Who and When

“And so I tell you, keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened." 
- Jesus (Luke 11:9-10)

If you read my previous blog you've had a few days now to hopefully let go of the "why's" and "how's" of life and focus a little more on "what" and "where".  But this is a little tricky if you haven't yet figured out the "who" and "when".  Who will you follow to the end of this life, and when will you decide to get to it?

Early in my life I grew up in a pretty violent neighborhood that was half African American and half Hispanic. There was me and one other white kid named Andy, who had blazing red hair and freckles, and was fresh from Ireland, so he even had the accent going against him. Most of the other kids picked on him mercilessly and one day he had enough and turned on one of his aggressors.  Now mind you, when I say "violent neighborhood", I mean it. Rocks and padlocks were in jeans pockets all over the playground, and we're talking third and fourth grade here.  Unfortunately, Andy was new to the school and the black kid he turned on, Reggie, had a reputation for laying down some heavy hurt. This was not going to be good. I had to do something.

Feeling crazy I stepped right through the mob of instigators and between the two boys and put a hand up to each one of their chests. "Stop!" I said, "You can't do this." Everyone was stunned. "Why!?" Reggie yelled at me. "Yeah!" Andy fired off, pushing me away from him. I must have had God on my mind, having gone to church for the very first time the previous day, because I just blurted it out: "Because Jesus wouldn't want you to." 

Five simple words from a kid who knew more about Fonzie that he did about Jesus. It sounds silly now, telling the story, but what happened next would stick with me for the rest of my life. Both boys looked at me and then at each other, the bloodthirsty crowd of nine year old's went completely silent and then everyone dispersed without another word. I mean everyone. That day I learned there was something powerful to that name: Jesus.

I think part of it was that God had used an unlikely witness that day (he almost always does). I was the kid who the prior year had gotten my nemesis in a schoolyard pin and tried, repeatedly, to stab him through the head with a tree spike. I was the boy who was shy and quiet but just a teeeeeny-bit crazy, who had gotten into a good half dozen fights and been suspended a few times by then. So who was I to now play the pacifist and toss around the name of God? It didn't matter. By injecting Christ into that moment, I had chosen. Even if I wouldn't really admit it to myself for another twenty-five years.

We all must come to some decision about who we are going to worship and when. Have you? It's not a prerequisite to life, but it is to really living. So if you haven't already decided then please do. I think my blog makes it very clear which direction I hope you take, and which door you will choose to knock at.

Why's and How's

I don't know about you, but lately I've been living one of those "Dad Story" kind of lives: I've been going up hill, both ways, in the snow, with a heavy load, in a blinding blizzard, with a sprained ankle.  The result? I'm tired. What am I thankful for? That I'm not SICK and tired.

There. Was that uplifting or what?  Stick with me. I may be going some place with this, I'm just not sure yet. Truth be told I don't understand God sometimes. I really don't. I've got a million "WHY's" and few answers. I spoke with a friend this week and she equated too many why's with Eve, and original sin...why, oh why, can't I eat from the tree of knowledge?  God's warning to Eve on this matter was pretty blunt: "For surely, you will die."  We've all been dying since. Anyone who has lost someone they love surely knows the cost of this. I would gladly trade the million why's I have now and ten million more just to have one more day with my father.

So if not "why", then how about "HOW?" Clever, right? Run with that for a few minutes and you realize that how's multiply as swiftly as why's. How gets you nowhere either. Asking God why He does things or how He lets some things happen are questions which are healthy insofar as they remind us of our limitations...that is to say, insofar as we realize that we should let these questions go.

We are then left with two questions that are worthy of followers of God: what and where. What do you want me to do (today, this week, with my life, with my soul) Lord? And where do you want me to do it? These are questions that a servant asks. They are questions which force us to humble ourselves and admit our true station in life, in this massive universe, a station that is miniscule at best but, if equipped with enough faith, can have the profoundest of impacts.

I heard someone once say that we are all domino's; all we do is fall.  Untrue. We are all cells, multiplying, as we have from the first moment of our creation, into a blossom of such color and glory as to blind the eye. So today, will you slow down with me? Breathe. Still your mind. Settle your soul.

And ask God: "Where do you want me to go? What do you want me to do?"  Let Him know that you're tired of all the why's and all the how's and that your ready, at last, to let go of these questions and start living some answers.

Shiny Marble "Thought-Thing"

I was driving into work this morning when I was hit with my very first, bona-fide "Proustian moment". I thought I already had a few of these in my lifetime but boy, was I wrong. Way wrong. One minute I was driving along absentmindedly counting the chores of the day and then...I hear a few notes from a distant song on the radio and then...WHAM! It's 1983. I'm 16.

Let's stop for a quick moment. I realize that many of you have no idea what a "Proustian moment" is. So let me briefly explain. Marcel Proust was a French writer from the early nineteenth century. His book, In Search of Lost Time, is considered by many to be the finest work of fiction ever written,  starting a trend of character driven novels (versus the dominating concept of his day, which was plot driven novels like those by Tolstoy) . Within its 3200 pages the protagonist navigates a labyrinth of some 2000 characters, studying the life of the French aristocracy of the day as a feint to what's really going on, namely the protagonist's deepening obsession with the notion of "involuntary memory", which first happens upon him one day as he eats a madeleine and is sipping tea. For fun, follow this link to read the moment:

http://www.haverford.edu/psych/ddavis/p109g/proust.html

In short, the idea is that our minds sometimes store certain memories as mental "time capsules", usually due to a trauma or complexity of a moment in our lives that our mind automatically recognizes that we cannot deal with. So the issue is shrink wrapped in a trigger of some sort (a song, or the taste of something we are eating) to be dealt with at some later time in our lives.

My moment came via that song. I am so geeked up about this I cannot tell you! But to be teleported to a place and time within myself, to a younger me that is still alive somehow, so deeply and so vividly? It was equal parts wonderful and terrifying. I can totally see why someone would dedicate their lives to trying to study this phenomenon, or trigger it, or experience it. In that moment within myself, wrapped up in that song, was a message from my younger self to my older self about myself.

Now comes the hard part: it was a unique moment, but what did it mean? It was a shiny marble "thought-thing". And to be truly appreciated, like any good marble, it needs to be held, not just seen.