Skywire, the walk, the conflict within me

For anyone who follows me on Twitter, it is pretty obvious that I was, have, and still am sort of consumed by the Skywire walk of Nik Wallenda. I hadn't heard about it at all until one of the kids I work on tennis stuff with asked me if I was going to watch it. I turned on the Dish Monday night not really knowing I would end up feeling so conflicted about so many things because of this daredevil ratings trick.

Like many people, I sat there in my recliner, watching and listening to Nik and his family pray with the oh so glossed Joel Olsteen. I then watched him (terrified and praying myself, while also muttering curse words at him for putting everyone through this) walk, tremble, kneel, and run across that 2 inch wire.  And there were things that bothered me about the whole production. How Joel Olsteen's tan was the exact hue of ochre that perfectly matched his eggplant shirt. Or how his kids didn't even act that surprised/relieved/ or grateful that their dad had made it across. Or how he started thanking TV stations, managers, etc towards the end, instead of thanking the God he prayed to when swaying in the middle.

But ultimately what bothered me most had nothing to do with any sort of critique of Nik Wallenda's walk of faith, it had more to do with the perspective it uncomfortably put mine in. (Now before I go on, I should say I have problems  with many things Joel Osteen and people in his theological path preach, teach, etc. I also don't feel I am being called to jump off of, cross over, walk through, or be burried beneath anything). What bothered me while watching him call on the power of "Jesus's name" was that (and I say this with a deep sigh) I don't know how to have faith like that. I don't know if I should have faith like that.

I believe God CAN calm winds. I believe that God CAN move and change the path of atoms, particles, currents, storms, and mass. I believe Jesus did ACTUALLY walk on water, and heal all those people. I even believe in the Old Testament pretty literally. I believe God and Christ CAN do all those things. But I don't think I believe that they often WILL do those things.

I pray everyday. I pray for specific things, people, events. I pray for some of my kids, my family. I pray for situations that don't have anything to do with me. I try to recount and say thanks for previous prayers being answered. But often I think I pray in a manner that implies to God, to go ahead and prepare me for him NOT to do anything I asked. I pray unexpectantly. I pray without emphatication. I pray as one plays the lottery-- hopeful, but knowing the reality of deliverance is very, very small.

And I know there is a difference in praying for selfish things--praying for wants as opposed to praying for needs, etc. But beyond all that, I simply am talking about, do I believe what I pray for will happen, or do I believe that I will be able to handle the things I pray for not happening? Can those two things exist with each other.

It is easy to rationalize away the way Nik Wallenda prayed on that tight rope. To explain his demanding and pleading with God to calm the wire, to calm him down as simply his coping mechanism, or his breathing technique. However, people pray in this manner and fervency more than when just on a wire above the Little Colorado Gorge. Missionaries return of stories of god saving whole villages from heathen marauders. People on TV are prayed over and healed. Jesus prayed in the garden and was strengthened to do his father's will.

I wonder if my lack of faith in a powerful ever present, participant in the now God, limits my experience? Is there a whole unseen world of the supernatural that I am missing daily? When I say my prayers in the morning or night, I picture myself like a child. I have crafted a small little boat out of folded paper; I am walking down to the river's edge, and there bent over and slightly unbalanced, I let the boat go. What happens to it, what becomes of it, I don't know. Maybe I need to reexamine this way of prayer. From what the Bible shows and teaches, from the words of Christ himself (faith the size of a mustard seed) it seems like God has always been a 21st century God--always connected, always wired, ready to give and help us with our needs. Will changing the image of a paper boat on a stream, to fingers sending a text on a smart phone cheapen or lessen my experience any? 

I am guessing it wont.

I have to remember that we are created in the image of God. He is not created in ours. We are a whisper of the true self. He is the fulfillment. He is the roar of what we barely can say. Even to those who don't take scriptures literally, one who believes can't deny the ever powerful presence of God in the scripture and in nature. He is more than the vastness of the ocean. He is more than the depths of the greatest gorge. He is more than the longest battle in an unending war.

When I think about who Christ is. When I think about who his father is, I don't think it is possible to see both without seeing both the comfort and the power.  So, maybe I should expect more of myself in how I pray and what I patiently expect, and expect more experience and manipulation from God in my own life as well. I probably owe Nik Wallenda a "thanks"; not a thanks for the example he set, or for the message he sent to the world (for in some ways the presentation of that message rubbed all over me) , but a "thanks" for at least living so openly, that it made me examine how and what I asked god to have power over in my own life.

My Central Times Letter to the class of 2013

This letter will be one of several written by teachers to appear in the Central Times in May. I was limited with space, please don't take anything personally if a good memory was left out, it wasn't intentional. I love your class mucho.

Class of 2013,

I have seen a lot of you. I have coached, sponsored, dined, and taught you (some of you have had me 3-4 times thanks to electives and my ever changing schedule). And through spending all this time with you, I have come to see that you are a pretty special group. I remember first thinking this your 9th grade year while coaching Tad, Hares, and Vasu in tennis in the Spring, and all the volleyball girls in the Fall. You all worked hard. You all had a fighting spirit, as well as an ability to get along even when you didn't agree. Then your 10th grade year, I was reminded of this again, when I had so many of you in English. I've never had another group like you all. We had theme days, we rewarded effort with class parties, we made inside jokes about other teachers and even kids in our own class. That was the year I started the VIP section of the room. Because of you all I added the table to my desk so more of you could sit in that section. You encouraged me to sing loudly in class, we all encouraged Boom Boom to dress more sophisticatedly, that is when we started harassing Troy about his dreaminess, and we both learned while having fun.

I am really going to miss you guys. Through tennis, volleyball, Y-club, the classroom, my lunch table... I have been surrounded by you all, and I would be lying if I didn't think that next year the halls will feel a little empty, mentor block will feel a little dull, and the wall space around my room a little barren. There are so many things I won't be able to do again... not be able to ask Jessica and Olivia if they are twins, neither will I be able to use the term "Archiballed", nor will I ever be able to right up Robbie again and see that pitiful shocked reaction of his. I won't be able to fight with Hares over tennis, I won't be able to have Vasu to my menial tasks, I won't see Troy swish another 3 in a Central uniform, eat a Gruber cupcake, see Abbey stomp to the ref stand to argue a call... Andy's,Tyler's, and TJ's "big heads" will be a moot point. Will I hear another KJ Hall speech after May? Will someone roll their eyes like Autumn?? I could go on, and on, and on. 

 I will miss you guys, but I am excited for you as well. A majority of you have always been good at cutting through the bull crap, and unfortunately, high school is full of that. Due to awkwardness, insecurity, lack of attention, or whatever, a lot of high school kids just can't help but act ridiculously, and so many of you all were so very good at identifying that behavior and ridiculing it. We all drank the same "hatorade" and I always respected you for that. ( Remember, we booed seniors who came in our room, and everyone loved that class.) Thankfully, college dilutes that behavior somewhat, flushes those kids out, exposes their lack of coping and survival skills and sends them home.  So congrats on almost being there.

I also know that many of you will do great things. Your class has always been motivated and hard working. I can only expect that attitude to carryover to your endeavors in college and work. I expect to see many of your names in the paper for sports accolades, college honor rolls, promotions, grad school announcements, etc. I don't expect to see very many of you in the grand jury indictments, or misdemeanor arrests in the Sunday paper. (If I should see any of your names in grand jury indictments for assault, I will only assume the victim had it coming and not think the less of you.)

So good luck, godspeed, and best wishes. My hopes for you all are that you will grow, but not change, because as a class I think you are pretty great.

Mr. Jeff "Craddizzle" Crady

I Believe, because I Tried so Very Hard Not to.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a friend whose wife was killed in a car accident. She was young. They had a baby boy not even a year old. We found out on a Thursday night. It was jarring, unnerving. I went to bed feeling anxious as I tried to rationalize why things like that happen. I (as usual when things like this happen) was filled with questions and doubt. Questions about why God allows these things to happen? Does he make them happen? Does he pay attention when they happen? Does he really care about us? I had asked all these questions before as well as worse ones than that.

Then these past few weeks in Sunday school, we have been discussing why we believe what we believe, and how we came to our beliefs about Christ and God? Strangely, I had been wanting to blog about my struggles in my faith for the past few weeks, but I knew it would be more than a simple sit down and write sort of thing. I was going to need to really think about how to express what I feel and see.

I guess the question of belief and why one believes is a common one? Why do you believe in God? Millions have been asked these questions, and have supplied answers about hope, encounters with death, a oneness with the people and things around them. I don't think I have ever been directly asked that question. So if someone were to say, "Jeffrey, why do you believe in God?" I would honestly have to start with this answer, "Because I have tried so very hard to not believe in him."

It is kind of a scary thing for someone like to me to admit--that I have tried to not believe in God, to lose my faith and disprove what I know about Christ in my own life, and to admit I have done this dance on more than one occasion, but it is true. At several difficult junctures in my life, I searched for unbelief. I ignored; I denied. I hid; I angered. I slinked away from the truth and blessing I had experienced, because I couldn't rationalize it in the context of questioning and tragedy.

It's hard for someone like me to admit that. I grew up in church. I have worked for churches and ministries. I was involved my whole life in things involving Christ and sharing belief in him. It seemed like everyone (in all those situations) around me never doubted Christ, never doubted the existence of a loving omnipotent being.  But at very specific times I did.

For example, in high school, when new to my faith, at least new to my faith that made a difference in my life, I remember thinking about what came before God? And how was God made? I had asked those questions for a long time, even before high school, but had always pushed them away behind my blank glazed eyes that couldn't find and answer.  I remember coming to a conclusion that what I had felt in my heart from the Lord must have been a comfort that I had created for myself, to ease those questions. I had resolved myself to this quietly, and kept it secret from my parents, FCA friends, youth group for a time. I would go to sleep at night, and I would find myself desperately wanting to prey to God. It was a strange phenomenon. It was like I couldn't control my heart, as if I was breathing prayers to God, all the while my mind was telling my spirit to stop. And I would hear the verse from Romans 8 (8:26) about the holy spirit groaning for us, intervening for us with God, when we don't have the words to express what we feel and want.

I woke up one morning, after several nights of this, simply sat up and felt it in my heart. God was real, whether I wanted to believe it or not. Christ loved me and this messed up world, whether I wanted to believe it in my heart or not. But the thing was, even though I really didn't want to, I believed. And I was happy (if that makes any sense) about my belief.

This sort of occurrence happened a few other times in my life, always in the face of something I couldn't explain. In college age 21. After a string of bad decisions, bad friendships and relationships, an inability to reconcile with myself about who I was and would be, I became very sad. I wondered why wouldn't God give me things I had prayed for for years, or why wouldn't he make the changes in me that I had prayed for for so long. I was hurt. I felt dark inside. I couldn't rationalize the way I saw myself, the way I saw others treating each other and me, the great chaos of everything around me with a loving God. If I could stop my belief in God, then the world would make sense, because it would all simply be my bad choices and bad luck. But one night lying in bed in a particularly black state, once again I found myself praying even though I didn't want to be.  I found myself utterly helpless and honestly begging to be let go. I wanted to be let adrift in the vastness of my sadness, like a forgotten lifeboat at sea. I remember that dorm room and how empty I felt. It was so cold.

And in that silence I simply heard a voice say "You're going to have to get over it."  And I knew again that no matter how badly I didn't want to believe, I did. I knew the truth, and thankfully I knew the God who made promises that he did not break, one of which was to never let go of me in any situation. The next day, I prayed for forgiveness, and still quite sad, started going to class again, started doing my homework, calling my parents, resound to the fact that I loved God and he loved me, and that changes would come if I just accepted that.

And there have been brief moments of that since. When Addison died, the wife of my friend a couple weeks ago, moments where I have wanted to let go of what I know to be true, so I could find easy answers and not struggle with reconciling each of those things with a loving God. But to claim I didn't believe, or to claim that I didn't love a loving god, or to claim that I didn't trust an ever relevant and kind Christ would simply be a lie. I believe in them. I fail in trying to honor them every day. I am a good non-example of Christ on many, many days. But I realized it makes no sense when trying to reconcile Christ with the world, because Christ is so much better than this world, and this world is not how he wants it, and this world is not how God had wanted it.

And even through these seasons of my struggling self, where I tried to distance myself from what I knew and know, God still blessed me, still blesses me today, with so much more than I ever could have deserved or even wanted for myself. I know many people would see my little life and not think much of it. I teach, my wife subs, I have a baby girl in a small house that isn't very new, with two Ford Taurus's in the drive. But this seemingly shabby existence is so much more than I ever could have dreamt for myself, more than I would ever let myself believe was possible, and God still honored me with everything I had every really prayed for and wanted. That is for another blog, which will come.  But I hope this helps answer the question that was asked of us in Sunday School, about why we believe in God? How we first came to our faith? I believe, because I tried so very hard not to.

Kanye, Kimye, Maeve, me, and other parents

Last night at 2:00 in the am I was rocking my sick child. She has a terrible cough, mucus from ever orphus, a sore throat, etc. I was tired, but she couldn't sleep when laid down, so here we were. Me and the mrs. were taking turns, and although not ideal, it was ok. She made it to the doctor today. I sort of slept walk dreamily through my teaching, and none of us were worse for the wear. When I came home, I had to give her some tylenol. Our little Maeve hates taking her medicine, and much like llamas, ostriches, and vultures, her body has created a unique, and very effective manner of protection from taking it. She gags and vomits. Today it was after her 4 o'clock milk, so the puke came out in curdled white lumps of dairy goodness. We stripped her down, washed her clothes, our clothes, gave her a bath, and not two hours later her diaper leaked...diarrhea. Her antibiotics causing her loose movement and amidst her playing rings and with her baby dolls, her diarrhea leaked on our carpet, kitchen floor, it was over her hands, her legs, our hands, then over our bathroom mirror, sink etc. Once again, we stripped her, we washed her, us, etc. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed and disinfected looking the excrement right in the eye.

Now I mention all of this, not only as a motivator for my kids to be abstinent, but also because for the past 3 days, I have been thinking about little Kimye Kardashian West and what her upbringing is going to resemble. I don't know the Kardashians. I don't watch their show. I don't know Kanye West either. I did watch some of his reality shows on the MTV where he was hiring, firing, yelling, putting young singers through greats amounts of emotional stress, so I can't really say what little Kimye's life will be like. I picture her coming into the world with diamond encrusted cloth diapers, and armada of nannies, wet nurses, doctors, etc. I picture Kanye diligently interviewing thousands of potential nannies and eliminating poor men who can't lactate on demand, or sing every lyric of Rock-a-by-Baby, who forget to pull the tongue of the Baby J's out from behind the pant legs of some skinny jeans.

Who knows, maybe it will be a very average, typical rich kid upbringing. Lord knows they have a large  family that is very involved with each other, and they will have tons of resources and network to help support them, but it is just so hard to picture Kim or Kanye rocking their baby all night, or cleaning up  diarrhea out of their carpet. I see them buying new carpet, or ordering that poor women who holds 5 cell phones and walks 3 steps behind Kanye at all times, to clean the diarrhea.

I can't really say why I have been thinking about this. Maybe because announcing a birth of a celebrity child at 3 am on Twitter reeks of narcism. Maybe because it was late, and I was tired, and what am I to think about sitting in a dark room with no tv, books to read, etc.

What I hope is that little Kimye will feel more than well provided for, will feel more than entitled to good things, that she will feel like more than simply an excuse for an Hermes baby bag and reality tv drama. I hope she feels desperately loved and wanted. I hope Kanye has stories to tell her of colic, of driving her around at night to help her sleep, of being puked on, stories about her first steps, what annoying tv characters she was in love with. I hope Kanye and Kim can tell her these things, and not simply have someone send it to them in a weekly email recap. Because these are the things a child needs to hear, to know that their parents loved them, fought endlessly for them, bent over backwards rearing them. They don't need to hear about their mother's sex tape, and the millions of men and women who have intimate knowledge their mother's hootie-hoo.

So, needless to say it has been a rough 3 days in some ways; bodily fluids, crying, short tempers, exasperated patience, little sleep are all things that are not fun--I can't romanticize it too much. But I have taken heart in knowing that I think I am more capable of love than I used to be, that we will have stories to laugh about with Maeve, to embarrass Maeve when she is older. I hope this is the same for little big bootied Kimye, as I guess I hope it for any kid and for any parent, because that is sort of what it seems to be about--pushing yourself past your limits, all the while increasing your capacity to love, and  I think a little poop scoop is totally worth that.