Hulk, Spidey and Elmo

I saw the Incredible Hulk in downtown Indianapolis last week.

Actually, I did more than see him, I actually got to fist-bump him. That’s right, Mr. Big Green and I, touching knuckles on the street as a sign of mutual respect between two gentlemen. No words were necessary.

Don’t believe me? Well just ask Spiderman and Elmo because they were with him. All three were headed east towards the downtown mall (or maybe the Steak & Shake). I was headed west towards the Marriott. In deference to the Hulk, both Spidey and Elmo walked a few steps behind him.

Yeah I know there are probably a few of you who think Spiderman should have been in the lead but let’s face facts: unless Superman or Big Bird is also on the streets, the Hulk is always the lead dog; sharing that position with no one.  

And I mean NO one. Not even Ironman (is that correct or should I say “The” Ironman?). Anyway, I passed Ironman too – no, really – about a block later. No doubt he was lagging well behind the others, trying to avoid the Hulk’s considerable shadow and status as the chief superhero of Indy.

But Ironman and I didn’t fist bump. In fact, we barely made eye contact (I think they were his eyes anyway). Truth is, he’s not as friendly as he looks on television.

Some of you may think this little episode only happened because Halloween was rapidly approaching and perhaps these were just costumed party-goers on their way to some function in the area.

I don’t buy that theory. After all, Indianapolis is a large city and I while I felt very safe and secure everywhere I went, I am certain there are always plenty of crime-fighting opportunities for an ambitious trio of a hulking green mass, a web-slinging wall climber and, well, a fuzzy red creature who giggles a lot. (Can’t say I completely understand what superpower Elmo brings to the table but the Hulk accepted him into his group and that’s good enough for me.)

So keep your eyes open, America, because you never know who or what you will meet on the streets of this great country of ours. Maybe you will run into the Lone Ranger pumping gas at the QT or maybe Oscar the Grouch will be in front of you at the grocery store checkout (that’s probably happened to a lot of us, right?).

But even if you don’t have the same kind of hero-sighting luck I had in Indianapolis, here’s hoping you do see something that brightens your day a little bit.

I’m sure it’s out there today. Just keep your eyes open.

P.S. If you do get a chance to meet the Hulk, just settle for a fist-bump and don’t ask for an autograph. I hear he has a bit of a temper.

The Directions

The motorcycle pulled up beside me in the Chouteau McDonalds parking lot and motioned me to lower my window.

“Can you tell us how to get to Claremore,” he asked as I leaned out, admiring the shine on his helmet and goggles.

“Claremore? Sure,” I replied, nodding my head. “Get right back on 412 here and go west seven or eight miles, then take the Highway 88 exit and follow 88 on north. It will take you right into Claremore.”

After both he and the passenger thanked me, he maneuvered the three-wheeled cycle around the gas pumps and back onto the highway, headed south. But, instead of taking the on ramp to 412 West, they just continued south, until they were out of sight. That road heads to Wagoner, not Claremore.

Truth is, I have no way of knowing if they ever found Claremore but I am confident my directions were plain and simple. Could it be they changed their mind? Perhaps they decided on a new destination. Or maybe they didn’t hear me clearly over the roar of the motorcycle engine (and the purring of my four-cylinder). That could be a distraction, right? Or maybe they didn’t really believe me and decided to go their own way.

Who knows for sure? All I really know is that the directions they asked for would have worked for them, if only they had been followed.

As I thought about the “wayward motorcyclists” later, I realized I am a lot like them, and so are you. We all want to go somewhere in life; to travel with purpose; to make our time and our journey count for something. And even if we say we don't – guess what? --- we’re traveling anyway.

So, why not follow the directions?

Or rather, the real question should be: What do you really expect to happen when you DON’T follow directions? Surely, you don’t expect things to go as planned when you don’t go with the plan, do you?

“Why do you call me Lord, Lord and not do the things that I say,“ asks Jesus in Luke 6:46.  He goes on to say that following His direction is like building a house on a solid foundation. As for not following His direction? Well, you might as well build your house on sand, but get ready, because it won’t be there long. And shouldn’t you expect that kind of result if you don’t follow directions?

It seems so many of us know the directions and commandments from the Lord, yet for reasons known only to us (and to Him), we either ignore them or forget them too easily. Do we decide not to believe? Are we distracted by other things in life? Do we think His way of traveling is not as good as our unknown road to who knows where?

If that’s the case, then you can expect to wander. You can expect to watch foundation after foundation be washed away by the smallest of streams. But be ready, because life’s a long road and there are many storms along the way. If you decide not to follow the directions then you must be ready to waste precious time searching for an intended destination that is nowhere close to where you are really headed.

Again the questions: Why not follow the directions? Why not do what He says?

Open the book. Read the directions. Follow the route God has given for your life. Sure, it’s still a journey and the road still has some bumps and unexpected twists along the way, but it’s a purposeful journey.

One that will lead you to where He has always intended for you to go.

Praying For Rain

(I originally wrote this for The Paper almost 12 years ago, but the current drought brought it to mind. We think water is one of the basic necessities of life. But really, droughts (all kinds of droughts) teach us that prayer is just as necessary.

Praying For Rain

I admit that I have prayed for a lot of different things in my life.

I’ve prayed for sick friends and sick pets, for money and for mercy. For material things and spiritual things. For things I wanted but did not need and for things I needed but didn’t really want.

Sometimes the prayer request was just between me and God and sometimes I asked others to pray for me. I’ve prayed for little things; like asking God to allow my pickup battery to have enough juice to start “just one more time” and that that there would be enough gasoline in the tank to get me just one more mile down the road.

One time, I lost a checkbook and spent the better part of the day praying that God would miraculously return it to me or place it where it would be easy to find … He did.

Some prayers requests were lifted for months before God finally answered “yes” instead of “not yet.”

Sometimes the immediate and clear answer was “no” and other times it took months to get that same answer. Of course, not every prayer was a request. Sometimes I just needed to talk and sometimes I needed to say thank you (although I don’t do that enough).

Why all this talk of prayer? Mainly because I was impressed by the pure simplicity of the prayers for rain that many people have been saying during this recent period of drought across the Midwest.

In fact, I saw on television where many congregations and groups have held organized prayer sessions strictly to pray for rain.

What could be more simple and honest than a man asking God to make it rain?

In these modern times of instant messaging, laser surgery, DNA research and space stations, human beings are exploring new frontiers, both internal and external, that have never been tapped into before.

However, it should humble every one of us to know that, without water – without something as simple as raindrops falling on our heads – everything could eventually grind to a halt.

No more online stock trading, no more Monday Night Football, no more trips to the mall on Saturday afternoon. Eventually, without rain, the world dries up. I don’t know about you but when I put that all in perspective, it is a humbling thought.

Ah, there’s the keyword: humbling.

“If my people will humbly pray,” God said in the Old Testament. “Then I will heal their land.” Sometimes we forget to pray and give thanks for rain when the grass is green and the crops are growing, just like we can forget to thank God when our lives are going great and we are happy and content in our careers and relationships. But isn’t it funny how we tend to put a little more emphasis on our prayers and more sincerity in our hearts when we feel humbled by our situation? That’s no accident, you know.

Sure, it would be easy to see the spiritual significance and analogy in this whole episode. The drought could represent a personal struggle in someone’s life while the humble prayer for rain could represent a prayer for renewal or relief from that struggle. Then the rain itself could represent the cool, replenishing miracle that eases life’s hot spots or jumpstarts spiritual growth and confidence.

But we don’t need to make that comparison to appreciate the rain shower that can end our dry spell. Maybe we should simply take it for what it will be: a nice shower. One that begins with the smell of rain through the kitchen window, perhaps on a lazy Saturday afternoon and progresses to the slow pitter-patter of drops on the patio roof and ends with ditches full of water and a lot of soaked people who stood in the downpour just to enjoy it.

In either case, whether you are dealing with a dry spell in your life or a dry spell in your garden, it should still humble you to know that, when relief does come, it will come from above you. From a place; from a Rainmaker and Creator who is higher than you are.

That’s a lesson. The God who heals the spiritual drought is the same God who heals the earthly drought.

We just need to humbly pray.

New Verse Of An Old Lullaby

By 8:30, on a typical Monday morning, I am in my office, in my squeaky brown dress shoes and pleated pants, evaluating the dilemmas and the deadlines of the week ahead. It’s not the low point in my week (for some reason, I dislike Tuesdays more than Mondays) but it’s about as far as you can get from quitting time on a Friday.

But not so this Monday morning; this one was different.

8:30 this Monday finds me at home, in jeans and a t-shirt, staring into the toothless grin of my 11 week-old daughter. Her chin glistens from the slobber she’s been able to manufacture since I first plucked her from her crib two minutes ago and her cheeks are so chubby that it must make holding her head up even more difficult.

Anyway, this Monday, and most of the next three weeks to follow, are going to be filled by such moments. After all, during that time I will be the “stay at home” Dad and primary caregiver for a rambunctious 3 year old and her baby sister (the aforementioned baby girl).

Despite my disdain of Monday and Tuesday mornings in the office, I am certainly appreciative of a job that allows me Mondays like this one too. With the wife headed off to her job for the first time in three months, I now step into the role of the paternal parent on maternity leave (sort of) to change diapers, fix bottles, cook lunch, wipe noses, dry tears, and do the laundry for this precious three-week stretch.

Monday morning starts well and things continue on that way through much of the day. There was that especially unpleasant diaper change for baby girl accompanied by the 3 year old’s comments that nearly ruin cheese dip for me (you do the math) but beyond that, most every out-of-the-ordinary task on day one is handled with ordinary ease.

I am grateful for that; grateful that it goes well but even more grateful that it goes at all. Just four short years ago, our little family of three appeared complete, although our prayers to expand that family had not ceased. The fact that, today, I am home with two of my three children may not mean much to you, but that statement – “two of my three” – was foreign to our lives for so many years.

Things change. At age 41 I am again snapping an infant carrier into the car, just as I did at age 26 and again at 37. I am singing a new verse of an old lullaby; one I first sang 14 years ago.

I hope when the 3 year old is 41 she will remember this time at home with Dad. I hope she will share the memories and tell the stories to the baby girl who, even though she won’t remember, may get to relive the time through her big sister’s stories and recollections.

So, day one of “just me and the girls” goes pretty well. No injuries, no extended crying, no delays, no dilemmas (except for that one diaper incident) and most of all, no regrets on my part for being right where I was today and where I will be tomorrow.

New Verse Of An Old Lullaby

By 8:30, on a typical Monday morning, I am in my office, in my squeaky brown dress shoes and pleated pants, evaluating the dilemmas and the deadlines of the week ahead. It’s not the low point in my week (for some reason, I dislike Tuesdays more than Mondays) but it’s about as far as you can get from quitting time on a Friday.

But not so this Monday morning; this one was different.

8:30 this Monday finds me at home, in jeans and a t-shirt, staring into the toothless grin of my 11 week-old daughter. Her chin glistens from the slobber she’s been able to manufacture since I first plucked her from her crib two minutes ago and her cheeks are so chubby that it must make holding her head up even more difficult.

Anyway, this Monday, and most of the next three weeks to follow, are going to be filled by such moments. After all, during that time I will be the “stay at home” Dad and primary caregiver for a rambunctious 3 year old and her baby sister (the aforementioned baby girl).

Despite my disdain of Monday and Tuesday mornings in the office, I am certainly appreciative of a job that allows me Mondays like this one too. With the wife headed off to her job for the first time in three months, I now step into the role of the paternal parent on maternity leave (sort of) to change diapers, fix bottles, cook lunch, wipe noses, dry tears, and do the laundry for this precious three-week stretch.

Monday morning starts well and things continue on that way through much of the day. There was that especially unpleasant diaper change for baby girl accompanied by the 3 year old’s comments that nearly ruin cheese dip for me (you do the math) but beyond that, most every out-of-the-ordinary task on day one is handled with ordinary ease.

I am grateful for that; grateful that it goes well but even more grateful that it goes at all. Just four short years ago, our little family of three appeared complete, although our prayers to expand that family had not ceased. The fact that, today, I am home with two of my three children may not mean much to you, but that statement – “two of my three” – was foreign to our lives for so many years.

Things change. At age 41 I am again snapping an infant carrier into the car, just as I did at age 26 and again at 37. I am singing a new verse of an old lullaby; one I first sang 14 years ago.

I hope when the 3 year old is 41 she will remember this time at home with Dad. I hope she will share the memories and tell the stories to the baby girl who, even though she won’t remember, may get to relive the time through her big sister’s stories and recollections.

So, day one of “just me and the girls” goes pretty well. No injuries, no extended crying, no delays, no dilemmas (except for that one diaper incident) and most of all, no regrets on my part for being right where I was today and where I will be tomorrow.

We Cant Last

We’ve been good, but we can’t last …

It’s been over 50 years since a trio of Chipmunks (that’s right, Chipmunks) made a lasting contribution to the culture of Christmas with a little song most of us know very well.

For sure, “The Chipmunk Song” has enjoyed lasting appeal since its release in the late fall of 1958. Multiple generations have had the opportunity to sing along with Alvin, Simon and Theodore while they decorated the tree; drove to Grandma’s or waded through wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Passing through the years -- from vinyl grooves to digital files -- the song retains all its charms, highlighted by Alvin’s passionate plea for a hula hoop. 

However, while that plea may have stolen the show, the song’s message is more about Christmas in the present than Christmas presents.  Sure, a hula hoop might be a nice reward, but Alvin and the boys were really seeking relief from their efforts to be good. “We’ve been good, but we can’t last” they confess.

Indeed, who can?

Right there, in the middle of this much-loved novelty song, we hear the echoes of humanity’s enduring plea ... the plea for relief from our own efforts at redemption.

A plea for mercy and grace.

This cry for relief pre-dates Christmas; born thousands of years earlier, during mankind’s futile efforts to find redemption under the Old Testament law. That law was a burden no man could bear and a standard no man could meet.  If being “good” depended on meeting that standard then, truly, goodness could not last.

But then, Christmas finally arrived.  

There was Jesus – Christmas in flesh and blood; bringing with Him redemption and salvation.  Mankind’s plea was answered by a Gift we did not deserve and grace flooded over our futile efforts to achieve “good.” By grace, through faith, we could last.

Many places in Scripture reference this wonderful news, including the Apostle Paul’s plain and simple words in Galatians 2:16: “Nevertheless knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the Law,” writes the Apostle, “but through faith in Christ Jesus.”

There is no more effort, no more law, no more worrying about the staying power of our goodness. In place of all that? Faith.

This year, when you hear Alvin and the boys renew their plea for Christmas’ quick arrival, you will find simple holiday joy in their words.  You will smile at the thought of a Chipmunk and a hula hoop and maybe even at the thought of your own childhood impatience once associated with the holiday.

However, my wish for you is that you will find your greatest joy in the realization that Christmas stays. The holiday celebration may come once a year, but the meaning of the season, the Savior, never leaves.  His Word tells us so.

Yes, for as long as The Chipmunk Song is played, Alvin will still want that hula hoop. However, for as long as eternity rolls – we can enjoy the gift of grace.  With that gift, we can indeed last.

I Heard It As I Drove By

I don’t really like the phrase “old home place” but I guess it’s the most appropriate way to describe it.

Anyway, I drove by the “old home place” earlier this week and it was easy to see that the colors of fall, which add a very special value to the property in October, are now gone. In their place, the browns of winter are already settling in. Although the leaves were still bright in the morning sun, they no longer displayed the array of colors that I now realize I took for granted during my youth, when I lived right in the middle of all that beauty each autumn.

It’s funny where you mind goes in instances like that. Driving by, I realized those were same winter browns that would be in place come late December. Thus the same winter browns I recognize from so many old Christmas morning photos taken in the front yard of that home place; photos of boys on new bikes or boys shooting new BB guns. Or perhaps, photos of boys doing both. On those mornings, the browns of winter were full of Christmas magic.

They say you can’t go home again and honestly, I’m not sure I really need to. So I did not stop at the empty house. However, I think its okay to brush up against the old home with a drive-by once in a great while.  Anymore frequently than that and I might take it all for granted again.

It’s also been said the sense of smell can trigger memories more strongly than any other sense. But on this morning, it was a sound, or at least the remembrance of a sound, that shuttled me back in time 30 years. It was the squealing of school bus brakes. That sound somehow filled my ears as I drove past the spot where Bus Number 5 used to stop on that old blacktop road (it wasn’t striped in those days).

For restless riders who spent waaaay too much time on a school bus in the afternoons, the squealing of school bus brakes was the sound of home. When that squeal happened in front of your house, boy oh boy, you knew you were mere minutes away from an after-school snack and another episode of Gilligan’s Island.

In our case the bus actually stopped around the corner from our house; sort of equal distance between the neighbor’s house and ours. But that was fine; back then we were thin enough to slip through the space between the end of our chain link fence and the first post of the barbed wire fence. Once through, it was every man for himself as we raced down the hill to the front door.

And what about that front yard we raced through? As I drove by it, I brushed up against another memory of those BB guns and the hollow, metallic thud sound made when a BB would strike a pop can. Somewhere in that yard, I thought, are thousands of BBs shot from dozens of different guns over the years. Buried there beneath the grass are the teeny tiny reminders of three boys who passed many an hour taking aim at Pepsi cans, perched on a flat rock out by the propane tank; each BB representing a brief moment from my happy childhood.

Of course, the memory of one sound leads to another. Also buried in that yard is one red aluminum arrow, used only once. Standing on the west end of the yard, I pulled back the bowstring and let the arrow fly towards the target on the east end. It skipped on the ground (so much for my archery skills) and was never to be seen again.  I remember the rattling sound as the arrow skipped into the leaves and the rocks. I hunted for what seemed like hours for that arrow but to this day, it still eludes me. (By the way, I never looked for a single BB :)

There are plenty of other sounds to recall; sounds that still hang over that yard. Sounds like a tennis ball hitting the side of the well house so that a 12-year old baseball player could dive for it on the rebound. Sounds of dogs barking all night (dozens of dogs over the years), sounds of the wind blowing through the trees in the backyard, sounds of me arguing with my brothers after a particularly heated game of wiffle ball, the sound of a basketball’s thud as it was dribbled on the dirt and rock driveway and the sounds of a thousand other moments spent somewhere between the front porch and road.

No, I didn’t stop at the old home place, but I sure heard it as I drove by.