I Want to Be Me. Only Different.

Sometimes I want to be someone else. Wait. That’s not exactly right. Sometimes I want to be me…only different. Yeah. That’s more along the lines of what I mean.

There are times that I take a look at my life and think about the things that I wish would change.

I wish I was better at __________.
I would love to do more ____________.
Maybe I could have more ____________.

You know…I’d still be me. Just, different.

But here are some questions I have to ask myself.

If I really want __________, am I willing to do what it takes to get there?
Am I willing to put in the work to achieve it?
Am I willing to make the sacrifices necessary to elevate that aspect of my life?
Or am I just wishfully hoping that God will somehow magically get me there…no work involved on my part?

See, the danger I face in hoping I was instantaneously ___________ is that if I don’t put in the work, take the time, or make the sacrifices it takes, I won’t be me when I get there. Not really.

I am a result of all my experiences. And if I don’t do my part in getting somewhere or achieving something, then I’m cheating myself out of opportunity to grow, stretch and become.

So here’s the challenge. If I want to change, I need to go about doing the work of changing. It does no good to hope for something I am unwilling to work for.

Yes, I must follow God’s lead in my life. I must rely on Him to reveal the path before me. But it comes down to my willingness to then take the steps to get to where He wants me to go.

Because otherwise, I may arrive somewhere I was hoping to go, only to realize that I left my true self way back at the beginning.

She Really Was The Best Dog



Courtney Rae 1999-2010



If you know us, then you probably knew her. And chances are you loved her. She was the big dog that had an even bigger heart. She was a part of Carissa’s life since before I was a part of Carissa’s life. But over the years, she became my dog. I say that, of course knowing that she was never solely my dog.

But she was the absolute best dog I have ever known. Patient. Understanding. Kind. Tolerant. Eager to please. And above all, Courtney displayed what it truly means to be part of a family.

In life, things change. Circumstances shift. That certainly was true for her. At first it was just her and Carissa. Then I was added to the mix. Then 2 little boys entered the fray and became big boys. And then 2 more dogs invaded Courtney’s life. But through it all, Courtney’s capacity to welcome others into the family only grew.

She reminded me time and time again that when it’s all said and done, where you live doesn’t matter (she moved with us six times). The stuff you have means nothing (to remind me of that, she chewed everything up as a puppy!) Only the ones you love truly count.

It’s a difficult thing to lose a pet you’ve had for over 11 years. For some, it seems weird to love an animal so deeply. For others, it seems weird not to. For me, Courtney was a part of our family. And I couldn’t help but love her.

And tonight, as I say goodbye to her, I can’t help but be reminded of all that she taught me about being in a family.

Goodbye, Court. I’ll miss you. But I will never forget you.

Point Blank Range

As a rifle range coach, I had the opportunity to work with some of the most highly trained, professional shooters in the United States Marine Corps and Navy. Snipers, recon Marines, MPs. I was honored to serve with them all. Part of my job also included working with Marines who weren’t as practiced with high powered weaponry—cooks, motor-T mechanics, communications gurus—POGs (people other than grunts). Over the 18 months that I served on the range, I probably coached over 2,000 Marines.

Only once did I ever feel like my life was in danger.

During qualification week, Marines go through a regimen of rifle safety classes, classroom instruction, and in-field exercises. One exercise includes some standing position, rapid fire drills. Targets up, safety off, three shots, safety on, targets down.

Now, when you fire in the standing position, your collar tends to stretch out a bit, leaving a gap along the back of your neck. And since the rounds from an M-16 eject to the right, with a Marine standing approximately 4 feet to your left, there is a slight possibility that one of those hot casings can find its way to that gap. In fact, in my experience, only 1 in about 2,000 shooters ever deals with it. I was there for the one.

As this Marine, (I’ll call her ‘Smith’) fired with her collar stretched out, a casing flew into the gap at the back of her neck. Now, the single biggest rule on the range is that when you are not firing, you put the safety on, for obvious reasons. That’s not what Smith did.

Instead, she spun 180 degrees directly toward me. With her rifle in the firing position, aimed chest high, her finger on the trigger, and screaming from the pain of the hot casing, she pointed the barrel directly at my chest. Point blank range. One miniscule jerk of her right index finger, and my life would have ended then and there. Needless to say, I was not happy. I immediately grabbed her rifle and kicked her off the range for the year.
_________

As I look at my calling here at Fellowship Church, there are so many things I have the opportunity to do. I have the chance to work in one of the most influential and on-point churches in the entire world. You could say I get to work with some of the most highly trained, professional shooters in the Christian world! And part of my job here is working with different ministries at different times and on a variety of projects. I’ve had thousands of opportunities to be used by God here. It is a truly humbling experience every day.

Lately, though, I faced a threat. There had been this one opportunity that I was missing out on. And doubt began to creep into my mind. Fear began to swell up in my heart. I was asking myself why I didn’t get the chance to do this thing.

And as I thought about it more and more, I began to have the same feeling as when that Marine’s rifle was pointed straight at my chest. Satan was aiming his rifle of doubt and fear straight at my chest. And one miniscule pull of the trigger and …

But this past weekend, my pastor challenged our church not to focus on the opportunities we lack, but to focus instead on the ones we can leverage. That was my wake up to snap me out of the doubt and fear.

See, I had started to shift my focus away from the things God wanted me to do and toward the things He wanted someone else to do. That’s a dangerous way to live. God doesn’t want me to live that way. He doesn’t want me to go through life with the rifle of doubt and uncertainty aimed point blank at my chest. Because if I go through life that way, then I miss out on all the other chances He has for me.

This past weekend, God grabbed the barrel of the rifle, kicked Satan off the range and told me to get back to work.

My Ride On This Pale Blue Dot

I just watched Carl Sagan’s The Pale Blue Dot. And as I did, I was moved. How can you not be? To think of the vastness of the galaxies; to consider the endlessness of space; to recognize the sheer power it took to create it all. It is humbling to say the least.

But then, I began to ponder some other aspects of our existence: our arrogance in thinking we are the rulers of it all; our self-appointed divinity; our brazen belief that we are it…it’s sad, really.

Yes, God has given us dominion over the earth (Genesis 1:26). But why do we think we are the rulers of the entire galaxy…and beyond? Because that is what we so often think, even if subconsciously. I think the short film awakens us to that danger.

Yet, as I watched it again, I began to think not of humanity in general, but of me. How often do I get so wrapped up in my little corner of this piece of dirt that I forget all that is out there? How often do I come to a point in my life where I think I’m the only one who matters?

I pray that I don’t go through life that way anymore. I pray that, instead, I go through life taking full advantage of the opportunities I have to make sure others see that they matter. I am valued by the One who created this ball off dirt. And I’m here to make sure others realize that they are as well.

Faith. Family. Friends.

These are what truly matter in my life. It’s not about the vastness of my influence. Because the truth is that my influence will never be vast. It will, though, be valued by those closest to me. That’s what I must focus on as I continue my ride on this pale blue dot.

Where We Are In Our Journey

Random.

It's raining outside right now.

My wife is absolutely stunning.

I'm only writing this to get the creativity going.

I never thought of Albert Einstein riding a bike before.

My youngest son hates to wrestle...unless it's with me.

My oldest son throws a wicked fast baseball.

Both of my sons are crazy smart.

I just said "both of my sons"...soon that statement won't apply.

Do you think it's easier to read something that is left justified? Or right justified?

Seriously...my wife is smokin' hot.

There are 2 pens on my desk. One doesn't work. I should probably throw it away.

French press coffee is the best.

A friend of mine's father passed away yesterday. My heart hurts for him.

I think I would like to take up photography.

Or guitar.

Or poetry.

Another friend of mine loaned me two books. It's going to be hard to give them back.

Back. Time to get back to work.

The Yankees Lost. And I Smiled.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.

— From“Casey at Bat” by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, 1888

The ALCS is over. And for my team, the season is over. The Yankees lost and are headed home. The Rangers won and are headed to the Fall Classic that little boys dream of—the World Series.

Yet, as the umpire signaled “Strike Three!” to end the game; as the home crowd erupted in a celebration never before heard in this town; and as my beloved Yankees simply walked off the field defeated, I had a smile on my face. Not because of the outcome of the game or the series, but because of what this has done for so many people around this town.

Weeks ago, many of the people now cheering for the Rangers would have told you that baseball is a boring sport. That there’s not enough action to it. That it just doesn’t have the appeal that a basketball or football or hockey game has.

And I can understand that argument. People say that because there’s no 60-yard HD screen hanging from the rafters. There are no half-nude dancers running onto the field during every break. There’s no obnoxious announcer working the crowd into a frenzy. No crazy strobe lights. No ridiculously loud music during play. It’s simply about the game.

Oh sure, in today’s society, we try to trick it up. We add dot races and lights around the stadium. We think bringing in high-tech instant replay will make the game better (although that then takes away the human element of baseball—something that is both infuriating and invigorating at the same time…but something that makes baseball, baseball).

But baseball is, and will always be, a slow game that requires patience…both to play and to watch. Baseball is the only sport of the “big 4” where strength of will and wit will often pay greater dividends than brute power.

But the excitement of anticipating a 3-2 pitch; the fervor that comes with ducks on the pond and nobody out; the intensity of waiting for your favorite player to make his way from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box in the bottom of the 9th—these are the things about baseball that draw me in. This is what I love about the game.

You see, it’s not just about wins and losses. Yes, I have a favorite team. Yes, I cheer for them to win. But there’s more to it than that. There’s something magical about going to the ballpark and watching BP. There’s something intoxicating about pouring over the stats and numbers, trying to figure out who plays best in what situation. There’s something innocent and pure about remembering my childhood and talking baseball with my grandfather.

Over the last few weeks, this is what baseball has become to a lot of people in this town. And when the Yankees lost last night, baseball won even more fans.

I just hope that continues next year…when the Yankees win again!

How Babe Ruth Helped Me Understand Jesus

A lot of people don't know this, but my grandfather gave me Babe Ruth's autograph when I was 11 years old. It was the single greatest gift I've ever been given - for obvious reasons and not-so-obvious reasons.

Yes, possessing one of the sport's world's most coveted authographs is amazing. There are times that I just stare at it in sheer disbelief. But there's more to it. When I got that autograph, I began a love affair with the New York Yankees and Babe Ruth - a love affair that continues to this day. I know, I know. You either love 'em or hate 'em. And I love 'em.

Because of that, I've read countless books and articles on both the Yankees and Babe Ruth. And in all the reading on Babe Ruth, one thing seemed to come up more than anything else. People, reporters, fans everywhere wanted to know his secret to hitting homeruns. They asked him about it all the time. This is one of his answers:

"I swing as hard as I can, and I try to swing right through the ball. The harder you grip the bat, the more you can swing it through the ball, and the farther the ball will go. I swing big, with everything I've got. I hit big or I miss big. I like to live as big as I can."

I've thought about that answer before. But I never really connected the dots with why that answer meant so much to me. But as I reflect on that statement now, it makes me think of another statement spoken many years ago. Only this statement is more than an answer to the secret of hitting homeruns. It's the secret to living "as big as I can."

Jesus said in John 10:10, "I have come that they may have life and have it abundantly."

You want to live big? You want to hit homeruns every day? Then hold on with faith to Christ as hard as you can. And let him do the swinging for you.

And whether the Yankees or Rangers win, realize that life is about more than a baseball game.

The Journey We're On

The Security of Insecurity

Have you ever been walking through life when all of a sudden you can't see around the bend? Is there any greater feeling of inadequacy than realizing you don't have it all figured out...you don't have everything under control...you don't see every step clearly?

At times like that, I tend to stop down and determine to figure it out. To get everything under control. To strain my eyes and discover where the path leads.

But maybe we aren't meant to have it all down.

Maybe we're supposed to realize that we aren't omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent.

Maybe our feeling of inadequacy is the very thing that ushers in the reality that there is a God who is much bigger, much more powerful, much more in control than we are.

And maybe that feeling is the very thing that affords us the security to move forward. Even when we may not see exactly where the path leads.

Reaching - The Vision and Passion Behind Fellowship Church

change

Do you ever wish things would change?

As you ponder your life, you know something should be...

                       different.

You aren't looking for

t

o

w

e

r

i

n

g

alterations.

You don't want to encounter 

 s         i       m      c  

   e        s         i

                                                                                            shifts.

But you just want some kind of change?

That desire for change, I believe, comes from God.

He is constantly...

Creating.

Innovating.

Altering.

Shifting.

Moving.

Changing.

The ESSENCE of who he is remains CONSTANT.

But the way he reveals himself is never the same.

I believe God wants us to constantly look for ways to change.

I don't think he wants our lives to end up as ruts worn into the path.

Don't change the essence of who you are.

But change the way you reveal yourself.

Remain consistently inconsistent.

And continually challenge yourself to...

Parker Lays Out the Gospel!

Something Bigger than Me

I woke up at 5 am to the sound of Reveille blasting over the loud speaker, just as I had every morning for three straight months. The difference was that, on that day, I wasn’t going to roll out of the rack for training or inspection. On that morning, I would march across the parade deck with hundreds of other guys and finally earn the title “Marine”. The three months leading up to that were just a proving ground. That morning was the payoff.

No one earns the privilege of being part of the world’s greatest fighting force flippantly. You pay for it. With blood, sweat, pain (otherwise known as weakness leaving the body), and honestly, a part of your identity. When I left the parade deck of MCRD San Diego, I was no longer the same person I was when I arrived. I couldn’t be.

Along with that reality comes a gamut of emotion that is easy to recall, yet difficult to express. Those who have been there know what I mean. On the day you become a Marine, and every day following it, there is a sense of pride. There is a sense of entitlement. There is a sense of security in my abilities and an astute sense that I can do anything.

But more than that, I believe, is a sense of truly, and finally, belonging to something much bigger than me.

Today, fifteen years later, I’m again part of something bigger than me. But this time, it’s not something I earned. I didn’t pay for it with my blood, sweat or pain. This time, I’m experiencing what Jesus paid for with his own blood, sweat and pain. And because of that, I’m no longer the person I was before I met him. I can’t be. Now, my identity is wrapped up in who he is. And there is no greater security than that!

In the Corps, I had a sense of entitlement and pride for what I had earned. As a Christian, I have a sense of humility and thankfulness for what Christ did for me.

Books

There's just something special about books. I don't even care which books. Good books. Bad books. Thick books. Thin books. Old books. New books. (this is starting to sound a lot like Dr. Seuss’s “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish”! )

They can be books that are fiction or not. Books about people or the past or business management or dead athletes or corrupt politicians or extinct empires or farming or mountain climbing. There's something powerful that happens when I'm immersed in the words and thoughts of other writers. Even the ones that aren't from writers. It's hard to explain, really.

There are times when I walk the aisles of a bookstore and become almost melancholy because there's not enough time to read them all. But at the same time I'm excited that there are so many opportunities to discover new thoughts, study different perspectives or examine unique angles on old, familiar topics.

But there's one book that captures all of the emotions, desires, needs, cares, hopes and fears I can ever have. It's a collection of thoughts, perspectives, angles, words, sentences and paragraphs that is unmatched by any other book. It's the book that changes me every time I read it.

No other book gives me the hope and promise of life like this one. None of the characters and stories found on the shelves of a bookstore compare to those found in the pages of this book. And no book scares me as much. Because it's the book that shows me who I really am. And no book inspires me more. Because it’s the book that shows me who I am meant to be.

It's the one book that equips me and challenges me and reminds me and defines me—all at the same time. If you haven't read this book lately, I would challenge you to pick it up... again, or for the first time. Start “in the beginning” and read all the way through, “Amen.” Because it's written by the greatest author there could be; and there is so much there for you to discover. I'm pretty sure you know which one it is...

I want to live, thank you.

We were 13,500 feet above the surface of the earth in an airplane that resembled little more than a metal can with indoor/outdoor carpet on the floor. No seats. No friendly flight attendants offering $3 beverages. No pressurized cabin or in-flight movie. Just an opening on the side that was the size of a single-car garage door.

There was a tap on the shoulder, a 3-count, and then…

When I decided to go skydiving, a friend of mine asked me if I was going through some kind of midlife crisis. It was an understandable question. But I wouldn’t say that’s what my freefall from the sky was about. It was more the product of a realization.

The last few years I’ve begun to see more and more that I’ve only been given one life. Sure, I’ve always had an intellectual awareness of that fact. We all do. But through several circumstances and situations, I’ve really begun to see that life is a gift. And I’ve started to ask myself if I’m making the most of it.

As I sit here looking at all that God has blessed me with, I have to wonder: have I done all I can to thank him for it? I mean really thank him. Not just with words, but with actions.

We would all admit that it’s important to say “Thank you.” But I believe the true essence of thanks is found in action. It’s when we appreciate something so much that we are willing to squeeze every drop out of it.

In his first letter to the Thessalonians, the apostle Paul challenged them, “…in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

In everything. Not just in words, but in actions as well. In other words, we’re to make the most out of life.

Think of a hot summer day. You’ve just walked inside after hours of doing yard work. And there on the counter is an ice-cold glass of clear, refreshing water. And standing next to it is your wife, smiling. Of course you say “thank you.” But you don’t stop there. You pick up the glass and gulp it down. You don’t take a little sip, nod your head and then walk away. You enjoy every single drop.

Am I saying that the only way to show appreciation for life is to strap a parachute to your back and jump from 2.5 miles above the earth? No! But I think we do need to ask ourselves, “What am I doing to show my appreciation for this life?”

Are we simply trying to skate by, looking at each day as something we have to endure? Or are we looking to attack every moment as voraciously as we can and show others that what God has given us is a precious gift to be thoroughly enjoyed?

I don’t want to just say “thank you.” I want to live, thank you.

Do You Ever...

... meet people who challenge you to become a better person?
... wonder what dogs think when you throw a ball for them?
... ask God what the meaning of life is?
... marvel at the reality that you’ll never really know it all?
... burn your tongue so bad that the rest of the drink is ruined?
... think you’re just one big thought away from a breakthrough?
... want a second chance?
... change your shirt 5 times before you leave the house?
... say something so dumb that it astounds yourself?
... wish you lived somewhere else?
... drive too fast?
... dream so big that it’s impossible to accomplish it on your own?
... dream so small that it’s not worth accomplishing at all?
... look at a mountain and think, “I can climb that.”
... sit and stare at the grass or trees or trash blowing in the wind?
... wonder what people in Beijing or London or Montreal are doing right now?
... want to ask a question, but don't know how?
... doodle during a meeting?
... hope your kids will be happier than you are?
... walk around downtown just for a different perspective?
... eat too many Oreos too late at night?
... laugh out loud in public because of a thought you had?
... think the dog looks at you and thinks, “What were you thinking?”

Sometimes I do.

Willing to Write

When people ask me what I do and I respond that I’m a writer, I often wonder if they really get what I’m saying. After all, what is writing?

Webster defines writing as, “the act of a person or thing that writes.” Not sure about you, but I think that’s a cop out. That’s like saying that running is the activity of a person or thing that runs. Or that breathing is the action of a person or thing that breathes.

Writing is much more emotionally charged and spiritually driven than that traditional, scholastic explanation. It’s more than simply the act of one who writes, because it’s more organic, more fluid, more alive.

I think a better definition of writing is: the desperate attempt of a confused craftsman to communicate his (or her) emotions, beliefs, experiences, convictions, sense of humor, imagination or perspectives in such a way that anyone willing to read it can actually begin to feel it.

When someone writes, they are opening up their soul and displaying the very nature of their being on the page. And it doesn’t matter what they write – blogs, blurbs, novels, poems, plays, songs.

To move an idea from your head to the page takes courage and a willingness to subject yourself to any number of reactions – from praise to ridicule to apathy (which is worse that ridicule). It’s a humbling act that either results in clarity or cloudiness. And it’s a desperate plea to communicate something so intimate and personal that most people shy away from ever really writing anything at all.

The reality is that all of us could be writers. The question is, are we willing?

The Few. The Proud. The Marines.

Remember the Price of Freedom

What Do You Expect?

Think about the millions of expectations that come with living. When we're children, we're expected to sit quietly, do our work, mind our manners and not pick our noses (at least not in public).

When we're teenagers, we're expected to follow the rules, listen to those who are wiser than we are, hold our tongues and (at least try to) make it home by curfew. And on the other hand, the unspoken expectation is that we'll rebel.

When we're young adults, we're expected to decide our life's destination, follow the standard protocol for reaching that goal and not speed or let the grass get too tall in the front yard.

And as we get older, we're expected to have learned from life and pass those lessons on to others, even though they probably won't listen because they know so much more than we did at that age.

I was thinking about all those expectations. And I boiled it down to this. The goal of all of those is for us to blend in. We're expected to be one of the crowd. Somewhere, somehow, we become convinced that we must meet everyone else's expectations in order to make it through life. Because if we don't, we just might stick out. And when we stick out, we run the risk of too many terrible things. Things we don't dare subject ourselves to. Things like being made fun of, being talked about, and actually being ... noticed.

But as I think about all the expectations that I've met in my life, and even those I haven't, I wonder: how much of my life is the sum total of expectations of other people?

I don't want to live based on other people's expectations. Because when I do, sure, I fit in. But I also lose who I'm designed to be. And then others dictate where I go, what I do, how I live. I don't want to live that way.

I want to live based on God's expectations, because He doesn't have the same expectations for me that others have. Oh, sure, He expects me to grow and learn and be responsible and not speed and pay my taxes and not pick my nose.

But I think His biggest expectation for me is that I look to Him first. Not second. Not forty-fourth. And certainly not last. So every day, I want to start off not looking to the expectations of others. I want to look to God and ask Him, "What do you expect?"

A Little About a Lot? Or a Lot about a little?

Would you rather know a lot about a little? Or a little about a lot?
I think I would rather know a lot about a little. Because I've been designed that way by God. It’s the essentiality of putting your all into something.

Each of us could go through life simply

            p      i      e      c      i     n      g

ou      rse      lve    s

                                                                                    o

                                                                                             u

                                                                                                      t.

Or…

We could fully commit to something; devoting our time, energy and strength to it.

The same thing works with our relationships. We can fully give ourselves to a precious few; those in life who will be there in the good times and the bad ... no matter what.

Or...

We can give out portions of ourselves to a large number of people, showing them only what we want them to see and hiding what really makes us who we are. But when we do that; when we shatter our own essence in hopes of being accepted, we aren’t ever really known. Not the way we’re meant to be known anyway.

So me? I’d rather know a lot about a little…and be known a lot by a little.

She is Everything. And More.

When I met her, she was the force in life that knocked everything off its course. Until that point, I knew what I wanted; I knew where I was headed. When I met her, I realized that all needed to change.

There are so many words that describe who she is to me. Lover. Friend. Companion. Shelter. Gift. I have the privilege of seeing everything that no one else sees, hearing what no one else hears, understanding what no one else understands. And all that is for me and me alone.

But there's one word that causes her to rise higher in the eyes of two little boys: mother.

When they need her, she is there.
When they call for her, she comes running.
When they cry, she holds them.
When they laugh, she laughs with them.
When they are wrong, she corrects them.
Through it all, she prays for them.

She loves them. She guides them. She helps them.  She is their sounding board of hope, sympathy and emotion.

Without her, I could not do what I do. She is my wife. She is their mother. She is the source of our strength and courage.

She is the one who brings color to our lives.

Carissa, I love you. Happy Mother's Day!

The Power of Cussing

Do you remember that scene in “A Christmas Story” where Ralphie helps his dad change the flat tire? Remember how that scene ends? Yep. With an f-bomb and a bar of soap.

Until just a few days ago, I saw myself from Ralphie’s perspective. I remember what it was like to discover the power of cussing. And I remember vividly the first time I heard the f-bomb. I was in the 2nd grade.

My friend Trey told a joke about the good side and the bad side of the hill (yes, I still remember the joke). We laughed so hard that the teacher in the cafeteria finally came over to find out what was so funny. It was very much my Ralphie moment. I hadn’t actually said the word myself. Not then at least. But I got my first lesson in guilt by association. The teacher didn’t call my parents. And if they’re reading this, this is most likely the first time they’ve ever heard this story.

The point is that I remember the power of discovering a forbidden word. And I used it. Often. Loudly. Proudly. I don’t remember ever getting caught. But I definitely know it was part of my verbal arsenal.

Now, I look at things from a completely different angle, because I’m no longer Ralphie. I’m Ralphie’s dad. And sadly, real life isn’t as funny as the movies.

Jackson has recently learned the power of the f-bomb…and the repercussions it brings. Who knows when he actually learned it for the first time? But in the past 96 hours, he’s dropped it twice (that we know of). The first time, he was at a friend’s. There was an … incident. But he came home and fessed up. Said he lost his temper and it just came out.

In that moment, I was so proud of his honesty and could tell he was truly sorry. Because I want him to feel comfortable coming to me in the future, I told him I was disappointed in his actions, but proud that he had the guts to be honest. No punishment.

Yesterday, he dropped the bomb at school. I know because the principal called my wife, who called me. Grace period? Over. Creative discipline begins. And soap? Pfff. That’s child’s play. The list of consequences* on this one is long and distinguished.

It’s not about the power of a forbidden word. This is an opportunity to teach Jackson about the power of choosing your words carefully.


* The list of consequences:

• Call and apologize to the kids he cussed out, and to their parents.
• Write a letter of apology to the principal and the teacher.
• Miss the lock-in at church.
• Call the Pastor to explain why he missed the lock-in.
• No screens (t.v., DS, Wii) for a week.
• No friends over for a week.
• No going to friends’ houses for a week.
• No more riding the bus home from school.
• No more riding bikes with the kid he learned the word from.

Dad, I have a question...

Have you ever experienced a moment that you think is going to be profound? The time is right. The atmosphere is primed. And you just know this moment is going to hold some deep meaning, far beyond the moment itself. I just had one.

I was tucking the boys into bed while Carissa is at Flavour 2010. We've had a great night as just the boys. We ordered pizza. Played a little hoops. Even got in some video game time. Just hung out.

And as I kissed Parker good night and turned to walk out of his room, he stopped me.

"Dad?"

Yes, P?

"I have a question I've been thinking about that I just can't answer..." (Those were his exact words.)

Now, let me explain something. Parker is the one of our two boys who will drop some seriously deep questions on you when you least expect it. He's the one who contemplates the most difficult aspects of life, spirituality and the meaning of it all...in his seven year old way, of course.

So when he stopped me tonight with that question, I was poised and ready to tackle another philosophical discussion or theological conversation about what God might look like or how it's possible for Jesus to be physically alive in heaven right now (both of which I've had with him at some point).

"I have a question I've been thinking about that I just can't answer..."

Yes, P?

"Just how can you defeat the final Bowser on Super Mario Bros.?"

I wanted to write tonight...

I wanted to write tonight. Nothing too big; nothing life changing. Just...write. But honestly, I don't feel like writing anymore. And as I think about that, I can't help but think of a blog post by Michael Hyatt . It's actually written by P.J. O'Rourke. But it pretty much nails it.

"Usually, writers will do anything to avoid writing. For instance, the previous sentence was written at one o’clock this afternoon. It is now a quarter to four. I have spent the past two hours and forty-five minutes sorting my neckties by width, looking up the word “paisly” in three dictionaries, attempting to find the town of that name on The New York Times Atlas of the World map of Scotland, sorting my reference books by width, trying to get the bookcase to stop wobbling by stuffing a matchbook cover under its corner, dialing the telephone number on the matchbook cover to see if I should take computer courses at night, looking at the computer ads in the newspaper and deciding to buy a computer because writing seems to be so difficult on my old Remington, reading an interesting article on sorghum farming in Uruguay that was in the newspaper next to the computer ads, cutting that and other interesting articles out of the newspaper, sorting—by width—all the interesting articles I’ve cut out of newspapers recently, fastening them neatly together with paper clips and making a very attractive paper clip necklace and bracelet set, which I will present to my girlfriend as soon as she comes home from the three-hour low-impact aerobic workout that I made her go to so I could have some time alone to write.”

— P. J. O’Rourke

I Wonder...Do You Know Him?

I want to climb mountains

My desire to stand on top of some of the highest points on earth isn't new. It's something that has been building in me for the last 2 years or so. In reality, it's probably been boiling under the surface even longer than that. But recently, it's become what some might call an obsession. (Just talk to my bride for a list of books I've read, websites I've visited and people I've talked to about this whole thing.)

Most people who are into mountaineering start their love for the peaks at a very early age. I'm not at a "very early age." Of course, I'm not decrepit either. So I've got that going for me. But my love for the mountains is no less real than that of someone who grew up staring at one from the back porch. My approach and timing may just be different.

Now, for those of you who live in or near the mountains, you'll undoubtedly think, "Why not just start climbing?" But when you live in a place where the highest elevation is the roof of a structure made of steel and glass, there's a lot of thought about climbing that happens before you actually get to climb. And there's a lot of living that happens beforehand too.

For those who have been climbing as long as they can remember, they probably spent their teens and 20s pushing the limits, testing themselves beyond the point of intelligence. I don't have that luxury. I've lived long enough to have some of those edges of naivete chipped away. I know I have limits. I also know that my dreams affect more than just me.

I have a wife and two young sons. I have friends and family who count on me. I'm not going to run off to the wilderness and pretend that my life would be better if I could just climb the Devil's Thumb or scale the north face of the Eiger.

I live in the real world. So when I finally do have the opportunity and availability to climb, I won't be stupid. I won't knowingly put myself in positions that jeopordize what God has blessed me with.

However...

I want to climb mountains. And inherent within that desire is the expectation that I will take risks. I plan on pushing the limits of my physical abilities and testing myself when and where I can. I think my bride understands that. In fact, I know she does because she hopes to be on those mountains with me.

But as I think about it, I think it's crucial to do that in any aspect of life. It's vital in order to feel alive. And I think that's true for anyone, whatever they want to do.

I want to climb mountains. But before I ever make it to the summit of a large pile of rocks, I want every day to become a new mountain, a new adventure, a new summit I strive to reach.

Priceless

This painting hangs in my office, just above my desk. The woman who painted it is a relatively unknown artist. Her work isn't displayed in museums or galleries. If her art was up for auction, it wouldn't tempt the uber-rich to drop millions of dollars (though it wouldn't surprise me). Unlike the world's iconic works of art, this painting has only been seen by maybe 50 people. Yet, this one canvas means more to me than any other painting I've ever seen. And it's not just because the artist is my bride.

When I look at the marks of the brushstokes, the shading of the colors, the layers of paint and gloss; and when I think of the story behind the painting, I see something so much more than a mixture of chemicals on a canvas. I see love. But more than a reminder of being loved, I see a challenge to love.

See, Carissa doesn't paint for the love of the viewer. She paints because of her love for the viewer, whoever that may be.

I've urged her on several occasions to use her talent to get paid, to paint for money. But each time, she says she can't. It's not that faux-modesty, oh-I-don't-have-any-talent kind of thing. It's that her talent, her creativity, her brilliance in this realm comes from a place so deep, so rich, so full, that the only way to describe it is an expression of love.

And you can't put a price on that.

It Really Does Matter

My first conversation with Tim was exactly a month ago. It was a call that absolutely rocked my spirit and reawakened me to the fight I am in, along with so many others.

In a perfect world, that phone call would have led to an immediate change in Tim. After all, as Christians, isn't that what we want - to see that instant change in people and to know that what we say and what we pray actually matters?

But that's not exactly how it worked. After all, we don't live in a perfect world.

Since that first call with Tim, he has lost his job and found himself again on the verge of suicide - complete with bottle in one hand, gun in the other. And on more than one occasion he has called me with doubts, questions, fears and a feeling of hopelessness.

God, though, never abandoned Tim.

My latest phone call with Tim was just about 15 minutes ago. To say that there has been a change in his life  would be an understatement. Because the man I just spoke with is literally on his way to becoming a new person!

Over the last four weeks, Tim has begun to find his way to God. He's found a new job, gotten rid of the gun, and begun to dive into God's Word. He's understanding things about God that never made sense to him before. He's asking questions that never occured to him before (and not the "why me" questions, but the "what now" questions.) And he's planning on coming to church this weekend - expecting God to move in a big way in his life...and I'm sure He will.

Tim wanted to thank me for my prayers. And he wanted me to thank you for yours. He feels them, almost literally. And he is on the verge of making the single greatest decision any of us can ever make. God is so good!

And just in case you needed a reminder: what you pray actually does matter.

Deadly Serious

The day ended with one last phone call. I was pretty exhausted from a day of fielding phone calls, responding to emails and watching all the talk over the internet. Not to mention the fact that one of the most important written pieces of the year is in the works. The work load wasn't bad. It was the emotional toll of the spiritual fighting.

Now, let me be clear. I'm not complaining. I have what I think is the greatest calling and opportunity of anyone I know. I just really didn't want to take that one last phone call, especially at the end of the day. But something in the guy's tone on the voicemail told me I needed to make this call. So I picked up the phone and dialed the number.

Right away, I found out that this man, Tim, was in trouble. He used phrases like "end of my rope" and "don't know where to turn." And I got it, I told him. We've all been there. Sometimes we just need to talk it through. But then it turned deadly serious...no. It turned eternally serious. This man was on the edge of committing suicide.

Immediately, I flagged down some other staff members, although I didn't know what they were going to do. I was the one on the phone with him. And on the other hand, I didn't know what I was going to do. I'd never been in that situation before.

But then, I asked Tim a simple question. Well, I thought it was simple. I was just trying to keep him on the line and talking. I said, "Tim, are you a Christian?" The answer was immediate and short. "No."

And for the next 2 hours, I had the opportunity to share with this man the fact that God loves him, no matter what he is facing right now. Tim had no idea about Jesus, the Bible, prayer...none of it. How he got to me is a miracle itself. But he was on the phone. God had orchestrated the conversation for a reason. So I started at the beginning in the Garden and worked my way all the way through Tim's life and how Christ is the answer he's looking for. He had a lot of questions. I had some answers. But as I talked with him, I felt a peace and focus that only comes from God. Although Tim was on the edge, God's hand began working in his life and brought him back a little bit.

I don't say all this to put a notch in my Christian belt. You can have that belt if you think that's what this is about. Tim is still far away. He's still hurting. He's still doubting. But he's asking the questions. He's seeking God. And the Scriptures tell us that when you seek God, you will find him. Tim will find God. He will find the peace that surpasses all understanding.

But as I reflect back on that call, I realize something else. In the middle of what feels like an enormous battle, it can be easy to say we want to quit. But there's a reason we're fighting. And last night, I was reminded of that reason. While Tim is the one seeking God, that conversation helped me rediscover the passion I have for the fight.

My prayer now if for Tim. He is the civilian that is often caught up in the throws of a war - a war he doesn't necessarily understand, but a war that is being fought for him.

And for those of you fighting in that same war with me, I encourage you to stay focused. Don't quit the fight. It's not easy. But when lives and eternities are at stake, it is definitely worth the cost.

Creative Consequences

(*Warning: there may be a high level of sarcasm peppered throughout this post.)

Sometimes the Boyd children aren't perfectly well-behaved. I know; it shocks me too. You'd think a 9 year old and a 7 year old who live in a house where the behavioral expectations are clear would just get it, especially having been raised in the same system for all these years. But alas, such is not the case. So, from time to time, discipline is a part of life. We don't "punish" our children. We allow them to face the consequences for their choices. Some of those consequences are good. Some are bad. But we try to make all of them, well, creative.

Over the years, we've done our best to take a cue from our Pastor and be as creative as we can when it comes to teaching our children and correcting their behavior. Many people have asked us about some of those adventures in discipline, so I thought I'd share just a few of the more effective (and let's be honest, amusing) consequences our boys have faced.

• Pick up the phone. When our boys decide that their extra-curricular activities are rights rather than privileges, the results can sometimes be seen in their behavior. When it escalates to the point of ridiculousness, the ECA for the day is out of the question. But it doesn't stop with not getting to go. They then have to pick up the phone and call the coach themselves to explain why they won't be at practice. For some reason, having to talk about poor behavior choices with another authority figure outside the family brings it home or them. (The latest situation will have Jackson writing a letter of apology to his teacher, which is an adaptation of the phone thing.)
• The 5 Minute Rule. Our boys dawdle. A lot! And for some reason, it's worse during shower time. So we've employed the 5 minute rule. We allow them 5 minutes of hot water during their showers. After that, the hot water gets shut off. The kicker is that they still have to finish their shower. Cold, I know. But effective.

Anyone with more than one child knows that, although they can be sweet to each other, the peace and harmony can just as easily give way to bickering and quarrelling. And just like in any multi-child household, our boys fight. What we've done in those cases has varied. It really depends on what we feel like putting up with. Some of the things they've had to do as the result of a brotherly battle have been:

• Write down 10 things they like about each other. After that, they have to sit facing one another and read the list to one another. This always results in laughter and smiles, which is a nice bonus.
• Work together. The one I have in mind is the time they had to pick up the dog poop from the back yard. What should have taken about 30 minutes ended up taking 5 1/2 hours. That's right. They spent the entire Saturday picking up dog poop. (I told you they dawdle a lot.) But by the end, they were goofing around and having a great time with each other.
• Just sit there. Once at NRH2O, they got into that bickering, back-and-forth fighting that is always so fun to deal with in public. But, rather than hauling them off to some corner to discipline them while trying to maintain some level of dignity in the eyes of compelte strangers, we decided not to deal with it at all. We simply told them to go sit at a table. The killer part was that we stayed in the pool where we could see them and they could see us. I can't imagine what was going on in their minds while they watched Mom and Dad have a blast in the wave pool, but I can tell you that the rest of the day we didn't have a single problem.
• Just lay there. One of my favorite so far was one Carissa came up with in the spur of the moment. They were treating each other terribly one day after school. And she had just had it. But she didn't yell. She didn't scream. She just had them stop what they were doing, go into the dining room and lay down. On their backs. Staring at the ceiling. Did I mention we have concrete floors? I'm not sure how long they laid there, but it left enough of an impression on them that they still talk about it today.

These are just a few of the things we've done to help our children learn the right behavior. Has it helped? I hope so. But I'm sure there will be many more situations over the coming years. But my prayer is that through it all they come to understand that, while we got some amusement out of the creative ways we discipline, the point is always that we love them.

Do not withhold discipline from a child... Proverbs 23:13

When the sun rises again

The hardest part of writing, to me, is always the first few words. I've heard it said that in speaking, the first 30-45 seconds are crucial to capturing the audience. I believe in writing it's the first 5-10 words. Because it's the those few precious words that can capture the reader and draw them in. It's also those first few words that set the tone. They can lay a foundation for hope, or set the tone for something completely different.

If you're still reading this, then those intial words worked. Or perhaps you're still reading because you know me and you wanted to know what I find to be the most difficult aspect of what I do. Either way, thank you. And hang in there...this really is going somewhere.

The last few weeks, no...the last few months (and in some cases years) have been challenging for a lot of people close to me. Some would say it's "just life," but there have been circumstances and situations that have been especially difficult to process. Some of them avoidable; others not. But no matter who or what caused them, they are happening.

As I have faced the latest of these, something came to mind that I'd never really considered. The hardest part of facing a difficult situation, for me, is the very beginning. It's that first thunderclap that rattles me the most. It's not that the repercussions aren't hard to handle. There are lives affected, questions unanswerd and pieces scattered, left to pick up. But it's those initial moments that are the hardest, because it's then that the memory of how things "used to be" is still too fresh. And the prospect of life taking a different direction after the storm is simply foreign.

But I've also thought about something else. It's in those initial moments that God seems the closest. Those "initial moments" might be a few days; they might be a few years. But no matter how long they are, that's when God's power, his love and his grace are most evident.

I say that because, as the situation becomes more distant; as the storm calms, I have a tendency to allow life to become the routine that can so often make God's omniscience and omnipotence seem less, well, omni. It's not that I don't recognize the fact that God is God. But I get to a point that, in my mind, even he becomes somewhat  routine.

Not any more.

I've gone through enough...let me rephrase that. He's brought me through enough that I don't want him to be routine in my life. Ever. So as I draw further from the last difficult situation and closer to the next one, I am approaching each day as the adventure it was intended to be. Because it's through adventure that I can recognize my own frailty and God's ultimate power. It's only by wathcing the thunderstorm roll in and then out again that I see the majesty of my maker and fully enjoy the peace that comes when the sun rises again.