Random Inspiration

Rock'n'roll, Baby!

I love rock’n’roll. 

People ask me what my favorite type of music is and I always cop out by saying “a little bit of everything” – and it’s true! – but I’ve got to be honest with myself.  It’s usually some kind of rockin’, ballsy, maybe bluesy, a bit of metal and epic music that pulls me out of a funk, gets my cylinders firing and just all-around pumps me up.  You want Cliff to get excited about something?  “Just add guitar.”  Or drums.  Or bass.  I think you get the idea.

After I really met Jesus for the first time as a teenager all I would listen to was “Christian” rock.  Until about halfway through my junior year of high school, this consisted of the likes of Petra, DC Talk, Audio Adrenaline, and Michael W. Smith.  Granted, all these bands rock (yes, even MWS), but little did I know I had barely even scratched the surface.

One afternoon after school, heading home, my good buddy Justin blew my mind.  A couple of us piled into his car, and now that I think about it, I seem to remember him prefacing this experience by saying, “Prepare to have your mind blown.”  He put a CD in and this is what I heard: “Perfect Night for a Hanging” by Tourniquet.  Like Train’s Soul Sister, my mind was blown. 

“This is Christian?” I asked in awe and wonder from the backseat.  Justin only smirked and nodded.  “This is amazing!”  And that bit of metal, deep in my soul, was awakened.

Nowadays Christian Contemporary Music does represent a significant portion of my musical repertoire, but it by no means dominates it.  I’ve since learned there is also beauty and truth in “secular” music.  There is also truth and beauty in metal.

Now, heavy metal music is typically characterized as “angry music.”  And, well, yeah – you wouldn’t use Atreyu or Clutch as hold music for the Anger Management Hotline.  However, what I learned from that experience my junior year is that anger is okay.  The Bible doesn’t say, “Thou shalt not get angry,” but rather “Be slow to anger.”  I mean, when Jesus cleansed the temple do you think He was serenely wielding that whip with a sublime smile, saying, “Verily, verily, get thee out, pretty please”?  No!  His words are translated with exclamation points!

To those who sold doves He said, “Get these out of here!  How dare you turn my Father’s house into a market!”

Um, not to be crass, but it sounds like sweet, li’l, boxed-up-baby-Jesus is pissed off.  Sure, He’s the Son of God, and God is love and Jesus is all about loving His lambs, but part of love is fiercely defending those who one loves and, conversely, hating any threat to the beloved.  And we’re supposed to be like Jesus.

Anger shouldn’t arise from any sense of self-righteousness, but out of love.  Is there injustice?  Be angry about it.  Are there any who are oppressed?  Let anger burn against the oppression.  But don’t just sit there and stew – act; and that out of wisdom.

I’m not saying just go on a mad tear and burn stuff up because James, Jesus’ half-brother, tells us, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry for man’s anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires” (James 1:19-20).  And vengeance?  Forget about it – vengeance belongs to God and God alone.

However, where there is evil, injustice and oppression, let the anger of God abound in your heart and then act in compassion towards those who are victims of the darkness.  Remember, our foes aren’t the people we can see, but the forces we can’t. 

Be an advocate, a voice for the voiceless, a father to the fatherless.

Be angry.

Friday's Notes - See Sharp or Be Flat

Oh, Friday.  You are the awkward child, always out of place, I, never knowing what to do with you.

But that's about to change...

In the meantime, Friday, let's share with the world some interesting things of note:

1) Donald Miller - well gosh...  He had some really great posts up about relationships then goes and takes them down because some folks were offended.  Anyway, he has a good blog going - check it out.

2) Derek Sivers - just discovered this guy through a tweet from Dave Ramsey (@daveramsey).  Apparently he has a book out. This video excerpt shares a pretty good idea all could stand to follow.  Sure, he's talking to business owners, but just imagine your life is a business, you're the owner, and everyone you interact with are your customers.  Now watch the video again.

3) It seems as though the world is going to hell in a handbasket.  For that, I'd like to share today's Truth For Life daily devotional - it speaks directly to the world at large and, I hope, directly to you: http://www.truthforlife.org/resources/daily-devotionals/8/12/

4) If you like good music and not spending money, check this out.  If it just looks like something that's not your cup of tea, let today be an exception and just give it a shot.  It's a nice blend of music from mellow, to jazzy, to rock, to orchestral.  And it's FREE.

Next Friday, I hope to have the new weekly format in place...

Grace Abounds In A Home With Squeaky Floors

It's Guest Post Thursday!  Today's guest is Rachel of http://becomingrachelmeitl.blogspot.com/.  Rachel is a wife, a very creative interior decorator and cook, and most recently a new mother.  

Grace Abounds In A Home With Squeaky Floors - by Rachel Meitl

The gospel of grace calls us to sing of the everyday mystery of intimacy with God instead of always seeking for miracles or visions. It calls us to sing of the spiritual roots of such commonplace experiences as falling in love, telling the truth, raising a child, teaching a class, forgiving each other after we have hurt each other, standing together in the bad weather of life, of surprise and sexuality, and the radiance of existence. Of such is the kingdom of heaven, and of such homely mysteries is genuine religion made. Grace abounds and walks around the edges of our everyday experience. - Brennan Manning, The Ragamuffin Gospel

A couple of months ago my husband and I moved into our "new" house (built in 1991) with a very pregnant belly.  A couple of weeks later we brought baby Audrey home.  Walking around the house the floors squeak and I'm starting to learn the spots.  I'm learning where to step and where not to step when tip toeing around the sleeping baby.

The baby is sleeping right now so I have some quiet time to do "me" things.  I'm working on a slipcover for a crummy old ottoman I got for $20 off of craigslist.  Walking around in the room with the ottoman I found a new squeaky spot and I smiled to myself.

This house immediately felt like home to me, and the squeaky floors are part of that.  They remind me of... home.  They remind me of the home I spent my first 18 years in and they make me want this to be the home baby Audrey spends her first 18 years in.

The squeaky floors remind me of my 5-year old self waking my mom in the middle of the night for a snack.  Sitting at the kitchen table with her, a little bit of pepsi, and some cheese crackers.  Loving that we were up while the neighborhood slept.  

The squeaky floors remind me of my 7-year old self racing through the house to the restroom in the middle of the night.  Racing, because I was scared of what lurked where it was too dark to see.  

They remind me of playing rummy by flashlight or candlelight when the electricity would go out.  

They remind me of dragging furniture from my room to my brothers room and from my brothers room to my room... weeks after he had gotten new wallpaper... now my wallpaper.  Blue, with little white seagulls I think.  They remind me of dragging the same furniture back to their original rooms months later. 

Waking up and tip-toeing to my dad's brown lazy-boy chair.  Curling up with my head on one of the arms and looking into the kitchen until someone noticed I was up.  My parents stirring their coffee and chatting.

The one window that always let in water when it rained.  At least it was the bathroom window!  I can even hear the sound of the wooden shutters that hung on the inside of that window.

Sitting on the back porch in a wet bathing suit, wrapped in a worn-thin beach towel, water dripping onto the floor from my dangling feet, eating a tomato stuffed with seafood salad, squeezed with lemon, and surrounded by triscuits.  

They remind me of my 9-year old self knocking on the shower wall, signaling my mom that I was ready for the towel that had been warming by the wood-stove.  Sitting with my back to that wood-stove to dry my long hair.

The squeaky floors remind me of my 17-year old self coming home late after everyone had gone to bed. Coming home to find a "mibb" warming the bed where my feet would go and a sweet note from mom on my pillow.  

The things that were normal and mundane have become the things that shape the memories of my childhood and they have become the things that bring to mind happiness when I look back.  

The squeaky floors in our new old house bring to mind happiness when I look back.  I pray that Audrey's normal and mundane experiences in this house become happy memories of her childhood one day.  I pray that she finds love in the ordinary things and I especially pray that she finds God in the ordinary things... that she recognizes all the blessings that so many of us tend to overlook.  

The Day the Music Shied

I love music – listening to it, singing it, performing it, even a little bit of writing it.  However, I realize not everyone shares my views.  For instance, when I was younger and would attempt to pump up the jam or express my happiness through head-banging, dad would get a low-frequency, sonic-induced bellyache.  It’s not that he dislikes music; it’s just that he prefers a different flavor of soul.  Together, he and I make a mean pair on the bass part of a song and if you happen to be standing in front of us in church and we’re singing out of hymnals, you best duck or hope your hairspray holds cuz you’re gonna get an experience.  But I digress….

Around the same time, I learned that this difference of taste extends beyond just human sensibilities and into the animal kingdom.

I was in the high school marching band from 8^th grade through 12^th.  This particular story takes place during my junior year, I think.  And this was probably in late August, early September and though the weather was technically cooling off, if you’ve spent any amount of time in North Carolina you know it doesn’t really start to “cool down” until mid-October.  So this was probably a hot day in late August, the humidity was heinous, and that year we had started using a nearby community baseball field for rehearsals.

The way the rehearsals would typically go is that after marching fundamentals each section would split off to various areas to warm up and go over their respective parts for the music – this is known as “sectionals”.  Then we’d all gather together in the performance arch, play through some music, then get to the marching drill (that’s where we make all the pretty shapes and do the cool marching moves).

Now, another thing to know about North Carolina, specifically the Raleigh/Durham area, is there are a lot of trees.  Where there aren’t deliberately cleared spaces for homes, fields, buildings, roads, there are trees.  Lots of trees.  Saying all that to say, the baseball field we used for rehearsal was surrounded by trees.  It’s like you step off the field and into the Forbidden Forest.

For the drum sectional we found a small clearing amongst some tall pines and oaks.  We lined up – tenors, snares and basses – and began to warm up.  We started with “8 on a hand” which is exactly what it sounds like: play eight beats with your right hand, then your left hand, 16 beats with your right hand, then eight again on your left, then right, and concluding with 16 on your left.  We’d start at a medium tempo and work our way up to a controlled frenzy to loosen up the hand and wrist muscles. 

Early in the season it’s not uncommon for someone in the line, at some point, to fall out of tempo; either dragging or rushing just a tad and we’d all do it and that was the point of rehearsal – to learn to play at tempo, in rhythm and in unison with each other.  However, at this point in the season we were definitely beyond that in warm-ups.  So it was a bit of a surprise when we started hearing random beats, way out of tempo, as we got further along with our exercise.

“Who’s doing that?” Richard asked after completing our first go-through.

Everyone looked at each other, exchanging bewildered glances.  Each of us knew we were all solid and on the beat, yet, the audible evidence was undeniable: someone’s drum had played a beat out of synch.  So we started back up and we noticed it happening again.  Normally, as we play, we stand at attention, but a couple of us broke attention to look and try and figure out what who the culprit was.

“Ow!” Kevin yelled.  We finished the exercise and asked him what was wrong.  “Someone’s throwing stuff!”  We looked around, expecting to find a rogue horn-player lurking in the trees but none was seen.  Then Eric hit his drum.  All eyes were on him and he threw up his hands.

“I didn’t do that!”

Then Richard beat his drum – except he didn’t move his hands.

“These woods are haunted!” he said.  And then we saw it: an acorn fell and hit my drum.

“We’re playing the acorns off the trees?” I asked.

“No – it’s squirrels….” Richard observed.

Sure enough, a squad of the furry little critters were running around the branches, about 30 feet up.

“Well, now that we have that settled….”  And we started again, at a faster tempo.  It was then we discovered a positive correlation between the tempo of our playing and the intensity of acornfire from above.

“Those lousy little…!”  Richard chucked one of his mallets upwards in retaliation hitting only branches and twigs.  Somewhere I could swear I heard a high-pitched, yet deep and ominous laugh.

“Come on guys; don’t give in to the rodents!” Dave yelled.

We fired it up again and the squirrels fired it down.  We kept at it for another few minutes, but the welts and wallops were more than we could bear.  Finally, we gave in and moved to a different spot.  Mother Nature won that day, but we won the war.

…that last bit really doesn’t mean anything, it just sounds good.

Hunchbacked Knuckles

Most everybody I know has either broken a leg, an arm, an ankle or something major that cramps their lifestyle and requires a cast, sympathy and a little TLC (healing by R&B).  Somehow in my 30+ years on this planet I’ve managed to evade any major breakage; I say “major” because I have actually broken two bones in my body, simultaneously. 

During the early part of springtime of my year in 7^th grade at West Cary Middle, everyone seemed to be “jamming” their fingers.  By jamming I’m not referring to creative ways of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, nor inducing the short-lived fad of “Marley-Fingers”, but rather the condition described by Sportsinjurybulletin.com as the following:

In a typical jam, a finger joint is forced together, with twisting of the joint involved as well. This compression and torquing often leads to dislocation, which can resolve itself within seconds or might persist until medical attention is received.

I don’t know why it seemed to be happening all of a sudden, but during that time, all the boys were walking around with two of their fingers taped together.  The question would be asked, “What happened to your fingers?” and the response would be given in a mostly non-chalant manner with a dash of pride, “Oh, I jammed it playing [insert any given sport here].”  It was like they were part of an elite club or organization: the Afflicted Athletes.  It seemed to be that if you weren’t somehow injured while playing you were doing it wrong.

Eventually the wheel of fortune spun around to me.  It happened during P.E., playing basketball.  My team was on defense and the kid with the ball came my way; I tried to steal the ball.  Instead, I jammed my fingers.  I shouted in surprise and pain – this was a new, uncomfortable sensation.  The injured digits were my ring and middle fingers on my right hand.  I felt an odd mixture of pain and numbness and I couldn’t bend them.  I told the coach, he got ‘em taped up, and it was official: I was part of the club…for about a day or so.  Most of the other guys wore their tape for days on end.  I guess I wasn’t as intense or elite because my fingers were back to normal two days after the incident and I couldn’t write very well without Ringy and Middleman helping the effort (what, you don’t name your fingers?  I don’t either, I just wanted an interesting way to refer to them).

Well, I thought after that I had paid my dues.  About a week later, after school, some of us kids were playing basketball to kill time while we waited for our rides.  I was on defense again and a fellow named Dave had the ball.  We were under the basket, I went to steal it, but he was too fast.  Instead of my left palm going around the ball, the middle and ring fingers of my left hand hit it, dead on, perpendicular to the surface area.  The odd pain I had felt a week earlier had returned, but this time it brought some friends – that is to say, it hurt a heckuva lot more. 

Almost instantly, the knuckles below the distal phalanges on my left ring and middle fingers began to swell (I used to watch Bones – and I still use Google).  They didn’t turn black and blue; they just got big.  I didn’t get them taped up until I got home because there weren’t any coaches present with access to the “special healing tape.”

Now, even though the left-hand doppelgangers of Ringy and Middleman hurt a lot more than their right-hand counterparts, I figured it’d just be a couple days before they healed.  A couple weeks later, with a small reduction of pain and no reduction of swelling, I started to worry a little.

“Hey, dad, I think I broke my knuckles.”

“Let me see them.”  I showed him the hunchbacked joints.  “If they were broken they’d be black and blue.”

“They still hurt and look at them!” I persisted.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

At the time it didn’t really bother me, and to this day, it still doesn’t really.  But I have learned something from that experience that has followed me into adulthood: You’ve got to be your own advocate.  When there’s something you need, something you’re going for, you can’t count on someone else to stand up for you.  And to the Christians in the audience, I’m not talking about Christ’s advocacy for us, nor the Spirit’s intercession. I’m talking more akin to how Paul stood up for himself in Acts 22:25.

Sometimes someone will stand up for you, but you can’t count on that because you don’t know if anyone will.  If you’re in need of healing and you’re denied care, don’t give up; say, “Hey!  I’m bleeding through my band-aids here!”  Or, in another vein, if you’re pursuing a dream, don’t just give up at the first sign of resistance.  Going to college, fighting for a love, enlisting in the military – all such things are worthy and noble pursuits; and they’re usually not very easy. 

A few months later I was at an orthopedist’s office with my dad and sister (she was having a follow-up examination for a broken ankle).  While they were waiting, I went and found another doctor.  I showed him my knuckles and explained what happened.  Without hesitation he said, “Those knuckles were broken.” 

Now, if only I had persisted with my dad a few months earlier they could have been treated.  Granted, they’re distal knuckles; it really wasn’t a big deal.  But what about the next time I’d need to stand up for myself when it would be a big deal?  I have my hunchbacked knuckles, the deformed Ringy and Middleman saying, “Don’t just roll over and take it up the tailpipe; fight!!”

And that’s what I’d encourage you to do.  There is a line between being your own advocate and being a jerk, but for some reason our society has fought against standing up for yourself for so long and so hard that a great deal many of us are just jellyfish, floating along in the currents.  When Opposition says, “You’re just not good enough, okay?”  respond with that rarest of vocabulary beasts: “No.”

Stand up for yourself – you’re worth it.

If It Was A Snake It Would've Jumped Up and Bit Me!

Since 2005 I've made several attempts at starting up and maintaining a blog.  What you're reading now is the latest, and to date, most successful attempt - successful in terms of having a definite vision and purpose.  Today's post was originally written and put up on Sunday, June 19, 2011 at this same URL, but before the blog's mission was defined.  To a few of you, this is old hat; to others, this is brand new; to all, I hope you find it edifying and enjoyable.

Sunday - June 19, 2011

I believe it was three weeks ago to this day.  It was Sunday morning and I came in to church for Sunday School (if it’s a class that takes place before the service, it’s Sunday School, Godbless it) and I was still a bit groggy… “Groggy?”  Hmmm, I think I just made a mental connection before I’ve even gotten to my main point.

ANYWAY…

I sought out coffee from the church’s coffee bar.  There are typically 3-4 pots of different brews, each a variant of more than just “regular” and “decaf.”  On this particular Sunday there was a brew labeled “Highland Grog.”  I thought to myself, “What a clever name!  Coffee’s always notorious for being bad, and the worse it is the more effective it is in waking you up!  Verily, verily, here is a brew embracing that notoriety!” (I was operating under a paradigm I adopted from mid-1980s pop culture – specifically Garfield (And in church you gotta say “verily, verily” at least once every fortnight, but only if you’re going for real, ultimate holiness)).  Thing is, about halfway through drinking my cup of grog, I discovered I really enjoyed it.  I mean, it was tasty.  As Uncle Andrew says of Jadis in The Magician’s Nephew, this was a “dem fine” cup of coffee.

So then, that afternoon following the service I came here to my new favorite Columbushangout spot, Scottie’s Coffee and Teahouse.  Trying to stick to a budget, I decided to go for the normal brew rather than an espresso drink and to my surprise and delight I discovered they had the same brew - Highlander Grog!  “Surely the LORD has smiled upon me this day in providing this tasty, caffeinated delight!” I thought to myself (on Sundays you always think in Bible verses – but only on Sundays lest you want to risk people looking at you funny).  After my first cup I thought that perhaps this was just a seasonal flavor.

The next couple of times I visited Scottie’s I made the Grog my drink of choice.  Afraid I only had a limited time to partake of this roughly-named, lovely brewed…brew…I asked the barista about it.  Turns out this is a very popular flavor, in high demand, and it’s been around at least as long as belly button lint.  “Oh,” I said.  Then I returned to my table.

So I hadn’t discovered anything new.  I came to this country of taste thinking I was the first only to find a sign saying “Magellan wuz here, yo.”  It had been here all along and I had never seen it.  I had never been open to it.  I was just set in my mocha-swilling ways and right comfortable.  Only when I was jolted out of my comfort zone did I open my mind to new avenues of coffee goodness and discovered the joys of the Highland Grog.

I’ve been having a similar experience with grace.  Grace has been here all along, but I’ve been comfortable in my ways of works, in my ways of earning the approval of my peers and friends and family, never really tasting the goodness of being liked, loved and appreciated just as I am; with my friends, my peers, my family – and with God.  But then I’ve been jolted out of my comfort zone and all I can afford is the grace “brew” – and that’s cuz it’s free.  The resources I’ve spent on trying to earn an approval that’s been available all along could have been going towards, I dunno, building a life, pursuing a dream, you know, stuff like that.  But now that I’m acclimating myself to this good stuff, I can start putting my resources toward those thingsnow.  I reckon it’s never too late to get a move on so long as I still have something to move!  …and I do like to move it, move it.

How about you?  Are you still spending money on the espresso of earning approval or have you tried the grog of grace?  If you can’t find the grog in your current vicinity I suggest you try a new coffeeshop.