ALL FOR ONE! (and It’s All About Me)

Disclaimer:

I’m not a Democrat.

I’m not a Republican, either.

In college frat terms I’m a GDI – (PG version:  Gosh Darn Independent)

Another Disclaimer:

I believe people have the right to bear arms.

I also believe some people shouldn’t be allowed to bear arms.

I believe all have the right to happiness perhaps through childbearing.

I also believe that some people shouldn’t bear children.  Honey Boo Boo?  *eye roll*

For the last 15 days I’ve had to reconcile the best laid plans and Murphy’s Law about those same plans.  And, admittedly, it sucks.  I read an article the other day about a woman who thought having kids was the worst mistake she’d ever made.  She said, “Like parasites, they took from me and they didn’t give back”.  My inner voice does not resonate with this tackless outburst from this parent.  Matter of fact, my love for my little sickling has grown exponentially (geometrically – just for Jeff) over these past two weeks, like I’ve never imagined it could.  The feeling I have for my near 19-week old daughter-with-the-feeding-tube-but-getting-better-slowly far outweighs the meaning of a simple faaaantastic.

Yet I am disappointed at missing a good couple weeks of sabbatical leave.  Sabbath, a time for intentional rest, isn’t happenin’.  But, like I’d like to say to a some people I know, get over it, right?  Right.  Kind of like when people can’t wait for someone to show up to either finish or remove laundry from a dryer, so they just take it out and leave it an a damp heap on top of the dryer with their stuff running inside.  Nice. (I left a note…and the door to the dryer open, too.  Just kidding on the latter of the two.  An eye for an eye only leaves the world blind.)

I’m wrestling like Jacob with this sabbatical angel who really wants to know my name…who I really am.  I’ve begun to say that name, and just like Jacob, I’ll walk away with a little gimpy.

So life doesn’t circle around me as much as it used to.  Having a sense of this fact has helped me get a grip on my emotions for cancelled plans – two MLS soccer matches, two RV parks in Washington, one in Montana, and a whole 1,400 mile re-route yet to be finagled.  Water under the bridge.  Unless you’re in Grand Rapids, Michigan, right now where water flows over the bridges.

Interesting… Very interesting. Gun permits before ownership? What a novel idea.

In all of life we see similar instances of injustice on the self, only to be awakened to the reality that our own ego doesn’t like what’s happening to us.  For example, this whole debate of gun control is out of control.  It’s gone from understanding what it means to care for others to preserving the self…out of fear and in the face of all whose lives are fragmented by the devastation lack of gun control has left in its wake.  See photo to the left.

Having lived in an area for nearly 6 years which has little control over who buys and has access to guns and having seen, as a Volunteer Police Chaplain, the suicides committed via guns, I’m even more convinced that people are more concerned about being right than being safe.  After all, getting what I want, over an above the needs of others that live in this same world, makes sense to me! (Last sentence laden with heavy sarcasm.)

Gun control also bleeds into a form of religious control.

Hypothetical question:  “Can I make you angry?”

Now, the italics should give you the correct answer.  Truth is this – I can’t make you angry.  Having said that, I can sure push your buttons and provoke an answer out of you that would please me if I were that kind of a person.  Vise versa you can not make me angry.  Something you do or say I may choose to become angry with, but that my choice.

This is where religion loses its relevance.  If I’m unhappy with a pastor, I can simply get up without a word and go to a new church, perhaps one that reflects my beliefs and not those of a well-studied, even scholarly minister.  After all, my needs are more important than the rest of the world’s and that makes sense to me!  (Again…sarcasm)

Sadly, the line that begins, “A deeply religious…” speaks volumes.  Even sadder, Grand Rapids, Michigan is my home town.  No one should ever have to feel so bound by an errant view of “biblical marriage.”

So what happens if a pastor may have a different opinion?  What happens when a preacher goes into a church and, heaven forbid, asks them to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with (their) God when all they want to do is worship the organ, the hymnals from 1957, the un-padded pews, the memorials most everybody walks by without reading?

They leave.

What happens when a pastor preaches and encourages his/her members to work for justice for the marginalized, even though the sight of these people may make a majority of them squirm?

They leave.

All to easy any given member can get up from the pew, head to the nearest exit, and then bitch (because I can think of no other diplomatic word than the verb to bitch) to everyone in the neighborhood about how their pastor sucks and is a “false man of God,” because they know this for fact and they’ve all been through the rigors of an accredited theological seminary.  Oh, the pettiness of the Church.

Of course, I realize it’s horribly difficult to place an accurate meaning on scripture when it’s been so heavily scrutinized under a microscope for eons.  Still, Jesus’ prayer in John 17 paints a bigger picture – so that they may all be one.  Perhaps the writer of John left out that line filled with righteous indignation.  You know, the one that completes the verse with, “…unless you like guns, hate the preacher, dislike gay people…etc.”  But then the writer would have had to leave that out three times in the same passage.  Highly unlikely.

This two-week and one-day endeavor in hospitals has left me with a foul taste in my mouth.  Most of it from the pricey hospital food.  The rest of that foul taste is me getting over it.  And I will.

There are many things that life tries to teach us if we stayed and listened.  In this case, I don’t know what they are yet.  I’m not a big fan of the whole God-does-everything-for-a-reason theology.  If that’s the case, I think we’d have billions more atheists.  (Although, we are working in that direction!)

This face. I LOVE this face.
LOVE WINS.
(being in the UCC, I believe that is the only place a punctuation period should exist.)

Let’s start with love.  Love is a good starting point when trying to sift through life’s crap.  As Miracle Max said in the Gospel of The Princess Bride, “Sonny, true love is the greatest thing, in the world-except for a nice MLT – mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe they’re so perky, I love that.”

The Apostle Paul follows that with, “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.  And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.  If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.  Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.  It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (Italics and bold are my own.)

Love is patient and kind.  And it endures.  To endure means you’re in for the long haul.  Are you?  I am.  Because it’s not all about me.  There’s another 600 Billion I think about.

 

Best Laid Plans…

Day number 4 in the hospital with our little misses.

Sunday was an afternoon in the ER.  Monday through today in a room number 123 – a cubicle.  No, a cell.  No, wait… a closet.

Food is mediocre.  The best thing on the menu are two words that should never be placed together except when separated by the word “stuffed” – turkey bacon.  The staff is kind yet a little discombobulated.  Sometimes it good when the left hand knows what the right hand is doing and when its doing it.  Waiting until the patient has only just fallen asleep for some much-needed rest to re-enter the room to poke her for yet another blood draw is NOT communicating needs effectively for the health of the patient, or the sanity of what was once a rational father.

My worst complaint is the room…  I had to share a room like this with my older brother, Jon, growing up in a 3-bedroom, 1-bath ranch in west Michigan.  There was a bunk bed, a dresser, and a desk in that room.  It felt just right when I was that size.  Now, however, in a similar-sized room, about 8X10, I feel claustrophobic.  A rat in a cage.  An inmate.

Sleeping soundly, after being repeatedly poked and prodded…

Could be worse, I could have what my daughter has… which is something no one has yet to figure out.  “Probably a stomach virus” they say.

#$%@*&!

We arrived in this lovely Oregon harbor town of Hammond/Astoria last Saturday.  Sunday afternoon was the ER (which my wife, who works in a medical-related field tells me is now properly referred to as “ED” – Erectile Dysfunction?  Really?  Oh… that’s Emergency Department.  I still can’t say ED without giggling).  Monday was ED (hee, hee, hee) again followed by admission into our current residence of room 123.

Now the plan is to go to Portland, to further exhaust the gamut of pediatric testing at the Portland University Hospital.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled about this.

I would do anything to change this expression back into…

This means we have to transport our infant.  In an ambulance.  For 2 hours.  To Portland.  I’m thinking, this should go well.

Then there’s the RV.  While we’re in this lovely park called Fort Stevens State Park (I highly recommend this to RV’ers), there is our cat to take care of along with considering that we’re to check out on Friday anyway.  Today is Wednesday.  Wednesday, with a trip to Portland and somehow move the RV to Portland, too.  We were supposed to drive another two hours north to Hoquaim, Washington.  I think that plan is a bust.

I really wanted to see more of this area.  I really wanted to see more of the Pacific coast on Highway 101.  I’m still gonna drive over this bridge here in town only if it means I have to drive back over it to get the RV to Portland, way too cool – It’s like a smaller version of the Mackinaw Bridge in northern Michigan.  Any drive like that in an RV has got to be entertaining to some degree.

…this one. Anything.

Point is, I’m extremely disappointed.  Frankly, I’m pissed.

This little hospital detour has sucked the “sabbath” right out of my sabbatical.  Best laid plans, right?

Instead of doing the things I wanted to do I am forced into something I really would dislike on any Facebook status.  And I own that.

I’m not going to be that guy and say, “screw it, I’m doing my own thing,” leaving behind my wife to be with my sick child all on her own.  No, I am sticking right here, bedside until someone has a decent answer or until I have to go back to the RV and feed the cat.  The latter of which is going to happen first.

To plan a 13-week RV trip with two adults, one 3-month old (tomorrow it’s officially 4-month old), and a neurotic cat was an endeavor no reasonable person would try to plan, or so I’ve been told…several times over.  We’re only 5 weeks in.  So far, so good, I’d say.  No real issues until this.

As I’m typing my poor little girl is sleeping by my side.  She appears more pale than an albino ginger.  The hardest part, there’s no diagnosis…and her cry is deadly.  What’s worse?  I can’t console her.

Just plain sick.

I’m hurting.  I’m hurting, yes, because my plans are forcibly being changed and not toward any good destination.  I had wanted to go to Portland last Sunday for the MLS Timbers match-up against San Jose (which they won – would’ve LOVED to have seen that!) but instead we stayed at home.  I was just recovering from that loss.  Now this.

I feel selfish.  I feel selfish because this was my trip, really.  I’m happy to spend it with family, just not like this.  I want my smiling little girl back so I can spy the school where Kindergarten Cop was filmed, or the places in Astoria where parts of Goonies was filmed.  Or the really cool lighthouse-looking structure I can see on my drive to and from the hospital, or even more of the beach area at low tide – with my daughter in her car seat attached to the Bob Stroller.

This is the hardest part about parenting I’ve only just discovered.  Not being able to do the things I really wanted to do.  You know what?  I wouldn’t trade it for the world, a billion bucks, and to see Donald Trump in a homeless shelter.

Best laid plans…

Finding My Own One-Eyed Willie

Somewhere just north of Florence, OR, on the 101.

Whoa… Before you all jump on the “HOLY SUGGESTIVE TITLE BATMAN” wagon.  I can explain.  We’re in Fort Stevens State Park in Hammond, Oregon, a hop, skip, and a jump from Astoria, the famed home of the Goonies.  If you recall any of the 1985 cult-following film starring Rudy…um, I mean, Samwise Gamgee…shoot… What’s his name?  Oh, yeah, Sean Astin.  Where was I again?  Oh, yeah, if you recall any of that film you’d remember that this troop of youngsters find a treasure map and go searching and (WARNING:  SPOILER ALERT!!) find it – the treasure of One-Eyed Willie.  Any of you who were thinking something suggestive, well… keep your mind out of the gutter.  This isn’t that kind of a blog.  Although, as I increase in age it may take a turn for the worst.

I am looking for my own treasure in life.  And I’ve found it – In the joys of family, my faith, travel, the people I meet (well, most of them), and in hearing rain fall on an RV.

You could say I’ve found something more impressive than One-Eyed Willie’s hoarded treasure.

This guy was going northbound, but his semi was on its driver’s side facing south. The trailer was on its passenger side…still facing north. And there was no “life-threatening” injuries… wow.  If only you could have seen the rig after they turned ip right-side up.  Holy…

I’m reminded of a short essay by Robert J. Hastings called, The Station.  Beyond all the goals, the achievements, the drive of some people to own expensive cars and fine real estate, is the simple joy of the trip.

Today, we were stuck for nearly 3 hours behind a wrecked semi on northbound Highway 101, just north of Florence.  Friends we met the night before at the RV park were also stopped – just in front of us.  Charlie and Joelle.  Nice folk.  You really do meet the nicest people at RV parks.  Although, I did meet a couple of sketchy ones, too, but they were still nice.

I thought I’d turn the RV around.  After all, we were pulled off the side of the road in a turn-out, made for larger and slower vehicles to pull off and allow the faster ones to pass by.  It’s an Oregon law.  Slow vehicles must pull off.  Mind you, I’m driving a 31 foot Jayco Greyhawk (pictured at the top of the blog) and towing a Honda Odyssey.  Total footage just over 45 feet.  Therefore, my turn radius is that of an aircraft carrier.  Not gonna happen.  Even my friend Charlie had a chuckle over that idea.

Another stream making it’s way into the Pacific. Our view while the wreck was being cleaned up. Not bad.

So, what to do?  I wasn’t motivated to unload the minivan, although there was a picturesque lighthouse I failed to snap a few photos of about three miles back that was tempting me beyond the powers of satan.

Another stopped pickup with a camper loaded on the bed stopped beside us.  They unloaded their cooking utensils and made breakfast.  Eggs and bacon…those bastards.  The smell wafting through the damp air made a bee-line for my nostrils.  I mentally shook my fist at them with a large grin on my face while dreaming of ways to nab a couple strips of that fine meat candy.

That didn’t happen either.  Instead it was a grilled cheese sandwich and Wavy Lays, with a couple of canned okra.

Oh, did I mention that all this was happening while my daughter was puking her guts out?  Yep, that too.  We stopped at an ER in Florence for some advice.  All looked okay, with only a few beginning signs of dehydration.  After a whopping 30 minutes in the ER (that is a total record for me in any medical office) we were discharged with instructions to return if the vomiting hasn’t subsided in 48 hours.  It’s been 27.  She’s still up-chucking.

But WHAT A GLORIOUS RIDE! (Note:  Some sarcasm may be in use)  Albeit a little faster than I had hope to take it due to the wreck delay.  I’m a little bummed as Highway 101 in Oregon has quickly become a #1 place to return to and drive…with a convertible…without a neurotic cat…with a non-barfing child…and my hot honey sitting beside me not stressing about said sick infant…and total sunshine in lieu of spotty rain clouds (The latter of which did make for some pretty pavement – seeing the blue sky reflecting off of wet pavement next to some of the greenest grass I’ve seen in years was pretty gnarly.  I had to use the word ‘gnarly’ as there are surf shops around here.)…and in a vehicle that does better than 7 MPG.

Just north of Girabaldi, OR, overlooking the Tillamook Bay area… Breath taking.

Before my train of thought completely derails, do you see what I mean?  The true joy of life, as Hastings wrote, is the trip.  And this has been one heckuva of a trip to date!  I can’t wait for the remaining 7,000 miles!  Really!  Word up!

We could have been stuck in the middle of LA traffic in downtown LA.  I hear that’s pretty bogus.  Yet here we were beside a beautiful bridge and stream that let out into the Pacific Ocean, less than 100 yards away.  Not a bad place to be stuck at all.

Where your treasure is there also is where your heart resides.  I’m happy to say my heart resides in the simplest of things:  travel, family, non-barfing children, sunlight and rain, curvy roads and places like the Goon Docks, which weren’t sold at the end of the movie because Rudy found some gems to buy it back…  Rudy?  Sheesh, I’m tired.  I mean, Mikey.  Yeah, that’s it.  Mikey.

Hug someone, people, and then go for a ride.  Tomorrow its laundry day…lots of vomit-filled blankets.  Sooper dooper.  Its all joy.  It’s my One-Eyed Willie treasure.

 

Sneeze You Later…

I packed two Kleenex boxes.  Extras for the road, you know.  It’s like packing the proverbial clean underwear for your nose.

We’ve purchased two since we’ve left just two weeks ago.  One of the two I have just now emptied.

I’m exhausted but my abs are TIGHT, YEAH!

Turns out late March isn’t exactly the best time to see southern California…if you have allergies.  I hadn’t sneezed like this in quite some time.  I don’t recall the last time I had a sneezing fit that lasted two weeks.  Yet, since we left Colorado, nature has managed to successfully eliminate my nearly-bionic ability to physically block histamine.

Tonight?  Two generic zyrtec, one Claritin D, and another 200 tissues and counting.

And it was worth it.

Driving up and over the pass to the ocean.

Buellton is  beautiful in the spring time.  Mornings of heavy mist carpet the landscape until the sun peaks about noon-time, when all becomes clear again.  It’s kinda like the ads for Claritin clear… but in a way that really works.  The morning fog evaporate to reveal lush, steep rolling hills.  The grass a bright green with patches of lavender and yellow wild flowers and the hillsides spotted with trees – the kind any boy would love to climb into.  It’s quite the idyllic scene laying in and around vast expanses of vineyards for the vino consumerist in some of us.

I enjoyed a few moments outside on our RV Park patch of grass with my 14-week old daughter.  Until, last Thursday, suddenly the wind picked up and as I turned to see what the weather was doing behind me all I could see was a pale yellow dust-like haze in the air, similar to the dry howling winds of northeastern Colorado that stirs up dust and drops it when the wind stops.

But this wasn’t wind kicked-up dust.  It was pollen.  Within seconds I was covered.  Sophie was covered.  My laptop was covered, my iPhone, my grill, our chairs…etc.

I have yet to recover.

Vineyards in their early blossoming.

I should have invested in some wine from this part of the country, it would have made this hyper allergenic roller coaster much more fun to ride.

I’m thinking the RV may need a deep interior cleaning.  The good news is that Sophie hasn’t displayed any signs of being just as allergic to pollen as I have in the last 72 hours.  (And if babies develop that at a later stage, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know – I enjoy the occasional bliss of ignorance.)

So now we’re in Three Rivers, California, close to the southern entrance to the Sequoia National Park.  From wine fields to citrus groves.  The RV park we’re in shall remain nameless as it advertised wireless internet but that same internet is difficult to access and there is absolutely no Verizon signal.  We’re nearly off the grid.

Speaking of which, tomorrow’s Easter and we’ll also be completely off the church grid for worship, too.  This may be the first time I’ve ever missed an Easter service in my entire life.  What in Christ’s resurrected name am I going to do?  I think I’ll go see some big, old trees.

I’ve harped on those who misunderstand what the spiritual discipline of worship is all about – and here I am missing my 3rd in a row.

I’ve heard all the reasons why some people choose not to attend.  I’m spiritual but not religious (Hear this one all the time).  Being outside is my worship space.  Music is my sanctuary (Thank you to Sarah McLachlan for that one… I almost completely agree with you).  My work is my worship.  Wait a minute.  Your work is your worship?  What is it you do and are you hiring?

There is something I’ll miss tomorrow morning, besides being with family and friends on what I consider to be a special, holy day.  I’m not sure what that something is.

Point is, there is something we miss by not practicing our faith.  The same thing goes for those who choose not to practice their trade.  Would Justin Verlander have just signed a new contract with the Detroit Tigers for a redonkulous (yes, that’s how ridiculous it really is… reDONKulous) amount of money without practice?  We all know what Allen Iverson thinks of practice and perhaps what he now thinks of his former career in the NBA.

So, would you go to a doctor who didn’t practice?  Would you lay odds on the team that didn’t practice the week before the big game to win it?  Would you hop on an aircraft with a rookie pilot who hasn’t taken a real flight out of the simulator?  Would you follow a Rotarian into a mission field if he/she only said the 4-Way Test (scroll down a bit on the page for this one) and not practiced it in real life?  (I know, this last is tough to relate for someone not involved in a service organization but in a way it’s more like an organization practicing the basic principles of Christianity without having to admit that you are one.)

I didn’t think so.

The saying, practice makes perfect, was hinting at something.

Now, I’m not saying that you all reading this post must absolutely practice what I’m practicing.  I wouldn’t pretend to say that what I’ve got is the best.  There may be another road for you.  If there is another road, please DRIVE IT, ALREADY!  And do the speed limit, at least.  No one likes a Sunday driver.

Practice planting a tree if your into the environment.  Practice every facet of politics if you fancy having a say in public policy (not just one party side, but thoroughly researching all viewpoints to one argument to be truly informed and not simply living out a set of indoctrinated values).  Practice the skills of futbol, the original soccer, the beautiful game, so that you can play for the Colorado Rapids one day and help them back to the MLS Cup (it’s been a rough couple years for us season ticket holders).  Practice how to pray if you want to be good at it – really, it’s easier said than done.  I should know, I’m still trying this one on.

I’ll miss the rolling hillsides of that southern portion of California.  I wouldn’t mind returning…after pollination season has ended.  I’m also sure I wouldn’t know what to miss if I don’t ever return to see what it is that I’ve been missing.  Practice means to do something over and over and over again until it becomes something close to second-nature.

Having said that, I’ll be missing the practice of rediscovering resurrection.  New life.  The kind of stuff spring time is made of – flower budding, bees buzzing and, yes, even the pollen falling…seemingly directly into my nostrils.

Go to go now… I feel a sneeze coming on…  But before I do, please allow me offer you a preemptive BLESS YOU! as you rediscover practice on your own.

No Less than MOab, Utah

A long-view of the Windows at Arches National Park and the La Sal mountains in the background

There is a certain beauty in a place where humans aren’t supposed to be living.  I found that today at Arches National Park, in Moab, Utah.  We traversed this national park for a little more than 3 hours before heading into the little community of Moab.  Brilliant hues of red, blue, and green.  (Some of which was actually vegetation – you’ll have to visit this place to see why I used the word some)

Of course, there was the obstacle course of humanity that invades Arches on a daily basis.  They were all behind me in a line as I drove the single-lane road through the park, pulling off occasionally for the opportune photo op and allowing the gathered train of traffic to pass on by.  This happened a lot, for both photos and cars.

Simon and Garfunkel once sang, slow down, you move too fast, you got to make the morning last.  While I didn’t kick down the cobblestone, but did manage to trip over a firmly rooted sagebrush while enjoying the scenery (THAT was embarrassing), I felt a rushed presence of the tourists behind me, as if they had another park to go to today.

It wasn’t too long ago, while at a retreat for confirmation youth, I experienced the same phenomena.  I purposefully entered into a prayer labyrinth ahead of the youth to see how long a one would form behind me.  It didn’t take long.  Before I knew it, I had to ‘pull over’ to allow a train of youth in the labyrinth to get to where they needed to go…the center of the labyrinth.  I imagine for many of these youngsters a prayer labyrinth was a new experience.  Not knowing what else to do, you just go with the flow, right?

Life can be lived much the same way.  Without knowing how to live it yourself, you could get sucked by the extreme flow of secular society, rushing down the rapids of life trying to hold on or even blowing wherever life blows you without holding onto something firmly planted…something…say, for example, God.

With the tragic myriad of activities for any one of our family members to be involved with, when would anyone have the time to slow down.  You have to drive through that proverbial park as fast as you can so you can get to another park as soon as possible, right?  Because that’s what life has taught you.  But do you miss a chance to perfectly frame a photo for a memory book?  Would you have the opportunity to be so lost in wonder that you trip over the very wonder you’re wondering about, looking goofy as ever in front of a few hundred people?  Would you even know to stop and take in the various colors of a land that you may only see once?

I’ve got the 59th Street Bridge Song rolling through my head…  especially the last line of the song… Life, I love you, I’m feelin’ groovy.

Maybe, just maybe, you all can join me in singing that first line – slow down, you’re movin’ too fast, you’ve got to make the morning last…today, tomorrow, and the weeks to come.  Life, I love you.  I’m feeling very groovy.

Bats in the Belfry

There’s a joke I have shared amongst my ordained peers…  Wanna hear it?  Here it goes. (I hope you caught that In Living Color reference)

Once upon a time there was a large byzantine church with an equally large ministry staff.  (And no, that’s not the joke.)  Every Sunday as the crowd filled the pews in the ornate sanctuary their chatter was only muffled by the chirping of a rather large population of bats that lived in the belfry.  Fed up with the chatter as only a senior pastor could be (after all, who talks over the pastor’s sermon?) the esteemed clergy climbed up into the bell tower, trapped all the bats, relocated them miles away into a cave.  Rather proud of his endeavors, he returned to the pulpit with a smug appearance only to have it washed away with the return of the excessive chirping noise emanating from the belfry.

The associate pastor said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.”  He, too, climbed the belfry’s ladder armed with a shotgun loaded with powerful blanks.  The confident young man fired off a few rounds into the tower, scattering the bats at once.  Yet, the following Sunday, the chirping was ever more present, ever more powerful – as if the bats were out for revenge.

As it so happened, this gangly, underpaid, part-time, guitar-toting youth minister approached the senior staff and says to the ministers, “I got this.”  He disappeared into the belfry and a short time later reemerged with a polite grin on his face.

The following Sunday morning you could hear a pin drop.  It was so quiet the members didn’t even recognize the pastor’s voice…and neither did he.  The senior pastor and the associate pastor approached the youth minster after worship and excitedly asked, “How’d you do it?!?”

“It was easy,” replied the youth pastor, “I confirmed them.”  (Okay, now you may chuckle.)

This joke has received better mileage than a Prius with a 100 mph tailwind.  Yet every time I tell it I laugh a little less.  I laugh less because there’s a reality that myself and my peers who laugh with me are all to familiar with.  Once we “confirm” our youth, most of them, if not all, disappear from the church.

I used to think this was all a problem with me as a pastor.  What was I doing or saying that estranged these young folk after Confirmation was over?  I’ve wrestled with this question for as many years as I’ve been in ordained ministry…which, altogether now, is only five years.  “Is only five years.”  (I hope you’ve caught the Airplane reference there.  Just don’t call me surely.)

What I have come to learn is that this problem goes beyond the local church setting and into the local church member’s home.  The understanding of Confirmation as more a rite-of-passage than an actual acknowledgment of their parent’s vows at their baptism is one part.  The other part is two-fold.  Part A is the family that perpetuates this ideal that Confirmation is just another ceremony that has to be done because “I did it at that age” or “this is the church that I was confirmed in, too.”  Part B is the local church staff that allows this ideal to be perpetuated without addressing it or, at least, trying to educate the general membership – some may have long  forgotten the meaning behind many of the church traditions and have simply begun to “go through the motions.”

I’ve been witness to families who play Confirmation as “there for when they need it” and then they’re gone.  The only value in the program is just to be “confirmed” – whateverthehell that means.  Whatever promises are made by the youth to participate, to serve, to worship, to be a part of this new church family are only as strong as the investment the parents have in said church.  Little investment equals bats in the belfry.  Greater investment equals…well…a guy like me, even though it took much time to fully maturate.

Keep in mind that I find the local church to be equally as dismissive of confirmation as many parents are.  Even members in these churches have no desire to reframe their own affirmation of baptism to dive into a deeper understanding of relationship with their God.  Sunday morning worship, for lack of a better phrase, is merely “going through the motions.”

I am taking an online coaching course from The Center for Progressive Renewal, based in Atalanta, Georgia.  I heard a statistic that was more disturbing; hardly anyone in our church experience God within the worship service.

We (the Church) are dramatically disconnected in this highly connected world.

I’m not sure the answer.  I find myself wanting to make more rules and structure for a disciplined Confirmation program… which is completely opposite of what my heart speaks is needed.  I want youth to come to me and say, “Pastor Greg, I want to be confirmed this year” without me having to ask for a parent-youth informational meeting at the beginning of the confirmation season.  I want these youth to be mature.  Perhaps more mature than their parents or even me.

Today we celebrated Confirmation Sunday.  Eight youth made commitments to the church.  Six of them I know I’ll see in church through their high school years, at least when their travel sport of choice isn’t playing on Sundays.  Five of them I’m pretty sure I’ll see if they stick around after high school.  Four of them I see as potential leaders.  Two of them have greater potential in ordained ministry.

When I look back on the classes of Confirmation I have had the privilege to lead, my best reflective guess is that roughly 20% of the youth confirmed in the last six years make regular appearances in worship.  Compared to other churches in our denomination, that’s hardly the joke of the bats in the belfry.

But it could be better.

12 days… But who’s counting?

The Itch…

I’ve got it.  The “itch.”  “Senioritis.”  Attention deficit… SQUIRREL!

Two weeks and we’re on the road for a three-month sabbatical.  Well, I’m on sabbatical.  My wife, on the other hand, will be fresh off of maternity leave and back to work, 3/4 time for about a month before full-time resumes.  She’s stressed, but for totally different reasons than I am.  For her, it’s all about the packing and placement of said pack”ages.”  For me, it’s all about tying up loose ends.  Every time one is tied up, about a million more present themselves.

I am itchy to get on the road and journey with my family…and my God, who I will be praying to on a more than regular basis out of sheer need to arrive at our destinations without conflict.  (Fat chance?)

I will also be praying for a little direction.  I’m fried on the ministerial inside.  I could use some rest and guidance for my pastoral life during these coming months.

An acquaintance of mine writes for the Facebook page called The God Article.  I love this page.  It’s a progressive Christian page with its foundations clearly in what I would think is religious ‘reasonability.’  Meaning – all is spoken out of love.  I like that.  Last year, this author left his own North Carolina church for a sabbatical.  I anticipated his blog entries religiously… no pun intended… as he intentionally avoided “church.”  The blog was published in the Huffington Post.

As he journeyed I felt he may, like others I knew in ministry, leave the church because of its often-cited hypocrisy within its church leadership.  While he didn’t leave the church another one of my friends left the church years ago and claims “reason” as his greatest following.  Sad thing is… I get it.

It may be the loose canon preacher pretending to “speak for all of Christianity” who’s asinine YouTube videos go viral.  It could also be the people within the church who, as American author, friar, priest, contemplative and speaker Brennan Manning once said, “The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips and walk out the door and deny Him by their lifestyle.  That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.”  It seems as if the whole of Christianity, even some who post on The Christian Left (similar to The God Article, I just find they speak with a little less love for others than our Gospels appear to teach) seem more able to open mouth and insert foot than to be effective at creating new (or, for this matter, used) disciples.

Am I going to do the same?  Will this sabbatical journey give cause to doubt?  Am I going to question my faith or will I … SQUIRREL!?!?

Two weeks from today the journey begins and the questions continue.  Prayerfully, mile by mile, God will speak the answers.  That is my hope.  It’s almost time to scratch that itch or grab some calamine lotion… one or the other will do.

Ups and Downs…and In Betweens.

Over the last week we’ve had some pretty interesting weather.  Now some may think that if you live in Colorado you’re a shoe-in for cold, snowy, cold, snowy, cold… and more snowy weather.  Visions of white-capped mountains may come to mind.  But that’s a little further up.  And we’re much further down.  There’s a joke I’ve learned while living here.  You want to hear it?

You know why northeastern Colorado is SO windy?  Because Nebraska sucks and Wyoming blows.  (insert appropriate level of laughter here.)

Yes.  We’re in between, it seems.  Cold and snowy we’re typically not.  This is one of two snowy winters we’ve experienced since moving here in November of 2007.  The last one was 2007-2008.  Otherwise temps here may be consistent with snowy-like conditions elsewhere, but the sun, the lack of cloud cover, and an elevation of 4,300 ft. above sea level seems to make everything feel about 10 degrees warmer than anywhere else.

Our weather is interesting because it’s been snowing.  I’ve pulled out the two-stage snow thrower a whopping total of five times more than last year!  How many times did I use it last year?   A big, fat NIL.  Zero.  Zip.  Zippo.  Nada.  None.  Not once.  I even pulled out the snow thrower a bit prematurely this evening as it’s still coming down and blowing.

Why do I mention this?  Ever try to RV in sub-freezing weather?  Right… you can’t.  Well, I should say you can, but with very limited capabilities.  Luxuries like using the shower are off limits (pipes freeze… or your water pump freezes and explodes… Learned the latter of the two the hard way) and even staying warm is a challenge.  It’s not like these RV’s are insulated like your congressman (again, learned that one the hard way – never do a test-run at an elevation of 9,400 ft. above sea level in February and expect good results) .

In two and a half weeks we’re on the road.  Going UP through the mountains and then slowly back down to an elevation of 4,000 ft. for our first stop.  4,600 ft. for our second stop.  I’m praying for mild weather to say the least.  It’d be slightly better than a good thing to get this adventure off to a good start.  Would you pray with me?  Please?

Thank you.

“Unpacking” the Packing Experience…

Yesterday my 2-month old daughter and I shopped.  I dread what I may be teaching her – “Shop ’til you drop.”  Of course, I am sure this is a far cry from the kind of retail shopping experience she’ll prefer 5 years from now.  Let’s revisit, shall we?

First, Camping World.  The Cozy app list was long, but at least it’s relatively cleared with a few minor treats to pick up before the expedition of a lifetime begins.  You know, all the important stuff like RV toilet paper that chafes yet breaks downs enough not to clog up the black well tank.  A light strand for the awning to brighten our evenings as we sit under the stars, some extra fuses, a collapsable dish-drainer, and so much more.

Then onto Best Buy (insert manly grunt here… no… wait… don’t.)  for a pair of two-way radios, a.k.a. “walkie talkies” just so we can, um… you know… walk and talk. (Oh, I did pick up the latest Batman movie release for a little DVD entertainment in inclement weather.)

By late afternoon, my wife had joined us as we ventured to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and the Container Store – two places that psychologically overwhelm me.  By the time we finished the minivan was a low-rider and views out the back window were at a premium.  Oh, did I mention we hadn’t yet eaten dinner?

To make a long story short our shopping adventure made for one looooong day.

And this is just preparation.  Preparation for the long haul.  I have no idea what will come at us during three months and more than 9,800 miles of RV travel.  “Plan for the worst” is a motto some choose to live by.  I’d like to challenge that – how does one exactly plan for “the worst”?

As we pack and organize I’ll be planning for the best of the best.  I’ll be packing my trust and extra loads of faith… Oh crap… where’d I put the patience?  Yeah, that too.  I can’t even begin to visualize a trip like this without these things.  I’ll be spending intentional time in quiet thinking and praying about this trip.

Two weeks.  Five days.  I can hear Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” beginning to play in the background… or is it Lindsey Buckingham’s “Holiday Road” or the B-52’s “Roam” or Black Sabbath’s “Crazy Train”?