I went to the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library today. As we approached the front door, I recalled my earliest memory of our 40th president: in fourth grade, my class wrote letters to President Reagan. Awhile later, we got a letter back, along with a picture of him on horseback for each of us. My teacher made copies of the letters for each of us. I still have the letter and the picture in my scrapbook.
As I toured the library and museum with my family, one thing stood out to me (and it wasn't the overabundance of jelly beans). What caught my attention was how classy Mr. Reagan was. From his early days all the way through his presidency, he had style and class and professionalism. One of the tour guides mentioned that he wore a suit and tie everyday in the Oval Office out of respect for the position. The man is the leader of the free world, he could go to work in a bath robe if he wanted to. But no, out of respect for the office, he wore a suit and tie.
Everything else in the museum, in one way or another, pointed to this aspect of Mr. Reagan. He was a consummate professional. I think he brought to the office of the president what the office needs and deserves, something I think it has lacked since he left office.
I was talking about this with my dad after our visit to the library. He brought the conversation around to our president-elect, Mr. Obama. Now, I try to avoid politics here at ThoughtbyWolf, but I do want to make this one comment. My hope is that he will rise to the occasion and be the president that the 53% of Americans who voted for him hope he will be. In addition, I hope he will be a classy president. I hope he will restore to the office the respect that it is due.
My visit to the library that is only a few miles from my house gave me a new respect for the president of my childhood years. It also deepened my respect for the office itself. My hope and prayer is that those who, in the future, sit behind the desk in the Oval Office live up to the position to which they are elected.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Getting into the Christmas Spirit
This last Friday at work, we had a dress-down day in order to encourage the Christmas spirit. Students and teachers were allowed to wear jeans (a sacred privilege) and "Christmas-themed" tops instead of the normal uniform shirts. While I will take any opportunity to wear jeans to work, one of my colleagues brought up an interesting point. He asked, What is the Christmas spirit? and how does wearing blue jeans celebrate it? Again, I was simply happy to have a day to wear jeans to work, but his questions have gotten me thinking. What is the Christmas spirit? What is it that we are celebrating? And can it be done by simply donning a pair of blue jeans?
As a Christian, my reflex response to questions of the Christmas holiday is that we celebrate the birth of our Saviour, Jesus Christ. But those reflex responses rarely satisfy fully. What does it all mean?
John 1 tells us that "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us and we beheld his glory." The Word, God Himself, became flesh and blood. He became one of us. God became a man. (I think it takes repeating a few times to fully sink in.)
We all know why He came, for the manger is placed squarely in the shadow of the cross. You can't look at Christmas without knowing that Good Friday and Easter are just around the corner. But what baffles me is the 33 years that separated the two events. Jesus could have come for a day or two, just long enough to die in our place and be raised from the dead. He could have made it as quick and easy for himself as that. But instead, he chose to be born to a poor, working-class family. He grew up. He was a man who taught the masses and healed the sick. He was one of us. As Hebrews says, he endured all the temptations and trials that we face. He became one of us so that he could be our great high priest. God became a man so that He would know first hand what it's like to be one of us. He spent 33 years with us as one of us. That, I think, is worth celebrating.
But how do all the presents and trees and blue jeans fit into this? I'm not sure that is all that easy of a question to answer. And in writing this, I guess I can only answer for myself. I give gifts because I love the people who are special to me. It is my way of showing that love, and not just at Christmas. I love to give gifts. I guess I could spiritualize it and say that I give gifts because of the gifts God has given me. And that is true to a point. But I give because I want to see those around me happy.
So, through this rambling soul-searching, I guess I would say the Christmas spirit is a celebration of the gift of love given to us. I celebrate it by giving gifts and spending time with those I love. I love those moments of recentering myself at Christmas Eve service at church. I love waking up early and seeing the huge smiles on my kids' faces as they see what Santa - and mom and dad - brought them. I love playing games and playing with the new toys we each received. I love the smiles and the laughter. I love singing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus before we have cake after Christmas dinner. I love it all.
And I love being able to wear blue jeans to work.
As a Christian, my reflex response to questions of the Christmas holiday is that we celebrate the birth of our Saviour, Jesus Christ. But those reflex responses rarely satisfy fully. What does it all mean?
John 1 tells us that "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us and we beheld his glory." The Word, God Himself, became flesh and blood. He became one of us. God became a man. (I think it takes repeating a few times to fully sink in.)
We all know why He came, for the manger is placed squarely in the shadow of the cross. You can't look at Christmas without knowing that Good Friday and Easter are just around the corner. But what baffles me is the 33 years that separated the two events. Jesus could have come for a day or two, just long enough to die in our place and be raised from the dead. He could have made it as quick and easy for himself as that. But instead, he chose to be born to a poor, working-class family. He grew up. He was a man who taught the masses and healed the sick. He was one of us. As Hebrews says, he endured all the temptations and trials that we face. He became one of us so that he could be our great high priest. God became a man so that He would know first hand what it's like to be one of us. He spent 33 years with us as one of us. That, I think, is worth celebrating.
But how do all the presents and trees and blue jeans fit into this? I'm not sure that is all that easy of a question to answer. And in writing this, I guess I can only answer for myself. I give gifts because I love the people who are special to me. It is my way of showing that love, and not just at Christmas. I love to give gifts. I guess I could spiritualize it and say that I give gifts because of the gifts God has given me. And that is true to a point. But I give because I want to see those around me happy.
So, through this rambling soul-searching, I guess I would say the Christmas spirit is a celebration of the gift of love given to us. I celebrate it by giving gifts and spending time with those I love. I love those moments of recentering myself at Christmas Eve service at church. I love waking up early and seeing the huge smiles on my kids' faces as they see what Santa - and mom and dad - brought them. I love playing games and playing with the new toys we each received. I love the smiles and the laughter. I love singing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus before we have cake after Christmas dinner. I love it all.
And I love being able to wear blue jeans to work.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Two Scoops of Vanilla
I am speaking to a group of about 500 high school students in a few weeks. I will be sharing my testimony. As always, it seems to go better when I write things out; it allows me to sort out my thoughts. So here is the dry run:
My sharing my testimony with this audience is about two years in the making. After hearing someone share a rather dramatic testimony with our students, I spoke to our spiritual life director about the need I saw for the kids to hear a very "vanilla" testimony. One without all the drugs and sex and violence. So many testimonies we hear go something like: "I really screwed up my life, but God fixed it, and now everything is great." I just thought that the kids should hear from someone who didn't screw up their life. Of course, whenever we get those thoughts, it usually means that God wants us to do something about it, not to wait for someone else to step up to the plate.
Back in July, Dale sent out an email to the teachers asking for recommendations for chapel speakers or guest musicians. That email haunted me and bugged me all summer long. I knew I needed to volunteer to share my "vanilla" testimony, I just didn't want to. But not wanting to end up in the belly of a fish the next time I go sailing, I caved in and replied that I thought God wanted me to share my story with the students. Dale was excited, and here I am.
Now my goal today, the reason I share my story, is to hopefully convince some of my listeners that they don't need to experience God's grace the hard way. We don't have to delve into the depths of depravity to know God's saving power. God saved me from all the sex and drugs and rock-n-roll by preventing me from ever experiencing it. He pulled a preemptive strike of sorts. And I am so glad he did.
I was born and raised in a Christian family that was always very active in church. Many of my earliest memories are of going to church with my family. I first accepted Jesus into my heart when I was about four years old. We were on our way to a church baptism/potluck. My brother was going to be baptized that day, and like any younger brother, I wanted to as well. I didn't know what baptism was, I just knew that Bobbie was doing it so I should do it to. From the back seat of our car, I asked my mom what a person has to do to be baptized. She said that they have to ask Jesus into their heart. So I did. In the back seat of the family car. We got to the baptism at the YMCA, and I realized that being baptized meant going into a very large, and very deep swimming pool. I couldn't swim, so I chickened out.
Later on, in about fifth grade, my family went to family camp with my church. It was at the same camp where the original Parent Trap film was shot. Every morning after the Bible study, the pastor offered an invitation for those who wanted to be baptized. While I was somewhat committed to my faith (about as much as your average ten-year-old), I didn't feel I was really ready to be baptized. Until my sister - my younger sister - went forward one morning. I suddenly felt like an outsider in my family. Everyone had been baptized but me. So I went forward to be baptized, but it wasn't for the right reasons.
Through the rest of my childhood, and as I grew into a teenager, my faith was always a part of my life, but not always an important part. It was just sort of something I did. I really knew no different. On several occasions, during a church service or while listening to a special speaker, I would feel convicted about my half-hearted faith. I would respond to the altar call and rededicate my life to Christ. There were probably several of these at Sunday School. I remember going forward at an altar call after a theater group presented a dramatic allegory of the gospel message. But none of these rededications really "stuck." I would read my Bible consistently for a few weeks, then just slip back into my normal ways.
As I got into middle school, I think God started working on me. I had this sense for quite some time that I needed to take my faith more seriously. I needed to either be totally on-fire for God, or just forget the whole thing. But I didn't ever take that step. I'm not sure I really knew how. I remember for quite some time having this feeling of, "I am a Christian, so now what do I do?" I went to a Christian school, I went to church every Sunday, but there seemed to be a piece of the puzzle missing. And someday, I would have to figure out what that was and do something about it.
At the beginning of my eighth grade year, I think God once again tried to get my attention. Four days into the school year, I stayed home from school with a bad cold. That bad cold turned into pneumonia with a whole host of other complications. I was out of school for four weeks, and it took several months to finally be back to full strength. I remember shortly after this ordeal thinking about the verse in Job that says, "The Lord gives and He takes away." I felt that God had taken almost everything away from me: my health, all my school and extra-curricular activities. He wanted my attention. He got my attention, but I didn't give Him my attention long enough to hear what He had to say. So I went back to old habits.
Well, finally the moment came for me to get serious about my faith. Apparently nearly dying of pneumonia wasn't enough. It was my sophomore year of high school. I was on the basketball team (notice I didn't say playing basketball. I wasn't very good, so I sat the bench most of the season.). We went undefeated in league, and had high hopes of a CIF championship. Well, at the same time, my youth group was also preparing to go to Winter Camp. My youth pastor kept bugging me about going, but I would always tell him that I couldn't go because we were going to be in playoffs. But he was persistent in asking, and I was persistent in giving him the same answer.
We made it easily through the first two rounds of playoffs, but faced a very tough opponent in the third round, which happened to be the Tuesday before my youth group was set to leave for winter camp. And we lost. Our playoff dreams were over, and my schedule was now suddenly very open. So when my youth pastor asked me again about going, I didn't have a good excuse anymore. I talked to my parents, and signed up to go.
That weekend, the speaker, who was an associate pastor at my church and also later on my dentist, talked about being a "spiritual champion." He challenged us to go all-out in our faith. Now I don't remember a real defining moment during that weekend; no altar call or anything like that. I just came home committed to my faith and committed to my Savior. Jesus had been my Savior for about ten years before this, but that weekend He became my Lord.
A few months later, during an impromptu hiking trip in Palm Springs on a Sunday afternoon, I was baptized again. A group from my church went hiking in Palm Canyon. We hiked along a dry river bed for quite awhile, then on the way back stopped at the pools formed by the large rocks in the creek. One of the guys in our group asked our youth pastor if he could be baptized, and the pastor obliged. I stood at a distance reflecting on the situation and on my own faith. Seeing me by myself, my youth pastor came up asked what I was thinking about. I told him I was thinking about baptism. He asked, not entirely seriously, if I wanted to be baptized. I said, "Yeah I do." So he walked with me back to the pool, and I was baptized. This time it wasn't because of a family member or anyone else. It was my making a statement as a follower of Christ.
Going to winter camp and being baptized a second time brought about quite a shift in my priorities. About that time I started hanging out with a new group of friends. Before all this I sort of hung out with the "cool kids" from basketball. They weren't really what I would consider friends, they just let me sit with them at lunch time. But one day, I decided to go have lunch with a new kid in my grade. A conversation about Christian rock music started a friendship with a guy named Shawn who is still one of my closest friends. Being friends with Shawn got me involved with doing sound. He played in the chapel band, and they needed a sound man. So even though I had no idea what I was doing, I volunteered. That got me doing sound for school, and for church and youth group.
I also took a year off from playing sports. My freshman and sophomore years I played three sports each year: volleyball, basketball, and baseball. But one night in youth group, I was kind of stressing out about some things. I had a tendency back then - and still do to an extent - to fill my plate too full. I was at a point where something had to give. And it seemed that sports was the thing to go. The thing is, I was actually really competitive when I was younger. Although I wasn't a good athlete, I still had a drive to win. I would lay awake at night after a game, going over play after play in my head. It drove me crazy; I was obsessing over how I played and how I could have done better. But I needed to take a step back from that. So I didn't play sports at all my junior year.
Then something really cool happened. I had a friend who went on a mission trip to Ukraine with a group called Christian Outreach International. They took sports teams and performing arts teams to different countries and used that as a way to connect with the people so that they can share the gospel. Hearing her stories really sparked my interest. So, after a long school year of fundraising, I was off to the Ukraine as part of the COI basketball team. We went to four cities, played some ball and shared Christ with the other teams and the spectators. In the process of all this, God took away that competitive drive. I was able to just enjoy the game for its own sake because we weren't there to win basketball games (and I don't think we won to many. Ukraine has some big basketball players). We were there to win souls. I decided to play basketball my senior year for our school team. We had a great season, but most importantly, my whole perspective on playing had changed.
The last significant change was that I got really involved in my church and youth group, and the spiritual life of my school. My entire junior year, some friends and I would get together at lunch and pray for our school. The school was not a very friendly environment for people who wanted to follow Jesus, even though it was a Christian school. So mostly for moral support, we got together to pray and encourage each other. And as a result, we saw God do mighty things the following year. Many students, even those with the hardest of hearts, turned around and started living for Christ. It was awesome to see. We saw similar things happen in the youth group. A group of us really devoted ourselves to prayer, and God did some amazing things.
Like I said at the beginning, my story is very different from most you hear in these situations because it's not full of the sex, drugs, drinking, and partying. I really didn't even date in high school, mostly because I was too afraid to ask a girl out. I almost dated a girl my senior year. We had the "I like you. Oh really, I like you too" talk, but hadn't officially started dating yet. Then I found out that she had recently gotten pregnant by some other guy before we started hanging out and miscarried very early in the pregnancy. That completely rocked my world. Needless to say, we never actually dated. The experience was sort of a wake up call in that I felt that God wanted me to take my relationships, especially dating ones, very seriously or there might be consequences that I wasn't ready to face.
The closest I ever came to drugs was a guy I hung out with in junior high showed me a joint once. I've never really cared for the taste of alcohol. In fact, I found recently that anything more than a Mike's Hard Lemonade will give me a migraine, so I tend to stay away from the stuff. And I wasn't cool enough in high school to get invited to the wild parties. My friends and I just hung out and watched X-Files. We were pretty lame, I guess.
I was just never exposed to much of this stuff. I mean I wasn't in a complete bubble, I just never got close to any of it. I went to a small Christian school, but that didn't mean I was sheltered from everything the world has to offer. I knew at least six or seven girls just from my high school who got pregnant. I remember some big scandal one time in high school where the principal made a bunch of kids take drug tests. I don't know what ever came of it, but he had to have reason for making them do it. I heard bits and pieces of stories of some of the things guys I played basketball with would do on the weekends. But I just never really had the opportunity to get involved in any of it. And I don't it's because I was some super Christian. In fact probably the opposite. The Bible says God won't let us be tempted beyond what we can handle. Maybe He knew that if I was tempted I would fall and really mess things up, perhaps beyond repair.
I did struggle with some things, however. I had a pretty bad relationhsip with my mom growing up. We just fought about everything, and had the same old fight over and over again. In my mind at the time, I thought it was pretty much hopeless. It just seemed like we would never reconcile things or move on. Fortunately, after I grew up a bit and as she saw that I had grown up, we were able to let go of the fights and we have a pretty decent relationship now. Of course being the first of her children to give her grandkids helped a lot, but that's another point.
I also really struggled with reading my Bible consistently. I still do. I have always been a veracious reader. I can sit down on a Saturday afternoon, bury my nose in a book, and not come up until 200-300 pages have gone by. But reading a page-and-a-half of the Bible takes so long and is so hard. I don't know what it is, it is just the hardest thing to do.
Looking back, though, I can see that there were things I did - and things God did - that prevented my story from becoming more dramatic. First, even though I didn't realize it at the time, my parents did a pretty good job with me. Like I said, I wasn't close to them and I fought all the time with my mom, but they gave me the right opportunities to grow spiritually. Even though it was a big sacrifice financially, they put me in Christian schools kindergarten through high school. They also greatly encouraged my involvement with youth group and with my friends from youth group. They drove me all over town to take me to events, and let me go to just about any youth group event I wanted to. I am very grateful for that support.
As you probably picked up on, I was very active in my youth group, which is a second key to success. I went to the weekly meetings every Tuesday. I went to summer and winter camps. I was involved in small-group discipleship. In addition, I really latched on to a couple of the youth leaders who were willing to invest a lot of time and effort into my life. I had several great Christian role models. They prayed with me and for me, and held me accountable in my faith. And they modeled good godly behavior for me.
Lastly, I had a small group of friends who were committed to each other's spiritual growth. We started hanging out in high school, and continued all through college. We got together weekly to study the Bible and pray for each other and encourage each other. We saw each other through break-ups, and were were all in each other's weddings. We were there for each other through thick and thin. We lived by Hebrews 10:25 that says, "Let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another all the more as we see the Day of Christ Jesus approaching."
So, why do I share all this? I share my story because there are some out there who want to live a godly life. They want to live for God, but find it really hard to do. Hopefully by hearing my story of how I got through high school pretty much unscathed, they will find some encouragement in that they can make it too. And hopefully by sharing some of my secrets for success, they will find ways to keep themselves from having a "hard" tesimony. We don't have to experience God's grace the hard way. Yes God's grace is infinite. There is no whole too deep that we dig for ourselves that He can't pull us out of. But, that same grace can also prevent us from even picking up the shovel in the first place.
My sharing my testimony with this audience is about two years in the making. After hearing someone share a rather dramatic testimony with our students, I spoke to our spiritual life director about the need I saw for the kids to hear a very "vanilla" testimony. One without all the drugs and sex and violence. So many testimonies we hear go something like: "I really screwed up my life, but God fixed it, and now everything is great." I just thought that the kids should hear from someone who didn't screw up their life. Of course, whenever we get those thoughts, it usually means that God wants us to do something about it, not to wait for someone else to step up to the plate.
Back in July, Dale sent out an email to the teachers asking for recommendations for chapel speakers or guest musicians. That email haunted me and bugged me all summer long. I knew I needed to volunteer to share my "vanilla" testimony, I just didn't want to. But not wanting to end up in the belly of a fish the next time I go sailing, I caved in and replied that I thought God wanted me to share my story with the students. Dale was excited, and here I am.
Now my goal today, the reason I share my story, is to hopefully convince some of my listeners that they don't need to experience God's grace the hard way. We don't have to delve into the depths of depravity to know God's saving power. God saved me from all the sex and drugs and rock-n-roll by preventing me from ever experiencing it. He pulled a preemptive strike of sorts. And I am so glad he did.
I was born and raised in a Christian family that was always very active in church. Many of my earliest memories are of going to church with my family. I first accepted Jesus into my heart when I was about four years old. We were on our way to a church baptism/potluck. My brother was going to be baptized that day, and like any younger brother, I wanted to as well. I didn't know what baptism was, I just knew that Bobbie was doing it so I should do it to. From the back seat of our car, I asked my mom what a person has to do to be baptized. She said that they have to ask Jesus into their heart. So I did. In the back seat of the family car. We got to the baptism at the YMCA, and I realized that being baptized meant going into a very large, and very deep swimming pool. I couldn't swim, so I chickened out.
Later on, in about fifth grade, my family went to family camp with my church. It was at the same camp where the original Parent Trap film was shot. Every morning after the Bible study, the pastor offered an invitation for those who wanted to be baptized. While I was somewhat committed to my faith (about as much as your average ten-year-old), I didn't feel I was really ready to be baptized. Until my sister - my younger sister - went forward one morning. I suddenly felt like an outsider in my family. Everyone had been baptized but me. So I went forward to be baptized, but it wasn't for the right reasons.
Through the rest of my childhood, and as I grew into a teenager, my faith was always a part of my life, but not always an important part. It was just sort of something I did. I really knew no different. On several occasions, during a church service or while listening to a special speaker, I would feel convicted about my half-hearted faith. I would respond to the altar call and rededicate my life to Christ. There were probably several of these at Sunday School. I remember going forward at an altar call after a theater group presented a dramatic allegory of the gospel message. But none of these rededications really "stuck." I would read my Bible consistently for a few weeks, then just slip back into my normal ways.
As I got into middle school, I think God started working on me. I had this sense for quite some time that I needed to take my faith more seriously. I needed to either be totally on-fire for God, or just forget the whole thing. But I didn't ever take that step. I'm not sure I really knew how. I remember for quite some time having this feeling of, "I am a Christian, so now what do I do?" I went to a Christian school, I went to church every Sunday, but there seemed to be a piece of the puzzle missing. And someday, I would have to figure out what that was and do something about it.
At the beginning of my eighth grade year, I think God once again tried to get my attention. Four days into the school year, I stayed home from school with a bad cold. That bad cold turned into pneumonia with a whole host of other complications. I was out of school for four weeks, and it took several months to finally be back to full strength. I remember shortly after this ordeal thinking about the verse in Job that says, "The Lord gives and He takes away." I felt that God had taken almost everything away from me: my health, all my school and extra-curricular activities. He wanted my attention. He got my attention, but I didn't give Him my attention long enough to hear what He had to say. So I went back to old habits.
Well, finally the moment came for me to get serious about my faith. Apparently nearly dying of pneumonia wasn't enough. It was my sophomore year of high school. I was on the basketball team (notice I didn't say playing basketball. I wasn't very good, so I sat the bench most of the season.). We went undefeated in league, and had high hopes of a CIF championship. Well, at the same time, my youth group was also preparing to go to Winter Camp. My youth pastor kept bugging me about going, but I would always tell him that I couldn't go because we were going to be in playoffs. But he was persistent in asking, and I was persistent in giving him the same answer.
We made it easily through the first two rounds of playoffs, but faced a very tough opponent in the third round, which happened to be the Tuesday before my youth group was set to leave for winter camp. And we lost. Our playoff dreams were over, and my schedule was now suddenly very open. So when my youth pastor asked me again about going, I didn't have a good excuse anymore. I talked to my parents, and signed up to go.
That weekend, the speaker, who was an associate pastor at my church and also later on my dentist, talked about being a "spiritual champion." He challenged us to go all-out in our faith. Now I don't remember a real defining moment during that weekend; no altar call or anything like that. I just came home committed to my faith and committed to my Savior. Jesus had been my Savior for about ten years before this, but that weekend He became my Lord.
A few months later, during an impromptu hiking trip in Palm Springs on a Sunday afternoon, I was baptized again. A group from my church went hiking in Palm Canyon. We hiked along a dry river bed for quite awhile, then on the way back stopped at the pools formed by the large rocks in the creek. One of the guys in our group asked our youth pastor if he could be baptized, and the pastor obliged. I stood at a distance reflecting on the situation and on my own faith. Seeing me by myself, my youth pastor came up asked what I was thinking about. I told him I was thinking about baptism. He asked, not entirely seriously, if I wanted to be baptized. I said, "Yeah I do." So he walked with me back to the pool, and I was baptized. This time it wasn't because of a family member or anyone else. It was my making a statement as a follower of Christ.
Going to winter camp and being baptized a second time brought about quite a shift in my priorities. About that time I started hanging out with a new group of friends. Before all this I sort of hung out with the "cool kids" from basketball. They weren't really what I would consider friends, they just let me sit with them at lunch time. But one day, I decided to go have lunch with a new kid in my grade. A conversation about Christian rock music started a friendship with a guy named Shawn who is still one of my closest friends. Being friends with Shawn got me involved with doing sound. He played in the chapel band, and they needed a sound man. So even though I had no idea what I was doing, I volunteered. That got me doing sound for school, and for church and youth group.
I also took a year off from playing sports. My freshman and sophomore years I played three sports each year: volleyball, basketball, and baseball. But one night in youth group, I was kind of stressing out about some things. I had a tendency back then - and still do to an extent - to fill my plate too full. I was at a point where something had to give. And it seemed that sports was the thing to go. The thing is, I was actually really competitive when I was younger. Although I wasn't a good athlete, I still had a drive to win. I would lay awake at night after a game, going over play after play in my head. It drove me crazy; I was obsessing over how I played and how I could have done better. But I needed to take a step back from that. So I didn't play sports at all my junior year.
Then something really cool happened. I had a friend who went on a mission trip to Ukraine with a group called Christian Outreach International. They took sports teams and performing arts teams to different countries and used that as a way to connect with the people so that they can share the gospel. Hearing her stories really sparked my interest. So, after a long school year of fundraising, I was off to the Ukraine as part of the COI basketball team. We went to four cities, played some ball and shared Christ with the other teams and the spectators. In the process of all this, God took away that competitive drive. I was able to just enjoy the game for its own sake because we weren't there to win basketball games (and I don't think we won to many. Ukraine has some big basketball players). We were there to win souls. I decided to play basketball my senior year for our school team. We had a great season, but most importantly, my whole perspective on playing had changed.
The last significant change was that I got really involved in my church and youth group, and the spiritual life of my school. My entire junior year, some friends and I would get together at lunch and pray for our school. The school was not a very friendly environment for people who wanted to follow Jesus, even though it was a Christian school. So mostly for moral support, we got together to pray and encourage each other. And as a result, we saw God do mighty things the following year. Many students, even those with the hardest of hearts, turned around and started living for Christ. It was awesome to see. We saw similar things happen in the youth group. A group of us really devoted ourselves to prayer, and God did some amazing things.
Like I said at the beginning, my story is very different from most you hear in these situations because it's not full of the sex, drugs, drinking, and partying. I really didn't even date in high school, mostly because I was too afraid to ask a girl out. I almost dated a girl my senior year. We had the "I like you. Oh really, I like you too" talk, but hadn't officially started dating yet. Then I found out that she had recently gotten pregnant by some other guy before we started hanging out and miscarried very early in the pregnancy. That completely rocked my world. Needless to say, we never actually dated. The experience was sort of a wake up call in that I felt that God wanted me to take my relationships, especially dating ones, very seriously or there might be consequences that I wasn't ready to face.
The closest I ever came to drugs was a guy I hung out with in junior high showed me a joint once. I've never really cared for the taste of alcohol. In fact, I found recently that anything more than a Mike's Hard Lemonade will give me a migraine, so I tend to stay away from the stuff. And I wasn't cool enough in high school to get invited to the wild parties. My friends and I just hung out and watched X-Files. We were pretty lame, I guess.
I was just never exposed to much of this stuff. I mean I wasn't in a complete bubble, I just never got close to any of it. I went to a small Christian school, but that didn't mean I was sheltered from everything the world has to offer. I knew at least six or seven girls just from my high school who got pregnant. I remember some big scandal one time in high school where the principal made a bunch of kids take drug tests. I don't know what ever came of it, but he had to have reason for making them do it. I heard bits and pieces of stories of some of the things guys I played basketball with would do on the weekends. But I just never really had the opportunity to get involved in any of it. And I don't it's because I was some super Christian. In fact probably the opposite. The Bible says God won't let us be tempted beyond what we can handle. Maybe He knew that if I was tempted I would fall and really mess things up, perhaps beyond repair.
I did struggle with some things, however. I had a pretty bad relationhsip with my mom growing up. We just fought about everything, and had the same old fight over and over again. In my mind at the time, I thought it was pretty much hopeless. It just seemed like we would never reconcile things or move on. Fortunately, after I grew up a bit and as she saw that I had grown up, we were able to let go of the fights and we have a pretty decent relationship now. Of course being the first of her children to give her grandkids helped a lot, but that's another point.
I also really struggled with reading my Bible consistently. I still do. I have always been a veracious reader. I can sit down on a Saturday afternoon, bury my nose in a book, and not come up until 200-300 pages have gone by. But reading a page-and-a-half of the Bible takes so long and is so hard. I don't know what it is, it is just the hardest thing to do.
Looking back, though, I can see that there were things I did - and things God did - that prevented my story from becoming more dramatic. First, even though I didn't realize it at the time, my parents did a pretty good job with me. Like I said, I wasn't close to them and I fought all the time with my mom, but they gave me the right opportunities to grow spiritually. Even though it was a big sacrifice financially, they put me in Christian schools kindergarten through high school. They also greatly encouraged my involvement with youth group and with my friends from youth group. They drove me all over town to take me to events, and let me go to just about any youth group event I wanted to. I am very grateful for that support.
As you probably picked up on, I was very active in my youth group, which is a second key to success. I went to the weekly meetings every Tuesday. I went to summer and winter camps. I was involved in small-group discipleship. In addition, I really latched on to a couple of the youth leaders who were willing to invest a lot of time and effort into my life. I had several great Christian role models. They prayed with me and for me, and held me accountable in my faith. And they modeled good godly behavior for me.
Lastly, I had a small group of friends who were committed to each other's spiritual growth. We started hanging out in high school, and continued all through college. We got together weekly to study the Bible and pray for each other and encourage each other. We saw each other through break-ups, and were were all in each other's weddings. We were there for each other through thick and thin. We lived by Hebrews 10:25 that says, "Let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another all the more as we see the Day of Christ Jesus approaching."
So, why do I share all this? I share my story because there are some out there who want to live a godly life. They want to live for God, but find it really hard to do. Hopefully by hearing my story of how I got through high school pretty much unscathed, they will find some encouragement in that they can make it too. And hopefully by sharing some of my secrets for success, they will find ways to keep themselves from having a "hard" tesimony. We don't have to experience God's grace the hard way. Yes God's grace is infinite. There is no whole too deep that we dig for ourselves that He can't pull us out of. But, that same grace can also prevent us from even picking up the shovel in the first place.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Friday Morning Devotions
I have to share a devotional with the teaching staff on Friday. Here's an early look at the transcript:
Friday is my daughter Emma's birthday. She'll be five. I think it is really cool that I get to share with my fellow teachers on her birthday, and I thought I would start by recounting that wonderful day.
The day started early with a phone call at about 6 from Van Nuys High School. I was teaching there at the time, but off track, so they were calling to see if I could sub that day. I had to say no because my wife had her 37-week check-up, and we had only one car at the time. So I turned down the job and rolled over to go back to sleep. We got up an hour or so later to get ready for her morning appointment.
The appointment went ok, but the doctor was a bit concerned about my wife's elevated blood pressure. He began talking of bed rest and a possible inducement if it wasn't brought under control. Then, in the middle of her exam which revealed she was already at four centimeters, her water broke. I think the doctor said a bad word when it happened. The nurse came in to clean things up, and we were quickly off to the hospital. Needless to say we were both sort of in shock since she was three weeks early.
We got to the hospital and finally got checked into a room. At first, the contractions didn't seem too bad (but what do I know, I don't have a uterus). Then, they quickly intensified, as little Emma got ready to make her grand entrance. After only four hours, we were holding our six-pound little girl.
We had several visitors that first day: Tanya's parents, our pastor, one of Tanya's good friends. But sometime after dinner, we were finally able to settle down and have time to catch our breaths. I remember a very special moment that evening when I was holding Emma. She was so small, I had her out away from me in my hands and I was gazing down into her beautiful face. She started to wiggle and squirm in my hands; it felt just like when she wiggled and squirmed in Tanya's tummy. Making that connection really solidified that this was my little girl.
As I look back to that day, and the 1827 days since then, I realize that those five years have been ones that fit in very nicely with our theme this school year of doing hard things. Having Emma necessitated doing a lot of the hard things. We decided before we were even married or thinking of kids that Tanya would stay home to raise our children. So after Tanya got pregnant, I had to leave my comfort zone of a small Christian school to teach in LA Unified. It meant a lot of financial sacrifices as we lived on one income. It meant working in very difficult situations in schools in both LA and Oxnard. It meant taking a step of faith to come to Village. It has meant sending Emma to our local public school. I don't say this to brag in any way, but we have had to do a lot of had things. We have been living out this theme.
But this past summer, we were also able to experience the blessings that come with doing the hard things. I believe that if we remain obedient and do the hard things God asks of us, then he will bless us. It may not be right away. It may not even be in this lifetime. But he will bless us.
We spent a week at family camp at Forest Home. Their mission statement is to provide a place away from the distractions of the world so that people can hear God's voice. When I was there, I didn't feel there were any distractions that I needed to get away from. Rather it was a time to realize and reflect on how much God has blessed my family. We have been truly blessed indeed.
Through the last several years, the story of Joseph has become one of my favorite Bible stories. Joseph went through a lot of crap in his life. Sure he was kinda cocky and should have kept his mouth shut at times, but much of the garbage he endured was not a result of his own doing. He very often got the short end of the stick. But, he remained faithful to God. And in the end, God blessed him and his family.
I feel like I can relate in some ways. I haven't been wrongly accused of assaulting my boss's wife or thrown in prison or sold into slavery, but I've had some very difficult students and very difficult work situations, and I spent four long and scary months looking for a job before being hired at Village. But I feel now I am experiencing a time of blessing, much like Joseph did after Pharoah promoted him and he was reunited with his family.
I know there are more hard things to do and that this time may only be a short season. But right now, I am going to sit back and enjoy God's wonderful blessings in my life.
Friday is my daughter Emma's birthday. She'll be five. I think it is really cool that I get to share with my fellow teachers on her birthday, and I thought I would start by recounting that wonderful day.
The day started early with a phone call at about 6 from Van Nuys High School. I was teaching there at the time, but off track, so they were calling to see if I could sub that day. I had to say no because my wife had her 37-week check-up, and we had only one car at the time. So I turned down the job and rolled over to go back to sleep. We got up an hour or so later to get ready for her morning appointment.
The appointment went ok, but the doctor was a bit concerned about my wife's elevated blood pressure. He began talking of bed rest and a possible inducement if it wasn't brought under control. Then, in the middle of her exam which revealed she was already at four centimeters, her water broke. I think the doctor said a bad word when it happened. The nurse came in to clean things up, and we were quickly off to the hospital. Needless to say we were both sort of in shock since she was three weeks early.
We got to the hospital and finally got checked into a room. At first, the contractions didn't seem too bad (but what do I know, I don't have a uterus). Then, they quickly intensified, as little Emma got ready to make her grand entrance. After only four hours, we were holding our six-pound little girl.
We had several visitors that first day: Tanya's parents, our pastor, one of Tanya's good friends. But sometime after dinner, we were finally able to settle down and have time to catch our breaths. I remember a very special moment that evening when I was holding Emma. She was so small, I had her out away from me in my hands and I was gazing down into her beautiful face. She started to wiggle and squirm in my hands; it felt just like when she wiggled and squirmed in Tanya's tummy. Making that connection really solidified that this was my little girl.
As I look back to that day, and the 1827 days since then, I realize that those five years have been ones that fit in very nicely with our theme this school year of doing hard things. Having Emma necessitated doing a lot of the hard things. We decided before we were even married or thinking of kids that Tanya would stay home to raise our children. So after Tanya got pregnant, I had to leave my comfort zone of a small Christian school to teach in LA Unified. It meant a lot of financial sacrifices as we lived on one income. It meant working in very difficult situations in schools in both LA and Oxnard. It meant taking a step of faith to come to Village. It has meant sending Emma to our local public school. I don't say this to brag in any way, but we have had to do a lot of had things. We have been living out this theme.
But this past summer, we were also able to experience the blessings that come with doing the hard things. I believe that if we remain obedient and do the hard things God asks of us, then he will bless us. It may not be right away. It may not even be in this lifetime. But he will bless us.
We spent a week at family camp at Forest Home. Their mission statement is to provide a place away from the distractions of the world so that people can hear God's voice. When I was there, I didn't feel there were any distractions that I needed to get away from. Rather it was a time to realize and reflect on how much God has blessed my family. We have been truly blessed indeed.
Through the last several years, the story of Joseph has become one of my favorite Bible stories. Joseph went through a lot of crap in his life. Sure he was kinda cocky and should have kept his mouth shut at times, but much of the garbage he endured was not a result of his own doing. He very often got the short end of the stick. But, he remained faithful to God. And in the end, God blessed him and his family.
I feel like I can relate in some ways. I haven't been wrongly accused of assaulting my boss's wife or thrown in prison or sold into slavery, but I've had some very difficult students and very difficult work situations, and I spent four long and scary months looking for a job before being hired at Village. But I feel now I am experiencing a time of blessing, much like Joseph did after Pharoah promoted him and he was reunited with his family.
I know there are more hard things to do and that this time may only be a short season. But right now, I am going to sit back and enjoy God's wonderful blessings in my life.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Spiritual Hunger
In a few weeks I am getting up in front of church to share about a time that God satisfied a spiritual hunger. Since I am more of a writer than a talker, I figured I'd give it a dry run here. So here it goes:
Have you ever gone so long without food that you forget you are even hungry? Usually if I go too long without eating, I get pretty cranky. This same sort of thing happened to me in a spiritual sense when I was in high school.
I have always been a Christian, but Jesus hasn't always been my Lord. There was a time in junior high and early high school that I knew I needed to take my faith seriously and I knew I needed to give my life fully to God, but something - I don't know what exactly - was holding me back. I was definitely hungry, but wasn't bothering to eat. And frankly, I was getting a little cranky.
Round about my sophomore year in high school, God started trying to get my attention. He was trying to show me that I was spiritually hungry and that He was the only thing that would satisfy that hunger. I started hanging out with different friends, ones who cared more about the things of God. This started to pique my interest in spiritual things, but I still didn't realize how hungry I truly was. In about February of that school year, my youth pastor started bugging me about going with the youth group to winter camp. I told him I couldn't because I was playing basketball at school, and we would be in the middle of playoffs, so I couldn't go. But he stayed persistent.
Well, winter camp was about a week away, and my basketball team was in the middle of playoffs, but then something unexpected happened. We lost. The Tuesday before the youth group was to leave for camp, we lost. Our season was over. I now had the weekend free. So at the last minute, I signed up for winter camp.
That weekend proved to be a life-changing one for me. God met me on that mountain top. I realized how hungry I was, and that if I asked, God would satisfy that hunger. And He satisfied indeed. I recommitted my life to Christ that weekend.
Now, it certainly hasn't been smooth sailing since then. He never promised it would be. But I have found to source of true satisfaction. I get hungry quite a bit, but don't always eat as often as I should. But He is there, ready to give me my fill when I come and ask.
Have you ever gone so long without food that you forget you are even hungry? Usually if I go too long without eating, I get pretty cranky. This same sort of thing happened to me in a spiritual sense when I was in high school.
I have always been a Christian, but Jesus hasn't always been my Lord. There was a time in junior high and early high school that I knew I needed to take my faith seriously and I knew I needed to give my life fully to God, but something - I don't know what exactly - was holding me back. I was definitely hungry, but wasn't bothering to eat. And frankly, I was getting a little cranky.
Round about my sophomore year in high school, God started trying to get my attention. He was trying to show me that I was spiritually hungry and that He was the only thing that would satisfy that hunger. I started hanging out with different friends, ones who cared more about the things of God. This started to pique my interest in spiritual things, but I still didn't realize how hungry I truly was. In about February of that school year, my youth pastor started bugging me about going with the youth group to winter camp. I told him I couldn't because I was playing basketball at school, and we would be in the middle of playoffs, so I couldn't go. But he stayed persistent.
Well, winter camp was about a week away, and my basketball team was in the middle of playoffs, but then something unexpected happened. We lost. The Tuesday before the youth group was to leave for camp, we lost. Our season was over. I now had the weekend free. So at the last minute, I signed up for winter camp.
That weekend proved to be a life-changing one for me. God met me on that mountain top. I realized how hungry I was, and that if I asked, God would satisfy that hunger. And He satisfied indeed. I recommitted my life to Christ that weekend.
Now, it certainly hasn't been smooth sailing since then. He never promised it would be. But I have found to source of true satisfaction. I get hungry quite a bit, but don't always eat as often as I should. But He is there, ready to give me my fill when I come and ask.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
A game of excellence
I am a huge baseball fan. Although I only get to go to one or two games a season, there are in my mind few better places to spend a summer evening than at the ballpark. There is just something almost magical about watching a game live with 40,000 other fans.
I've always been an Angels fan. I went to my first game as a wee little lad, and have loved the team through thick and thin. They've had some rough seasons in the past, so I haven't always been too vocal about my devotion to the team. But the last month or so has been a really exciting time to be an Angels fan. They're the best team in the Majors at the moment, and I love watching them play.
Their manager of the last eight or nine seasons, Mike Scioscia, has a brand of baseball that has proven to be highly effective in winning games recently. It's what they call a "small-ball" game. His team doesn't have the big slugger or dominating pitcher to win games for them. Instead, his team is dedicated to good fundamentals and executing clutch plays. They manufacture runs and win ball games by playing fundamentally sound baseball. It's not a one-man show; it's a team effort to win each game. And they've been winning a lot of them.
I've been thinking a lot about the idea of excellence lately, both on a personal and professional level. Personally, I want to be an excellent husband and father. Professionally, I want to be an excellent teacher and department chair, and I want to push my students and colleagues to strive for excellence as well.
In my musings, I have come to realize that excellence in these areas - in all areas - doesn't come through the bold moves or grand gestures. It's in the little things. It's sticking to the fundamentals of loving and serving my wife and kids. It's in putting forth my best effort in every lesson and in grading every paper. It takes a lot of hard work, and that hard work is not always fun. It takes discipline.
As this summer rapidly comes to an end, I look forward to the upcoming school year as one of excellence. I want to push myself to be excellent in my relationships at home, in my teaching of my students, and in my interactions with colleagues. I want to push my students to strive for excellence and not settle for second best from themselves.
While my wife thinks watching baseball is a waste of time, I have learned something from my hours in front of the TV. I have witnessed a dedication to discipline and excellence. And I have seen my favorite team reap the rewards of that dedication. They're most likely headed to the World Series if they keep playing like they are. It is my sincere hope and prayer that if I devote myself to discipline and excellence in all I do, that I might reap a similar reward. Not a World Series ring, but a life well lived.
I've always been an Angels fan. I went to my first game as a wee little lad, and have loved the team through thick and thin. They've had some rough seasons in the past, so I haven't always been too vocal about my devotion to the team. But the last month or so has been a really exciting time to be an Angels fan. They're the best team in the Majors at the moment, and I love watching them play.
Their manager of the last eight or nine seasons, Mike Scioscia, has a brand of baseball that has proven to be highly effective in winning games recently. It's what they call a "small-ball" game. His team doesn't have the big slugger or dominating pitcher to win games for them. Instead, his team is dedicated to good fundamentals and executing clutch plays. They manufacture runs and win ball games by playing fundamentally sound baseball. It's not a one-man show; it's a team effort to win each game. And they've been winning a lot of them.
I've been thinking a lot about the idea of excellence lately, both on a personal and professional level. Personally, I want to be an excellent husband and father. Professionally, I want to be an excellent teacher and department chair, and I want to push my students and colleagues to strive for excellence as well.
In my musings, I have come to realize that excellence in these areas - in all areas - doesn't come through the bold moves or grand gestures. It's in the little things. It's sticking to the fundamentals of loving and serving my wife and kids. It's in putting forth my best effort in every lesson and in grading every paper. It takes a lot of hard work, and that hard work is not always fun. It takes discipline.
As this summer rapidly comes to an end, I look forward to the upcoming school year as one of excellence. I want to push myself to be excellent in my relationships at home, in my teaching of my students, and in my interactions with colleagues. I want to push my students to strive for excellence and not settle for second best from themselves.
While my wife thinks watching baseball is a waste of time, I have learned something from my hours in front of the TV. I have witnessed a dedication to discipline and excellence. And I have seen my favorite team reap the rewards of that dedication. They're most likely headed to the World Series if they keep playing like they are. It is my sincere hope and prayer that if I devote myself to discipline and excellence in all I do, that I might reap a similar reward. Not a World Series ring, but a life well lived.
Am I a Christian?
This past weekend, I was installing a doggy door in our back slider, when Emma, my four-year-old, came to me with a question. She asked, rather excitedly, "Am I a Christian?" She saw the word in her new young-readers Bible, and had heard it used before, but wanted me to tell her if she was one or not. So I hurried up to finish the job and went with her to look at what her Bible said about being a Christian.
Her Bible, one we had just recently bought for her, has a page that describes in rather simple terms what Christians believe and how to know if one is a Christian. I went right for that latter part of the page. It said that Christians believe in God and believe that Jesus died for their sins and want to love Jesus and obey His commands. So I turned each of the points on the page into a question for her. She answered that she did believe in God, that she understood what sin is and that Jesus died to forgive them, and that she loves Jesus (she loves him "a hundred thousand;" quite a lot for a four-year-old). Being satisfied with her answers, Emma concluded that she was indeed a Christian.
It didn't feel like the typical salvation experience. We didn't pray the sinner's prayer or anything like that. It seemed more of a confirmation of her faith than a conversion. She's always been a smart one, but I am impressed with her understanding of spiritual things even at her young age.
I have been praying, and will continue to pray, for her to grow in her understanding of her faith. I know her journey of faith will take many twists and turns, and she may have to revisit those questions to affirm her faith. As young as she is, I really hope she remembers this day. I know I certainly will.
Her Bible, one we had just recently bought for her, has a page that describes in rather simple terms what Christians believe and how to know if one is a Christian. I went right for that latter part of the page. It said that Christians believe in God and believe that Jesus died for their sins and want to love Jesus and obey His commands. So I turned each of the points on the page into a question for her. She answered that she did believe in God, that she understood what sin is and that Jesus died to forgive them, and that she loves Jesus (she loves him "a hundred thousand;" quite a lot for a four-year-old). Being satisfied with her answers, Emma concluded that she was indeed a Christian.
It didn't feel like the typical salvation experience. We didn't pray the sinner's prayer or anything like that. It seemed more of a confirmation of her faith than a conversion. She's always been a smart one, but I am impressed with her understanding of spiritual things even at her young age.
I have been praying, and will continue to pray, for her to grow in her understanding of her faith. I know her journey of faith will take many twists and turns, and she may have to revisit those questions to affirm her faith. As young as she is, I really hope she remembers this day. I know I certainly will.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Camp Food
I spent a week in a place that is near and dear to my heart. Forest Home. I spent most of my early twenties working there. I met my wife there ten years ago. And last week my family and I were there for Family Camp.
It was a wonderful week. Their mission statement claims they exist to provide a place away from the distractions of the world so that people can hear the voice of God. For me, it was not so much a get-away from the stress and distractions as it was a time to just relax and enjoy God's blessings. God did speak to me. Nothing earth-shattering or life-changing. Just a few simple reminders. But those thoughts need to simmer a little longer. Right now, I want to talk about the food.
The food was amazing. No cold cuts and corn puppies on my plate that week. There was grilled steak, poached salmon, sesame crusted chicken. Oh, it was wonderful. The menu could have easily found a comfortable place on a luxury cruise ship or in a four-star restaurant.
The chef came out several times to introduce the meals, and every time stated that his goal was to simply be a blessing to the guests by providing top-notch cuisine. I'd say he was pretty successful in reaching that goal.
One thing he said that I found particularly interesting was that the Forest Home kitchen is now a home for culinary interns. Some of the top culinary school graduates from all around the country go to work at Forest Home to train for jobs in big hotels and restaurants. A camp kitchen training the next great chefs! That's incredible! These people are being taught cutting edge culinary techniques under the guidance of a man who is not only a great chef, but a deeply committed follower of Jesus. I think that is really cool.
This got me thinking. Aren't I, as a teacher, in basically the same position? My job is to equip the next generation for the next step in their lives. I need to give them the reading and writing and thinking skills necessary to be successful in whatever path they choose after graduating. And as a follower of Jesus, I can also instill in them the character and integrity to make a real impact in their worlds. An awesome responsibility, but also a huge privilege.
I remember D'Arcy, the head chef, had such a joy and passion for what he does. Not only for the food he creates, or for the blessing he gets to be to a couple hundred campers each week, but for the chance he has to invest in the lives of the next generation of chefs. He kinda inspired me to take a new look at what I do. As a teacher, I can impact the world through the next generation of students. And as the new department chair, I get to invest in the lives and teaching of some of my colleagues. And it's not just about reading and writing. I can help shape their character.
I know it's all a little cheesy (and I am usually anti-cheese), but I am thankful for this new perspective. Who'd have thought it would come from the guy who poached my salmon.
It was a wonderful week. Their mission statement claims they exist to provide a place away from the distractions of the world so that people can hear the voice of God. For me, it was not so much a get-away from the stress and distractions as it was a time to just relax and enjoy God's blessings. God did speak to me. Nothing earth-shattering or life-changing. Just a few simple reminders. But those thoughts need to simmer a little longer. Right now, I want to talk about the food.
The food was amazing. No cold cuts and corn puppies on my plate that week. There was grilled steak, poached salmon, sesame crusted chicken. Oh, it was wonderful. The menu could have easily found a comfortable place on a luxury cruise ship or in a four-star restaurant.
The chef came out several times to introduce the meals, and every time stated that his goal was to simply be a blessing to the guests by providing top-notch cuisine. I'd say he was pretty successful in reaching that goal.
One thing he said that I found particularly interesting was that the Forest Home kitchen is now a home for culinary interns. Some of the top culinary school graduates from all around the country go to work at Forest Home to train for jobs in big hotels and restaurants. A camp kitchen training the next great chefs! That's incredible! These people are being taught cutting edge culinary techniques under the guidance of a man who is not only a great chef, but a deeply committed follower of Jesus. I think that is really cool.
This got me thinking. Aren't I, as a teacher, in basically the same position? My job is to equip the next generation for the next step in their lives. I need to give them the reading and writing and thinking skills necessary to be successful in whatever path they choose after graduating. And as a follower of Jesus, I can also instill in them the character and integrity to make a real impact in their worlds. An awesome responsibility, but also a huge privilege.
I remember D'Arcy, the head chef, had such a joy and passion for what he does. Not only for the food he creates, or for the blessing he gets to be to a couple hundred campers each week, but for the chance he has to invest in the lives of the next generation of chefs. He kinda inspired me to take a new look at what I do. As a teacher, I can impact the world through the next generation of students. And as the new department chair, I get to invest in the lives and teaching of some of my colleagues. And it's not just about reading and writing. I can help shape their character.
I know it's all a little cheesy (and I am usually anti-cheese), but I am thankful for this new perspective. Who'd have thought it would come from the guy who poached my salmon.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Grabbing Hold of Life: "Let's see if God is in this"
This is my first ever published essay. It appeared at RelevantMagazine.com.
I can remember a conversation I had one day with my high school principal, Mr. Lewis. I had gotten to know him pretty well during my junior year. He led the worship team for the school chapel services, and I did sound for them. So I occasionally spent time in his office talking about music or sound work, but most often we just shot the breeze about nothing in particular.
On this one occasion, he was recounting to me a discussion he had with my dad. My dad went in to talk to him about something or other, and their conversation turned to my involvement with the worship team. Mr. Lewis had told my dad that I had “really grabbed the bull by the horns” in doing sound for the group. Apparently he had fumbled a bit to get this statement out, and my dad replied, “Well, I guess that is better than grabbing the bull by the balls.” Of course I was shocked that such language would come out of my father’s mouth, but I was happy to know that my initiative was appreciated.
Fast-forward about eight years… My wife Tanya and I were driving around town, probably on our way to dinner. We heard an ad saying that the local radio station was looking for a new morning show co-host. With my background in sound work and my love for hearing myself talk, I thought it would be really cool to audition. I said I should look into it as we drove to the restaurant. Tanya and I played the “what-if” game over dinner, daydreaming of this cool new opportunity.
When we got home, we went online to respond to the casting call. I typed a brief, witty paragraph saying that their search was over; I was the guy for the job. A few days later, I got a response saying to meet at a restaurant just north of Santa Barbara for an audition. I was totally jazzed at this chance. The afternoon of the audition, I revised my resume and typed a very clever cover letter, I changed into my “dress to impress” clothes, and Tanya and I were on our way.
When we arrived, there was only one other person there. We sat in one corner, away from the competition. I filled out some papers, they explained the procedure, and we sat there waiting for things to begin. The whole time, the adrenaline was pumping. Now, I am used to being up in front of people, but new experiences and new people make me pretty nervous. And this was certainly uncharted territory for me.
Soon enough, my turn came. I nervously walked over and sat in the hot seat. I took my microphone and waited for the interview to begin. He asked all the standard ones: likes and dislikes, a few “what-if” questions. He also asked about my present job as a high school teacher. I don’t remember much of what I said, but most of my answers were pretty cliché. Overall, I think I kind of choked. I certainly wasn’t very impressive.
By the time I was done, a few others had shown up. We stayed to hear some of their auditions. But since we had an hour’s drive ahead of us, we left pretty early.
I emailed the station a week or so later to see what they thought of my audition. As I expected, I didn’t get the job. I wasn’t too heartbroken about it. After all, I have a job I like, and I don’t have to get up at four in the morning to be there on time.
I know I never really had a shot at it. My voice is really deep and monotone. Plus, I stutter and have difficulty finding the right words to say. It’s pretty obvious that I would not make a very good morning co-host. And I’m ok with that. The important thing was I saw the opportunity, and I took it. Sure, things didn’t work out, but I don’t think going out to a radio audition on a whim was a waste of time.
In 1 Samuel 14, Jonathan took a chance. He and his servant saw the Philistine army, and decided to go confront them, to see if God was in it. They went up, and God delivered this entire army into the hands of two young men. They took a risk, and it paid off.
Now, my little experience is nothing compared to Jonathan’s. But both involved taking a risk, stepping out to see if God was in it. Driving an hour to audition for a radio job is not something I do on a regular basis. But the opportunity was there and I “grabbed it by the horns.” I don’t know if I can say, like Robert Frost before me, that taking this chance has “made all the difference.” I don’t know that I am a better person for having done it. But it was a lot of fun, and I’ve got a cool story to tell.
I can remember a conversation I had one day with my high school principal, Mr. Lewis. I had gotten to know him pretty well during my junior year. He led the worship team for the school chapel services, and I did sound for them. So I occasionally spent time in his office talking about music or sound work, but most often we just shot the breeze about nothing in particular.
On this one occasion, he was recounting to me a discussion he had with my dad. My dad went in to talk to him about something or other, and their conversation turned to my involvement with the worship team. Mr. Lewis had told my dad that I had “really grabbed the bull by the horns” in doing sound for the group. Apparently he had fumbled a bit to get this statement out, and my dad replied, “Well, I guess that is better than grabbing the bull by the balls.” Of course I was shocked that such language would come out of my father’s mouth, but I was happy to know that my initiative was appreciated.
Fast-forward about eight years… My wife Tanya and I were driving around town, probably on our way to dinner. We heard an ad saying that the local radio station was looking for a new morning show co-host. With my background in sound work and my love for hearing myself talk, I thought it would be really cool to audition. I said I should look into it as we drove to the restaurant. Tanya and I played the “what-if” game over dinner, daydreaming of this cool new opportunity.
When we got home, we went online to respond to the casting call. I typed a brief, witty paragraph saying that their search was over; I was the guy for the job. A few days later, I got a response saying to meet at a restaurant just north of Santa Barbara for an audition. I was totally jazzed at this chance. The afternoon of the audition, I revised my resume and typed a very clever cover letter, I changed into my “dress to impress” clothes, and Tanya and I were on our way.
When we arrived, there was only one other person there. We sat in one corner, away from the competition. I filled out some papers, they explained the procedure, and we sat there waiting for things to begin. The whole time, the adrenaline was pumping. Now, I am used to being up in front of people, but new experiences and new people make me pretty nervous. And this was certainly uncharted territory for me.
Soon enough, my turn came. I nervously walked over and sat in the hot seat. I took my microphone and waited for the interview to begin. He asked all the standard ones: likes and dislikes, a few “what-if” questions. He also asked about my present job as a high school teacher. I don’t remember much of what I said, but most of my answers were pretty cliché. Overall, I think I kind of choked. I certainly wasn’t very impressive.
By the time I was done, a few others had shown up. We stayed to hear some of their auditions. But since we had an hour’s drive ahead of us, we left pretty early.
I emailed the station a week or so later to see what they thought of my audition. As I expected, I didn’t get the job. I wasn’t too heartbroken about it. After all, I have a job I like, and I don’t have to get up at four in the morning to be there on time.
I know I never really had a shot at it. My voice is really deep and monotone. Plus, I stutter and have difficulty finding the right words to say. It’s pretty obvious that I would not make a very good morning co-host. And I’m ok with that. The important thing was I saw the opportunity, and I took it. Sure, things didn’t work out, but I don’t think going out to a radio audition on a whim was a waste of time.
In 1 Samuel 14, Jonathan took a chance. He and his servant saw the Philistine army, and decided to go confront them, to see if God was in it. They went up, and God delivered this entire army into the hands of two young men. They took a risk, and it paid off.
Now, my little experience is nothing compared to Jonathan’s. But both involved taking a risk, stepping out to see if God was in it. Driving an hour to audition for a radio job is not something I do on a regular basis. But the opportunity was there and I “grabbed it by the horns.” I don’t know if I can say, like Robert Frost before me, that taking this chance has “made all the difference.” I don’t know that I am a better person for having done it. But it was a lot of fun, and I’ve got a cool story to tell.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Worship from an Honest Heart
Here's another one from way back when. It too was published by Relevant Magazine several years ago.
As the first chords were played at a worship service I recently attended, the audience stood and began singing and clapping along with the music. Many raised their hands. Some sat or even knelt on the floor. A few others just stood silently and listened.
I stood. I sang at least some of the time. To be honest, I was tired and having trouble concentrating. It was early, and I had a lot on my mind. After several songs my feet got tired, so I sat down but continued to sing, most of the time. A million thoughts streamed through my head, but one lingered. I thought back to a conversation I had with a friend the week before. We whispered comments back and forth about one of the songs. Although it was a highly emotionally driven song, it lacked both substance and sense, creating images that were shallow, absurd and perhaps even theologically incorrect. Lines like, "Walking blindly in the truth," or "Breathe upon the ones unknown." How can a person walk "blindly in the truth" when Jesus said we will know the truth and the truth will set us free? Or who are these "unknown" that we are asking an omniscient God to breathe upon? It wasn't just a bad worship song, but bad poetry as well. Needless to say, neither of us liked the song.
On this occasion, I didn't like the songs much either, but for very different reasons. These songs had depth, made sense and were about as theologically correct as "Amazing Grace." My problem with these songs was that they were too good. They were too correct. They echoed feelings and desires and claims that I felt I couldn't honestly have or make.
One song was particularly problematic. It went, This is my desire, to honor You/ Lord, with all my heart I worship You/ All I have within me, I give You praise/ Lord, with all my heart I worship You/ Lord, I give You my heart, I give You my soul/ I live for You alone/ Every breath that I take, every moment I'm awake/ Lord, have Your way with me. A song of complete surrender, love and adoration.
I was having a really hard time with it because, as much as I liked those words and wished to sing them, that was not the song of my heart. I desire to honor God, but I don't worship Him with all of my heart or praise Him with all that is within me. Usually my praise is only lip serviceat most a mental exercise. I have given Him my heart, although I often take it back and keep it for myself. I desire to live for Him alone with my every breath and every move. But I don't. I live for myself, my goals and dreams and desires. I get caught up in routines and schedules and forget about Him. I have things to do and often get too busy for Him. I want to say, "Lord, have Your way with me," but that scares me. His way is never easy and is often very painful.
I wanted to sing that song. I wanted to belt it out, hands stretched toward the heavens. But in thinking about the words and what they truly mean, it was difficult. The conflict between who I know I am and who I desire to be raged as the band and audience sang. I was confronted with the reality of my own spiritual apathy and indifference. Looking in the mirror can be a dreadful thing.
My thoughts then led me in a new direction. Although I am severely poetically challenged, I began to have aspirations of writing my own worships songs. Songs I could actually sing and mean whole-heartedly. Songs not about the ideals I hope for, but about the reality I face. Songs with words like, "Lord, I don't love You like I should. I know I should spend more time with You. You're not always my first and last thought of the day. I often live for myself rather than for You. But Lord, change all of this. Help me to love You and live for You more."
My lack of songwriting ability is probably as apparent as my lack of spiritual fervor. I know that these words probably won't find their way into a "real" worship song or into any church service. But they come from an honest heart. It is an acknowledgement of complete dependence. I can't do it on my ownplease help me. I think this might be what that father of the possessed boy meant when he said, "I believe. Lord, help my unbelief." I know I'm not where I should be, so help me get there.
As the first chords were played at a worship service I recently attended, the audience stood and began singing and clapping along with the music. Many raised their hands. Some sat or even knelt on the floor. A few others just stood silently and listened.
I stood. I sang at least some of the time. To be honest, I was tired and having trouble concentrating. It was early, and I had a lot on my mind. After several songs my feet got tired, so I sat down but continued to sing, most of the time. A million thoughts streamed through my head, but one lingered. I thought back to a conversation I had with a friend the week before. We whispered comments back and forth about one of the songs. Although it was a highly emotionally driven song, it lacked both substance and sense, creating images that were shallow, absurd and perhaps even theologically incorrect. Lines like, "Walking blindly in the truth," or "Breathe upon the ones unknown." How can a person walk "blindly in the truth" when Jesus said we will know the truth and the truth will set us free? Or who are these "unknown" that we are asking an omniscient God to breathe upon? It wasn't just a bad worship song, but bad poetry as well. Needless to say, neither of us liked the song.
On this occasion, I didn't like the songs much either, but for very different reasons. These songs had depth, made sense and were about as theologically correct as "Amazing Grace." My problem with these songs was that they were too good. They were too correct. They echoed feelings and desires and claims that I felt I couldn't honestly have or make.
One song was particularly problematic. It went, This is my desire, to honor You/ Lord, with all my heart I worship You/ All I have within me, I give You praise/ Lord, with all my heart I worship You/ Lord, I give You my heart, I give You my soul/ I live for You alone/ Every breath that I take, every moment I'm awake/ Lord, have Your way with me. A song of complete surrender, love and adoration.
I was having a really hard time with it because, as much as I liked those words and wished to sing them, that was not the song of my heart. I desire to honor God, but I don't worship Him with all of my heart or praise Him with all that is within me. Usually my praise is only lip serviceat most a mental exercise. I have given Him my heart, although I often take it back and keep it for myself. I desire to live for Him alone with my every breath and every move. But I don't. I live for myself, my goals and dreams and desires. I get caught up in routines and schedules and forget about Him. I have things to do and often get too busy for Him. I want to say, "Lord, have Your way with me," but that scares me. His way is never easy and is often very painful.
I wanted to sing that song. I wanted to belt it out, hands stretched toward the heavens. But in thinking about the words and what they truly mean, it was difficult. The conflict between who I know I am and who I desire to be raged as the band and audience sang. I was confronted with the reality of my own spiritual apathy and indifference. Looking in the mirror can be a dreadful thing.
My thoughts then led me in a new direction. Although I am severely poetically challenged, I began to have aspirations of writing my own worships songs. Songs I could actually sing and mean whole-heartedly. Songs not about the ideals I hope for, but about the reality I face. Songs with words like, "Lord, I don't love You like I should. I know I should spend more time with You. You're not always my first and last thought of the day. I often live for myself rather than for You. But Lord, change all of this. Help me to love You and live for You more."
My lack of songwriting ability is probably as apparent as my lack of spiritual fervor. I know that these words probably won't find their way into a "real" worship song or into any church service. But they come from an honest heart. It is an acknowledgement of complete dependence. I can't do it on my ownplease help me. I think this might be what that father of the possessed boy meant when he said, "I believe. Lord, help my unbelief." I know I'm not where I should be, so help me get there.
Encounter with a Prophet
This is something I wrote quite some time ago. It was published by Relevant Magazine several years ago.
I met a prophet in a riverbed once. It might have happened anyway, but I don't think it's a coincidence that I met him the day after a couple friends and I had an all-night prayer meeting. We sent out flyers and made plans for a great time of worship, Bible study and prayer. But the only ones who came were the three of us. Although the turnout was disappointing, we had a good time talking and praying about many things.
The following day, one of these friends invited me to go along with him on a "help the homeless" outing. A group of students from his collegemostly non-Christians mind youwere going to some local parks to hand out food and blankets to homeless people living there. My friend and I saw this as a dual opportunity: help those in need and be a witness to our fellow helpers.
The morning went along pretty smoothly. As we handed out our goods, we struck up conversations with some of those we tried to help. It was difficult and uncomfortable at times. But most of them were just looking for someone to listen to their story.
We made our way to the dry riverbed that ran through town, an area where many homeless people had set up residence. As we grabbed the sack lunches and blankets from the car, my friend started up a conversation with someone in the group. He told this person that we were both Christians and were doing this because we believed that this was something Jesus would want us to do. The response was a polite one, but with very little interest in why we were there.
We hiked along, passing out food and blankets to those we met along the way. A few of us started lagging behind, but when we caught up to the group, we saw them talking to a tall, gray-haired man. They were explaining some of the organizations that were ready to help him get back on his feet again.
As I approached the conversation, the man stopped talking and stared long and hard at me. It was one of those piercing stares, one that you don't want to meet with your own eyes, but you can't look away either. My heart began racing, and a cold sweat covered my palms. Finally the silent tension was broken as he extended his hand toward me and asked my name. I told him as my quivering hand shook his. He continued to stare, almost as if he was looking through me. Another couple of anxious seconds passed before he spoke again. "You're a man of God," he said.
"Y-y-yes," I answered, still very afraid of who this person was or what he was capable of doing to me. All eyes were now on me, or at least it seemed. The others just stood back watching this encounter unfold.
"Keep following Jesus," he continued. "Don't get confused. His ways, not yours."
I don't remember what I said in response, if anything at all. I was overwhelmed by the situation. I do remember going about the rest of our day, handing out food and blankets to those in need. Several of the others in the group voiced their surprise about what had happened. I think they were as shell-shocked as I was.
Our day continued on, most of which was a haze for me. It took quite awhile to fully process what had occurred. But later on, my friend and I met up with some others. All I could talk about was this incredible experience. Although I never fully figured out the significance of this encounterit didn't seem to relate to any particular decision I had to make or any struggles I was facingI know God had spoken to me. Something so simple, yet so true.
Days, weeks, even years have passed. This event, like most in life, has slipped back into the recesses of my memory. I have thought about it less and less as new and more pressing things flow in and out of my mind. And even now, but for the suggestion that I write about it, this memory might have slipped away. But in reflecting back on this experience of six or seven years ago, I realize the importance of this event. Not necessarily the event itself, but what was said to me. God had a message for me, and He used a homeless guy in Riverside, Calif., to tell me. "Keep following Jesus. His ways, not yours.
I met a prophet in a riverbed once. It might have happened anyway, but I don't think it's a coincidence that I met him the day after a couple friends and I had an all-night prayer meeting. We sent out flyers and made plans for a great time of worship, Bible study and prayer. But the only ones who came were the three of us. Although the turnout was disappointing, we had a good time talking and praying about many things.
The following day, one of these friends invited me to go along with him on a "help the homeless" outing. A group of students from his collegemostly non-Christians mind youwere going to some local parks to hand out food and blankets to homeless people living there. My friend and I saw this as a dual opportunity: help those in need and be a witness to our fellow helpers.
The morning went along pretty smoothly. As we handed out our goods, we struck up conversations with some of those we tried to help. It was difficult and uncomfortable at times. But most of them were just looking for someone to listen to their story.
We made our way to the dry riverbed that ran through town, an area where many homeless people had set up residence. As we grabbed the sack lunches and blankets from the car, my friend started up a conversation with someone in the group. He told this person that we were both Christians and were doing this because we believed that this was something Jesus would want us to do. The response was a polite one, but with very little interest in why we were there.
We hiked along, passing out food and blankets to those we met along the way. A few of us started lagging behind, but when we caught up to the group, we saw them talking to a tall, gray-haired man. They were explaining some of the organizations that were ready to help him get back on his feet again.
As I approached the conversation, the man stopped talking and stared long and hard at me. It was one of those piercing stares, one that you don't want to meet with your own eyes, but you can't look away either. My heart began racing, and a cold sweat covered my palms. Finally the silent tension was broken as he extended his hand toward me and asked my name. I told him as my quivering hand shook his. He continued to stare, almost as if he was looking through me. Another couple of anxious seconds passed before he spoke again. "You're a man of God," he said.
"Y-y-yes," I answered, still very afraid of who this person was or what he was capable of doing to me. All eyes were now on me, or at least it seemed. The others just stood back watching this encounter unfold.
"Keep following Jesus," he continued. "Don't get confused. His ways, not yours."
I don't remember what I said in response, if anything at all. I was overwhelmed by the situation. I do remember going about the rest of our day, handing out food and blankets to those in need. Several of the others in the group voiced their surprise about what had happened. I think they were as shell-shocked as I was.
Our day continued on, most of which was a haze for me. It took quite awhile to fully process what had occurred. But later on, my friend and I met up with some others. All I could talk about was this incredible experience. Although I never fully figured out the significance of this encounterit didn't seem to relate to any particular decision I had to make or any struggles I was facingI know God had spoken to me. Something so simple, yet so true.
Days, weeks, even years have passed. This event, like most in life, has slipped back into the recesses of my memory. I have thought about it less and less as new and more pressing things flow in and out of my mind. And even now, but for the suggestion that I write about it, this memory might have slipped away. But in reflecting back on this experience of six or seven years ago, I realize the importance of this event. Not necessarily the event itself, but what was said to me. God had a message for me, and He used a homeless guy in Riverside, Calif., to tell me. "Keep following Jesus. His ways, not yours.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
At the Cineplex
Here's a little something I wrote awhile back...
It is not very often that I get to watch movies anymore. The rising prices at the box office have made me think twice; there are better uses for ten dollars in my mind. So I often just wait for a film to come out on video. Also having two kids makes it difficult. I can’t bring them with me, and it’s hard to find babysitters.
But there’s another reason I don’t go to the movies anymore. Maybe it’s a sign of my age, or maybe I’m just becoming old-fashioned, but there aren’t a lot of really good movies that I consider worth the ten dollars’ admission price. My wife and I have a sort of unwritten rule when it comes to watching movies: if it’s rated R, it’s very unlikely that we’ll see it. We figure if it is rated R, it probably deserves it for some reason. And it probably contains things that we don’t need to see or hear. So with rare exception, we don’t go see R-rated movies.
Now this makes it difficult to go see the “really good” films. I am a huge movie fan and I love watching the Oscars every year. But it becomes less and less meaningful for me each year because there are fewer and fewer nominated films that I have seen. Just in the last two years, eight of the ten best picture nominations were rated R.
So why do all the good films have to be rated R? Why do the great works of writing and directing and acting also have to be filled with sex and drugs and violence and profanity? Does it take these things to tell a great story?
The answer, obviously, is no; however, Hollywood producers are no dummies. They know that a little skin and a few big explosions attract big audiences and, therefore, fill their wallets. It’s all about the money.
I guess that is why I am such a fan of the classics. Although there has been sex and violence since the silent era, most films from back in the day were pretty wholesome, mostly because society didn’t allow much of what gets a film an R rating today. They were great films that didn’t rely on nudity and gore to sell tickets.
I have noticed a trend over the last couple of years, though. Many studios are producing more “family-friendly” films. Producers have realized that there is a huge market for PG-rated films. There is a large portion of our population that doesn’t want to see naked bodies and hear the f-word. Although I don’t see these films taking over the market as a whole, it is nice to see that Hollywood is paying attention to people like me. Now all they need to do is cut ticket prices in half and provide free childcare and I’d be happy to make regular visits to the local Cineplex.
It is not very often that I get to watch movies anymore. The rising prices at the box office have made me think twice; there are better uses for ten dollars in my mind. So I often just wait for a film to come out on video. Also having two kids makes it difficult. I can’t bring them with me, and it’s hard to find babysitters.
But there’s another reason I don’t go to the movies anymore. Maybe it’s a sign of my age, or maybe I’m just becoming old-fashioned, but there aren’t a lot of really good movies that I consider worth the ten dollars’ admission price. My wife and I have a sort of unwritten rule when it comes to watching movies: if it’s rated R, it’s very unlikely that we’ll see it. We figure if it is rated R, it probably deserves it for some reason. And it probably contains things that we don’t need to see or hear. So with rare exception, we don’t go see R-rated movies.
Now this makes it difficult to go see the “really good” films. I am a huge movie fan and I love watching the Oscars every year. But it becomes less and less meaningful for me each year because there are fewer and fewer nominated films that I have seen. Just in the last two years, eight of the ten best picture nominations were rated R.
So why do all the good films have to be rated R? Why do the great works of writing and directing and acting also have to be filled with sex and drugs and violence and profanity? Does it take these things to tell a great story?
The answer, obviously, is no; however, Hollywood producers are no dummies. They know that a little skin and a few big explosions attract big audiences and, therefore, fill their wallets. It’s all about the money.
I guess that is why I am such a fan of the classics. Although there has been sex and violence since the silent era, most films from back in the day were pretty wholesome, mostly because society didn’t allow much of what gets a film an R rating today. They were great films that didn’t rely on nudity and gore to sell tickets.
I have noticed a trend over the last couple of years, though. Many studios are producing more “family-friendly” films. Producers have realized that there is a huge market for PG-rated films. There is a large portion of our population that doesn’t want to see naked bodies and hear the f-word. Although I don’t see these films taking over the market as a whole, it is nice to see that Hollywood is paying attention to people like me. Now all they need to do is cut ticket prices in half and provide free childcare and I’d be happy to make regular visits to the local Cineplex.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Never Shall I Forget...
In response to reading Elie Weisel's Holocaust Memoir, Night, I am having my students do an imitative writing assignment in which the mimic the style and structure of the "Never shall I forget..." passage. To help them along, I wrote this passage about the birth of my first daughter. I thought it was worth sharing with the rest of you.
Never shall I forget that blessed morning in the doctor’s office when my
wife went into labor. The shock and surprise; it was three weeks too
soon. The pounding of my heart, the adrenaline pumping through my
veins. Never shall I forget the nurse’s words to me. “You’re going
to have a baby.”
Never shall I forget my wife lying on the hospital bed. Pain and
anguish on her face as each contraction hit. Powerless to do anything but
hold her hand and kiss her forehead. Yet overwhelmed with the joy of
anticipation.
Never shall I forget those four short hours as they passed by so
quickly. The sterile hospital room. The heart monitor sounding off
rhythmically with each beat of the baby’s heart. The pain of each
contraction as they got closer and closer. The excitement as the moment
drew nearer and
nearer.
Never shall I forget the counting and the pushing. The doctor’s soft
and encouraging voice urging her to push one more time. Never shall I
forget that first cry breaking through the din of the room. Never shall I
forget the moment they laid the tiny babe on my wife’s chest. Never shall
I forget the toughness of the cord as I cut her loose. Never shall I
forget the ink marks of her footprints upon my forearms. Never shall I
forget cradling her in my arms for the very first time, feeling her wiggle and
squirm just as she had in the womb. Never shall I forget the day I would
first be called “Daddy.”
Never.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Scars
I used to play on a rec league softball team. I played for several years, mostly as a first baseman. My fielding skills weren't that good, but I could catch almost anything thrown at me, given that it was at about chest level and not thrown too hard. I had good infielders who made me look a lot better than I actually was.
During one game about a year and a half ago, the shortstop threw me a ball in the dirt. It short-hopped right in front of me and nailed me right above the ankle. It hurt pretty bad, but I played through it. However, I noticed as the game progressed that my ankle was getting more and more swollen. By the time I got home, I had a rather large, and rather painful, lump above my ankle.
It stayed swollen for a couple weeks. The bruising spread down all around my ankle and foot. And it hurt like the dickens. I was on the DL for about two weeks.
As the weeks wore on, the swelling and most of the bruising went away. But there remained a small, darkened, sensitive spot where the leather of the ball hit my leg. Every morning when I dry myself after a shower, I feel a twinge of pain as I touch my left ankle. Or I have to quickly, but gently, remove my daughters from the spot when they decide I am their personal jungle gym. A year and a half later, I'm still feeling it.
Not long ago, I was driving to Ventura to take my wife's car in for servicing. As I drove a road I became very familiar with a few years ago, I felt another twinge of pain. See, driving that direction takes me right past the school I once taught at. I spent a horrible year there trying to teach unruly sophomores and trying to win the favor of unpleasable administrators. The nine months I spent there were probably the worst of my life. A very distressing, emotionally and spiritually taxing time of my life.
Time has helped heal the wounds. The swelling and bruising have gone down. But somewhere, in some unseen part of me, the scar remains. Like the brush of a towel, or the bump of a toddler's foot, against my ankle, a drive past that school brings back those feelings. Not nearly as intense, but just as real.
Leaving that job allowed me to take the one I currently have, the one I truly enjoy. I see God's providence in the circumstances. He did work the situation out for good, as His Word promises He would do. But the scar remains. A reminder of the worst job I ever had. But I wouldn't be where I am now if I hadn't gone there first. I think I am better for having gone through the experience, as awful as it was. I just wish taking that short-hop off the ankle improved my fielding skills as well.
During one game about a year and a half ago, the shortstop threw me a ball in the dirt. It short-hopped right in front of me and nailed me right above the ankle. It hurt pretty bad, but I played through it. However, I noticed as the game progressed that my ankle was getting more and more swollen. By the time I got home, I had a rather large, and rather painful, lump above my ankle.
It stayed swollen for a couple weeks. The bruising spread down all around my ankle and foot. And it hurt like the dickens. I was on the DL for about two weeks.
As the weeks wore on, the swelling and most of the bruising went away. But there remained a small, darkened, sensitive spot where the leather of the ball hit my leg. Every morning when I dry myself after a shower, I feel a twinge of pain as I touch my left ankle. Or I have to quickly, but gently, remove my daughters from the spot when they decide I am their personal jungle gym. A year and a half later, I'm still feeling it.
Not long ago, I was driving to Ventura to take my wife's car in for servicing. As I drove a road I became very familiar with a few years ago, I felt another twinge of pain. See, driving that direction takes me right past the school I once taught at. I spent a horrible year there trying to teach unruly sophomores and trying to win the favor of unpleasable administrators. The nine months I spent there were probably the worst of my life. A very distressing, emotionally and spiritually taxing time of my life.
Time has helped heal the wounds. The swelling and bruising have gone down. But somewhere, in some unseen part of me, the scar remains. Like the brush of a towel, or the bump of a toddler's foot, against my ankle, a drive past that school brings back those feelings. Not nearly as intense, but just as real.
Leaving that job allowed me to take the one I currently have, the one I truly enjoy. I see God's providence in the circumstances. He did work the situation out for good, as His Word promises He would do. But the scar remains. A reminder of the worst job I ever had. But I wouldn't be where I am now if I hadn't gone there first. I think I am better for having gone through the experience, as awful as it was. I just wish taking that short-hop off the ankle improved my fielding skills as well.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
I'm Back
After some difficulty in remembering my login and password, I am back to the blog. I actually went through the trouble of creating a new blog, only to gain access to this one. I guess I am not as techno-savvy as I would like to believe I am. Anyway, here I am. I'll be back - hopefully a bit more regularly - to write more, but right now I have to help get the kids to bed.
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