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.

Leave it to Beaver

While flipping between games Sunday afternoon, I found myself laughing at an episode of "Leave it to Beaver". Beaver and his friend, Whitey, were at a book store where they stumbled upon get-rich-quick books. One book was titled, How I Made a Million Dollars in My Spare Time. To this Whitey replied with wide eyes, "Wow, can you imagine how much he'd made if he worked at it full time?" I roared with laughter, then I repeated the line to Jess who, in the kitchen at the time, didn't quite catch the humor the way I thought she should.

It was so uncharacteristic of me to lay around watching old black and white reruns. But it felt really good and clean, and the humor was not lost in the process (as far as I was concerned, anyway). It all felt surprisingly healthy, like each laugh filled my body with vitamins and minerals. It didn't take long before a sort of nostalgia swept over me. I longed for a better time in which I never lived. A time when things were happier, cleaner, and Ward Cleaver could solve every problem through patient reasoning and understanding.

But were things really better in the 50's? It was, in fact, just a television show, I told myself. Just to get myself more grounded, I started running through a list of all the problems back then. Let's see...there was the Korean War - that had to hurt something. Cigarette smoking was rampant - so, lung cancer. I think even doctors smoked while performing physicals on their patients. There were greasers (though that turned out to be a good thing for John Travolta). And rebels without causes. And, one mustn't forget all the drag racing that went down.

Then my mind ran to the human condition. Surely, society still had their alcoholics, or families their screaming fights that kept the neighbors wondering whether they should call the police. Not that I was particularly rooting for this, or anything. No, people still had to be somewhat messed up...right? It was near impossible to believe that things weren't all just soda shops and sock hops, as I watched the impeccable father-son relationship of Ward and the Beaver happening right there in front of me in black and white. Everything was just so...so...functional.

So my gears turned and turned, was society and family life really better back then? I landed on no real conclusion. But maybe TV was just better. Everything about "Leave it to Beaver" seemed to be of good taste. It taught good things about life, about relationships, about family. It taught our society good things. And although, no one could ever be the perfect father, like Ward, or the perfect wife, like June, or the...you get my point, it gave the viewers a good attitude to strive for. The old shows held society to a standard. Whatever may have happened in the 1950's, whether good or bad, I at least felt it safe to conclude that "Leave it to Beaver" was a good thing.

And as I continued to think, with Jess begging me to change the station, a verse popped in my head:

"Whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things." - Phil. 4:8

Praise the Lord for Church Choir

It's always exciting when you're skimming Scripture and you find yourself suddenly singing the words you're reading. Normally this happens when I'm all alone, attempting to untangle some unfamiliar passage in Isaiah. Then - Boom - a block of recognizable verses jump out of nowhere, and my head breaks out into song.

This was the case the other night in our living room. Jess has been reading a Psalm a day. As she read her NASB version, she stopped and exclaimed, "O my gosh! We sang this last year in Christmas Choir!" It was Psalm 3. "O yeah!" I exclaimed. Then, since it was the Old King James translation we had sung, I pulled out the ancient version, dusted it off, and we began singing Psalm 3 together, minus that part about God breaking the teeth of the ungodly, of course.

"But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; the glory and the lifter of mine head..."

Now, old English isn't typically my speech of choice, but that night it sounded wonderful.

Wrinkle-Free

There is a little secret hanging in my closet. It has sleeves, a collar, and buttons, and it never, ever gets wrinkled. Give up? It's my magical wrinkle-free shirt. I found it folded on a table in Kohls for $19.99 one rainy, February day. An iron has never touched it, which has automatically improved my life. I hate to iron, and my wrinkle-free shirt hates to get wrinkled - the relationship works. I mean, it could spend the night wadded up in the dumpster, and after a gentle shake and a light dusting off - BAM - it'd look fresh from the dry cleaners. Remarkable! If I could get away with it, I'd wear it every single day. But since that would be dirty, I keep it handy throughout the week for emergencies, like when I'm running late for work. My advice for those who are down in the dumps: get yourself a wrinke-free shirt, and if you can, get it in black, so it hides stains - double bonus!

3:30 AM

I hit the sack last night in the third quarter of Monday Night Football. There was little pleasure in watching my FantasyFootball team sink into oblivion, and sleep, I've tested and learned, is the best for forgetting things - well, for a while anyway. My head hit the pillow, as I geared myself up for a good eight hours of forgetting. 1 and 3 for the season so far- could anything be worse?

It was pitch dark, the clock read 3:30am, when the tremors began. It startled me at first, but then the sleep left my brain and I regained my bearings. It all felt too familiar. The restrained jerks, the stiff jolts, the silent struggling - our dog Phoebe was experiencing another seizure, a mild one, but a seizure nonetheless.

Seizures have become somewhat of a trademark for Phoebe these days. She typically experiences one about every other month, and when asked, the vet reassured us that it was common in little dogs ("Toy breeds," he called her). Their blood-sugar level drops quickly, or something, and that's what triggers it. It was quite frightening the first time Jess and I saw Phoebe do this, but now it's become much a part of the routine of caring for her, like feeding her or giving her a bath.

Jess was first to call it, "She's having a seizure." She stated this more matter-of-factly than in alarm. Then she moved in clockwork fashion, like a surgeon who sees past the gore of an ER patient to the list of immediate procedures needed to be performed.

"Get the white towel," barked Jess. She had Phoebe sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

"Where?" I asked.

"In the closet." In the middle of the night, I had woken up to find myself as Jess' surgeon aid.

I came back with the white towel.

"Lay the towel down."

"Why?"

"No questions. Just do it."

After the towel was under Phoebe, the inevitable happened, her bladder let go. This was the predicted stage 2 of the seizure. Next, after things had calmed down, we moved into stage 3, and I carried her to the dark, dewy backyard. There, she had plenty of room to work out the rest of the shakes. I watched Phoebe finish her business from the back door window while Jess made up a new place for Phoebe to spend the remainder of the night.

From beginning to end, the seizure lasted nearly a half hour. Before I crawled back into bed at 4am, I checked espn.com to confirm my FantasyFootball defeat. It was official. I had lost, and my prize was a dog low on sugar.

An Irrational Fear

It happens now and then; I catch an irrational fear of writing. Yesterday late afternoon, I decided to sit down and document the weekend. Nothing. The keyboard glared at me, taunted me, almost dared me to try to write something. My fingers refused to obey, as they sat paralyzed in the home keys position.

So much happened over the weekend: Jess and I were a part of our church's annual Open House choir, and afterwards we invited both sides of the family over for an afternoon brunch. And even though the game never really took off, Cornhole was set up outside for anyone who was willing. So, it's not like I'm lacking content. I'm just short on confidence.

But, as always, I'll continue to battle it out, and my confidence is sure to show up again. It always does, usually in the midst of reading someone else's work. Inspiration will fall from the sky and hit me in the head. Either that, or I will eventually get sick of being afraid, and just write.

And, as you can see, I'm forcing myself to write anyway, banging away at the keyboard, not really knowing or caring where it takes me. Sometimes this is the only remedy. So bear with me.

The Sugar Run Dumpster

When Jess and I first go married, almost a year and a half ago now, we started out living in New Albany in the Sugar Run apartments. Taking the trash out there was a real ordeal, growing more painful as winter came and the unbearably cold weather set in. Anyway, for reasons unknown - possibly budget restrictions? - only one common dumpster was available for the entire complex. Since we lived on the far side away from the dumpster, I was forced to fill my car trunk with bags of trash and drive it over.

Eventually, I started letting our dog Phoebe ride along with me. She soon came to love trash day, and even the slightest rustling of a garbage bag would send her to the the front door waiting expectantly, wagging her tail.

Now we live in a house, and our trash can is in the garage. Good for us. Heartbreaking for Phoebe. Although, Phoebe still continues to hold on to the Sugar Run hope. This morning, I was taking out the trash from the kitchen to the garage. Phoebe came running out of her den - she likes to take an early morning nap - wagging her tail, ready to head out to the Sugar Run dumpster. I told her sorry, not this time.

But, maybe in five years or so, when nearly all hope is lost, I'm thinking we might just have a Sugar Run dumpster reunion. Just the two of us. For old times sake.

So We Meet Again, Ye Serpent of Old

It should be recognized up front that Jen Frabott acted boldly above and beyond the call of duty in a desperate time of peril.

Oblivious to the ill-fated direction of last Sunday, I started out by treating it the same as any other day. What I didn't know was that, coiled deep in the shadows of our basement, lurked a terrible, dreadful creature. Fortunately for Jess and me, Tony and Jen, our brother and sister-in-law, respectively, had stopped over to help us drag a roll of carpet down into our basement, where it would probably sit rolled up for the next six months, or until we mustered up the will to lay it down.

With Tony and me struggling on both ends, and the two girls helping with the middle, the carpet roll was finally placed near the east basement wall with the rest of the "so-called" storage. Before heading back up, one of us noticed a stray piece of bungy cord wrapped awkwardly in a strip of duct tape and some dust beneath the basement stairs.

I lunged forward to pick it up, but something - whether it was a sixth sense or divine intervention, I don't know - told me to just hold up a second. Wait a minute, we don't own a bungy cord. My thoughts pieced togther slowly, trying to make sense of the meeting of two worlds seemingly unfit for each other - the world of the domesicated, and that of the razor-teethed, venomous wildlife found only in the Outback or the pages of National Geographic. Tony beat me to the punch. "It's a snake," he said. Yes, that's exactly what it is.

"You can see its tongue," exclaimed Jen. Jess hovered closely behind and around us, as we spent a short time examining the sliver of bungy from a safe distance. It appeared it was stuck and unable to move.

"That's not a snake," said Jess, calmly. Tony, Jen and I had seen the tongue. Jess had not. Silence. No one tried to argue with Jess. She'd find out soon enough. The three of us stood stock still, while Jess took her time sorting out the colliding of the two worlds. At this point, we were all experiencing some form of that age-old fear of snakes, which had been so generously handed down to us from our ancestors in the Garden of Eden.

Now, the fear of snakes may be human nature, but most do their best to hide it if they can. Jess was not one of these. Again, the tongue. It tickled the air. This time Jess saw it. "Snake!" she screamed. "Snake!" she screamed again. "Snakes!" this time she added an "s" to make it plural. "Snakes!" Evidently, as we'd later discover, the sight of one snake turned into a multitude in Jess' mind. In fact, they had already grown 10 feet in length, eaten me, slithered up the basement stairs and swallowed our two children who don't exist, and who she'd quickly imagined us having for the occassion.

Jess' face was red like a turnip and rapidly approaching purple, and every muscle was tensed to the point of popping. I ran up the stairs, fleeing not from the snake but from Jess' bloodcurdling shrills. I ran about the house in search of a broom and a trashcan to sweep the snake into. Once upstairs, Jess' muffled shrieks were still building strength. Poor Jen and Tony were in the basement, trapped between the snake and Jess' screams. Looking back, faced with Jess' mounting insanity, I now see that Jen did what anyone of us would have done in her situation. There was only one way for escape.

It was the sad truth, Jess had completely melted down, uncontrollably surpassing the stage of uselessness and fastly approaching the point of becoming a total hinderance. Jen made a decision. She took one for the team. With bravery demonstrated only in the trenches of warfare, or possibly when ordering up a 10 pack of White Castle slyders a half hour before bedtime, Jen picked up the tape with the snake stuck to it. Calmly, cooly she went upstairs with it, careful to keep her fingers from touching the slithering reptile. Jess, doing what she did best at the moment, followed behind still screaming about snakes.

With one quick motion I opened the door and waved Jen in the general direction of the backyard. Once there, she could quickly toss the snake over the back fence into the overgrown ditch - where all things go we don't want. On the way out, I shut the door behind us, leaving Jess inside to deal with her scream-filled panic by herself.

Tony was already in the backyard throwing the ball with our dog, Phoebe. In the midst of the chaos, Tony at once poured his best efforts into protecting Phoebe from witnessing the going-ons. Phoebe's a very nervous dog.

Right before Jen was about to give the snake a toss, the backdoor opened and out came a brand new Jess. She was smiling. What looked like compassion played in her eyes. And a camera was in her hand. Supposedly she wanted to remember the object that had put her over the edge. "Don't hurt it," Jess said.

What happened alone inside the house, we may never know, but somewhere in that brief span of time she had made up her mind that she and the snake were friends. Jess possessed a brand new attitude toward the creature. She brought out a tupperware container to place the snake in, like a little bed, and then studied it closely, saying she was sad for it.

The snake was so wrapped up in the tape, it was hard to tell where the snake began and the taped ended. No one had the courage to unravel the poor reptile, for that would require a lot of touching it. So after a couple snapshots, the snake and the duct tape went over the fence never to be seen again. We all finally took a deep breath, and Tony assured me that Phoebe would never know about it.

And that was the day Jess learned she was afraid of snakes.

The Old Testament Animal

I'm reading Proverbs and ran across this incredible verse the other morning (PETA may have been around a lot longer than we think):

"A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal."

So next time you feed or water your goat or cat, remember, you're acting righteously!

Rocky's Got Punch

It was a Friday night. Jess and I weren't in the mood for much. Jess was tired from handling kids all day at work, and I just got back from playing a pitiful eighteen holes of golf with my two bosses, so needless to say, I felt defeated both mentally and physically. The burning heat of the sun during the day told its story on my face, which later settled nicely into a mild second degree burn. So, in our lowly states, we agreed to get dinner close to home, at Champps down the street. We both ordered the same thing - fajita salads - and after Jess politely spit out a hunk of bad meat into her napkin, I asked for the check and we left.

Seeing it was only 6:30pm, the next big question was what do we do next? It felt like a movie rental night. Since they refuse to build a Blockbuster anywhere near our house, we did our part and rebeled against the movie rental corporate giant by going to Kroger. Did you know that Kroger rents new releases for a buck? Yeah, a buck! It's the best kept secret in town. And you don't have to bother with lines or clerks or anything. At our Kroger, there is a touch screen tucked away in the corner, nearly buried in the heap of Buckeyes paraphenalia, where your dollar movie waits patiently to be chosen. Near the bottom, it spits your DVD out like a gumball machine, and you're good to go.

We had our fingers crossed for We are Marshall. But wouldn't you know it - sold out. So we found the next best thing, Rocky Balboa (Rocky VI). Although it was tough, almost upsetting, to imagine the Italian Stallion taking another round of lumps in the ring at the ripe old age of sixty, I'd heard good things, and besides, up til now, I'd already invested considerably into watching and rewatching the other five (well, maybe not the fifth).

And wouldn't you know it...it was actually good. I felt that old familiar rush of adrenaline in my veins again while Rocky trained one more time to the sound of trumpets. Back in the ring, Rocky was tougher than ever. He had transformed the old calcium deposited knuckles in his fists back into "hurtin' bombs", and his opponent got a quick lesson in heart.

I won't spoil the movie. But afterwards, I had never been more convinced that Rocky Balboa is the greatest boxer of all time. There may be only one tougher - John Rambo. And I'm holding out for the day when Hollywood gets the two together in the ring. Do I hear a Rocky VII?

Razzed by the Coffeeman

It was a cool Saturday morning in Indianapolis, and Jess and I were waiting in line for free (or rather prepaid) coffee during the break between speakers. The Renevare Conference, headlining Richard Foster, was held in a spacious First Church of the Nazarene building, tucked a few hundred feet away from the roaring highway.

Up til then, the speakers were great, the music was nice, and for the most part, the coffee was good (good creamer too), but then there was the coffeeman. Our first glimpse of the coffeeman was through the steam of the espresso machine. A name tag dangled from his white polo. I forget what it said, but if forced to guess, I'd say his name was Burt, or something of the like, something punchy.

Burt was hard at work, mixing up this drink and that, performing coffee miracles behind the makeshift coffee bar. He acted eager to please, but something stiff remained in his features. His smile could easily be confused for a wince. It looked painful, like it tore tendons. I couldn't quite put my finger on his hair color, either. His hair looked simply like the blond had been sandblasted out, and with the surfacing gray and poor lighting, it reminded me more of, well, the color of seaweed.

Burt's age could have landed anywhere between thirty and fifty - in this area I was stumped - and his sharp elbows and dangly frame called up the image of an Oklahoma cotton farmer during the deep depression. Indeed, something about him exuded a beaten down quality, but upon deeper inspection, a noticeable spark played in his eyes. Or was that red irritation due to the steam of the espresso machine? Either way, the spark told a story, a story that said, I'm sick and tired of people's crap. A story that said, I'm good for a fight. A story that said, that's Mr. Burt to you, and I'm about to rise up on society and claim my dignity.

Had we only known.


The question came innocent enough. Jess was just making conversation as usual as Burt busied himself with the ritual of creating a Chai Tea, wincing and steaming, wincing and steaming. Jess noticed a business card propped up on top of the espresso machine, and so she asked, "Is that your business card?" With a smile like a rubberband stretched past its breaking point, Burt handed Jess her Chai Tea and the business card. Jess studied the near-white card, and since we happened to be in a church lobby, she thought it safe to ask, "Are you a Christian company?" She thought wrong.

This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Immediately, Burt worked himself into a froth, punching us with questions. Drilling us wildly with philosophical arguments. Demanding definitions. "Do you mean am I a sinner?" asked Burt. And before Jess could clear up the miscommunication by explaining that, no, what she meant was, is your company a registered Christian company? Burt fired off another round of questions that all began with "Let me ask you this..."

"Let me ask you this...who is a sinner?" This question was directed at me. For a moment, unsure of Burt's motives, I thought that it all might be for sport. He was so sure, so confident, so quick, but his delivery borderlined the emotion of a professor teaching with his pants on fire.

Up for the challenge, I found a pause in conversation long enough for me to state, "Well, everyone's a sinner." Classic textbook answer, right professor?

At this, his eyes went up, searching his mind as if for a script. Then his eyes fell back on us, and Burt restated the question, "No, wait, I mean, what is the definition of a sinner?"

Catching on to his little game now, I shot back, "What's the definition of a Christian?" I stood fully ready to give him my thoughts on the matter, seeing things had turned theological. But Burt wasn't having it. He hit us hard, answering questions with questions, and before you knew it, Jess and I were utterly confused. We gave up and fled for shelter behind the doughnut table. We were under verbal attack. In the background Burt's badgering questions could still be heard over the murmur of the crowd. Then, as quickly as the attacks came, they had died out. Jess and I took a breath. Luckily, no one had been hurt.

After this, Jess and I agreed that we were good on coffee for a while.

Free Pizza

I can't think of anything exciting to blog about, because, truthfully, nothing very exciting has happened. Wait a minute. Pizza's exciting! Yesterday, my company announced in a mass email with fallish design an open invitation to a company pizza party at lunchtime today, to be held in one of the various conference rooms on the 2nd floor in the west wing. The catch is, as we chew our Donatos and drain our bottled beverages, a speaker of some sort is scheduled to talk company policy and to drum up morale or something. But who cares, as long as there's pizza.

Pizza is one of those rare things that crosses all generation and all ages. Small kids get excited about pizza. And although they may not show it as much on the outside, just mention the word pizza, and watch an adult's eyes light up. Pizza is a party in itself. It's always acceptable to tack on "party" whenever and wherever pizza is involved - Pizza Party. How's that for amazing? Try that with any other food, and you will fail.

Now, let me mention something that's not exciting - my work wardrobe. I think my pants have been through one too many washes. They're feeling a bit snug. But that's another issue for another day.

My Apologies in Advance

I don't feel like myself this morning. For the most part, I have it down to a disciplined science: I wake up early, read my Bible, and then struggle through some exercises. But right now exercise doesn't appeal to me. I'll be kicking myself later when I'm all holed up in my cubicle at work, gazing at spreadsheets. Around lunch time my attitude will crash and my body will start having fits, screaming at me, demanding any kind of movement. Just a slight strain, please? I can't help it. This morning laziness wins. And everyone around me will most likely have to pay. Sorry world...Joe didn't get his exercise.

Okay. I'm back. I couldn't stand it. I just exercised. Everybody can now relax.

9/11 Anniversary

The dark morning sky seems depressed and unresponsive. At nearly 7 am there's no sign of light. I'm aware the days are growing shorter, but you'd think the day would want to hurry up and start, to further distance the world from that dreadful day exactly six years ago. Or perhaps it's plans are for procrastinating, dragging its feet to meet the tragic significance of the date 9/11. Or maybe, the day is building its courage, considering the lingering weight of loss and devastation six years ago, embracing its painful reality and meaning, and boldly preparing to press on with a brokenheart made strong with God's strength.

Go Eagles

Friday night, Jess and I found ourselves at a New Albany high school football game. It wasn't our typical Friday night, but Mexican food and asleep by ten had grown frightening routine for our young ages, and we agreed that it might be nice to do something new. Besides, we'd planned to do Mexican on Saturday night.

It was New Albany's home opener - the New Albany Eagles versus the Granville Blue Aces. The threatening clouds had cleared up, and the predicted storms moved further east. All in all, it turned out to be a nice evening. And a perfect night for football.

Once we hit the New Albany line, you could just smell the energy in the air. It smelled like pigskin and hard hitting pads. At an intersection, we watched as a Granville High School bus packed with a rambunctious mob of teenagers all dressed alike, zoomed past. I concluded that they must be the pep-squad, and that they had no further aim than to reek havoc on the visitors side. Already, the kids at the back of the bus were practicing making faces and doing their best to get a rise out of the poor sap stuck in the car behind them. After a long red light, a puff of black smoke drifted up from the exhaust, and the bus roared toward the stadium.

On reaching the stadium, the parking lot was full and cars lined the street on both sides for nearly a quarter mile. As American as we are, this little inconvenience almost cost us our date, but after a good griping we shook off the notion to just get Mexcian and go home and remembered that we were young and could use the walk. So, we parked in uptown New Albany in a semi-vacant lot behind the Rusty Bucket. How come no one else parked here, I wondered? I did a quick check for hidden tow away zone signs. The coast looked clear; however, I still had my suspicions. Did the locals know something we didn't?

Oh well, if we get towed, we get towed. Before setting off for the stadium, there was some back and forth about whether or not Jess should bring her fleece in case it got cold later. It was already eighty outside and it seemed to be getting hotter. My upper lip was working up a nice "sweat-stache". Finally, the decision was made and Jess left with fleece in hand. It could always make for a good seat cushion.

We walked holding hands. The sky held a deep evening blue, and what clouds remained stretched thinly above us with purple edges. I lifted my nose and sniffed the twilight air and caught the scent of a pleasing aroma - concession stand food!

As we neared the stadium, the mood grew slightly rowdier. Kids barely old enough to drive, honked and hung their heads out the windows, screaming something indecipherable about the Eagles. I managed a weak smile and tightened my grip on Jess' hand. The last thing I wanted was to get roughed up or made fun of by one of these high school punks. I was an old man in there eyes, out dated and out of style, and the clothes I wore alone were probably enough to get me harrased. Not that I was wearing anything out of the ordinary, but who knows what goes on inside these teenaged kids' heads these days.

In order to blend in, we fell in behind a gaggle of parents and grandparents. Like a flock of geese, we slowly gravitated toward the admissions booth. The going rate for football tickets these days is $6 for adults and $3 for students. Jess pointed out that, for the two of us, that was enough to eat out on. "Two adults, please," I said to the duo in the window. Their teamwork was seamless; one took my cash while the other handed me two tickets and change for a twenty. I made sure it was all there, and after some quick math, was put at ease.

The tickets lasted less than a minute in my hand, because five steps later we ran into the ticket woman at the entrance gate, who was smiling and wore a kahki pouch fastened to her waist. She mechanically plucked the tickets from my hand, dropped it in her pouch, and we were in.

Because this entry is getting too long, I won't spend too much time detailing the initial scene of the stadium going-ons. Let's just say that their were lots of kids running around, and the Friday night lights lit the freshly painted field in a feverish blaze. Jess and I made a beeline for the concession stand, where I ordered up a Mountain Dew and Jess wanted the only color Gatorade she hadn't yet consumed while suffering from a violent stomach flu. Drinks in hand, we weaved our way through the crowd, up the stairs and found a nice seat at the 50 yard line.

Every fifteen minutes or so a piercing bird screech would blast from the loud speakers. I automatically assumed it to be the Eagles mascot giving the crowd his routine pep-talk. And it was working too, because the stands were firy hot with energy and anticipation of a good Eagle's showing. Two World War II veterans sat two rows behind us. They offered to anyone within earshot the pregame commentary and a list of reasons to vote down the upcoming school tax levy. Later, they were also able to throw up some keen observations about the cameraman on the field failing to take the proper number of snapshots, and one even went so far as to wonder if there was even film in his dang camera. "He must be waiting for a special picture," one said, and on this, they both finally agreed.

The Eagles won the toss and burst out of the nest early on an aggressive first play - a long bomb to number 4. Number 4 had his man burnt by a mile. The stands and the world were dead quiet, and the football spiraled in the air for an hour. The ball hit the receiver in the hands and fell to the turf. An "Ohhh" escaped from the crowd, and number 4 sulked back to the huddle, licking his wounds. New Albany eventually went on to score, but the rest of the game was spent watching number 4 trying to redeem himself.

Probably the greatest spectacle was Superfan. I calculated Superfan to be sixteen or seventeen, but Jess thought differently. She figured him to be at least in his mid-thirties. "Didn't you see his face," she said as Superfan zipped past us, "He's at least old enough to be married." But who could tell with his face painted the way it was. Red and gold were painted in perfect halves down his face. And a curly painted wig hid his hair (or lack there of). As he zipped from one end of the stands to the other in gold tights, a red cape that said Superfan floated behind him. Occasionally he'd face the crowd, holding up a series of posterboards with a message written sloppily in black marker. It was obvious he'd spent the last fifteen minutes before the game, probably in his car, putting this together. SORRY I'M LATE. I WAS AT A WEDDING REHEARSAL (NOT MINE), said one.

As Superfan's interaction with the crowd continued, I was unable to decide whether the people liked him, considered him a nuisance, or were indifferent. No one seemed to take much notice of him, that is, except for the kids. But they were easy to impress; he'd toss them a piece of candy now and then to win their votes. Then a disturbing thought occurred to me. What if I had a son who grew up to be a superfan? I've thought of him playing sports, or being artistic, or even marching in the band, but this idea had never crossed my mind. Until now, I didn't even think it was an option. I let myself worry until the next big play. Then I completely forgot about it.

By half-time the color had drained from the sky, and the stadium lights sizzled against the darkness. After a semi-entertaining halftime performance, Jess and I decided that our backs were killing us from sitting on the backless bleachers. We left before the start of the second half. The score was 10 to 3 - New Albany. As we headed back to the car, the announcer's voice broke the silence of the night. Granville had scored their first touchdown. The game was getting good.

We may never know who won. As we walked along the unlit sidewalks of New Albany, among the sounds of the night creatures in the bushes and trees, we decided that next time we would go to the second half.

From Kitty to Phoebe

When I was a kid I always wanted a dog. But dogs needed a big farm where they could run and dig, and since we lived in town, we were forced to be cat people. After going through two cats in a fairly short span of time – we lived on a busy road – we finally settled on an unfriendly barn cat named Socks, which we called Kitty.

Kitty had a disturbing meow that mimicked a sick Pterodactyl, used only for the purpose of letting us know she needed fed. Any other time Kitty was painfully indifferent to our family, eventually leaving us for our neighbors who offered premium canned cat food.

We had only the dry crusty stuff – Meow Mix maybe? On occasion, Kitty would show up on our porch, fatter each time with all the good food she’d been eating. As Kitty’s body grew, her head seemed to shrink, her legs shorten. This added an extra disturbing element to the treacherous feline, but our love for her was unconditional.

“Joe, look! Kitty’s not dead!” my sister Jackie would cry when Kitty appeared once a year on the front porch out of thin air, brushing against the nearest objects and coughing out a meow. No, I thought, it was worse than death; Kitty had a new family she loved more than us.

Then our neighbors moved away and she disappeared altogether.

My youngest sister, Boze - a victim of a nickname that stuck - was probably too young to understand, but Jackie and I were practically devastated by Kitty’s neglect. We grew up sad because of it.

So you can imagine the rainbow of new life that shined on Jackie and me the day we got dogs. Pets that actually liked us! “It was the best decision I had ever made,” announced Jackie one day in the car, her Golden Retriever Grace panting in my face from the back seat. My mouth was open ready to bring up her decision to marry Jeff, but I cut myself off. Somehow deep in my heart I figured that it had already been considered, and it was up to Jeff to be fine with accepting his forever humble place as the second best decision Jackie had ever made. “Just be happy you made the top five,” I could hear Jackie saying. (I'm kidding, of course. No one, I'm sure, could replace Jeff as Jackie's number one...but it still may be close.)

Phoebe is a short-haired, 9 pound, trained circus dog that bounced off a westbound circus train in a wooden crate one orange, dusky evening – or so I like to believe. The little dog became legally mine (or ours) the second Jess and I said I do. What delights me most is that Phoebe really loves hanging around me. She follows me where ever I go, wagging her tail and wanting to play ball. We’ve become the best of friends, and her cute irrational love for me I gladly take for genuine every time she happily meets me at the door when I come home.

I have grown to take care of her every need. Every day I give her water and food. I let her outside when needed. I playfully tug on her floppy ears as her play-bites turn to gentle little licks. I pet her belly and give her walks – sometimes twice a day.

In case you’re wondering, the point of my story is this: I love my dog.

Something More

I titled my first entry "Something More" for a number of reasons. One, I wasn't sure what to write, seeing this is my first blog entry. Two, I live in a constant state of day dreaming. And three, as my wife so gently called to my attention one self-pitying night over popcorn, I'm not unlike the rest of the human race, vaguely but painfully aware of something missing inside, a victim of a sinking black hole of the soul.

This hole I now refer to as a deep desire for God, a longing for the things of Heaven and how it should be. Tempted as I am to believe that I can feel happy by stuffing the hole with "bigger" and "better" things displayed in television commercials or Hollywood, or by chasing dreams that are not yet willing to be caught (on this side of Heaven), I refuse to give in to this ancient lie.

Instead, I dream for something more.

"I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full." - Jesus

"Instead, they were longing for a better country - a heavenly one." - Hebrews 11:16