if you are interested.

It was when we retired to the living room that things got interesting and awkward.

My parents have a menagerie of stuffed, musical, dancing animals which reside on the top of their entertainment center. The kids love to press the various buttons, filling the room with a chaos of movement and sound which would only end when one of the adults, their voice trembling which teetering sanity, puts an end to it. "Quit!" Before the forgone cycle of events got rolling, my Mom thought she would cycle the animals, putting away the non-seasonal, soft eyed, madness inducers for their scarf wearing, but equally diabolical counterparts. A sane person can last no longer against a hip wiggling, singing Santa than the can an high stepping, whistle ostrich.

One of the new additions to the room, was a set of caroling barnyard animals. Shelby sat on the floor being serenaded for a few minutes, letting the music penetrate her soul. Perhaps it was the maddening effect, which we assumed she was immune to, perhaps it was just the way her mind works. What ever it was, it was then she looked to my Dad and said, "When you're dead, can I have this." I don't know what happens in a normal family when these sorts of things happen, as you can see from the above description I have no experience with a normal family. I don't even know if that kind of question would be asked in a normal family. When happens in my family is this, the animals stop singing carols, because a new game starts, the adults are either shocked or laughing with shock and the kids start running around the house pointing at various items shouting dibs.

Several items cross my mind, as my kids place fast and loose with the mortality of their grandparents. First is that growing feeling of horror. Then there is the feeling of guilt when I realize what I'm most horrified by is the thought of all those items being "claimed" clogging the doorways of my house, rather then my kids turning Thanksgiving, sorry Second Thanksgiving, into a festival of the gimmes. Then, as if to forge a defense, I think how much Justin and his kids are missing out on, so I begin to consider the shipping cost to send them their heavily prorated portion. Probably a worthwhile cost.

I don't say any of these things. What I do say is this, "We need to have an agreement that you don't die until Shelby has her own place, so that all of the items she is claiming today, can go to her place instead of mine." On one hand you might consider that tacky, on the other hand you might note how I successfully negotiated my parents prolonged survival, and protected my home from an avalanche of crazy. I suppose that depends on the normality of your home.