September 29, 2013

A few things happened this week that made me ponder my thirtieth birthday. Chief among these is a message I gave on Sunday about the way we end phases of our lives. Secondarily, there's the fact that Lindsay's got a special birthday coming up this weekend. She has no idea how excited she should be about this. I've got big plans. Good thing she doesn't read this blog.

--

The sun rose again. This is not notable. The sun always rises, or at least that's what I've been led to believe. Anyway, it's there when I wake up, and reliable sources have informed me that it's because its risen from the horizon. That's good enough for me.

Today is different. Today is different because the sun isn't hanging above the earth waiting for me to rise, but because I'm waiting for it. Actually that's not right either, because as my shoes rebound from the pavement underfoot, I run west along the side of the road. I'm not waiting for the sun. I'm chasing it.

Left foot, right foot, and again. Sweat drops from my jaw, and the sweatshirt that looked like a good idea earlier would probably look a lot better hanging from that guy's fence. I'm through the first three miles in 23 minutes which doesn't seem like much except when you realize that despite a good deal of training, I'm still a lousy runner.

--

I've come to realize that there's no way to dry off quickly after a shower, but that there is a way to do it poorly, and so that's what I do. My shirt sticks to my back when I pull it over my head.

I sip coffee while I pull on the rest of my clothes, and it tastes how Hawaii feels. The smell of the stuff dragged me out of bed, and the taste made me want to lay down in a hammock. The coffee jolt has been numbed to a flick, and I move at roughly the same pace before I swallowed the juice.

A quick breakfast and four quick goodbye kisses escort me through the threshold and into the car. It's not much of a vehicle, but I own it and it's generally faster than the bus. The garage door opens behind me and I roll down the driveway and down the drive, mostly alone, early on this Sunday morning.

--

I always park in the back of the parking lot. It's selfish of me because the doctor says that it's a great trick to lose weight, and I guess I don't have much weight to lose. But it is nice to peek out of the windows and realize that just about every spot nearer the building is filled.

I started parking in the back long before the lot filled up because it was a good way to trick myself into realizing the potential of progress instead of the stench of success. Success is a funny thing because dwelling on it is the surest way to prevent it.

Work is good. We have developed a solid routine, but try to do a good job of making sure no one else does. We unlock the building at the same time every week, but then transform it into a different thing altogether, and that's a good thing. People have developed high expectations even if they're not sure what to expect.

I'd tell you what we did on September 29, 2013, but I'd hate to ruin the surprise.

--

I love this grill. I don't mean that I love it and want to marry it, but I do mean that I wouldn't rule that out as a possibility.

It's my birthday, and the birthday boy gets to make the rules. This year, the birthday boy is making his own steak. The secret ingredient is the rub, and it's nearly as tightly guarded as my sermon plans for this morning. We'd spent all morning yesterday finding the right cuts of meat, because I'm only going to turn 30 once, and I prefer New York Strip.

After I flip the steaks, I descend into the yard and pick up a football. Five sets of legs emerge from the house to play, even though only one of them can throw a football more than two feet and only three of them have thumbs. The game ends the way these games always do. I lose.

--

The first book is done, so I sit down to write another. The house is quiet. I am eating another cupcake. Lindsay kisses me on the head and tells me she's going to bed. Of course I'm going to follow her.

--

I sleep well, waking only four times to pee and once because it's going to rain and I can feel it in my knees. Let's face it - I'm thirty.

Writing without Fruit

Every now and again, I'll pull up Blogger, sit down to write a sentence much like the one you're reading right now, and then I'll begin to realize that I don't have a clue where I'm going with it. I am intent on writing something - because I want to write - something, but I just don't have anything to say. I suppose it's sort of like wandering onto a grassy field with a football helmet, a baseball bat, and a basketball, then saying: "I want to be good at sports." Sure, you've got a pile of equipment, but you really look like an idiot.

And in this grand metaphor, I suppose it means that I look like the idiot right now. But due to the wonders of the Internet, if I complete this stream-of-consciousness blathering and I don't like it, I won't post it, and you'll never know how stupid I really am.*

* Unless of course I'm stupid enough to hit "Publish Post" anyway. I guess you'll be the judge.

--

As we were watching American Idol last night, I mentioned to Lindsay my disbelief at some of the poorer singers that try out for the show. For my part, I think that at least half of them are aware of their suckitude, but play it off well so that they can win a bar bet and enjoy their 15 minutes of fame.

But I'm sure that there are at least some of these people who actually believe that they can sing. In and of itself, this isn't what throws me. I can fully understand how a poor singer can delude himself into believing he's a decent singer.* I can understand how a mediocre singer might believe himself to be good. But for the life of me, I cannot understand how a poor singer might believe himself to be one of the 24 best undiscovered talents in the entire nation.

* If I couldn't do it, I wouldn't sing. I'm the expert here.

One guy said he couldn't believe he didn't make it, even though he "hit the really loud notes." This is clearly a guy with zero training, because musicians wouldn't convince themselves that volume is what makes a good singer great. If this was the case, my neighbors would have won multiple Grammies.

Of course, almost all of these people claim that their friends always tell them how great they are, which has to lead you to believe that either these people aren't really friends or that compliments lead to delusion far more frequently than illumination.

--

Someone who I didn't know once approached me and told me she enjoyed my blog. Another person told me that if I didn't write for the rest of my life, then I'd be missing my calling. Another told me she'd laughed so hard she cried, and another told me my prose was touching enough to bring her to tears. I suppose it takes a certain degree of talent to cause humorous and serious tears at the same time. I suppose it takes even more to do that with a blog that's standby material involves a ferret wearing a sweater or inappropriate jokes about meeting Scientologists in my underwear.

--

Then I remember, that when I was 24-years-old, someone told me I should try out for American Idol. There might be something there too, but I know that I can't hit the loud notes.

I Am Jack's Self-Deprecation

At the prodding of my wife, my mother, my grandmother, my cousins, and strangely enough, the fifth-grade teacher at Dawson's school, I have an announcement to make.

I've returned to the Drawing Board.

Blessing or curse, you decide.

--

I should mention that many times, I've fully intended to return - to come back to the drawing board. It's just that I would sit down to write a post, knock out a dozen empty meaningless words that never drew toward a point, and realize I had nothing to say.*

* In fairness, that never stopped me before.

But, I think I've finally realized why the writer's block existed in the first place. I think it's because it's far more difficult for me to pretend convincingly to be the person I used to pretend to be.

I wrote this blog primarily from the standpoint of an aloof bachelor. Nearly all of my best jokes had their genesis in a degree of self-deprecation that is almost never mirrored in my reality. So if you can fully grasp this - in the online fantasy world that I created for myself, I made myself significantly more lame than I actually thought I was.

I made bank when I threw around labels like: "I am an idiot," and "Reasons I will Always be Single," and "Stories Where I'm Not Wearing Pants," and the list goes on.

So while Lindsay would argue that there are maybe some good reasons that I was single for so long,* the difficulty in managing an overhumble alter-ego is that it's incredibly difficult to be convincingly self-deprecating when your wife is a 10.

* Flatulence, primarily.

Of course, marrying a beautiful woman doesn't preclude me from being an idiot, and it certainly doesn't mean that I wear pants more. I learned that when I watched Everybody Loves Raymond, King of Queens, Still Standing, and According to Jim.

It just means there's something redeeming about all of that, right?

St. Paul, MN

Last summer, I rode a bicycle from Chicago, IL to Devil's Lake, ND. Since I've never written about the adventure, and since it was a long December as far as temperatures went, I thought January might be a good time to talk about summer 2008. January is Bike Month at the Drawing Board.

--

Most of the morning was a blur. Our friends would be leaving after lunch, and Paul and I would be on our own. We'd carry our own gear now, on our backs and not in a van. We didn't have turn-by-turn directions or predriven routes. We had a couple of bikes and about 40 pounds of luggage.

I was excited because a certain girlfriend of mine had made me lunch reservations at a swank sushi joint in downtown St. Paul. It was the first nice meal I'd had in weeks and would be the last one for even longer. I was excited for a break between what had become in indecipherable string of Italian meals.

First we raced into town to find a homeless shelter with nationally-recognized award-winning gardens. It was an odd combination, but there we were, on our hands and knees, picking weeds, surrounded by topiaries and beds of colored impatients. We got lost in the gardens, buried by a mountain of flowers, and for a moment we'd forget where we were. But we were right there, surrounded by manicured beauty surrounded again by poverty.

We left after our work was done and found our way quickly to the place. We walked in, wandered aimlessly and then I heard a tiny whisper. I don't like to wax poetic, so I won't. But Lindsay was there, and my excitement, coupled with the ridiculousness of my bike shoes meant that I nearly toppled a table of innocent and terrified teenage girls.

I learned quickly that St. Paul was the home of Charles Shultz. The downtown is decorated thoroughly with statues of the Peanuts characters, and it's one town that enamored me almost immediately.* I flatted out on a city street, drank a beer downtown, and we all found our way to friends in Woodbury.

* That having been said, I would not want to be there right now. Yikes.

It might have been the best day of my life.

Back from the Dead

I swear to you that I have fully intended to write on this blog just about everyday for the past six weeks.  I've also intended to pay off my student loans, train for a half-marathon, reduce my carbon footprint, learn how to polka, and adopt a three-legged goat.  You know what they say about good intentions.

I don't think I'm unique, and while I wouldn't say that I've got a lack of a motivation, I would have to admit that my motivation is lacking.  And so, for the past six weeks, the post that remained at the top of this page concluded with an especially crude joke that no one got except my mom.

I'm so proud of her.

--

I think sometimes we just need a little prod.  Some of us need a big prod.  This morning, my cousin Dan tapped me on the shoulder from Kentucky to make a post called iPod tag.  It's a simple concept, you put your iPod or mp3 player on shuffle, and you MUST post, for the world to see, the first 15 songs it plays.  It's a neat idea.

Here we go...

La-Di-Da by Farryl Purkiss

The Fjords of Oslo by Bela Fleck & The Flecktones

Champagne Supernova by Oasis

A Love Supreme by John Coltrane

Lady Madonna by Paul McCartney

This Side by Nickel Creek

Cannonball by Damien Rice

Best of What's Around by The Dave Matthews Band

Satisfaction by Otis Redding *

Come Downstairs and Say Hello by Guster

All the way Up to Heaven by Guster

Menuett I-II by Bela Fleck & Edgar Meyer

When the Saints Go Marching In by Louis Armstrong

Dream On by Kelly Sweet **

The Luckiest by Ben Folds

* He covered the Rolling Stones; I like the original better.

** She covered Aerosmith; I like her version better.

In other news, it's good to be back.*  See you soon.

* And that makes it sentimental crap.

Back to the Drawing Board

I thought I had laid down for a nap. Then I went and slept through August. Sorry about that.

No, that's not what happened. Of course not. That's ridiculous. I actually rode my bicycle about 1300 miles, made a detour to the emergency room*, then rode a very long and uncomfortable train back to Indiana.

* To allay the fears of those of you who know me, but mostly to frustrate those of you who hate me, I would like to state that the emergency room visit was not on my behalf. I waited in the other room and watched soap operas with the doctors while they were busy not treating anyone.

We stopped at some sort of clinic in a lovely town called Michigan, North Dakota. This doctor apparently had less technology than a Pygmy witch doctor, so we were advised to move along. We ended up hitch hiking with a man who was possibly named Jim, although I wouldn't bet my own $20 dollars on it.* He took us the remaining 40 miles to a town called Devil's Lake, which, as the name implies, might not be the ideal town to make a hospital stop.

* I'd be willing to be your $20 on it though.

We asked the-man-possibly-named-Jim if there was anything to do in Devil's Lake, ND. His advice: "Yeah.  Get better and get the hell out of North Dakota." I liked that guy, and on second thought, I believe he may have introduced himself to us using only his last name. I'm also pretty sure his last name wasn't Jim.*

* You just lost $20. Sorry about that.

Anyway, an uneventful respite at the hospital led us to a hotel room that featured a lot of flies and not a lot of towels.  It was time to find a way back to Indiana. We spent the next day riding in a red 15-passenger van that the driver insisted on calling a bus. He also insisted that Drew Carey was the funniest man alive. His name may have been Jim.

From there, we rode an Amtrak that failed to provide ample leg room for sleeping; also not for the bathroom. Over the course of several weeks, it can become easy to forget how far you've come. Fortunately, a 20-hour train ride provides a most sober reminder that, yes, you were very, very far from home.

A few days back at home might make you wonder why you ever endeavored to leave. A few more might bring about the itch again. The next adventure might seem soon, but for now, it can wait. I've got more important things to attend to.

I've got a blog.

No more sleeping through August at the Drawing Board. I promise.

Riding with the Wind

Let's get this right out of the way. This post is going to be flowery and poetic, and I'm going to label it Sentimental Crap. You are more than welcome to listen to Jim Gaffigan talk about pie instead. I won't be offended. You have been warned.

Every now and again, I stumble unwittingly into a moment of restrained euphoria. It's a wave that comes unexpectedly and disappears just as quickly. There's nothing a person can do to create the feeling, and in fact; attempting to manufacture it always assures it won't arrive. It's the moment John Mayer sang about in Clarity.* It's the fleeting moment when everything seems perfect, the world seems good, and everything - everything - makes sense. It's nice.

*Seriously. Dude nailed it: "By the time I recognize this moment / This moment will be gone."

That's exactly the trouble with the whole thing. It washes over you, and by the time you realize what it is, it's gone. Maybe if a person could be content to experience the thing rather than analyze it, it might linger. But it doesn't happen. It never happens.

--

The wind does weird things to a cyclist. It's a relentless foe. It's indefatigable. It's not like boxing. In boxing, if you hit the other guy hard enough, he'll stop hitting you. You can ride at the wind all you want, and it is never, ever going to let up because your effort has somehow overwhelmed it. No, you're just more tired than you were a few moments ago. You will always be at the whims of the wind, and the wind is nothing if it's not whimsical.

Occasionally, the wind is less a tireless foe and more a flaky ally. Sure, it may help you along, but you can never ever rely on it. One moment, it can blow fiercely at your back; the next it can turn and blow in your face. If it does that, it means that there might be a tornado coming. This, suffice it to say, is the meanest thing the wind can do.* Get off the road.

*Also, the wind could be in your face as you ride to work. Then, while you are in the office, it can change directions simply so it can blow against you on the way home. You might be thinking that the opposite could happen; that it could blow at your back both ways. You'd be wrong. That has never happened to anyone ever.

Then there's the matter of roads. Most roads are laid out on east-west, north-south grids. It's a clever system. Unfortunately, the wind hasn't bought into it. The wind almost never blows strictly in cardinal directions. That means that you'll never have the full strength of the wind behind you, and you'll inevitably end up fighting some minutiae of crosswind.

Wind can also be loud. In your face, it catches the sails that are your big ears* and it fills them with a rustling that hides traffic noises. Blowing across, it's like listening to a stereo recording with one headphone; nothing ever sounds right.

*My big ears. I have big ears.

There is one exceptional quality to all of this. When the wind is at your back - and I mean, really and truly at your back, 100% - it makes no sound whatsoever. And for as long as the wind's whims remain unchanged, you'll pedal on air with nary a sound in your ear.* In that moment, everything seems idyllic, there are no worries, restrained euphoria takes charge, and life makes sense.

*What a sappy sentence. It kind of makes me want to puke.

Of course it can't last. Your awareness of the moment will ruin it. The wind will change only a bit and that might ruin it.

Or, as you are enjoying you biannual moment of Zen; you might get hit by a truck. Again.

Seriously, people. I'm right there. On the shoulder. I know you can see me. Please stop hitting me with your trucks. And if you do feel, for whatever reason, that you must hit me with your truck, why in the name of nirvana do you have to do it right in that very moment? And yes, I'm okay,* but would it have killed you to have stopped (or slowed down, or maintained your constant speed, or done anything besides sped up) to make sure?

*Mom, I really am okay. I was more of a man about it this time. I didn't fall, I didn't come loose of the bike, and I even maintained the wherewithal to slam my fist against the dude's bed as he came by. I hurt my hand doing that. My hand hurts.**

**Remember that episode of Full House where Joey "let go" and Michelle rode her bike right into the bushes and scraped up her knee? I remember watching that as a seven-year-old and thinking, "Seriously? Bushes are thing that's going to make her scared of bikes? Bushes?" After two of these truck-hittings,*** I would like to say that I am vindicated. Michelle Tanner is a grade-A wuss.

***That entire episode takes on a different meaning if Michelle gets hit by a truck, doesn't it? Man, I would watch that.

The Kindness of Strangers

I wrote a few days ago about my uncanny ability to make friends out of strangers. It's a good skill to have in that moment of the transformation. After all; most people leave a place and have only a fleeting familiarity with a few faces. I like to know the names and stories behind the faces. That's because most people are interesting if you give them a chance to be interesting.

But there's something else great about my social prowess.* It means that if I spend enough time in one area, I'm bound to start knowing the people around me. I don't see as many strangers waiting to become friends. I start seeing friends who were once - only briefly - strangers.

*It feels weird to call it social prowess. Prowess sounds like the word prowl, and that sounds like a thing creepy dudes do. I'm not a creepy dude, am I? (I might be.)

Tonight, I cruised into downtown South Bend and stopped for a Mocha Dark at the South Bend Chocolate Cafe.* I locked up the bike, popped in the headphones, and strolled around the city, imagining myself to be more of a stud than I am. It was a perfect night for the thing, and seemed like an appropriate way to celebrate the Cubs' ninth inning win over the White Sox. (Yes, I did have to squeeze that in somehow.)

*Fact: South Bend does the best chocolate in the United States. I'm leaving for New Mexico in something like six weeks and I can say that I will miss South Bend Chocolate and Traders Point Creamery very much. I wonder if either would sponsor a cyclist.

While I was at the cafe, I recognized a man that I met once. My friend Cory got married in June 2005. I was his best man, and his uncle was one of the groomsmen. The primary thrust of this paragraph is that I recognized Cory's uncle. We spoke for a minute; then I got ready to go on my way.

--

I was fifteen feet away from my bike when it happened. The tire exploded with a kind of -BOOM!- then a slow and depressing -sssssss- sound. It was locked up on the fence that surrounded the outdoor cafe and I am certain that each of the patrons heard the thing go. If they didn't notice the sound, they certainly heard my droning cry of "Ohhh no!"

People reacted with an uncommon level of concern, offering whatever help they could. But in the end, it was Cory's uncle - a man I'd met once - who came to the rescue. He offered me a ride home, which I accepted readily. He, his wife, and his son* helped me load up my bike and drove me to safety. It's the kind of thing that Paul and I will almost require of those around us as we travel to Minnesota and then to New Mexico.

*Cute wedding story, and I hate cute wedding stories. During Cory & Beth's wedding, the flower girl stubbornly refused to sprinkle the flowers as she walked the aisle. Cory's nephew - who was the ringbearer - confronted her later; asking, "Why didn't you do your job?" Her response? "Oh. I didn't want to make a mess."

The moral of the story is this. Most people are good people, as long as you give them the opportunity to be. But get to know a person, even just a little bit; and they become a little bit gooder.

--

You may have noticed that I didn't mention Cory's uncle by name. That's because I'm horrible with names. I am good at meeting people and remembering every circumstance surrounding the time we met, then I crap on their name. So no, I didn't remember his name.

However, I did leave him with the address of this blog, so there's a real good chance that he's reading this right now, realizing that I never had an idea of his name. This ruins any chance I had of faking it for the rest of my life.

I did do some research. Dean & Donna. The name of their son? No idea.

Thanks Dean, Donna, and son. It's people like you that make my adventures possible.

--
Updated: Their son's name is Benjamin. Thanks again to the three of you!

Go Ahead, Talk to Tucker

I'm starting a new thing now. I'm selling my first house. When I moved in, the place was cute, rustic living, and in need of a little TLC. What that actually means is: small, mostly damaged, and no running water.*

*That's entirely true by the way. I lived in a tent for 40 days in 2006, then moved in to this house only to discover that my new, more luxurious environs were still lacking in plumbing. We dug up the entire yard, ran a new supply line and worked the plumbing indoors. On September 29, 2006 - my birthday! - I took my first real shower since July. It was the greatest present a guy could ask for. Anyway, here's what makes all of this so poetic: In 2006, I moved from a tent into a house. Now, I'm moving from a house back into a tent; albeit, a different tent.

I always intended to flip the thing, but the schedule for sale quickened with the discovery of my new plans. Over the past year-and-a-half, I've managed to install a working plumbing system, discover two new bedrooms and another half-a-bath (!), and make the place quite presentable. Or, presentable as it is defined by a 24-year-old life-bachelor.*

*Good grief. Go back and count the number of hyphens in that paragraph. Then deal with it.

I met with my Realtor, and we've got the property listed (quite generously) at $79,900. There's a sign in the yard and a tricky sort of locked box on the door. This means that people are, maybe right now, waltzing through my house, marveling at the archways and cozy rooms. Then they're saying things like, "What a steal!" and "I could raise a family here!" and "This guy sure owns a lot of Cubs merchandise!"

My neighbors will probably be glad to get rid of me. I'm a 20-something male, I'm quiet, I don't have too many visitors, I work strange and erratic hours, I'm often gone late at nights, and occasionally, I'm gone for days at a time. I'm certain they believe that I operate a meth lab.

But, potential home-buyers, please be aware that I do not operate a meth lab out of my house. Really, I don't. The place is adorable, roomy, quiet, and at your desire, it can be as wet as you want it to be.

--
I added the "Stories Where I'm Not Wearing Pants" label because it's my house and I almost never wear pants there.

A Rumination on God's Creation

I'm closer to 25 than I am to 24 at this point. That means I'm almost closer to 30 than I am 20. And if you count time since conception, I'm practically middle-aged. (I heard you add nine years. Or something like that.)

I mention all of that because of this unremarkable fact: Of my quarter century of existence, the sun has risen every morning. I assume that to be true - anyway, it's there somehow when I get out of bed. Furthermore, the sun has set every night. I can vouch for that.

Here's what makes all of this blogworthy. As I was tooling around Broad Ripple on Friday night, the sun began to set. After being around for just about 9000 sunsets, you'd think the event might become commonplace. Far from it. Here it was, 25 years after it started (for me, anyway) and God sets the sun in a color that I had never, ever seen before.


I also just got a new camera and look for excuses to take pictures. By the way, that photo looks like crap. Promise me you'll click on it to see it in full screen. Thanks.

A Letter to My Church

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but yesterday we announced my resignation at Calvary, effective at the end of July. I'm going to let you know all of the details surrounding my new journey over the course of the next couple of weeks. For now, here's the letter that I wrote to my church. It will be included in the June newsletter.

--

Sometimes, when God wants to communicate something to us, He gives us a great, big sign that we could never miss. Or at least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. It’s never happened that way in my own life.

See, when God needs something from me, I tend to get it from a hundred different small things that all add up to be so much more than a chain of coincidences. That’s been happening lately.

At the end of July, I will end four years of ministry at Calvary. Like a palm tree in Vermont, God planted a seed that had no business growing, but we know that God can make these things happen. He spoke to me through dozens of seemingly unrelated, otherwise innocuous Bible verses. He spoke to me through the unexpected direction of several human conversations. He even directed me through the advice of strangers.

He made it barely clear – so many times – that I absolutely know what He’s after. It’s time for me to go.

In August, I’m going to ride my bike across the country. I’m going to take the time to finish writing the book I was supposed to finish three years ago. And then I’m going to settle down in New Mexico and lead campus ministry until God calls me elsewhere.

I want to share so much more with you, but this note in a stapled booklet doesn’t seem like the best way to do it. Drop by my office. (Bring me a cup of coffee.) Let’s have a conversation about what God’s doing in my life; and most importantly, what He’s doing in yours.

Five Things I Want My Kids to Know

Almost a month ago, my cousins Dan & Nancy tagged me. It took me awhile to write this post because I spent a lot of time really thinking about it (read: I am lazy).

I'm supposed to be writing about the five things that I want my kids to know. Of course, I don't have any kids (as far as you know), so I'm going to have to live a little vicariously through others.

1. I want my kids to know how to create their own happy life. I could do everything for Aaron Jr. until he turns 18, but I won't.

2. I want my kids to know what I believe about the Judeo-Christian God. Then I want them to be smart and open to choose for themselves. It'll be my job to be an example of what Christianity is.

3. I want my kids to know more than I do. However, I don't want them to realize this.

4. I want my kids to know that I'll always be there, and that old dad won't act off the cuff or overreact to any situation.

5. I want my kids to know that the Chicago Cubs are the only baseball team worth rooting for. I also want them to know a world where the Cubs win stuff.

Forgiveness

I've been reading Faith Statements this week. Essentially, these are the efforts of sixth graders to explain, in their own words, their personal beliefs and theology. It's literally the highlight of my year in ministry.

I was struck by the words of many sixth graders, particularly as they talked about the topic of forgiveness. Then, I found this video:



Red Sox fans literally sent this guy death threats after his infamous gaffe. How good must Buckner have felt during the extended ovation? And the fans; finally releasing him from their bad graces?

Forgiveness is a good thing.

Four Wheels Is Two Too Many

I saw quite the church sign today. But you have to wait until tomorrow. Indulge me for one day with my bicycle. It's new.

I was waiting in line at the bank today when some poor guy dared to ask me how I was doing. After a 90-second monologue about my new bicycle (see below), he seemed disgusted - "Don't you own a car? You're an American, man."

(For the record, yes I do. It's a Ford. From Detroit. Detroit, America.)

--

In summer 2004, I was working at Epworth Forest, a Methodist camp in North Webster, Indiana. On at least one occasion, I was asked to something that was not my job. Our sister camp was running a week of biking trips for campers. Turns out, they had hired counselors who were not physically fit. Since I was in at-least-mediocre shape and since I worked nights, would I mind waking up early and leading 30-40 mile bike trips for six days?

My answer was a gloomy yes. I was 22, hadn't ridden a bike since I was 13, and wasn't keen on going all week on five hours of sleep a night.

It ended up being one of the best weeks of my life. I borrowed a used bike that didn't quite fit me, spent my days and nights mostly exhausted, and experienced a new kind of butt discomfort. And I put in something like 200 miles in one week, a massive sum for a non-rider.

--

I ride because I like to see the things around me. I like going fast. I like the feeling of the sun and fresh air. It gives me an excuse to wear spandex shorts.

I ride so I don't have to buy bigger pants, because gas is expensive, and because it's good for the environment. I ride because, when you're on the saddle of a bike, it means you're not in a hurry.

I ride because my commute never felt like an adventure in a car. I ride because after only a few weeks of training, you can do things that make most people think you're crazy. I ride because I don't want to be the kind of American that the guy in the bank was.

And that's why I buy Cannondale - the only major bicycle brand that can stamp a "Handmade in America" sticker on the seat post.

Volunteerism in the Church

I am impressed with the volunteers Calvary generates every year. We're kicking off Confirmation next Sunday, a four-month program that will involve the coordination of more than 30 volunteers and leaders. That's more people than worked at Google for its first five years.

My education background is in business, and that comes in handy. In my position, I will attempt to work with more than 100 different volunteers this year. And while I wish I could claim credit for an awesome group of leaders, I can't. All I really do is identify the good people and try to make sure we're all moving in the same direction.

I find good people. Then I point. Not a bad gig.

Christmas Cynicism

Like a lot of people, I can be a little cynical about Christmas. It has nothing to do with the actual holiday, which I love. It has nothing to do with the traditions, which I enjoy; the movies, which I watch; the music, which I tolerate.

But like most Christmas curmudgeons, my problems are all with the way Christmas is marketed. You might think that I have a problem then with ad agencies, but I don't. Marketers are smart people and they tend to do what works. If the kind of marketing we have didn't appeal to the masses, then they wouldn't do it.

So like a true mistletoe misanthrope, I suppose I have problems with humanity.

Okay, not really.

--

I saw a commercial last night; I don't remember what it was for, but that's not important. Some lady was talking about how much her sister had done for her, how much she loved her sister. Then she said it:

"This year, I wanted to give her a gift that shows just how much I love her."

Well, I want to do that for the people I care about too! So I did some brainstorming - what gift can I give someone that will show them how much I love them? Here's what I came up with.

• A kidney.

It pretty much stopped there.

So don't worry mom. I love you more than a teapot's-worth. But I hope you like it anyway.