Bad news never has good timing. For the last couple of weeks, it seems there is bad news all around. It started with Johnny's funeral and just went south from there. All of a sudden, so many friends have sick relatives or family crises. Gas is through the roof. The national economy is bad. My personal economy is bad. Bad news from another church in our area. I don't want to go to the mailbox or answer the phone--it will probably be more bad news.
What do you do when you're sick of bad news? Well, I'm not going to get drunk, so what else? I'm going to celebrate. This morning I just decided I was sick of being in the dumper all day, and I'm going to celebrate. I don't care what the newspaper says. Even with all our shortcomings, faults, and failures, I still think I live in the greatest state in the greatest country on earth, and I'm going to celebrate that today. I have an incredible family and awesome friends who have not stopped loving us even with this little black cloud hanging over our heads, and I'm going to celebrate them. I have a God who loves me, whose mercy was renewed with the morning, and I'm celebrating Him today. I'm proud of the amazing little band of people who call themselves Church @ the Springs, and I'm celebrating them today. Bad news sucks, and I'm tired of it. It's time to have some fun, whether I feel like it or not.
Saturday and Sunday afternoon, I'm DJing at the Perry Family YMCA for the grand opening of their awesome new pool. I haven't DJ'd in years, but it was my college job back in the day and I'm looking forward to it. I'm going to play party songs for 3 hours each day and dance and have fun and be reminded that life is still good. I'm going to celebrate with my church on Sunday morning, and celebrate with my table group on Sunday night. Sometimes you just have to force yourself to quit being a whiner and get some joy. If the joy of the Lord is my strength, then my whining is my weakness. It's time for some joy of the Lord.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Breaking Up Is Hard to Do
I'm trying to let myself down easy today. I'm breaking off a long relationship, but it needed to happen. She just takes and takes and doesn't give as much back as she used to, and I think it's time we just went our separate ways.
I put my Jeep up for sale today. I've been a Jeep owner for 11 years; first a forest green Sahara model that I drove into the ground, then my white Rubicon for the last couple of years. I love Jeeps, and driving Jeeps has become a part of me, but it's time to move on. My family of four plus 2 dogs and gear don't fit in a Jeep, the Rubicon isn't paid for, and I could no longer justify the cost of the payments, insurance, and gas. It just isn't working any more.
All relationships are built on shared experiences, and I've had quite a few with the Jeeps. I survived the infamous hurricane evac in my Sahara. After 16 hours at the wheel, I was pushing my leg down with my arms to depress the clutch pedal. But with the windows and doors off, I had some great conversations with people stuck on the road with me all night. 150,000 miles later I traded her in on the Rubicon, my ultimate Jeep of all Jeeps. I haven't stopped accessorizing her since she arrived at our house: the lift kit and off-road tires, the congo cage on top to carry my kayak or camping gear, the hi-lift jack mounted on the bumper, performance air intake, the list goes on. Due to no fault of their own--both Jeeps have been extremely reliable--the old acronym has held true: JEEP stands for Just Empty Every Pocket. There's just no end to the ways you can modify a Jeep, and it's been one of my favorite pastimes.
I'll miss waving at all the other Jeep owners on the road, something I think is unique among Jeepers. I'll miss being approached by strangers who have a question about some modification I've made to the Rubicon. I'll even miss those days I got caught in a rain storm with the top off. I'm learning a lesson all over again, one that I should have learned long ago about cars and guitars and favorite baseball gloves that the dog chewed up. They're just stuff, and you better not get too emotionally attached.
So Adieu, lady Rubicon. It was great while it lasted, but you're a luxury I can no longer afford. We'll always have Paris-uh, I mean the duck hunt last winter.
I put my Jeep up for sale today. I've been a Jeep owner for 11 years; first a forest green Sahara model that I drove into the ground, then my white Rubicon for the last couple of years. I love Jeeps, and driving Jeeps has become a part of me, but it's time to move on. My family of four plus 2 dogs and gear don't fit in a Jeep, the Rubicon isn't paid for, and I could no longer justify the cost of the payments, insurance, and gas. It just isn't working any more.
All relationships are built on shared experiences, and I've had quite a few with the Jeeps. I survived the infamous hurricane evac in my Sahara. After 16 hours at the wheel, I was pushing my leg down with my arms to depress the clutch pedal. But with the windows and doors off, I had some great conversations with people stuck on the road with me all night. 150,000 miles later I traded her in on the Rubicon, my ultimate Jeep of all Jeeps. I haven't stopped accessorizing her since she arrived at our house: the lift kit and off-road tires, the congo cage on top to carry my kayak or camping gear, the hi-lift jack mounted on the bumper, performance air intake, the list goes on. Due to no fault of their own--both Jeeps have been extremely reliable--the old acronym has held true: JEEP stands for Just Empty Every Pocket. There's just no end to the ways you can modify a Jeep, and it's been one of my favorite pastimes.
I'll miss waving at all the other Jeep owners on the road, something I think is unique among Jeepers. I'll miss being approached by strangers who have a question about some modification I've made to the Rubicon. I'll even miss those days I got caught in a rain storm with the top off. I'm learning a lesson all over again, one that I should have learned long ago about cars and guitars and favorite baseball gloves that the dog chewed up. They're just stuff, and you better not get too emotionally attached.
So Adieu, lady Rubicon. It was great while it lasted, but you're a luxury I can no longer afford. We'll always have Paris-uh, I mean the duck hunt last winter.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Rural Community
The ranch house where my wife grew up sits back off of a gravel road in rural central Texas. You can see for miles from the back porch, and if you really try, you might be able to spot three other residences across the landscape. The next closest house is on the other side of a large cultivated field. It's a place where, if you don't want to be bothered by people, you pretty much don't have to be. For the past 20 years, it's been that kind of place for me, a place to get away from the crowds and busyness of city life. "Getting away" had to have been in my father-in-law's mind when he moved here from Dallas and built the house back in the '70s.
You would think that people who choose to live in this area put a high value on privacy, and in a way I suppose you'd be right. Dogs are the security system of choice at every house. You don't just drive up and get out of the car if the dogs don't know you. If you're not from around here, you get the impression that everyone keeps to himself. That was the impression I had of Johnny, my father-in-law, when I first met him: king of his country castle, and didn't care to be bothered. But once you get to know people here, you realize that they don't keep to themselves at all. In fact, with only a few families spread over the area, they all know each other quite well and, if I may be blunt, know each other's business quite well, for better or worse. One of the ironies about the sparse population is that there is no disappearing into the crowd.
For most of the two decades I knew Johnny, he had a regular morning ritual. He got up early, dressed like he was going to work (which he wasn't--he was semi-retired by the time I met him), got in his pickup or sport utility and left the house for two or three hours. He was always going "to the store in Leroy" or "to West for a haircut," or "had something to pick up in Bellmead," some sort of excuse to leave the house. And whatever his eventual destination was that morning, his route was generally the same. He weaved around the network of gravel roads near his place, checking in with the other farmers and ranchers who lived there, trading favors--and stories--with them, and slowly developing some meaningful relationships.
When Johnny died, several farmers and ranchers who lived nearby came to the funeral. I think everyone in the family was surprised by the large turnout. Some people I had met, others I had never seen before, but all of them knew Johnny and considered him a friend. I was struck by the sincere sense of personal and community loss they felt at his passing. They told stories of times Johnny had helped them, or expressed how they were going to miss having him around. They brought enough food to the house to feed a small army (and nothing out of a paper sack--stuff like brisket and ham and homemade desserts). This community of "loners" was not at all what it appeared. Even if some of the crustier old ranchers would never admit it, theirs was a close community of interdependence.
We remarked during this experience how often people in the more crowded confines of big cities endure hardship or loss while those around around them barely notice or may even be completely unaware of their loss. Population density seems to dehumanize and devalue us in each other's eyes, and desensitize us to each other's needs. We're closer together, but much more distant. We're "respecting each other's privacy" to everyone's detriment, content to be merely curious or suspicious of each other in lieu of knowing and caring for one another.
I'm happy to say that our own neighborhood experience is bucking the trend of urban and suburban life. People are peeking over the privacy fences and talking on the sidewalk, sharing burgers off the grill and carpooling the kids to school. The love and support our neighbors have shown us in our grief has been a major comfort to us. And we're aware that several families on our block are in the same season of life, dealing with the emotional strain of aging and ill loved ones. In times like these, privacy isn't all it's cracked up to be, and community is more than a nice thought or good intentions.
I don't have to jump in my truck to check in with my neighbors, but I learned something from Johnny about the intentionality of checking in. Last night I stopped by a neighbor's house on the way home. My son and I ate their food instead of waiting to get home to our own kitchen.
Acts 2:42-47 TNIV "All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved."
You would think that people who choose to live in this area put a high value on privacy, and in a way I suppose you'd be right. Dogs are the security system of choice at every house. You don't just drive up and get out of the car if the dogs don't know you. If you're not from around here, you get the impression that everyone keeps to himself. That was the impression I had of Johnny, my father-in-law, when I first met him: king of his country castle, and didn't care to be bothered. But once you get to know people here, you realize that they don't keep to themselves at all. In fact, with only a few families spread over the area, they all know each other quite well and, if I may be blunt, know each other's business quite well, for better or worse. One of the ironies about the sparse population is that there is no disappearing into the crowd.
For most of the two decades I knew Johnny, he had a regular morning ritual. He got up early, dressed like he was going to work (which he wasn't--he was semi-retired by the time I met him), got in his pickup or sport utility and left the house for two or three hours. He was always going "to the store in Leroy" or "to West for a haircut," or "had something to pick up in Bellmead," some sort of excuse to leave the house. And whatever his eventual destination was that morning, his route was generally the same. He weaved around the network of gravel roads near his place, checking in with the other farmers and ranchers who lived there, trading favors--and stories--with them, and slowly developing some meaningful relationships.
When Johnny died, several farmers and ranchers who lived nearby came to the funeral. I think everyone in the family was surprised by the large turnout. Some people I had met, others I had never seen before, but all of them knew Johnny and considered him a friend. I was struck by the sincere sense of personal and community loss they felt at his passing. They told stories of times Johnny had helped them, or expressed how they were going to miss having him around. They brought enough food to the house to feed a small army (and nothing out of a paper sack--stuff like brisket and ham and homemade desserts). This community of "loners" was not at all what it appeared. Even if some of the crustier old ranchers would never admit it, theirs was a close community of interdependence.
We remarked during this experience how often people in the more crowded confines of big cities endure hardship or loss while those around around them barely notice or may even be completely unaware of their loss. Population density seems to dehumanize and devalue us in each other's eyes, and desensitize us to each other's needs. We're closer together, but much more distant. We're "respecting each other's privacy" to everyone's detriment, content to be merely curious or suspicious of each other in lieu of knowing and caring for one another.
I'm happy to say that our own neighborhood experience is bucking the trend of urban and suburban life. People are peeking over the privacy fences and talking on the sidewalk, sharing burgers off the grill and carpooling the kids to school. The love and support our neighbors have shown us in our grief has been a major comfort to us. And we're aware that several families on our block are in the same season of life, dealing with the emotional strain of aging and ill loved ones. In times like these, privacy isn't all it's cracked up to be, and community is more than a nice thought or good intentions.
I don't have to jump in my truck to check in with my neighbors, but I learned something from Johnny about the intentionality of checking in. Last night I stopped by a neighbor's house on the way home. My son and I ate their food instead of waiting to get home to our own kitchen.
Acts 2:42-47 TNIV "All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved."
Elizabeth's Letter
It's been a while since my last post. A recent death in our family put the blog on hold for a while. In a SpringsLetters first, my wife Elizabeth requested that I post the following today from her:
I’ve often thought it fairly cliché when people say, “Words just can’t express my gratitude.” As someone who loves to talk a lot, I’ve thought surely someone could come up with a better way to say thank you.
Well, I was wrong.
As so many of you know, my father passed away on May 9th. While his health has been precarious over the last year or so, my family was rather blind-sided by his death. Maybe we were conditioned to his frequent trips to the hospital, maybe the doctors just didn’t emphasize how serious his condition was, maybe we were just not willing to face the reality. I don’t know. All I know is, I got a call at 1:30pm on Friday telling me that they didn’t think he was going to make it, and within the hour, he died. I wasn’t even able to make it to his bedside to say goodbye and tell him how much I loved and appreciated him. Big regret.
I also was unwilling, while he was alive, to broach the subject of his spiritual welfare, because I was afraid he would be mad at me, or there would be tension. Big regret #2.
Those regrets have weighed very heavy on me this week. (I told some friends that I felt like Sandy, the squirrel from Texas on the cartoon, Sponge Bob. Because she is a land dweller, she must wear protective headgear to help her breathe underwater. But, when she cries too much, her bubblehead fills up with water and she must attach a handle to flush the water out. I just haven’t been able to find my handle….)
Slowly, though, I have become more and more aware of God being “the One who lifts my head.” He’s gotten me out of bed when I would have rather stayed in, pulled the covers up and slept all day long. I have relied on His new mercies every single morning, more than usual.
He’s slowly clearing the fog that I’ve seemingly been walking in for over a week and reminded me that while the loss of a loved one is terribly painful and sad, it should be fully experienced, not shoved down and ignored.
(I’m beginning to wonder if this is one of the ways the Lord teaches us to have joy in Him…. I think I’m starting to understand that joy in the Lord may not manifest itself through dancing and laughing, but maybe it’s through tears and questions and trials and searching. Maybe the joy part is just the knowledge that there’s a God in heaven who hears my crying, my questions, my pleadings. And, in this case, it’s the knowledge that God already knows what it’s like to have Someone He loves die.)
My family and I have been blessed throughout it all, though; friends who have called to check on me (us); all the many prayers and hugs; the tears shed along with me; text-messages sent at all times of the day; emails expressing sadness for me and my family; the care-taking of our dogs; meals brought over, so I didn’t have to worry about cooking; even plants and flowers sent to remind me that living goes on, and it’s beautiful.
So, here I am…at a loss for words as to how best to express my gratitude. I wish I could come up with something new and fresh, something that conveys how amazed I’ve been by friends, old and new…a way to tell them they have been Jesus to me and my family.
I pray that “thank you” will suffice. E.
I’ve often thought it fairly cliché when people say, “Words just can’t express my gratitude.” As someone who loves to talk a lot, I’ve thought surely someone could come up with a better way to say thank you.
Well, I was wrong.
As so many of you know, my father passed away on May 9th. While his health has been precarious over the last year or so, my family was rather blind-sided by his death. Maybe we were conditioned to his frequent trips to the hospital, maybe the doctors just didn’t emphasize how serious his condition was, maybe we were just not willing to face the reality. I don’t know. All I know is, I got a call at 1:30pm on Friday telling me that they didn’t think he was going to make it, and within the hour, he died. I wasn’t even able to make it to his bedside to say goodbye and tell him how much I loved and appreciated him. Big regret.
I also was unwilling, while he was alive, to broach the subject of his spiritual welfare, because I was afraid he would be mad at me, or there would be tension. Big regret #2.
Those regrets have weighed very heavy on me this week. (I told some friends that I felt like Sandy, the squirrel from Texas on the cartoon, Sponge Bob. Because she is a land dweller, she must wear protective headgear to help her breathe underwater. But, when she cries too much, her bubblehead fills up with water and she must attach a handle to flush the water out. I just haven’t been able to find my handle….)
Slowly, though, I have become more and more aware of God being “the One who lifts my head.” He’s gotten me out of bed when I would have rather stayed in, pulled the covers up and slept all day long. I have relied on His new mercies every single morning, more than usual.
He’s slowly clearing the fog that I’ve seemingly been walking in for over a week and reminded me that while the loss of a loved one is terribly painful and sad, it should be fully experienced, not shoved down and ignored.
(I’m beginning to wonder if this is one of the ways the Lord teaches us to have joy in Him…. I think I’m starting to understand that joy in the Lord may not manifest itself through dancing and laughing, but maybe it’s through tears and questions and trials and searching. Maybe the joy part is just the knowledge that there’s a God in heaven who hears my crying, my questions, my pleadings. And, in this case, it’s the knowledge that God already knows what it’s like to have Someone He loves die.)
My family and I have been blessed throughout it all, though; friends who have called to check on me (us); all the many prayers and hugs; the tears shed along with me; text-messages sent at all times of the day; emails expressing sadness for me and my family; the care-taking of our dogs; meals brought over, so I didn’t have to worry about cooking; even plants and flowers sent to remind me that living goes on, and it’s beautiful.
So, here I am…at a loss for words as to how best to express my gratitude. I wish I could come up with something new and fresh, something that conveys how amazed I’ve been by friends, old and new…a way to tell them they have been Jesus to me and my family.
I pray that “thank you” will suffice. E.
Friday, May 9, 2008
What's a Mom Worth?
Can you put a dollar value on motherhood? The newspaper said today that if you include "overtime," moms typically do about $117,000 worth of work in the home each year, based on current market value for tasks usually done by moms in the home. When I read that, I thought to myself, "wow, maybe I should get into that line of work." But then I started thinking about what moms do, and realized I couldn't handle it.
The most important things moms do have no price tag: being the listening ear after a hard day at work or school, kissing boo boos, cheering from the bleachers, and saying bedtime prayers, just to name a few. I think one of the great intangibles many moms bring to a family is their noble aspirations for everyone else in the home. Moms tend to ooze their hopes and dreams for the rest of the family. Often, the mom's desires for her family's spiritual welfare become the catalyst for God's work in the whole family. Our new teaching series, "Starter Homes," is an extension of those desires. We hope that some moms' hopes and dreams for God's work in their family find encouragement and help in this series.
The Bible says such a woman is worth more than rubies (Proverbs 31:10). Since I'm not very knowledgeable about precious stones, I decided to find out how much rubies are worth. To my surprise, they're even more expensive than diamonds. I found a 4+ carat ruby for more than $12,000. So ladies, you obviously deserve more than the small gift most of us will be able to give you this mother's day, but remember the immense value you have in the eyes of God--and the rest of us.
Come and celebrate Mother's Day with us at Countryside Park Sunday at 11:00 AM! Click here for more info.
The most important things moms do have no price tag: being the listening ear after a hard day at work or school, kissing boo boos, cheering from the bleachers, and saying bedtime prayers, just to name a few. I think one of the great intangibles many moms bring to a family is their noble aspirations for everyone else in the home. Moms tend to ooze their hopes and dreams for the rest of the family. Often, the mom's desires for her family's spiritual welfare become the catalyst for God's work in the whole family. Our new teaching series, "Starter Homes," is an extension of those desires. We hope that some moms' hopes and dreams for God's work in their family find encouragement and help in this series.
The Bible says such a woman is worth more than rubies (Proverbs 31:10). Since I'm not very knowledgeable about precious stones, I decided to find out how much rubies are worth. To my surprise, they're even more expensive than diamonds. I found a 4+ carat ruby for more than $12,000. So ladies, you obviously deserve more than the small gift most of us will be able to give you this mother's day, but remember the immense value you have in the eyes of God--and the rest of us.
Come and celebrate Mother's Day with us at Countryside Park Sunday at 11:00 AM! Click here for more info.
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