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.

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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.

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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

Blast From The Past

Dear 16-year-old Michael,

Over the course of a decade, some people change a little, some people change a lot. You, my friend, became a completely different person. I remember that you were pretty worried about the future, so I wanted to ease your mind a tad and let you in on a couple of things. Just to assure you it’s gonna be fine.

IRONY:
• Everyone knows you can’t draw. You blow chow when it comes to art. Funny thing is… you’re going to have to paint and draw on an almost weekly basis… for a job.
• You’re scared of preschoolers right now, so naturally you’re going to teach them at a day care. Don’t worry, none of them will eat their own poop. THAT will happen with a school-ager.
• Mom will one day be a fan of some of the same Christian rock groups she condemns right now. When that happens, feel free to rub it in.
• You currently hate coffee. 10 years later, you hate life when you can’t have coffee.


ADVICE:
• Stop wearing all those stupid bright orange shirts. You look like a dweeb. Seriously. And lay off the hostess cakes. You won’t miss them, I promise.
• When Caleb tells you to quit twisting his arm… quit twisting his arm. Or he’ll lock you out of the house.
• Invest in deer repellent for your vehicles.
• Pay attention in Spanish. It will come in handy. Chemistry, however, will not.
• Getting your cartilage pierced at the mall isn’t wise. The worker will get the gun stuck in your ear and make you hold the gun while she takes it apart… with the needle extended through your ear the entire time.


GIRLS:
• You think you’re ready to get married right out of high school. I’m still laughing over that one.
• Long distance… never works.
• Taking a girl to see Hostel is a bad, bad idea. That movie is nothing it looks like in the previews.
• When going on a blind date, bowling doesn’t work. When you’re bowling, she’s sitting. When she’s bowling, you’re sitting. Unless she’s ugly, then it’s totally ideal.


CHURCH:
• Believe it or not, you’ll eventually work at a church that isn’t Baptist (you heretic, you).
• I know you really want to be a choir teacher, and you definitely never want to work in church. However, God has different plans. One day you're actually gonna get paid to both teach kids, and teach others how to teach kids.

SURPRISE:
• I know it's weird, but in 2 years, your hair will be curly. I swear. Strangest thing ever.
• One day you and Tammie will be best friends. No, I'm not lying. And no, she's not forcing me to say this.
• You don’t like singing alone to a crowd of 30. However, you’ll find out you enjoy teaching alone to a crowd of 3,000. Who knew?
• You write for the school newspaper merely for kicks and giggles, but writing will eventually be an integral part of your career.

FYI
• When you get to college, you’re going to randomly volunteer for the first church you get an email from. The name of that church will be Far Hills. The direction of your life will totally hinge on that decision. The foundation of who you are and where you’re going to go will be laid at that place.
• One day, you’ll think you hear God’s voice telling you to go to Israel. You’ll immediately question whether or not it is His voice. It is.
• Your little boycott of Facebook will be short lived.
• Muslims scare you right now, because you listen to the news too much. But one day God will ask you to put down the picket signs and trade in that fear for love. You’ll find a new passion in bringing Christ to them by loving and befriending them.

COMFORT
• You won’t drive the family suburban forever.
• Mom quits asking to see your report card when you hit your senior year.
• You’ll still be in contact with your two favorite HS teachers, even after college is over!
• Cooking isn’t really that hard. Just don’t leave the burner on. And remember… when you burn the chicken… there’s always Subway.

I’d share more, but I don’t want to ruin any surprises for you. Enjoy the next few years. They’re going to fly by. Seriously. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

Blessings!
26-year-old Michael

First Day of School: A Survival Story

Ninja Turtles and Strawberry Shakes

We missed orientation, so I really didn’t know what was on the other side of that big brown door that lead to the modular kindergarten room behind the school. The muffled noises diffusing through it seemed to prove Mom’s claim that there really were other children behind it. But that didn’t really change the fact that I didn’t want to go in that room. If it weren’t for the new Ninja Turtle Velcro shoes I had gotten out of the deal (mom wasn't afraid of using bribery), I would have turned and ran back to the comfort of our Astro van.

It didn’t help much that Tammie (my older niece) had made it a point to try to scare the living daylights out of me by making up school-themed horror stories. Thanks to her, I was thoroughly convinced that I was going to get shoved in a locker, get lost in the hallways, pee my pants in class because the teacher wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom, get sent to the principal's office, and get a swirly (whatever that was), all on my first day.

However, I had already promised Mom that I’d give it a shot. She told me she knew it would be scary, but she also said she had a feeling that I’d love it there. Besides, if I made it through the day without calling home, she promised we would go get a strawberry shake from McDonald’s – a treat reserved only for the most special of occasions.

Mom turned the door handle way before I was ready, and gently nudged me in. I was tempted to close my eyes, but a tall, blonde, kindly woman greeted me immediately. “You must be Michael! I’m Mrs. Lund, and I’m your teacher. Welcome to Kindergarten. You’re going to love it here.”

And she was right. So was mom. I’d like to tell you that I didn’t cry, but then I’d be lying. Once a mama’s boy, always a mama’s boy. But I still enjoyed the day like they said I would. When the dismissal bell rang, Mom was there to pick me up and take me out on our date. Truth be told, I felt like I was the luckiest kid on earth. I got a new pair of shoes, a nice teacher, AND a strawberry shake? It was a great day.

The Longest Block

It’s hard to believe it was almost 21 years ago when I first set foot in a school hallway. The other day, I asked my mom what it was like from her point of view. I was her 6^th child, so I just assumed it was nothing short of routine for her by then. Her response, however, surprised me.

“I was a nervous wreck,” she said.

“But you were so calm, I had no idea!” I replied.

“After I dropped you off, I drove home, got out of the car, and just started walking. I probably walked ten miles that day, maybe even more. And I cried the entire time,” she explained.

I’ll sheepishly admit that my ego puffed up a bit when she told me that. It’s not every day you hear someone tell you that they cried for hours when you left his or her presence.  “Oh, so you were crying because you missed me?”

“No, that wasn’t it,” she laughed. I think I even caught a hint of an eye roll.
Ego deflated.

“Oh gee, thanks,” I retorted, feigning hurt. “Then why did you cry?”

“Of course I missed you. And it was hard watching you grow up, but the BIG reason I cried was because I knew that Dad and I were no longer the sole input in your life. Sure, up until then you were constantly around other people, but they were still people that we chose, and we knew what their views were. But when I dropped you off, as soon as that door shut behind you, we were no longer the only voices in your ear. Soon, you would have to start making your own choices about whose voice to listen to. We could no longer hear everything you were being taught, and it scared me, so I cried. “

“You seemed fine when you picked me up,” I said, “I don’t remember you being any different. What changed?”

“While I was crying, I was praying, too,” she added. “I didn’t really know what else to do. But then I felt like God was telling me, ‘It’s ok, Leonia. He’s not really yours anyway. He’s mine, and he’s always been mine, and I’ve still got him, I’m still watching him even when you can’t.’”

“Wow.” I said. And I meant it. “Was it like that every year?”

“It was never that bad again,” she said “It got easier with each grade, but every year, I always remembered that walk. It was the longest walk around the block that I ever took.”

My mom is so cool.

Dedication

This post goes out to all you parents as you send your kids off for their first day of school, whether it is for the first time, the second time, the eighth time, or the last time. The first day of school is probably one of the most emotionally jam-packed days of the year, for you AND for your kids. It runs the gamut of human emotions, from excitement to fear, from stress to relief, from sadness to joy, and back again. My prayers are with you and your kids on this unique day. Enjoy it, and remember no matter what, God’s hands are still on you, AND your kids. Just don’t forget to take ‘em out for milkshakes afterward. 

Jesus Wants To Save Superman

“That Jesus guy, is he some kind of superhero or something?” asked the tousle-haired boy. He was in third grade, new to church, and by the content of his constant stream of interrupting questions throughout my lesson, I could tell he was unfamiliar with the stories of Jesus. A superhero? My post-conservative gut reaction was to tell him “no.” Because Jesus isn't a superhero. Superheroes are mere fantasy. And Jesus is so much more. Don’t want the kid to be confused.

But before I spoke, an image probed my brain with a swift jab. I envisioned a crew aboard a ship, gripped by the terror of a life-threatening storm; their bodies soaked with rain and sea water, their eyes and hearts drenched in fear. No mere cabin boys, these rugged fishermen lived their entire lives by and on the sea. So their state of panic gave reason to believe that both this storm and this hour might be their last. But then, one of their passengers, a wise and mysterious figure, climbed to the deck from below. He narrowed his eyes, glaring fiercely through the rain at the destructive waves. In a gentle yet powerful voice, he uttered the words “Peace, be still,” and the churning waves were replaced by a sea of glass. The wind retreated without a whisper, as if scolded by its schoolmaster. With a simple phrase, the passenger had ended the storm. The crew, filled with relief and awe, looked sideways at each other, wondering who would be the first to ask the question that was on everyone’s mind: “who IS this guy?”

Superhero? Hmmm. Perhaps this outspoken little boy was closer to the truth than I thought. Perhaps he was on to something.

“Yeah, he’s a superhero,” I told him. “The best one there ever was, and the best one there will ever be. And do you want to know what the coolest part is? He’s real!”

“Awesome” he replied.

~~~~

I’ve been on a Smallville kick lately. And I’m prepping our fall lessons for KKids. It looks like the two have collided in my sleep-depraved thoughts. Over the years, I’ve arrived at the belief that when teaching young children about the Son of God, Jesus and the superhero metaphor go together like peanut butter and jelly.

Superpowers: Why Jesus is like a superhero

Any kid will tell you, what really makes a superhero “super” is his/her powers. For some reason, we humans (especially children) are innately attracted to (or baffled by) the idea of the supernatural. There’s an unspoken thrill to the idea that maybe there’s more to our world than just the “natural” that we can experience with our senses. It’s no wonder that children often pretend or desire to have the ability to fly, the power to wield the force, to use magic, to turn invisible, or even to walk on water. Superpowers are the embodiment of the supernatural, so superheroes and children are a perfect fit for each other.

For kids, the connections between Jesus' miracles and futuristic “superpowers” are unmistakable, because many children readily believe in the supernatural. When you tell them that Jesus walked on water, they get it. When you tell them that he fed 5000 people with a bible-time equivalent of a Lunchable, they can see it. When you tell them that he brought back stinky Lazarus from death, they don’t raise an eyebrow, but instead break into a wide-eyed smile. Kids believe that Jesus did everything that was written…and more. And they love him for it. Why? Because miracles are just a part of life for kids. Some of the best prayer warriors I’ve known have been children, because they’re not afraid to ask for and believe in the impossible. It’s no wonder that Jesus said that everyone needs the faith of a child.

Sacrifice: Why Jesus is better than a superhero

If what makes superheroes super is their powers, then what makes them "heroes" (and loved by children everywhere) is their ability to save. Simply put, superheroes save people. That’s what makes them heroes. If they don't use their powers to save people, then they’re not heroes. In the movie Spiderman, Peter Parker’s choice to keep his web-slinging abilities to himself resulted in the loss of someone he loved. He was not yet a hero. On the other hand, if a superhero uses their powers for selfish gain, they become supervillains. True heroes take the powers they have, and use them to save and protect the people around them.

Well, who better to exemplify the whole “saving people” theme than Jesus? Because he set out to save the world in a way that no one ever could. He didn’t JUST go from place to place fixing people and getting them out of binds (which he DID do, by the way). And his sights weren’t set on one city. He was determined to set all of humanity free from the invisible, previously indestructible bonds of sin and death. Let me see you slice through THOSE chains, Wolverine. ;-)

But Michael, you can’t compare Jesus to a superhero!

Well… In the Bible, Jesus was compared (and even compared himself) to many things: a vine, a rock, a temple, a shepherd, water, bread, a rabbi, etc. But do we really think of Jesus as being a lovely fern? Of course not. He was using an illustration. We know that. Why did he use so many illustrations? Because we RELATE to them. Now, as citizens of a post-agricultural society, we may not fully grasp the whole shepherd illustration, but we still know what a tree is. And we know what bread is. And we know what water is. That's the beauty of using more than one illustration. The only problems arise when we take an illustration to an extreme and forget its metaphoric roots.

Do today’s kids RELATE to superheroes? If you’re unsure of the answer to this question, you need only poke your head into any local kids’ ministry (well, one that doesn’t have a dress code), and take a quick peek around the room to see just how many kids are donning some form of superhero/idol ware. Of COURSE they do. And if it’s something they RELATE to, I wouldn’t be so quick to discredit the idea.

But Michael, if you teach kids that Jesus is like a superhero, then won’t the kids equate Jesus with a fairy tale?

That, my friend, depends on the delivery. There is a rockin’ song we sing in our kids’ program called “Jesus is my Superhero,” which says that Jesus is “better than (insert spandex-clad hero here).”  One thing I do before singing the song with the kiddos is remind them that Jesus is the BEST superhero because A) he’s the only one that’s real, and B) he saves us in a way no other superhero could. Problem solved.

Kids love superheroes.

I don’t know of anyone who had to teach a kid how to love a superhero.

So if you can show a kid how Jesus is the BEST (and the only real) superhero, you just might have found a way to better help a kid fall in love with Jesus.