Two Months.

It has been almost two months since I blogged, and I think, I can finally say, that I am feeling like a human being again. Little baby girl Crady has gotten her act together. She is more adorable than a drawer full of puppies, and I feel like my wife and I actually see each other when we talk to each other now.

It would be an understatement, to say I underestimated how much my life would change with the birth of this baby girl, and now much I underestimated how much work and patience it would take. I was not built for it, but thankfully I was redesigned to better handle it. I had to pray a lot. I had to think about the future, and how at some point the crying would stop, the sleep would return, and that our basic goal was simply not to kill her and keep her breathing.

But it was hard. I will admit that I was always glib (yes Tom Cruise, I was glib) when parents complained about their babies. It was uninteresting, boring talk to listen to. I was dumb. I should have been listening and feeling empathy for these poor new parents. When they handed us the pamphlet about Shaken Baby Syndrome, I laughed and acted like it was craziness to pass it to me. But having had a fussy baby, I now know better. I understand the urge to take out frustration. I understand the irrational thoughts that come with sleeplessness. The helplessness that makes everything seem ten times more serious than what it really is.

So I allowed myself to have the irrational thoughts. To think that we had made a mistake. To think (only rarely) that this was the worst decision that we ever could have made, because we had it so terribly easy before that. But I also prayed. And remembered that we prayed very hard to have this baby. And I looked at how terribly perfect she was. And slowly we learned to cope, and baby learned to trust us, and peace and excitement over the baby returned to our house.

And now I couldn't imagine anything better. The pure unadulterated joy that we experience when she smiles and coos is amazing. It is rare. The purity and quickness of it, is something that I had only experienced a few times, briefly, like one of those whirlwinds that blows the leaves in the corners of building, quick, amusing, and gone.

So I am thankful for perspective. And I am thankful for the struggle, which hopefully has made me more empathetic to others, and more appreciative of what I have now.

The Baby and the Bathwater

The baby is here. She arrived Wednesday morning at about 5:15 in the am. Mel had been in labor for about 17 hours and pushed for a mere 26 minutes. There are about a thousand cliches that are all true when a person talks about how a baby changes their lives. Right now as I write this, Maeve is making fussy noises in the room next door and I am about to stop this sentence and go check on her.

And that little anecdotes sort of sums up how a newborn effects (affects) a person and family. Everything interrupted. Thoughts, intentions, to do lists are all put on hold. We walk around with tired stupors on our faces, large black/blue circles drooping from our eyes, the stunted blinks as we try to recall names of people we have known for years, dates and times, that our poor brains can not search for. It is hard to express how much sleep deprivation one suffers. The Boob Whisperer herself at the hospital was correct when she told us that no one can express how tired you will be. We worry over poop, over pee, over feeding times. I am now thinking in terms of ML, which is about half the space between one's eyebrows.

So, it is true. Everything is fundamentally changed, and it is amazing that even with nine months of preparation, how jarring and stark the changes are. I thought I had grown as a person since my marriage, that I had sorted through my selfishness, filed it away behind kindness, eagerness, almost out of hand when reaching through words to describe me. But, this baby has shown me otherwise. When I have thought complaining thoughts, or have verbalized those words about late night feedings, about screaming cries that literally hurt my ears, have felt the irrational anger at a perfect little girl who can not help what she feels or wants. My selfishness blinks at a large neon sign right in front of my face.

So, I think for all the prayers that I have said for this baby, I probably should have been praying for myself. I hope this is God working in me, pressing patience into wet clay skin, imprinting selflessness into my most recessing genes. I see it in my head, how he builds me brick by brick, woven with mortar and fiber, the bricks of love layered in some unbreakable bond, that even I who resist naturally and heartedly can not resist. For, I do want to be better than this; I need to be better than this amateur parent I am now.

Note: this blog took 3 days and 8 interruptions to write. I may never write another comprehendible, fluid blog again--apologies:)

Babies and Wishes and Prayers

I guess most people know that my wife and I are having a baby here soon. Her name is Maeve and she will be the greatest little thing that has ever happened to us. Eight months ago when Mel told me that we were having a baby,  I felt overwhelmed with joy and excitement, like a balloon stretched to thin limits. 


Having a baby allows for lots of times of retrospection and forecasting. I have thought about my childhood, my growing up. I have looked at the lives of my kids and wondered how they have become the way they are, both good and bad. We think about the ways we will schedule, feed, discipline. I have picked out about a thousand little bands with flowers hot-glued to them for her to wear.  It is hard to not think about what she will look like, what talents she will have, to wonder what things she will be curious about and want to pursue.  I mean will she be able to "cat daddy" or only "dougie"? These are serious things to wonder about.


But beyond all of that, I think I have wished and prayed that my little Maeve will be a better person than I am.  I would think (hope) this is a common thing for parents. I mean, I am sure most parents want more for their child, hope more for them.   We have been reading Crazy Love in my Sunday School class. In that book, Francis Chan talks a lot about what it means to love--to love god, to love other people. There is this quote in chapter 5 from Henri Nouwen:


 “It is hard to bear that people stand still along the way, lose heart, and seek their happiness in little pleasures which they cling to—you feel sad about all that self-indulgence and self-satisfaction, for you know with an indestructible certainty that something greater is coming.”  


I know I cling to little "indulgences." I have used pizza as band aid for anger. I have used porn as a pill for lonlieness. I have used insults as a mask for insecurity.  And I have felt the sadness from knowing I am missing the something more. That little empty space where a laugh is ended with a tiny, gentle sigh. Or that moment as the YouTube video stops and before I take a breath, that I feel the tiny pang of a finger tapping my heart, making me wonder if there is something more to fill up the time that I waste.


So I prayed today that my daughter would not give into these illusions . I prayed that she would know the fullness of the purpose of a loving god.  (Not that I don't think YouTube videos have their place, but they cannot become a salve for perpetual restlessness, just like liquor can't, nor weed, you get the idea)  Just like I have prayed for her everyday that she will be a better person than me. I have prayed that she will be nicer than me. That she will love God more than I have. That she will not struggle with her emotions like I did for most of my growing up. That she will know herself well, earlier than I finally accepted and knew myself. That she won't long to fit in like I always have. That being witty won't lead to being hateful. I prayed that she would love God more than she loves me and Melly-- that she would know him intimately.


And I am sure people (in trying to be nice) would say that I am a nice person, that I am not rude, etc. But my friends no otherwise and I do too. 


I would be lying if I said I didn't hope for things like, Maeve being a lefty so she would have a natural advantage at tennis, or her having long fingers so she could play the mandolin or guitar easily. But I have earnestly sought the lord in praying for his blessings on her, in praying that his breath has been woven into her heart already, that the words of Christ have been stirred with his finger into her soul. Prayed that I will be equipped to be stronger, more faithful, more disciplined than I thought possible, so that I (and Mel) can be good stewards of this precious little life we have been entrusted with.

Thinking While Urinating

The other day, I was urinating in the small bathroom that is located in the small office where nine of my coworkers have their desk, and where I take up what little extra space there is hanging out with them, when I am not in my own (quite large room) teaching or listening to GrooveShark. So, while "making water"( as the old timers would say) I had a realization that the fact that I can stand here and pee, while just 3 feet away people sit listening and typing on their computers, is kind of a big deal for me. A younger version of myself probably would have been embarrassed to urinate in that situation. I don't have a shy bladder, i have always been able to urinate in public restrooms, even if the stall next to me is occupied, but this is different. An anonymous pair of shoes in the stall next to you, is not the same as nine people you know. You can make a random sound in a public restroom and suffer no ridicule. You can wait the other people out and leave on your own terms. You don't have that privilege in this situation.

(Sidebar: Now of course, due to the close proximity we try not to defecate in this space. Not out of embarrassment, but more so out of politeness. Over the years we have been exposed to a number of odors and situations that caused us to gag, laugh, crawl out under the stench. So, if you ever do visit our back office, please feel free to not shizzz in our toilet.)

The younger me probably would have walked down the two hallways to the other faculty bathroom, not located in someone's office and used that instead. He probably would have worried that using the office restroom would expose him to jokes, joshing, to people wondering why he takes so long to pee, or why he is so quick in urinating, or why he urinates so often, or why he goes so infrequently? I am sure you see where I am going.

I wouldn't say I was a completely backwards person growing up, or in my young adulthood. But, I wasn't terribly outgoing either. When I was with friends I could be loud and jazzy, but pretty much around people I didn't know, or in new situations, I was quiet. I didn't like my voice growing up, I hated (and still do) talking on the phone or in front of people because I talk too quickly. stutter, trip on my own tongue. I just wasn't very comfortable with who or what I was. It was like my personality was a sweater that was just slightly too tight, not completely irritating to myself, but awkward and uncomfortable none the less. I went through a period in college where I probably tried to overcompensate for this and became too loud, too attention seeking, and that experience was more like wearing cutoff t-shirts, or when girls wore body glitter--a complete mistake.

I was always sort of envious of those people who were always comfortable with themselves from a young age, those people who had that ease about them of confidence, of acceptance, who thought they belonged in any situation, any group of friends, who always knew what to say, what not to say, how loud to laugh, and when to walk away. Learning these things, learning how to be comfortable with myself was not easy for me. Learning to realize that we all urinate, and that no one cares that I urinate, took me about 24 years. Most guys probably take about 2 days to get this.

So, standing there urinating and thinking and not worrying if anyone was listening, or thinking about me urinating was a minor big deal for me. It is sort of a milestone moment. There are other little markers of this growth, my ability to confront kids on their crap, singing at church, "wobbling"* in class for my kids to see if they are paying attention. These are all little signs that maybe my almost 32 year old self is closer to being a more perfected, manageable, more relaxed version than jeffcrady version .18 or .21. That was my bathroom epiphany, and yes I did put the seat down and wash my hands.

*For all you white people who don't know what "wobbling" is, here is a link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=siqrFpXBvBU

Blessed be "no homo"

A few blogs ago, I wrote about how we were raising a generation of "bruhs," a generation of young men incapable of saying real things to each other, incapable of being vulnerable in front of each other, incapable of fighting the pack mentality. And for the most part, I still see this to be true. I think some "bruhs" will break free from the hair gel and v-neck t-shirts by tweny-five (or the stigma of those at least), but many men go through this "bruh" phase their entire adult lives, where they hide their insecurity with comments on random girls tits because they don't want to talk about their marriage or kids.

However, there is a crack in this theory, a small thread unraveling the seam as such. "No homo" is a term that has made it possible for guys to express genuine emotion and appreciation without anyone thinking them gay or weak or human. Of course, "no homo" is always used to make light of the comment, to make something awkwardly honest seem like a joke, but often it is just a smoke screen, for guys (even high school guys) deep down want to share those things. They do care about each other, they are thankful they have friends, and a fist bump or head nod with their flat bill cap, just doesn't cut it. Granted some guys will say things like, "Man you gotta big wang, no homo" and that, honestly, can be a funny quip that would make me laugh. But, I catch them using it at school in a real manor too. Stealthly, adeptly they will say something genuine like, "You're my boy, I love you" in a totally sincere, heterosexual manner, and quickly, like a rifle on a clay pigeon, they shoot the "no homo" out of their mouth before anything or anyone has time to get awkward. It's funny to watch guys (and some girls) struggle with expressing true feelings. Their eyes widen, they blink randomly, they sometimes chortle stiffly, but thankfully the "no homo" brings them back to their normal senses. Their shoulders relax, their mouth unclinches, they breathe.

"No homo" is the get out of jail free card for this generation of young guys. It is the punch in the shoulder, the slap on the butt, the "WHADDDDUPPP" of today. Elbert Hubbard (a fairly well known American Philosopher) said that his father told him that if when you die you have five close friends, then you have lived a blessed life. Strangely, this tiny two word phrase, rooted in insecurity and bigotry has become a hammer and chisel to the "bruh" soul, cracking it open and making meaningful friendships and expressions possible. Which is good, cause it's important for guys to share their worries and feelings with other guys, to be close and share closeness with other men, to not feel alone in the dinghy of life. So if "no homo" is what it takes to start the process, then blessed be "no homo" and the work it is doing.

Up in the Air and Thrashing About

I have thought a lot recently about worry, trying to decide if I am a worrier, or just someone who has legitimate concerns, or what. I don't really worry about lots of things all the time, but I do seem to worry about certain things quite often. I worry over finding ways to pay for things, about my kids in school and what they are doing to themselves, about having to work hard, etc. Today, when faced with something that caused a rising anxiety inside of me, a realization sort of struck me out of know where. While drying my hands on the overused hand towel, it flashed there in my mind. I had been seeing my feelings all wrong, or at least sometimes wrong. Instead of worrying about how something would turn out, I think I just mourn not getting my way. Today while drying my hands, I asked myself, "Why do you worry about that, you know everything is going to work out?" And that is true. I know that me and my family isn't going to go hungry, and isn't going to be evicted from our home. I do know that my basic life situation will always be decent and very good compared to a majority of the world. So why do I worry? And, that is when I realized that maybe sometimes, I am not worrying about our future, or about how we will make it through the ever increasing inflation, etc., but maybe more so I am saddened that things will not turn out exactly the way I want them. It seems as if sometimes I may be mourning over the deaths of my own wants. Those wants usually being things that would make my life "easier" if not any more meaningful.

I consider myself a pretty aware person, and don't really have these sorts of realizations or breakthroughs about myself. I frustrate my wife, because I have often said that I always know how I feel about any situation, even if that feeling is ambiguity, I can express why exactly I feel that. So today, when I saw through my own little parlor trick, it sort of startled me, caused me to blink awkwardly for a minute, shake my head gently, how one might do when seeing something strange in the sky. This was my own selfish UFO sighting within my heart. So if life wasn't complicated enough, I now have to examine my worry, and if its something I am genuinely concerned about or if it is just mopiness over not getting my way. It's funny how as an adult we aren't suppose to have the reactions we really want to have. Sometimes when I hear news I don't like, or if I am not awarded my way or path that I want for myself, it's almost if I can see myself up in the air on my back throwing a tantrum, with my arms and legs flailing about. On the outside I simply say "nothing is wrong" or " it's fine" in an annoyed voice if my wife asks me what is wrong. That is the adult way. I suppose that is maturing. Anyways, I raise the proverbial glass hoping that the inner tantrums are over, and that through discernment, I will not lie to myself and "worry" when I am really just "moping" about the wonderful life I have been given to proceed through.

Random moments of joy

I love making lists. I do it all the time. Not lists of things to do, but lists of subjects, like my life is one big game of Scategories. My wife talks about how my eyes widen and glimmer when I decide to make a list of (for instance) friends and words that only they use, etc.

I was thinking about my wife tonight, and how sometimes she will sing (if ever too lightly) a little harmony to whatever is playing on the radio, and about how that makes me smile, and about how that sounds quite beautiful to my heart, and about how I hope our daughter has the precious quality in her voice that my wife has when she hums, sings, the little harmony lines.

That little realization got me to thinking about other things that make me feel quite happy, that give me random moments of joy.

2. Group reactions to spectacular events at ball games. I love it when people who don't even know each other rejoice over a touchdown, a home run. How in that moment, we can make eye contact with total strangers, give them five, hug them, jump up and down with them. I love how that would never happen in real life, but how sports makes it acceptable. I wish we were the type of society where randomly while passing someone I could just hug them around their shoulders and jump up and down with them in celebration of a beautiful sky or a great song, but we don't. So I am thankful for the Packer touchdown, or the Matt Nickels grand slam which makes that moment of joy possible.

3. An unknown person doing a really good cover of a not so good song on YouTube and turning into something completely fascinating and entertaining. I love when trash can be recycled and if someone can turn Mike Posener's "bro"ish, false frat boy, over stylized sunglasses tunes into something interesting and jazzy (Look up Jayme Dee on YouTube) then that makes me happy. I imagine it is how Christ works in us, how the Lord will fix the world. Same sort of joy, just on a lesser level.

4. TV series on DVD. I know I should just Netflix them to my comp, but there is something sort of vacational, beach house summer, to watching a show from episode 1-34 in order. There is a satisfaction in sitting in your favorite chair, in the sliding in the round disc, in the saying the lines before character's say the line. I mean if not for Friends, I would have never had said "it was a moo point" and my wife wouldn't know what I was meaning when I do use it.

5. Drunken Celebrity Rants or even sober celebrity rants. I loved when Tom Cruise called Matt Lauer "glib". I used "glib" like forty times that following week, and it still makes me laughing thinking about Tommy's smug little face. Or Mel Gibson ranting about Jews, or Alec Baldwin calling his daughter ungrateful. I am sure lots of parents have wanted to do that, and were secretly encouraged by his drunken voice mail. It's nice every now and then that the world evens out the fairness by not letting celebrities be beautiful, rich, and talented, without having some consequences for such misfortune.

There are more things, some more sentimental than others, but here were the first group. I hope to add to the list throughout the summer. Feel free to share the randomness that makes you joyful.

Last minute addition. My wife has a good friend that works at a certain adult lingerie store in town, and she got a text that they received a three foot midget blow up doll today for purchase. This made me laugh out loud. How ridiculous. I hope one of you gets that for Christmas haha. Add that to my RMOJ list.

A Generation of Jersey Shore

In this my seventh year of teaching, it seems as if to me that The Jersey Shore has become a paradigm by which many young men want to judge and construct their lives. It is not just Jersey Shore, it probably started with Cribs, took a wandering through "My Life is Bro" and has progressed to the Jersey Shore. I am sure some new show will pop up that every teenage guy will want to emulate.

I understand the entertainment factor in "The Situation". I get it. "GTL" and the such are fun things to say and laugh about; however, many guys can't make that distinction that the show is entertainment, or that any show like that is entertainment. They don't understand how it is manipulated and produced to garner a certain reaction and rating. To lots of young men, who lack much example of adult men, they see those guys as the epitome of "man." Ronnie is their John Wayne, their Michael Jordan.

And, so what, right? Who cares if "My Life is Bro" or "Jersey Shore" or any of those shows or websites effect young men correct? But it does bother me. We are raising a generation of "bruhs". A generation of men who talk, but don't say anything. They speak in a language of brand names over the aroma of axe body spray. A generation that gleams orange like a jumpsuit worn my convicts picking up trash. It is as if they think think talking like a "bruh", using terms like "run this place" and "grenade" will make people think they are cool and have large members.

I find it sad. I find it irritating. I worry about how they will communicate and lead families and businesses.

We have guys growing up with huge friend groups that talk about nothing but noise. They speak cars, they speak who has the biggest boobs, but they can't simply express worry. They can't say, "Hey, I wish my parents wouldn't fight." They can't tell a girl, "I like you." They can make click noises, point at her ass to their friends; they can wear sunglasses at night and rub their genitals all on them when they dance, but they can't utter a true feeling in the poor girls direction...even if they did want to.

I am not one of those types who believes sheltering kids or guys from this is really a good thing. I guess I should hope that the hidden good qualities of people on those shows and web pages will some how conquer all the inane image stuff they portray. I mean, the Jersey Shore guys really do seem to care about each other, and maybe somewhere deep under all the fake tan, the hair gel, they smush room covers, be able to have conversations that matter to each other. Maybe somehow that will get through the boob tube to people watching?

I guess this phenomena is one of the first times I have felt a generation gaps between me and my kids at school, and it bothers me. Not that there is a gap, but because the gap exists because of behaviors and beliefs that I find fairly worthless and equally dangerous. If we raise boys, raise guys who can't express anything, who only can express affection through "smushing," who truly do love their "bros" more than their "hos" we are looking at a generation of dead beat dads, of broken families, of daddy issued riddled young women, and would it all be due to Jersey Shore???? If you believe in pop culture butterfly effect, then yes I think it could be.

Lie like a rug on a floor

I have taught high school for 7 years now. Before that I worked youth camps, and with youth groups at churches, etc. I know kids lie. I know that sometimes they lie, how most adults casually tell the time, or make a brief comment on the nice weather. So, I can't say I am shocked when my kids lie to me about piddly little things. But, I can't say that it doesn't bother me. I guess I should feel good, that my opinion of them matters to them, so they lie thinking that this will keep me from thinking badly of them. It isn't only kids of mine who do this. I am sure we all have a friend, or a family member who lies to us to keep the status quo ,and we simply breath an awkward sigh, or close our eyes slowly, deliberately as we listen to it slip through their lips. I guess what bothers me about it, is that when we lie to those we are close to, it drives a wedge between us. Without us knowing it we are placing barriers that keep us from relating to one another, keep us from helping one another. The conversations become more stuttered, less frequent. We find excuses to ignore and walk away.

I know my kids lie to me about drinking, doing drugs, slutting around because they know I won't approve. They probably worry I would tell their parents, and I maybe would. But it is such an empty feeling that lingers when someone we care about lies to us. That emptiness shovels out a hole inside us and wallows in it. It makes us question the motives, the moments prior we have spent with these people. It makes the relationship (no matter platonic, romantic, etc) seem cheap and false.

It is also so disheartening because I think we want so much for those we care about. I know that I want so much for my kids. I see them and think that they are so much more talented and capable than I was at their age, but they often seem so content to settle for mediocrity, rather than push for something meaningful and inspired. They would rather get drunk, than feel or deal with the emptiness inside them. They would rather be with the hateful girl or guy instead of learning how to be alone. It's as if they can't see the forest for the trees. If they could only see farther, out past the mire and muck of their now, past the thickets, the trash heaps, the burnt edges of their life, to what lies out there for them. If they could see the beauty in the process, the beauty in the possible and unknown, then maybe they would be willing to do the work to build something more sustainable for themselves, even if it was different, uneasy at first. I guess this is a little of what God feels for us, while watching us fumble and meander our way to him...a brief wisp of the worry and disappointment we surely cause.

So I hope we all have the courage to tell the truth, and tell it straight...not slanted. That we can all own up to the things we do, the struggles we battle with, the pure hedonism we revel in. At least then it is out there on the table, with the potential to be dealt with. otherwise it is just like the empty noise of a bag rustling in the wind...meaningless and trite.

Walk The Line, Maim for those you love.

I was watching Walk the Line this week. It happens to probably be my most favorite movie in the world. I don't know how many times I have watched it. I have even shown it (parts of it) in class at times to prove a point, illustrate something, etc. It is an engrossing movie.

There are many parts of the movie I love. There are little things, like a certain look Reese Witherspoon gives when angry that reminds me of my wife, or a lull in conversation that happens after a flirtatious jokes. It has a certain balance of realness and whimsy. I always like things that have a balance between reality and whimsy.

There is one part in particular that stands out to me. In fact, I will not tell a lie, when I saw the movie in the theater (twice) this scene got me a little misty eyed. It is just after Johnny Cash has had his breakdown with the tractor. June has drug him out of the lake and he tells her that "she should have just left him there." Her parents and her get him into detox and stay there at the house with him to look after him. Johnny's drug pusher, pill delivery boy comes to make his weekly drop off. He goes onto the porch, calls for Johnny with his stash of pills, and out comes Papa Carter (June's dad) telling him to leave, pointing a shotgun right between his eyeballs. Mother Maybelle comes out with her shotgun, June runs out behind her, and they chase the pill devil off...I love that scene.

I haven't always understood friendship, or how to make good friends, or how to make the right type of close friends. I wasn't terribly close to lots of people growing up. I had friends, but I often felt awkward around them. They were good friends to me, but I had a hard time not being on guard. I didn't know how to talk to people. I worried that being myself, would equate to not being with others. So, when I would be myself, I would worry about what effect that had, and when I was censoring what I said, or being totally over the top with what I said on purpose, that ended up not being genuine either. It is hard to be really close to people and not be genuine. I don't know why I felt like that, but I did. Needless to say, closeness, close friends who share in my life with me, was something I always longed for, but took quite a bit of time to figuring out how to gain it.

I enjoy that part of the movie so much, because I think it is how friendship was intended to be. Maybe even on a bigger scale, how God intended us to care for and love each other. I know that probably seems strange to say that God wants this from us, to say that God wants us to take a shotgun and threaten to maim someone. However, if their intention was solely to help out Johnny, to make evil flee, to do whatever it took to help him get beyond his addiction, then they did it.

I think it is hard for people to find closeness, friendships, and relationships where we would maim for those we care about. It requires us to be very honest about all our insecurities, our flaws. It means Johnny had to stop hiding his pill popping from the one person he didn't want to disappoint. It means that we may say the wrong things to and in front of people we care about. We will show our childish selves, we will not hide our pettiness, our strange tics, how we clean when nervous, or interrupt others stories when feeling left out. To have true closeness with someone, you have to share experiences that are hard to handle,and be willing to open up the painful stuff to them. It is almost like we just take our suitcase of a heart and open it up and dump it out and say here is all my crap--pick through it and at it. This is obviously true for romantic relationships, but it is true of friendship too.

It is also hard because real friends will call you on your crap. They will point out you interrupted them, they will point out that you seem emotionally unbalanced, they will point out that you weren't wronged in the manner you spoke of. And that is good too. If the federal government needs checks and balances, I am sure I do as well. But it is hard to hear from people we care about that we messed up, or that we said or did something stupid. When it happens, its as if we are deer caught in headlights and we just want to bound off away from the scene. In Ecclesiastes it says, "If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!" That is a pretty depressing book in the old testament, and even the author could see the fruit of friendship, even if everything else was simple toiling in the dust.

I am lucky to have friendships like this. Sometimes I still find myself shrinking away from them, wondering if I seemed lame after a joke I made, or if I seemed needy when I texted over something trivial, but I have learned that friends don't think those things about me like I do, just like I don't think those things about them. Although having closeness with people, is like taking your suitcase of a heart and dumping everything out of it and letting them pick through it, it is also like, having someone there to help you clean up after you do that. Someone who will simply pick up the little bundles of baggage and complication you have experienced and put them all back in their place, even throw some away for you.

So hopefully we all have those people in our lives who would maim a drug dealer for us, and for whom you would risk manslaughter charges to protect, because it seems our life is so much richer for it. I hope we all have our shotguns ready.

A Rough Draft

So, I have messed around with writing a book as a hobby for a while now. I have started a book about rage, that has a couple chapters, but I don't feel rageful, so I find it hard to conjure anything more with it. I have also started a young adult book, that I work on in secret (not so secret now) by writing chapters on little index cards which I number and file. I am going to post sections on the blog in hopes of getting live editing. It will all be first or second drafts of the section. I will still blog my normal things when so moved, but I figured why not throw something else out there...the skeleton at least.

Part I
I

On the day Walker Sutton's mother died, Eaton Fork Elementary's 5th grade class had walked out to the softball field to release balloons in honor of cancer awareness. The mass ambled and giggled their way up the small hill to the field. Their fingers reddened as they clutched their ribbonned balloons tightly, desperate to no be the one kid, the one jerk who let their balloon go too early.
When the mass of eleven and twelve year olds congealed into an acceptable shape, Principal Rooney took a megaphone and spoke to the class.
" Today children we release these balloons in both hope and remembrance--the hope that cancer will one day be defeated, and in remembrance of our friends and family who have lost their battle."
Walker thought of how Principal Rooney's eyebrows reminded him of woolly caterpillars. Dark, fuzzy...the thought of the hundreds that crossed his road from cornfield to cornfield every spring. Principal Rooney began to read names off the list before him. Alice Channing, Martin Keller, Tate West. People had paid $5 to have a name read in public and a flower planted in their honor in the school garden. Walker Suttons's mother's name was not on that list, for no one yet knew that she was dead-- and even so she wasn't dead from cancer.
Just after reading the last name, a light breeze stirred the crowd. The pink and salmon balloons swayed and leaned to the east. Children in red and blue ball caps, pink polka dotted sunglasses, looked up at the vast blue sky in anticipation. Principal Rooney gave the command to release the balloons, and the reddened little fingers released their grips. The balloons jolted upward in a bright cloud of cotton candy. One child screamed out in joy over the vision. Another child said it looked like a spilled bottle of Pepto Bismol Walker strained his neck upward watching the giant tangle of balloons. He thought it looked like a sort of impressionistic flamingo if he squinted real hard.

II
There were many rumors in the days and months that followed about how Walker Sutton's mother had died. Busic, the school custodian, told a kid that she had fallen in the shower and hit her head.
"That's why the cleanup didn't take long, cause the water had washed all the blood down the drain."
He said he'd seen that kind of thing before. Bea Kurtzwilde told the girls in the kickball line that Mrs. Sutton had shot herself in the head. Said she was tired of not knowing where her husband was, and of having a son that was ugly as the day was long.
"It's true," she shrieked as she ran to the plate, waiting for the round ball to bounce its way to her foot.
The fact was no one really knew how Walker's mom had died. The ambulance came, the police came, people were questioned, but not much had been said.
They had a funeral on a sunny afternoon. The casket was a simple pine box that had been varnished and shined. People had cut branches off their lilac bushes, their forsythias that lined long, paved driveways. They had pitched the floral tokens into the clay red pit. The purple and pink globes of lilac reminded Walker of fireworks. He stared down at the casket. The flower heads arched and burst under the stretching comet tails of the yellow withes. He through his withe into the stream that gurgled next tot he cemetery after the service was over. He watched it float, amble and swirl down the stream. His aunt waved him over to the long, dark car, where he climbed in on hands and knees carefully next to his cousins. Walker cried the entire way home.

III

Walker Sutton Sat in the last row, 2nd seat from the left in Mrs. Maggie Landing's 5th grade class. Mrs. Landing was know for order and precision. Every diagram of the water cycle hung perfectly straight, perfectly level in sync and in row with its cousin and brother. The lines and angles of Maggie Landing's room were sleek and sharp. Walker drew all the time. He drew many pictures while sitting in that last row in Mrs. Landing's class. She new that the pictures help calm Walker, and taht there wasn't much sense in worrying about Walker mastering one-step equations or not.
"One, Most likely he would anyways at some point, and two, his mama was dead and no algebra was gonna heal that wound, " she said to Prinicpal Rooney when he asked why Walker wasn't working on his math like the other student in her room. Principal Rooney held a metal clipboard in his hand with yellow carbon sheets of paper attached to the top.
"He has to learn Mrs. Landing. Ignorance isn't going to heal that wound either."
Walker could tell they were talking about him. He could see their heads jabbing in his direction as he peered up away from his sketch of a rabbit running through a briar thicket. He stopped shading in the shadows of the brambles, and began to work on solving for X. He didn't want Mrs. Landing to get in trouble, and he certainly didn't want she or Principal Rooney to walk over to him and start asking him questions, or poking around in his desk. He had the list taped to the right inside corner. He knew it would make them nervous, and he wasn't ready for that right now--not just yet.

IV

Truman Copely...Mrs. Blackburn...Reggie Stivers were just three of the names on the list. Walker had just finished scribbling the "y" on Lena Charlsey when Mrs. Landing had called his name from the front of the room.
"Walker, time for your meeting."
Every Tuesday Walker met with the district's school psychologist. Sophie Chapman was a large woman with a round face and tall brown hair. Most sessions she would catch Walker glancing at it after he had mumbled some answer to something she had asked. Walker traced his finger along the grooves of the cool bricks, dragging his finger behind him as he walked down the hall to meet with Mrs. Chapman in the cafeteria. He moped down the ramp, found her at the usual round table and sat down across from her. On Tuesdays it was just him and her. Sometimes on Thursdays he met with her and four other children whom had lost someone too. "Lost" was a word that Sophie Chapman used often when talking to Walker. She would ask what it felt like having lost his mom? What was his aunt doing to help him deal with his loss? Today she started the session with making him point to a picture that described the level of sadness he felt because of his loss.
Walker didn't like the term loss.
"Please stop saying the word loss...and lose to me."
He fidgeted with a penny he had found in his pocket.
"Why don't you like those words?" she had asked him.
Walker didn't answer. He just kept flipping the penny over and over in his hand while he looked at her blankly. He didn't tell her that he didn't like the word(s) because it didn't feel accurate, didn't feel the same way as he viewed what had happened to him. Taken...stole...broke, these were all better words he thought.

A Story of a Lazy Little Seed

I am lazy. Always have been. I used to just say that I was a procrastinator, but I don't think that is accurate. I don't procrastinate on things that I enjoy, or things that interest me, or things that are easy, and offer the instant gratification. I am selective about what I delay and put off--that is what is the kicker. That selection, that cost of pain analysis is what makes it laziness and not procrastination.

It isn't that big of a deal from most angles and perspectives. It means I work feverishly on grading things, typing in scores that barely make the gradebook before progress reports are ran. It's a picture of me on my couch, legs propped up on the chocolate cushion, a still life of full can of garbage. They are petty little things that don't really effect my life other than they annoy my wife, whom gets over things quickly.

But it is more than that. If somebody were to investigate, dig through the evidence and details of what my laziness has done to my life, there would be some substantial finds. They would find opportunities to make money thrown out with the trash. They would find tiny cracker cookie fortunes of white lies told so not to become involved in the lives, problems of others. They would see stacks of worksheets thrown in the trash--right now they would see a half mowed backyard.

And, I guess in some ways there really isn't any harm in it. It mainly effects me. It makes my life busy in waves of short durations of time. It makes me crazed for an hour as I do work in a fervor trying to make up for all the other days when I lallygagged through, but I have become an expert at the fervor, an expert at the perfection of rushing through a job. That would be fine if I were only lazy with tasks, but it is sort of like a little dandelion seed that finds life in a sidewalk. It is nothing, an oblivious speck unknown to anyone, but it grows quickly, upright and tall, and before you know it, the roots have made a crack that widens and splits the whole thing in two.

And that is how it is with me. Laziness was just a dandelion seed, a mere scratch on the car hood of my life, but it is what has continually caused the major cracks and breaks--the things that have taken months to get over. It urges me to not work on my selfishness, or my weight. It tells me thirty minutess is enough on the elliptical when I know I need more. It spreads into my relationships, how I know my friends and family will still love me even if I invest very little in them. It lets me hold on to things I should have given over years ago, because its easier to not do the work it would take to actually let go.

I talked about that today in my class. This poor girl has a guy who dumped her so he could have sex with girls on Spring Break, and she still wants to be with him. It's easier to go back to what we know, than to do the work to become something better and unknown. It is easier to not read my Bible everyday, than to do so and think about my mess ups. It is easier to get out the book of worksheets and copy one, than make a meaningful lesson with manipulatives and more impactful learning.

One time, several years ago now, I did a lot of work on myself. I wasn't lazy about who I was. I was told to become something different, something more complete than I was. I was given the strength to do it, to not be sad...it was awful. It took months to grow and change, to let go of people who were bad for me, to place my faith and worth in a loving God and not in what a girl or friend or a girlfriend thought of me. It felt like someone was pulling a ghost out of me, a clutching, raging ghost, when I would give over control of the things that hurt me. I hurt almost every day for over a year.

Looking back on it now, it was probably one of the greatest times of my life. I was pushed through to the other side, and when I got there I was stable. I had meaningful friendships. I met my wife. I was firm in the idea of who God had made me to be. But that lazy little dandelion seed was still somewhere in there telling me I had done enough--my life was good enough now, and over time it grew, it sowed its own seeds, etc. So, I have some cracks now that I need to work on. I only can hope that this work will be as rewarding as the last.

A Blog for my friend Jarboe

This afternoon we were got a nice visit from our friend Jamie Jarboe, who moved last summer to Boston for a fellowship at the oncology unit at Tufts University. She brought her terribly adorable daughter Kimber, and her mother, who was always taking care of all of our friend group when we were in college at Western. It was nice to be around them, since they have known me for a long time. When you share longevity and time with people, there is a richness to even the most mundane conversations that is hard to duplicate...a satisfaction that settles nicely in the conversation.

We were talking about her husband (Christopher) who was my roommate in college and also a good friend of mine, and how he made fun of her for reading people's blogs. He is a manly sort with a tender heart, but you know the type. He isn't much for sharing the underlying with people he may or may not be close to. We laughed when Jamie spoke about how she will try and tell him something, and he will reply, "If you read it in a blog, don't even bother."

And I get that opinion. A lot of people have that. They see blogs as a way for people to whine about things, to rant about things they hate, or to post the most trivial details of their days. I guess there is a point in not liking those things too. I mean most of us experience enough of that at work or school from our friends , so why subject yourself to it when you go home? I mean why would I want to write about the girl who puked in the hall, when I got to experience it in person too? Yes, I see why some people don't get it.

But, for me there is something about writing these things down that helps pacify me. I don't really know how many people, or who (if anyone) really reads these. I don't really publicize my blog, or even mention it directly to my friends. If someone does mention to me that they like what I said, it sort of embarrasses me for some reason, and I awkwardly say thanks. I don't know why I get awkward about it. I get awkward about lots of things I do publicly for some reason. I called a drill sergeant "mam" on the phone today by mistake, but I digress.

When I write about my inability to understand the happenings around me, or my desire to connect to people deeply, or about my faith --- how figuring out my relationship with God often seems like me digging holes to simply fill them back up again, this lightens the load I carry. I don't know if anyone reads it, but I like to think, that maybe someone out there reads it and gets it, and for that moment, we are not alone in the struggles of these things. That for that instant, we have a connection, a strengthening of will, as if our similarities weave the cane together that makes the basket for us to carry the things that bother us in.

And, I see why that isn't for all people. Some people can carry a lot on their own, can carry a lot with them and God, or them and whatever. I find myself needing more than that. So even if no one reads this, even if some do read this and just think "well, what was that all about", even if this were to be read and discarded quickly, like a cigarette flicked out a car window, for me it gives order to the chaos in my mind. It catches the thoughts that bounce and zig off every nook and cranny. It makes me pause and think about God and who I am in him, and I certainly need help with all those things.

Warning, my first PG-13 Blog

For some reason while shaving yesterday, I started thinking about something I had heard in the hallway the other day. Some girl was singing some line of Born this Way by Lady Gaga and she looked at her friend and said something to the effect that "She is so right, I am going to screw being nice and just be what I am." Now Born this Way is a catchy song, and one could argue a lot about the sort of moral paradox it could rationalize if one wanted to, but I doubt Lady Gaga really wanted kids to use this song as an excuse to be arses to one another. I watched her interview on 60 Minutes and she was surprisingly (or maybe more so refreshingly) calculated, crafted, and together.

But none of that is really my point. I think in America we love to celebrate the "bad ass". We love to romanticize the idea of raging into town, kicking butts, and taking names and not caring what people think about us. We see it in the movies, tv, the radio. A worker walks out of their job because of their awful boss, a girl dumps her boyfriend for a hotter model, etc. And honestly, the "B.A." appeals to all of us. I am sure most of us have probably embellished a story or anecdote to make ourselves seem more frightening and hardcore than what our real, less secure self will allow us to be. We hike up our pants, place our booted foot on a chair, snort and spit. But is the "B.A" persona really an idea that we want to strive for?

There are some good qualities to that way of life. I mean every coin has a flip side. It is good to not care what people think about you IF you are doing positive things. If you are being nice to a person whom no one else is, then yeah that is good. If you aren't talking about how ugly some woman is while all your friends do and judge you for not, then once again, kudos to you, because that takes some guts. However, we don't count that as being "B.A." The little judges with their comments would probably tell you that it lacked personality, lacked that "it"factor, if you were on B.A. Idol. They would be looking for you ramming the car of the person who cut you off, or for you to poor coffee on the rude McDonald's worker before going to work. I think our definition of B.A. has been misconstrued. Counterculture, raging against the machine, used to be the way of the B.A., but now more so it seems to be about self-promotion, self-glorification, about gaining stories where we lie and make other people seem small in order for our own tall tale to push onward into eternity.

If I apply this litmus test to myself then yes my Mohawk was "bad ass," but being overly mean or harsh to a kid so the rest of my kids laugh at him or her or so my coworkers don't view me as a pushover, is just being an arse. And just being an arse really doesn't prove anything other than that I am shallow and worried too much about an image that no one really cares about. So I would hope that none of us fall victim to the pressure of being a false "B.A." I know I need to check my own motivations, and to be ok with being the more mild mannered Crady Bear that I am.

It's easy being Crady, but hard being Jeff...a weaving of lyrics and reflection.

I love "Coming Home" by Shawn P.Diddy Combs. I must admit it. I am not a big P.Diddy fan. Whenever I watched his Making the Band show, or watched that other show where people competed to be his secretary, he did not impress me. However, I love "Coming Home". I love the lyric "It's easy being Diddy, but it's hard being Shawn," because I think we can all identify with that on some level.

When you first start teaching (even more so in a small community like E'town) it is almost as if you become a minor celebrity. Not in that you really do anything worthy of fame, or that you reach millions of people with your acting skills, but people do pay attention to you. You go to the supermarket and kids say things like, "what are you doing here?" I guess they assume that we don't eat, that we somehow sustain ourselves on testing materials and white board markers. The kids, even their parents, pay attention to you. They notice when you get your hair cut, when you wear new shirts and shoes. They want to know strange details of your personal lives, and if they find one out they want to share it with everyone, and get the credit for knowing first. Granted, I have a mohawk, wear bowling shoes to school occasionally, and have a tattoo of my wife's name on my wrist, so I know I give them lots of things to pay attention to, but still it is strange to me, that they would care about any of those things, or that they would be weirded out to see me at the Mexican restaurant with other teachers, my wife, or friends. That aspect reminds me more so of Miranda Lambert's Famous in a Smalltown.

Over the course of seven years of teaching, I have sort of developed this persona accidentally. Kids, fellow teachers, parents, almost always call me "Crady." It is not unusual to walk down the hall and hear "Crady" boomed from some random direction, sometimes even from kids I don't know, and I think, why would that kid want me to acknowledge him? It is as if this "Crady" persona is a separate and distinct entity from me (Jeff). I don't really know what kids think of "Crady" or what their parents must think of "Crady." I have a feeling that it is generally good things. I think kids expect "Crady" to laugh loudly, say sometimes inappropriate things, to sing in class, maybe yell some. I don't know for sure, but I think that even though I don't know exactly who "Crady" is that I still definitely play into the role of it or him. One probably because it helps me in the classroom to get them to cooperate and learn, another because honestly I probably like the attention it brings.

However, I am probably more "Jeff" than "Crady'. My wife (who lives with Jeff) could tell a lot about how uncool "Jeff" really is. My close friends could share a lot on how hateful and uninteresting I can be as well. That aspect of the "Crady" vs "Jeff" debate reminds me of some lyrics from a couple of other songs. I sang a song Sunday at church whose first line is "No one would love me if they knew, all the things I hide." That is sort of true for life isn't it. We (as a species) have a tendency to put people on pedestals, to revere them, and then as we get to know them better, or see more of them revealed on tv, to sort of become disheartened by their real selves, which really isn't fair. And we don't just do that with celebrities, we do it with our friends and spouses and family too. We have a hard time accepting the things we hate about ourselves in others.

That aspect too, reminds me of another song that I like a lot called "Crooked Deep Down". In that song there is a lyric that says, “just don't ask my real good friends, cause they might tell the truth, but it's nothing they could prove”. I would probably be embarrassed by the things my friends think of me at times. Maybe ashamed is a better word. I am sure I can come across needy and petty at times, among other negative things.

So that is why it is sometimes so easy to be “Crady”. Because that is a persona. I won't say it is an act, because I am being myself when I am being goofy, loud, and brash, but it is not a complete picture. It is harder to be “Jeff” because he can be insecure, selfish, awkward with people and emotions. Jeff worries about what people think of him, he worries about if people would still like him when he is “Jeff” as Crady doesn't really worry about any of those things. They both have their good points and both are necessary for my survival in my life. One helps me to find the joy and excitement and confidence to get things done; the other reminds me to not be an arse , to think about Christ, to put other's wants in front of my own.

It's easy to be Crady, but hard to be Jeff

I love "Coming Home" by Shawn P.Diddy Combs. I must admit it. I am not a big P.Diddy fan. Whenever I watched his Making the Band show, or watched that other show where people competed to be his secretary, he did not impress me. However, I love "Coming Home". I love the lyric "It's easy being Diddy, but it's hard being Shawn," because I think we can all identify with that on some level.

When you first start teaching (even more so in a small community like E'town) it is almost as if you become a minor celebrity. Not in that you really do anything worthy of fame, or that you reach millions of people with your acting skills, but people do pay attention to you. You go to the supermarket and kids say things like, "what are you doing here?" I guess they assume that we don't eat, that we somehow sustain ourselves on testing materials and white board markers. The kids, even their parents, pay attention to you. They notice when you get your hair cut, when you wear new shirts and shoes. They want to know strange details of your personal lives, and if they find one out they want to share it with everyone, and get the credit for knowing first. Granted, I have a mohawk, wear bowling shoes to school occasionally, and have a tattoo of my wife's name on my wrist, so I know I give them lots of things to pay attention to, but still it is strange to me, that they would care about any of those things, or that they would be weirded out to see me at the Mexican restaurant with other teachers, my wife, or friends. That aspect reminds me more so of Miranda Lambert's Famous in a Smalltown.

Over the course of seven years of teaching, I have sort of developed this persona accidentally. Kids, fellow teachers, parents, almost always call me "Crady." It is not unusual to walk down the hall and hear "Crady" boomed from some random direction, sometimes even from kids I don't know, and I think, why would that kid want me to acknowledge him? It is as if this "Crady" persona is a separate and distinct entity from me (Jeff). I don't really know what kids think of "Crady" or what their parents must think of "Crady." I have a feeling that it is generally good things. I think kids expect "Crady" to laugh loudly, say sometimes inappropriate things, to sing in class, maybe yell some. I don't know for sure, but I think that even though I don't know exactly who "Crady" is that I still definitely play into the role of it or him. One probably because it helps me in the classroom to get them to cooperate and learn, another because honestly I probably like the attention it brings.

However, I am probably more "Jeff" than "Crady'. My wife (who lives with Jeff) could tell a lot about how uncool "Jeff" really is. My close friends could share a lot on how hateful and uninteresting I can be as well. That aspect of the "Crady" vs "Jeff" debate reminds me of some lyrics from a couple of other songs. I sang a song Sunday at church whose first line is "No one would love me if they knew, all the things I hide." That is sort of true for life isn't it. We (as a species) have a tendency to put people on pedestals, to revere them, and then as we get to know them better, or see more of them revealed on tv, to sort of become disheartened by their real selves, which really isn't fair.

To you lil Wayne

An open letter to lil Wayne in response to this quote from Rolling Stone:

"I also read the Bible for the first time. It was deep! I liked the parts where some character was once this, but he ended up being that. Like he'd be dissing Jesus, and then he ends up being a saint. That was cool."
Hip-hop artist Lil Wayne, on what he did during his prison sentence on a weapons charge.

To you lil Wayne I would say. Yes, you are right. It is cool how Jesus forgave and changed those who scoffed at him and his loving Father. I am glad you spent some time reading The Bible while you were in the pin. I don't know what sort of prison you were in, but I am sure you had lots of options for what to do with your free time, and the fact that you chose to read from The Word is great, terrific--and the Jesus of that day, who changed those who "dissed" him, still can do that today. He is still capable of reaching his tender hand into our hearts to stir the stagnant pools, refresh and reset the waters of our lives.

Is that something you want Lil Wayne? Do you feel a need for change in your life? Or, was that quote a cool soundbite that you knew the editors at Rolling Stone would eat up? There must have been a reason for you to wonder about the man and story of Jesus. There must be a reason, that with all your success, all your money, all your straight pimpin' rides and whips, that you wondered about Jesus? Do you feel loneliness? Does the weed really help you create, or does it more so help you chill the pain? Does it help you pull the black shades over the things that bother you the most? We all do that. I use food, media, the urge to be funny to distract myself. My kids use crazed relationships, sex, weed like you. But thankfully there is hope for all of us, because I know it gets tiring. I know how it is to stand there before the dam, arms and legs outstretched every toe and finger plugging a hole, pushing with all your might, trying to hold back that flood, that river, that trembling, quaking ocean waiting to overwhelm you. I get it man. I really do.

If that is you--if that is you plugging the holes in the dam, with your money, and your big booty broads, your weed, and your fame, take hope. The God of that Bible, the Jesus with those kind words and that power, still has it today. Don't get me wrong. He will let the dam collapse. In fact he will breathe it down, on top of you. It will be violent, and it will be difficult, and you will ask yourself "what the hell did I just do?" But, he will be there to help you up, dry you off, hug you..change you, give you the courage to change, relax--the courage to just be.

So, if you find yourself staring in the mirror after some concert, or if you find yourself at some after-party with some woman grinding on you, while you sit there with your purple drink and blunt watching all the people dance, and kiss, drunken and crazed, and amongst all this, in a brief moment of clarity you realize, if only for a moment, that this doesn't feel like enough, that it somehow pales in comparison to something you don't even know yet--just ask him--ask Jesus, and he will relieve you from all that you suffer.

With encouragement,

Jeff Crady

Syzygy

I have been thinking about family a lot lately--about what makes a family, what is family suppose to be and support. I myself don't have a large family.I have my wife, my mom and dad, a dear couple of aunts, but we are not that sprawling sort of family that gets together a lot, or keeps track of each other well. When we have Thanksgiving, we have both sides of the family together, and we have seven people present. I know that seems strange, and maybe even sad to some people, but we are a good group. We are jovial and warm.

I grew up always wanting a brother or a sister. I would daydream about having an older sister and a younger brother. They were always a combination of the best parts of my friends brothers and sisters. I would want to go to a friend's house and hang out with them mainly because I wanted to know what their family is like. I liked seeing how they interacted with their brothers and sisters; I wanted to see what it was like to have that support network, that bond of sharing memories and experiences.

I am an only child. Sometimes I worry that I won't remember things from my growing up, and that I won't ever get those memories back, because I don't have anyone who shared them with me. Who will help me remember my mother riding my dad's motorcycle into the fence, or going to cut down a Christmas tree across the street with my dad? I find myself sitting sometimes and just remembering things that happened so they stay fresh in my mind, since I have no one really to share them with.

My parents and I sort of lived detached from the area we lived. My wife has friends she has had her entire life. When I married, not one person from my high school or growing up was there--hardly any were invited. I prayed for a life where I would be connected to the community, my coworkers, and the syzygy of the place I lived. And here in the last year I realized that prayer had been answered. It was as if my small, self contained life had bloomed like some kaleidoscope image. His hand having slowing turned the cylinder until something complicated and wonderful had been formed.

I am blessed in that I love the people I work with. I have friends of many different levels who have become my support group, my family as such. I have memories now that I can share with others--can recall and laugh about with my favorite people. I laugh heartily everyday with people who make my life so much richer and more intertwined than I could have thought. Although it was always what I wanted, and even what I prayed for, I never could have connected the dots and foreseen how mingled and warm my life would be, and I am so thankful that it is.

I know this would seem weird to most people, to be so excited about something simple as friendship and family, but to me, it was always what I wanted. I coveted a big family growing up, and it feels as if I have that now. Knowing that, helps my worry ease, my breathing more meaningful, my coping and living so much easier.

Protean Heart

We have been reading the book The Secret of Lying in my reading class for the past few weeks. In the book, a character talks about how she misses writing letters, and she mulls over how people used words like "protean" in the hey day of letter writing. Protean is an interesting word. It means to be "versatile" or "malleable", "changeable in shape or form."

I like that word. I like the meaning behind it. I like the idea of being "changeable in shape or form." I think a lot about how I act and how I am perceived. (Unfortunately, after the fact most of the time.) I think about whether the things that are important to me, are perceived as what is important to me by others, or if the "me" that I project onto the screen of my life is something different and dingy.

I have a trouble coming to a conclusion about that. I am sure it changes day to day. I would like to think that I am becoming a better version of myself everyday; that as I walk through my marriage, my job, my decreasing days, that my eyes become more reflective of my heavenly father's. But, I also know that I have a desperate and needy heart. It has been tamed, corralled as such, and I certainly don't let it lead me into as many poor relationships and poor decisions as I did while doing the growing up. However, there are still shadows of that heart, in my attempts to be funny, my exaggerations, my complainings and annoyances directed towards the people I care most about. I deny myself a thousand crazy thoughts and actions every day. I just wish I didn't have to deny myself those things in the first place. I wish my "protean heart" had been formed into something that was not so prone to wander, prone to reform back into what it was.

So, I like the idea of a "protean heart". Not in the romance novel sort of way, but in the way of my loving father's spirit wrapping itself around it, and changing it into the best version possible--a version that's need TO love and TO reach out, is more dominant that its need to BE loved and its need to have people reaching in to my life. Because those are two very different motivations.

Drama, Mumford and Sons, and Love

I teach high school. We know this. So, to say that I an not use to a certain level of teenage drama and angst would be a false statement. Most days, I can laugh off the created, theatrical nature of drama as funny, typical teen behavior. I mean there is the Jersey Shore Effect, and every school now has their little over-baked, toasted versions of Snookie roaming the hallways. It is funny to laugh at the absurdity of the boys and girls who get into these sorts of things. I laugh at the fingers being waved, the heads being bobbed, the "thckkkk" sound being made with the teeth, as they tell their stories of insult to one another. It makes stories for me to tell my wife and friends and proves that my job is anything but boring.

But, like everything, I start wondering about the nature of what is really going on? Complications and drama in teen life have been around for a long time. I joked when I called it The Laguna Beach Effect, then The Hills Effect, then Lindsey Syndrome, and now the Snookie Effect, but it just goes to show, that we really can't blame it on these shows or people. I can blame the too tight torn t-shirts on Snookie, and I can blame the skirts that are too short for fatty thighs roaming our hallways on her, but the drama creation I can't. Shows like Jersey Shore don't create a wave of kids wanting to have drama in their life. It simply is a mirror held up to our society, showing the ravaging disease of desperation as people ceaselessly have a need to create drama in their lives. There is a need within our society to make your problems seem bigger, more important. We make words harsher in the stories we tell our friends. We fidget with dialogue to goad people into arguments. Every day I witness numerous kids explaining how they have been wronged as if they were the first child to ever have a friend talk about them. I watch them hurt their boyfriends by dumping them simply because they wanted to have a story to tell.

Why????

To me it seems that kids who do this sort of thing (and adults) have a need to feel important, to feel as if their life matters. And to get the satisfaction of feeling this, they create scenarios which seem emotionally shocking and draining to help make their life seem bigger, their problems overwhelming...to give them a means by which to show out and seem tough, strong. Their insecurity cannot be controlled, and it escapes them in choreographed waltzes of lies and harsh words.

That I find sad. It makes me wonder why their parents haven't made them feel as if they matter? Has no one told them even that God loves them and notices them without the theatrics and the Snookie tan? We could shrug it off and say it doesn't matter, that it is typical teen behavior, but unfortunately it effects their future behavior. They don't learn how to care for one another properly, or that love is an action most days, not a feeling.

My mouse wheel of a mind has had the song "Sigh No More" by Mumford and Sons on continual loop for the past two days. It talks about a "love that will not betray, dismay or enslave you," seemingly echoing the "love chapter" of Corinthians that talks about the selfless, humble nature of love. Love in this sense being a gift given through treatment, not a gift to be taken by force. I don't think these kids, these people, who fill the void by creating problems in their life, by being needy for emotional provocation, get this definition or context of love. That bothers me. It worries me that some people will not feel the peace of knowing that they matter--knowing they matter to a friend, to a spouse, to a parent, to a god--never having that burden, need lifted from their chest and allowed to simple relax, and take in the cleansing breath of satisfaction.

Maybe a satisfied Snookie on tv would help? I don't know. I know that I only can show the love that has been given to me from a loving God the best I can, and hope that even when I fail miserably at that, somehow the watered down, broken bits of that love will break into their lives.

Snow Days

We have had 8 or 9 snow days so far this school year. Most of my teacher friends are nervous, lamenting that we will be in school all summer, making the kids restless and hard to manage. They are right; it will suck to be in school in June. But I can't lie. I love snow days. I don't care about the disruptions to my schedule, the longer, hotter school year. I still get terribly excited to think about not going to school. I can be exhausted and still want to stay up late, because I know we won't be having school the next day. I get up in the middle of the night to check closings. I look out front windows to see if the road is covered. Snow at night makes for peaceful sleeping. It blankets my normally ricochet thinking patterns.

The snow today was the prettiest of the year. The flakes were huge, silver dollar sized sails floating to the ground. They came slowly, gently, frosted feathers floating. Everyone watched it snow today at our school. It was a galvanizing event, and although it was somewhat annoying for the kids to be continually asking if we were leaving early, it was also nice to have something we were all interested in. The kids marveled at the snow today. They walked through it. They laughed about it. They went to the restroom just to stand by the doors and watch it. Which is something I myself did today too. For a few hours we all shared in the same occasion and rooted for the same team.

We talk about things to do in the schools to help promote school spirit and camaraderie--the answer is simple. Snow. It worked greater than any pep rally or guest speaker i have seen.

My dear precious one

My dear, precious wife left me a note on a book today beside my Mac instructing me to read a chapter from her Bible study. It was a nice chapter, written in large print, because she had checked the book out from the old people's section of the library. The chapter talked about how, although we will often have very explicit and amazing encounters with god, that we also have encounters with him every day in the rituals we keep, the acknowledgments we give him. The author pointed out, that God is a god of routine, bringing the sun up each morning, and the moon forth each night.

It is easy at 31 ( I just had to ask my wife if I was 31 or 32) to get caught up in the almost midlife crisis, that seems to pass through our demographic, like the flu through a kindergarten class. What am I doing with myself? Does what I do really matter? Is this how I thought my life would turn out? I am sure to many people, who were to view my life trough the lens of their little Viewmasters, clicking from slide to slide, that m y life would seem fairly ordinary and mundane. I get up. I teach school. I hang out with my wife. Work out, eat, sleep, go back to school, etc. However, I my life doesn't feel mundane. I don't rush into ER's and open up chests, and I don't buy expensive properties and sale them for twice their value. But I laugh everyday--numerous times. I work with my best friends, people whom I have invested in, and have invested in me. I know my students know that I care about them and what happens to them...even when I am grouchy and hateful. I have a wife who gets me and doesn't mind that I am the way I am.

So it is easy for me to see how I should honor God everyday in the "monotony" of my life, because he honors me greatly in my monotony everyday. If someone were to excavate me; if they were to dig way down deep, through all the carefully plotted shrubbery, soil, and rock, they would probably find a fairly crooked person, with a surprisingly selfish center. I do not deserve the things I have been given, but I am thankful I have been entrusted with them.

Parents?? Parents??

02/02/11
I find it intriguing how the government, media, and other prominent community leaders are always talking about making schools better, and making a child's education better. Obviously, I think every child deserves a great education, and I think every child should have access to that.

However, for the millions of dollars we spend on education, for the countless hours that schools and their curriculum are discussed by both the schools themselves as well as the people observing schools through the fish bowl, we rarely hear any worthwhile discussion from those government leaders, from those businessmen, from those television news hosts, about the family. Has the parents role in their child's education been forgotten? Ignored? Or has the responsibility simply been abandoned?

We can look at lots of data about what makes a student successful, well adjusted, motivated. That data will show lots of complicated, tangled, correlations between various factors. From my classroom perspective, it seems that most well adjusted, successful students come from a stable home environment. Not necessarily two, non divorced parents, who make lots of money, but more so an environment where the child knows they are loved, knows someone is keeping track of them, and knows that there will be discipline.

My teacher friends and I talk about the things parents tell us. We have had parents refuse to give up their dating life to be certain their daughter doesn't sneak out of the house. We have had parents come to meetings drunk or stoned. We have many parents who don't come to anything in the first place.

Trying to fix the education of our children at school only, is probably an empty gesture. It is a regifted bottle of wine taken to a party for someone you don't really care for. It is a courteous clap for the average singer. To really fix a problem, you have to trace it back to its root. You cannot trace a child past their home-life.

How do you fix a home through government money and programs? I don't know. I simply know that ONLY trying to fix education through the schools, through the curriculum, the type of instruction, the technology used is a losing battle. Three out of every fifty kids will overcome their uninterested parents and do a good job with their learning and life. Most will struggle, with both their learning, and their personal adjustment. They will not know how to concentrate on schematics. They will not know that their boyfriends shouldn't call them slut. They will not know that some good things in life take time.

Until someone with some sort of voice is willing to start sanctioning uninvolved and unengaged parents, as uninvolved and unengaged schools are sanctioned, I doubt we will see many great leaps and bounds as a whole. But we will continue to have great sound bites from frenzied groups calling for better schools. We will have the crowds supporting those givers of the soundbites, and we will still have parents who don't know where their kids are at night, whom they are with, or if they have a test in biology the next day.