Silent Nights

(Written over the course of a December where Christmas plans were canceled twice in heartbreaking fashion.)

It's quiet around here. Anticipation is still high, but not like the glory days of grade school where sleep was considered an enemy. No, those days started fading away three years ago. Or was it four? I don't really remember. Regardless, we will indeed celebrate and celebrate big this year because family is always worth celebrating. Jesus is always worth celebrating.

This Christmas, you may find me staring out my front window at any given moment. I feel like a hypocrite, because a large portion of my life I wondered why this beautiful, joyful season was considered a time of pain and grief for some people. Then, somehow, I became one of those people. At least sometimes.

My default has consistently been to think of Christmas as the time for generosity, lightheartedness, friendship. Where is the room for *those other people*? Only experience has shown me how both find room in the same space: The one where the idea--the ideal--of Christmas is left behind and the entirety of God's promise is received.

There's a spiritual gift God has given all of us this year. I don't mean the ability to prophesy or work miracles, but I mean the ability to see what God has been telling each of us for the last twelve months. How was He working? What story was He writing? I know it's been written well, but I want to read it well. 

Knowing my tendency to misinterpret, here's hints at a couple of my own chapters:

Though it's not where I expected to be, to see myself only as "alone" in the narrowest sense of the word is to ignore the most precious gifts God has given me this season. Because I alone get to celebrate the affection and smiles of my children as they open their gifts. Only I get to witness the day-to-day unfolding of their lives. They look to me to walk beside them on this journey. I'm one in eight billion and it's an honor.

And I was the one who prayed that God would keep me from a "boring life." (And I still think you should pray like that.) I asked to be tested. I put my life God's hands to go wherever He would take me. More than any prayer I've ever prayed, I know He heard that one.

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I want those prayers to lead me to a deeper place than just a therapeutic exercise of "re-framing." I want it to be an acknowledgment of the blessings I've been given and the ones on the way. I truly want to see it as part of a carefully crafted story. Not ignoring grief or heartbreak but understanding the built-in benefits of the life I've been privileged to live.

Every ending is the opportunity for a new beginning, and I want to celebrate a day of brand-new mercies. I want to embrace every good and perfect gift God has for me. Those gifts point back to the gift of a Child born on that one silent night. It was a gift for all people and God help me not to forget how "all" includes me. 

And it includes you.

On these silent nights, sometimes you may struggle to find Him, but He's not struggling to find you. And He will come. He always does.

Presets

It's just another funny thing about being a widower.

This is what's so crazy about being a single parent.

That's the unique thing about being a person of color.

It's hard to understand if you're not a minister.

That's how it is if you're from a broken home.

We all have slots that we fall in to. Like presets on the car stereo, it's a default station that gets us to the frequency we want to hear. Expectations form a type of top-40 mix that pleases the ears of our audience as it perfectly fits the time signatures of every other hit single played earlier in the day.

And as we deal with other people, we punch the buttons. We hear what we want to hear on our favorite station. We're not going to take the time to listen to every station because we don't like every kind of music and we definitely aren't going to flick the tuner dial just to see where it lands because who knows what could happen?

The past few months has helped me realize that I'm more than just the presets. I'm more than my grief, my past, my skin color, my marital status and even my calling. What makes me unique and what makes me effective is that I'm all these things at once. There's even sometimes I inconveniently shift into the static of the in-between and I'm trusting that God knew what He was doing when He made me and that He's more than comfortable when I don't fall in the slots.

If you perceive me in one certain way, I don't blame you because it's human nature to jump to the presets. But for me--in this new season of my life--I'm ready for some surprises. I'm ready to spin the dial.  

I know the slots will always be there, even if they're not nearly as well-defined as society says they are. They really spill into every other, so I'm not looking for fundamental change. I'm looking to increase the bandwidth.

Let's go. God, I don't have to know everything.

We Are Not Destroyed

The Apostle Paul writes in his second letter to the Corinthians that we are "troubled on every side...perplexed...persecuted...cast down, but not destroyed."

Who is? We are. Specifically: God's people are. Not the people God forgot about. Not the ones who messed up a little bit. Not the ones God loves less. We are.

Everyone has their 2021 story and ours is a novel mostly of tragedy and crisis. (I made that pretty clear in my last post.) If group therapy taught me anything this year, it's that I'm not alone in my pain and if the Apostle Paul is to be believed, it's something we all go through. Even people God loves.

A year ago on New Year's Day, I wrote about "missing miracles". Those things are still missing.  In fact, the posters I hung on the telephone poles are curled up and faded. The phone calls with false hope have stopped coming in. I'm not sure about all that stuff Paul said, but I've certainly been pretty perplexed in 2021.

But my favorite part of this Scripture is "cast down, but not destroyed," because that really speaks to where we've been this year. Not forgotten, not unloved, but cast down. 2021 was that necessary reminder that down doesn't lose the title fight, tackled doesn't end the football game and behind doesn't disqualify the racer.

We are not destroyed and because we are not destroyed that means we're moving forward.

So come on, 2022. What do you got?

Peg Solitaire and Single Parenting

You guys know the game. You're at a hole-in-the-wall diner before smartphones existed. Breakfast has been ordered (even though it's noon) and you know you have a solid 30 minutes to kill because there's a half dozen orders in front of you that want that same chicken fried steak you asked for.

The cook can only move so fast, so you wait at your table with a glass of ice water, salt and pepper shakers, a sugar holder with white, blue and pink packets and--if you're lucky--a plastic Smucker's caddy that still has some Seedless Blackberry in it. And peg solitaire.

Peg solitaire doesn't have the sophistication of card solitaire games like Spider or FreeCell. No. Peg solitaire is multiple rounds (about 30 minutes worth) of hilarious futility. This is the game where you end up laughing at yourself because you can't seem to quite get what appears to be a simple concept.

Oooh, I know. I'll jump here. Wait. No.

Here, then here, then here and...

OK. Three pegs left.  I almost win!

Steve Fishman (CC by 2.0)

Let's start over with the empty hole at the corner.  

From here to here to here. 

No. No, that's not right. Right here. NO. Seriously?

---

This is what single parenting is like every day. It doesn't seem like such a complicated thing. The end goal is right there in front of me. Somehow I keep running out of moves but I never run out of pegs.

Days happen, the clock spins and somehow stuff just gets past me. Come on. I'm better than that! Let's go again cuz we got this! 

(by 11 PM the next day) REALLY? It's like that!?!

Next day: Nope.

The next day: What?

The day after that: Two pegs to go and I almost win!!!

Yet another day: Is my chicken fried steak here yet?

I'm outnumbered. I'm tired. There's small details and intricacies of life that are no longer even considerations. Every seam is strained with necessity. Options are no longer optional. Out of moves, but the pegs are still in their places and they're laughing at me.

Can I tell you that I enjoy it? For some reason in this short season of life, I'm here playing the near-unwinnable game that was never meant to be a solo endeavor, but God has placed me at this table for a little while. And He's given me something to do. Something seemingly futile, but somehow there's laughter and love and understanding.

I cannot tell you the newly-gained respect I have for the single parents that I know. Especially, considering that so many of them I know are doing it well. In all of these amazing stories, I just think a lot of times the joy gets lost between the order and the steak.

---

A few months ago I was talking with a fellow single parent trying to understand what it is I could do better. During the conversation, I told them how amazing their kids were and how much I admired them as a family. My friend replied with two words:

I've tried.

Same, my friend. Same.

Bonuses

Expectations can be both good and bad.  There's nothing wrong with expecting a raise until it drives us to discontent with what we already make.  That thing you've been blessed to have for so many years and you thought would last forever, when it's suddenly taken away, now seems like a curse.

For years I worked at an employer that offered significant bonuses every year at Christmas.  They were based on company and personal performance, but every one knew that every year, everyone got at least some kind of bonus.  They used to give these out at a special celebration lunch for the entire office.  People would get called up in front of everyone and get showered with compliments and handed a little envelope.  We all knew what was inside.  It was this amazing, happy time with a group of content colleagues that couldn't wait for the CEO to announce that we should all just go home for the day and tell the good news to our families.

The problem came when things changed.  Ownership changed, policies changed, finances changed and the bonuses went away.  All of the sudden the happy people I used to work with changed.  They probably had a lot of good reasons.  So much was changing and the chemistry wasn't there like it used to be.  But one of the reasons I often heard was one I couldn't accept: They don't give us bonuses anymore.

I'm sure you know what my counter was to this argument: It was a bonus.

Oxford defines bonus as "something welcome and often unexpected that accompanies and enhances something that is itself good."

Unexpected?  Sounds like the bonus at my now-former employer was plenty expected.  That seemed to be the problem.

So many times our lives are buried in blessings that we forget that these things are really extra and auxiliary to the actual point of our lives.  The bonuses don't determine whether or not we're doing a good job; they're reminders the gratefulness for it.  How is it that our own gratefulness is determined by the level of someone else's?

God, our families, the people in our lives give us things daily that we don't deserve, but they're given out of love.  When it doesn't quite match our expectation, we become lost in feelings of discontent, disappointment and insecurity.  Many times it can be over things that have nothing to do with the overall direction of our lives, jobs, families and futures.

Does that mean to throw our all your expecatations?  No.  I think you should expect big things.  If not from your own life, at minimum from the grace of God.

At the same time, one of the things that's helped me most in my times of great disappointment is to learn to separate the things in my life into things that are directional and things that are bonuses.  If it's not about the direction I'm going, it's nearly always a bonus.  And if it's a bonus then it's something I can live without.

But if I do receive a bonus, I will do my best to cover that blessing with thankfulness.  Because I have certainly been buried with bonuses.

40 (The Other Me)

If you aim for the stars, maybe at least you will hit the moon.

Modern Proverb

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If 30 is the age where you lose your idealism, then 40 is the age where you find your place.  Life is really good at forcing you into your lane and telling you to stay there which is a hard thing for a young person growing up in America.  In this country, we tell our youth to live out their dreams and become their "best self".  We measure things in hard terms of success and failure.

This usually comes along with completely ignoring upbringing, circumstances, income, prejudices, mistakes and personal preferences.  You probably could have that executive position at the company if you wanted to.  You have the aptitude and the work ethic.  But you also have a family and/or other interests that don't fit very well with working 70 hours a week, so you make a choice.  And it's the wrong choice for your external legacy.  Everyone but you likes the potential "CEO you" better than very real "Assistant Middle Manager You".  Everyone but you.  And maybe your kids and your husband or wife.

But people ignore that part because they don't write books or do reality TV shows about Ordinary You.  So yes, CEO You may never come to be, but "Great Mother of Four You" or "Selfless Friend to the Lonely You" is living and breathing and reading this right now.

Maybe it isn't even your personal preference, but instead it's just all you're left with.  After the divorce, the illness, the bankruptcy, the unbelievably stupid decision, the accident, the guy who cheated you out of all your money, or possibly a combination of all those things that we're too embarrassed to talk about.  Regardless, CEO, Published Author, Senior Pastor, Humanitarian, Entrepreneur, Astronaut, Whatever You seems to be out of reach right now and maybe forever.

I think 40 is the age where I've become OK with saying goodbye to the Other Me.

That doesn't mean I've completely dismissed some of the things I dreamed in my idealistic 20's, but it does mean that my day to day happiness isn't controlled by something that I'd hoped for as a blessing in my already very blessed life.

If you've shot for the stars and hit the moon, mathematically you're a complete failure.  The moon is 238,900 miles away.  The nearest star is 2.4925e+13 miles, so you just hit something that's one one hundred millionth of the distance that you intended to travel.  By the numbers, you'd be just as close if you aimed at the roof of your own house.

If you find your aiming is in vain, believe with me for just a moment that maybe you're in a healthy place in life and really are aligned with God's plan. And maybe because of that you'll have dreams until your dying breath.  So unfulfilled dreams may just be something that comes along with the human experience.  I don't know.  I haven't hit the stars yet, so I guess I'll see.

We call people that walk on the moon heroes, right?  So there's gotta be hope.

NBCAM, Pinkwashing and Komen

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  I usually try to post at least once about the topic during this time and usually I write something inspirational and determined.  Not this year.

This year I want to talk about pink ribbons.  Many things have been said about the pink ribbon over the past five years.  People love it; people hate it.  The shift in public reception from when Anne-Marie was first diagnosed with BC in 2006 to now has been huge.

In 2006, we had friends openly support us by displaying pink ribbons.  They were making the declaration that they were with us in our struggle.  Today, I have friends who tell me how stupid and annoying they think the pink ribbon campaign is.  People's criticism of the pink campaign usually has one primary target: Susan G. Komen.

For those who don't know, Susan G. Komen is a charitable organization named after Susan Goodman Komen.  Komen was dying of BC and her sister promised her she would do everything she could to help other people with the disease.

People hate Komen.  They hate their ribbons.  They hate their collaborations with for-profit organizations.  They hate that little race they do downtown.  Mostly they hate them for partnering with Planned Parenthood and then not partnering with them and then partnering with them again.

The controversy with PP happened in January of 2012 and has dogged Komen ever since.  Perhaps politically motivated, the more conservative Komen ended funding for screening with PP, who is the largest abortion provider in the US.  Liberals freaked out, Komen changed course, conservatives freaked out, everyone was angry and donations dropped by over 20 percent.

There have definitely been some fair criticisms of Komen and "pink-ribbon causes" over the years.  Tons of pink stuff everywhere in the fall.  The use distribution of funds.  The CEO's salary.  I hear you on all that because I--just like you--want my dollars to go as far as they can to the most worthy cause that they can.

But before you turn your back on the whole thing, please hear me out on just these few points:

1.  There are plenty of other "pink ribbon" organizations beside Susan G. Komen

The so-called pinkwashing that you see around America is hardly the result of one organization.  The NFL isn't partnering with Komen (or the Oregon Ducks).  Those pink uniforms are helping another non-profit.  The annual push by Estee Lauder--who invented the pink ribbon--goes to support the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

The numerous non-profits that support breast cancer related treatment is actually an advantage for those who are truly concerned about the cause.  Do you hate Komen?  Awesome!  Consider Dana-Farber, LBBC, The American Cancer Society.  The options that we're given to find a charity that matches our values gives us no excuse.  And because of that...

2.  You are free to donate your money elsewhere...

But answer this honestly: Do you?  For many people that pink can of Campbell's Soup is the whole of the donation that they will give.  These type of things make up a large part of the hundreds of millions of dollars that are donated annually to deal with breast cancer related issues.

So you can say it's all too cute, that it's cause marketing and that it doesn't actually impact real people.  You might be right on the first two, but you're wrong on the last one.  Very wrong.

Why?...

3.  Susan G. Komen kept us from going bankrupt

In May of 2012, when Anne-Marie was diagnosed with a recurrence of breast cancer, I was a self-employed freelance drafter that had no health insurance.  Since then, Anne-Marie has received two and a half years worth of treatment at the finest cancer hospital in the Western United States.

Who stepped forward to help us out?  The Susan G. Komen Foundation.

A grant from Komen provided us with coverage for our medical bills.  After I received my current job and I (unfortunately) found out that the premium and out-of-pocket costs for my wife would still send us to financial ruin, Komen's grant still held.

Obamacare tried to take the coverage away (twice!) and failed.  It's a good thing because the Affordable Care Act isn't really that affordable.  Not when you have a serious medical condition, anyhow.  Trust me: I've run the numbers many, many times.

Donations given to Komen have helped a very overwhelmed family who had so many other things to worry about, worry about things a little less.

---

So you can go ahead and hate and bash.  I know people think they have their reasons.  But you're not going to hear that kind of talk around here.  Everyone has their opinions, but we've lived it.

It's an opinion that I think is worth sharing.

Attention shoppers...

The time is now October and the store is now closed.  Please bring your final church selection to the registers at the front of the store.

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We took three months to make the decision, but the time has come.  October is here.  The leaves have turned.  The prayers have all been prayed.  The store is now closed.  Let's go home.

Our family will be attending Portland Pentecostal[s] Church pastored by Steve Hanson.

(I asked Pastor Hanson if the name of the church was "Portland Pentecostals" or "Portland Pentecostal Church".  He told me that the congregation is called Portland Pentecostals, but that the humongous sign just off the I-205 freeway was too narrow to fit PentecostalS and ever since then the church has also used the title Portland Pentecostal Church on occasion.)

PP[C] is located in SE Portland near Mt. Scott.  Pastor Hanson and his wife, Yvonne, have pastored the church for 25 years and taken it from a small congregation that met on Sandy Boulevard to a Southeast Portland where they [crazily] bought the recently-vacated funeral home at Lincoln Memorial Park.  They've been there long enough that the've successfully established the church's identity in the area and shaken off most of the undertaker jokes.

I met Steve Hanson completely outside of a church setting almost 20 years ago when he was a union carpenter and I had a summer job with the same company.  I'm glad to say he's the same guy as a successful pastor in SE Portland as he was installing cabinets in SW Portland in the 90's.  In this very unique time in our lives, the Hansons and Portland Pentecostals have been welcoming and understanding and we are very grateful.

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So for all the "best churches" out there: we were so impressed with the different people we met and the work you're all doing.  Many would think that the past three months would give us a list of negatives for every church we visited.  Not at all so.  The hardest thing was trying to sort through all the positives.  This time in our lives is through and we've made a choice that we believe is best (that some certainly won't agree with).  But we can definitely offer some great recommendations for the places and people that have opened their doors and their hearts to us this summer.  Thank you all.

"Church Shopping"

Allow me to preface what I'm about to say: We don't really owe the world an explanation.  I'm writing about this because I want to.  As with many of the other posts on the blog, it helps clarify my thoughts.  Most of all, telling our story offers a little hope to people who feel all alone.  I know this to be true because many of you have told me so in person.

If, by chance, you are a church-attending person that's easily offended or thinks they might get riled up reading a post about church, go to the top of your browser and look for the "X" and remember this: I probably need you more as my friend right now than I'll ever need you as a reader.  Now click it.  Thanks.

Eli

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Time to get real.

Two two-word phrases are among the most frowned-upon concepts in the entire Christian universe.  They're only separated by one letter.

Church hopping.

Church shopping.

For my heathen readers, let me educate you on what these terms mean.  "Church hopping" refers to the actions of those who don't actually attend a church, but go to a bunch of different churches for short stints, never wanting to make a full-time commitment.  These people prefer the Appetizer Sampler Platter at the most convenient branch of TGI Applebili's.  And they order it every single time.  Christendom frown level on red.

"Church shopping" refers to a situation where someone who is a churchgoing Christian--for all kinds of reasons--no longer attends their old church and is looking for another to attend long-term.  They'll often say things like "right now we're between churches".  A lot of times these are people that will go to a bunch of different restaurants trying to find the perfect one and usually want a bargain.  They might even bring a coupon.  Christendom frown level on orange.

The first reason I bring this up is because it is such a cumbersome issue.  No one wants to talk about it to the point that it's practically against the rules to talk about it.  The second reason is that our family falls into the second category.

I said it.  The reason why I said it is because I hope this helps someone.  At the very least, I hope that by typing this, I can be real with myself about where we are and solidify the issue in my mind.  Yet, I know that thousands of church-attending people deal with this every day and that maybe they're looking for some clarity and camaraderie.  Let's give it a try.

No church really likes to be shopped.  No church likes to be hopped.  Every single one of them has had it done to them, even if they didn't realize it.  People drop in on churches they think they might want to attend and they make mental notes or whatever.  They (hopefully) pray about it and talk with their family about it.  They make a decision.

People don't really like to be church shoppers.  (Which is unlike church hoppers.  I think they actually kinda enjoy that way of life.  And then there's the unfortunate situation where shoppers become hoppers and it all devolves into...anyways...)  It's weird.  It's awkward.  It results in a lot of strange conversations.

How do you make your mental notes, pray your prayers and have your conversations about a church and turn to someone and say, "We've decided we don't want to attend your church, but it's not personal."?  Maybe to you it isn't personal, but to the person who loves their church and has spent years or decades building the thing, I could see how it would be.  Faithful church members start to think:

"Maybe they didn't like the song selection."

"Maybe they didn't like the preaching."

"Maybe they were looking for a bigger (or smaller) church."

"Maybe they prayed and God told them to go somewhere else.  But why would He do that?  Are we not good enough for God now?"

Ideally (at least in some sense), people want other people to go to their church, whether they be saint or sinner.  Maybe that's not the driving force behind everything they do, but the fact remains: if you don't think pretty much everyone else on earth should be going to your church, why do you go there yourself?

Already in this past month we've had a large number of people attempt to recruit us to their church.  Now, I know that might be another thing I'm not supposed to talk about, but it's absolutely true.  The reason they do this terrible thing has been expressed in nearly the same words over and over again.  They all tell us it's because "their church is the best church."  This is a completely ludicrous claim.

And you know what?  I love that.

I love that these people love their church so much that they talk about it like it was their own kid.  Because God knows that amongst the billions of children, my two kids are tied for first in the overall rankings worldwide.  Even though it's irrational I'm glad I think that way.  When I see that someone feels that way about their church it speaks of your loyalty, your passion, your willingness to take ownership.  You're proud to call that church your home and believe that God brought you there to grow in your relationship with Him.

But it doesn't mean it's the right place for our family.

After everything that's happened in the past few years, we need to do our best to make a wise decision.  Everyone (yes, everyone) else has opinions about it, but they're not us.  Right now, no one's enjoying it any less than we are, so your prayers and encouragement mean a whole lot.

And so here we are.  We may be swinging by your church in the next few weeks.  If we don't choose to attend there on a regular basis, we hope you don't take it personally.  However, we don't blame you if you do.  Actually, if you don't take it personally, we're wondering why.

One week living in Vancouver, Washington (and a discourse on the contemporary housing situation of average Americans)

Here we are at home.  Where?  Vancouver?  This must be a joke, right?

From the age of 16 to the age of 31 I lived in the same subdivision on a quiet street in Oregon City, Oregon.  After I left there, I found I never wanted to live in a subdivision again.

"Why?" You may ask.  Because I was tired of living in a quiet, perfectly-engineered community where middle class families minivan their collective lives away between their cedar fences and lap-sided walls.  People in my subdivision always drove 20 miles through traffic to another city to work a more-than-eight-hour day, drove back home, popped the garage door remote and drove into their American oblivion.  I really didn't know any but a few of my neighbors even though I lived there for a decade and a half.

I wanted to live in a real community where people actually knew each other.  Where they talked to each other and were interdependent.  Where I might actually have a chance of meeting a stranger who was in a different income bracket, of a different generation or a different culture.  Not just because it's good for me (it is), but because I'm an ambassador of Christ, and it's my privilege to show him to the World.  All of it.

And God blessed us with all of that in Tacoma.  Yes, He did.

We knew our neighbors, the owners of many of the local businesses (which were within walking distance) and met all kinds of different people.

At the same time, our neighborhood had problems with crime, and I'm not talking about littering.  Vandalism, theft, breaking and entering.  Shootings routinely occurred in the neighboring areas.  I wouldn't go for a walk late at night in my neighborhood for my family's sake.

People still commuted long distances and the traffic could become another--or maybe an only--hobby.

A lot of things changed, including me.

Tacoma is the third-largest city in the state of Washington and is 60 square miles of urban turmoil; Vancouver is the fourth-largest city in Washington and it's 50 square miles of suburban cul-de-sacs.

If I've learned anything in the last week, it's that life is life wherever you are.  (Profound.  I know.)  There's lots of different kinds of people, even in subdivisions.  Maybe neighborhoods are as friendly as you make them.  And God is wherever you are.

I have a lot more to say about this, but I'll stop for now.  I need to actually get to the post I wanted to write when I first started.  I repent of my overly-harsh and perfectly-narrow view of the American subdivision.  At the same time, I'll never click that garage door shut quite as quickly as I did five years ago.

---

Unpacking is such a daunting task.  The feeling is the same one you get after putting together a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle.  You know you have to tear it all up and put it away, but you feel stupid for doing it after just finishing the hardest part of the process.

We spent all of Sunday un-puzzling and sleeping.  For me, it was back to work on Monday, but at my new office.  I got up like usual, but didn't have to leave to win the race to Olympia.  Instead, I drove three miles across my neighborhood to work.  It took me seven minutes and forty-five seconds.  I felt really weird, but walked into the Vancouver branch at 8:00 AM and started unpacking.

I met a bunch of people and settled into the new place.  In general, I've really enjoyed the quirky feel and laid-back atmosphere of the Vancouver version of our company.  Most of all, I enjoyed seeing my family on my lunch breaks.  Fifteen years into my career and I'd never come home for lunch until last Monday.  Not only is it good for my family, but it gave me a reason to actually take a lunch break.  I can be terrible at that, even though I know it's an unhealthy practice.

Anne-Marie busied herself putting up shelves and decor and finding all our clothes.  Every time I came home for lunch or after work, something new was done or changed.  The Tetris game in the garage is quickly becoming a home.

Right around Wednesday afternoon, I had a project that went horribly wrong in multiple ways.  I ended up working overtime and collaborating (arguing) with multiple parties and getting input from about ten of our past projects.  It was a terrible experience.

Still, my family was just a few miles away.  I got to come home to them in the evenings and remember that they are here by my side as we attempt life again.

Easter 2014

You could get rid of the chocolate bunnies.

Easter egg hunts could go away.

We could all decide not to go for pictures with the fuzzy rabbit in the mall concourse.

The resurrection cakes, eggs, candy ideas could all be deleted from Pinterest.

Your church could cancel its drama/concert/sermon series/face painting/bouncy house extravaganza this morning.

In fact it could cancel church next week, too.

And it wouldn't reduce the power of the Resurrection at all.

Not at all.

It stands alone in its power to change, heal, forgive and restore and that's whether we celebrate it or not.

That's what makes Easter so amazing.

Better heroes

The last time there was a championship parade in this area of the country was in June of 1979, three months before I was born.  No, I don't remember Lenny Wilkens, Dennis Johnson and the Seattle SuperSonics famous run of the late 70's, but Seattle does.  The whole Pacific Northwest does.

And everyone around here talks about the good ol' days when for just a brief moment in history, the rest of the country and world looked past their everyday responsibilities and glanced in the direction of this oft-forgotten corner of the US.  It happened after Lewis and Clark, the World's Fair, the WTO meetings (though not in a positive way), for the Sonics and last Wednesday.

No one loves the Northwest more than I do.  Call me domestic, pastoral.  Even call me provincial.  When the Seattle Seahawks won the Super Bowl last week, I knew this was my chance to do one of those father/son things I've always only heard people talk about.

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"Hey, Bryan.  If the Seahawks win the Super Bowl can I have some time off to take my son downtown to see the victory parade?"

To be clear: I am not really a Seahawks fan.  I mean they're great, but this isn't my hometown.  The whole NFL thing is a rather new concept to me.  My interest was just as much in the interest of history and patrilineal posterity (look it up) as a love of sport.  So when I asked this question of my boss it was based in naivete and some variation of this same sentence was probably spoken from the mouths of tens of thousands of dads in the Puget Sound area.

Sunday night, after the Seahawks won, details started coming out about a midweek victory parade and I asked Elisha if he wanted to go.  The media said it had the potential to be huge.

I had a plan, though.  Instead of being one of those dummies that drove into the center of downtown thinking I'd find a parking space next to the parade route, I decided to take mass transit.  The Sounder commuter train runs every morning from the Tacoma Dome to downtown Seattle: how much simpler could it get?

We got up early just to be sure we could get on the train.  Two blocks from the station Buddy asked, "Is this the parade?"  As we dodged through traffic and rounded the corner in front of the station I saw one thousand people in line to by tickets to get on the train.

"Bud, I don't know if this gonna work."
"Are we gonna ride the train?"
"See all those people?  They want to ride the train too.  We might just need to go back home."
"Awww. But I really wanna go to the parade."

Every parent knows that feeling you get when your child is disappointed.  It always hurts, but in a way you get used to it.  So common.  So easily dismissed.  Yet--if you're like me--there are times when your kid finds that break in the armor that almost forces you to say "yes."

I decided to park near a warehouse blocks away from the station just to see if maybe we could find a way downtown.  A man that worked at the warehouse stopped me and said that I shouldn't try riding the train because there were too many people.  He said that a block away is a bus stop for the express bus to Seattle.  And that's how we found ourselves an hour later headed north on a bus to Stadium Station.

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The bus fought through the crazy traffic and got us to the parade route in the late morning hours.  We found our spot at Third and Washington and set up there.  It was 23 degrees.  The Snickers bar we brought for a snack was frozen.

And Elisha cried and whined.  Said he was hungry.  Said he was cold.  Said he wanted to go home.

My little boy said a lot of things on the corner of Third and Washington because we had more time together than we'd had in months.  One-on-one time.  Father/son time.

The parade route wouldn't work its way down to us for a couple of hours still and so he took his time to ask--as kids that age do--his dad a bunch of questions.  I only really remember one of them and that's the reason I'm writing this post.

"Dad?"
"Yeah, Bud."
"Are the Seahawks gonna see us?"
"What do you mean?"
"When they come and they see my hat and my shirt will they see it and come and say 'Hi'?"

That's when the feeling from the train station returned.  Childhood innocence cut through the cold, the crowds and the cheers and just for a second made me think about it all in a way I hadn't before.

I tried to explain to him how there were just so many people that we couldn't actually talk to a Seahawk, but when the parade came he cheered as loud as he could, just in case.  Confetti was thrown.  Flags waved.  Horns blew.  Buddy enjoyed every minute of it until the last streamer fell from the sky.

Coach Pete Carroll holding the Vince Lombardi Trophy

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On the crowded bus ride home I couldn't stop thinking about what Elisha said.  How absurd is it that our world has heroes that it can't talk to?  I know it's always been that way to a certain degree, but somehow I had to believe that His question was a reasonable one.

I bought the shirt.

I bought the hat.

I'm screaming your name.

Don't you have the time to come talk to me?

Most of this society's heroes don't and never will, but that doesn't mean all heroes are untouchable.  Although it hurt me think that I couldn't introduce my son to a real, live Seahawk, I realized that I still had plenty of heroes he could meet.

The soldier in our neighborhood--still recovering from his injuries in battle--is one.  The firefighter that responded to our 9-1-1 call is another.  The minister that gives everything he has in reaching for others.  The doctor.  The teacher.  They're heroes.  Real heroes.  Better heroes.

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Before this turns into the script for a bad public service announcement, let me say I have nothing against the concept of celebrities.  I know they'll always be around.  I like sports and I hope the Pacific Northwest has a dozen more parades.  And I hope we all can put it in it's particular slot of importance and move on to the next thing, because the world certainly will move on to the next thing.

If you're a hero, please stop and say "hi" to my son.  You'd never believe how much it would mean to him.

What I liked in 2013 - An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy, 1917-1963

You'd think I'd have had enough of the Kennedy story.  The whole story feels like an overused tragedy.  I've heard enough Kennedy stories to satisfy my curiosity and taint my view of the American presidency.  However, Professor of History Robert Dallek produced a book so engaging, I had to get all the way through it.  OK, so this book came out 10 years ago, but I read it in 2013.  Appropriately 50-year mark of Kennedy's death.

(To be honest, An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy, 1917-1963 sat on my shelf for just about as long as Kennedy was in the White House before I surrendered to it.  Still far from being my record [looking at you, The Great Bridge!])

After being exposed to so many John F. Kennedy books, interviews, documentaries, docudramas, articles and essays, Dallek may have just nailed me down on my opinion of John F. Kennedy the President and John F. Kennedy the man.  The President was a very good leader.  The man was a very bad person.

I hesitate to give the "very bad" label to anybody knowing the weaknesses of my own heart and character, but the life of John F. Kennedy reveals so many interesting things about the line between image and integrity, policy leadership and principled life that I believe the frank opinion is necessary.  

For every Kennedy story I love there are a dozen that make me nauseated.  Dallek covers them brilliantly in his narrative that weaves policy triumphs with personal blunders.  Where he most shines is in his outlining of Kennedy's medical problems.  (And he ought to since Kennedy's medical records previously-sealed medical documents were released exclusively for the writing of this book.)  The level to which the author describes the entire Kennedy family concealing the truth about their favored son's multiple health conditions is appalling.  It was enough to bamboozle the public for decades and--if I may--it was wrong.

The remarkable thing about Dallek's Kennedy is that he didn't attempt nearly as much to conceal his appalling promiscuous behavior as he did the truss that held his lower back in place.  This apparent personal apartheid was something Kennedy carried everywhere.  The author allows us room to theorize that longing for parental approval, redeeming his older brother's death and feeling that his own death was always near were the motivators for his contradictory behavior.

Ignoring the problems with the war he started with Vietnam were ignored in favor of an incredible tactical victory over the Soviet Union during the Cuban Missile Crisis.  His visionary speech is credited with sending a man to the moon, but his clumsy narcissism sent his (otherwise) innocent mistress back to her native Germany for good when suspicions arose.

And on and on the stories could go.  I want to thank the author for reminding me that doing great things isn't the same as being a great person.  President Kennedy makes me feel proud and ashamed in the same breath.  I hope that's never said of me.

I highly recommend this book, especially if you are unfamiliar with the life story of John F. Kennedy.

2013 is over

And I can't say I'm sad about it.

2013's blog was supposed to do away with strong opinions and bring in more encouragement.  Well, the strong opinions went away.  In fact, I can count on one hand the number of hard-hitting debates I participated in online this year.  That's real good for me.

But just as last year's aim for stronger opinions took a nose dive midway through the year, the striving toward encouragement in 2013 fell a little short.  This year was my least blogged year (62 posts).

And there was so much I wanted to say.  Some of it was even encouraging!  However, career demands, family needs, bodily limitations happen and I've repeatedly pushed my written thoughts back to another day.

2013 was a year.  And if it's even fair to rate years--and I don't know that it is--it was a very hard one.  Frustration that I didn't think could get at me won too many times.  Fatigue beyond anything I've ever experienced never quite found the rest it wanted.  Folks who didn't understand at all were given too much of my attention.

That's the beautiful thing about time.  2013 will be gone in a minute and it can never come back.  The failures of then don't have to be the failures of now.  Character can be honed.  Priorities can be shifted.  I can enter 1/1/14 (or any day, really) ready to face a new challenge.

If I do remember anything from this year besides the things to work on next year, I hope it's these memories in this short photo album:

May God give us 2014 as a year of challenge and a year of truth!

Fathers Day 2013

It's Father's Day and I got my gift two days early.  I was surprised on Friday not with an ugly tie or power tool.  On Friday, I received the common cold.

It's the most universal malady on Earth beside the hiccups and can be strong enough to take a grown man down for two to five days.  (I'm hoping for the former.)

There is a disease almost as common in our area of the world.  It's called fatherlessness.

While some have more severe cases than others, I can't go a day without discovering another person who has suffered or is suffering with it.  There's little the victim can do to prevent it.  Its lifespan is quite a bit longer than the cold's is and there's no cure.

Then again, maybe there is a cure.  In the Bible, God said He'd be "the father to the fatherless."  Many teachers, mentors, friends, brothers and uncles contribute into the lives of those without the daily guidance of a father.  Even in my own life--after I got married--my father-in-law has been a constant presence in my life to model wisdom and morals.

The greatest healing agent I've had for growing up without a father is the opportunity to be a father.

Because I practice everyday to complete the cure, it makes this particular day a little more special to me.

Mom and I

My mom never wanted anything for Mother's Day.  Or her birthday.  Or even Christmas, really.

She just never wanted people to make a big deal about her.  Her life was all about the family and the things we were involved in.  She just didn't have time to think about herself when there were so many other things happening with work and her kids.  Those were the things that she considered important.  Getting the job done is what made her happy.

She's recently been upgraded from Mom to Grandma and I don't think her feelings have changed at all. Her relationship is all about what she can do for Mariah and Elisha.  It's what makes her happy.

She's not expecting flowers on Mother's Day.  She'd probably think they were nice, but only for the purpose of making me feel good about myself for doing it.  She'd put them in a vase--if she even owns one--and tell everyone who saw them what a great guy I was.

And I can't write anymore.  Oh God, teach me selflessness.

Time

I get up before I have to.  I shower and shave.  I talk to God.  I eat my breakfast.  I kiss my wife.  I get in my car and drive 30 miles to my job.  It only takes 45 minutes and I feel good about it.

I've been awake for 1 hours and 45 minutes of my 16 waking hours and I know the clock is ticking.

16 - 1.75 = 14.25 hours remaining

It's 7:30 AM and my desk is as full as my e-mail.  The understanding of what I think I'm supposed to be doing, my manager thinks I'm supposed to be doing, the CEO thinks I'm supposed to be doing and the customer thinks I'm supposed to be doing are four different things.  My current responsibilities change five times. I finally get it figured out, but it's lunch time.  4 1/2 hours have passed.

14.25 - 4.5 = 9.75 remaining

I go off the clock for lunch for 15 minutes of which I really only take 9 to ingest the lunch I brought but there's no time to linger.  The company can have those last 6 minutes for free.  I've got a deadline that was just changed from tomorrow to today and if I want to go home at a decent hour, lunch stops now.

9.75 - 0.25 = 9.5 remaining

5 hours later I've wrapped up the emergency project after spending 3 3/4 hours at the computer, 1 hour arguing and collaborating about the direction of the project and 15 minutes talking to the guy in the next desk about that story in the news.  It's 5:15 PM and I'm going home.

9.5 - 5 = 4.5 remaining

Or at least I thought I was going home.  I needed to run to the store really quick to pick up that one necessary item for dinner.  There was a wreck on I-5 and it cost me some extra time.  What would be a 1/2-hour drive in the middle of the night costs me 1 1/2 hours.

4.5 - 1.5 = 3 remaining

The kids haven't seen their daddy all day and they want to jog laps around the living room.  15 minutes of sprinting later, my wife lets me know that dinner is ready and we all sit down, thank God for what we have and eat.  Actually I'm the only one that eats.  The kids don't really like what was prepared, so my wife spends the rest of the meal time running back and forth to the kitchen trying to solve the problem.  My daughter settles for peanut butter and jelly.  My son settles for nothing.  The episode only lasts 1/2 hour.

3 - 0.75 = 2.25 remaining

The kids want to do more laps until their mother finally convinces them it's time for bed.  The typical mourning occurs along with teeth brushing, stories and prayers.  We close their bedroom doors 45 minutes later thanking God we got through it, but then feel regretful inside for not wanting to spend more time with them.

2.25 - 0.75 = 1.5 remaining

It's 8:15 and I know it.  Everything else that I need to do or want to do must happen in these 90 minutes.  The math doesn't lie and the clocking is ticking.  As soon as I recover from the shock, I look up to see how much time I have left.  Guess what?

1.5 - 1.5 = 0 hours remaining

It's time to go to bed so I can start a similar story tomorrow.

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The reason I write this is not to throw you into depression.  It's not to complain, though I've definitely done too much of that, as well.

The reason I'm writing this is so you don't feel like you're the only one.  Because everyone I talk to tells me almost the exact same story as what you read above.  They probably don't break down all the math like that, but still their story is the same.  By the time they get done with what they have to do, they don't feel like they can get to what they want to do.  Or even what they ought to do.

You're not the only one with intentions that take longer than 24 hours allow.  You're not the only one who feels guilty for not getting it all done.  You're not the only one who thinks that somehow--if they were just a little better--they could make it work.

Everyone goes through it.  Or at least everyone who's trying.

Pray for strength.  Grasp at wisdom.  Make use of your 90 minutes and the 14 1/2 hours before them.

Another week is about to begin.

Using "The Spoon Theory" to understand chronic illness

I hardly ever post three times in a single day, but I thought this was worth sharing.  Christine Miserandino shares her story of chronic illness through a quirky object lesson.  This may be a little bleak for how I usually communicate, but it may help you better understand certain aspects of the struggles other people face (and that makes it worth posting).  Click the link...

The Spoon Theory

True love: difference & dissonance

Compatibility has become a heavily-promoted theme in modern relationships, but the idea never really connected with me.  Now, I know, I've only been married one time.  Some of you have been married several times, so you completely trump me on the experience thing.  This is one man's perspective only.

Many of the strongest connection points for Anne-Marie and I have been in our differences, not our similarities.  Shared interests are ingredients for a lot of fun, which is good.  However--at least from my limited experience--the times when we clash are what has built our relationship.

Our marriage has seen so many times where I find out she thinks one way, I think another and I see it this way while she sees it that.  Leaving behind all denial and going from there to the point of realizing that's how it really is and allowing it to just be makes for a giant step in a relationship.

Of course, we all want to share common interests, especially at the beginning, but I'm convinced that the true bond comes in the couple, friend and even parent/child relationships that are willing to work through those things our society has decided to call "irreconcilable differences".

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Now that I've taken four paragraphs to express what could have been said in a single tweet, allow me share one more thought.  If there is one way I may have increased our compatibility it is in deciding to love what Anne-Marie loves.

Yes, that's right.  I decided.

When God joined us together, He joined us mind, body and soul.  In other words, in everything.  What I do with her, for her, to her: it's all important.  It's the makings of the relationship that I vowed to make work.

Do you know how much I knew about antiques before I met Anne-Marie?  Nothing at all.  How much do I know about antiques now?  Probably more than most.  Because Anne-Marie loves antiques.  And I love Anne-Marie.  (That's just one amongst a hundred examples between the two of us.)  And it's just a little, tiny part of what makes us work.

Of course it's gratifying when someone takes the time to understand what you're interested in, but beyond that, it sends her the message, " I'm interested in what you're all about."

It's not gonna feed the hungry.  It won't create jobs.  It's not going to promote world peace.  Actually, it might promote world peace a little.

Like I said: just one guy's perspective.  Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!

The grace continuum

I think we've all heard statements like this:

If only we were as forgiving of others as we are of ourselves.

This sounds great unless you find it difficult to forgive yourself.  I think we fool ourselves into believing that we always give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, but for many that's not the case at all.

I've actually seen it in every possible combination:

1. Those who lavish grace on others, but cannot cut themselves any slack 
2. Those who will easily forgive everyone, including themselves 
3. And those overwrought folks who don't let anything slide

I'm fairly certain that I want to be somewhere between the first and second one and I'm definitely certain that I don't want to be at the extremities of either side.

I frame it this way because I want the definition of what I'm talking about to be as broad as possible.  We can all point to our moral code and call a person out for being wrong and probably should more often in our society.  But the issue of grace applies in more than just moral wrongs.  It applies to faults, weaknesses, ignorances, projections.

Now I know "grace" sounds like a church word and it is, but for my non-believer readers, just go with this simple definition: unmerited mercy, kindness or forgiveness.

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It's a fact that if the world lived up to my standard, the world would be a better place.  Right?  We'd all live in peace, love and harmony.  Wait, that's not true?  We're pretty weird about the way we dole out grace.

Watercooler conversation will tear apart the annoying co-worker.  People will then go home from work and then find nearly identical traits in their own children and overlook them without a thought.  Individuals will vocally condemn the greedy politician but live a lifestyle that seeks to take what others have, even to the point of a husband or wife.

The problem I often face comes when the standards that I've set for myself--that I need to set for myself--are too high for me to reach.  If I'm to honestly weigh my thoughts, words and actions against my ideals, I fail daily.  That's why grace is so important.  It allows me to hold an ideal that's bigger than myself.  Bigger than my boss's disapproval.  Bigger than my wife's frustration.  Bigger than the fear of God striking me with lightning.

And if it's true that I'm going to believe in grace for me, than I must believe in it for others.  There's no way I could ever know all the struggles, fears, insecurities, thoughts and reservations of my fellow man.  That same man will cross my path today and do something that makes me absolutely furious.  Or at least it would without grace.

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The day is filled with 1,000 battles.  People like me will get frustrated when they don't win all of those battles, or at least win them with the result they envisioned.  The truth is, if I had the perfect peace of mind that I feel I should have, I probably wouldn't be up in the middle of the night writing this blog post.  I need sleep.  I can spend the next 24 hours showering blows on myself for not "winning" this first battle of the day or I can extend a little grace to myself and get ready to face the next 999.

Where do you find yourself in the grace continuum?  Head toward the end with more of it.  Not only for other people, but for yourself as well.