www.yofis.org

Hello, fellow readers, in an attempt to make this world a more exciting and better place, my blog has been moved to http://www.yofis.org/. I think you'll like it much better there. Thank you.

Sincerely,

The Staff

Trash Day

It was a rotten feeling sitting there in the quiet dark of the morning, listening to the distant grind of the garbage truck making its rounds through our neighborhood. Yes, I had forgotten to put out the trash last night. And this morning, I sat at the kitchen table in the hard glow of the stove light helpless to do anything, hopelessly alone, just me and the approaching sound of the garbage truck as it neared the curb in front of my house. The empty curb, garbagecanless.

The problem was that the bulky, green garbage can supplied by the city sat in the corner of our garage, pinned in by my car. Somehow I had lost my own car keys in the midst of running errands last night in Jess' car. For no good reason, I had instinctly brought them along. I remembered absently pulling them out of my flimsy jacket pocket at one point in the evening in the Target parking lot, thinking, I better not lose these. I must admit, that was very good advice to myself, but that was as far as it went, because I did just that: I lost them.

So as I sat there listening to the creaturely sounds of the garbage truck's mechanical arm reaching down for my neighbor's trashcan, I did my best to tune out the thoughts that my trashcan could have been next, if I wasn't so stupid. Instead, I concentrated on that which lay in front of me: The Book of Ecclesiastes. Suddenly, for some reason, all the torture and trouble I was presently experiencing over my car keys felt so meaningless. It didn't matter if I found my car keys and got my trash out on time or not. I was still ultimately destined for the grave, just the same as the guy who had his car keys and was on top of trashday.

When it was time for Jess to wake up, I reported to her that I had made the executive decision to leave the materials in our trashcan to mature an extra week. Then I told her the truth. "Well, won't that pose a problem for getting to work this morning?" she asked about my car keys.

After reviewing all the facts (Until then, I hadn't got much further than being upset over not getting the trash out), I said, "Well, actually, yes. Yes it will pose a problem." So I made one last ditch effort to scan the house. After almost giving up in utter despair, I decided to include God on this, even though I felt it was such a trivial thing to pray about misplaced car keys. But, as I'm slowly learning, God does care about little things like these. Funny, I was just placing the period at the end of my prayer request when, lo and behold, my car keys were staring me right in the face. They were in the seat crack in Jess' car, right where I'd been sitting.

The Dusty Black Suitcase

There is a dusty black suitcase in the unfinished part of our basement, left behind by the last owner of the house. It is bulky, like it may contain something heavy...or expensive. At first, I wasn't drawn to it much. It seemed a trivial thing among the chaos of moving in. But now that things have settled down, my curiosity is on the rise. Many times I have considered unzipping the filthy thing for a look inside. For all I know, it could be bursting at the seams with gold bullion from an old train robbery. On the other hand, and this to me is much more likely, it could be packed with angry vipers. So a part of me - the scared part - wants to grab it by the handle and run with it full speed out the front door and throw it as far from our house as possible. But then again, what if it really is gold? Or priceless antiques? Sadly, I may never know.

The Screwtape Letters (C.S. Lewis)

I ran across this quote from The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis this morning and forgot how much I love C.S. Lewis. He had made such an impact on me in my early walk. For those who have not read The Screwtape Letters, I highly recommend it. The fictional book gives great insight on spiritual warfare, and is played out through the correspondence between two demons plotting against the salvation of a certain individual. Anyway, here is a section of one of the demon's letters:

"Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our enemy's [God's] will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys." - C.S. Lewis

I couldn't help but be reminded of Jesus on the cross: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

In Between Sets

Until just recently, when I exercised, my time between sets was used for memorizing Bible verses. That was before we bought a house with a basement. Upon closing, my exercise equipment was immediately banished to the creepy, crawly depths of the underground. Against my will I was forced do something else with my no-more-than-30 seconds between curls or lunges.

It started one early morning when, bleary eyed and semi-conscious, I descended into the basement. I flipped on the light, and when I reached the bottom step, a giant spider like you'd see on The Lord of the Rings was gripping the wall in front of me about chest level. It stood perfectly still, not moving a muscle, like all poisonous animals that are ready to strike. For a micro second, I stood frozen, terrifed, unable to scream. Then, my instincts kicked in, and with a move too quick for any camera with today's technology to capture, I karate kicked the spider against the wall with an audible crunch.

It was a bloody mess, which, in my opinion, needed crime scene tape. With the dead spider still hanging on to the wall by a leg, I proceeded to go about my morning exercise routine, wondering how many of those things had made it into our bed as we lay helplessly fast asleep at night.

Since then, I've noticed that our basement is quite the den for an assortment of bugs (some of which are possibly yet to be discovered by Science), spiders and, yes, even an occasional snake here and there. So, these days it is not unusual to find me in the basement lifting weights and stomping on bugs in between sets. Why, just this morning, after a hard round of push ups, some poor bug with a million legs got a taste of one of my infamous bug-crushing karate kicks.

Joe - 1, Bugs - 0.

Full Court

It's a good hurt, I kept telling myself. By now, my breathing had reduced to a heavy wheeze and I started having serious questions about my heart holding out. It'd been no less than ten years since I last jumped into a full court basketball game. Now I was paying the penalty. Sure, I run. I exercise a little. But anything outside the usual strain of my exercise routine is quick to send me to my knees and keep me popping Aleve for the next 48 to 72 hours.

Some guys at work had rented out a court for two hours last night from 6 to 8. It was about 45 minutes into it that, after throwing up several bricks and watching my guy score yet another easy layup while I stood propped on my knees, I wondered if 8 o'clock would ever come. This was in contrast to my first 5 minutes on the court, when I secretly nominated myself as the team motivator.

At first, I handed out high fives and "good game's" like Monopoly money, doing everything except the patented "good job" swat to the butt, which I had already determined would come later after I sank my first twenty shots and team comaraderie had a chance to build. 10 minutes later I was about ready to collapse, and this new sports attitude fell to a silent gasping for air.

When 8 o'clock finally arrived, I drug myself off the court ( I don't remember saying bye to anyone) and woke up 15 minutes later at home. This morning I pulled out a pair of extra thick socks, to ease the friction on the developing blisters and bruised toe nails.

Phoebblicious

One of the first things that popped out of Jess' mouth this morning was that there should be a gum called Phoebblicious, named after Phoebe, our nervous nine pound Beagle-Chihuahua mix. Unsure and uncaring of the ingredients it'd contain, I quickly agreed both outwardly and inwardly. Two things I knew for certain: that the gum would be tan and white (the color of Pheobe's ridicuously short hair), and that I'd chew it.

I then went about my usual morning routine thinking about Phoebblicious. This is rather uncharacteristic of me, since I usually like to save my day dreaming for work. Whether it is the cramped cubicle quarters or the drab interior design, all week dreams about being a farmer of sorts has plagued my mind. Yesterday, I had the whole dramatic thing laid out beautifully in my mind. The plowing, the discing, the planting - I'd be out in the open field, the soil freshly turned, listening to God in the sounds or silence of nature, over the soothing rumble of my tractor. A straw hat would look quite nice on my head, sheltering me from the blazing heat. At lunchtime, Jess would come up to the edge of the field where I was hard at work, with Phoebe and our kids in tow, waving her arms, indicating lunch was ready.

I'd automatically have a subscription to Field and Stream, and it would follow that I'd own a gun rack and know the ins and outs of the sports of hunting and fishing. Minus all the back-breaking work that comes along with farming, it'd be quite the good life. We'd live simply, relying on God for a good crop and to make ends meet. Things would only get better in the wintertime when the fields were covered with snow, and Jess and I'd be around the fireplace, drinking a warm drink, not having anywhere to go and...I'm not sure what else. Sometimes I get mixed up with Little House on the Praire. I guess one of us would have to learn the fiddle or something. At any rate, the kids would all be in bed (in their wooden lofts), and we'd be sure to fall into sleepy discussion about sewing or The Farmer's Almanac and when a good time would be to put in next year's crops.

When I proposed this wonderful new Utopia to Jess last night over dinner, she responded, more matter-of-factly than harshly,"You married the wrong girl for that." Afterwards, I had to admit that, although farming actually was in my blood (I come from a long line of farmers), somehow this particular gene missed me. I'm probably not really cut out for it. And that was basically the end of it. So, now I entertain lesser dreams, like Phoebblicious chewing gum.