I watched the church

Yesterday, I watched the Church And my heart was filled. I watched all of the kids joining the worship team on stage I watched some sing into their mom’s microphone I watched them doing the actions And my heart was filled I watched the church come forward for communion I watched one man take it for only the second time ever, because he’s only been a Christian for a month I watched a nine-year-old girl lead her little brother and sister to the table because bother her parents were on stage leading worship And my heart was filled I watched a husband and wife smiling and laughing, though I know that they're in the middle of a life shaking, world changing challenge. I watched the love between them, though I know they are a couple of years removed from a marital separation that felt like it might have gone either way. I watched their children running through the halls in joy after the service. And my heart was filled I watched the congregation laugh at their pastor's propensity to mix up his words, but I didn’t feel anything but love in the moment because I knew they wee laughing with me, not at me. I watched child after child quote the memory verse of the month, and maybe they’re just doing it for the candy bribe...but they're still memorizing scripture And my heart was filled I watched all the scurrying that happens before the service replaced by relaxed laughter afterwards I watched the room fill up as the first song plays. I watched the church answer the call to worship I watched the church come back after 2 years of unprecedented times And my heart was filled I watched those wearing masks talking and laughing in unity with those who weren't I watching people come forward with prayer requests, trusting the congregation with them. I watched people come forward with praise reports of how the church WAS the church in their lives this week. Yesterday, I watched the church And my heart was filled

I remember…or my early years in baseball

In some ways I’m perfectly suited to tell this story, being the middle child I'm right between my siblings. Almost exactly in the middle of the 5 years between them.   Actually, as I understand it, Candace, my younger sister almost never was. She was an unexpected pregnancy. I always took this to mean that my parents felt they had attained perfection when they had me.  Why bother with a third child?  It never occurred to me that a few years of raising Tim and I would make anyone not want to have anymore kids.  Either way, Candace was unexpected, and having now had an unexpected child of my own, I know that there’s a huge and important difference between unexpected and unwanted.

I wish I could talk about all my memories of my earliest years, unfortunately my earliest memory comes from when I was about 5.  Even then I can’t be entirely sure if they are true memories or imbedded memories from stories I’ve heard or pictures I’ve seen.  I tend to remember those early days in snippets.  Flashes of moments that jump from scene to scene.  Almost always in random order, and usually leaving me asking the question, “what was significant about that moment that made it stick in my brain?”  Why, for example, do I remember lining up, taking turns to jump in and out of a kiddie pool or why, out of all the other possible options, do I remember stacking wood in the garage?

Then I’ll see my mom, dressed up like an umpire, jokingly officiating our street baseball game and I can appreciate that one.  My mom has a great sense of humour and didn’t mind looking a little foolish to make us laugh.  Then my mind flips to the next scene that focuses on those street baseball games.  We played them with a tennis ball on our cul-de-sac, the bases made up of the unchanging landmarks on our street.  The manhole that was and will always be home plate.  The light pole that was next to the RX7 (that we were unfairly accused of scratching) that was 1^st base.  The big green electrical box was third, and if you made it that far, you could sit on it and rest, but it was usually so hot from the sun that you would burn your legs if you tried.  I don’t remember what 2^nd base was, except that it was far longer of a run than it should have been.  I remember the day that I first crushed a tennis ball over the house across the street, signifying a home run.  It was also the house that we fired bottle rockets from at passing cars until we had the misfortune to fire at my dad’s car, and that put an end to that in a hurry.

I remember when the fading light made it too hard to see, and we switched to hide and go seek in the dark…Epic hide and seek, where we’d dress in black and hide in plain sight, lying still in the shadows while the person who was “it” would walk right by you.  The real object of the game was to wait until just the right moment and say “HEY!” and scare the person half to death. I remember discovering that the quickest way to count to a hundred was to count to 10, ten times… one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten… one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten… one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten…which would lead other kids to accuse you of cheating.

I remember getting older and being too old for that sort of thing, even though I didn’t REALLY feel too old for it and secretly wished that I wasn’t.

I remember riding my big wheel around that same cul-de-sac while the neighbours all had a corn roast.  I also remember that one of the saddest days of my life was when I outgrew my big wheel. 

I remember our backyard, possibly the greatest tobogganing hill that a young boy could hope for, working in the snow until it was practically ice and then jumping six of my closest friends.

That was winter.  In summer, the backyard stretched into the acres of unoccupied forest that was the realm of the tree fort wars, which for the most part involved walking through the woods and finding “swords” that were better than the ones we were carrying. 

I’ve also carried some residual guilt from the time we crossed the river, which for years had been a natural boundary, but a fallen tree from a recent storm had opened up new lands to conquer.  That day, or one shortly after was the day of the great fish massacre.  We discovered a spawning stream.  There were five of us, and hundreds of them, but we didn’t lose a single man that day.  We did, however, invent “fish baseball.  I think the guilt has less to do with countless dead fish, and more to do with the fact that when we got back home and I told my mom about it, she made Tim and his friends make the long walk back to go and bury the fish, while I stayed home because I was too young to go back out.

I remember the sting of loneliness and crying in the basement because Tim wouldn’t let me play with him and his friends because I was too young…I don’t think these two experiences were related though.

I remember sneaking out after midnight with Tim and his friend…and getting caught.  I remember sneaking out after midnight and not getting caught.  I also remember sneaking out after midnight and getting chased by a maniac and realizing why mom and dad didn’t want us out so late.

As I ramble on, I realize that most of these memories involve Tim, that’s probably because I always looked up to him…literally and figuratively.  Perhaps like most little brothers I wanted him to see me as worthy.  I remember what it felt like the time, after hitting our softball team’s winning home run, Tim led the charge to have the team lift me up on their shoulders.  Something that had never happened before or since.

I have memories of Candace of course.  Back to street baseball, I remember running inside to tattle that Candace had said the “F” word.  I remember feeling guilty as she had her mouth washed out with soap…especially because years before, Tim and I had taught her that word by repeatedly telling her to say the word “truck,” knowing that her speech impediment made her replace the “tr” with an “F”.

I remember sneaking out of the house and playing “nicky-nicky nine doors.”  She wasn’t fast enough to get away, but I remember being so impressed with my little sister as she lied to the owner of the house, telling him that she had been baby-sitting a special needs boy that liked to ring people’s doorbells, and had run away.  She then proceeded to call out the imaginary boys name as she walked away.  I sat in the shadows in awe, knowing that I could have never pulled it off. 

I remember her laughing.  A full-on belly laugh.  Laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe, as we played with marbles on the kitchen floor. 

I remember the year that all three of us played on the same baseball team.  And although we never managed to win the championship, we all loved playing together. 

I’m surprised about how many of these memories are about baseball, but I think it makes sense.  We would play, dad would coach and teach us how to coach, and mom would cheer us on from the stands, wrapped in a sleeping bag to keep warm.  When I think of that scene, I feel a sense of contentment.  A feeling of joy, like in that moment, everything was right in the world. 

I remember a few years ago, telling my father-in-law that I would love to raise my family in the town that I grew up in, because I couldn’t imagine anyone having a happier childhood than I had. 

The Highway Food Fight

It started with a piece of paper.

To be fair, it actually started with an invitation.  Mike’s family was renting a cottage, and they said he could bring a friend.  He asked to bring two.  That was how Wade and Rob came to be traveling down Highway 48 in Mike’s red Chevette.

Mike had bought the Chevette not long before and it was his baby.  It was his ticket to freedom. The kind of freedom that every teenage boy longs for.  The freedom of the open road; the freedom to go wherever you wanted, play your music as loud as you liked…and Mike liked his music loud.  At one point, Rob helped him install a megaphone under the hood, so that they could broadcast the sound even further.  It didn’t sound good, but that wasn’t the point.

The three boys were good friends, and they were at the age where anything could happen.  They were young enough to think they were invincible.  They were old enough to be given the opportunity to prove it.

So, there they were, speeding down highway 48, on their way to the cottage.  Mike was driving, Wade was riding shotgun and Rob was in the back playing on a Gameboy.  One of the drawbacks of the Chevette was its lack of air conditioning, but that was a small problem on a beautiful summer day when you could roll the windows down and drive fast.

It was perfect.  And then came the piece of paper.  It was a small piece of garbage; litter really.  And it shouldn’t have been the start of anything, but by some fluke of the wind, or perhaps fate, the litter hit the Chevette.  It came from the car ahead.  Another car, piloted by young men, maybe a few years older, but still young and foolish.  It is unlikely that they intended anything by the act.  It’s unlikely that they even knew what had happened, but that didn’t change the fact that the litter hit the Chevette.  The litter hit Mike’s baby, and like any good parent, Mike was protective of his baby.

Rob, in the back with his face in a screen, didn’t even know anything was happening until they pulled out to pass and Wade took some their own garbage, a McDonald’s paper bag, and threw it at the car as they passed. 

It wasn’t completely obvious that he threw it at them, but it wasn’t entirely subtle either.  And that could have been the end of it.  It should have been the end of it.  It was an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  No real harm was done on either side.  But as is often the case in war, fairness is not always the highest priority.  In any kind of altercation, it usually takes one party to be the bigger person to end the conflict before it escalates.  And when two carloads full of testosterone are flying down the highway; both sides feeling like they have been slighted, escalation was inevitable.

The boys didn’t expect what came next, but after it was all over, they all admitted to being impressed by it.  As the other car was retaking the lead, the passenger leaned far out his window and threw, with perfect accuracy an opened, and mostly full, carton of chocolate milk.  It was a one in a thousand shot, but it was a thing of beauty. 

As the carton entered Mike’s window, the wind pressed it against his headrest, and as the carton opening flapped in the wind, the chocolate milk continually sprayed the interior of the vehicle with the brown liquid.  It was a marvel that Mike was able to keep the car on the road while being showered with 500 millilitres of dairy.

The boys managed to get rid of the offending projectile, but the damage had been done.  War had been declared.  And though the other car didn’t realize it, they had just started a highway food fight.  In any battle, ammunition must be considered, and the boys were sitting on an arsenal of ammunition.

Before setting out, Rob’s mom had emptied out the freezer.  Having two teenage sons herself, she had an idea of what it would take to feed three of them, and she wanted to do her part.  She filled a box.  Frozen orange juice from concentrate.  Eggs.   Loaves of bread.  A pound of bacon.  Fruit and vegetables, both fresh and frozen.  Hot dogs and buns along with any number of other items.  She even set out to make Rice Krispy squares but realized halfway through making them that she was out of Rice Krispies.  She substituted Cheerios, figuring that both were breakfast cereal.  Mike and Wade both claimed they were fine, but Rob could never bring himself to try them.  The abnormality of it offended his senses in a way he just couldn’t get past.

The boys had a stockpile of ammunition, and every soldier had a role.  Mike was the pilot, and it was his job to keep them in front.  It was a role he had been training for since he got his license, and he performed beautifully.  From that moment on, he never lost the lead, regardless of what the other car did.  Since the car was a hatchback and he was in the back, Rob was the loader.  He chose what ordinance would be next, searching through the box of groceries for the next missile to be fired.  And Wade?  Wade was the bombardier, the gunner.  His job was, perhaps the most difficult, but without question, the most fun.  He would take the projectile from Rob and leaning out the window, taking into account the wind, he would fire away. 

Some foods are more suitable for a highway food fight than others.  The eggs were perfect, as you might expect.  Even the frozen concentrated orange juice was effective, it had been sitting in the sun and was mostly melted, so Wade simply had to shoot it into the air, holding onto the can while the thick juice sprayed on the other car’s windshield.  The loaves of bread were less useful, but no less fun.  Every hit, regardless of the long-term effect on the enemy was met by cheers and bouts of gut-bursting laughter.  Every hotdog that bounced harmlessly off the other vehicle was a tick in the win column.

As they got towards the bottom of the box, Rob opened the package of bacon.  He decided to hand them up one piece at a time.  If they had been a few years older, it is likely that neither Wade nor Rob would have wanted to get their hands dirty.  They had nothing to clean the grease off their hands, other than their pants or the car seat.  But they were just the right age not to care.  So, Wade took what he was given and fired it off at the car behind, mostly missing, but hitting enough to infuriate the occupants of the other car.  Rob looked out the back window and saw the looks on the other boy’s faces.  What seemed hilarious to Mike, Wade and Rob didn’t seem to be as funny to them.  Rob also noticed that the other boys may not have been boys after all.  He might have used the term “men” instead.

Highway 48 is one of those backroad highways that is usually only one lane in either direction.  But it was also a highway that came to an end.  In the town of Coboconk, it intersects with Highway 35 at a set of lights.  It occurred to the boys that they were just a few minutes away from coming to a red light with a carload of angry men behind them.  They also remembered that there was a police station at that corner and, while they weren’t positive if throwing food was technically littering, they didn’t want to find out the hard way.  The big hope was that they would hit the intersection at the perfect time and be blessed with a green light.  But it was not to be.  And as they came to the inevitable red light, the other car came flying beside them, screeching to a halt on the shoulder about twenty feet away.  The passenger door was open before the car even came to a full stop. 

As it turned out, Wade had only thrown half a pound of bacon at the other car.  Rob had been saving the other half for this moment.  As the driver started to open his door, Rob leaned forward, past Wade and threw a backhand lob.  If the carton of milk had been a one in a thousand shot, the bacon ball was one in a million.  As the driver got one foot on the ground, ready to vault out of the car, the bacon ball sailed through the air.  Afterwards, no one was sure if the bacon ball went through the driver’s open window or through the small gap between the door and the roof, but they all knew the result.  The bacon ball landed in the driver’s lap and exploded like some kind of pork belly grenade. 

The look on the driver’s face was a mixture of shock and awe, quickly replaced with red-eyed fury.  He swore loudly and began to re-pack the bacon ball as his passenger rounded the back of their car and made a dash for the Chevette. 

Although the light had not yet changed, and despite the fact that there was a police station within shouting distance, Mike decided they had waited long enough.  As he hit the gas, the driver of the other car, finally out of his seat, threw the re-formed bacon ball at the Chevette, leaving a round smear of grease on the back window.  Mike, meanwhile, turned left into oncoming traffic, driving on the shoulder in the opposite direction until a gap formed and he was able to get across into the right lane.

Though there was a smear on the window and countless droplets of chocolate milk drying inside the car, the boys cheered loudly.  They held their heads high, knowing that they had won what would be referred to over and over again when they re-told the story as: the highway food fight.

Nicholas Sparks and the danger of empty calories

As I write this, I have a pile of “Rockets” candy on my desk.  Well, maybe pile is a bit much.  I’ve already eaten some, so it’s no longer a pile.  More like a scattering, a scattering of empty calories, just sitting there, tempting me.

A day or so ago I saw that author Nicholas Sparks has officially separated from his wife of 25 years.  I know that people separate from their spouse all the time, but this is NICHOLAS SPARKS!

We’re talking about the guy that wrote “The Notebook” for crying out loud.  The first (to my knowledge) movie to bring my wife to tears in the theatre.  She was overcome with emotion by the romance she saw on the big screen.  The fact that she was well into her first pregnancy and juggling a whole bunch of extra hormones may have been a factor as well.

Nicholas Sparks has built an empire with his ability to speak to (mostly women’s) hearts.  He’s sold almost 100 Million books.  9 of which have become movies (with 2 more on the way) grossing a box office of almost $500 million.

His stories have the ability to make women swoon.  Actually, to be honest, I’ve never seen someone swoon, so I’m not sure if that’s accurate.  Instead I’ll say that his stories have the ability to make women look at their husbands and think, “Why can’t you be more like Noah?  Why can’t you row me out into a lake full of swans?  Why can’t you grab me in the middle of a rainstorm and kiss me passionately while we get soaking wet?”  At least I assume that’s what they’re thinking, because it’s a little along the lines of what I think when I watch a movie like “The Notebook”.  But for me, it’s more of a self-berating “Why didn’t I think of that?”

I’m down to 2 packages of “Rockets” now.  I’m going to put them back in the jar where they came from and drink some water instead.  I’m not really hungry, I’m probably just thirsty, but my brain thinks it wants something sweet.  The problem with “Rockets” is that, although they are sweet, they are empty calories. 

The Internet tells me that empty calories are the sugars and fats (basically all the things that make life worth living) that add calories to your body, but add no nutrition.  In other words, they FILL us, but they don’t FULFILL us.

I think Nicholas Sparks might just be empty calories for our hearts.  Books and movies like “The Notebook” are the sweet treat that fill us up, but they don’t really fulfill us.  Not to say that watching “The Notebook” or reading “Dear John” is really a bad thing, but like “Rockets” it needs to be kept in moderation.

And, although I don’t take any pleasure in hearing about Nicholas Sparks’s marital issues, it does release a little pressure in my mind.

Why didn’t I think of rowing my wife out into a lake full of swans?  Because that lake doesn’t exist.  Not really.  Only in the imagination of an author, and in the budget of a Hollywood production company.

Why don’t I grab my wife and kiss her passionately in the rain?  Because the rain is actually pretty cold.  Your nose starts to run if you’re out in it too long.  And I may not be the smoothest operator, but even I have enough game to know that runny noses aren’t good for kissing.  Also, there’s the lightning factor.  Sounds dangerous to me.

And I’m guessing one of two things.  Either Nicholas Sparks didn’t do any of those things for his wife, or if he did, those things aren’t enough to sustain your relationship.  I imagine both are true.

And the truth is, our marriages aren’t what really fulfill us anyway.  Not ultimately.  Only a relationship with Jesus can truly do that.  At the end of our lives, EVERYTHING ELSE turns out to be empty calories.

None of this is to say that I couldn’t take some cues from The Notebook’s Noah and step up the romance level.  There’s a time and place for empty calories.  They are usually delicious, which is, after all, why we eat them.  We just can’t live on them.

So, does anyone have a rowboat and about 50 swans I could borrow?

Courage

Comparisons

My wife does most of the shopping in our family, especially when it comes to buying produce. However, last week my wife asked me to buy some cucumbers.  As I came across the bin, I had to ask myself, how do I know which cucumber is the best, so I began squeezing them, thinking that if one were less squishy, it probably would be better.  I personally have no interest in biting into a squishy cucumber. 

I suppose we do that with most of the things we buy.  Comparison is the main method by which we decide things.  Which bag of milk is freshest?  Which car gets the best mileage?  Which laptop is a Mac?

What interests me though is how we compare ourselves to others.  Thomas Shadwell, a 17^th Century Poet said that “No man is happy but by comparison”.  Strange words for a poet that was born 100 years after Shakespeare. 

I disagree with Shadwell.  It all depends on whom you compare yourself to.  If I compare my looks to Bradley Cooper or Brad Pitt…or some other Brad, I’ll probably be unhappy.  But if I compare myself to Shrek, I’ll probably feel good about myself.

Isn’t the same thing true with my finances, or dancing ability? This is especially true when it comes to morality.

This is an area where we almost always compare down isn’t it?  I may not be perfect, but at least I’m better than that guy who drinks and drives.  Of course, the drunk driver is saying that he’s better than the his neighbour who beats his kids. 

But what if we compared ourselves to perfection?  In all my years of youth ministry I’ve only ever met one kid who thought he was perfect…and everyone around him could tell you that he was wrong.

So how do we do when we compare ourselves to Jesus, whom the bible tells us was perfect?

It really doesn’t matter who happens to be worse than me when I realize how I compare to Jesus.  And when I compare myself to perfection it highlights how far from perfect I actually am.  I feel like the squishiest cucumber in the bin.

But I don’t think God wants us going through life feeling like squishy cucumbers.  He gave us the gift of life and He wants us to experience it to the full.  That’s why Jesus gave up Heaven to come to earth.  He lived a perfect life so that He could die for all of MY imperfections…and yours too. 

The bible tells us that if we believe in our heart and confess with our mouths that Jesus is who He says He is; then we will be saved.  When that happens Jesus’ perfection covers over our imperfection.

So I’ll ask you what I’ve asked hundreds of teenagers.  How do you compare to Jesus?  And is there any reason why you wouldn’t want Him to cover your imperfections?

"Equality" isn't "fair"

 My wife and I love to read.  Even more, I love that this enjoyment of reading has been passed on to my children.  Even my youngest, who can’t yet read, loves to curl up with a picture book.

Over the past few years I have read through longer novels with my son.  We’ve gone through C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, which I would highly recommend, and now we are working our way through L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle in Time”.  This is a book that I’ve been aware of for years, but never got around to reading.  I can’t say I’m finding it as enjoyable as Narnia, but it’s decent.

Last night we read a scene in chapter 9 in which the main character has an epiphany that: “Alike and Equal are not the same thing at all.”  Another way to say this that “fair and equal are not the same” and this is a truth that our family has had to learn to appreciate over the years.  I imagine yours has as well.  Usually these lessons are preceded with the statement: “No fair”.

An example:  My son is 9 years old; my daughters are 7 and 5.  They are different in many ways, and we don’t try to treat them as though they were the same.  We endeavour to treat them fairly, but that doesn’t mean we treat them equally.  Bedtime is a good example.  We’ve always tried to get our kids to bed reasonably early.  We usually start the process around 7:30 and my daughters, who share a room, go through the routine and we turn the lights out.  My son goes through the routine, and then we let him read until 8:30, depending on certain variables.  “No fair!” cries one of the girls.  We haven’t treated them equally, and that seems unfair.  Rather than using the adage “life isn’t fair” which, although true, wouldn’t really help the situation at that moment, we try to explain that “fair” doesn’t mean “equal”.  Because he’s older, it wouldn’t be “fair” to treat them “equally”.

Another side of this discussion is when we bring the idea of “Value” into the equation.  Just because we let our son stay up later, doesn’t mean we “value” him more than our girls, it simply means that they are different and it’s fair to treat them differently.

There has been a lot of discussion in our culture lately about equality.  And I think that there is a confusion that suggests that if people aren’t treated exactly the same, it means they aren’t valued, when really; it just means that there are differences that should be considered.  Again, an example:  Men and Women are different.  It seems that some would even question that statement; some would suggest that gender is in our imagination.  I don’t have the space in this post to tackle that subject, but I would suggest that there are very clear differences between Men and Women, certainly physically, and arguably otherwise as well.  Men and Women should not be treated equally in all circumstances.  They should be treated fairly in all circumstance, but fair doesn’t mean equal.  Every person should be treated as equally valuable, because in God’s eyes each person is so valuable that He was willing to trade His Son, Jesus, for them.

As a Christian, I am called to love everybody, to treat everyone as valuable.  That doesn’t mean that I’m supposed to treat everyone equally.  That wouldn’t be fair.