The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Horse Feet

Horse Shoes? Who in the world still plays horse shoes? As you know horse shoes is reserved for those in retirement communities. Shuffle Board, Bingo and Horse Shoes are all events in the Grumpy Old Geezer Olympics. So why would a slightly balding, middle aged dad like me ever pick up the game of those who are teeth challenged?
Two years ago when we moved to Oregon we discovered this hidden park in the middle of a near by neighborhood. It is a great park with a playground, tennis courts, a baseball field, a picnic area and a horse shoe pit. Our wonderful friends the Condellos and the Williams often take our families there for picnics. For some odd reason Erik with a K Williams is the only adult in his thirties who actually owns horse shoes. Odd and Erik with a K are best friends. For the past few years Erik, Brian and I have periodically played the game. This past summer our casual game of leisure has become an all out cage match to the death of high stake horse shoe awesomeness and the quest for horse shoe world domination. On one side of the horse shoe pit is team Erik and Brian (two Pastors who have dedicated their lives to serving God in full time ministry.) On the other side is me (one man who has dedicated his life to the pursuit of sophomoric tomfoolery and to being the cheapest man alive). The other person on my team is one of several innocent bystanders who have been unfortunate and foolish enough to get aboard this train wreck. For some unknown reason with a K, most of my teammates have only volunteered once and have opted out of future matches.

I have to confess that I love playing horse shoes. I grew up playing with my Dad. We have a horse shoe pit in the back yard of my childhood home. My dad is an amazing horse shoe player. I have never beaten the man in horse shoes. Dad would rip off ringer after ringer and he would make short work of my horse shoemanship. My Father is a man of honor and integrity and he taught me to play the game with good sportsmanship and with respect for your opponent. Dad always is a great encouragement and was genuinely excited when I managed to get a ringer or a point. Although I’ve never beat him in the game, I always left feeling good about myself and my effort. Playing horse shoes with my two pastor friends is a far cry from those games of honor.

I’m about to expose an ugly truth to you. Please remove small children and sharp objects from the room. I have discovered over the past 24 years of working with youth pastors that they are pathetic. I’m talking shameless unapologetic pathetic. Before I get hit by lightning please let me explain. Clinical research has shown that people seeking a career in youth ministry are slightly deranged. My theory is that when one enters the field of youth ministry they are young and are somewhat able to keep up in competition with their hormonal energetic flock, however as time, the human metabolism, and the effects of ageing cruelly deflate the youth pastor ego it renders them lacking on the field of competition. The youth pastor attempts to level the playing field by over compensating and develops their ability to mock and trash talks their foe. I can’t say that I blame them. It is a survival technique developed to maintain their cool awesomeness. The older you get the more developed the gift. Let me just say that Erik and Brian are very well developed. They are both pushing forty which in youth pastor years is like one hundred and twenty. Erik and Brian have taken mocking and trash talking to an artful perfection. I have had the honor of being on their team and witnessing the fine art of the perfectly timed cough, burp, fart, or inappropriate comment. I have watched their opponents who completely out match them in speed, skill and ability, crumble in humiliating defeat in the wake of their evil super power. This past summer Brian and I were getting schooled in game by this old pro and then Brian unleashed his shameless gift upon this poor man and we were able to snatch victory from a most certain doom. The poor man was so frustrated at Brian that I thought he was going to resort to violence. It was beautiful!

Now that I have set the stage for our all out cage match to the death of high stake horse shoe awesomeness and the quest for horse shoe world domination I would like to take you back in time to painful place which I like to call the worst moment ever in the history of my illustrious horse shoe career. One week ago in the twilight hours of the Lords Day I found myself walking the long lonely trail to the arena of my former glory and my current pain. On this road a small child greeted us with excitement as he joined the parade of horse shoe legends. His name was Ethan and he was a buzz saw of energy. As we prepared the arena for our pending battle, innocent Ethan began to connect to his new found horse shoe heroes. The match began as normal. There was the typical mocking, rock throwing and well timed inappropriate comments. Erik was in rare form as he succeeded in throwing me off my game. My partner answered with some key points that put us in the lead. My partner happened to be Brian’s father-in-law which deterred Brian from wisely unleashing his mocking game upon his Wife’s Dad; however it didn’t stop him from letting it go on me.

As I mentioned before Youth Pastors can be shameless. Ethan who was cheering for everyone was now an innocent pawn of evil in Brian’s pathetic scheme to have victory at any cost. Just as the Candy Man in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang enticed small children into his trap, Brian incites Ethan into his. “Do you see that man about to throw that horse shoe? Every time he begins to throw I want you to laugh at him.” Ethan played the pawn to perfection. He had this great mocking laugh that made me almost wet myself ever time he did it. I was now rendered useless by this innocent child. This made Erik and Brian drunk with mocking glee. Our sizeable lead was being demolished by innocent Ethan and Brian ripping off two or three ringers. My team was up nineteen to eighteen as the day surrendered its light. One ringer would mean victory for both sides. My first horse shoe went inches left of the target and slid to a disappointing nothing. In an act of mocking arrogance Erik tosses his first shoe three feet in front of him. Erik was betting the bank that I would choke on my second toss and that he would get a ringer. He would either walk away from the game a hero or a fool. The prior week Brian did a similar stunt which ended in victory for my team. It was getting dark as I stepped up to silence my foes arrogance. The trash talking and mocking reached a crescendo as I let the shoe slip into the dark. The shoe found its mate at the back of the pit. Erik steps up to the line dressed in all of his gloating arrogance. I shot up a quick prayer asking the good Lord to humble the proud and to give grace to the humble. My feeble prayer was answered with grace for the humble. The Holy Trinity looked on as Erik’s tossed his horse shoe into the night. The sound of metal striking metal and a bright spark that caused my knees to buckle gave birth to the emotional scars of my defeat. Anyone who is schooled in the fine art of trash talking and mocking knows that to win with grace, honor and respect is an invitation to future weakness. A true artist finishes their opponent off by the sheer obnoxiousness of their victory celebration. Erik is an artist. After his victory dance, yelling, screaming, mocking, gloating, boasting and teasing, came his tweeting and his horse shoe victory blog. The next day he even managed to rub it in by typing my name in our bowling score sheet as “Stevelostshoes”. Like a stray cat the memory of that painful evening still lingers. Erik will make sure that I will never forget it. The games that have followed have been haunted with my inner competitive demon. I find myself playing in silence in attempt to defeat the monster within. I love spending time with Brian and Erik. I love playing horse shoes with them. Brian and Erik bring life to my soul and laughter to my heart. They are the best of my friends, which brings me to the final and the main point of this blog. If by some chance you are an excellent horse shoe player or even if you are an expert in the art form of mocking please look me up so that together we can have revenge for my defeat and so that I can once again achieve dominance in our all out cage match to the death of high stake horse shoe awesomeness and the quest for horse shoe world domination.

Numb in the Bum

So how does one know that they are becoming a lazy no good couch potato? Thankfully the good Lord has recently equipped me with an early detection device. This past year my back forty has developed a super human power perception. Some have sensitive feelings, others have sensitive taste buds, I have a sensitive cooley. Anytime I’m sitting for a prolonged period of time my cheeks go numb in protest. The worst part of this super human gift is that if I don’t equally distribute my weight across the length of my assets, one cheek will sing in happiness while the other cheek will feel as though it just went to the dentist. My bum goes numb. When this happens I know that it is time to get up and restore the happy place that circulation and feeling brings to my bottom’s well being. Although the reduction of circulation in my derriere is cause for some concern I’m a little embarrassed to go to the doctor. What advise would the medical profession offer? “Stand up and massage often.” “We will need to see if there is any blockage in the veins in your cheeks. How does booty angioplasty sound?” “Have you considered butt rehabilitation?” For the life of me, I can’t think one compelling reason to have a doctor find the source of my special gift. I guess the big moral in this sad tail (ok that was bad) is that Krispy Kreme doughnuts really do come back to bite you in the end. So if perhaps someday I have the privilege of gracing your home please excuse me for getting up every 30 minutes or so to restore harmony and feeling to my posterior universe.

Come Forth

Directly in front of me I see the ancient walls of the Holy City. To my right, Bethpage. This is the road that was the gateway to Jerusalem and in which Jesus rode on a donkey as the people shouted Hosanna and worshipped Him with words and palm branches. Directly behind me rises the Mt. of Olives which many believe Messiah will return upon. I’m standing in the small village of Bethany. I respectfully walk down the stone stairs of an ancient grave that held the stench of death. I opened my Bible and read John 11. The tomb before me contained Lazarus who lay decaying for four whole days. As I meditate on John 11 my imagination races back in time. Outside of this tomb, Martha, Mary, and Lazarus’s family, friends, and some religious leaders gather to mourn the loss of their beloved. Five days prior Mary and Martha send a desperate plea for help to Jesus. Mary once gave herself fully to worshiping Him as she annointed Jesus with ointment and used her hair to wipe His feet. She and Martha knew Jesus was their best hope for their brother’s life. Their desperate cries seemed to melt into heart wrenching grief as Lazarus met his early demise. Jesus begins the long walk back to the very city which vowed to stone Him. Jesus tells His disciples “This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of Man may be glorified by it.” “Lazarus is dead, and I am glad for your sakes that I was not there so that you may believe, but let us go there.” Days later Martha and Mary receive word that Jesus is on His way. Martha runs to meet Him and just as her sister spilled ointment over Him as an act of worship, Martha spills her grief and pain on the feet of her Savior. “Lord if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” Martha’s disappointment in God has been echoed by many of us. Jesus consoles her grief by pointing to the reality of His Kingdom in heaven in which He will pay an unthinkable price for all who accept His sacrifice. “Your brother shall rise again.” This was not the answer Martha longed to hear. She desired to hug her brother, she longed to laugh with him and to share life with him. “I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus promises Marta something so amazing that these words have become the hope of millions of followers throughout time. “I am the resurrection and the life, he who believes in Me shall live even if he dies, and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe? Martha in her grief utters the most important words of her whole life. These words will bring Angels to celebrate and these words will print her name in the Book of Life “Yes, Lord; I have believed that you are the Christ the Son of God, even He who comes into the world.” Jesus continues on to the tomb to meet Mary who falls at His feet as she mirrors Martha’s disappointment. The man who identified Himself moments ago as the Resurrection and the Life joins Martha and Mary in their grief as He begins to weep. When Jesus stood outside of the tomb He commanded, “remove the stone.” Martha gives the all knowing all powerful Savior some kind advise, “My brother has been dead four days and he is really stinky.” Jesus responds “Did I not say to you, if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” Jesus after a short prayer speaks words of either God Himself or a crazy lunatic. “Lazarus come forth!” Lazarus who was worshipping the God of the Universe in His Kingdom in heaven is now face to face with the same God incarnate outside of this tomb. "Unbind him and let him go,” Jesus says with authority. Those that gathered together in grief and mourning must have been in absolute shock and disbelief. The roller coaster of emotion on that day was earth shaking. The depth of grief and despair melted away to the heights of joy and gratitude.

In October my pastor became seriously ill. John Stumbo is loved by everyone. He is a man of humility, compassion and faith. I would describe John as authentic. God uses him to challenge, encourage and convict us to become fully devoted followers of Jesus. I have been very blessed by John. As John’s condition became increasingly desperate, so became our collective pleas to the God of our hopes. The Lord prompted many of us to intercede several times a day. My children joined hundreds of others and prayed for him at meals and before bed. John seemed to be spiraling down the dark stairs of death. His systems began to shut down. He was unable to process fluids. John’s dehydrated body retained 50LBS of water. His life hung by a thread as the whole church was called to an emergency prayer meeting. The church was filled. Through this crisis we would unite. We pleaded for help. We sang and worshipped. We hoped that God would rescue. That night John was given a last chance controversial drug. I suppose my pastor was as close to death as one could technically be. That night John’s spiral to death stopped. The God who boldly called Lazarus from his tomb intervened. Each day we offered thankfulness to the Lord as John very slowly pushed forward. Two steps forward and one back. “It may be over a year before your husband would be able to walk again,” the doctors informed his wife. The past months have been marked by small victories and some set backs as John slowly reclaims his strength. Last weekend our church gathered once again for worship. John and his wife Joanna addressed the church via a video. I was overwhelmed with emotion as they shared their journey with humor and grace. There wasn’t a dry eye in that place. As the video faded to black and the lights slowly were brought up, and a lone figure slowly walked to the platform. Every person in that church stood in awe as Pastor John made his way to the podium. The place erupted in applause and shouts of joy. I was completely blown away. I was so overcome with emotion that I began to weep. My heart overflowed with gratitude to the Lord as John addressed those of us that God has entrusted to his care. My mind raced back to that old tomb in Bethany and to that crowd that gathered to mourn their friend. At that moment I believe we all shared their awe, joy, and thankfulness. John spoke of the goodness of God. He spoke of his gratitude for his family, friends and for the prayers of the church. Every word that came from his mouth was a special gift from the Lord. John joked that we prayed him out of heaven. Jesus said to Martha “Did I not say to you, if you believe in Me, you will see great things." On this amazing Sunday, Salem Alliance Church witnessed the great power and glory of our God and we celebrate His goodness.

John’s recovery is far from over. Just as the blind man in Mark 8 received his miracle in stages so will it be for John. Until that time we will continue to unite, pray, worship, and offer gratitude to the Resurrection and the Life.

You can read John’s Blog and order the interview DVD at http://www.salemalliance.org/ .

Pew in the Pew

Often my favorite part of going to church is worship. The Worship Team at my church is amazing. They lead us in the great hymns of the faith and worshipful songs of today. I also love watching others worship. Some close their eyes and lose themselves in the song, some lift their hands to heaven and worship with their whole being, some worship in silent reverence as they contemplate the depth of the words, and still others are just to cool to sing in public. Me, I’m some what of an ecliptic Worshiper. I live in all of these different styles. I remember the first time I dared to lift my hands in worship. I felt so self conscious. What would others think? Does this make me look self righteous and spiritual? First it was one hand raised at shoulder height and then two. Eventually I didn’t care at all what others thought, or how I was perceived and I would raise my hands to God hoping to hold His hands in gratitude. I have an audience of One and for now He is all that matters. I enjoy worshipping God most when I’m alone. I will put on my I Pod get on my knees and fully give myself over to the One who created me to worship Him. There are no distractions, only gratitude and amazement. I often weep at my Saviors feet worshiping Him with tears of thankfulness.

I have been blessed with many gifts and talents, however when it comes to singing I’m a pork chop at a bar mitzvah. Those of us who sing much like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs live by a special code of ethics. We understand that as much as we enjoy cursing the world with our melodious melodies the general public loathes us as much as a chain smoker in a crowded elevator. When we sing in public, to avoid being stoned, burned at the stake or thrown to the lions, we keep the volume level down to a whisper. Just to keep myself safe, personally I prefer lip syncing. This simple code of ethics allows us to participate in society in harmony and mutual understanding. Well the lady who was in the pew behind me yesterday obviously didn’t get the e-mail. This well intentioned lady sounded much like a drunken opera singer riding down a bumpy road accompanied by squealing tires. She sat directly behind me as she auditioned for the twisted version of Opera American Idol. The vocals behind me made it virtually impossible to think of anything else. As the service went on I had to pinch myself from giggling out loud. The ego is a powerful drug that can delude us into greatness. Perhaps the lady behind me was drunk on ego. The small boy in front of me stared at this lady with big eyes, his mouth wide open, as he tried to wrap his mind around the crazy rifts that filled his ears. My son Noah plugged his ears and buried himself in my lap. I’m sure that back in the day when opera hymns were all the rage that this lady rocked the house, but now singing contemporary worship songs, it was as out of place as me trying to rap. An evil thought filled my mind as I thought of joining her in on opera worship. Maybe opera worship would become a new acceptable practice for those of us who lacked social singing ability. My rebellious heart gave way to compassion and reverence for the Lord and I restrained myself into submission. In the end I know that we have an audience of One, and the singing from behind me that filled my heart and mind with ugliness was a beautiful sound to the Lord. In a way I admired the lady for singing with such passion. Perhaps one day I will find the courage and break the social contract of the vocally impaired and make a joyful sound to our audience of One. On that day I hope I’m singing behind you.

Death by Fashion

I have attempted to accomplish great things in my life, but the sum of all my accomplishments would not prepare me for the daunting task that was about to befall my fashion challenged inadequacies. Never before was so much asked of me. Never before had I been required to step so far outside of my comfort zone. I reached deep inside of myself to summon up my inner strength. (“The endurance and strength to run three marathons. Check. The courage to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Check. The intellectual prowess to interact with the world’s leading philosophers, theologians, and apologist. Check.”) My psychological resume gave way to the demons of self doubt as I walked up the lonely stairs to the world of high fashion. Panic and stress filled my heart as I foolishly attempted to embark on this impossible fashion mission.

Working for Nike is hard. Nike requires employees to work hard, be fully dedication, committed to excellence and work long hours. One of the great payoffs in working for Nike is that Nike is very generous in giving its employees great stuff. As an employee I receive free pairs of shoes every month, plus an occasional apparel giveaway. This has been a great blessing as many of our friend’s, colleagues and family members have benefited from Nike’s generosity. As many of you know, my facility is closing this week and as a result Nike has increased its giving. Nike owns many brands, and one of the brands is a high end fashion chain called Cole Haan. They offer quality designer shoes, purses, and accessories. Cole Haan’s is expensive! Most of their shoes and purses cost over $300.00. Needless to say, I would never buy anything from Cole Haan. I simply can’t afford it. Last week I received an e-mail announcing a huge Cole Haan give away. As I read through the e-mail the panic set in. We are to receive 16 pairs of woman’s shoes of varying sizes, 6 purses, and 7 pairs of men’s shoes of varying sizes, 15 socks, 5 shoe brushes and 1 accessory item. For most people receiving all this Cole Haan product would be a dream come true, but for me it was a nightmare. My mind reverted back to my last Cole Haan pick in which I had to pick out 3 pairs of woman’s shoes. My wife was so excited about her fashion possibilities. Disappointment crushed my wife’s fashion fantasy and my fragile fashion self esteem as strike three was called when she opened that third box. Who knew that camouflaged 3 inched stilettos were odious to my wife’s taste in shoes? I had disappointed the woman I love and adore. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m simply not a high fashion kind of guy. I prefer comfort and practicality over fashion and style. I gave up trying to impress with dress after cotton diapers. In the late eighties I flirted with fashion by growing an impressive mullet, however years later I have been mocked for being a former slave to style. The very thought of choosing sixteen $300.00 pairs of highly fashionable woman’s designer shoes was absolutely inconceivable to man who once thought he looked cool in a mullet. To make matters worse I only had 35 minutes to achieve the impossible. I have had the great misfortune of going woman’s shoe shopping. The reason why malls contain many shoe stores is that most women need to visit every one of them before they actually buy a pair of shoes. I have learned the hard way that there is something extremely intimate between a lady and her pumps. A woman’s shoes embody a woman’s personality. Finding the perfect shoe at the perfect price can be an all day affair. Don’t ever mess with a lady and her shoes! Many times a woman’s wardrobe is designed around a pair of shoes. They design from the ground up. Having Steve pick 16 pairs of designer shoes is a kin to giving my five year old son $2000.00 and asking him to go grocery shopping for the family. He would return with $2000.00 worth of macaroni and cheese and candy.
When I came home from work I shared my misfortune with my wife. “Can I come with you?” She asked. “Sorry, I have to go alone.” I said. My anxiety level then exploded all over my loving wife as I passionately confessed my complete inadequacy to perform this impossible task. I wasn’t man enough to face such a fashion challenge. I folded in front of my bride like a school girl facing the Boogie man. After Michelle stopped laughing at me, she informed me that she would prepare me by subjecting me to fashion boot camp. The pressure mounted on me as my wife told her friends about the upcoming Cole Haan shoe pick. I thought to myself “great now instead of just disappointing my wife now I will be crushing the fashion dreams of women all over my town.” Michelle and I poured over Cole Haan’s on line catalog. “This is a cute shoe, this is an ugly shoe”. Page by page I worked through the online catalog. Cute purse, ugly purse, cute shoe, ugly shoe. Again and again I reviewed the catalog! It was fashion torture. Every ounce of my manhood was being eroded by the waves of style. Soon I would be hosting Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
Finally the day of reckoning had arrived. It was Designer Shoe Day (aka DS Day). As soon as I hit the shoe pick I froze. Panic filled my mind as I tried to reach back to my extensive training. Cute shoe, ugly shoe. “What do I do, where do I start?” Reason slapped me in the face as I settled down and start in size five high heels. I was a well tuned fashion machine. Cute shoe, ugly shoe. The ugly shoes were in abundance as I finally made it to size ten. I took a tally of my designer booty and I was still four shoes short with only five minutes to go. Like a well trained athlete I ran back through the shoe pick line grasping for any pair that might pass the fashion critics critical eye. As time expired I had achieved the impossible. Sixteen pairs of highly fashionable shoes in thirty five minutes. I had searched through hundreds of boxes to find the sixteen. To be honest with you I still can’t tell you what one of the shoes looked like. I was exhausted, stretched to my fashion limits and rejoicing that this awful task was now behind me. The rejoicing quickly subsided as I realized that I still needed to display the fruits of my labor to the woman I love. On the way home I anticipated my wife’s disappointment. Who was I kidding? I would once again achieve another historical fashion catastrophe. As I drove home I became very nervous. When I arrived at home I tried to play it cool by leaving all of the shoes in my car hoping that Michelle would forget that this was DS Day. My wife is far cooler then I, and she didn’t mention the shoe pick at all. Finally I couldn’t handle the tension any longer. I had to know what she thought. The hour of truth had dawned. An hour after I came home I went out to my car and retrieved the two huge boxes that contained all of my fashion fears. I placed them in my hallway expecting Michelle to tear into the boxes. The large boxes sat in my hallway for thirty more minutes until I couldn’t take it any more and I had to ask my wife if she was going to open the boxes. Anticipation, excitement and anxiety filled the room. Michelle opened each box one by one as I eagerly awaited her verdict.
As I said before “there is something extremely intimate between a lady and her pumps, a woman shoes embody her personality. Never mess with a woman and her shoes”. On DS Day I was almost killed by fashion.
I would like to dedicate this blog to Amy E Russell. Amy’s love of the shoe has inspired me to be a better man. I will be spending the next several months in fashion rehab but as soon as I get out, we will shop girlfriend.

A Day with Big Brother

Anxiety impatience and boredom fuel the silent rage within my mind as I wait for my turn. It has been one and a half hours since I walked into the Social Insecurity Office on the third floor of an office building in the heart of down town Salem. The cage of my boredom is amazingly out of place in comparison to the beautiful bright office building lobby that I walked through early in the morning. As I stepped through the threshold of this Government office and I take a random number from a red contraption that should belong in a super market deli, I felt as though I was transported to a third world holding cell. I was greeted at the door by a police officer who checked me for weapons. The genius who decorated this room was obviously designed challenged and unable to connect to his inner feng shui. My smiling disposition was instantly extinguished by the blank stares of the multitudes that pitied my poor decision to join their ranks. Within moments my heart, mind, and attitude would be one with theirs. The flaw in my logic punished my self esteem with the mantra of my lack of intelligence. I ignorantly assumed that replacing a simple social security card would be a simple task for the most powerful nation on the face of the planet. I would simply walk in, confess my sin of losing my card and walk out minutes later with a piece of paper that contained my birth name and the one number that gave me purpose and meaning to my nation. I found a seat in the middle of the room and I realized that I had just become the peanut butter in a huge P and J bitterness sandwich. The seats were arranged as if we all sat on a huge airplane. Everyone faced to the front of the room eyes fixed to the back of some unknown person who filled the seat in front of us. Children dispersed throughout the room cried in protest to being subjected to an unbearable act of endurance and I wanted to join them. Their poor parents fail at attempts to comfort their protest and bring awkward silence to us grumbling adults. I came into this wilderness unprepared and unaware. Nothing to read, nothing to listen to, nothing to watch and nothing to do. To my right was the object of all our objectives, four windows and an audience with a government employee with a bad attitude. Directly in front of us was a score board that read “Now Serving Number”. Below the scoreboard displayed four columns which displayed our ticket numbers. Each ticket started with one of four letters. There was the A’s, D’s. S’s and my number group, the W’s.
These numbers were a contributing factor to much of my anxiety. Einstein himself wouldn’t be able to make any sense to their random sequence. Despite the fact they rarely changed, each letter group was clicked off in a bizarre order. The A’s, D’s S’s and W’s didn’t flow in an alphabetic or numeric order. It was impossible to figure out the duration of your prison sentence. The second reason was that the letter system caused letter envy. I strangely found myself loathing the A’s, D’s, and S’s. Their letters sequence was obviously favored by the United States Government. I felt disenfranchised and the cruel victim of letter prejudice. My self righteous sense of equality and fairness was being violated with every random sequence letter group that was “now being served”. The thing that got under my nerves faster then a splinter under a fingernail was the fact that the Social Security Office wasn’t competent enough to keep all of their service windows open. Two out of the four windows remained closed during my time in purgatory. When one opened, another would close. I estimate that their was over one hundred people waiting in that small room and the best the Government could offer was 50% of their production capacity. Anyone wishing for the Government to nationalize health care needs to spend some time in the Social Security Office. If the Social Security Office had to compete with private business they would be bankrupt in a week. Customer service is a foreign concept. I don’t mean to criticize the employees who have the difficult challenge of working in these offices. I think I would be jaded and hardened by dealing with people like me who have been marinating and incubating in their impatient rage for long periods of time. Two and half hours after I entered the door I was awarded my hard earned turn with Big Brother. Two minutes later I was finished. “I deserved more then two minutes” I thought as I passed the Security Guard. I should have asked for more then just a social security card. I should have asked to give the Social Security Office some good advice.
So if Big Brother is listening (and I know you are) here are some suggestions that will improve your image, will increase your effectiveness and productivity. Number one, people have value and worth. Their time is just as important as yours. Treat people with respect and dignity. Instead of a Security Guard replace him with a Help Desk person who loves serving people. The Help Desk can help people fill out forms so that Big Brother can process things faster. Open up a small coffee shop and news stand. You will make a lot of money. Make a room for children and their parents. Everyone will thank you. Tell people often how long of wait they can expect. Give them a beeper so they can walk around outside. Open all of your windows, remove the glass and place the counter in a space where the whole room can’t hear everyone’s business. People value their privacy, please respect it. Invite an Interior Decorator to arrange the room in an astatically friendly feng shui way.
Please let me know if you have any other helpful advise (be good now) for our Government.

Fishing With Noah

I love to go fishing. It offers an opportunity to enjoy God’s amazing creation and it also offers an opportunity to relax and reflect in a peaceful quite atmosphere. I’m not a great fisherman. I don’t own expensive gear, a boat, nor do I know all the latest fishing techniques. I simply love the excitement of hooking onto a big old bass and the battle of reeling that hog in. More times then not I’m on the losing end. All I’m left with is glorious legends of the enormous fish that got away and the disappointment of what could have been. The disappointment always seems to melt into motivation and passion as I throw out my line for yet another improvable chance at greatness. Every crank of my reel is filled with hope and anticipation.
My love of fishing was passed down to me from my Grandfather. Unfortunately Grandpa John died when I was a young boy. In my minds eye he was a fishing super hero. He owned a small cottage on a lake and he loved to fish. I remember the stories my Grandma would tell us of how Grandpa John would come in from a fishing trip with strings of fish. I learned to fish from Grandpa John. We used a huge bamboo cane fishing pool and some unwilling night crawlers. We would often fish from the dock near our cottage and catch small Perch and Bluegills. Grandpa John would help us with our lines. We were always in need of bait, or help with some awkward tangle in our fishing lines. I recall the tangled mess would often drive my Grandpa John nuts. Just about every summer holiday of my childhood life was spent at that small cottage on Indian Lake. Much of my activity was spent fishing with my brother Kevin and my cousin Jim. Although I demonstrated little aptitude for fishing, I always had a great time. Kevin and Jim both were natural fishermen; I seemed to lack the patience and skill to rise to their fishing prowess.
My son Noah is now five years old and this summer I have decided to give him the gift of fishing. I gave Noah an old fishing box with hooks, bombers, crank baits and lures. I also took him to the sports store to get his first real fishing pool.
Noah’s enthusiasm for fishing is much like a dog that has spent the day away from the owner he loves. Intense excitement overflows in word and action as I drive my five year old Noah to our date with the deep. My heart is filled with pride knowing that this is the beginning of something my son and I can share together for the rest of our lives. Fishing will be our bond and sanctuary. There are few places or few things that you can do together in silence. Silence in community is both peaceful and relaxing. When I’m free to be silent in a friendship I know I’m loved and secure. I desire Noah and me to share this friendship, and fishing is the perfect venue to experience it. As we arrive at our fishing spot, relaxation and silence forgot to join us on our fishing date. Noah is like the space shuttle at lift off as the huge rockets gather strength and energy to break free from the launch pad. Just as the car hits park Noah burst out the door anxious to become a fisherman. Noah runs to the dock with his new fishing pool and a box full of fishing tackle. Evan before I hit the dock the game of a thousand questions commences. “Dad can you bait my hook? Dad can I cast my fishing pool? Dad can I use this lure? Dad how come we haven’t caught any fish? Dad will you untangle my line?” Noah decided to use every lure in his fishing box and try every kind of bait we had. My whole time was spent trying to make Noah’s fishing trip fun. Patience and quite are the hallmark of a great fisherman, volume and excited anxiousness was the testament of our effort. The fish in our lake never had a chance to actually take a bite. I imagine them swimming in their schools and saying to each other “hey there goes a very fast worm, there goes a very fast frog, hey there goes a very fast shiny thing.” I imagine they sat there very amused at the colorful banquet parade of fast things to eat. Needles to say we did not get a bite, but Noah did manage to break the world record for the amount of line changes in an hour and even though we caught nothing but seaweed we did have a great time. On the way home Noah said “ Daddy when I get older I want to be just like you”. Fishing with Noah was unlike anything I had imagined. I’m proud to say Noah fishes like his Dad.

Half-Marathon...Half-Dressed

I did it! In January I set out to loose 40 LBS and run a half marathon. On June 14th I and several friends from Salem Alliance Church completed the Helvetia Half Marathon. I had an awesome time and I finished 4 minutes and 5 LBS under my goal. Apart from the weight loss and reuniting with my love of running, the amazing part of this race was running it with Erik (with a k) Williams.

Erik and I have been great friends for many years. Erik lived with Michelle and I for several months when he became the Youth Pastor at Lilburn Alliance Church in Atlanta. Erik had just finished college and he was green, wild, and full of energy. Today Erik is experienced, wild, and full of energy. Erik and I would stay up until the early morning hours and play video games, we would also laugh. Laughing has become a central theme of our friendship. We are often like two adolescent teens with bad gas, little sense and maturity and no parental supervision. Erik brings out my immaturity, plus he can talk me into anything. He talked me into trying out for Survivor, He talked me into jumping out of an airplane, and he talked me into going down a zip line backwards and jumping into the center of a lake in the middle of the winter. If he was a drug dealer I would be in deep trouble. A couple of weeks ago I tore my pectoral muscle at work. Michelle was out of town so Erik picks me up from the Emergency room. I was in major pain. It hurt to breath. Erik had me laughing so hard on the way home from the hospital that I swore I was going to throw up. The man enjoyed torturing me with laughter. The more I laughed the more pain that I felt and the funnier it became. It was a vicious circle of cause and effect.

A couple months before the half marathon Erik and I joked about him running the marathon with me. Erik hates running! Running ranked up there with going to the dentist and being audited by the IRS. To my shock one week later Erik decided to run the half marathon with me. Erik wanted to spend more time together and to do something that was of interest to me. I personally think that he just wanted to see me in running tights. Before our first run together I gave Erik a very special gift. I put it in a small gift bag and I told Erik that it was a present to welcome him into the wonderful world of running. I gave him his very own pair of vintage 1980’s running booty shorts. These shorts bring a new definition to short. Many countries have banned men’s booty shorts because well they are just scary and shouldn’t be worn in public. The booty shorts are the trade mark of Richard Simmons on Sweating to the Oldies. If you would like to induce vomiting please watch Richard jiggle around in his striped booty shorts. Nothing against Richard, he is a great guy with a big heart, but the only reason people lose weight watching his videos is because they have to run away in fear. I joked with Erik that together someday we would run in our booty shorts.
Erik’s training was sporadic as he was coping with knee pain. He pulled off a couple of long runs but he was still uncommitted to running the half marathon. One week before the race he said he would make his decision after our 10 mile long run. Erik started off the run in pain and I was sure he wasn’t going to complete the ten miles or run the half marathon. Four miles into the run Erik asked me to run ahead. My plan was to run quickly home and pick up Erik’s body in my car somewhere on our ten mile loop. I made it home and I grabbed my keys and some water and went out to find Erik. To my surprise as I turned off my street I see Erik in the final half mile of the run. I don’t know who was happier, me or Erik. I was very proud of what he had just accomplished and I was also hoping that he would now commit to the marathon. Erik was stoked after the run. He was tired and hurting but the ten mile run gave him the confidence he needed to commit to the half marathon.
The day before the race we had a pasta dinner at one of our friend’s house with those who would be running with us from our church. Erik and I had a great time joking around and enjoying the company of our running community. Erik told everyone that we would be running the race in our booty shorts. I honestly thought he was joking. I felt very comfortable in my mid thigh cut running shorts and I knew that I would feel like a total dork in my lower butt cheek cut booty shorts. The next morning to my horror Erik picks me up from the race in his tight and very revealing booty shorts. “Hey Steve where are your booty shorts?” You can’t be serious, can you? Think of the poor people who must run behind us. Think of the innocent children. Think of the race photos. As I mentioned earlier Erik can talk me into anything, so on the way to the race I change into my “I’m a big idiot” running shorts. When you wear something that makes grown men blush, the only way you can pull it off is by exuding confidence and fully embracing the humor and horror that men’s booty shorts endow. If you know Erik Williams he was born for such greatness. Me, however, I would need to summon up great inner strength to be able to throw decency and propriety from self conscious personality. As I shed my running shell to reveal to the public my private assets, I did so with confidence and sense of humor. To be honest with you it was strangely exhilarating and freeing. I had forgotten about the many miles of pain that lie ahead of me and I just started having fun joking about our booty shorts. Erik and I ran the first eight miles together, side by side, four cheeks hanging out in stride. We had so much fun. I soon forgot about my lack of apparel and I ran a great race. I was very proud of Erik. He had finished his first distance race and even wanted to run another race in September. I often think about the poor souls who ran behind us. What were they thinking of such a grizzly sight? Did they seek out professional counseling after the race? As for the Booty Short Twins, you never know, perhaps you might see us running down a road in your neighborhood, and maybe you may put on a pair of your own vintage booty wear and join us for a couple of miles.

Daddy to the Rescue Part Two

The person who invented the fast food play structure owned hamsters. He thought to himself “My hamster Fur Ball is the happiest creature I know. He plays, eats, sleeps, exercises and goes to the bathroom in his hamster habitat. I think I could make millions of children just as happy if I made a home for them just like Fur Ball’s.” Thirty years later children play, eat, exercise and in some cases go to the bathroom in their favorite Fur Ball habitats. Early fast food play structures even had a huge water bottle at the top and a giant hamster running wheel on the bottom until parents complained that their children smelled like cedar chips and loved being scratched behind their ears.

Before I was a parent I have to admit that I secretly wanted to go on a fast food play structure. I grew up in the pre-play structure era of the late 60’s and early 70’s. Our playgrounds were made of steal and concrete. Our playgrounds were tough, unforgiving and highly dangerous. The inventor of my childhood playground didn’t own a hamster, he ate them as appetizers. My playground was so tough that my parents used to punish us by sending us kids there for time outs. There were only four pieces to every playground. A huge metal swing set with metal chains, metal monkey bars, a hard wood plank seesaw, and a metal merry ground (AKA the disc of death). We also had little to no parental supervision. Neighborhoods were safe and the kids ran free. The combination of metal, concrete, and no supervision was the result of many of my childhood injuries. Needles to say I was curious about these new fast food play structures and I wanted to someday invade this new children’s sanctuary.

So as I said in my last blog, I hear a cry of distress. My son Noah is crying for help somewhere in the upper regions of hampsterville. I’m now forced to enter this unwelcoming world. There is good reason why the rules for these play structures clearly state no adults allowed. The first is that once you are on the inside, chances are you will never want your child to be also. The second reason is that for the average adult it is much like stuffing yourself through a sausage casing. These things were not designed to be ergonomically spacious. Children fly through these structures like a pinball with a purpose; adults travel through these things like a slug being chased by a salt shaker. I enter into the structure to be greeted by the unwelcoming stares of children who on the outside of this play structure lovingly obey their elders but on the inside of this maze the tables are turned. I’m now invading their world. “Hey what is that old guy doing in here?” “No old people aloud.” I felt like a pork chop at Passover. My knees throbbed in pain and my back screamed for freedom from the confined quarters. I focused on my son’s cries somewhere above my head and forced myself onward. When I reached the greasy tube that would lead upwards to my child’s sobs I looked behind me to realize that I was the cause of an inpatient traffic jam of angry children. I gathered my courage and grabbed hold of the rope and began the ascent upward. The traffic jam behind me seized the opportunity and used me as an unwilling staircase to world above. I felt like a Sunday driver in the passing lane during rush hour. Children were literally riding my bumper. I finally managed to make it to the top. The unfortunate part of this reality is that heat rises as do bad smells. The two companions held me close as I worked my way through the second story maze. The good news is my son was no longer crying. The bad news was that I couldn’t find him. I searched through every hamster corridor and in all of the hamster bubble forts. I was drenched in sweat as I made my way to the last bubble fort and looked out the window. My knees and my back were screaming in pain. I was determined. I was driven by love and I would not be deterred from my mission. My wife and my son wave hi as my son is sitting at the table playing with his happy toy. Extremely embarrassed I slide down the greasy twisty slide to be welcomed by the stares of miserable parents and my laughing bride.

Daddy to the Rescue Part #1

Daddy to the Rescue Part One
A child’s paradise can sometimes become a parent’s nightmare. Such is the case with every play structure found in many fast food restaurants. When a restaurant serves very bad food they figure that the best way to entice adults into their cholesterol laden establishments is to seduce their innocent children with cheap happy toys, sugar, and super sized play structures. Unfortunately this lethal combination of fun and sweets proves to be one combo meal that brings the unwilling multitudes in by droves.
The typical parental dining experience consists of standing in line with extremely hyper children who want happy toy now, and who also want to play on the play structure now. The happy bad food in their greased soaked happy bags is now in competition for the happy cheap toy and the super sized play structure. Now for any reasoning adult, you know you are in a losing battle. Not that you would actually desire for any human being (little alone your loving child) to partake in this nutrition challenged cuisine, but they begged for it and you bought it. Your children then insist on sitting in the play structure dining area. This area is mopped with grease at least once a week the tables are sanitized with soft drinks. The sticky furnishings are quickly diminished by the chaotic ambiance of crazed children’s exuberance. Parents beware; you have just entered into their universe, they are hyped up on sugar and this is their dominion.
You now give your child the longing of their hearts, one greasy happy bag with one cheap happy toy. The bad food is quickly put to the side as your child pleads with you to open their cheap toy. At this point there are two schools of parental thought. The first is to deny your child of the cheap happy toy until all of the bad food is eaten. This is a tough and logical decision, however it will expose you and your children to extended time in hamster Hades, and it will be sure to contribute to the unpleasant ambience of your dining experience by subjecting the rest of the adults to your child’s wrath. The second option is to give in to your child’s wishes. I highly recommend the appeasement option. If you are honest with yourself, the whole fast food experience is all about submitting yourself to your children’s desires. Be consistent, give in. This will reduce both the caloric intake into your child’s sensitive digestive system and it will reduce your sentence in happy land on the count of good behavior.
The wonderful thing with the cheap happy toy is that it is cheap and highly forgettable. The average happy toy engages a child’s imagination for an average of 10 seconds. It is then put into toy exile for eternity. You can’t even give it to a poor child in China because they probably made it in the first place.
After your child eats one french-fry and one bite of their cheeseburger they now beg you to play on the super sized hamster play structure. In the back of your mind you know full well that you are sending your child into a bacteria science experiment. I have interviewed thousands of bacteria and their dream abode is the fast food play structure. Many children bring their happy meals in several different forms into this wonderful world. Corpses of french fries, burgers, and chicken nuggets strewn the corridors. Greasy walls and ceilings finger paint the structure. What isn’t for bacteria to love?
After a short while you hear a cry of distress. “Lord please may it not be my child. Lord please do not make me go in there!” The other parents are now looking at you. Do you deny your child? Do you send in your spouse? Find out about my rescue operation in Hamsters Hades in my next blog.