Refs

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Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing.

- Vince Lombardi

Referees cause a profound shift in minds of recreational athletes. League organizers pay official officials to bring a sense of fairness and objectivity to the competition. They're an unbiased source of experience paid to run the show and hold the rulebook on the tip of their tongue.

Of course, even the most qualified refs miss calls and make mistakes. Participants acknowledge this up front. All parties agree to submit to the best judgement of the ref. Putting matters of conflict in the hands of the official is in the best interest of everyone. Winners win and losers lose when there's no room for cheating or complaining.

Supposedly. Shhyeah, right. What actually take place due to the presence of a mere man in a striped shirt goes far beyond the rules of the game.

It's not all bad. Intensity of effort is dialed up a notch or three. Heart rates are maxed out and people suffocating under domestic responsibility are suddenly warriors forced to live in the moment. They push hard, as if the welfare of women and children were at stake. Teammates forge bonds and strain their bodies and break their capacities.

With refs comes the awesome opportunity for athletes to really try. Ooh, there it is.

Trying.

To try means to risk failure. That's where things get hairy. If you care to know a man, be courageous enough to compete against him and try. Or better yet, compete with him. Forget the uniforms because the field or court is always where true color is laid bare.

The glory of having refs is also the curse of having refs. Nice guys get serious and sometimes frustrated. Serious guys become angry. Angry guys become jerks. Jerks quit.

Hire a ref and, for some reason, the rec athlete's own responsibility for conduct suddenly becomes the refs obligation. Respectable associates become egomaniacs that can only see it one way. Fit and sturdy youth become spineless weasels, sometimes violent but always testing to see what they can get away with.

Fathers who try to make every missed basket and dropped fly ball into a "learning opportunity" for their child are suddenly ready to go fistacuffs over a lane violation.

Such is the power of refs in rec sports. Yes - recreational. I testify to the truth as an eye witness. The power discriminates against neither race nor gender, socioeconomic status nor sports experience. It's proven effective on construction workers and professors, beginners and former professionals.

I've litteraly seen the refs power over punk gang members at Harrisburg's Reservoir Park and over pastors and other brethren at Messiah College. And yes, it holds sway over physical therapists too.

If winning is the "only thing," then we better seriously consider what winning really means in rec sports. Winners still go home and have to live with themselves.

"Nobody wins" is certainly a realistic possibility. It occurs when participants blame and bitch and moan to save face in the event of a loss. It's where you arrive after leaving a wake of bickering and bitterness, broken bones and burnt rules, on your way to scoring more points. And that's not what anybody came for.

Yet still, refs can be worth it. Absolutely they're worth it, if you remember (ironically) that it's not just a game.

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Ma crew rollin' white and nerdy last winter:

Music Is

Central Pennsylvania's WNNK 104 played over my dentists radio last week. Sitting motionless, mouth propped open, I forced back a laugh at the soundtrack to my dental exam.

before I leave
brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack

"Harrisburg's work day radio station," apparently deems this to be standard fare for the workplace. From what I'm hearing, many local businesses agree. I picture politicians at the Capital, attorneys in Hershey and neurologists in Camp Hill bopping through their offices.

I'll get him hot
show him what I've got.

I know it gets a lot worse (or better) than this, depending on who you ask. Keep in mind that central PA is somewhat conservative. It's certainly not LA or New York City.

I'm not even the radio police. Much of what's out there is pretty fine by me. You'll catch me subtly playing air drums with my thumb or foot, mostly not understanding or even giving much attention to the lyrics.

I have a hard time tolerating only "positive" Christian radio, not that it's all bad either. I don't imagine a constant loop of Crystal Lewis and Michael W. Smith should be played in a nondenominational workplace. In the same way that I don't prefer a dental dance party, I'm not so sure that interjected sermons and mini sermons on Christian radio are appropriate for a workplace setting.

Yet who can deny that there is at least the potential for some powerful self-destructive forces to be at work? I'm not sure if it's my own filter creeping rightward or that of the greater culture leftward, but something is definitely moving here. Go ahead and listen to pop radio and tell me somethings not moving.

In my mind, there's a difference between

Let me go on
like a blister in the sun

and

Honey got a booty
like pow pow pow

Daytime - workplace - radio.

Sure, back in my day we had our Samantha Fox and Guns-n-Roses and Ice T. But you didn't hear their more obscure references played over mainstream radio. The booty lyrics just aren't fitting when you're trying to do a gait analysis on military personnel and soccer moms.

Music is good for the atmosphere of a PT office. Plus, it's practical for HIPPA privacy regulations. A little background noise keeps people from overhearing the details of other's business. I'd prefer that my mind (and the minds of my patients) not dwell even more on Lil Wayne and Lady Gaga.

Sorry, but country music is no option either. And sometimes, usually on Monday mornings and Thursday afternoons, I'm just not in the mood for the Gwen Stefani WHOO-HOOO guy.

So I made a CD from my home itunes selection. It contains a lot of Switchfoot and Reliant K and Kim Walker Smith alongside O.A.R. and Muse and Dave Matthews. And U2. Can we all at least agree on U2? The CD is simply made of songs that 1) the PT likes and 2) have lyrics appropriate for a professional setting.

I want to be respectful and sensitive. I'm there to do my part in stretching shoulders and strengthening knees. The last thing I want or need to do is preach to and proselytize somebody who already feels like an outsider.
Bad witness - bad for business.

On the other hand, it's pretty much white bred Christian America around here. My honest guess is that for every patient who's turned off by even subtle faith gestures, there will likely be ten who appreciate it and see it as a sign of shared values.

gone
like Frank Sinatra
like Elvis and his mom
like Al Pacino's cash
nothing lasts in this life

If that alternative to the workplace booty call is too Jesus for someone, then maybe I should be okay with the fact that there are plenty of other outpatient PT offices around, some of which are certainly "WNNKing at Work," as they say.

Not everyone has the same values. I get that. Even WITHIN the office lies a good example of the dilemma. Kim is pretty conservative and gets a headache from anything with perceptible Auto-Tune. Debbie is far less conservative and perfectly at peace with the Black Eyed Peas. I think both of them claim to be Christians, and I see their points.

So today I sing to you, as one who beholds the power of the radio dial on an old CD/Radio/Cassette tape player in a small physical therapy office.

What should I play?

Is there an HD radio mix that justifies an upgrade? I think Howard Sterns permanently ruined my perception of Satellite Radio. Even if Satellite Radio is not all breast and fart jokes, it still seems unnecessary.

The whole thing becomes tedious and a little ridiculous when I don't have the time or mental energy to devote to such matters. That's why we mostly end up listening to nothing.

Is this trivial?

First Choice Rehabilitation Specialists is a smallish, independent company with no official music policy or custom mix ala Chic-Fil-A. Which is excellent, by the way. All walks of people go there because they do good work.

Yeah, I want our office to be like the Chic-Fil-A of orthopedic rehab. I could live with people of all worldviews coming because we do good work, the work being a testimony to what we believe. I want my joint manipulations and exercise prescription to be as good as a classic Chic-Fil-A chicken sandwich.

I could use one of those
right
right
right about now

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Poured Out

We moved into this house in September of 2005. Full boxes were strewn about the living room. Pictures and furniture leaned against walls. We had no phone service. Yet the stream in the back yard was the very first order of business.

Tim and I dripped with mud and sweat as we rolled three massive boulders down to the far end of the property to buttress a small line of stones that crossed the stream. Tim was a 330-pound offensive guard then and I thought it was cool that a Steeler assisted in my homemaking.

From that day forward, people young and old have enjoyed the fruits of the dam. Wildlife flourishes. Kids have swam and rafted around. We've been entertained by native trout, ducks, turtles, and countless frogs, minnows, dragonflies, and crayfish. Crowds have roared during Walnutfest as their walnut floated toward the finish line.

Well, the dam came to an end today, converted to what I'd like to term a "trout nook." A resident far upstream claimed the dam was flooding the route 15 underpass and part of his property. Later, Zach Blair from the Department of Environmental Protection paid a visit to investigate the issue and the claims.

The trout nook. A determined trout can climb that now. Definitely.

"Your dam is less than three feet so it's fine, except for the fact that this is a native trout protected waterway. No dams are allowed in these."

Damn.

Hmm. In the effort to harbor trout and other critters, I overlooked the possibility of wildlife wanting to come upstream to visit this area. Taking down the damn for the sake of the trout, in my mind, made the whole thing a lot more palatable. Zach and I talked for a while. I noticed his eyes light up when he saw a few trout dart away from us. He said this stream is a pretty unique and amazing thing, and I agreed.

Earlier today, a small crowd watched me, head hung low, standing waist deep in the water, reluctantly pulling up rocks and tree limbs.

"Do you think the trout can make it through that?"

Thirty minutes later, the frogs had two jumps to hit water. The level was well over a foot less. And guess what? The route 15 underpass is still completely submerged. It's been that way for about two years, ever since the state installed a drain that failed. It was supposed to divert highway runoff from a row of nearby town homes. That had nothing to do with the dam, and I'm pretty sure the little dam is a lot more trout friendly than highway runoff.

The underpass is still flooded. And awesome.

Ben and our neighbor Lianne and I have seen a beaver that resides back there, but lets not get into that. Seriously, I didn't mention the beaver to my complaining upstream neighbor.

Here's a photo of our back yard on the day the drain washed all kinds of rocks and dirt onto the underpass.

The waterway still amazes me. I stare at it, mesmerized when the sun is to my back. Pure water continually rolls through my shadow. It just keeps coming. I get the same feeling looking deep into the night sky.

This birthplace of the great Atlantic is only about a mile upstream, boiling from under two rocks and an old oak. It flows remarkably cool and consistent through summer drought. It never freezes in the winter. The surrounding topography contains no huge mountains or valleys. Where and whence it comes is a mystery.

I - said - mystery.

So please, geology and waterway engineer people, hold your tongue. What good can come from knowing more about this spring, being that I'm already compelled to be gentle? No, this is Gods blessing to my bunch of critters, and trout, ducks, frogs and bugs too. And a beaver. Lets not forget the beaver.

Right here in Mechanicsburg is a fountain of the deep poured directly from the hands of angels.

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Freedom Sandwich

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“…in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity…”

from the US Constitution

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There comes a day when a boy is of age to be granted choices. On that day he has a share in his fate, for more than one road lies before him.

On previous days, out of the blue, only grape jelly would suffice on the sandwich. Not strawberry or even grandma Gorinski's homemade peach. Then there would be no jelly at all, but only honey. Once this had been established, one particular kind of bread was deemed acceptable. Brown without "seeds," but not too brown.

Once these rules had been laid firm, suddenly, the crust was an abomination. While crust issues were understandable in those days, a two-inch crust buffer was not. Though guarding against the frightening possibility of inadvertently contacting crust, such a buffer allows only 2 or 3 good bites per half sandwich.

And when all suitable elements have finally been properly gathered, assembled and dispensed, questions of geometry come to pass. Cut up, "loaf shaped," triangles, rectangles, Iron Man plate, basketball plate, honey on the side, and without doubt, endless permutations into the future.

It has been calculated that one day only brand names will suffice. Then no peanut butter sandwich at all, but something set apart from the rest of our people, especially prepared to the flavor of the king on high. After that it will be that dads fishing pole is too creaky and mom’s old car is humiliation.

Every whim is an expectation, every luxury a necessity, and every comfort “just so.”

Oooh – how me the people despise the mentality of entitlement. It’s the principle, not the sandwich. It’s not like we’re serving fried monkey brains or even meat loaf and brustle sprouts.

Formulating and complying with precise sandwich specifications is not the answer. One Iron Man plate per child is not the answer. Uncrustables ready-made sandwiches and meticulous cutlery skills are not the answer. Saintly patience and perseverance are not even the answer.

The answer appeared as writing on a wall. It was a small sign hanging in the far corner Bret and Coleen Wagner's kitchen. I embraced that truth as good news for our home and for all homes; a fair and just, BS-stopping gospel of freedom.
That's why...

There are two choices for lunch today.


Take it or leave it.

Gift

I used nearly an entire role of duct tape that day. Medieval weaponry is what you get when you show them a clip of the movie Troy.

But it was worth it. For over an hour they ran around like mad men shouting "HECTOR," kicking the air, spearing weeds, and throwing small walnuts and blocking them with cardboard shields. I even saw Lidia dive for cover behind a tree trunk when there was nothing that I could see coming at her.

Two of my boys and three of their cousins camped out in our back yard the previous day, after an extended family trip to the pool. We partied hard on into the night. On the itinerary was frog catching, flashlighting, fireworks, and a camp fire. We ate, read, and prayed before finally signing off. We fell asleep, the six of us sardined into a hot tent smelling of gun powder and dead lightening bugs.

All smells aside, I didn't rest so well. I forgot to bring the small soft blanket that I usually use to shield light from my eyes. Amy calls it my "wubby", though I've never called it that. Any hint of sound also awakens me. I hate it, especially with the kind of days a parent of young kids typically has. But this time, I relaxed as brightness trickled into the tent. I listened to the birds in peace. It was the first time in a long while that I did that and thought "it's okay."

That was my fathers day gift.

You can't Paypal getting to goof off with your wife and kids and having quiet solitude. I usually have to pay off the debt later with dizzying fatigue and sometimes grouchiness, which usually isn't such a good thing for the family.

But this was Dad's day. I didn't have to work or follow through with any agenda or "to do" list. Amy is always happy to give some relief from the kids when I need it. Later, I could play with the family or I could rest. Tonight I opened a package of alone time with my thoughts, books, and computer.

What more could a dad ask for, especially one who doesn't enjoy eating out or cooking on a grill, golfing or watching sports on TV? Surely I have my consumerist weak points (like basketball sneaks), but overall I don't look or act much like the dads in the JC Penny flier.

Some would think that's all pretty lame and ask "but what do you do for fun? I can understand that perspective. But I have to add that there's time for other things; a little right now and (Lord willing) a lot later. Much of being a dad is the fun. Besides, what's a dad supposed to say on the day he gets to do what he wants? Say "it's fathers day, seee-ya, suckahz, ha ha" as the base booms and the SUV screeches out of the driveway?

On my day, I want to be with them doing something they enjoy. No doubt. I would also really enjoy a good rest. And more than a ball game or mountain bike ride with my homies, today I think I need time to sit and read and reflect. The blogging is always therapeutic.


"Oh. You shouldn't have."

Thanks Amy, L, O, B, and M. This day and all days.

Last Minute Gift Ideas for Dad

Hey, I found one!

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"Kids don't believe in "later." So if you're never around right now so that you can provide a better life for them later, be careful."- Jonathan Acuff
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I'm unsure if it's true that 99% of fatherhood is showing up. What about doing a good job as a father? I'm certain that willingly or unwillingly, dads will have a drastic influence, for better or worse, over the life of their children.

Fatherhood is joy and a heavy weight. It's pride and reluctance and excitement. It's stamina and an entire life's work. Who knows a man who "showed up" better than his son? Strengths, weaknesses, preferences, all of it.

I know RJ Gorinski better than any other man, like, way more than Wikipedia and all of the innernets. That's a pretty powerful thing to lay claim to. As one privileged to such knowledge, what does it mean when I say "it was and is a genuinely good thing to be the son of RJG?"


What do I think of dad, tonight?

He rarely spoke directly on big life lessons. I never had "the talk" on a number of issues, sometimes when we should have. I know how he hates the awkward confrontation. But he also knew the low cost of talk.

I can say this. When the majority of my peers, sports heroes, Axl Rose, and all the rest of the world were screaming lots of things, dad was clearly, unmistakably "saying" the opposite. He respected his parents and his wife and women in general. He was fascinated by the natural world and his place in it. He had a healthy fear of God.

That's what his life told me.

Dad literally kicked my gluteal region over my shoulders, never for him and I don't think one time more or less than I needed it. Speaking of asses, he was usually quite careful with his words. Careful, but real. Many things I heard - we just didn't say those words - me and dad. He offered some comments on ignorance and what some words represented. It takes no words to teach a child the wisdom of sometimes holding your words.

What I can appreciate the most at this point is the delicate balance. Loving means doing your part and letting go. Working at stability and presence and provision for the children, sacrificing so much for them while not holding on too tightly. Not expecting perfection. Giving advice but not pushing it. Allowing lessons to happen when and where they need to.

The role is critical. But one man, one person, can only do so much. Like, how do you get a kid to understand the essential value of hard work without pushing them to rebellion or the foolishness of spending their entire life chasing the golden carrot?

I know there is no formula for this type of thing. But I do have a foundation of what worked for me growing up. I'm extremely thankful to know what a good dad looks like.

...And he saw these things, and they were impressed upon his heart.

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BAPTIST back in

We almost changed our name from Lighthouse Baptist Church to Lighthouse Church. Just Lighthouse. As in, no mean-spirited fundamentalists who go around blabbering about hate and shun pants-wearing women and call every male in the club by “brother." We imagine thousands of seekers thumbing through the yellow pages, systematically skipping everything with a mention of the word Baptist. We tell family and friends about the great things happening at Lighthouse [mumble or subtly clear throat] Bpte Church, because Baptist is code for stodgy, closed mind-controlled, legalistic, old fools.

As if.

I do imagine that many people see our name and write us off; folks who would have found exactly what they’re looking for and need. Others have shown up expecting to find something we’re clearly not. People come as they are and sing contemporary stuff rather than (only) piano hymns. We take a beating from the right hand, too. It’s happened.

A dozen or so church leaders contemplated the potential benefits, time, and costs involved with a name change. When I was all for “Just Lighthouse,” I remember Pastor telling me “these are good points but I’m just not so sure yet.” A voice of wisdom has the patience and grace to say things like that.

About a year later, the issue has kind of fallen to the side. The church has moved on to different (better?) things, including a lot of doing. Problem solved, so it seems. Maybe it was intentional or maybe we just got too busy for changing names. Either way, I think that was divine.

So here we are as Baptists. Lighthouse BAPTIST Church. Yes, that’s our tradition. Baptizing is what we do here. Our family of believers takes to heart the deep symbolism behind being washed and rising again as a new person. We take literally the ideas from the Scriptures themselves; the need for a public pronouncement of faith; that we chose, individually, for ourselves and no other reason.

Owning up to the good and bad of our tradition also happens to save someone a lot of time and effort right now. Someday when our roots, tradition, and ceremony are heavy in style, like community this and crossroads that are right now, we won’t have the trouble of adding Baptist back in.

I think it's a good lesson in letting go. Our lives speak or they don't, and we'll have to accept whoever comes by that. Our church is here and it has a name. Whatever you call it, that's where my family and I will be going for a good long while.

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www.lighthousehbg.com

Nirvana Means...

My mom picked me up early from basketball practice that day. My eye was gouged pretty severely and there was blood all over my shirt. The news came over the radio of our blue Ford Tempo. Kurt Cobain shot himself in the head.

He was gone. Forever, for all I know.

I remember feeling selfishly mad. In the Hindu tradition, nirvana means rest, stability, and joy. Yeah, exactly Kurt: whatever never mind.

But mostly I obsessed over my own final day in this world. It was no comfort to assume that day probably won't arrive for a little while. A painful bleeding cornea and the first time you care about a suicide will always shock invincible, self absorbed teenage boys.

That was the day that I realized, if nothing else, that my time is coming soon. That's why I still haven't gotten over the death of Kurt Cobain.

I don't kazoo Lithium daily or go to sleep weeping over acoustic Pennyroyal Tea. But when I do think of it, I'm still at a loss. It's not just over Kurt, of course. In any circumstance, the sudden collapse of all that a unique person is and knows is incomprehensible.

I think that the death of a celebrity confirms that there's no Karmic force or mystical mathematical balance in the cosmos. I mean, how many people paid attention to and maybe even loved Kurt Cobain? How much opportunity did he have? How much joy did his talent give to others? And yet these only multiplied misery, like a lot of celebrities.

On the other hand, if everything is lost at death, and you're just dead, then why do we even value life or care when someone dies? Why does one life impress such lasting change in the lives of others? Why is grunge branded on my brain, forever drawn to art gritty and unpolished?

Your great great grandchildren may not know your name someday when they are born, but you're certainly effecting them. When you consider that happiness is contagious; the mood of your friends friend yesterday truly does have a drastic effect on your happiness today, imagine how affect is ingrained over generations?

I still stumble in a grand fashion over exactly what happens when a person dies. The Biblical account of heaven is pretty sketchy, and it even says that what is eternal is unseen.

To be clear, the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour. I buy that. I do. Most of the time, I'm pretty much at peace with the revelation that the end is a beginning.

But in context, much of it seems to be concerned with life now. All the talk of mustard seeds and leaven and well-to-do house holders is to explain how heaven is both a promise for the future and present now, in some sense, in the ways and teachings of Jesus. Check Matthew 13 if you like.

Of course not everyone who claims religion is all set right now and unto the ages. Jesus himself warned that many who say "Lord, Lord," are evildoers who he never knew. He also said that the first in this world would be last in heaven, and the last will be first. When you want to get all up in someones face about how you KNOW it will be after death, go ahead and explain exactly what Jesus meant by that.

Whatever the case, is it blasphemous to say that God definitely holds utter, uncompromising condemnation for those tormented with pain and sorrow and mental anguish, famous or not? When blessed are those who mourn? Maybe there's some part(s) of Kurt that God judges to be redeemable. Who am I to say?

So Kurt probably heard of Jesus but didn't know him. His parents likely didn't give a damn. That likely contributed to his mental disorder, which certainly is hell. The root cause of this living hell is something not of God; separate from God.

I'm pretty sure that finding our joy and our value in God, and trying to do His will, are the only things in this life that will save any sinner from living hell and any sane person from despondency.

"I'm so ugly,
that's okay 'cause so are you - broke our mirrors."

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What specifically gives you hope for the afterlife? Do share.

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Spring Things

One of the best videos ever.

I May Dance Some Day

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Majesty
Your grace has found me just as I am,
Empty handed, but alive in Your hands

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Zaita and Stella were dancing again during church. Last week they danced on my watch, after Sunday School when Amy and I bring the kids into the singing part of "big church."

Were they misbehaving? No. Was their holding hands and twirling about beautiful? Well, it's rather apparent that the kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these. Were they also a distraction? Absolutely.

We're not really the dancing kind of church.

But in a lot of crazy dancing churches where being loud with your body is the norm, my sing-murmur/pew tap combo would be all awkward and judged. Yeah, I probably...definitely wouldn't go back to a crazy dancing church.

At the same time, I'm aware of at least a few families who have moved on from LBC primarily because there's not enough dancing and hand raising going on during service. Our church is likely in trouble if loud "amens" and "thank you Jesus's" displayed before others are indicative of a moving Spirit, even for shy or contemplative types.

But what do I do with Stella and Zaita? Tell them "stand still?" Give them formal lessons in word-mouthing and mechanical, lukewarm singing? Who is the fitting example here?

I try to conceive of all the bickering over the "proper" music and order of service that has occurred throughout church history. Two little girls dancing in our non-dancing church are like the opposite of that.

I had a growing suspicion that God has hidden things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Okay, so the "Spirit moved." I sung Majesty a little louder; a little more real. And I certainly didn't interfere with the girls.

Take that, Satan.

Besides, "dance" they will, if not around the church, then other places. In those days we'll be barraging them with Mt. Dew looking activities having long tails of exclamation points, trying to show them that church is cool and safe and real.

I can see Stella and Zaita in 10 or 20 years, leaning back hard as they tug on my arms to get me up and dancing, as some girls have tried to do in the prior 10 or 20 years. If that happens in church, I just may have to join them. Because for once it will be more than a lame, self-conscious white man dance.

It would be an outward-focused, lame white man dance offering unto the Lord.

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Family System

It's very confusing. It completely baffles my mind that our immediate family unit is so many contradictory things. Yes, what is truth?

What I mean is that to one crew of friends and family, Amy and I are practically free spirited yuppies. Amy works part time outside of and full time within the home. We drink very sparingly but often offer alcohol to our guests. We celebrate the culturally light side of Halloween and generally seek an open mind to climb mount perspective. My personal theology on Hell and the afterlife, if you were to really pin me down, leans pretty generous. That sort of thing...

However, to another side of friends and family, Amy and I are practically Amish. One word summarizes the biggest ballsey decisions we've made in a very long time: homeschoolers. We're homeschoolers who told their kids that Santa is not real. We get $10 per month Comcast so we have time to play and read and blog and intentionally not get even more sucked into pop culture. Our "new" car is 6 years old.We pray out loud before meals. We believe in universal rights and wrongs. That sort of thing...

So what is the truth of the matter? What are we? Does it make a difference?

Amy and I try to steer this ship with much thought and deliberation. We don't take it lightly; lives are literally at stake. Major decisions come and you have to choose one thing or another. All families are pioneers in their own life and times; each is an independent experiment with limited variables to tinker with. I truly believe that there are many ways to fail and few ways to stand.

Of course, we don't know what we don't know. And we realize that it's astronomically improbable that we will make the right or best decision every step of the way. That's why we always invite input from those who actually care about us. This is not to say that we will always act on the advice, but we will absolutely consider it and live with the consequences of our decisions.

I ask for Gods wisdom and grace from On High and through you and I.

spring

"ducks" getting ready to wrestle



checking the catch of the day

buggies "holding" a frog

i later found tadpoles on her neck

caught on tape...

My Own Bad Advice

Listen, my son, to this instruction. Pay attention, and gain understanding.
...
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Nah. Not really. A better way to intro this writing is to say that when I was single and interested in finding a "good" girlfriend, I got a lot of bad advice. People told me a lot of bullshit about dating while others made me plain scared of ever even thinking about maybe possibly getting married because that's foolish.

So what makes me think that I'm an expert with nonbullshit advice? Well, first, I don't (see title). There are plenty of good books out there, and I've remained committed to reading at least one good marriage/relationship book per year since I've been married. Do you read?

More importantly, I have had about 12 years of being on this side of the horrendous dating scene, literally thank God. That's 12 years of life experience, watching others while being mostly unconcerned with myself.

First, single girls don't know exactly what they want in a relationship any more than you do. On the whole, the hearts of women seem to ebb and flow in ways that defy any sort of normal human logic. Expect confusion and puzzling. Even if you could figure it out, "it" would change and you'd still be left standing there in the hallway scratching your head.

"Um, okay."

I do that at least once a week.

Second. Girls want what you want; things that transcend gender. They want a rock freakin' solid person. By that I mean things like honesty and humility, respect, integrity, and courage. Men and women carry them out in different roles, but those are what we're all looking for. We will never own any of those things over a lifetime of real effort, and so we all desperately want grace.

Girls want someone who is brave yet gentle; respectful to their parents but not a mamma's boy/girl. That sort of thing.

Be a good listener. Prompt and listen. Prompt and listen. While I seriously doubt the existence of a "good" pick-up line, having a repertoire of "good" sincere prompting questions is probably worth it. If it drains you and feels like work, drop it like it's hott. Yes, two t's.

Third. Notice something about their hair. I don't care what it is.

"Is that new?...That huge white stripe of shaved skin down the center of your head?...That reverse mohawk goes perfectly with your boots and your attitude."

For real though, it works no matter what the age or marital status or haircut. NOTICE THE HAIR, even if it's just because you'd maybe appreciate them bringing another tray of peanutbutter hershey kiss cookies into the office. Just try it.

Mutual physical attraction does count. Golden Anniversaries never happen solely by chemistry, because true love is a decision...that sort of thing. But anybody who says that looks don't matter is lying.

Fourth. Don't really try. Other than the hair thing, just don't. Go about doing what you enjoy doing (unless it's online Dungeons and Dragons) and regularly, frequently extend yourself to serve others. I personally think "singles" events just kind of smother everything in impenetrable layers of weirdness, masks, and awkwardness, even when intentions are good. Nobody makes good friends by trying really hard to make good friends.

Put yourself out there - sure. Your actions and attitudes will tell others that you're interested and available. Be the good time. But that's about it.

Fifth. Take a serious inventory of yourself to identify some area(s) where you generally suck, and seriously pray to God for help and to show you ways to change that. God - yes, 'cause trying ain't gonna cut it. Otherwise you're left with a miserable cycle of singleness and inconfidence and Saturday Night Live. No single should be regularly watching "live" SNL.

I was way inpatient and short tempered and maybe even mad before I met Amy. I had no good reason to be any of those things, and they made me more stand-offish and introverted. Without saying a word, she made me want to change them.

Sixth, confidence. This applies more to the dating scene, but I think that girls are attracted to confidence. Not bigmouth blowhard confidence, but "I really am okay with or without a girl" kind of confidence.

You are okay with or without? Really, you should be. Ugh, I know.

Now who's really confident, not false frontin' confident? I know a few folks who are, but not many. If you already error on the side of being too confident, then this entire writing is definitely not for you. But really and truly, being a big mouth and being a super shy wallflower are both renditions of self absorption. And not attractive.

During high school and college years, when I was interested in dating, I was like a baby food jar full of confidence. Infant sized. Only when I went to grad school, and said "whatever," and swore "I'm devoting the next 3 years only to getting a professional degree," was I unconcerned enough with myself and my dating life to have a genuinely enjoyable date.

That, my brother, is my own bad advice on dating.

- - - - -

Black Holes and Deedo Um

[Did you notice that I often write about coming home? Sorry, but coming home is absolutely my most favorite thing to do and to remember. So...]

I usually can't pull into the driveway after work. There are bikes, monster trucks, baseball bats, and makeshift bug jars all over the place.

"Deedoo ummm!"

Nosey Parker is excited. Ecstatic. She squeaks for joy, throwing up her arms and extending her torso as in jumping, but her feet don't leave the grass. She does her pigeon toed gallop with arms extended stiffly in my direction, falling forward at the point where she knows I can reach her.

"Daddy home!"

Buggies is also quite pleased with the situation. He hops skippingly in three big circles, then buries his nose in my leg. He wants tickled and thrown around, but not held.

"Hi Daddy!"

Ducks sprints from whatever it is he's doing, usually with Luke. He makes eye contact and smiles the grand canyon. Some have called it "Nix Nucks" and others a "shit eatin' grin." He hunches and creeps toward me in a sneaking fashion, though we both know I see him. He pauses, motionless at my side, cocks back, and rails me in the hip.

"Daddy can you..."

Luke walks over after finishing up whatever it is he's doing. He's good for a hug, but he doesn't drop everything and run anymore. He does often lead with a question or a request to come see something he's done or caught that day.

What he's lost in excitement is gained in depth. Luke's the only one who can keep up on a bike and play real catch. He wonders about the colors of bees and if God could make Tai Lung (villian in Kung Fu Panda) good and why telescopes can't see inside a black hole.

I take in this revelation and try to consider how each child changes while I'm changing and our relationship must change. This is a black hole that I will never get to the bottom of. There was a time when they were not, and suddenly, now there are these four beautiful things with a voice and desires and offerings and will of their own.

Call the present an "event horizon" that you can't see past, but one can make a calculated guess. The hi daddy's will progress to hey dads then to practically nonverbal head nods and then hopefully back to a hi dads again. And of course the mystery of their timeless soul is beyond my comprehension.

Please don't say there is a bottom to the hugs. Hugs may closely resemble an arm lock with a punch to the scapula when they are about fifteen. But call it a hug. Hugs there will be for as long as I'm given days for hugging.

There's no limit for Amy and the kids. Wherever and whatever happens, they can gravitate toward my arms. I'm like a black hole of hugs.



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