On Norris, Chuck

(started in February 2011, finished Jan. 2013)

As I write this, I am writhing in pure agony, afflicted by the evil plague that is Cedar Fever.  Cedar Fever is a foul punishment, a pox unleashed upon mankind to make atonement for our sins; to give us a taste of hellfire and damnation; to push us to repentance for fear of this kind of suffering for all eternity.  Lord, take me now!

When I'm sick, I get cranky, and crabby, and downright irritable. I snap at loved ones, I absent mindedly make harsh remarks to those that try to help me, and I'm just mean to little old ladies. So I must wonder, "why?"

I hate being weak. I hate the idea that I may be weak enough to actually get sick. I want to feel invincible, and being sick robs me of this delusion. It's my pride being killed, being dragged through the street and beaten with sacks full of nickels. As much as I may say that the Lord is in control, truthfully I'm only okay with that idea when I feel like I have the ability to relinquish control at any time. "The Illusion of Control." It's laughable, really. The idea that we have any power over the actions of others, or the actions of the universe, or even inanimate objects. I can eat the carrot, but if the carrot didn't want to be eaten, it will let me know soon enough by trying to come back up.

Every so often I watch my friend Matt's daughter Bella. She's about 3. When she's not feeling well she cries, she pouts, she becomes unruly and uncooperative. Sadly, the same can be said for me. I think sickness is the reminder that we are not in control, that we need to be cared for. It's a great equalizer, in that way. It doesn't matter how awesome you may think you are, you will get sick. John Stewart gets sick and needs his wife to care for him. Barack Obama gets sick and needs Secret Service to bring his chicken noodle soup. Chuck Norris doesn't get sick.
(I wish I were Chuck Norris)

A story I've heard often:
A man is hitchhiking and gets a ride from a man in a pickup. The driver tells the hitchhiker to hop in the bed of truck, and starts driving once his passenger is aboard. Looking back, he sees the hitchhiker standing up in the bed, still clutching his backpack. The driver tells him to sit down, put the backpack down, and relax. The passenger responds, "You were kind enough to give me a ride, I couldn't dare to impose on you by having you carry my bag as well."

Of course, this story is preposterous. Any rational human would put their bag down in the truck and relax. But lo, we aren't always rational.

Too often does God help us, give us a ride, give us direction or purpose, and in the face of His Grace and Mercy, we accept but refuse to lay down our burdens. Be it our pasts, our sins, our pride, our weakness, our flaws, we refuse to let Him carry it.

It's akin to that penultimate scene from the Lord of the Rings trilogy, when, dying on the side of Mount Doom, Samwise offers to carry the One Ring for Frodo. Frodo responds that he cannot, for it would destroy him. Samwise then does the only thing available to him: he carries Frodo.

Yes, I'm tearing up as I think about it. Too often must God carry me because I'm stubborn and bullheaded and refuse to share my burden with him, when all along I've been in His hands, burden and all!

He doesn't want us to be weak constantly, but He does want us to acknowledge our weakness, and in doing so, His strength. It's okay to be weak. It means that we're human. And in acknowledging our humanity, we acknowledge His Divinity. He'll gladly carry us, burdens and all, if only we'd stop trying to be divine ourselves and just be human.

On Fear, That Which Keeps Us Here

As I write today, I'm in a good amount of pain. Just yesterday I had surgery to fix a hernia I incurred almost 10 years ago. Why did it take me so long to fix it? Fear.

Fear of having to fully take care of myself. Fear of having to take full responsibility for myself. Fear of having to truly see my self-worth and invest in myself.

I've never fully taken care of myself. I rarely think of my diet, though I do exercise a few times a week. I have no car payment, I live in the cheapest apartment I could find, I own no furniture outside of that which fits in my bedroom. I scorn luxuries and niceties because I see them as immodest, unnecessary. But truth be told, I see them this way because I've forced myself into believing them to be so in an effort to justify my low self-worth. If I don't want them, then I won't have to justify not having them by admitting that I don't believe that I'm worth the investment.

It's the unending conundrum of Grace: That which we could never be worthy of, yet are given of it freely.

And so my surgery was a step in a new direction. I'm fully responsible for the bills. Nobody will give me money to bail me out of this debt. Never before have I been in debt, and I never really want to be, but it was necessary to take this step. I'm fully responsible for taking care of myself. I'm in the middle of a planned 5 day rest, and I don't have a dedicated caretaker for 3 of those days, so I must manage myself, force myself to rest, to believe that my well being is worth the shred of guilt I will incur from not working for 5 days.

You see, if I'm working, I can at least tell myself that I'm a productive member of society, that I'm contributing something to the world around me. Instead, I'm off for 5 days, and I feel like a lazy bum with nothing to contribute, leeching off friends and family. Yes, after only 5 days I dip to the bottom of the barrel, wallowing in despair that I've wasted my life, yet knowing full well that I'll be back at work on tuesday. Oh how glorious and irrational the human mind.

The other hard truth I'm coming to face is my own self-worth. I work because that's how I justify my existence. It's not enough to be me, to be the only me that will ever be, and to strive to be the best me I can be. I must give something of myself. Since I see very little of myself being of any worth, I work. Endlessly. I never take sick leave, I never pass up an opportunity to work, and I never shirk my responsibilities at work.
Yet here I sit, faced with the idea welling up from my heart and echoed by close friends for years that I do have something to give, something to say. That I've accumulated wisdom and guidance to share with the world. That my word may someday do somebody else some good. And I've seen it, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I feign humility, knowing that to accept a compliment would hurt my pride by forcing me to understand the role my presence can and does play in the world around me. How hypocritical, how ironic.

I know that the few readers of this blog are supportive of my endeavors, and they (you) believe in me. This I know. But I am a coward, afraid to acknowledge this, afraid to offer up larger portions of myself, of my wisdom (what little I have, at least), of my experience. I'm selfish in that way, thinking I have nothing to offer yet refusing to share anything that may be of worth. Again, I'm faced with the possibility that God has a plan for me, a plan that, despite my best intentions to muck it up, is still on track.

That, friends, is Grace in action.

As for fear, I'm still afraid. But the opposite of fear is faith. Not love, but faith. Trusting that God is good and good for us, trusting that friends and family will watch out for us, helping us as best they can, and trusting that we'll make the best decisions possible, in this life, for His Kingdom.

On Sequels, Unnecessary.

I'm not getting anything done tonight. I set aside the time to blog and now I can't think of anything. Isn't that always how it goes?

On Grace, Accepting...

Apparently, when in my last blog I noted that I'd be blogging again soon, I meant in a few more months.
I apologise for that.

Since I've last blogged, I've not heard any more from River or Destiny or anyone claiming to represent either party.  For this, I'm grateful.  Truly, I know I'm not ready to face that world again.  So, dear reader (and more-so, dear Christ Follower), what, you ask, was the point of that interaction if not to get me to reconnect with those involved in said debacle?

I think it was to show me truly who I am, or rather, who I'd been becoming. (Yes, my grammar is inaccurate from a purely literary standpoint, but my point will support it.)  You see, I was angry at River. Angry and bitter and resentful and ashamed.  In my mind, I had wronged her, wronged Destiny, wronged my family, and God Himself.  Though I had done everything I could (and I did the job of keeping my daughter and her mother healthy and sane as well as I could), I still failed.  Or at least, I felt like I had failed.  I couldn't process the whole affair. I couldn't forgive myself for the mistakes I had made, and no amount of good deeds could change my mind.

That's where Grace comes in.  The Grace of God is a powerful thing. It had made a fool of me, and I'm thankful for it.  The whole hub-bub was to show me how little mercy I had shown myself.  How little I knew of Grace.  If I couldn't forgive myself for my sins, my transgressions, how much more could God not even stand them?  If I hated myself, how much more should He hate me?  I don't deserve mercy or grace or forgiveness.
And there's the rub.  He offers it nonetheless. Because He chooses to.  He died because He chose to.  And I have only to accept His offer, but I do so knowing that I'll never be worthy of it.  It's a tension we as Jesus Lovers must live in, and I pray that I never cease to struggle with it.

Back to the point, I didn't like who I was becoming.  I didn't like the decisions I was making with such an unhealthy mindset and view of God.  Rather, my view of God was accurate (He is loving, merciful, gracious, and kind) but I didn't think any of that applied to me.  It does, and dammit if that revelation won't be the death of me.

I'm still wrestling with this truth, and it still surprises and challenges me every day, but I think I'm getting better at forgiving myself as I go. Of course, as soon as I finish typing this I'm sure that statement will be challenged again.
Such is the cycle, the horrible, weighty, freeing, and wonderful cycle of Grace and Forgiveness. Just to let things go is the scariest and most freeing thing.

So now, I'm becoming somebody else, somebody new. A body that forgives himself and others more freely, and shows grace and acceptance openly.  Or at least, that's who I'd like to be.

On Endings, Bitter.

How often do we think of ourselves as being in control? In charge? On top of things? How often do we think we know what's going on, and we're prepared?
Almost 8 years ago I gave my daughter (Destiny, for the point of the story) up in adoption to a nice family in Houston. I thought to myself that my job was done, she was born, and I'd never see her again. I thought that God had wanted me to follow through and protect her, make sure she ended up in a good home, and that was that.
My ex, my daughter's mother (River, as she'll be known), was, and is, crazy. I can hardly think of any good thing to say about her outside of commenting upon her beauty (she is still gorgeous). And truly, she is crazy. But I'm also still a wounded little man, too hurt to let go of that pain, so I justify it by focusing on her insanity.
Earlier this afternoon I received a text from my baby momma (sorry for the slang) that contained a picture of her and Destiny posing together.
They met.
Apparently Destiny wants to meet me.
I have no idea what to do with this.
I've spent the last 7 years assuring myself that A) I'd never see my daughter again, and I had made peace with that; and B) I'd never see my ex again and the idea of her dying from some horrible incurable disease made me feel a little better about the world.
And yet, on my phone, staring at me, is proof that these two beliefs are wrong.
A few thoughts:
I have no idea how they happened upon each other, so it could have been forced. (River is not above stalking)
I have no idea if my daughter was coerced into professing the desire to meet me.
I have no idea what my ex actually wants.

And now, some back story: River was extremely manipulative and emotionally needy. She would lie to me openly simply to get a desired response, and create drama to try and test me.
So with that filter on, I'm very, very skeptical.
River works at a certain swedish furniture store (heretofore known as That Place With The Meatballs) and apparently happened upon the adoptive parents with Destiny, and Destiny instantly recognised River and ran into her arms.
Here's where I stand (and thank you for letting me figure this out as I vented):
If Destiny really wanted to meet me, her adoptive parents have my phone number and can find me on FaceBook. But they haven't.
And River has been known to randomly text or call me to try and reconnect, as apparently I may or may not have been her last successful and (somewhat) healthy relationship.
So "River", if you're reading this, I'm calling shenanigans!
I'm glad you met Destiny, but until the parents contact me, I will not trust you.
Sorry if I've foiled your plans. And if you are sincere, sorry that I don't trust you but you burned this bridge with a vengeance.

To everyone else reading this: Sorry this post wasn't very funny or insightful or inspiring. I'll try harder next time. And yes, next time will be coming soon.

On Death, The Defeat Of.

I feel like the captain of the Titanic. On good days, I'm bailing water, hoping to make a difference and see the ship rise a few inches, to stem back the oncoming flood. On bad days, I just sit back and polish the brass.
And yet, I remain optomistic. With a God as big and storied as mine, I know He's in control.
The book of Judges gives us a lot of stories about a lot of people that He used. Samson is one of my favourites because he screws up royally, yet with his last breath he redeems himself. God uses Samson to make a point and bring Isreal back to Himself.
If I'm going down with the ship, I want to go down in style! If God's using me as a cautionary tale, I want to make sure I do everything in my power (and His will) to make it a good tale.
The thief on the cross behind Jesus deserved to be there, dying in agony. Yet I know that when his time came, he was in Heaven's endless glory, just as Christ promised him.
If I'm to die poor, alone, having lived a life where nothing (save Christ's saving works) went right, it will be a life well lived. A life rewarded handsomely.

Friday was His death. He BECAME sin, so when He died, sin would die with Him. "Thanks, Jesus. Sin is dead. Whoo!"
But then comes Sunday. Sunday is His rebirth. His resurrection. With the resurrection, He becomes life, so while He lives, we live with Him.
There can be no forgiveness without the shedding of blood. So rich is our Father's love for us that He shed His blood. When's the last time you shed your blood for someone you loved? Perhaps you gave blood for a much needed transfusion to save an uncle? Gave a kidney for your sick cousin? Jesus chose to give His life for us. He chose to give His life for me. For you. I have a hard time giving money for people I care about. I shutter at the thought of giving an organ, and I refuse to give blood as I'm scared to death of needles. This isn't love.
Love is sacrificial. Always. If it doesn't hurt, it's not love. But let me be clear. If all it does is hurt, it's probably not love either.
In our search for love on this earth, I'm certain that the trick is finding someone who makes the sacrifice as painless and natural as possible; Someone who makes the choice of giving of ourselves easy. I cannot imagine how hard it was for our Father to give His life. I cannot imagine how hard we made that choice. How I would burn with anger at mankind, were I God. How I would seethe. Noah would not have survived the flood, were I in charge. How hard must that choice have been, knowing how sinful I am, how wrapped up in shame and pride, for God to sacrifice His Son?
Thank God I am not He, or we'd all be screwed.

We have our picture of Love, our example. It died on a cross, in agony, taking on our wrongdoings, our sin. It rose 3 days later, exchanging our nature for one of righteousness. Our best acts, our most righteous acts or thoughts or movements all pale in comparison.
He is risen, I'm not worthy, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

On Worship, Tired and/or Hungover

Yes, you read that right. I have played church services while hungover. I've played services on mornings where I never went to sleep. I've slept through church services.


Now, before you excommunicate me from the Church, know this: my heart is for the Lord, and He've never failed to humble me when I hit the stage. I'm constantly in awe of His power and majesty and the fact that He uses a screw-up like me.
That said, I want to share a bit of my mindset on mornings like those mentioned above.
I read a tweet from one "Worship_Tips", and it's as such: Remember, what you do tonight will affect how you lead worship tomorrow. Guard your heart. Don't risk loosing the anointing.


Too true.  We should be careful of the condition of our heart when we head in to His Presence. However, to avoid His Presence simply because we're tired or we made a mistake the night before would be foolish. He accepts us, broken as we are, and our willingness to be open about our brokenness and shame is one of the greatest benefits to us and to others that comes from that acceptance. 


Too many mornings I've sat through prayers from tired folk praying that God would wake them up, give them an alertness, blah blah blah. Nothing wrong with that, but I enjoy the mornings where it hurts to lift my head, where I'm too tired to give it my all. And I'll tell you why: Because when everything does work out, when God shows up, when The Spirit descends, I can know fully and completely that it had NOTHING TO DO WITH ME! Not a thing. I gave my all, and it still wasn't enough. God came down because He chose to. He honoured our songs and praises because He chose to. He gives me the strength to worship Him because He chooses to. 


How often in our "strength" and "alertness" and "preparedness" do we fret or worry about everything? Do we, (though we'd never say it out loud) think that everything hinges upon us and our competence?


It's the same way on mornings when there's PA issues, or the sermon isn't complete quite yet, or the guitarist can't quit breaking strings. It's a chance to sit back and reflect upon how messed up we are, how we can do NOTHING good of our own strength, and praise Jesus that He shows up anyways.


Now I'm not saying that we should all stay up all night or come into church tomorrow hungover (or still drunk), but if it comes down to fellowshipping with good intentionality with good folk or unbelievers that need the word, or going to bed at 8:00 so I can be bright-eyed and bushy tailed, I'll always choose the former. Tonight I'm going out to see good folk, to fellowship with people I don't see often enough, and to praise God for excellent music. I won't be out extremely late, but I won't be in before midnight. But I'm not worried, nor do I feel that I'm testing God. My heart and conscience are clear in this matter: God is Lord, and He comes first. And at 8:00 tomorrow morning I'll find myself facedown in His Presence, with no dichotomy between last night and that moment.


Be wise in your dealings, wise in your decisions. Don't sin without regard to God or the future. But don't wrap yourself in a bubble, never going out, never talking to strangers, and never having a good time. Fellowship, food, drinks; all are gifts from God to be celebrated. And all are things to thank Him for on sunday morning, whether you're fully awake or not.