Brown Bear, Brown Bear, Who do you see?

As I was a child, I always liked the Brown Bear Brown Bear books, because each character on each page was always looking at someone else, and never just themselves. It seemed like everyone knew that everyone else was just as important. "You may see me, but really, I see Green Frog, and I think he's pretty cool. You should take a look..."



I know it's strange that I thought this way... but hey, I was a strange kid.


So...
I want to introduce you to some people.

15 different people/families, to be exact.

They probably don’t know you.

But you know every single one of them…

And you might not even be aware of it.

I am who I am today because of them.

When you see different parts of me, you actually see them.

This list isn’t as large as it could be.

There are so many others I need to add.

I won’t apologize for the length of this post, because it should be longer,
and it's missing people like my sister, Michele. And Nate Degner, my HS choir teacher.

So I encourage you to read it through.

Because you might learn something about yourself.

But even if you don’t, you’ll at least learn about some amazing people.

People who have been Jesus to me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1) Marshall and Leonia Bouchard are my parents. Thanks to cancer, you won’t meet Dad on this side of Heaven, but you can still see him in my drive to continuously create things, to teach the word of God, and in my ever-enlarging gut (coulda gone without getting THOSE genes, Dad). But my heart, my need to always question the status quo, and my kid-friendly “pied piper gene” comes from Mom. Seriously, she can step into a room full of strangers, and everyone under 18 will be somehow be surrounding her within minutes. So basically, whenever you see me doing anything, you actually see Dad and Mom.

2) Jim and Sandi Slaton and their kids showed the gift of hospitality when they invited me to live with them for two years when I was an intern. They showed me what a godly family looks like. They took me in at a time when I was still figuring out who I was, and who God wanted me to be. Oh, and they introduced me to Rita’s. ‘Nuff said. Anytime you see me investing in Family Ministry, or eating good ice cream, you actually see Jim, Sandi, Caleb, Savannah, and Parker.

3) Shanna Banks and I are opposites in every way. No joke. But when we first got put on the same team, that team became a force to be reckoned with. Not only is she my former classmate and co-worker, she’s also one of my best friends. And between us, we’ve just about seen it all in ministry. She’s the greatest leader I know under the age of 40. And she’s been that way since she was 19. Anytime you see me train others, and whenever you see me smiling in the middle of chaos, you actually see Shanna.

4) Steve Freakin’ Andrews is my pastor. No I’m not brown-nosing. The man doesn’t even know what Facebook is, so he'll never read this post. But this guy is the embodiment of what it means to have no agenda besides Jesus Christ. You’d never know the guy leads a church of 12,000, and that’s exactly how he wants it. He doesn’t hold on to power and authority, instead he gladly gives it away. Unlike the others in this list, you won’t see Steve in me… yet. When the time comes for me to help lead a church, that’s when you’ll see Steve.

5) Ellie Sharrow didn’t just teach kids about Journalism and Publications, she taught kids how to take a close look at life, and how to capture life and put it on a page in a way that can impact the life of others for the greater good. AND she was the first person to ever put me in charge of stuff. Anyone who knew me in high school knows that was risky. Thanks to her, I now can’t look at any kind of article, blog post, or newspaper without critiquing its grammar, content, and layout, which is both a blessing and a curse (local newspapers are NOTORIOUS for tombstone headlines, by the way). In every story and script I write, and every time I encourage kids and teens to do the same, you don’t see me, you actually see Ellie.

6) Joe McGinnis was the first Children’s Pastor I ever encountered. I didn’t know such positions even existed before meeting him. When I started volunteering at Far Hills 9 years ago, I served every Sunday in the Early Childhood wing, traveling from class to class with my guitar, singing the same 3 songs. One of which was about a man who got his arms eaten off by a shark. But he saw beyond the horrible songs, and my life took a 180 turn when he asked me to intern in kids/family ministry. Over the next two years, he took this (then) 21-year-old without a work ethic, and turned me into a leader. Anytime you see me leading any kind of team, you actually see Joe.

7) Lisa Doane is my partner in crime at Kensington, and one of the wisest leaders I know. She’s the powerhouse behind moving KKids to a volunteer-based model. When Lake Orion first launched 3 years ago, all eyes were on LO to see if it would work, and God used her to prove that it could. Anytime I do something that works, it’s probably because either A) Lisa made me do it, or B) Lisa took whatever my hairbrained idea was and showed me how to make it work. So anytime anything I’m in charge of manages to work, you actually see Lisa.

8) Abbey McCormack writes for 252 Basics (one of the BEST kids’ church curriculum ever written), and she was the only person in my 1st interview at Kensington that noticed that I accidentally wore my sweater vest inside-out. When I started at Kensington, I was a little bit of a mess. I liked teaching kids, but I had a lot to learn when it came to being a leader. Abbey kept me sane that first year(and quite often still does). She took me under her wing, showed me what artistic excellence and kids ministry looked like together, and constantly shoved me over the edge of my creative limits. She’s pretty cool, but watch out… she likes to kick people in the head while they’re driving. Anytime I come up with any illustration, picture, or video that’s out of the box, you actually see Abbey.

9) Mike and Sharon Eckstein occupied my Mondays every single week for the 2 years I worked at Grace Baptist. I spent every Monday lunch at Subway with Mike, and every Monday evening at the Ecksteins’ for an excellent dinner (Sharon’s cooking is to die for), followed by a living-room wrestling match with their kids. Then Mike would end the night by catching me up on all the “manly” movies I missed out on as a kid. Most importantly, Mike was the first father IN MY ENTIRE LIFE that I saw actually apologize to his kid if he ever did/said something wrong. The first time he did that, it completely rocked my world. Whenever I pray about my future family, I ALWAYS pray that my household will resemble Mike and Sharon’s. So you may not see them now, but be on the lookout for them when I’m a husband and father. You’ll see them then.

10) “PJ” John Scally was the last youth pastor I had (in the traditional Baptist Church fashion, we went through 3 in my 4 highschool years). Of everyone in this list, he’s the one you see most. You see him every time I teach. You see him when I shoot you and your kids with my air cannon in the halls between services and completely mess your hair up. Your kids see him when I visit them at their schools for lunch. Your teens see him when I crash the all-nighters, taunt and slaughter them at laser tag, do impromptu hand-checks on the bus, and soak them with giant water guns at the Squirt Gun Jam while covered in war paint and screaming “FREEDOM!” You also see his wife Tami when I put up with kids who burp in my face, just like I did to her (don’t ask me why… teens rarely know why they do what they do).

11) Dan Sadlier and I went on a mission trip together, but we haven't ever actually worked together on any projects. But Dan has still been, and continues to be a big influence in my life as a leader. Goes to show that you don’t have to actually oversee someone to have an impact on them. You see Dan anytime I cast vision for the future. You see Dan whenever we have a Family Fun Night at Orion. You also see Dan whenever I take time to invest in the next generation leaders of this world.

12) Tammie Sparkman is my older niece but we were raised as siblings (just go with it, it’ll take too long to explain). Growing up, we experienced every aspect of sibling rivalry. But now, she and her awesome husband, Nick Sparkman, are my best friends. They’ve been through Hell and back, and have relied on God in situations when some of the world's bravest would have given up. They continually serve as a great example of marriage to me. Their son Collin is the cutest kid in the galaxy, and I can’t wait for them to spoil my kids one day. You see them every time you see me, because I’m always thinking of them, and I talk to them every single day.

13) Lois Henderson was the first person in my life to empower me to be a teacher. Even as a 1st grader, I had a desire to help others learn. As my teacher, she saw that, and encouraged me to help the other students in my class. I got hooked on helping others, and the teaching passion has followed me ever since. Anytime I bring a kid on stage to help me out, you actually see Lois.

14) Stephanie (Bagby) Wright was my Sunday School teacher for almost 14 years. If she were at Kensington, we'd call her a small group leader. I’m sure it’s no surprise for you to hear that I was quite a rambunctious kid. In fact, every time it was time for me to move to the next age group, the teacher I was supposed to have would “retire.” No joke. Probably because they knew I was coming. So because there was a always hole, Stephanie would always move up too. She knew I was a handful, but she found creative ways of including me and using me as a helper. I don’t remember many specific things that she taught, but even when I was young, I always thought that she reminded me of Jesus; choosing to be surrounded by kids that adults might shoo away. On top of that, outside of church, Stephanie came to any activity I had that she could. Concerts, plays, birthdays, you name it. She even took me to work with her for “bring your kid to work day” since she didn't have any kids of her own yet. So you see Stephanie every time I go to a kid’s game or concert. And when I pick the kid(s) that others might be bugged by, and I don't get irritated when they do whatever it is they do, just know that it's not me doing it, it’s actually Steph.

15) Caleb Livengood goes by Caleb to everyone else, but to me, he’ll always be Stinky. He’s also the only person on this list that hasn’t even hit his teenage years yet. On the day that his parents, Kevin and Tisha, came walking down the hall of the day care I worked at, with their little blonde-headed crew trailing behind them, I had no idea my life was about to change. Kevin and Tisha were the only parents there that were my age, and we all became instant best friends. I have a special place in my heart for every kid I’ve ever taught. But with Caleb, I’ve never seen a kid that young with a heart that big before. Even as a kindergartener, he strived to make sure every person around him felt valued and important. With his deep faith, rockin’ parents and equally awesome siblings like Ethan and Selah, I cannot wait to see what God is going to do with/in Caleb. Anytime you hear me ask kids to unleash every single detail about whatever story it is they want to share, you don’t see me, you actually see Caleb.

So then the question arises… when people see you… who else do they actually see?

Parable of the Tribes

This short story was inspired by a recent conversation with a friend. It was an accident, I assure you. It started as a tweet, then it turned into an illustration, until it grew legs and ran off and became a short story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There once was a boy who liked to sing.

The boy grew up in a Small Tribe near the Great River, surrounded by people he cared for dearly, and who cared for him. The people in the Small tribe were a joyful bunch. They taught the boy about the Chief of all Tribes, who was loving, just, and kind.

They taught him the truths and ways the Chief, and they told him the Chief’s Story. The boy learned who the Chief was, and that He wanted all people to be a part of His Story.

They also taught the boy how to sing. He learned that the Chief had created all people to sing. The Small Tribe even had its own Song that everyone sang, and they were always inviting others to sing with them.

It was a beautiful, inviting Song. In fact, it was so beautiful, so inviting, that nomads in the harsh, cold lands outside of the village were often drawn to safety by its sound.

The Small Tribe’s Song was a Song of freedom, a Song of restoration, a Song of hope.

It was a song that offered meaning and value to the life that is now, and the life that is later.

The meaning of the Small Tribe’s Song never changed, and it was always based on the Story of the Chief of all Tribes.

However, the sound of the Small Tribe's Song was always changing.

It was freely composed, full of improvisation.

As each new member joined the tribe, they added their own notes to the Song; their own pieces. Sometimes this meant that blue notes would happen, notes that were mistakes. But this was expected, and those who sang incorrect notes were encouraged and mentored so they would better and more freely add to the beauty of the Song.

Any tribe’s Song was important, because the Chief had created the tribes to sing their unique Song, and invite all the lost nomads and outcasts in the land to join in and become part of the Chief’s Story.

The boy loved his Small Tribe, he loved the Chief of all Tribes, he loved the Chief’s Story, and he loved the Small Tribe’s Song. The Song filled his life, and he was constantly sharing the Song with other people outside of the tribe, inviting them to sing along. He would have been happy to do so for the rest of his life.

But sadly, disaster hit his tribe. A bad storm made the river rise and overtake the tribe’s land. In the chaos of the storm, the Small Tribe split apart in search for dry land.

The storm winds drove the boy’s family South, until they happened upon an Old Tribe near the small, Fairweather Creek. They were unfamiliar with the Old Tribe and its customs, and it was larger than the Small Tribe they once knew and loved. From the cold, harsh fields outside of the village, they could not hear the Old Tribe’s Song. When they came through the gates, they noticed that few people were singing anything at all. But the Old Tribe believed in the ways of the Chief of all Tribes, and that was enough for the boy’s parents. The members of the Old Tribe were kind, but newcomers were not allowed in the inner streets of the village, so the boy’s family settled in a spot on the edge of the village near the Eastern gates.

The boy was quickly welcomed into the tribal community, and enjoyed his new friends. He especially liked the town storyteller. The storyteller was a caring man with a smile both contagious and wise. He was a clever man as well. The two bonded fast, and the storyteller taught the boy all he knew. The older man knew the boy was special, and so took him under his wing as a friend and apprentice.

Although the boy was growing accustomed to the Old Tribe, there was something that unsettled him. He had always liked to sing when he was with the Small Tribe, but now he was with the Old Tribe, they were singing a Song that was very different from the Song the boy knew.

The song of the Small Tribe was freeing. It was a good song, alive with joy.

But the song of the Old Tribe was not like the song of the boy’s youth.

It was not a Song of freedom. It was a Song of rules.

It was not lively, and it seemed hollow.

And worst of all for the boy, it was always exactly the same.

There were no new voices; there were no new verses.

There was no improvisation.

This confused the boy, so one day while visiting with his mentor, he asked the storyteller about the Old Tribe’s Song. Immediately, the light in the storyteller’s eyes dimmed, and he turned his head down and away. When he returned his gaze to the boy, it was wrinkled with a sadness that the boy had never seen before. After a moment of thought, the seasoned storyteller began.

“Don’t let these wrinkles fool you, for I once was a boy, too.

My family and I were nomads traveling in the harsh, cold fields. ‘Traveling’ is what we called it, but really, we were just wandering. No matter which road we followed, no matter which cloud we chased, no matter which storms we ran from, we never found a place to call home. Years later, some would tell us that we were looking for the Story we belonged to.

“Well one day, when we were trying to outrace a threatening storm, we heard a strange noise. My youngest sister heard it first, which isn’t a surprise – the Chief of all Tribes Himself believes that young ones have the best ear for a tribe’s Song because they have the biggest heart for the Chief’s Story, and my sister had the biggest heart I've ever known – so we followed the sound until we reached this village. The Old Tribe was so much bigger then that it is now. We arrived in time to hear them singing, and boy, could they sing! It was such a beautiful Song, exploding with joy and peace. It was a Song that you couldn’t help but want to join in. I don’t remember too much of it anymore, but I think the chorus went a little something like this… ”

As the storyteller sang, the boy’s heart stirred and swelled his chest, sending up a smile to his face and a laugh through his mouth. For it was a joyful Song indeed, and it reminded the boy of the Small Tribe’s Song that he so loved. He hated for the storyteller’s singing to end as the old man continued.

“My sister was the first of us to start singing, and I was the last. My voice cracked, and I hit a whole lot of wrong notes. Blue notes, the tribespeople called them. But they never stopped me from singing. That day, we put up our tent right next to the village square, and we never left.

“So you see, the Old Tribe's Song was good. And it was once full of life.

But soon, some became concerned. Because the Song was so full of life, and because anyone could be a part of it, the Song would sometimes have messy sections.

Some of the people were concerned that the blue notes might one day get out of hand, because a Song full of blue notes isn’t really a Song at all, nor does it sound beautiful or inviting. Blue notes were mistakes, after all. As more nomads were coming in and joining the Old Tribe’s Song, that also meant there would be more mistakes. The concerned tribal members believed that it was important to uphold and maintain the integrity and rules of the Song. They claimed it was our job to keep the Song perfect and good. So the tribal leaders decided there would be no more improvisation, since improvisation opens up the possibility for blue notes. And since blue notes are mistakes, it was also decided that they should no longer be allowed.

“So they set up rules to keep the Song clean and pristine. It was more important to play a perfect Song than to allow nomads to just join in, lest they sing a blue note and take away from the beauty of the Song. Over time, the rules and perfection of the Song became more important than the heart of the Song itself. Until the heart of the Song was gone.”

The man’s story enraged the boy. “What about the nomads? How do they sing now?”

The wizened man leaned forward, calming the boy with a hand on the shoulder. “Young storyteller, look around you. Look close at the empty houses and tents. There are no nomads here. Not anymore. The only people that join our tribe these days follow the same path as you. They come from other tribes that experience trouble. Our numbers were once great, but they are slowly dwindling. You see, our Song is controlled, and it is perfect, but it is no longer joyful and inviting. You yourself told me it wasn’t our Song that made your family decide to stay here, it was merely the fact that we believed in the Chief of all Tribes. It is a rare day when a nomad joins our tribe. We don’t seek them out because of the blue notes. When a nomad does stumble into our midst, they must first learn all the rules and all the words before they can sing. And then they must sing only the exact words and notes that our elders have decided upon.”

The boy didn’t understand. “So if you knew it was wrong back then, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you stop it? Why did you stop singing the good Song?”

“We tried, young one. My little sister was the most vocal about the changes. She was a sweet thing, but could be a feisty little wildcat, too. She made petitions, held meetings, and walked around town singing the good Song as loud as she could. After a time, the elders accused her of being a “broken voice,” only able to sing blue notes. They called a town meeting with her and decided it would be best for the tribe if she would just leave, so they sent her away from the Old Tribe as an outcast.”

“An outcast? Is that like a nomad?” The boy had heard of outcasts, but had never yet seen one.

“No, my friend. A nomad is someone who has never experienced a tribal song, someone who has never been a part of the Chief’s Story. An outcast is different. Outcasts were once part of a tribe, but were either kicked out by the tribe due to having “broken voices,” or they simply left out of their own choosing.

“So you just let her go? Alone?” That is something the boy could never see himself doing.

“It is my life’s biggest regret that I did not go with her. But I couldn’t, because I was afraid. I didn’t like the ‘perfect’ Song, but I could handle it. There were no mistakes or blue notes anymore, but at least it was safe. Now it is far too late for me to leave. It’s what I’m comfortable with, and it’s all I know. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to compose or improvise again. You get used to it after a time. And speaking of time, it’s late, my big-hearted friend. You’d better get going before your mother worries.”

That conversation left a mark on the boy, and over time the boy’s view of the Old Tribe changed. He loved his friends in the tribe, and he still visited the storyteller. But he did not like nor agree with the Old Tribe’s Song.

It was technically perfect in every way. It was calculated. It was refined.

But it wasn’t real.

It contained no one’s real words.

It was someone else’s song. Someone else’s words. Someone else’s melody.

It wasn’t full of joy and echoing love, but instead somber and empty, with a tinge of despair.

Instead of celebrating both the life that is now and the life that is later, it only spoke of the later, and made the now seem worthless.

It focused on shame and guilt instead of the love of the Chief of all Tribes.

It was not a Song of freedom.

It was a Song of rules.

It made the boy not want to sing loudly anymore.

And he definitely didn’t want to share it with any nomads.

Not that they were any nomads left out there.

"Not anymore."

Every time he heard the Old Tribe's Song, the boy sang more quietly,

Until eventually he stopped singing altogether.

He moved his lips. Pretended to smile.

But inside, he felt like the Old Tribe’s Song: hollow.

It was better to not sing.

However, unlike his friend the storyteller, the boy could not endure or fake the Song for long. It was not part of his nature. You see, the boy had read the Chief’s Story. And he knew that the Chief had created the Tribes to invite the nomads to join His story. This kind, well-meaning Old Tribe had forgotten the purpose of its Song. Although they once sang a song that was beautiful, messy, and inviting for everyone, they now sang a song that was empty, rigid, and brought only comfort for themselves.

When the boy became a young man, he decided he would rather face the cold, harsh lands as an outcast alone than pretend to sing a Song he could not agree with.

So the boy left, disgruntled.

For years, the young man who no longer loved to sing wandered the lands without a Song in his throat. He sometimes saw other tribes afar off. But like when his family found the Old Tribe, he never heard their Songs. He tried to remember the Song from his Small Tribe, but the years of neglect had stolen the Song away. As he wandered through the fields, he never noticed the day he forgot how to sing altogether.

One morning, when he was still sleeping, the young man dreamt of his days in the Small Tribe. In his dream, he was a child again, playing in the Great River with his tribal friends and the nomad children, when suddenly he heard a beautiful sound that woke him up. He sat up and opened his eyes, and noticed that the Great River was gone, his young friends were gone, but the beautiful sound was not.

The sound seemed familiar. He cupped his ears toward the noise and listened close. It was a song! A beautiful and inviting Song! He picked up his belongings and raced toward the sound, which lead him to a large city at the foot of a small mountain.

The Song became louder as he neared the city. When the he entered the city gates, the Song was almost too much to bear. It was lively, it was vibrant, and it filled the air so thickly, he swore he could feel it in his lungs. The whole city was singing it. He followed the sound to the town square, As he was listening, an elderly lady with a kind, weathered face and bright eyes who was crouching next to him nudged his arm and invited to join in the singing.

“But what if I make a mistake? What if I mess up?” He asked her. He really wanted to sing, but after years of not singing, he was afraid to ruin this New Tribe’s Song. It was so beautiful and free.

The lady laughed, “You mean blue notes? Oh, honey, we all make those sometime. We don’t want to try to make a song out of blue notes, but when people make them, we work together to help each other get better. Now go ahead and sing.”

So the young man who forgot how to sing joined in, and he sang wonderfully. It was like he had never stopped singing at all. He hit a couple of blue notes, but he did not stop. And the Song? He absolutely loved the Song. It reminded him of the Chief of all Tribes, and of the Chief’s Story, just like any good Song should do. When it was over, the old lady grasped his hand and offered him a smile both contagious and wise.

“You did great, young man. Welcome to the New Tribe. I can tell you’ve sung great Songs before. Where are you from?”

The young man said, “I was born in the Small Tribe that used to be by the Great River. Before today, our Song was the sweetest I’d ever heard. One day a storm caused the Great River to flood over our tribe. Then I lived awhile with the Old Tribe by Fairweather Creek in the South. But I didn’t believe in their Song, so I left and chose the life of an outcast.

The old lady tightened her grip on his hand “I too, was an outcast, young man. The Old Tribe you speak of was my home, but not anymore. My brother remains there, still telling his stories, no doubt.”

“The old storyteller is your brother?” the young man exclaimed. He had oft wondered if the storyteller’s story might have been just for entertainment. “He was my friend! He told me what happened to you. If you’re his little sister, then what he said must be true. He said the Old Tribe’s Song used to be beautiful and inviting, but it isn’t anymore.”

“My brother was right," she answered, then added with a smirk, "He never did make a good liar. Their Song was once just as good as the Song is here at the New Tribe. Then the Old Tribe tried to make the song perfect, and cut out anything or even anyone who might add a blue note. But here’s what they failed to realize: it’s not us who make the Song good. It’s the Chief! It’s really His Song, He just lets us sing it. We could never make it perfect and good, but He does. He lets us put our words in it, and write our own melodies so we can be part of His Song, just like we become a part of His Story. Even with our blue notes. Now run along, my friend, and put up your tent. This is your home now.”

So the young man set up his tent in a spot in the middle of the city near the town square. And there he stayed for many years, serving as the tribe’s storyteller. After a time, he sent letters to his family in the Old Tribe, and many of them joined him in the New Tribe by the foot of the small mountain.

One day, after the man had grown old, he was walking along the streets of the village when he noticed a tired-looking family standing near the city entrance. They crowded just inside the gates, staring wide-eyed at the sights and sounds around them. He looked at them with his bright eyes and approached them with a smile both contagious and wise as he asked them where they were from.

The father of the family greeted the old storyteller and introduced himself, “We were from the Old Tribe that used to be near the Fairweather Creek, far to the South.”

“Used to be?” asked the storyteller.

“Yes. Our tribe became very small over the past few years, so we moved closer to the creek. Then a big storm came and turned the creek into a raging river that overtook our village. We traveled far, and had it not been for my youngest child here, we might have missed this city. He heard your Song from a long way off. He even started singing along as we came closer. We’ve never heard a Song so beautiful and inviting!”

The storyteller laughed and looked at the smallest boy who was clinging to his father’s leg, “The young ones always have the best ear for the tribe’s Song. That must mean you have a big heart, little storyteller. You are one special boy.”

The shy boy beamed a smile from ear to ear while maintaining his grip, “I couldn’t help it! It’s a good song!”

“It is a very good song. I can’t wait for you to sing it with us. Your family is most welcome here. Come, let me show you around.”

How We Roll - A Father's Day Story

I didn’t know anything about degrees and temperatures, but I did know it was hot out. As a five-year-old, I opted for shorts and flip-flops, while Dad contrasted me with his white short-sleeved dress shirt, his newsboy hat, loafers, and dark pants. Dad always wore pants, indoors and out. I’m pretty sure those pasty thunder-calves of his never saw the light of day.

Mom told Dad that he had to finish mowing the lawn before we went to Sears, and I just knew that the mowing would go faster if we did it together. There was just enough room for both of us to squish onto our black and silver Craftsman riding mower. In my mind, it was just as much his as it was mine. I had “helped” him pick it out, after all.

That day I sat on his lap as we mowed our semi-country lawn. I was in charge of steering, but I wasn’t strong enough to make the turns on my own, so every few minutes he would cover my smaller hands with his giant ones and we’d ride through the tough turns together.

Because that’s how we rolled:

Together.

Whenever he visited his congregants, he took me along in his big ol’ dually truck, singing with Hank Williams at full blast. Only one of us could carry a tune though. And we both knew it wasn’t him.

When he watched those sci-fi movies that drove mom nuts, I was right there tucked against his plaid, flannel-clad chest. I never actually made it to the end of the movie without falling asleep, but it didn’t matter to me.

When he was in the garage building furniture for his kids and grandkids, I was next to him building sawdust castles on the floor; practicing for the day when I would trade my plastic tools for metal ones like his.

When Mom would bring home another instructionless board game from Goodwill, we were always the first testers, creating our own rules as we went. Ok, I usually made up the rules. He just played along until I won.

When he preached on Sundays, I rarely ever knew what he was yelling about, but I knew he was right, because Dad was right about everything. So he always had at least one person in the building who agreed with him every week (not that he was one to care what people thought).

My favorite part of the Sunday service happened after the final song. Dad would ask someone to pray, and as that person would pray, Dad would walk the aisle so he could wait by the door of the church and say goodbye to everyone. I knew we were supposed to close our eyes, but I never would, because I wanted to watch my hero. My hero who…

…patiently taught me how to tie my shoes

…was the only one allowed to pull my loose teeth

…could remove a wooden sliver without an ounce of pain

…planted trees with me

…always smelled like aftershave

…shared my love of Ghostbusters

…ate 19 cereal for breakfast, followed by McBLTs from McD’s at lunch

…could fix anything. Without duct tape.

…gave his life to making disciples of Christ in a city without hope

…taught me to treat others the way I wanted to be treated

…would give a stranger in need the shirt off of his back

Before he'd walk by, I'd find his eyes, and he'd give the smile he reserved only for me. I was instantly and extremely proud that he was my dad. At the end of the day, when the last congregants piled into their cars and left that gravel parking lot on the corner of Stevenson and Dupont, Dad and I would check the lights, lock the door, and walk home to the parsonage  next door, hand-in-hand.

Because that’s how we rolled:

Together.

~~~~~~

Happy Father's Day!

(miss you, Dad)

The Search For Waldo

God spoke to me through a fortune cookie tonight.

It read: “Slow down. Life is passing by. Cherish every moment.”

Ha. It had been sitting on my counter all week. And no, it wasn't open.
I'm not THAT gross.

Ok, so do I really think God himself put that fortune cookie in my grease-soaked carry-out bag from Golden Dragon? No.

But I DO think it sounds like something He might say. (James 1:2  ~NLT)

And it’s something He’s been pressing on me lately.
Something I know He wants me to do.

To slow down. To live in the moment.

To take a look at the craziness surrounding me, and find Him in it.

Because believe it or not, see it or not, He’s still there. In the middle of it all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life often reminds me of a Where’s Waldo book. Every turn of the page pulls us into a scene that is packed with people, bursting with bustle, drowning in details. Sometimes, the scene is so full, so distracting, it can hard to find the one person we’re supposed to be looking for/to. Sometimes he’s out in plain sight, uncrowded and visible amongst the masses. But at other times, the scene can be downright overwhelming, and we doubt that he’s even there. A cruel trick from the illustrator.

When it reaches that point, we have a couple of choices. One is we can give up. We can close the book and look for something else. A nice picture book with playful penguins, perhaps. Another option is to completely withdraw and skip out from the scene, and look forward to another. But when that happens, we don’t really grow in our ability to engage with the scenes, and we end up missing out on a lot of the book.

The third option is to slow down and stick it out. To pause and look at every detail. To check every action and see just what’s going on. In doing so, we notice things we never saw before. We see some goodness in the madness. We might even find some humor. Eventually, as we examine closely, we'll finally find him. And when we do, we realize that he was there the entire time.

You probably know where I’m going with this by now. If you’re thinking “he’s going to loosely compare God to Waldo,” you’re right!

Yes, I know this illustration is fatally flawed in many aspects. 

Unlike God, Waldo doesn't actually do anything but stand there and smile at us as we feel like morons for not being able to pick him out. Also unlike God, Waldo exists to sell books that entertain children and  make publishers rich. And I’m sure God would have better fashion taste than a red-and-white-striped turtleneck. Poor Waldo looks like a mix between a convict and an elf.

So I’ll just quickly flash you my self-certified poetic license and ask you to just take this example at face value. Because there is a sliver of truth in it.

Back to the comparison.

As time goes forward, sometimes we find ourselves in scenes and life stages where God is completely visible. His calling and direction is clear, and so is His movement. The normal chaos of our lives can’t crowd him out.  I love those scenes.

But then there are the other scenes. Scenes where “suffocated” isn’t a strong enough word to describe how we feel. Where “too much” isn’t a wide enough depiction of what’s on our plate. Where pinpointing God in the pandemonium seems impossible. Where we wonder if it’s all just a big joke from the Illustrator. I don’t love those scenes.

I can honestly tell you I’m in that scene. Right. Now.

And I know some of you are, too. Or maybe you just were. Or maybe it’s waiting on your next page turn.

Those scenes… they’re not fun.

But when we encounter them, I believe we have the same choices as with the Waldo book. The first option is that we can give up. Read another book. Or quit reading altogether. And no one would blame us. 

Or the second option is we can withdraw and look for the next scene. But it’s harder to grow that way. Growth comes from experience, and if all we do is gaze forward, denying and avoiding the present, then we don’t experience it, and thus we don’t grow from it. Therein also lies the potential for a dangerous cycle, as we will always be encountering undesirable scenes in our book. If we end up skipping forward all the time, we’ll eventually reach the back of the book, and we’ll have missed out on a whole lot.

Then there’s the third choice. To stop and look around. To check every situation, every detail, every avenue, and look to see how God is working. Look to see the good in the bad and the humor in the sad. To engage with the difficulties at hand, even when it’s painful. To –as James said – consider the scene as an opportunity for great joy.  Because no matter how long it takes, when we finally can see Him in it, the whole picture changes, along with ourselves.

And we'll realize that He was there.

The entire time.

The Awe Factor

Although I highly enjoy working with all ages, I always conclude that my favorite age is K-1. 

My job may be teaching them... but more often than not I feel like I'm the one being schooled.

Wonder and faith come so naturally to them.
It doesn't take much to amaze them, and they'll believe the most difficult truths without a hint of doubt.

For them, faith is solid; faith is enough.

• God's love for them is a given. There is no question.
• Jesus can do anything. End of story.
• God always wants what's best for them. Don't even TRY to tell them otherwise.

But we as adults... we know more now. We're experienced. We understand that life is hard. We deal with reality. We have upgraded our mental/emotional/spiritual currency from faith to facts. And we have to deal with bigger issues: relationships, finances, job/career/calling, parenting, divorce, school, death, tragedy, tooth decay, etc. The list is almost endless. Our joy, however, is not. 

I find it no coincidence that life is so much easier for K-1 kids, and their joy is so frequently uncontainable. Nothing is stale or "old hat," for them. They trust in God's goodness, they believe in Jesus' power, and they love Him for it. They don't deny that Satan is a big meanie, and that he's always trying to mess us up, but they quickly grasp the idea that he's no match for God.

You tell me... with a full, unrelenting trust in God, and an openness to being amazed, how could they NOT be joy-filled all day long?

I don't know about you, but I find that whenever I am most off-track with my attitude - or even just my life in general - I am also not full of joy (side note: joy is not always a reflex. Phil 4:4), I'm not full of awe, I'm not resting in the knowledge of God's love, I'm not fully believing that God's got my back, nor am I trusting in His power.

In fact, if you compared me to one of my K-1 kids, chances are good we'd be polar opposites of each other.

Hmm...

It's almost like Jesus knew what he was saying when He told us to have faith like a child.


~~~~~~~~~~


     open your eyes
     the cause is your selfish heart
     the wonder never left you
     you left the wonder,
     letting your heart glaze over
     allowing your eyes to look through instead of upon
     Love has been forcibly limited to a ritual
          an emotion, a good luck charm
          a mere mascot
     instead of sitting on the throne He requires
     He has not become stagnant
     it is you who has fizzled flat

            crack your heart, focus your eyes
            see the perpetual beauty of your life as it truly is: 
                    forever renewed by Love's mercy and grace
            let Love reign as King

       may you bubble with awe once more