Midnight Musings

It's my favorite month of the year, right between Thanksgiving and Christmas. The whole season makes me giddy. I've been aching to put up Christmas decorations for about a month now. I know it's silly to have them out while the air-conditioning is still on, but I love the wonder and enchantment that comes with the season.

Here it is, just after midnight, and I'm sitting by our newly-erected Christmas tree. It's not complete...just the lights and ribbon are on. Joy and I are too nervous to put the ornaments on with the dog (he's been all puppy recently) and thought we'd see what he does with a plain tree for a few days before temping him with all sorts of colors and smells. But other decorations are out, and the enchantment has begun.

But as I sit here, I'm thinking everything at this moment is just what it should be. There is a nip in the air, but it's toasty inside. There are candles scattered about our apartment, and I am sitting next to those always-enticing white lights on the tree. Is there anyone else who can just look at a tree for hours, trying to soak in each moment? Maybe that's what I love about this season. In the business and chaos, it always seems to slow me down, especially on evenings like this. I've done some present-wrapping and reading and am listening to my new CD that will surely have a blog of its own soon. The dog is curled up nearby and Joy is asleep on the sofa across from me. Of course, she's wearing her candy-cane pajamas and is just as cute as cute can be. I'm sipping on a nice Chilean Cabernet while I enjoy some brie and tangerine and I wonder why there can't be a "Pause" button for this moment. I find myself not wanting to go to bed knowing that as morning comes, so has the moment been lost to memory.

I hope you join with me in the enchantment this month. It's a time of reflection and revelry, insanity and intimacy, panic and peace.

Thankful Thoughts

I have so much to be thankful for this year. A wife that I love and who loves me. A dog who I love and who loves me. A God who I love and who loves me. Cool, huh?

As if that wasn't enough, I'm really enjoying my internship this year. Granted, it's not ideal to work 30 hours a week and not get paid, but that's life, and at least I'm at a site that I like. The staff are great to work with, and there's a high level of clinical competency and excellence. Wonderful supervision and good trainings. The agency focuses on family treatment and a lot of the clients come for issues related to substance use. The agency is also a leader in experiential education and wilderness therapy, which is a primary reason I wanted to be here. (Not to mention it's a mile from our apartment!)

In addition to my family and individual sessions, I co-facilitate four groups, all of which are very different. Three are on-site and one's in a local school. Also, last month I was able to take part in a training to be certified as a Wilderness First Responder (WFR). Since my internship site does wilderness therapy trips (and hopefully I'll be able to help lead some this year...), they provide training for trip leaders on best-practices in wilderness medicine when in remote settings. The training was intense, but fantastic. I was reminded of my love for the outdoors and getting away from the rest of society. I've just started reading a book titled "The Last Child in the Woods," and the author talks about Nature Deficit Disorder and the current generation's lack of exposure to anything outside. Interesting indeed.

That's just a little glimpse at my internship right now, and it's definitely something I'm thankful for. What are you thankful for?

Another School Year

It’s always sad when the end of summer comes. But I always get this sense of excitement too. An eagerness for a new year, a movement towards change, a willing surrender to challenge. This feeling of raw energy is more palpable this year as I try to arrange the various commitments I have into one lavish meal where each course enhances the other. The main course for me is my internship, which I just started this week. I’m terribly excited about the agency where I will be for the next nine months. OMNI Youth Services is an excellent training facility and known for their innovative practices with adolescents and families. I plan on experiencing tremendous growth as a clinician, and I’m ready to put theories and tests and lectures into practice.

When it comes to working with people as a clinician, I think it’s important that research inform practice and practice inform research. It makes sense, and I want to participate in both throughout my life. Obviously, if I plan on applying to Ph.D. programs (and I do), research becomes the main course. In order to strengthen this part of my application for schools, I am volunteering on two research teams this year at other universities. One looks at speed-dating to gain information on initial romantic attraction; the other studies the efficacy of Oxford Houses as a possible post-residential option in the addictions field. Completely different areas, completely different research, and I’m completely unprepared for both. That may be an exaggeration, but I definitely feel a little in over my head. Hopefully that’s how I’ll learn, right?

So now we have my internship as the main course and I’ll put the research projects as the two sides. Now we need an appetizer and dessert. For the appetizer, I have my comprehensive exams coming up in October as well as the GRE. If I don’t pass the comprehensives, I don’t graduate in May, and then the whole idea of more school is pretty much out of the question. For those of you who don’t know me, dessert is my least favorite part of the meal. Joy hates it, but it’s true. When we go out to eat, if there’s an option of either an appetizer or dessert, I will always pick the appetizer. I like dessert once I actually start eating it, but it never actually sounds all that great (unless of course it’s sorbet or fresh fruit, but Joy says those don’t even count as desserts). So I’m going to put Ph.D. applications as my dessert. It’s a huge undertaking, and I have about 10 schools I’m applying to. And honestly, I’m scared. I’m scared of not getting in anywhere, and I think I’m also scared of getting in, because then it means a whole lot of work and probably six years of feeling in-over-my-head.

The year is off and running. I am ready to go, ready to take it on. I hope I feel the same way in a month or two. I’ll let you know.

Splendid Suns & Surrendering

Summer is drawing to a close, and I’m pleased to announce that I’ve already completed 12 books this summer, and have 4 that are almost done. I’ve done a lot of reading. I just finished reading Khaled Hosseini's captivating A Thousand Splendid Suns, which was heart-wrenching. Such sad fiction, and the sadness is made ever more aching when the fiction is based on fact. This world is messed up, and practical answers seen elusive, even impossible. The story takes place in contemporary Afghanistan, where instability is the norm and horrors are expected. Refugees, children without parents, businesses destroyed, cultures destroyed, all for what? More freedom, less freedom? Does anyone even know? In the story, you see horrible marriages, and I have to think that these horrible marriages may have cultural aspects unique to the story, but I doubt the overall misery is any different from the soulless marriages occupying many homes in America. At times, I wonder if marriage is just a euphemism for slavery and love an esoteric luxury, a commodity to be discarded because human life simply isn’t worth that much.

I also recently finished another book which is focused solely on marriage. Iris Krasnow writes in Surrendering to Marriage about real marriages—ugly, beautiful, worn and redeemed. As a journalist, she interviews dozens of partners, trying to get some handle on marriage in America, and, to no one’s surprise, much of it isn’t pretty. But Krasnow remains dedicated and optimistic, pulling out threads of what it means to make a marriage work, believing that the threads that are worn and tired can make the most beautiful tapestry. The tapestry of her book includes stories of adultery and divorce, resentment and loss, but hope is woven throughout.

These two books are so completely different. One has hope for marriage in America, one depicts a challenging portrait of marriage in Afghanistan. And in both, there’s a desire for love, a desire for honest-to-goodness intimacy. Whether it is found in friendship, parenting, or marriage, it permeates our lives and our longings.

My Dog

I’m in love. With my dog. I can’t help it; it just is. My dog has so many problems, and Joy and I may not even be able to keep him because he’s so troubled, but I just love him. I love him so much that, recently, I’ve begun to sleep on the floor next to the bed just so I can lay next to him as he sleeps. Of course, my wife doesn’t appreciate this, but I do always invite her to come to the floor with us. Can I help it if she always declines? Of course, the funny thing is that I usually am on the floor for all of twenty seconds before the dog gets up and goes to rest somewhere else, leaving me alone wondering why on earth I’m laying on the floor. Joy laughs as I come crawling back into bed, and I thank her for her generosity in taking me back.

But like I said, my dog has problems. I guess you never know quite what you’re getting when you get a dog from a shelter. For the first month, we thought we’d found the Perfect Pup. It was pure bliss, just like the beginning of any love relationship. Then the real colors begin to show, all sorts of ugly shades of gray and black and vomit-is-covering-the-floors cream. You wonder where the vomit comes from? Oh yes, that comes from the day the dog found a 20-pound bag of rice and helped himself to copious amounts before his stomach distended and he began to throw up (and have diarrhea for extra fun) all over our apartment. This was the night before Joy’s first day of teaching this year. It was 1 a.m., and Joy was trying to sleep on the couch, drinking Sprite because her stomach was so upset (it was pretty gross) while I walked the dog until about 3 in the morning and then slept next to the kitchen to make sure the dog didn’t leave the linoleum for the carpet in case another incident were to ensue.

There are other problems. The dog managed to pull a Houdini and break out of his metal crate, somehow destroying a hinge in the escape. He’s a powerful dog and it must have been something out of Shawshank Redemption, but instead of redemption, the dog found a box of chocolates. Joy freaked; I tried to make the dog throw up. And yet the biggest problem is this: our dog tries to bite people. It’s true. I feel bad even typing it—what kind of parent am I to have a biting dog? But it’s true, and I can’t deny it or a friend or unsuspecting stranger may lose a finger or two. We really think the dog simply wants to protect Joy and me and doesn’t know what to do when others are around except keep them away. It’s something we’re desperately working on, and we wonder how long before we simply stop trying. Can’t he be one of those dogs that other people ignore and simply chews on his bone in the corner?

You may be thinking that I should just take him to the shelter and be done with it all. But as I told you earlier, I’m in love with this dog. Just the other day I told Joy that I didn’t think we should have kids because I doubted it possible I could ever love a child as much as I love my Colby. A little sick, yes. A little true, unfortunately. How can I return a dog whose problem is that he loves too much? We’re not quite sure what we’re going to do, but we’re giving it a few months. We want to fight for this dog, because I think in the end he’s worth fighting for. Now all we need is for him to stop thinking that Joy and me are worth fighting for and we’ll be all set. Until then, feel free to stop on by, but you may want to consider ignoring the dog. Or wear gloves. Yes, it’s true that this dog has my heart, but I figure it’s better he have my heart than your hand.

Shelby Flood

Shelby, Ohio is where I went to high school. I (not so proudly) graduated from there in 2000 (with honors!) I was excited to get out, off to the even smaller town of Upland, Indiana. Well, my parents still live in Shelby and unfortunately live close to the river that runs through town. In 2004, there was one flood, and it's been useful for many jokes in the family. Well, there's been flooding again, and it's much worse this time. I thought I would post some pictures for you to see. Bob and Vickers (my parents) were in Nebraska/Colorado visiting my brother and sister-in-law when the flooding happened and flew home yesterday (Wednesday) to a dog that almost drowned, a car that could barely be seen in the water, and a piano and fridge floating in the church basement next door.

Bell: Repainting?

Rob Bell is a popular contemporary figure in the Christian arena. I’ve managed to get around to his first book, “Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith” and must admit I found myself disappointed. I’m just not sure he did much painting, and as for repainting, well, I just don’t see it. It’s an enjoyable read, but I felt like I’d already read the book in other places. I think I’d feel differently if I read this book about five years ago, but it wasn’t even published until 2005. In this new era of Christian writers seeking to be relevant/postmodern/generous in orthodoxy, this one just blends in with others who I personally think are either A) better writers or B) people who actually make me think.

I recognize that this review has started off harshly, and I should note that there are moments I appreciate (especially Bell’s approach to the torah Old Testament as it relates to what Jesus did in the New Testament) and I would readily recommend this book to a friend wanting to know more about Christianity and what it might look like to be a follower of Christ.

And can there possibly be a book that has any more paragraph breaks?

They’re all over the book.

One sentence.

And another paragraph.

And the same thing.

Over and over.

"Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger"

This summer, I’ve been volunteering at the Clothes Horse at Trinity. The Clothes Horse is a ministry where donated clothing and household items are available free of charge to Trinity graduate and divinity students. With two others at the Clothes Horse, I read Ronald Sider’s book “Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger: Moving From Affluence to Generosity.” Overall, I enjoyed the book, even if it’s repetitive and contains too many numbers. Since moving to the northwest suburbs of Chicago, I have become more and more challenged by how I view money, specifically as it relates to the church. I want to be generous. I want to give graciously and live in a way that allows for greater generosity. I want to fight poverty, and I am bothered that children are dying as I write this because they don’t have food or clean water or their mom had unsanitary birthing conditions. Perhaps I should be more bothered by the fact that getting bothered only lasts for two minutes and I don’t actually change anything to give more to the poor. I’ll stop typing this, go to bed, and tomorrow will be another day where I think entirely too much about myself and barely at all about anyone else. But I still have this tug, this tug to do something more for the poor and oppressed, to make my theology reflect the priority given to this area in the Bible, to fight injustice and poverty and oppression.

Ravi Tackles Atheism

It’s no secret that I love Ravi Zacharias. Goodness, I think everyone should love Ravi Zacharias. He’s one of the most articulate (and brilliant) speakers I’ve ever heard, he is one of the reasons I still call myself a Christian. He spoke at Taylor University during a time when I was really trying to sort out what I really believed. Could a person be intelligent and still be a Christian? Ravi made me believe it was possible, and I am even more convinced of this today than I was on that chapel morning several years ago.

I download Ravi on my iPod every week (I currently have over 200 podcasts just waiting to be listened to…), and I find Zacharias most compelling as a speaker. But I still like his writings, and I read them with eagerness. His book “The Real Face of Atheism” is a nice introduction into a Christian approach towards atheism. As always, I appreciate how Zacharias resists being overly heady. While some may disagree with me on this one, Zacharias loads his talks and his books with multiple artistic and aesthetically-focused examples and illustrations. Ravi is often quoting poetry and seems as familiar with Wadsworth and Dostoevsky as he is with Chesterton and Lewis. Indeed, “we are neither just brains floating around nor just hearts bounding about” (p. 15). Amen to that.

How Can I Carry You?

The other day at work I had a two-hour supervised visitation with a dad and his son. Usually, supervised visitations are anything but interesting, but something was said this time that really caught my attention. The three of us had gone to the nearby park and on the walk home, the little boy would run and hop and skip and hold his father’s hand. As we passed a construction zone, the wind picked up and blew the chains locking the gate in the fence. The boy was scared and ran ahead. As he ran, he said, “Daddy, pick me up.” As his dad approached, the boy ran further ahead, but again told his dad to pick him up. This happened three times, and then the dad said:

“How can I carry you if you keep running away from me?”

I think I stopped walking for a second as I wondered if God ever says the exact same thing.

We want God to protect, shelter, guide, and carry. But we’re not always so good at actually stepping aside to let him to those things. We try to find out security in anything other than God: money, food, power, sex, greed, education, friends, entertainment, business. We try again and again to make little gods before the true God and end up even further from where we need to be going. We keep running in the wrong direction and refuse to be carried.

"Will in the World"

When I was in high school, I dreamed of spending a semester at Oxford, studying C.S. Lewis and William Shakespeare. That dream never happened, but I still wish it had. Maybe it still will. I recently completed Stephen Greenblatt’s acclaimed book “Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare,” and it made me want to study Shakespeare even more. Greenblatt clearly knows the entire Shakespearean canon, and excels at blending the life with the works. In some ways, the book is challenging simply because there is so little that is verifiably known about Shakespeare. Greenblatt tries to patch together some theories (and is clear that some things he writes simply may not be what actually occurred) while drawing from Shakespeare’s works to gain additional insights. As I read, I kept wishing that I knew more about the works, knew more of the characters and settings, and was familiar with the many quotes from the plays. But I did the best I could and decided to add some Shakespeare works to my ever-growing reading list. And after I do that, perhaps I’ll head to Oxford for some extra study.

Need I Say More?

Rock Climbing

This past weekend, Joy and I went again to Wisconsin to do a little rock-climbing. Well, I did a little rock climbing, and Joy kept the dog company, which was probably the harder task. We went with a guy I've been painting with who knows all about climbing and has all the gear. We arrived to Devil's Lake on Friday afternoon, did some climbing, camped overnight, and went to the rocks again on Saturday. I've wanted to rock-climb for some time now, and was glad to get the opportunity, especially with someone who won't laugh at me when I get up 3 feet and then say, "Uh, what do I do now?"

On Friday's climb, I went up an easy route, and wondered how on earth the people around me went up straight rock. On Saturday, I was a little more daring and bold, and while you shouldn't look for me on the cover of "Outside" magazine anytime soon, I thought I did pretty well. I felt rugged, that's for sure. Well, until I watched some of the other climbers, and then I felt silly. But it was my first time, I had a good time, and I definitely want to go again. That's what matters, right?

Kolnes Kove

Joy and I were able to spend some glorious days up at Kolnes Kove, the Blomgren family cabin in northern Wisconsin. We were there with David and Kelly & Drew and Loralee. Great company. We spent loads of time on the boat, reading books, water skiing, wake-boarding, and tubing while we watched the many bald eagles flying around. Not to mention those times I tried to slalom. In the evenings, we had some excellent meals and managed to watch the entire 3rd season of "The Office." Time well spent. Here are a few pics for your enjoyment.

"It's Hotter in Hell"

A few weeks ago, Joy and I were driving around and saw this church sign. I was instantly appalled, annoyed, embarrassed. I have to wonder what goes through the mind of the person deciding on posting something like this in front of their church. They probably think they're so clever, as witty as they come. I'm a Christian who believes in hell, and I find this sign terribly disturbing. It makes me want to make my own sign that says "I'm sorry" and stand in front of this sign. I have a hard time imagining Jesus going to the woman at the well saying, "Yeah, you want some water do you? You're not gonna get that in hell you know!" Perhaps what's the best (worst?) about this picture is the wonderful "Visitors Welcome!" right below the message. I don't think I'd feel welcome walking into this church, and can only imagine how someone curious about Christ might feel.

Rest

Isn't it crazy how the days fly by? It's already the end of July, and I feel as if I haven't taken a breath in months. Wait...that's not true. I take deep breaths here and there, glorious moments when life slows and I rest in its slowing. But entirely too rarely. I'm always looking forward to the next break. In the fall semester, I was doing my practicum alongside a full load of classes, so certainly the spring semester wouldn't be as busy. During the spring semester, I realized I had 6 big classes and took on an additional project for a professor, added a client or two, and then I think that summer will surely be time to sit on the porch, relaxing in the morning shade while drinking coffee late into the afternoon. Now summer seems just as busy as the last semesters, and I have a feeling the pace won't easily slow for the next forty years. Unless I stop it.

Right now I'm eager to jump into the next academic year, honest-to-goodness excitement. I have a good internship lined up, and while I'm nervous as heck (do I really know what I'm doing?), I think I'm prepared for the challenge. I've got a list of schools to which I'm applying for Ph.D. programs, and it's thrilling to have no idea where we might be in a year. I've also lined up some research opportunities at two schools in Chicago: Northwestern and DePaul. The reason for this was simple: Ph.D. programs look for research experience, and I felt like I was lacking in research experience. So I contacted some professors and researchers about volunteering in their research labs, and after some "No's," I got two "Yes's." That's exciting for me, and while again I'm terrified (just how long will it take the professors to realize I know practically nothing about research?), I'm ready to jump in. Might as well get used to looking dumb now, since it'll probably happen a lot in the next few years if I do go on for more schooling.

And while I'm happy with all of this and think it's fine and dandy, I still want to rest: walk slowly through the leaves rather than rush to my car, spend an hour or two over dinner with Joy rather than throw food down my throat while I look through the mail, look through old photographs, write a note to a friend, stop at the children's lemonade stand. If I'm not living life and resting in its pleasures, looking for beauty amidst the pain, loving others as I love myself, then any research experience, any Ph.D. program, any brilliant technique I use in a counseling session will be pointless.

With this said, tomorrow morning Joy and I leave with some wonderful friends to spend some time at a cabin on a lake. I've looked forward to this weekend desperately, five days of reprieve amidst friends and nature. Nothing is better than that, absolutely nothing. Waking up after breathing the woodsy air. Strolling out onto the dock, maybe throwing a line or two just to see if the fish want to bite. Walking back to get a book, or my wife, or just sit off the edge of the dock looking into the water and sky. Afternoons of laughter and fun, water skiing and wake-boarding, falling asleep on the boat. Evenings of campfires, board games, more laughter, maybe a tear. Five days with no need for a watch, phone, or computer.

"Nature's teaching is a healing. And although we must indeed be taught, it is the healing that we need most. We have been fractured. We have been broken off from the nature of our world, broken away from the nature of one another, broken apart from our own nature. The pain of this breach is so constant that we have become accustomed to it; it feels normal. The pain is with us every day, when we browbeat ourselves and others, when we struggle for control, when we draw circles around ourselves that shut others out, when we long for a connectedness we cannot find, when we try to help one another and it's never enough, and, perhaps most of all, when we go outdoors and feel that Nature is something different from us." (Gerald May, The Wisdom of Wilderness, 2006, p. 169).

"Raising Cain"

Dan Kindlon and Michael Thompson are both psychologists who work extensively with boys. Their book "Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys" is a bestseller, and it deserves being read outside of the counseling and psychology world. In fact, I had a client read portions of this book as he discussed issues pertaining to being a father of boys and also as he processed some of his own boyhood. Without taking away the need for responsibility and the necessity of consequences, Kinlon and Thompson seek to explore the too-often hidden emotional lives of boys. You read about father-son relationships, mother-son relationships, and problems related to depression, suicide, drinking, and drugs--all four common among adolescent men.

In my limited experience as a counselor, I can testify that the emotional lives of boys desperately need to be cultivated. Emotional literacy is rare among men, where we expect anger and hostility, but never tenderness, grief, fear, or any other possible emotion that might be seen as weak. The authors write: "What boys need, first and foremost, is to be seen through a different lens than tradition prescribes. Individually, and as a culture, we must discard the distorted view that ignores or denies their capacity for feeling, the view that colors even boys' perceptions of themselves as above or outside a life of emotions" (p. 240). This lack of emotional expression and understanding makes it tremendously difficult to be in real relationship, whether with friends, spouses, and eventually, children. While men are different social creatures than women, I have no doubt that many adolescent men are busy with friends, sports, girlfriends, and other activities but are painfully lonely: "Crowded or empty, I walk these city streets alone" (Over the Rhine).

A Friend Like Jonathan

I’ve been reading through the Biblical books of 1 and 2 Samuel recently, and while you often hear about the friendship between David and Jonathan, it’s hit me more deeply as I’ve read through the texts on my own. In 1 Samuel 20, you’ve got the drama all set: Saul, Jonathan’s father, wants to kill David. When David tells Jonathan this, he’s in shock and disbelief and makes a plan with David to find out if this is true. Well, as Jonathan finds out, his dad really does want to kill David. I would think that this would put Jonathan in a tremendously uncomfortable position. Do you help your friend escape your father, or do you remain loyal to your dad and surrender your friend? Yikes.

Jonathan helps David escape, and even binds himself in a covenant with his friend: “And Jonathan had David reaffirm his oath out of love for him, because he loved him as he loved himself” (1 Sam. 20:17). We all like to think we love others as we love ourselves; I am certain I never actually do. Pride gets in the way in both obvious and subtle ways, and as soon as I think I’m being selfless I must recognize that that is a pretty prideful thought. This verse I just mentioned doesn’t say that Jonathan thought he loved David as himself or that he tried to love David as himself, but that Jonathan straight up loved David as himself. That’s some serious friendship. And it doesn’t stop there.

Later in the same chapter, Jonathan and David have to say goodbye to each other, not knowing if their lives will intersect again. As they say farewell, “they kissed each other and wept together” (v. 41), and then Jonathan reminds David that “we have sworn friendship with each other in the name of our Lord” (v. 42). First, you have two grown men crying together, something rarely heard of in today’s culture of no-vulnerability-masculinity. Then, you have a reminder of that covenant of friendship. Do we see friendship this way today? To have a friendship bound by covenant in front of God is pretty serious stuff, and in today’s socially-mobile culture, I wonder if we ever consider how friendships can be a covenant relationship similar to marriage, the Church, or one’s relationship with Christ.

I don’t want to spoil the story, but we find out that Jonathan has died at the beginning of 2 Samuel (and David’s compassion and graciousness toward Saul is certainly worth noting, but is not my current focus here). As David is mourning the news of his friend’s death, he states: “I grieve for you, Jonathan my brother; you were very dear to me. Your love for me was wonderful, more wonderful than that of women” (2 Sam. 1:26). Now that’s some emotive vulnerability, and I’ve thought about this verse quite a bit recently. In no way do I wish or intend to detract from the love found within marriage or across genders, but I think David is making a very important point about male-male friendships (and much could also be said about female-female friendships).

I love my wife deeply and she grows me and challenges me all time, but there is a unique love I have for my male friends. I have the privilege of having many very fine friends, and it is because of my male friendships in particular that I am who I am today. Emotional vulnerability is horribly lacking in most male friendships, and this emotional chasm is devastating to not only these friendships, but unavoidably affect wife-husband relationships, father-son relationships, and one’s relationship with self. I have had some terrific male friendships that continue to influence my life in powerful ways. In fact, I would be nowhere near the husband that I am (which really isn’t that great) without the male friendships that were consistent in my life during the years prior to marriage. These are the aspects of male friendship I believe David knew so intimately. I have many Jonathans in my life, and indeed, their love is wonderful, as is my love for them.

Joy: Proud To Be An American

Happy 4th of July to you. Last night, July 3, Joy and I went into the city with some friends to watch the fireworks with a few other millions of people. This morning we were up nice and early to go to the Arlington Heights parade and tonight we're having a little grilling gathering. But back to this morning. As Joy was in the shower and I was still in bed, I heard her start to sing a patriotic medly: Star-Spangled Banner, God Bless America, etc. Well, I was able to get out of bed and find my camera just in time to videotape part of the last song. To my delight, when I looked in the bathroom, I realized there were some hand motions too. I think you'll enjoy this...

To clarify, although it may be hard to believe, Joy had no idea I was taping this. As if you can choreograph this stuff. Here we go...

Carried Into Forgiveness

Last night, Joy and I went to Chicago’s 1st Annual Pizza Fest. This is our second 1st Annual event in Chicago this year (Looptopia!), and the reason we wanted to go to Pizza Fest had nothing to do with the pizza. You see, Over the Rhine was playing at the event, and Over the Rhine just happens to be my favorite band (Joy and I even met them after the show!) I’ve seen them play a few other times and it’s never disappointing. While they’re not a Christian band, that doesn’t mean they avoid theology, and they are fine theologians. So fine, in fact, that their songs usually enhance my worship exponentially more than the music in most of the church services I attend. One of the songs they sang last night has been a favorite of mine since it came out on their disc “Ohio” a few years ago. The song is called “Long Lost Brother” and here are the lyrics:

“I thought that we'd be
Further along by now
I can't remember how
We stumbled to this place

I loved you like a long lost brother
On a bad day maybe I thought why bother
I've seldom seen so much anger
In a face

I wanna do better
I wanna try harder
I wanna believe
Down to the letter

Jesus and Mary,
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness?

I don't mean to laugh out loud
I'm trying to come clean
Trying to shed my doubt
Maybe I should just keep
My big mouth shut

More often than not
When it comes to you
You want whatever's not in front of you
Deep down I know this includes me too

So tell me your troubles
Let your pain rain down
I know my job I've been around
I invest in the mess

I'm a low cost dumping ground
Trouble is I'm so exhausted
The plot, you see, I think I've lost it
I need the grace to find what can't be found”

There are several lines that sink into my depths and long to be acknowledged. Don’t we all have bad days where we think why bother? Don’t we all want whatever’s not in front of us? Don’t we all need the grace to find what can’t be found? I know I do.

And then there’s the chorus crying out for forgiveness. “Jesus and Mary, can you carry us across the ocean into the arms of forgiveness?” Doesn’t it so often seem that forgiveness requires getting over an ocean, an ocean we can’t possibly cross on our own? An ocean that requires us to relinquish control, relinquish hatred, relinquish pride, relinquish self, and be carried.

I can remember when I was a child, and I would try to stay up late watching TV with my parents. I’d drift in and out of consciousness, but I would usually hear my parents turn off the TV and begin to get ready to go upstairs. I wouldn’t move. I’d lay on the floor or the couch, hoping to convince my parents that I was more out of consciousness than in. If my plan worked, my dad would swoop me up in his arms and carry me directly to my bed. I loved those moments, the tremendous love I felt as I was delicately picked up with my head against my father’s chest, my arms and legs falling off into varied directions. Then my dad would move up the stairs, down the hallway, and put me softly into my bed. It is a wonderful thing to be carried, filled with vulnerability and tenderness. It’s this tenderness and vulnerability that I think best allows us to receive both grace and forgiveness.

Puppy Paw Problems

Some of you may know that during high school I had a three-legged dog, named Doober when he had four legs and then nicknamed Tripod when he went down to three. Well, yesterday I thought I was going to have yet another three-legged pup. On Monday morning, Colby was mysteriously not using one of his front paws. When we would touch it, he'd yelp, and then something drastic happened: he didn't want to eat dinner. That's when we really knew something was wrong. At first, we assumed it was just tender from a long jog on Sunday, but then the swelling began, and it went from bad to worse.

Joy and didn't want to pay ridiculous amounts of money at the vet, but then again, we also wanted our dog to keep all four legs if possible. After some serious consulting (thanks Wightmans!), we decided to take him in to see what the vet had to say. Well, they said a huge number, and I looked at the vet and asked her to give me a worst-case scenario if we didn't do anything. She looked at me in horror, and exclaimed, "Honestly, he could lose a leg." At this point, Joy and I burst into laughter (Joy actually burst into laughter mixed with tears), and I explained to the vet that she shouldn't try to tell me dogs need to have all four legs, because I know perfectly well they can manage with fewer. The previous horror in her face escalated, and Joy says she's not surprised they didn't just take our dog from us and deem us eternally unfit owners.

To make a long and dramatic day at the vet's a little shorter, here's the run-down: Colby had to have an abscess drained, which resulted in an inch-and-a-half cut oozing with blood and puss. Fun. We told them we'd do this before taking x-rays or thinking about a broken bone, which is what they tried to get us to do at first. Well, so far we think we made a good decision. Colby has been home for 24 hours now and is recovering marvelously. Yes, we still carry him up and down the stairs and try to limit his activity, but he's definitely using his foot, and dinner is back to its previously esteemed position in his day, although now there are pills hidden amongst the goods.

Best (or worst) of all: Colby has to wear one of those silly dog collars that make it so that Colby's tongue can't reach his foot. He looks like Queen Elizabeth. The thing is huge, and he keeps banging into stuff and tripping over it. He's so silly. I've attached a picture so you can see exactly what we're dealing with. There's also a picture from when we get up at 5:30 in the morning to soak his foot in Epsom salt. You can clearly see how happy I am about it. I am such a puppy daddy, and at some level, I kinda love it. I just hope his foot heals completely and I can still go to Trinity in the fall.

Jamison: "An Unquiet Mind"

Kay Redfield Jamison is a leading scholar on manic-depressive illness (she prefers the term "manic-depressive disorder" over the now-used "bipolar disorder") who is a professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University after working at UCLA. What makes Jamison unique is that she is not only a top-notch scholar, but she herself suffers from manic-depression and this book is her personal memoir. She blends personal narratives with clinical insight, comfortably weaving between the academic and the intimate. It's a wonderful piece of work, and an instrumental resource in the literature. I'm not sure how many families will find solace from a psychopathology textbook; I am certain many have found solace from this harrowing account offering both honesty and hope.

For those who live with manic-depressive illness, there is a sense that life is real. There are real highs and real lows, inextricably linked because one inevitably follows the other. Jamison writes with striking poignancy as she describes the depths of depression and the elations of mania. She describes the constant battle of daily medication (for her and most other manic-depressives, lithium) as well as the challenge of self-disclosure to faculty, colleagues, lovers. Some handle the disclosure beautifully, while others never get past the stigma so often associated with mental illness. And yet, although there is a certain stigma, she does not shy away from the beauty that can be found in the convoluted basin of mental illness: "Manic-depression is a disease that both kills and gives life. Fire, by its nature, both creates and destroys" (p. 123).

In the Epilogue of the book, Jamison explores "whether, given the choice, I would choose to have manic-depressive illness" (p. 217). There are many reasons why she would not, particularly if lithium or other medications were unavailable or unhelpful. And while I do not in any way wish to downplay the seriousness, pain, and challenge associated with any mental illness, I find Jamison's hopeful conclusion and introspective acceptance (gratitude?) ridiculously beautiful. Jamison, after all, is not only a Professor of Psychiatry, but also Honorary Professor of English at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland:

"So why would I want anything to do with this illness [after listing reasons why she would not choose to be manic-depressive]? Because I honestly believe that as a result of it I have felt of it I have felt more things, more deeply; had more experiences, more intently; loved more, and been more loved; laughed more often for having cried more often; appreciated more the springs, for all the winters; worm death 'as close as dungarees,' appreciated it--and life--more; seen the finest and the most terrible in people, and slowly learned the values of caring, loyalty, and seeing things through. I have seen the breadth and depth and width of my mind and heart and seen how frail they both are, and how ultimately unknowable they both are..." (p. 218).

Ambrose: "To America"

I am moving along on my reading list. Last week or so, I knocked off another book, completing Stephen Ambrose's "To America: Personal Reflections of an Historian," a book that has sat on my bookshelf for years. It was worth the wait. An enjoyable read through Ambrose's personal thoughts regarding various people and events he's studied and written about. The reader traverses through a variety of United States events and personas, each one giving some insight into America past, present, and future.

It was a pleasure to read a historian discuss his personal reactions to various topics and people. What I found most intriguing was Ambrose's admission that history changes simply because those who study, write, and teach history change in how they view particular events or individuals. As a social science, the historian cannot help but place some sort of himself or herself into the work. It may color history some, but I think it makes it a little more interesting too.

Perhaps the most interesting thing (this may be an exaggeration) may be found in the book's subtitle: "Personal Reflections of an Historian." That's right... it's "an Historian." This threw me off, but I trusted some editor knows much more than I about the English language and the usage of "a" or "an." Well, I did a little online grammar research, and found that apparently there is no real consensus for words that begin with "h." Apparently, since the "h" is often said softly, "an" can be appropriate. Mark Twain, however, disagreed, saying that true American writers would use "a historian" rather than "an historian" and get rid of the pretense. I personally like a little pretense every now and then, and next time I'm in class or clinical supervision, I want to ask about "an hallucination" and see the others try to correct me or scoff at my grammar. Now that'll make history.

Roof

I was painting windows from a roof today. I promise you, I almost fell off. Happy Weekend.

CampFest 280

This past weekend was glorious. Joy and I left Chicago early Friday afternoon (I got out of an afternoon of stripping wallpaper!) and headed to Wisconsin for some camping. The event had been planned for months with the Cosgroves and Lentschers, and the weekend was beautiful. Although, somehow, camping turned into having a site by a lake with a ridiculously-extravagent RV complete with TVs (yes, plural), fridge, A/C, and satellite radio. And while the Lentschers and Cosgroves slept inside (they say they didn't use the A/C or TVs, but Joy and I aren't so sure), Joy and I decided to sleep in the tent. I never pass on my opportunities to use my headlamp.

First of all, I love camping food. We made tacos in a bag, brats, burgers, and even egg sandwiches. Second, I love campfires. I love to simply sit with my eyes glazed over as I watch the flames, or watch Becca throw in all sorts of (environmentally-dangerous) items into the blaze. Third, you get to be away from the city and out in something a little more wild. You can see stars, you can hear bugs, you can use an outhouse.

Normally, I hate getting up in the morning. I can sleep as late as I possibly can and still moan when I drag myself to the shower. Normally, a shower is what I must have to function through the day, and I'm amazed at how different I am when I'm camping. Sure, it's difficult to sleep late when the sun shines so brightly in the tent, but I love those peaceful mornings at a campsite. I can grab a book or my Bible, sit on the dock, go for a little morning stroll, start a fire. It's a wonderful start to a wonderful day, and I relish getting up before others to simply spend some time by myself. Dare I say it refreshes ones soul?

On Saturday morning, I was up early, did some reading, and then went for an early-morning kayak trip around the lake with Joy. Saturday afternoon was spent hiking around Devil's Lake before a short swim afterwards to rejuvenate the body (and get off all the sweat). On Sunday morning, there were sounds of thunder, so we began to clear the campsite just as it began to pour. It was raining so hard that (as has happened on about four other occasions), the rain began to come through the sides of my sunroof as we drove away. We went to the Lentscher residence, and as the sky cleared up, we got on the boat and did a little water skiing and wake-boarding. I water skied like never before, and drove home a happy little camper. CampFest 280 was a wonderful start to the summer. Now if only I didn't have to go back to stripping wallpaper...

Victor the Volvo: 200,000 and Beyond

I am delighted to say that earlier this week, my car reached that milestone of 200,000 miles. Victor the Volvo has been nothing but joy for me. I, of course, have only put on about 40,000 of those miles, but I gotta say that I love the car. For one thing, it’s tremendously reliable. Sure, it’s had a couple of flat tires and once even caught fire at a gas station, and at one point was given a pretty poor diagnosis, but the car simply keep going without a problem. Amazingly, in the almost-three years since I’ve had the car, it’s never once been broken down and never gets anything more than the regular oil change. Now that’s a good car.

And to be even more sentimental regarding this amazing ’92 creation, I must say that there are countless times when I drive it with a complete sense of gratitude. You see, Victor the Volvo was given to me. It was a generous act of Christian charity (and when I say charity, I mean charity in the sense of “faith, hope, and charity, and the greatest of these is charity” and not in the sense of “oh my, look at him, that poor desolate soul”), and one that I am blessed to be frequently reminded of every time I start my car. I can only hope to be as generous in spirit as so many others have been to me.

I never know how long I’ll have my car. Sometimes I get little scares that it might be approaching its end, but then it surprisingly overcomes and purrs (and sometimes screeches) with pleasure. At my agency, we pick up a lot of our clients. Some of my clients mock my car, scoffing at its lack of air conditioning or lamenting that the sun roof doesn’t actually open. I simply look at them and tell them that this car has aged well, and I can only hope that they do the same.

Frankl: "Man's Search For Meaning"

Victor Frankl’s seminal work “Man’s Search for Meaning” has sold over 12 millions of copies since its original publication in 1959, and I would say deservedly so. Frankl writes about his experiences in various Nazi death camps, and later became a psychological theorist, outlining what he calls logotherapy, maintaining that our primary drive in life is not for pleasure (alla Freud) or power (alla Adler), but finds the “striving to find a meaning in one’s life is the primary motivational force in man” (p. 99). Frankl handles the difficult task of outlining how meaning must also be found in suffering. He writes: “In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning such as the meaning of a sacrifice” (p. 113). Although Frankl was a Jew, I can’t read that last sentence without thinking of Jesus, a man certainly familiar with sorrow and suffering. A few pages later, I find resonance with Frankl again: “What is demanded of man is not, as some existential philosophers teach, to endure the meaninglessness of life, but rather to bear his incapacity to grasp its unconditional meaningfulness in rational terms” (p. 118). I find it tremendously powerful that it was during, through, and after experiencing the death camps that Frankl writes about this meaningfulness, and I believe it’s impossible to live a life devoid of any sense of meaning. Even for those existential philosophers waxing eloquent about life’s meaninglessness, one must wonder how they live with such a worldview and why they spend so much effort in stating that life has no meaning. If that really is the case, what is the meaning in explaining life’s meaninglessness?

Frankl also writes that “when we are no longer able to change a situation…we are challenged to change ourselves” (p. 112, italics mine). Now there’s a bite worth swallowing. This has ramifications for me as a counselor (it’s ironic how the client wants you to change everyone around them but themselves), but I can’t neglect what it means for me personally. We all want things in the world to change. At least I hope we all do. And I don’t actually think that’s a problem (what if we thought everything was just as it should be and nothing should be changed?), but I have to recognize that I might just be part of the problem too. I’ve been painting this summer, and overall, I enjoy the work. I’m not the fastest painter, and I’m certainly not the best painter, but I think I work hard and try my best. But I keep getting paint all over myself: my clothes, my hair, my legs, my arms. The other day I came home to take a shower, and when I took of my shirt, there was paint on my chest, and I was thoroughly confused as to how it found its way under my shirt. Well, here’s the deal: I can keep getting confused, can keep changing my clothes and taking a shower, or I can do something truly remarkable--I can change the way I paint. It’s only in becoming better as a painter (refined, if you will) that I’ll ever find myself with a little less paint on my body. You may roll your eyes at my little analogy, but you try getting all that oil paint off of your chest and then come back and tell me you don’t want to bother to just change yourself and the way you paint.

Colby Jack

I am pleased to announce that Joy and I have a dog. As regular readers of this blog will recall, Joy and I have been thinking about getting a dog for some time now. We looked at hundreds of dogs online and then went to a few shelters to look at some dogs. (Including one that threw up while we were talking with the vet. Needless to say, that dog was not brought home.) At one shelter, we narrowed the dogs we were looked at to our top three, and after playing with #1, we decided to not even bother looking at the other two.

Colby Jack is his name, and yes, he’s named after the cheese. Some time ago, Joy and I decided that perhaps we’d name our dogs after cheeses. You know, there are so many good cheeses out there, and no matter what Joy says, you can’t name a child Colby Jack. We have other names ready for the future: Reggie (Parmigiano-Reggiano), Zola (Gorgonzola), and Brie (uh, Brie). Feel free to suggest others. If you think that naming a dog after a cheese is a little odd (and I’m not suggesting you shouldn't think this), perhaps it’s worth noting that the name the shelter gave this puppy was Silly Dilly.

We don’t know a ton about our little dog since we got him from a shelter, but he’s about 6 months old and is a Lab/Retriever mix. We are beaming parents, and he’s positively beautiful. He is housebroken and is doing very well in training. So far he will sit and stay and then I can walk all the way to the other side of the apartment before telling him to come. Hopefully there is more training to come.

It feels great to have a dog. I love dogs and they usually love me. Dogs usually love anyone who will love them, and I find that endearing. Even as I type this, Colby is laying at my feet, his big eyes searching for mine every few minutes. If I go anywhere in the apartment, he’s sure to follow. Even when I’m in the bathroom, bless him. I think he’s smart, although twice he’s gone running into glass doors. He steps back, shakes his head, and looks at me laughing at him. What a silly dilly, that Colby Jack.

2007 Summer Reading List

To respond to one of my faithful reader's questions, here is my summer reading list. I chose 12 books from various arenas, and I'm pretty excited about the many pages ahead. We'll see come September how many I actually get through:

1. A Generous Orthodoxy: Brian McLaren (Already done! See post below.)

2. Man's Search for Meaning: Victor Frankl (I just finished this one and will be writing about it soon.)

3. The Chronicles of Narnia: C.S. Lewis (I'm LOVING re-reading these books and am currently on 6 of 7.)

4. Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare: Stephen Greenblatt

5. To America: Personal Reflections of an Historian: Stephen E. Ambrose (Two books with "Stephen" as authors, and they even spell it the right way!)

6. The Bell Curve: Intelligence and Class Structure in American Life: Richard J. Herrnstein and Charles Murray. (This well-documented and often-sited book comes in at 900 pages. While it covers much more than the idea of race and intelligence, this controversial area is what it is most known for.)

7. Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys: Dan Kindlon and Michael Thompson

8. Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger: Moving from Affluence to Generosity: Ronald J. Sider

9. An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness: Kay Redfield Jamison (The classic book on bipolar disorder [manic-depressive disorder] written by a leading scholar in the area who shares her personal experience with the disorder.)

10. The Real Face of Atheism: Ravi Zacharias

11. Surrendering to Marriage: Husbands, Wives, and Other Imperfections: Iris Krasnow

12. Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith: Rob Bell

That's a lot of reading, with many more books waiting in the wings. I better get started. Happy June!

Puggles on Ruggles

Joy and I went to visit my parents and sister/brother-in-law in Ohio for Memorial Day weekend. We had a wonderful visit, and Joy even sang in church on Sunday! She's threatening to find us more gigs, but I'm trying to keep her back. She does grow a little sad when I inform her that most churches probably don't want her to do solos from the Wicked soundtrack. I'm just not sure "The Wizard and I" will sound the same if she changes is to "The Yahweh and I." Who knows.

One of the highlights of the weekend was when we opened up the local papers in search of some free (or cheap) dogs. Joy and I have been talking over the possibility of becoming parents to a four-legged friend for a while now, and we thought driving around the country roads provided us with ample opportunity to find some poor dog that was seduced by the nearby farmer's tramp. (I have all sorts of semi-inappropriate jokes in my mind at the moment, several of them making reference to how that last phrase doesn't seem all too different from the high school I went to, but I'll refrain.) Needless to say, there were many dogs in the paper, but only a few we were interested in, and I couldn't get anyone to return my calls over the weekend. Then there was this one add that had no phone number. It read: "Six Puggle Puppies. $125 ea. Also sell topsoil. R. Miller, 4124 Ruggles Lane, Fredericktown."

Fredericktown is about half an hour away from my parents house, so after feasting on some of my mom's best lasagna after church on Sunday, we took to the road. Kevie-cakies, my senior-year college roommate (Kevin, for all you grown-ups out there who have mysteriously stopped using nick-names) was with us for the day, which added greatly to the trip's enjoyment. It was a beautiful summer day with manure in the air and the gazetteer at my fingertips. We made our way to Fredericktown, and the proceeded down a few of the main roads while looking for Ruggles Lane. It was somewhere in the midst of our search that we realized that we were looking for puggles on Ruggles, and that's when we began to think that perhaps this whole ad was a fraud. There were many "Puggles on Ruggles" comments, and I even stated that "searching for all these Puggles on Ruggles gave me the Struggles," which at the moment was received with great acclaim.

After about fifteen minutes of driving, we stopped and asked a woman watering her begonias about Ruggles Lane, but she had never heard of the road. Then we found a cop and asked him. He hadn't heard of it either, so we figured this wasn't looking good. He looked at his map in his car, couldn't find it, and then he had us follow him to the trailer-of-a-police-station. And hark! He found Ruggles Lane, also known as Township Highway 178. He said it was out of the town limits, but sent us on our way, and you must certainly know we had a renewed sense of vigor amidst us.

Throughout this whole ordeal, we discovered that Mr. Miller, the man who placed the add, lived in the Amish part of town. This explained the mysteriously missing phone number from the newspaper add. Right after we crossed the county border, we found our road. About a mile down, we lost the pavement and hit the gravel. We were really out in the country now, and then we saw our first Amish buggy. This is not an unusual occurance in those parts, but Joy let out a little squeal and we waved as we passed. (This is when I went into a litle talk about how I had just read in McLaren's A Generous Orthodoxy about the Anabaptists and such, but I'll be honest: no one cared. Roger, you might be wondering that same thought in regards to my entire blog, huh?)

And then, there it was: A mailbox that said Mr. Miller with the address we wanted. We pulled in and I lept from the car. As I walked towards the house, we saw two Amish boys come from the barn, so we went to talk with them. Wonderfully kind boys, and while they told us Mr. Miller wasn't home, they said they could show us the puggles. They left and came back with two of the cutest dogs you could ever imagine. These puggles...mix between pug and beagle...are somewhat trendy these days in Chicago where they sell for about $800. This is when the thought occurred to me that we could just buy all six puggles and sell them in Chicago. Perhaps we could even start some sort of business relationship with the Amish? Then I sensed myself becoming a little too Cruela DeVil, and decided one would be enough.

Well, as it turns out, the pups were only five weeks old and not ready to leave mommy yet, and since it was a Sunday, we couldn't make any purchase from the Amish. We loaded back into the car, somewhat gloomy but mostly exhilerated from the search. We didn't return from Ohio with a dog, but Joy and I continue to search, and who knows, perhaps it won't be too long before I introduce a dog to the blog. A dog on my blog. Puggles on Ruggles. It doesn't get any better than this.

"A Generous Orthodoxy"

It is summer and I’ve been busy doing one of my favorite things: reading. Now, you may wonder what I did all year while I was in classes, and yes, I did lots and lots of reading, and I even enjoyed most of it. But now I am free from my classes and syllabi have been filed away. I now have these three precious months where I can look at my bookshelves and read books that I’ve been longing to read but simply haven’t had time for. I have an ever-growing list of books to read, and this summer I have made an ambitious list of 12 books to read. And I’ve already finished 2!

The first one I finished was “A Generous Orthodoxy” by Brian McLaren. I’ve written about McLaren before on this blog, who is a leader in the emergent church and loves to talk about how postmodernism is influencing the church. I know to some the idea that postmodernism might influence the church is synonymous with saying that there’s no such thing as truth and we might as well give up holding onto any concept of truth (pluralistic relativism). And sometimes, McLaren himself gets this brunt of these accusations, and for those who read “A Generous Orthodoxy,” they’ll recognize that this is not what he’s promoting, but what he is promoting is relevant, beautiful, and engaging (both personally and culturally).

In the book, McLaren outlines why he is a Christian and then explores what he means by “generous orthodoxy.” Much attention is given to the difference between orthodoxy (right beliefs) and orthopraxy (right practice), and I couldn’t agree more with him on this (can you truly have one without the other?). I especially appreciated McLaren’s efforts to strike down some of the dividing lines between sects within the Christian faith (Catholics, Methodists, Anabaptists, Mystics, Liberals/Conservatives…) and finds aspects in each which add a unique light. I think of it as a stained-glass window, where no one piece has the whole picture (this isn’t an oil painting), and in fact, one piece of glass removed from the overall window simply looks like a piece of colored glass that is found on the beach. But when all of these pieces of glass are brought together, well now, that’s something immensely more beautiful and profound. In a lot of ways, I think the Church is like that. (If you want to continue with the symbolism, you could emphasize that any stained-glass window needs light to reach the apex of its beauty, and this light is Jesus Christ that must permeate through each separate pane of glass…)

We always hear about how there is one body with many parts, and I’ve always heard this mentioned in regards to people’s gifts and roles within the church. I think it’s helpful to think of this as various congregations or groups or denominations as well, “so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to the others” (Romans 12:5). I find myself weary of those who fight so much for what they stand against, that they almost lose sight of what they stand for. At what point must it simply come back to loving God and loving others? McLaren says it this way: “Generous orthodoxy presumes that the divisions, though tragic, are superficial compared to Christianity’s deep, though often unappreciated, unity” (p. 222). (And yes, I recognize the danger the lurks when we become so free-loving in our orthodoxy that the faith leans towards that pluralistic relativism I mentioned earlier, but this is not what McLaren or I are talking about, and this is not what he means by “generous orthodoxy”.)

I’ve come a long way in my theological and spiritual thinking in the last several years, and for this I am so thankful. I probably thought I had a lot more answers a few years ago than I think I do now, but my faith has also grown in richness and appreciation. I found myself at a juxtaposition between conservative and liberal (or I might more aptly state: conservative vs. liberal) and felt like I must choose between the two (while thinking that all the true Christians would choose conservative). This didn’t make sense to me, and it still doesn’t. I haven’t chosen between the two, and I’m glad of that. There’s stuff on both sides that needs a looking at, and while I don’t have any real answers, I doubt any answer will lie in one group trying to prove they are right simply because they hate all the others. I sense myself starting to climb onto my soapbox now, so I’m going to stop writing and climb down before it gets too late. Thanks for reading.

Not My Best Wednesday

Every once in a while we all have bad days. I am thankful that I feel that my good days outweigh my bad days. Yesterday was a bad day.

I went off to work and everything was fine. I pulled my car up to a culdisac curb, and for no reaonable reason, I drove my front passenger tire right into the curb. (And before you try to laugh at me, try to tell me you've never done the same.) Well, at that same time I heard that dreadful decrescendoing sound of air escaping my tire. I went out to look, and sure enough, my tire was as flat as some of those singers from Opera Idol (see my previous post, "Looptopia!").

I had just started this new job as a painter, and yesterday was only my second day. I probably should've told the other guys I was working with, but then I'd have to tell them that I drove my car into the curb. They barely know me, I barely know them, I thought that maybe would be something I could do towards the end of the semester. So all day I worked and went about my business, and then just sat in my car as everyone drove off at the end of the day. I drove nowhere. I called Joy, who (this is what's great about my wife), didn't mock me and offerred to help. I called Geiko and got someone on the way to put my spare one and Joy looked up the number for a tire place. We were on the right track. For the record, I did try to change the tire myself, although Joy still seems to doubt if this is something I know how to do. I was doing fine, had all the tools, but I just couldn't get the bolts off. And I guarantee you couldn't have either. Even the nice man who did come to help me told me that my measly bold-taker-offer didn't have the leverage ("It's all physics, man") needed to get those little suckers off. The tire was changed in less than five minutes, just as a new storm began.

I drove to the tire store thinking this wasn't going to be so bad after all, and there I waited and waited and waited. This whole time, my attitude got worse and worse and worse. After waiting for a little over two hours, I finally got home, hungry and wet. Joy, once again displaying her skills as a wife, had dinner ready on the table and greeted me at the door with a glass of white wine. I strongly believe that we can control our attitudes, and I try to live this out. I told Joy that I was in a pretty lousy mood, but that what happened was done and I wasn't going to allow my bad mood to ruin the rest of my evening. And then it was time for American Idol.

Now, I don't know how many of you have been watching this season, but here's the gist of it all: there have been many fine contestants and then one artist who simply is in a whole other league. Those other contestants can remain nameless for my purposes here, but everyone should know the name Melinda Doolittle. She can take any genre and will sing and perform beautifully. She's sensational, and even the judges recognized that all they could ever do was give her praise. I would go as far to say as she's the best singer to ever be on American Idol, and I think others will agree. Well, you know where this is going. Melinda got booted last night. Joy and I sat in a state of shock and despair, and I kept watching Fox even after the show had ended thinking surely they would come back on and say they had made a mistake. You know, something like Florida and recent elections. Well, that never happened, and needless to say, my attitude took another hit. I decided to call it a day. I cuddled up in bed, grabbed The Chronicles of Narnia (which I am reading through again and will certainly be posting about) and drifted off to sleep.

Looptopia!

Joy and I regularly say that we want to go into the city of Chicago more. Last Friday we did, and it was fantastic. Chicago had an event they titled "Looptopia" because it took place in the Chicago Loop and it was called "America's first dusk-to-dawn cultural and artistic spectacle" which is inspired by "White Night" events in Rome, Montreal, and Paris. It went from 5pm on Friday night to 5am Saturday morning. My friend Andrew Ulasich was in town, and after convincing Joy, we jumped in the car around 8 and went in to see what the city had to offer.

First, we went into the Chicago Art Museum, one of my perennial favorites in the city. It was free to get in, and it certainly had a crowd. We did a quick run-through of some Monet and Renoir, ran through the antiquities, and went back outside to the crowds. We then wandered until we went into the Chicago Cultural Center where we were able to sit on the floor (front row seats, baby!) for Selim Sester and Orchestra. Joy actually read about them in the newspaper as we drove into the city, and, still not completely convinced she wanted to be in the city till the wee hours, lamented in an oh-so-mocking tone that "This is great. We can spend out time listening to a Turkish clarinet wedding band. This is so worth it." Well, we did in fact go an listen to this band, and I will say that I loved it. Vibrant and chaotic-yet-controlled, it was easy to imagine just how fun a wedding in Turkey might be if this is really the music that is going to get the dancing started.

After wandering around the Cultural Center looking at some art and such, we made our way to another building where the highlight of our night was to occur: Opera Idol. Now, for the last few months, I've been telling Joy that there should be an opera reality TV show. It might now seem like it'd have a far-reaching audience, but with some good advertising and some dramatic singers (both in person and in music), it could be quite the show. Well, the Chicago Opera Theatre apparently thinks so too, and so during Looptopia they had the final 7 contestants sing away and then face the judges. It's no shock that I loved the event, but I think the proof of it's entertainment rests in the fact that Joy, again lamenting that it would last till 1 in the morning, was wide awake for the entire time and even said she "loved" Opera Idol. (See Miss. Ellen Wightman, this is what you missed...)

Apparently, she didn't love it enough to have a whole new round of energy, so she didn't want to go to "All Night India" like I did, but I gotta admit, I was feeling pretty tired at this point. Plus, I was walking about singing Donizetti, so I think Andrew was a little embarrassed. Even so, it was the first "Looptopia," an event of very random art and cultural presentations, and I just hope they're planning on having it next year. Maybe I'll even audition for Opera Idol. I'll call it "The Return of Papageno."