Coming soon!

What I've been hoping to do since I started this blog! Video postings of my original acoustic compositions! Thanks to our purchase of a netbook with a webcam for Megan, I can now offer myself up for ridicule, or adulation.

Color me excited!

I may have just had plastic surgery

In perhaps the most vain move I have ever made, I elected to have a large mole removed from my hairline today. The most difficult thing about it was, since I made the decision to do it, going around my day-to-day life and seeing folks who are totally confident with their moles in unfortunate places. I wish that could be me, but it's not.

Thanks for the sentiment, honey

How do you know, despite your wife's insistence to the contrary, that people think of you in their minds as a person who "has a gut?" A significant portion of people who learn that I'm training for a 25K trail run instinctively look to my midsection when I tell them. And they're not checking to see if my badassness is visible through my trousers either.

Those looks to my gut are a great motivator early in the morning when I don't want to get up, or don't want to keep going.

But it still stings a little. I used to be really thin. Too thin, probably, but still.

Be well. Well is good.

Big Win Week!

Mark: the end of my first week of training for the Flatrock25 in September.

3 4K runs, a 5K and a 7K. The 5K just happened to coincide with the running of the Chisholm Trail Festival 5K here in Newton, so I signed up. I had to walk 3 blocks due to starting too quickly and tweaking my left calf muscle, but I fought the rest of the way and kept up my jog. It was especially hard through the last 4 blocks, but fortunately Maggie was there to bike beside me the rest of the way. What a great help! But I bounced back nicely today with a 7K on the Sand Creek Trail in North Newton, being internally present, tackling it piece by piece, cheering myself on. I kept up my jog all the way, with some ebbs and flows in the pace, but I'm proud to say I did that! That's not quite 1/3 of the distance I'm training to run.

On to week 2!

Discipline

I haven't been very happy with me lately. Sure, it's a little bit of the depression that comes with this big life, but it's also been a good long look in the mirror. I tend not to give my best effort at ANYTHING. Weigh too much? I deserve to eat good things, and lots of them. You want me to play/sing for an event? Sure, I'll look at the music the day of. Housework? Rarely. My job? Flying by the seat of my pants. Friendships? Me-focused, validation-hungry.

I am wholly undisciplined. No more. I've agreed to run the Flatrock 25K in September! Training began today with a 4K run, and I look forward to becoming much more disciplined in every part of my life. Here comes an intense effort to marry fun with adulthood! Wish me luck!

I should have said weeks ago...

...how excited I am; how proud I am; how humbled I am.

Megan will be joining that faculty at Bethel College, in the role of director of theatre. I am so proud of what she has built for herself. Good on ya, mate!

Fathers' Day

I have a difficult, complicated, un-deep relationship with my father, so Fathers' Day can be weird for me. In addition, Megan lost her dad three years ago this year on Fathers' Day; it's a heavy day at my house, what can I say. But the recognition and passing of another holiday to honor dads reminds me of a story I've been thinking I'd like to post, but I'm not sure I can relate the poignancy that existed in my mind. Here goes:

Recently, my mother-in-law needed some work done on the house. It seemed that some little birdies had made their way in through a water-damaged corner of the eaves and were none-too-quiet at night, interrupting Mary's sleep. Standing on a ladder, examining the damage, it became clear that the gutter in that corner had been overflowing for quite some time. After a trip to the lumberyard proved fruitless (they were out of the material I needed) I decided to patch it up with some boards until I could get the correct material.

I searched through the garage for the items I needed--wood, a hammer, nails. I have discovered before that going through the belongings of someone who has moved on, readily transitions into nostalgia and memory hallucination. This time around proved no different. Over here is where he used to sit with his chiminea, feeding it hickory chips for that distinctive smell. Over there is the corner that he always seemed to be organizing, never making any headway. Here is a perfect stack of lumber, exactly what I need for a temporary patch. Perhaps he had set it aside, four, maybe five years ago, saying to himself "that corner by the bedroom is starting to rot--I'm going to need to patch it soon." And as I gathered his things and began the job, I wondered what he would think, to see me acting as an adult, serving. As an Episcopal Deacon, his call was to serve, much as our decision to become Mennonites was in answer to a need to make the world a better place. And here I was, serving in his place.

On a summer day fourteen years earlier--to the day for all I know--I walked out of my new girlfriend's house, where we'd been spending the afternoon. As she pulled away from the house, I turned the key in my ignition, only to be greeted by the sick sound of a dead battery. I walked nervously back up the house, where I had to ask this girl's dad (who I wanted to impress!) for a jumpstart. Of course he was more than happy to help, brought around his car and jumper cables and handed me one side. I stared blankly at the cables, realizing I'd never jumped a vehicle before. I asked him what to do, he showed me, with neither hesitation nor judgment, and we got the car running. As he collected the cables from me he turned back, his blue eyes shining with that sparkle I would come to love, and told me: You know, this is really one of those things that girls expect all-American boys to know how to do.

And now here I was, fourteen years later, working on his house, and I wondered what he would think--how does it look to see the gawky teenager at the door asking for your daughter grow into a man, a father, a friend? To be sure, it was painful, and poignant, to be doing the work that I wished he had been there to do. But it was also a source of pride, and a bit of a nod to his belief in me.

The hole is patched, Jim. The birds have not made their way back in. I still need to get over to the lumberyard and pick up that proper material. I won't wait much longer.

I hope I turned into something like what you hoped your daughter's husband would be. I'm still trying. You told me you knew I would. Your grandkids are beautiful. I wish you were here. Happy Fathers' Day.

For Megan, the one true thing I know

You could say I lost my faith in science and progress
You could say I lost my belief in the holy church
You could say I lost my sense of direction
You could say all of this and worse but

If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do

Some would say I was a lost man in a lost world
You could say I lost my faith in the people on TV
You could say I'd lost my belief in our politicians
They all seemed like game show hosts to me

If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do

I could be lost inside their lies without a trace
But every time I close my eyes I see your face

I never saw no miracle of science
That didn't go from a blessing to a curse
I never saw no military solution
That didn't always end up as something worse but
Let me say this first

If I ever lose my faith in you
There'd be nothing left for me to do

Meditation on Imagine by John Lennon

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky

Imagine there's no country
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed nor hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

It's not really about religion, or God. Come on, folks. I was going to link you to some of the online discussion surrounding these lyrics, but a simple search will show you all the fanatical positions out there. Don't be scared.

John Lennon's--and my--opposition was not to religion as spirituality, it was to what religion has become: an excuse to marginalize, caste, demonize, murder, judge, separate, oppress, and devalue people. Let's open our eyes, Religion--big "R"--is a sham. It's a competition. Who's closest to God? Who's cornered the market on truth? There are a few churches who manage to avoid getting hung up on the dogma and leave room for the diversity of our world; but not many. It just feels so good to be on the "right" team.

The same goes for "country," or "nation," or "state." It's a club, it's a creation. It's nothing but an idea. "What about our culture?" some will say. Nations don't have culture, people do. American culture in Hillsboro, KS has distinct and important, unashamed differences from American culture in New York, NY. Free your mind! We've all, worldwide, been sold these clubs that have colors and their own flags, and someone is telling us that we should be willing to kill and be killed in the name of something that isn't even real. In our blood, in the eyes of whoever is watching the human race, we are the same! Languages, flags, customs and colors can never change that! It's so much easier to just love.

But in the end, it all comes down to selfish human pride. Greed. If I own the best truth, and the best stuff, and the best team, I can demonstrate that I'm the best human. Why do we have so much more than we need? Why do we need to raise ourselves up when so many are pushed down--pushed down by the very mechanisms we use to raise ourselves up: religion, nationhood, status. We starve them, we damn them, we kill them, and we believe we're better. And we back it up with our faux-Christianity, which mimics the Pharisees and ignores Jesus' message that laws are made for people, not people for the laws.

Imagine ALL the people living life in peace.

Filter

According to my memory, I'm at 3 posts that were offensive enough to delete. 3 in 17 months. I feel good.

Moments

The moments we miss, in a moment we experience, are infinite. Among those billions of starry moments are many that we dearly wish we could have been present for. A group of friends gathered together; a birth; a death; a song; a kiss.

On some level, that has to be okay.

I think the easiest way to drive yourself insane is to be too acutely aware of all of the things that are happening without you, and allowing yourself to feel small, insignificant or unloved in that knowledge. Life goes on around us, everywhere.

I cannot allow myself to blot out the moments I experience by mourning the moments I WISH I'd experienced. The world--even my own personal world--moves without my direction; and it CAN. It is okay not to be chosen for every moment, it's not a critique.. They're allowed. You're allowed. I'm allowed.

Breathe. Let go. Live.

My dangerous blog

I am often tempted in this space to wallow in the small difficulties and personal battles that I imagine plague us all in our walk through this life. I covet other blog authors' and photographers' abilities to show beauty in their lives and their worlds.

I need a summer day, with nothing on the calendar, no wind, no agenda. You know the kind of day where the earth grows life into you from the soles of your feet, and the sun shines life onto your skin in waves of glorious warmth. And then, when the sun has set, the sharpness of stars against the black sky remind you that the universe is vast, and the guitars play softly around a fire as voices rise here and then there in snippets of song, young children sleeping on their parents while the older children laugh or argue together.

Someday everything is gonna' sound like a rhapsody,
When I paint my masterpiece.
--Bob Dylan

The smell of things

When I was young, I would often (without a choice) accompany my grandparents to what we always called an "old folks home" after church. Grandma and Grandpa would bring a guitar and an autoharp and play hymns--by request if they came from the audience. Sometimes my mom would play along on a badly tuned piano, if she was feeling confident that day, which was rare. Always, we were expected to sing along. I dreaded every trip.

The people scared me in their various states of dependence. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, slobber, wordless cries of dementia, the smells of bodily waste and Lysol all crowd my memories of those trips. Before we reached the gathering of people, there was always the stale smell of cafeteria food; bland and fibery. As I write this, it occurs to me that these trips are quite likely to have been a major contributor to my distaste for hymns.

Last week I went to visit my grandfather at his new home, an independent living division of a local retirement community. As I drove in--on my scooter as usual--the smell of "old folks home" food entrenched itself in my nostrils until I was well past the primary care facility. I found Grandpa's new place (Grandma died--I can't even remember when; 2001 or 2002. Grandpa is remarried now) and went to the sitting room in the back where he was eating a roll and watching the ducks on the pond. He greeted me with the slightly confused laughter that has marked my last few conversations with him. We talked for an hour or so and I headed on my way.

On my way back through the complex I couldn't help but feel sad about the toll age has taken on him, and how close he is to sitting in the seats of those to whom he used to sing so many years ago. Time marches on, and age erodes our faculties as surely as the sea wears away the land. Sadly, but almost predictably, no amount of time I see him in his last years will ease the pain of the years we can't live again; the years that we cannot hold more closely.

Such is this life.

Be well.

The Hunter

As I bumped along on my scooter through a dark Victorian neighborhood here in town, with only dim lights behind drawn shades to mark the houses, I breathed in the bite of a crisp spring night. With the smell of freshly cut grass strong in my nose I looked to the yawning westward sky as I wound my way home through the town that has become so familiar to me over my lifetime. Far above the brick street I traveled, above the lights of Main Street, above civilization itself, strode the Hunter, Orion.

Not surprisingly Orion was the first constellation I learned to identify as a child, and is one of only a few I still recognize. The perceived alignment of the stars of Orion's belt are a thing not often seen in the tumultuous heavens. There is something comforting and orderly about that string of cosmic pearls. It's easy to see why the ancients wove stories around this elegant, giant feature in the spring and summer skies. Welcome to the seasonal skies, my old friend; your presence is welcome.

Be well.

My Sword of Damocles

Without looking it up, here's how I remember the Greek story of the Sword of Damocles.

Damocles said to his king one day, "What makes you more fit to rule than I?" The king offered Damocles the seat of power for a time, and Damocles accepted. Sitting on the fine throne, surrounded by the finest foods, wines, women, music et al, he basked in the glory. But not long had he basked, when he looked above him and saw a razor sharp sword suspended by a single horse's hair. He leapt from the throne and accused the king of putting him in mortal danger. Such is the seat of power: a hair's breadth from disaster.

My Sword of Damocles is what the world sees when they see me. (This is NOT a request for input, please! :)) If I knew where my world saw a need for personal improvement, I could do it. But to see it, would also surely include heartbreaking revelations, and less-than-stellar traits that may not be changeable, and therefore difficult to accept. And so, I strive only to be true in my address to the world, hoping that those I love will love me back more often than not.

Be well.

Holy Week-what I think

The commemoration of a new idea about all people living together under the banner of God's unconditional love.

We've spent 2000 years whittling down, whenever possible, the number of recipients of that unconditional love.

What a shame.

All are welcome.

I win

A very few hours from the time I write this will mark the moment at which my life changed course. Early on the morning of April 1st, after many hours together and many kisses exchanged, I told Megan that I wanted us to see one another exclusively. She agreed.

The next day, she greeted me by saying: I just realized that it was after midnight; was that an April Fool's joke?

Cruel.

Fourteen years since that time have seen many, many things. The moments that we couldn't be less compatible blend seamlessly into the moments in which we are clearly perfect for eachother. I know for sure that I adore her; that my love for her makes me stronger than I truly am, better than I thought I could be, and acutely aware of how far short I fall.

She is grace and truth. She is light and beauty. She is compassion and love. She is impossibly frustrating and the only person for whom I will jump through a hoop. The only one. It is she that I respect and it is through her respect for others that I have learned down these years to find beauty in the human condition. Without her example, I would be trapped in bitter potential unfulfilled. With her as my beacon, my life has been filled with the beauty of those around me; beauty that I had not learned to see before she showed me.

Because of her, I can joke without tearing someone else down. Because of her, I am not mean-spirited. Because of her, I do not hit my children. Because of her, I do not hit my wife. Because of her, I appreciate others. Because of her, I can be proud of what I have done. Because of her, I know I can.

It was a big chance that she took on me. Very big; and because she took it, I win.

I win.

On a fine spring day

Catching the snowflakes

My daughter went to visit a friend. My son and I, with only eachother to keep company, whiled away the early evening. He said to me, quite matter-of-factly, "Dad, I'm going to fire you and give you a new job teaching other people like you teach me."

No one can make me feel more wonderful than my kids.

Be well.

FYI

Some of my friends who have been there tell me that it's much more fulfilling to do what you love for less pay than it is to get paid well to do something that's just a job.

Some days, I'd like to know the difference for myself.

Today was one of those days.

Here's to more strength to fight the good fight.

Be well.

All we are saying

Did you put aside one of your "isms" and give peace a chance today?

The most effective way to give peace a chance is to think more of them, and less of you.

To think less of you, you must be comfortable in your own skin.

To be comfortable in your own skin, you must exorcise your demons.

To exorcise your demons, you must recognize yourself.

To recognize yourself, you must see the good and the bad.

To see the good and the bad, you must open up your eyes.

To open up your eyes, is to know that you and I are not that different.

To know that you and I are not that different, is to put aside our "isms" and give peace a chance.

That's all we are saying.

Be well.

Mixed

Today I'm mixed. Mixed in thought, mixed in response, mixed in understanding.

Last night I volunteered for an overnight stay at the local homeless shelter. I suppose the hour-and-a-half of sleep is contributing to my mixed feelings, as well.

I come away from this experience feeling a whole lot of different things.

First, people are generous. Any number of people have given time, money, food goods, linens and countless other items to provide a place out of the elements for those who have no home.

Second, I'm thankful. I have a home. I have skills to barter in order to pay for a home. I've never been homeless. I talk overmuch about bad experiences I DID have--but we were never homeless. I know that my grandfather gets a lot of credit for helping out when times were bad, but it occurs to me that there are probably anonymous church folks hiding in the fabric of that story as well. I'm confident in this because I've been an adult long enough (not to mention in the business of philanthropy) that I can recognize the staggering number of acts of kindness that are carried out daily without any credit being requested. I'm just certain that kind people, people I speak to in the grocery store, stepped in to help my family when we were in need. Whatever my philosophical differences with them are today, I am thankful for their kindness.

Third, I know a con-artist when I see one. There was an apparent theft at the shelter and it stings to see people who have next to nothing also be robbed of their ability to trust others.

Fourth, I recognize that I am suspicious of people and their motives. I think I've always been this way. I think it must be a deep-seated insecurity of some kind.

I'm sure I'll have other thoughts, but my tired mind is having trouble tracking.

Be well.

Idle hands

On the day of an earthquake, a flood, a tornado, a hurricane, no one stands at a gate and checks faith statements for suitability; there is much help that needs to be given, and much to do that is right.

Yet our concept of heaven, what we believe to be the origin of all that is helpful and right, is one of a gate and an oral exam; for some literal, for others figurative, but very real. There was a gate that promised "Arbeit Macht Frei," but lied. There were the literacy tests that disenfranchised black Americans. There were swimming tests through which only failure could prove one was not a witch. I don't subscribe to gates and tests.

When my hands and my heart are busy doing the work that is helpful and right, I cannot find the time to damn those who work with me.

Would that it were always so.

Be well.

One of my favorite things

There's a certain look that a woman will give to her lover that is unabashed, unfiltered, and unprotected.

Very often this look is one her partner doesn't see. But watching a woman view her lover through the eyes of love is one of my favorite human moments.

Men have looks they give to their lovers as well, but being an admirer of "the woman" as I am, it's the look of love on a woman's face that makes me glad to be alive.

Occasionally, with the explosion of photography today, you'll find this look captured in a photo.

Mostly though, it's a look she saves for the moments she's proud to be in love with her lover. A look that she really didn't mean for anyone; a moment of pure love.

And it's one of my favorite things.

Be well.

My daughter, the great person

I always assumed that Maggie would naturally gravitate to the stage. Megan and I met as theatre majors, are both gregarious, and lack for stage fright.

Maggie has always had a flair for the dramatic, has put on plays as a constant part of life, loves the theatre, and has been in a few of Megan's shows.

But in the last five-ish years, when given the option and the means, Maggie declines to audition for plays. She says she's nervous about performing in front of people. This is perfectly fine, but surprising to me.

So when one of her good friends DID take the opportunity to audition for a major show, and auditioned well, for some reason I wondered how Maggie would feel. Would she think things like, "My mom's a theatre director, it should be ME who does things like that," or "If I don't do this, does it mean I CAN'T do it?"

I should never have worried.

Maggie is kind, she is comfortable, she is a good friend.

When we told her about her friend's successful auditions, her only heartfelt response was "YAY!"

My daughter, the great person.

As for me and my house, we prefer words.

Maggie struggles with math. I don't know if it's her, or us, or school, or numbers, or circumstance...or all of the above. But, true to her heritage, she communicates, she reads, words come naturally and she understands their uses and spelling and usefulness without trying. On my side of the equation, we have the gift of gab. On Megan's side of the equation, deliberation and empathy.

I know I've bitched ad nauseum about how Maggie's weakness ruins school for her, and that hasn't changed, but I'm going to focus on the positive.

To talk, to really talk, is a heartwarming experience. Her life and energy are a jumpstart after the drains of a day full of thinking, thinking, thinking. To talk to her is to live.

A thought that I'd like to say more on later.

Religion is important, not because of any complete truth that it holds, but because in each form, the truth that humankind is diverse exists in its observation of God.

Terrify Tissue

Here's something that has always baffled and, frankly, terrified me: introducing friends of mine to each other.

How do people successfully combine groups of friends? I am always totally consumed by the negative possibilities: what about all the things they DON'T have in common?; what are the expectations established by this introduction?; how do we get out of this situation if they don't like each other?; what are the expectations being established for the future?; if this is a party, will they be invited to the next party?; will anyone actually tell me if this was a bad decision?; what if one side thinks it was and the other doesn't?; am I completely insane?

All of these thoughts, and memories of past failures, most often lead me to steer clear of "group mixing."

I think some of my terror stems from the fact that I consider myself to be pretty good at social maneuvering, and mixing friends is a big chink in my armor. I feel personally responsible for the possibility of failure, not to mention liable for ACTUAL failure!

And now to explain the title of this post.

Be well.

Whatever will they be?

I wonder what Maggie and Lennon will be? What will they be?

This is not a consuming question for me, one that drives each decision and direction with a pre-determined outcome in mind. It's one that only rarely occurs to me, but each time it leads to an interesting self-study. I have never much felt myself to be anyTHING. I think the closest I've ever been was in high school when I viewed myself as The Actor. I enjoyed theatre, always felt good at it, and received a lot of validation. Even so, though, I enjoyed sports and classes, though I never felt them to be a niche. I sort of dabbled in a little of everything, and my friendships reflected that. My social circle dabbled in a little of every group, with no strong attachment to any one.

The few times I've had to ask myself as an adult, "What will I DO, what will I BE?" I haven't had an answer. As we awaited Maggie's arrival, and as I finished my degree (two standout "adult" moments in my life) I distinctly remember these questions being completely bewildering to me. Still today I have no strong sense of self or direction, no overarching identity to which I cling. I told someone recently that if ever I leave Bethel, I would not likely seek a job as a fundraiser. I don't consider myself a fundraiser, I fundraise FOR BETHEL. I suppose something else may ignite a passion for me down the road, but I have no idea what it is.

This lack of a self image that "fits" is a little ironic. I'm admittedly narcissistic, spending more time than I should meditating on how I "came off" in certain situations, very interested in how people see what I do. Part of that narcissism keeps me talking in mixed company, though I often go into social situations telling myself, "Sit back and watch this time, learn from other people." That self-centeredness definitely manifests itself primarily as behavior that assumes everyone wants to hear what I'm thinking, unfiltered and unencumbered by "appropriateness of situation." But I have a real distaste for aloof arrogance, so I present as kind of a blushing, self-depricating narcissist. See, total shallow presence in disparate identities with no serious residence in either!

In fact, digressing in this post from "What will my kids be?" is clear evidence for my narcissism.

I only want them to love and be loved. In the pressure cooker of child-rearing (how early to start sports, arts, reading, learning, social interaction, religion, etc.) I want them only to be loved and to love others.

And I wish for them freedom to be. May we grant them the freedom to be. To paraphrase Nanci Griffith, there in their future, I hope I've not failed them.

Be well.

Get back to where you once belonged

I visited California for work last week. I always have the same feeling when I travel: I can't wait to get back to Kansas. It's just home.

But this was a good morning.

And I visited UC Santa Barbara, which has a pretty good location.

And I got back in time for Kansas day and a great party, inappropriate "Toby moments" and the shining faces of my family.

California is a fine place to visit, but Kansas is home.

In the city

It's not the people in the city-at least I don't think it is. It's more the cars and the never-ending potential to be hit by one. When stuck in traffic on the freeway, I feel trapped by the knowledge that thousands upon thousands of cars stand between me and open air; between me and space. I'm not one to get claustrophobic, but that about puts me over the edge.

I was thinking while driving through a high mountain pass on Highway 5 to get to Los Angeles that the sea and the mountains (in such close proximity here) each have their own distinct call. I've always heard the sea more clearly and I think I know why. The sea, like the prairie, works hand-in-hand with the sky; one just melts in to the other. So I suppose I understand why the poet in the psalm lifted eyes to the mountains as a tangible example of larger than life majesty, but my help comes from the sky. In the sky is the reflection of depth and beauty that should be the goal of humanity. In the sea and the plain exist a deliberate and steadfast march to the sky, contrasting with the mountains' tumultuous struggle to climb there and overcome it.

I long to be amongst you all again, and to take your arms as we guide our children to the sky.

Be well.

A whole new world, a dazzling place I never knew...

Our new front room. We're quite proud.

New paint, new sofa, new loveseat.

The existence of an item of furniture called the loveseat basically

strongarms parents in to having the sex talk.

Our new front room. We're quite proud.

Beard cultivation

21st century, 1st decade

Thanks to Allison for this inspiration


In January of 2000 I was:

-adjusting to the news that I was becoming a father and husband (Technically a husband much sooner than I was functionally a husband. That one took a while.)
-without a vehicle
-living in Emporia, KS
-a renter
-working as a bartender
-a college dropout
-22 years old
-dyeing my hair black
-120 pounds
-a cat-owner
-sporting a goatee
-without goals


In January of 2010, I am:
-father to a 9 year old daughter and a 4 year old son who are my joy and my bane :)
-dedicated to being a partner with my wonderful spouse
-driving a minivan, with a scooter for warm days, and a truck that I can't figure out what to do with.
-living in my hometown of Newton, KS
-a mortgage-payer (not a homeowner, big difference)
-working as a fundraiser for Bethel College
-a college graduate (this still makes me melty happy)
-32 years old (although more often than not I have to think about how old I am before I answer)
-quickly going gray/grey depending on your side of the Atlantic
-160 pounds
-a dog owner
-determined to grow a beard
-driven to make the world a better place, a more tolerant existence

I get tired

Oh, the drain. Don't we all get tired? I get dog-tired.

Saying the right thing
Teaching
Learning
Caring
Filtering (Yes, I do filter)
Planning
Leading
Following
Thinking
Big-picturing
Talking
Getting dressed
Hoping. How I'm tired of hoping. Can't good just be?
Loving
Rat-racing
Refereeing
Fixing
Eating
Trying
Being
Condescending
Affirming
Owning
Working
Warring

Thank goodness for a partner who I can fall onto. May I be the same for her.

Thanks, Megan, for riding along.

"I could use somebody; someone like you and all you know and how you speak." That's the line that makes me like that song so much. You're so much to me.

(Use Somebody - Kings of Leon)

Be well.

Hee hee

"Through music we can get it right"

Um, please bring back Hannah Montana...

...I haven't had the sex talk with my daughter yet...so, yeah...bring back Hannah Montana.

Language just says so much

Listen for the words people use when speaking of their religion and you'll understand how that religious lens colors their world.

Red flags:
anything dealing in absolutes:truth, manifestation, revelation, unquestionable, infallible, unchanging
anything pointing to the "power" one gets from God: judgement, Hell, Satan, damnation, conversion
any language that marginalizes others and their god-realization: non-believer, infidel etc.
Coldplay
Third-Eye Blind


(the opposite connotation of red) flags:
love
patience
humility
acceptance
tolerance

Be well.

Bethel College

What could these rafters tell us, had they the capacity to say?

Cracked and worn with age, perhaps with the cares

lifted to their vaulted heights,

while overlooking the years of song, of prayer, of play.

What of this court, with its polish, its wax and its lumber?

Stained most certainly by sneakers, by blood, tears and sweat.

A witness to glory, depths of despair;

emotions belying its warm shades of teak and of umber.

On these paths of repose have paced strides unnumbered;

lovers, pranksters, rule-breakers bold.

Whether a stroll or a sojourn

their memories drift; spirits unencumbered.

On this green field of play, what stories are kept?

What camaraderie, brotherhoods, sisterhoods forged?

What ghosts still linger

on this emerald sea once the crowds have all left?

And these hallowed halls, in their grand disrepair?

What secrets could they reveal? Those of singers and actors,

--students on a shifting stage of life.

A lifetime, and more, of memories there.

As a nourishing mother, a difficult brother, a friend;

these walls and these footsteps are not ours alone.

Under a fall harvest moon,

what for so long has lived, shall once more newly begin.

An eponymous tale of personal ethical crisis stemming from an anonymous tale of personal ethical crisis

The first three places I searched for her stolen bicycle were the poorest neighborhoods I could think of within a mile of our house. Two of them I had lived in as a child. My mind was flooded with the faces of people who were not criminals, and the faces of those who were. Some I had known had never stolen; some had stolen in the absence of hope; some, in the absence of hope, had forgotten it and stolen out of habit.

As wrong as it felt to go there first, I also knew that it made sense.

But in the grand scheme of justice, even those who have forgotten hope can never steal enough to tip the scales against a world, a society, that steals the fabric of their humanity from them; a society who asks for the tired and the poor, saying all are created equal, without ever treating them so.

And so I scoured the neighborhoods of the disadvantaged in a selfish attempt to keep hope alive.

Somewhere.

The root of all evil

Maggie's bike was stolen from our driveway last night. Let me tell you, she was violated. She and I spent about an hour last night driving around in a futile after-dark attempt at finding it. This morning, while Megan went up to Maggie's school to help with Christmas program rehearsal, Lennon and I spent another hour-plus searching the square mile around our house for signs of the bike. It turns out there are a LOT of bikes in that square mile.

Maggie couldn't sleep last night; she came out of her room crying, saying she "just wanted her bike." You know, it was such a challenge and a victory for her to learn to ride that thing, and whoever has taken this little girl's bike has no appreciation for her struggle.

To make her, and me, feel better I asked her to assume that some dad out there who isn't lucky enough to have a job like me, but loves his daughter just as much, wanted that little girl to have a bike for Christmas so much--and he was so desperate to make her happy--that he took Maggie's bike for his little girl. It wasn't to be mean, he just didn't know what else to do; little girls' happiness means that much to their daddies. So we're trying not to think of it as a crime, but as the symptom of a bigger world crime, where people are made desperate by our culture.

That's the need scenario.
But it also got me thinking about the greed scenario.

I think need and greed can consort to account for about all of the hurt in the world. People either greedily take things from others, or need things that others won't share; so, people war with each other. On large and small scales people are either hoarding or trying to survive. Greed and need.

Now, religious wars are a different ball of wax, I suppose. Even so, though, I think factions may be warring over a greed for righteousness, or a need to be left alone to explore God. Greed and need.

So, someone was either in great (hopefully ethically challenging) need of a bicycle, or greedy for their own selfish (probably fleeting) gain. In any case, I need to figure out how to get a bike up on the roof for Christmas morning.

Thanks from just me

My wife and kids
My colleagues
My friends
Obama
Bill Self
Rigby the dog
The Tao Te Ching
The Beatles
Pearl Jam
U2
The Human Mind
Police, Firefighters, EMTs, all who TRULY SERVE the public
Acoustic guitars
Bethel College
Shalom Mennonite Church
Birds
Own-skin-comfort
Education
Drive
Simplicity
Old people, more every day
Lemons, in every way conceivable
Hope
Hope
Hope


hope...

Bothered by these days...

Self-righteousness in the church(es)
A lack of respect for others
Poverty in the world; in the nearby world
An unwillingness to learn and grow
A need to hold our convictions with an closed fist instead of an open palm
A fear of difficult questions
Arrogance
The speed of it all
Danger
Consumerism
Americanism
Crappy, canned music
War
Getting fat
People who can't cut to the chase
The Christian Coalition, Focus on the Family and the rest
Coddling
Nuclear weapons

Hippies and Peaceniks

The other day I pulled into traffic behind a car that sported a "Support Peacemakers" bumper sticker in English and Spanish, and I thought to myself, "There's a Mennonite." Then I thought to myself, "Why would you think that?" While that was an easy question to answer since I know a preponderance of Mennos who support peace and who have spent time promoting it in Spanish-speaking lands, I also know that in no way should that definitively categorize the person in front of me. First of all, all Mennonites are not pacifists. Settle down, now; it's true. Nor are all of the Menno pacifists particularly interested in Spanish-speaking service. So, with those two generalities debunked, I got to thinking about knee-jerk reactions to the concept of peace and which of those I've ascribed to during my 32 years.

Hippies
Now we still hear this one a lot from nationalist conservatives: "What are you a hippie or something?" So did hippies really want peace? Well, without doing any research, I think we can safely say that some did. Some were more focused on getting high and others were more focused on getting laid. I knew some people who claimed to have been hippies (though they were on the young end of that group) who were actually quite against peace. These would have been more at home on the Hell's Angels end of the counterculture spectrum. (Sidebar: I did a paper on this spectrum once that focused on the popular conception that counterculturalists were all peace-driven, liberal hippies. Hell's Angels, while certainly being a countercultural force in the late 60s, were violent, misogynist, militant, nationalists who dreamed of a bloody revolution whereby they would take power by force. Read the autobiography of Sonny Barger, Hell's Angels founder for more on that.) The "hippies" that I knew growing up expressed some regrets about not volunteering for Vietnam, preferred a fistfight over a discussion, and invested money in drugs instead of social programs. Ultimately, though, the hippie movement was overrun by addicts and perverts who saw the philosophy of peace and love as an opportunity to feed their demons. George Harrison said it best in an interview that can be found in The Beatles Anthology, 3:

You know, I went to Haight-Ashbury, expecting it to be this brilliant place, and it was just full of horrible, spotty, dropout kids on drugs. It certainly showed me what was really happening in the drug culture. It wasn’t what I thought of all these groovy people having spiritual awakenings and being artistic. It was like the bowery, it was like alcoholism, it was like any addiction. So, at that point, I stopped taking it, actually, the dreaded Lysergic [LSD; Lysergic Acid Diethylamide]. I had some in a little bottle, it was liquid, and I put it under a microscope, and I looked at it, and it looked like rope, just like old rope, and I thought, "I’m not going to put that in my brain any more."

Mennonites
Well, although I am a Mennonite by virtue of belonging to a Mennonite church, I'm not a Mennonite by heritage or by blood, so I don't really speak from a place of authority on this. I am, however, completely certain that not all Mennonites are in favor of peace. Now most are in favor of service and helping humanity, but I know of a number of Mennonites who have joined the military, as well as a number of Mennonites who believe in the divine right of the United States to wage a just war on behalf of its interests. I can remember being particularly angry with some of these folks after 9/11 when they were calling for war when I felt pretty certain that they'd take a conscientious objector status if it came down to it. So again, this general assumption about peace doesn't work.

Cowards
I can think of two specific times when relatives of mine, both veterans, described the peace position (nonviolence or conscientious objector position) as "cowardly." Now, both of these conversations revolved around Mennonites, but the objection was not to any theological philosophy, it was strictly expressed as being "cowardly" to refuse to fight for their countries.

Hmm.

Well, I've already established that we can't define peaceniks as Mennonites (there are pacifists in every religious tradition) so let's ignore the context of those discussions and focus on the view that pacifists are cowards. First and foremost, any number of pacifists from any number of philosophies or theologies have been killed for believing in peace; of those, untold numbers actually chose to die for their beliefs. Not cowardly. Second, it takes guts to stand for your convictions even when your life is not on the line. Not cowardly. Third, peace is not the mainstream focus, so it takes chutzpah to form your beliefs outside of the accepted norms. Not cowardly. Frankly, there's nothing cowardly about believing in peace over war. It's downright brave.

It's frustrating sometimes to look around me, near and far, and see and hear the warmongering, the nationalism, and the bigotry. I salute all of you who work to make it a more peaceful world every day. Many members of the military believe that the work they're doing will someday bring peace. I disagree, but salute them for trying to reach that end. Keep working, keep trying. Never give up. As John Lennon said at the concert to free John Sinclaire in 1971:

Apathy isn't it...we can do something.
So Flower Power didn't work. So what. We start again.

Be well.

Not much to tell

I feel like I haven't had anything worth saying recently, so I haven't been posting much. Since I hope, however, to have interesting thoughts again someday I don't want to fall out of the habit of posting. So here, I guess is a filler, random post.

If you've never utilized the "Next Blog" option at the top of the page on Blogspot blogs, I recommend it; it's fascinating. Be warned, however, that it just cycles you through random blogs. I can't quite tell if it has some sort of ratings filter or not, but I have come across a few blogs (or at least posts) that I wouldn't want to open at work. It's a crazy big world we live in and it's enlightening to use the "interwebs" for finding out more about its people. Even if it is slightly voyeuristic.

Megan is most of the way through her first semester of grad school. Poor woman; she's having a very frustrating time with the fact that some of the faculty are less than helpful. She's going to do great, I know it! Still, it's too bad to watch her tear her hair out just asking for the same respect that she gives her students. I'm proud to say that Megan is a college instructor with "only" a BFA, teaching kids at "only" a two-year school, but she is dedicated to her work and to her kids and cares enough to make a difference. Too many (and working in higher ed we see this) people believe that once they tack that PhD on the end of their name they no longer have to give a rip. Megan will never be that person. She believes in people. She's always used a quote attributed to Anne Frank to describe her point of view: Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart. I'm proud to be married to such a person, dedicated to all things good. It is this goodness of heart that has served and will continue to serve her well.

Maggie is doing well I think. She's often a hard kid to read. She's got a flair for the dramatic and seems to enjoy injecting melodrama into a given situation to up the ante. No disciplinary conversation is ever straightforward with her! She's a prolific artist and really quite skilled. One of these days I'll get some of her art on to this blog. She's an empathetic soul, but a typical older sibling (or I should say, typical of my behavior as an older sibling) to her brother--always annoyed by him. She really wants to get a Nintendo DS, but has to earn it. This summer we gave her the goal of learning all of her multiplication tables through 10s, but that never happened. Now she's challenged herself to earn all "E"s and "P"s on her grade cards at the end of the semester. If she can do that I'll gladly get her a DS! She's playing the part of Cindy Lou Who in the school Christmas program, which obviously is "The Grinch." She sings all the time and I think is going to be another fine arts person. No big surprise there. Everyone knows Megan studied and teaches theatre, but maybe everyone doesn't know that I displayed some theatrical talent earlier in life, as well. Beyond that, Megan is an excellent artist and I play a fair guitar with bit of a singing voice. Look for the kids to be encouraged in musical directions this Christmas!

Lennon is something. He is like Maggie, especially in appearance, but so much his own person. I don't have a good feel for my public image, but Lennon feels to me like a personality entirely unique in our family. Ornery doesn't begin to touch it. He's completely haphazard, totally contrarian, always energetic, a know-it-all, constantly talking, devilish, adorable, winning, etc., etc. I don't mean to gush, but he's just a cyclone of a human being. He completely idolizes Maggie and wants to be in the middle of everything she is doing. (It seems worth interjecting that, as I type, the kids are pretending to be poor, homeless street musician kids who sit on the corner and sing Beatles' songs for food money. Really, they are.)

I love watching these two grow (an inch since July, each) but I know one of these days I'll turn around and they'll be grown. What a life. What a world.

Ah, corruption!

This is an interesting report on the revolving door between Congressional staffers and pharmaceutical lobbyists. Also interesting, the woman interviewed from the ProPublica group is my first cousin.


Watch CBS News Videos Online

Come on testosterone, work!

I'm trying so hard to grow a beard. Pray for me.

At last

The new door set up is completely installed. Check.

Megan asked if I felt manly. The answer is no...chauvinist.

I do know, where you go is where I want to be.

Megan,

Thanks for arguing religion, society, sex, and etiquette with me. I love you.

Pandora just popped up the DMB song that's referenced in this post's title and it occurred to me that I'm all over the map sometimes. How frustrating it must be sometimes to try to follow me, to try to talk with me, and to smile in the face of my twists and turns. I'm NEVER sure of anything else, but I've always been sure that where you are is where I want to be.

And since I love PDA, I thought I'd tell you on my blog.

Be well.

Are you looking for answers
to questions under the stars?
If along the way you are growing weary
you can rest with me until a brighter day,
and you’re OK.


I am no superman,
and I have no answers for you.
I am no hero, oh that’s for sure.
But I do know one thing:
Where you are, is where I belong.
I do know, where you go
Is where I want to be.

On redemption

Why would God offer us redemption? Humans clearly cannot handle, are not responsible enough to manage, a blameless life. Too easily this freedom leads to a life of judgment.

Unless it is true that there are only a chosen few.

Salvation theology seems to be about as unloving an idea as I can think of.

Return fire for the C-Ds

Just a taste of an incredible show

I'll probably search out a bunch of these posts and embed them.