On this Day in History

A girl named Copper sat across the table from me. Her pale blue eyes intermittenly caught mine as we observed the excitement of the other girls with us. I slowly munched on a squishy fry, and Copper sipped from a Coke. McDonald's seemed like an odd place to come and celebrate, although Copper and I had no idea what exactly we were celebrating.
That weekend my parents had allowed me to finally go to my friend Terri's youth group, and jumping in with both feet, I went on a weekend retreat with with fifty or so 12 to 13 year olds of whom I'd only met one or two. For a person as shy as me at that time in my life, I was definately in over my head.
The focus of the weekend was The Dawson McAllister Student Conference held at Riverside Baptist Church in Denver, Colorado. I had never heard of Dawson McAllister before that weekend, and really, haven't heard of him since, but whenever I drive through downtown Denver I like to give a wink and a nod to Riverside Baptist Church, which is actually no where near a river, but instead located next door to what was then Mile High Stadium.
In traditional fashion the conference feature alot of cutting edge worship music, performed by a man named Todd, whose bleached blond hair and less than casual use of the word "dude" and the phrase "odd for God" would now nauseate me, but then, endeared him to my heart. I hung on every word that came out of his mouth. If Todd was the looks of the operation, then Dawson was the brains, as he did all of the teachings that weekend. The topic of that conference was something along the lines of spiritual warfare. Actually, the only thing I remember clearly was an illustration of a Roman guard and a fill in the blank sort of excercise in which we labeled that parts of the guard's armor that Paul spoke of in Galatians 5.
By Saturday night, the overstimulation of the weekend lead to emotional vulnerabilty and the time was right for Dawson to share the Gospel. Dawson shared things that I'd heard before, that Jesus was the Son of God, and came to earth to die for my sins, and that I had the chance to accept him into my life as my personal savior. That night it clicked. When Dawson gave the opportunity for people to come forward if they wanted to accept Christ into their lives, my stomach flip-flopped a thousand times over as I knew that I was one of those people. I looked behind me, our youth group had totally scored seats in the second row, and there where hundreds of other kids who I'm certain were staring directly at me. I hunched further into my seat, avoiding eye contact with the kids I was with, I didn't want them to know that I was one of those people whom Dawson was speaking to, with whom Dawson was imploring, "Tonight may be your last night on earth. Do you know what will happen when you die?"
Two things happened at once. I had the overwhelming sense that this really was going to be my last chance to accept Christ into my life, and the boy sitting in front of me, Matt, who played soccer and had lots of friends in youth group got up and started walking toward the alter. I did not have this cognitive thought at the time, but it now seems to me that some where in my brain I figured that if that kid, who did have friends in this youth group didn't have Jesus in his heart, it would probably be okay for me to admit that I didn't have Jesus in my heart as well. I stood up, and -- let me say without irony --that I felt very much like I was being pushed toward the stage. I quickly found myself wrapped in a throng of weeping teenagers grasping on to their friends with one hand, and with the other lifting their hands in worship. I tried to mimic what they were doing, it seemed like they had received some kind instruction that I had missed out on, but the tears weren't in me and when I meekly lifted my hands, I felt quite foolish. So instead, I put my hands in my pocket, and mumbled the words of the song wondering if I had accepted Jesus yet.
Before long those of us standing in front of the stage were directed to exit the auditorium where we were paired up with understanding adults, beaming at the opportunity to share the gospel with some one like me. The woman I was paired up with was kind, with glasses and brown hair. She commented on my brightly-hued, magenta Greenpeace t-shirt as we walked down the spiralling hall into the basement of the church. I told her that it was actually my mother's t-shirt. Her look of relief diminshed slightly when I proudly told her that I also donated portions of my Christmas money to Greenpeace, the Nature Conservancy and had adopted my own whale and gorilla.
We shuffled into a room with several other adult-adolescent pairs, she set up a couple of folding chairs facing each other and motioned for me to sit down. I started to get scared again, like maybe I had made the wrong decision and was some how in trouble, but on the other side of the room I saw my friend Terri, who had invited me on the trip with one of counselors, asking a question that the counselor was clearly not prepared to answer. The woman gave me a little booklet that demonstrated that there was a gap between God and me, as a result of my sin, and the only way to fill that gap was to accept Jesus. There was even a cute little drawing of a stick figure walking over a bridge, formed by the cross, and into Heaven. I liked this idea, and decided to pray with the woman in order to accept Jesus Christ into my life.
There is a gap in my memory from that moment, until sitting at that table in McDonalds with Copper and the other excitable girls, congratulating us on "the best decision we could ever make." I don't disagree with them, but I wonder, if at twelve, they really had the authority to make that sort of declaration in regard to they way my life would unfold. I also wonder, if I'd know then what it really meant to be a Christian, and they way God would guide my life as a result of my choice that night, if I would have have gotten up from my seat at all. I sort of think that I would not have, which may be why that night, in my heart I was so thoroughly convinced that I had to act then, that I would never again have the opportunity that was before me.
"Best" really isn't the word to describe the weight of my choice to accept Christ, because I think some of the "best" decisions I've made were the ones that came after that night, but that I would not have made had that night not happened.
There is a strange fatality looking back at that night. I didn't understand what I was getting myself into, sometimes I still don't understand what I have gotten myself into, but that push is still there. The push from behind me and from within me that tells me there is no other option but to do this, and to live this life according to the opportunities presented to me.

"The Noticer"Episode 1: The Case of the Misnamed Baby

So I really love mysteries. I'm borderline obsessed with them, and I'm always hoping for a real live (but not scary) mystery to take place in my own life. My favorite dectives are the ones like Sherlock Holmes, Velma and the slighty creepy guy on Law and Order: Criminal Intent who solve their mysteries by paying attention to all the stuff that other people don't notice. Maybe because of all the mystery stories I've read, I kinda think that I notice more stuff the the average person, I also like to learn all sorts of random stuff so that I can understand more about the stuff that I notice. My roommate and I have developed a premise for my eventual mystery show which will more than likely aired on the USA network. So far we've got a title and a tagline. Ready?

The Noticer: I notice shit.

It's good, huh? We haven't decided what the theme music will be, but it will be good. I'm in need of a sidekick too.

Yesterday, I solved my first observational mystery, as The Noticer will probably not want to get herself entangled with a dark criminal element. Here it is:

The Case of the Misnamed Baby

Clue #1: Travis is an associate director of the best group home that brings clients into my office. He's the epitome of returned missionary: clean cut, well dressed, good looking in the boy next door sort of way, and genuinely, profoundly nice. He's married, and he and his wife just had their first baby this summer. Being new parents, they struggled to pick the name that would forever identify and define their daughter. Just before their baby was born they concluded that she shall be known as Reagan. The family prepared, quilting and crocheting, and emblazened the name Reagan on every type of fabric a baby could possibly need.

Clue #2: Travis came into work one day, shortly after Reagan was born to show us pictures of his beautiful new baby girl. When I asked what her name was, he grinned sheepishly, "It's a funny story," he said. Turns out, that about a week after Baby Reagan had been home, her mother gazingly loving into her baby's face, decided that she just didn't look like a Reagan, and that she wanted to change her name. The other name the couple had considered was Shelby and so, per momma's orders, their new daughter birth certificate was changed, all of her Reagan Gear was packed away, she is to henceforth be known as Shelby, the name that Travis has preferred all along.

Clue#3: Whenever Travis comes into the office, while waiting in the lobby he picks up the same tired copy of Car and Driver magazine. More than once, I've heard in make comments about cars that show more that an ordinary interest in the machines. It seems Travis is a Car Guy.

Clue#4: Although I can't remember how this conversation came about, one day, one of Travis's employees mentioned to me that Travis always keeps a model of a Shelby Mustang on his desk. I did not know there was such a thing as a Shelby Mustang before this time, but being The Noticer, my interest was piqued.

Mystery Solved: Travis came into the office yesterday, picked up his favorite copy of Car and Driver magazine, and waited for his client to arrive for the appointment. One of my more "unique" clients was in the waiting room, and essentially started to hit on Travis. He's is a good-looking fellow, so this was nothing new for him, he quickly mentioned that he was married and had a baby girl. My patient asked the baby's name, and Travis began "It's a funny story actually ..." When he'd told the tale to my client, who quickly lost interest, I said to him "Oh, by the way, I've been meaning to ask you, I don't supposed your daughter's name has anything to do with the Shelby Mustang." He turned his face away from me, blushing, but trying to hide a smile. "My wife doesn't like for me to bring up the fact that it's also a name of a car ..."

CASE CLOSED

So I decided to write another play. This has been rumbling around in my head for quite sometime. Maybe it will actually come to fruition sometime this year. I love that word. Fruition.

Nancy is a normal girl.

She like normal things and desires to live a normal life. Her family on the other hand is not normal, they couldn’t even be considered abnormal. Nancy’s family is just plain weird. But it’s not her family’s fault, it‘s the culture they live in.

Nancy lives in a family of circus folk. She’s been raised on the road, traveling the United States and Canada under the watchful loving care of her father and mother, a clown and contortionist.

After a lifetime of oddballs and weirdoes for companions, Nancy craves nothing more that a normal life with a normal family in a town where she can stay. So Nancy does what any normal girl dissatisfied with her family life would do. She runs away from the circus to join a home.

But this normal life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Nancy soon finds that she’s not so normal and doesn’t belong with the normal family either.

So, I started writing some stuff again. It's funny how I go in spurts. Some days my brain won't shut off and every event in my life gets transformed into a thousand word essay with a moral at the end. Most of the rest of the 365 days a year my mind is a complete blank and I beat myself up for wasting the single talent that God gave and promise myself the tomorrow will be the day that I put pen to page or fingers to keyboard. It usually doesn't happen though.
But this some, God has given lots of opportunities to write, so I'm doing it. And while I'm writing things that have been "assigned" so to speak, it's help spark my creativity a little bit. I have a lot of half finished, unedited stories, etc that I'm going to try to post here for the summer. We'll see what happens. Maybe it will be another six months before I post again. That's what this "Lions with Dentures" story is, something that I wrote quite a while ago, but it seems like it might be worth a read.

Word.

Lions with Dentures

Rumor has it, there are certain foods that can’t be eaten while wearing dentures. Delicious items, like corn on the cob, or a fresh, ripe apple are an ever-elusive culinary prize to those who wear dentures. At least that’s what I’ve learned from those Polident commercials featuring Mrs. Brady.
Just as one with dentures craves a fresh cob of sweet yellow corn, dripping with butter and lightly salted, the devil and his minions crave power over humanity. Our souls are a delicacy to Satan. Human beings were made for the purpose of bringing glory to God. Satan is a trickster, and will do whatever is in his ability to distract humans from their purpose of glorifying God.
To paraphrase C.S. Lewis, the greatest trick Satan ever pulled was to convince the world that he doesn’t exist. It is hard sometimes to believe in a completely evil being interfering with humanity. If Satan is so evil, why would he care what happens in my pitiful little life? I don’t think he does care. I don’t think he takes notice of me at all. At least not until I take notice of God.
When we live independently from God, Satan doesn’t care about us. It’s when we start running toward the gentle sound of God’s voice that his interest is piqued in the details of our day. I’ve seen this countless times in the lives of friends teetering on the brink of that precipice of choosing God or choosing the world. It often seems that havoc breaks out in their lives, which either pushes them off the edge and into the loving arms of Christ, or keeps them bound in fear, continuing to live their lives in the dark.
I speak not only that first decision to follow Christ, but of every decision which serves eternal consequences. Choices like where to attend college, what job to accept, who to live with and who to marry impact our eternity and the eternities of those with whom our lives are joined. Every decision we make is an opportunity for us to choose God or to choose the world. When we yield our lives to Christ, Satan tries to influence us, because he wants that power back.
Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kind of Christian who believes that every parking space close to the grocery store is a divine gift of my guardian angel, nor do I believe that the maladies and mistakes of everyday life are evidence of the hand of Lucifer himself. I do believe that there is a distinct and real supernatural plane of life that is dominated by angels and demons at work within the mundane human realms of home, work and school. And I believe, because of the reality of both the supernatural and the physical that Christians need to be aware of a few things that happen in this world of ours.
Peters says to his friends and fellow believers that the devil is a roaring lion who is always ready to pounce and devour Christians. Living in a time when a possible consequence of a devout Christian life was martyred by literally being eaten by lions, I’m sure Peter’s friends paid attention when he commanded them to stay alert.
This verse used to scare the crap out of me. I thought at any second, the devil would ambush me, my demise was imminent and it wouldn’t be long before I felt the sting of his bite. I have in fact heard the roar and felt the sting of that lion’s bite. It’s arrogant to think that Satan himself is directly involved in my personal life, he’s got bigger fish to fry, like the blood letting in Darfur, sex tourism in East Asia and poverty in America. But I do think that it is theologically accurate to accept the actions of a lesser demon messing with my head.
It wasn’t until after that first realization of Satan’s influence in my life that I realized something else. Despite his continued attempts to manipulate me, to remove my faith in Christ, and to make me ineffective in spreading the sweet gospel of our Lord, Satan cannot harm me.
Satan, unlike my Heavenly Father, is not omnipotent. He doesn’t have any special powers that I cannot defend myself against. He is just very good at what he does, which is lie. Big lies, little lies, lies that are obvious, and lies that are not so obvious.
I must do precisely what Peter commanded and stay alert. I must stay alert by staying in the truth. I must guard my heart and my mind with the words of Christ Jesus. I must be specific in the truths that I learn in order to combat the specific lies that Satan will whisper into my ear. Satan is not omnipotent or omniscient, he cannot read my mind, but he can read my actions. He can see the ways in which I react to his lies. When I react, he knows which lies work and which do not. By my reactions, I cannot give the devil a foothold into my heart.
Because I am sealed with the Holy Spirit and protected by the blood of Christ, Satan cannot hurt me. His roar is tremendous and I do fear him, but I am not afraid of him. None of his lies can affect my eternity, there is nothing in this world that can separate me from the love of Christ, and because his spirit is in me, I cannot be left behind.
My life is enticing to Satan, I am dripping with butter, and he hungers for a piece of the power that exists in my life because of Christ. But I am that ever-elusive cob of corn. His teeth have no power over me. He can roar all he wants, but he cannot bite.

No matter how much energy I use to bunch and fluff and tug at my blanket, forming it in to the approximate mass of a person lying next to me, when a distant train whistles, clattering through the night, and I wake to see the moonlight's reflection on my wall, it's still just me alone in my bed as I have been all these years.
The loneliness comes rushing in, the most familiar of all emotions. I should just make friends with it by this point in life, that's what it wants after all, right?

"Hey, loneliness, what are you up to tonight? Yeah, I'll probably just hang out with myself tonight too, you know, a quiet night at home can sometimes be so refreshing. Uh-huh, yeah, okay, so I'll see you about three in the morning, then?"

I don't think it works like that though. Loneliness doesn't really want to be my friend, otherwise I don't think it'd be quite so mean to me. But when loneliness comes a-callin' and I wake up in the night overwhelmed by the desire to simply be loved by someone, to simply stop waking up alone, that's when I start to think that loneliness is quite the bully.
After I've sat in my own self-pity, or try to tell myself a story to calm my heart, I guiltily remember that I'm never really alone and that God is always with me and all that good stuff. So I ask him for some help, sort of.
If I believe that God as the power to make all nations bow before him, why don't I believe that he also has the power to lay my heart to rest at night beside the heart that dwells inside the person that God made for me?
(Why, WHY, is my belief in God contingent upon tangible love from another human being? More importantly, why to I believe that love has to be given by the type of human who can grow a beard?)
When I whisper shards of prayers that I have been praying for most of my life -- that God will fill my whole heart, that will be my one true love -- I wonder if God will ever fulfill that request. Because even as those mumblings pass through my lips, I don't know if I will ever truly be content with only Jesus, with a lover whose touch does not warm my skin, and the timbre of whose voice is not audible.

The collar of my sweater is much too tight. I tug on it to see if it will strech, but then it chafes my throat and gives me rug burn. The sleeves of my sweater are too short too. I'm trying to decide if they look cute like three quarter length sleeves, or if I look like Lurch, from the Addams Family, wearing an article of clothing that is far too small for my frame.

I dislike this situation. My too small sweater makes me feel too big. When I feel to big, I feel ultra awkward - a step up from the normal level of awkwardness I usually feel.

I wish I did not have such a critical spirit, because part of my fear of people looking at me, is that I assume they are judging me as harshly as I judge them.

I probably should have just hung my sweater up to dry, I could have avoided this entire issue.