My Beef With The Beefcake

I see them on Facebook quite a bit, they’re lighting up the Twittersphere and quite visible in pop culture: Magic Mike and Fifty Shades of Grey.

Before diving in, a couple points of clarification: I’ve got no problem with the man Mike – never met him, from what I’ve read he seems to be a decent guy; probably someone you’d want to get a beer with.  Of course, Mike is a fictitious character in a movie played by the actor Channing Tatum.  I’ve got no beef with him – I’ve enjoyed some of his other movie roles, he seems like a good guy, and I’d be happy to buy him a pint and talk about life.

Steven Soderbergh – director of the film – no real beef with him either.  I liked his version of Ocean’s Eleven as well as Traffic and Erin Brockovich.  He’s a director with vision and I hope to emulate his success as a filmmaker someday.

E L James – author of Fifty Shades of Grey; never met the woman; obviously a successful author as well as mother.  I also hope to be a successful author someday and have a family.

So, what is my problem?  My problem is witnessing and hearing about women, especially married women, swooning over and getting ridiculous about this movie and this book.  I see it in my Facebook news feed, I see it on Twitter, I hear about it on TV, I read about it on the internet and I think, “Man, their husbands must feel like the lowest possible grade pieces of crap on the planet.”  If they don’t, there’s something far worse wrong with that marriage than the wife getting her jollies off on what amounts basically to porn.

“But guys do it all the time and make us feel like the lowest-grade pieces of crap on the planet,” says the voice of reasonable females.  “Why can’t we have some fun?”

At this point – shucks, long before this point – it’s quite easy to start pointing fingers.  But there’s really “no point in pointing fingers unless you’re pointing to the truth.”

This issue could be pared down to simply a matter of the shoe being on the other foot.  To that I say, “Guys?  Men?  Why am I, a single guy, a serial-dater speaking out about this and not any of you married folk?”  Is it just a matter of developing the stones to speak up to your spouse?  I’m sure it is easier for me to say rather than someone who is engaged in such a relationship because I don’t live with anyone else.  However, I think the main reason it may be more difficult for men to speak up about it is:

Guilt.  Generally speaking, men indulge in porn.  A LOT.  Trust me, I know – I’m a man and I have partaken more than I’d ever care to admit.  Suffice to reiterate the aforementioned, emboldened and now italicized A LOT.  Shucks, let’s throw an underscore in there too – A LOT. 

So who am I, who is any man to speak up and against this issue?  It’s harmless anyway, right?  It’s just you, the website/magazine and some free time.  Well…no, not really.  It creates false impressions of what sexual intimacy is supposed to be like.  You hold those impressions and resulting expectations up to your spouse and you’re going to be disappointed every time.

For me, that’s been a significant contributor to every failed relationship I’ve been involved in.  Another way of saying that is “for every relationship I’ve been involved in” (I mean, duh, if any of them had been successful I wouldn’t be single – unless I was a widower – but that’s beside the point).

Porn is such a contributor to failed relationships as drunkenness is to stupid decisions (“Nah, we don’t need a condom”/”That 395-lb. kung-fu master? I can take him”/”Maybe if I hit you hard enough you’ll learn to love me”).

Am I hitting any marks here or did I take my Crazy Pills instead of my Claritin this morning?  Am I just talking out of my butt or out of truth?

Very simply put, I say to myself and my brothers – stop getting off online and just get off the line.  Porn doesn’t make us more manly, it turns us into useless lumps of bread. 

You fought for that woman’s affections before – what happened?  Think about it.  Need help?  Of course we do!  We’re not alpha males but we are the main men in our women’s lives (or should be).  Team up, encourage each other, be accountable to each other, pray for each other – help each other.

That idea about being able to handle everything on our own? That’s a freakin’ lie.  If that was true there’d be no such thing as wingmen, partners in crime, or anybody else ever.  We are social creatures meant for friendship, fellowship and relationship. 

Think about it people – anyone can have a bunch of people they’d party with, but how many people would you go with to the funeral of a loved one?  How many people would you trust to the point you could bare your soul to them (the idea is that the number of people should be diminishing)?  And to how many people should you bare your body?

And again…I say this with no judgment or pointed fingers; for with every word I speak and point to myself.  I know what it’s like to break hearts and to have my heart broken the morning after; it’s no way to live.

Wives, let your husbands be the husband.  Let him be the man in your life.  What did you first see in him that made you fall in love with him and decide to spend the rest of your life with him?  Think about it.  Don’t just complain about your idiot husband to your friends – ask for help in ways to encourage him in being a better man, in being the man you originally fell in love with.

Don’t compare your spouse to some ideal our culture puts out and then find an endless amount of faults – you can find plenty of those without any help as we are all human and thus, inherently, beautifully flawed.

Think back and remember why you love.  Think back and remember what it was like when you first realized you were loved.  Realize mistakes and disappointments will abound and remember you committed yourself to your spouse for better or for worse, to grit your teeth and work through every issue in love and understanding, and God-given patience (He gives if you ask). 

If I was married and my wife started going cuckoo for Magic Mike or otherwise escaping into erotica I’d straight up ask, “Honey, what’s the deal?  What am I missing here that’s causing you to miss something?  Let’s talk,” and I’d text my buds asking for prayers for wisdom.

…yes…  Talk.

Talk, listen, pray, act…

…love.

And then, from what I hear, among the struggles and toils, you'll have some of the greatest times of your life ever making it all worth it.  Married people, can I get a witness?


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What about singles?  Save ‘em for the stripper’s thong or for something else?  To be addressed in a future post.

In the meantime, some resources:

On sex and how it’s handled:

http://www.jonacuff.com/stuffchristianslike/2010/08/3578/

On porn and some ways to handle it:

http://www.jonacuff.com/stuffchristianslike/2008/04/172-letting-porn-win/

http://www.xxxchurch.com

On fatherood:

http://www.fatherhood.org/media/consequences-of-father-absence-statistics

Life Lessons From Contra (NES)

Last night I watched this video of a guy reflecting on his experience with the NES game Contra (video here). It got me to thinking of my own experience with the game and have thus gleaned some life lessons.

Like all platforming games, you improve your performance by repetition.  You play up to a certain point and then die because of some obstacle.  So,  you keep playing up to that obstacle until you remember what's coming and finally you're able to anticipate what's coming and either dodge or shoot the sucker and move on.

It could be some enemy that pops up out of the underbrush, or maybe the movement and attack patterns of a boss - regardless, it takes practice.

Now, the thing about Contra (and again, any platformer worth its salt), is it's difficult.  You get four chances, or lives, to make it through and defeat the Red Falcon menace.  When all four are exhausted  you get three chances to continue.

The difference is, when you die with more than one man left you pick up right where you left off.  If you lose all of your lives, you can continue from the beginning of that stage (which can be really frustrating when you have the boss on the ropes, and then it comes through with some sort of cheap sneak attack (but then again, that's the point of this whole post)).

But if you use up all of your continues you have to start all over from the very beginning.

This is how God works His sanctification out in us!

Suppose God has brought you up to a crisis and you nearly go through but not quite, He will engineer the crisis again, but it will not be so keen as it was before. There will be less discernment of God and more humiliation at not having obeyed; and if you go on grieving the Spirit, there will come a time when that crisis cannot be repeated, you have grieved Him away. But if you go through the crisis, there will be the pæan of praise to God. Never sympathize with the thing that is stabbing God all the time. God has to hurt the thing that must go.

Oswald Chambers, My Utmost For His Highest, Aug. 13 entry

When we "go through it but not quite," we lose a "life" but we get another shot at it.  Fail again, we get another shot at it, but we're set a little further back.  Keep on failing, keep on being impertinent and never-learning, well, then we've got to start the whole dang thing over again from the beginning.

Why waste life going through the same things again and again, going in circles, traveling at a certain pace but never really getting anywhere?  Do you ever get that feeling?

Now, maybe we're successful on a certain level - let's say, professionally.  We move up in a company but then never seem to be able to hold a steady relationship; be that one of romance or meaningful friendship.  They always start off well enough - there's the initial excitement of finding someone who shares common interests (Browncoats, are ya with me?) and you ride along on that excitement for awhile.

Now, "awhile" can be a matter of years or a matter of hours, and then for some reason or another it starts to break down.  It could be for any number of reasons, but it all comes down to this primal one: we're human.  The threat of a failed relationship is inevitable - we all face it at some point.  Until we learn how to deal with that - communication, reconciliation, commitment, love - then we'll just keep going in circles, looping around from one relationship to another, never sustaining anything more than an enthusiastic acquaintanceship - never being without someone nearby, but always and forever alone.

Or maybe it's not relationships per se, but integrity, or loyalty, or time management; until we learn whatever God is taking us through we'll just keep going in circles.  Unless you're in an over-sized teacup, that's really not much fun.

BUT - if we maintain a spirit of wanting to make it through, if we fall 20 times but stand up 21 - thanks be to God for His infinite grace!  So long as we accept the fact our hearts beat for His purpose, He is faithful when we are not; He is our 1up.

Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever give up.

What's God taking you through right now?

Blue Like Jazz

I put the "pro" in "procrastination."  One of these days I'll get back on a regular posting schedule, but there's a lot going on right now and I'm trying to maintain my center.  Anywho, one thing I really want to talk about is the film Blue Like Jazz.

I've seen it twice now; once opening weekend and again a couple of days later.  It's that good.

Apparently, the project to produce this film started about six years ago and then they ran out of money.  Someone suggested they check out Kickstarter.com.  They did, and in 30 days raised enough money (and then some) to complete production.  The film was released on April 13, 2012.  It's kind of like an indie film with really, really wide release.

Actually, that's exactly what it is.

Anyway, it's a film adaptation of Donald Miller's book of the same title, Blue Like Jazz. I read it a few years ago, back in '06 or '07 and really liked it.  I thought of it as the book I was aspiring to write.  Instead, this yahoo, Miller, beat me to it.  It's not like I've had anything published yet, anyway.  It's just one of those things.

I haven't read it since, though I enjoyed it very much.  I was excited to hear about the film, especially after seeing the trailer.  I was thinking to myself, wow!  This looks like an honest-to-goodness honest film made by Christians, not a Christian propaganda piece made by Christians!

Going into it, I was glad I had only read the book once and didn't remember much about it because then my expectations were able to be fairly broad.  I only expected that it'd be honest, it'd be real, and it'd be an authentic account of a young man struggling to make sense of his faith and the world around him.  In those senses, all expectations were fulfilled - in all other senses, I was blown away.

Now, I knew this film was going to be edgy.  It was going to be edgy because it was going to be honest; honest almost to the point of transparency.  The difference is, being honest is being real, but with discretion and thoughtfulness.  Transparency is being real but without a filter of any sort.  You get the warts and dirty laundry as it comes; that, along with the good stuff, is practically thrown at you rather than entrusted as you get better acquainted with an individual.

Transparency I can handle; honesty, that's a little tougher.

With transparency, it's all out there; you know what to expect.  It's simpler, though it's messier.  Plus it's similar to how I primarily function when I'm not paying attention.  I wear my emotions on my sleeve; I'm typically on or off in any given situation - there's no room for in-between, just chilling - again - when I'm not paying attention.

Honesty?  Well, that's different.  It's scary.  God is honest with us, but He's not transparent.  He doesn't lay all His cards out on the table; He entrusts with a little bit of knowledge, bit by bit.  And that's how it's to be in all relationships.

You don't lay out all your cards at once; you wait and see if the individual across from you is trustworthy, for each card is a piece of your soul being revealed.  How do you know that person isn't just going to take that piece of you and trash it?

Alas, I digress...

Honesty is more difficult than transparency because you can't lay out a map of how to predict the other person's behavior, you can't just categorize individuals and make the business of a relationship so easy to deal with.

People are people - not things to be put in boxes.  All areas of our lives bleed over into the other and back and forth, and vice versa, and so on and so forth.

I have to let people be people and that's scary because getting each successive card also takes commitment - it takes time and a commitment to share some of your self with this person.

It's scary on one hand because what if you commit yourself to a lot of time with this person only to find you don't like what you're finding?  Or regardless of if you like what you discover or not, you realize it just won't work; what then?

It's scary on the other hand because what if, card by card, piece by piece, you reveal more of who you are and then the other person decides he/she doesn't like what he/she sees?  The prospect of rejection looms over us all at some point.

So, what does that have to do with Blue Like Jazz?  Like I said, it's an honest movie.  The narrative doesn't play its full deck immediately.  But like when you get to know someone, bit-by-bit we learn more about it and I was thinking to myself, how on earth is this ever going to come back around to Jesus in a meaningful way?

In its honesty and candor, the filmmakers pull no punches as to what life was like for Miller in college, and they accurately portray the life of a statistically typical college freshman in all its drinking and debauchery and mischief - but never to the point of exploitation.  That is to say, there are no sex scenes (there's not even a kiss!), the cussing is realistic but not gratuitous, and one particular prank that is pulled...well, it's done and I was shocked.

Me - I was shocked at what I saw portrayed in the movie.  I was actually uncomfortable.  My self-righteousitis flared up and I found myself thinking, how on earth is God going to be glorified in this??!

Well, it all comes together in the end.  When the final scene started taking on its heft and depth, my heart was in my throat and I nearly cried.

The story makes me think of my own: raised in the church, lived as a naive Jesus Freak in high school, went off to college out of my Christian bubble and began to question my faith.  I went through my own prodigal years, my time of questioning and doubt, my time of pain.  None of that weakened my faith just as the first 7/8s of the film don't weaken the story; all of that is tinder for the fire of God's love - in my heart and in what's communicated in the heart of the film.

So, for the doubters, the philosophers, the seekers, the founders, the whomevers, I highly recommend this film.  It is enjoyable, it's fun, it's poignant, it's sad - it's a meaningful dramatization of the human experience.

And if you're like me, wondering what some of the songs in the movie are, the one that involves a bear and a bicycle is called, Bicycle Bicycle, You Are My Bicycle by Be Your Own Pet.

The song featured in the trailer and in the film when Miller hits his catharsis is called Taos and it's by Menomena.

So that's all.  Go see it.

You Can't Go Home Again, But You Can Go Home

Do you remember being a kid?  No worries, no responsibilities, no obligations; not like we have now as adults.  There was school, there was Little League, there were social issues (who would be “it” first in a game of tag), but it never occurred to me that one day I’d be responsible for keeping a roof over my head.  I never once imagined I’d have a car payment.

When I think of the phrase, “You can’t go home again,” that’s what I mean.  You – well, I – we – can never go backwards.  It’s impossible.  The closest thing to that is memory loss; we can’t age our bodies and minds in reverse; time is marching on.  We can’t go back to the time of innocence, fun and frivolity.  Once innocence is lost, it’s gone forever; we’ve learned something new and every lesson learned is indelibly imprinted within our minds, branded onto our souls.

Now, some people forget, or they don’t learn from life’s happenings.  Those who don’t learn, those who forget, are doomed to repeat history.  Sometimes the “not learning” is deliberate, sometimes it’s not, but regardless, history is cyclical as events occur outside of, though perpetually intersecting with, our individual lives.  All we can do is learn the best we can from life’s happenings and progress rather than merely spinning our wheels.

Plus, I daresay, few, if any of us, knew how well we had it off as children.  Granted, I’m speaking to folks who did not grow up in abusive or highly dysfunctional homes, but until we did become responsible for ourselves we didn’t know what we were missing.  Sometimes we want to go back to that, but that is fruitless, a chasing of the wind.

However, though we can’t go backwards, we can always go home.

What is “home”?  Home is where we can let down our guard; where, though, we may have responsibilities in our lives, we don’t have to worry about them, merely tend to them when necessary.  Home is where we are free to be not only honest, but transparent with no fear of mistrust or betrayal.

If we believe in God, if we love God the Father, believe in His Son, Jesus Christ and the sacrifice He made on the cross, and then His resurrection, home is wherever God is – and He is omnipresent. 

He looks after all our needs.

He desires for us to be honest and transparent with Him; He encourages us to do that, He enables us to do that.  It’s so hard to admit, just to ourselves, that we’re not perfect, that we screw up sometimes in abhorrent ways (more than any of us would care to admit).  All God asks of us – of anyone who would approach Him – is that we be honest with ourselves about all that and then be honest with Him.  And then everything is okay again.  I mean, we need to learn from it and grow, but there’s no condemnation anymore.  We are free to be ourselves, starting off where we are right this instant, and continue to be ourselves, growing as the biological and spiritual organisms we are, all the way to the end.  For me, that means being just Cliff – that’s all I’ve got to be.

And that is so refreshing.

Other systems of faith demand best behavior, strict adherence to a moral code and depending on how well you do in the here and now, you just might have a shot at an okay hereafter.

God says, “Nah, just come as you are.  Tell me your troubles, vocalize your pain, show me your deepest wounds and I’ll heal you then I’ll show you how to really live life, free of fear.  Free of pain?  Oh, no, my child; there will always be plenty of pain to go around, but trust me on this: it’s necessary and it’ll help you grow.  There’s a world of hurt inside your heart and a world of hurt inside Mine – that’s where you live – in My heart, because I love you so much.  My world of hurt comes from having to require my Son to walk His Road of Pain so that you and I could get together.  I did it because it was necessary and I knew He could take it.  He was scared at one point, but He did it anyway because He trusted me and now look where He is.  So, come on; follow me down the Road I have laid out for you.  It’s not going to be easy but it’ll be worth it; just wait ‘til you see the party I have planned at the end of all this!  Just keep your eyes on me and everything will be all right.”

Something Special

While the blog is "officially" on hiatus, I came across this yesterday that made feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy and glad about my current occupation.  It's originally from notalwaysright.com which is a website where people who work in the customer service industry post stories (anonymously) of odd and often funny experiences they've had interacting with customers.  I have a few myself I'll be submitting over the next couple of weeks.  Anyway, below is a wonderful story of a customer service rep just being plain amazing - after the jump.

Remembering

I’m not sure if it was the 6^th, 7^th or 10^th, but it was my senior year of college and I was a Resident Advisor (RA).  It was on the 6^th, 7^th or 10^th when the RAs for my dorm had a meeting and the main topic of discussion was fire inspections – that is, the week of September 10, the fire marshal would come through all the dorm rooms and check to make sure no one had a fire hazard present.  I believe they were scheduled to start mid-week, but for some reason might start a little sooner and we were to be ready.

Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001, I was sleeping in because I didn’t have any classes that day.  A frantic knocking woke me up.  I thought to myself, “Oh, great; fire inspection time.”  As I put on some proper clothes the knocking continued and a voice from the other side said, “Cliff!  Wake up!  You’ve got to see what’s happening on TV!”  I recognized the voice as that of my friend, Joe.

As soon as I opened the door he rushed in, looking for the TV remote.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Two 747s crashed into the World Trade Center and another one went after the Pentagon!  It’s just like in a movie or something!”  This was my friend Joe who had a flair for the dramatic, was easily excitable, and was a master BSer; however there was a ring of authenticity to his words.

Before I could say anything more than, “What?” he had the TV on and there was the footage of smoke pouring out of both towers.

“Holy crap, we’re under attack!” Joe said.

I was still waking up.  What was going?  What did this mean? I wondered.

“I’ve got to go,” Joe said.  He ran out the door and I took my seat in front of the TV.

A few minutes later, the first tower fell.  Not long after, the second tower fell.  There was pandemonium on the streets as the networks brought live coverage of the event to everyone who would watch.  Everyone was freaking out.

And finally, I was afraid.

All flights in the U.S. were grounded; there was talk of another crash in Pennsylvania.  My dad was probably traveling that day and though he hadn’t done business in the Northeastern area of the country for a while, that was the first thing that came to mind.  I tried calling him and after a few tries while all circuits were busy, I finally got through to his voicemail.  It rang first, then went to voicemail, indicating that his phone was at least still operational even if he might not have been.

I just stayed glued to the TV for another hour or so.  Then it occurred to me that some of my residents were from the New York/New Jersey area.  I also had a resident on my hall who is of Middle Eastern descent and shared the name of Iraq’s former dictator.  I started going room-to-room and checking on the guys; aside from being stunned, and some of them angry, they were all fine and those who had family in and around the New York area said all their loved ones were safe.  Some of them told me that they were hearing of attacks on people who looked even remotely like someone from the Middle East.

Checking on Saddam, his roommate answered the door.  He said Saddam wasn’t there, but he was okay.  And this guy, Saddam, was one of the nicest guys I’d ever met.  Before that day everyone would joke about his name and he was nice about it, joking along.  But that day could have changed everything; thankfully, it didn’t.

Getting back to my room I heard my cell phone ringing – it was dad.  He was in Mississippi or Alabama or somewhere.  We talked for a few minutes, then I resumed my vigil in front of the TV as footage of the attacks was replayed; as footage of people scrambling through the streets as more buildings fell was played; as footage of people in Afghanistan, Iraq and other places celebrated in their streets, burning U.S.A. flags, having a good old time.

At some point I started recording it all on my VCR.

At one point I broke down and cried; not out of fear, but sadness, watching people who would normally be proud, strong, in charge of their lives be thrown into ruin, desperation, abject terror. 

My country was no longer invulnerable.  In my mind, it wouldn’t be long before the movie Red Dawn would become a true story and battle would erupt across the U.S.

Thankfully, that hasn’t happened yet.

In the days following I was comforted by the strength of President Bush and proud of the union that existed among the political parties.  For the briefest of moments in our country’s history, everyone seemed to be on the same side.

How soon we forget what joy there is in being united.

How soon we forget our inherent vulnerability as individuals, and as a nation, and revert to ways of living that see only to our personal needs and not the needs of others.

September 11 was just a graphic reminder of this fact, but this happens everyday on smaller, more personal scales.  Something rattles our cages, we get scared, we get help, then we feel better and resume normal living, never having learned anything – wash, rinse, repeat – 390^th verse same as the first. 

“Friends” are made in times of peril and then forsaken when all is well.  It’s just the way of things.

There is a difference between feeling better and getting better.  They’re not mutually exclusive, but the former always precedes the latter and we wee humans tend to get it backwards.

Thank God for Jesus.

Ready?

Finally – it was time for the physical.  …and I was not ready.

Y’see, with all the apparent “false starts”, when even a glimmer of hope would appear for resolution to one of the roadblocks, I didn’t want to get my hopes up for fear they’d just be disappointed again.  So in the weeks leading up to the green light, I had quit running, I had quit trying to eat as healthy as I had been; I had just stopped trying.  But clearly, God had not given up.

When I did get the green light, I weighed myself and realized I would not meet the standards for my height and weight.  I was either going to have to grow a few inches or I was going to have to bust my butt for a week to try and drop about ten pounds – and I am fresh out of accelerated growth hormones.  Now, I’ve dropped weight like this before – about ten years ago. 

Over the course of four years in college I gained 60 pounds more than what I had weighed my senior year of high school.  About a year or so after graduation I was introduced to Dance Dance Revolution; it was love at first step.  So, I bought DDR Maxx and then DDR Maxx 2 for the PlayStation 2 and for about three months just busted it.  I was also more mindful of what I ate and in three months’ time was about five pounds away from my high school weight.  However, I didn’t keep it off.

That’s another thing – I find it difficult to change my lifestyle sometimes.  Anyone else have this problem?  Like with the weight – or with money.  You get yourself into a pinch, you work it out with some blood, sweat and tears, then after a few months you’re back in the same old patterns.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  Can I get a witness or is it just me?

Anyway, in times since, whenever I’ve needed to drop some poundage I’d just cut out sweets, dance it up, and about a week later I’d be ten pounds lighter. 

So then this prospect of joining the Navy came up.  I got the green light for the physical.  Hoo boy, my metabolism ain’t what it used to be.  And my body is not 21 anymore.  When I first started jogging back in March, I had epic shin splints – after only about five minutes of jogging – not even half a mile.  When I knew I’d be going in for the physical, I started running again; two, sometimes three times a day; about 1.6 miles a shot according to Google Maps.  I cut out all junk food and drink.  Did the Slim-Fast thing for a few days.  I mean, I ate; I didn’t starve myself, just drastically reduced portions and only healthy food.

I started this process on a Wednesday and by Saturday I was down five pounds.  Woohoo!  Five more to go in just a few days!  Well – I believe I hit what you’d call a plateau.  And by Saturday, I was tired.  So I didn’t really do much Saturday or Sunday.  On Monday, I was weighed at the recruiting station – four pounds over.  ARGH!  Well, I still had that evening to bust it out.

Now, a curious thing: before you go off to have your physical or be shipped out with the military, they have you stay at a hotel the night before.  So a bunch of us were sequestered at the Crowne Plaza in Columbus.  They had a workout room there with ellipticals, treadmills and the like, but on my way over, I had a brainwave.  I stopped by a grocery store and picked up some Ex-Lax.  I mean, seriously, why not?  There is a difference between weights pre- and post-toileting.

Thing is, those little chocolate, Ex-Lax…tablets?  Whatever – they’re small.  They’re infinitesimal.  They’re tiny.  The box says take two daily.  I’m thinking, really?  So, I took four.

That night I went for a jog around the hotel’s vicinity; spent some time on a treadmill; and then had an unpleasant experience around 1AM – and we had to wake up at 4.  Post-unpleasant experience I was more or less fine; but there was a lingering pit in my stomach that I knew didn’t come from nerves – I know what that kind of pit feels like.  Thankfully, by 6 it had disappeared.

So, then…!  The time came for weighing in; I stood nervously on the scale – had it all paid off?  I glanced at the scale reading and my heart leapt to my throat.  The gentleman in charge scribbled something on my chart, handed it back to me and said, “Just be sure to stay in shape.”  I was walking about a foot off the ground the rest of the day.

Now, that’s great.  It was quite an experience, but it made me think: what if I had been jogging regularly and eating healthily all along?  Even though I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be, I had enlistment as my goal.  Instead, I frequently lost faith and dropped the ball, picking it up barely in time.  There were moments, especially in looking back now, where I sensed this is what God wants for me, this is His plan; but I was not acting in faith, I was not planning ahead and acting accordingly.

It made me think of the parable of the ten virgins.  It also made me think of every other Scripture verse I’ve read where we’re told to keep watch, or be ready for Jesus’ return.  I mean, y’know, that’s really going to happen.  Yeah, it’s been so long and there have been several “false starts” that it’s easy to get discouraged, but it really and truly is going to happen.  I reckon the question we all oughta ask ourselves is: do I only believe when His return feels imminent or do I believe all the time?  Am I a fan only when my team is doing well or do I root for ‘em even if they’re having an awful season?

Will I be preparing myself even when it feels pointless or will I try to cram a lifetime of faithfulness into ten minutes?

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.  

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.