Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy...

I made everyone an ornament. Just print, cut, and hang. Merry Christmas!

a little church with big love

I used to be "youth pastor" at a little church in Bryant, Indiana. A small church with big love out in the middle of the middle of nowhere on some road marked 650. My favorite road in the fall. There is a quarter mile section where the trees hold hands across the street, stretching their limbs to create a tunnel of browns, yellows, and oranges.

Go down the road a few miles over a stomach dropping hill and around a few Amish buggies and you’ll see it, a little white church, slightly smaller than the size of an old farm house, with a gravel parking lot, an old bell, and small yard with two wooden crosses (the third fell down a couple years ago).

It’s the kind of church that fights to keep its doors open and heater running (in fact this past Sunday while I was there they had a vote to keep it open or shut it down), but always seems to make it, whether the toilet flushes every Sunday or not. And it survives because of its people. They are stubborn, a little for tradition and familiarity, but mostly for what they believe that building can give, for what that building has given them.

The people that love best are the ones that have to fight for it.

And their biggest fight may be the one to give in and shut the doors. They are preparing for that, while hoping they don’t have to, but realizing that no matter what happens, Sardinia Missionary Church is bigger than a building.

It was good to be back for church this past Sunday, good see the old youth room in the basement still with aluminum foil walls (it fit the budget and was kind of a joke with the church name, designed to look like a sardine can), good to make music with the Frey's, and good to talk to the Horns.

But it was very good to throw snowballs at Tom and Colton. Cameron, Zach, and I tried to take their fort in a game of capture the flag in the snow after church. We played for hours. My New Balances were soaked along with my four pairs of socks long before Sidney joined us and we decided to go sledding. Because of that, my nose is sniffling as I write the post. But I don’t care, because only people who live life get sick. I lived a lot this last week and for that I welcome a little cold.

After the snow games me and my friends (I almost wrote "kids that used to be in my youth group", but that seemed so impersonal and insufficient. They are more than that. Why does the church put such dumb labels on people? I refuse to be a "youth pastor" and don’t want a "youth group". I want to be a friend. I want bothers and sisters. The church is family not some business or organization that categorizes people...) we went to the Ritz, an old two screen movie theater where you can get a ticket, coke, bag of popcorn, and a candy bar for well under ten bucks. There we saw The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, which I’d pay the fortune it costs at a cinema to it see again.

The next day I went to Jay County High School and had lunch with Cameron, Tom, Zack, Colton, Matt, and Carrie. I miss pizza boats and chocolate milk in a tiny carton. Between the office sign-in sheet and the cafeteria I managed to get yelled at by two teachers (some things never change). Once for not wearing the big red visitor’s name tag they gave me (the lady in the office never said I had to wear the thing) and once for wearing a hat.

I am rich.

I am rich.

This is my realization after spending a week at Indiana Wesleyan and a couple days in Bryant, Indiana, after six months in Texas, a few days in Colorado and Michigan, and after being home for the holidays. I am rich with life and love, with family and friendship.

I've never felt so content with what I have. I have so much. I don't know how to describe that feeling. I don't know how to tell you why. I just know. I just know that I am rich, rich with the important stuff.

I'm going to try to put this into words, to tell you what I have, maybe reminding you of the same. It'll take a few posts...but I promise I'll get back to where I was at in that Colorado story...

A Little Bit Later Than A Little Over Almost a Month A Go: Part 1

My feet are cold, and have been cold since I left Texas and crossed the New Mexican border to Colorado.

Everyone in New Mexico warned me that Colorado was cold. New Mexicans shiver at the mention of the state. New Mexicans shiver when its sixty degrees. I shivered in Colorado, but the people there didn’t. They didn’t even seem to notice that it was cold. They still wore their big coats and scarvess, but seemed to enjoy them.

On my first morning (well I guess, only morning) at Colorado Springs I sat in the corner of Starbucks huddled over my peppermint mocha, holding my hands over the trickle of steam coming from its lid, pretending it was a small fire. I was trying to warm up after a night of sleeping in my truck in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I know there are many people who don’t like this store, for the effects it has had on small businesses and for its treatment of employees, but if there is one good thing about Wall-Mart, it is that they welcome campers, even protect the drivers of Semi’s, motor homes, and vehicles that park and sleep in there parking spaces. This particular one had 24 hour security—an old man in truck who drove up and down the rows—assuring safety for those spending the night. The cold kept me awake most of the night and when it didn’t, the flashing yellow light of the nice security grandpa did. So as soon as the sun rose I wiggled out of my sleeping bag and headed to Starbucks.

The Starbucks in Colorado Springs has an amazing view out of its storefront windows. Through the foggy condensation you can see Pikes Peak. I had to duck my head down just a little to see the top, which had snow on it at this time of the year (maybe it always does, I'm not sure). It was beautiful, but made my feet cold.

I watched, from my pretend fire, the mountain, every few moments glancing at the customers. There was one lady in particular that caught my attention. There was something very attractive about her, not necessarily physically, but just one of those people you see and for some strange intuitive reason, really like. It’s almost as if you think they have some secret about life and so you watch and hope to notice it. She was reading a newspaper, which she offered to me after she was finished, and commented on how nice the day was. I agreed, but said nothing else because I’m not very good at small talk, and she left. Once outside the door she stopped, threw her scarf around her neck, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

People breathe differently in Colorado. They seem to be more aware of air and thankful for it. Probably because of the altitude. Or maybe it’s just the cold, sneaking up the backs of their shirts like stethoscopes, that causes them to take deep breaths as they walk out doors.

I dunno, but I wonder if that lady did know a secret. I wonder how my day would be different if when I walked out the door, I chose to stop and fill my lungs with a big taste of oxygen.

The End is Near

Almost a month ago I left Lubbock. A little over almost a month ago I returned to West Texas, saw Chicken Little at the drive-in, spent the night at my grandma’s, and then left again. It was a good time, but kinda weird saying goodbye twice. I guess that encores are for rock shows not real life.

Since the first time and second time I left Texas, a lot has happened. Including being told by a cop to put my hands were he can see them and being informed by some guy named Mike that it was the end of the world and that pretty soon all the Christians would be moving to the mountains of Colorado, specifically the Colorado Springs area, because it says so somewhere in the Bible.

I’ve got a lot of stories and pictures to share, but I’ve not slowed down long enough to write or empty my memory card. But I need to, otherwise I’ll forget stuff and will have to start deleting pictures off my camera to make room for new ones. Just give me a couple days...

"L" is for Lubbock

I went to the Lubbock Cotton Kings hockey game wearing blue paint with a guy in a Jason mask (see picture below) and some white dude who doesn't dance his color (see picture below). We made the news, on two channels. I'll tell you about it later. I'm going outside to play football.

Cotton Fro's  

we can do no great things, just small things with great love

I'm rewriting this last post because my abiguity has lead my father to believe I'm joining a free love, pot smoking, hippie commune and has caused my mother to do research on current cults in North America (ok I'm exaggerating, but the first thing my concerned mom said when I called her last night was, "Let me pass the phone to Dad, he wants to talk to you about your blog...").

Previously on Matt's blog...I wrote about The Simple Way, "a radical faith community that lives among and serves the homeless of Kensington, North Philadelpia". Something I ran across a couple days ago in an article by Christianity Today Magazine while at Mardel's, a mega-Christian bookstore in Lubbock that I normally avoid (I find a bigger, more beautiful and loving God in Barnes and Noble...and they have Starbucks).

I offered it as an alternative to the gospel "taught" by a lady in the Bible Translations section that day...While pretenting to read C.S. Lewis' The Magician's Nephew I overheard her explaining to a group of people why the KJV is the only inspired Word of God..."The King James is the only translation that captures the true name of God...Yahvey (emphesizing the "v"). All the other translations use Yahweh, which is inaccurate... Revelations (something or other...can't remember the chapter and verse she took out of context) states that the Word of God is the name of God and if you don't have the name of God right, you don't have the Word of God right" and "Actually, (she started to wisper, I leaned closer discreetly turning pages in my book) Satan is in the other translations...this is His doing".

Everything in me wanted to throw my book at her, point my finger in her face, and scream at the top my lungs for every one in the store to hear, "No, you are frickin' Satan! And there is a special seat in Hell where you can read your poop of a translation King James Bible for all eternity." But I calmly walked away...my outburst would have only provided her more opportunity to lie. While fleeing from this King James fanatic, I found myself on the other side of the store, reading about a differant kind of radical, one closer to the likes of the name they both bear...Christ-ian.

Shane Claiborne (one of the six original people who started The Simple Way community) found himself as an "ordinary radical alienated from secular activism and disenchanted with Christian inactivism." He began a search to find a Christian...someone who was asking the same question he was..."What if Jesus meant the stuff he said?"...someone who was taking Him at His word. His "Christian-hunt" took him to Mother Teresa and the Missions of Charity in Calcutta and to Gandhiji Prem Nivas, a community of lepers in India. Reflecting on his journey, Shane says:

"I had gone to search for Christianity, hoping to find an old nun who believed Jesus meant what he said. And I found Christianity, but it didn't just belong to Mother Teresa...I did indeed see Christ in Mother Teresa, but I also found Christ in the lepers, the children, the destitute, the workers...and even began to recognize that Christ lives in me."

Dad, Mom...Despite a slight curiosity,I'm not looking to smoke weed...or to live on the streets and leave you with all my college debt. I just want to believe that Jesus meant what he said. I just want to find Him. And begin to recognize that He lives in me.

If anyone else is feeling this way too and has a day or two or seven free in December, let me know. I want to visit The Simple Way. You can read about it here...http://www.thesimpleway.org/. Let me know ASAP if you want to go. They like a week notice for visitors.

And if you want the article I found at Mardel's. Click on this: www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2005/009/16.38.html

"We can do no great things, just small things with great love. It is not how much you do, but how much love you put into doing it" (Mother Teresa).

Two Weeks Notice

I rolled out of bed about 3:54AM this morning to the alarm of a mariachi band. I’ve found that 106.5 “something in Spanish” is the only radio station that will wake me up at such a God-awful, painfully unnatural time, where there is “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Twice I’ve turned the music off, rolled over, and continued my dream about conveyer belts, cardboard boxes, and labels. Once my grandmother woke me up and handed me the phone. It was Paula, my supervisor from UPS “reminding” me that I was supposed to be at work. That’s one of the perks of the job…if you “accidentally” sleep in, they’ll give you a wakeup call.

Today I broke routine. After my strawberry pop tarts and milk, I put on four shirts instead of one, two pairs of pants instead of one, and grabbed my gloves. It was about forty degrees this morning…that’s winter cold here and in this weather Texans chatter their teeth and wear big coats and stocking hats. I had forgotten what cold was and as I turned right off of Kirby Avenue toward the East side of town I made a circle with my lips like I was puffing a cigar, trying to see my breath. The street lamps illuminated patches of the cotton fields, now in full bloom and bright white. My eyes were not awake yet, trying to blink away the sleep, casting a mirage of fluffy snow off the side of the road. I pulled my hooded sweatshirt over my head. I was cold, but it felt good. And I enjoyed pretending the cotton was snow and believing it was as cold as the West Texans looked.

I’m looking forward to Christmas in Ohio…and sleeping like normal people.

I put my two weeks notice in at UPS Tuesday and at the Furniture Connection Wednesday. I’m leaving Lubbock. I have to.

Two very alive people, Anthony Riske and Kristen Miller, came through Lubbock last weekend on a road trip. We went to Graham Central Station where I embarrassed myself trying to learn to “country western dance”. Some guy named Tommy taught us the basics, but I just shuffled my feet around, smiled like I was drunk, and tried not to bump into anyone. Tommy was the man by the way, swinging girls around effortlessly like he was spinning pizza dough (sorry I couldn’t think of any other comparison…in other words, he had skills). If I were a girl and owned a pair of cowboy boots (or cowgirl boots…if those even exist) I probably would have fallen in love with him.

After we danced to “Hick Town”, Riske and I sang karaoke…“You’ve Got to Fight for Your Right to Party”. Sunday we went to Church, had tea, baked cookies, tossed the “b”, went to BBQ buffet, and sat in the back of my pickup on a mattress at the drive-in moving theatre. The grass was greener when they were here and the day after they left I was depressed…bad. I drove around on side streets around J&B coffee until I stopped crying. Once I got my green tea, I wrote this in my journal…

“Anthony and Kristen reminded me of the life I am not living. Reminded me of how lonely I am here…I don’t want to loose myself here, don’t want to grow content with anything less than what You have for me. I’m tired of this feeling. I’m tired of the darkness. Why am I here? God I need something loud. I need something clear, something tangible. Otherwise I’m gone, I’m putting my two weeks in and I’m gone. I need something bigger than my doubt , bigger than my fear…”

The only thing that has been loud is my desire to leave. I had been praying to God, “why am I here?” for so long, wondering with every new person I met or new church I walked into, if it would be the connection. Somehow I felt like if I didn’t find some roots here, the adventure would be a failure. I was afraid to leave, afraid to miss God by a day or two, afraid that I wasn’t listening hard enough. I became almost superstitious, over analyzing every conversation and circumstance, hoping to hear a whisper of God’s voice, trying to piece together some impossible puzzle of God’s will for my life, all the while he was the beat in my heart, the pounding that is drumming me to leave. I’m tired of believing God is allusive and confusing. He wants us to know Him more than we want to know Him. He wants us to love others more than we want to love others. He speaks louder than I can listen, more clear than I can think. His Spirit is in me and my heart beats to follow Him.

I think sometimes when I say I can’t hear God, I already have, but I just don’t believe that I have, don’t believe that I can actually hear Him. Doubt, not in God’s voice, but in my ears, leaves me deaf, dark, and alone. Maybe I have enough faith in God, but not in myself.

I know it is about time to leave, and that makes me smile…one of those smiles that sticks for awhile, one that won’t go away even if I wanted it to. Don’t get me wrong, the big blue sky has been good. I needed the sunshine. And the time with my family has been sweet…so sweet. I will cry and miss my aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandma. It won’t be easy to say goodbye to my UPS team, my friends from the Wesley, and First Community UMC in Canyon. For it was my heart that lead me out here. But somewhere between May and October I stopped following it…stopped believing that I could hear God’s voice. Not anymore. Thanks Riske and Kristen for driving in on your Honda Prelude ambulance with a siren of a muffler, to breath life into a dying man. Thanks for the reminder to follow my heart…and for going country western dancing me with, I would have never done it alone.


p.s. I’ve kinda of got some plans…I’ll be in Texas a couple more weeks, taking in every moment I have left with my family. Then I hope to visit some friends on the way out of Lubbock in Canyon, Colorado, Michigan, Indiana, etc. on my way home for Christmas in Ohio. In January I’m probably “moving” to North Carolina to make up the worship practicum I "failed" so I can finish my youth ministry degree. My supervisor will be the youth pastor at Kernersville Wesleyan Church. You may have heard of him…his name is Jared Bell. Summer? I dunno, but Asbury sounds good in the fall and Cooper’s looking for a roommate.

The C.S. Lewis of Our Generation

Just started reading Don's newly released old book, Through Painted Deserts. I recommend it.

And I think if I were God, I would have waited a couple thousand years on the whole Jesus thing until Donald Miller was born and could have followed Him around and been one of the gospel writers.

I like to write and I spend a lot of time playing with words, chosing them carefully, hoping to make people laugh, feel inspired, understand how much they mean to me, know God, or think I'm an ok guy. I enjoy it, but it is work. I have to buy my every vowel with time, and I am a slave to consonants. It seems the opposite for Don. He's the the master of words. Letters work for him.

And I think he's the C.S. Lewis of our generation.

Fifty years from now Don Miller will be a household name. People will read him and get the same feeling I get now reading him, the same feeling I get reading Lewis...the feeling that my heart is beating like it never has before, and the feeling that I know why it is beating, like I never have known before. I feel like the entire universe makes sense and I feel like I make sense when I read Lewis, when I read Miller.

So go to "F and S's" (for those of you who aren't Pete and Jared or Trixie that's Barnes and Noble) and buy Blue Like Jazz or Searching For God Knows What or his newly released old book, Through Painted Deserts. I promise, you will hear your heart beat like it never has before...

P.S. Everything he says about Texas is true.

I Will Not Be Silent

I miss trees.

Don’t get me wrong, having sunshine over 300 days a year is heavenly. And I’m still “held captive by the big blue sky above” (Shawn Mullins). But the reason the sky is so big and blue is because I’m taller than every tree in my neighborhood.

There is no trunk to sit against. No shadow of an oak to hide under. If you want shade in West Texas, you go inside. They tell me that every tree in Lubbock, but mesquite (which I would consider a large bush not a tree), was planted. So people that move here from the Midwest use their hammocks as rugs. And their kids grow up climbing on oil pumps not in trees (no wonder they don’t recycle here).

I miss grass too. Our yard doesn’t really have any. We’ve got “bermuda grass”, which is actually a weed that sort of looks like grass, but grows more sideways than nature’s traditional carpet. If I forget to mow a week or two it grows these annoying “stickers”, nasty little burs that stick to my shoelaces and socks. To keep this grassy weed green you have to have a sprinkler system (or about ten dogs with overactive bladders). Most people just give up and put rocks in their yards and clutter them with rusty cowboy decorations and Texas flags. A few weeks ago we delivered a piece of furniture to an old lady whose yard was completely paved. It was depressing, and I came to the conclusion that every square foot of Hell is cement.

I am not surprised that I miss the foliage. I kind of anticipated it. And on one of the last days at home in Ohio I laid in the grass under my favorite maple tree, the one I used to climb when I was kid. It sits on the east side of my yard looking like an enormous hand coming out of the ground. The trunk is its wrist, thick like a farmer’s. Its palm is bent back as if the tree were holding something up, something important, because its hold is steadfast, firmly gripped with its many fingers. Maybe that’s why I always felt so safe in it.

The leaves were new that day, bursting with green. The sun was chasing me through the branches, shinning down like a hundred tiny spotlights. And there was a quiet breeze whispering to the tree. And whatever it was saying demanded applause, for the wind was causing the leaves to clap softly together.

“…the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands” (Isaiah 55:12).

There is a song of creation that never ceases. There is choir of creatures making music to the Maker.

Why are we so silent? Why are all of our songs about ourselves?

I wish I could have been there when nature’s song began…when creation taught man to sing. I wonder how long it took Adam to discover music. I wonder what his first song was. It must have beautifully honest, a true response, an overflow of the heart. And it must have been a terrible noise. Like He does with everything important, I bet God let Adam learn to make music.

I can imagine Adam squeezing his lips together, blowing air and spitting, trying to whistle like the birds, managing only to get himself wet and out of breath. Wolves howled has he experimented with the range of his voice. Monkeys scratched their heads at Adam’s off beat chest pounding. And the hyenas laughed when man knocked himself over trying to dancing. It was ugly…but it had to be done.

How do I know Adam sang? How do I know he danced? Because like me, his soul demanded it.

There is something deep within my created being that longs to communicate with the Creator, that longs to join the song of creation. Words are not enough! And I cannot sit still! If I try to hold my song inside, I will explode.

To be silent and motionless is to be dead.

You know those people who are always humming, mumbling songs to themselves, songs you often mistaken for conversation? Especially the ones who don’t even realize that they are singing, who always look at you confused when you asked them their song? These people are alive. Alive in the truest sense. Alive like the maple tree on the east side of my yard. Alive like the feeling I felt that day when I mistook its song for conversation, the day I decided to sing along.


“make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth
make a joyful noise to the Lord all the earth

the flowers of the field are cry’n to be heard
the trees of the forest are singing
and all of the mountains with one voice
are joining the chorus of this world

and I will not be silent
I will not be quiet anymore

running through the forest, dive into the lake
bare feet on beaches white
standing in the canyon
painted hills around, the wind against my skin
every ocean every sea, ever river, every stream
every mountain, every tree, every blade of grass will sing” [david crowder]


[photo by Tim Founds]

Drilling Holes [Updated]

Stopped at an Arby’s in Tulsa, OK where everyone is getting serious about the energy crisis…well at least the gas price crisis. The workers were passing out more copies of an e-mail than roast beef sandwiches. The e-mail, smudged with fastfood grease, proposed a plan to pressure the gas companies into lowering the gas prices by urging drivers to avoid the pumps for three days, three times longer than a Canadian boycott that supposedly dropped prices fifteen cents.

“Hmmm…” I wondered, taking a sip of my Dr. Pepper, “wouldn’t the gas companies make up for the lack of sales on those three days with the mad profits on the day prior and the day following the “gas out”. I thought about sharing my insights, but thought that maybe my lack of sleep from driving all night caused me to miss the great idea.

Now that I’ve slept on it, I still think it’s a dumb idea…and the approach is misguided. There are a lot of solutions being offered for the rising pump prices, including boycotts, more U.S. drilling, an end to a war, petitions, an impeachment, pump-n-runs, bike riding, hybrids, corn, and more.

But we must address the real issue here. It’s not about high gas prices. Sure you’re pissed off about paying forty bucks to fill up your car. So am I. But by giving into the government’s quick fix ideas (reopening offshore and Alaskan oil drilling) we are only perpetuating the real problem…the effect our abuse of natural resources is having on the environment. And if the rumors are true…that we have the technology to make more efficient and safer (for the trees and us) vehicles, but the oil dudes have such a monopoly over our economy, government, and dare I say, President, that the solutions to our energy and environmental crisis are kept from becoming a reality, than we have a sick problem on our hands that requires more than just drilling holes...well unless the "holes" are in reference to the oil dudes and they are the object of the drilling.

It’s about more than saving money…being a good steward goes beyond cash. It includes our environment (see my blog…“The Wisdom is in the Trees not the Glass Windows”). So don’t perpetuate the problem, seek solutions for the earth not just for your wallet. Write a letter, sign petition, and even boycott if it floats your boat, but don’t support more drilling. Start saving up for a hybrid, ride your bike, carpool, support gas/oil companies that are serious about the real issue (BP) and talk trash about the gas/oil companies that refuse to care about anyone (or Anyone’s creation) but themselves (Exxon).

To be honest with ya’ll, I know little about this issue. I’m learning. I feel like it’s my responsibility as a created being and especially as a Christian. So do your research. Don’t take my word for it…and certainly not Fox News'. I like sierraclub.com and if I knew how to leave a link on this blog I would leave this one:

http://www.sierraclubplus.org/video/flash_offshoredrilling

Update: Here's a great quote...

"Drilling the Arctic Refuge would be as shortsighted as damming the Grand Canyon for hydroelectric power or tapping Old Faithful for geothermal energy. It would be as foolhardy as burning the Mona Lisa to keep you warm" (Frank Crowder).

To read the whole article click below (I think):

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050901/OPINION/509010309/1008

I Didn't Know What I Had Until I Realized It Wasn't Mine

I took a rock from the Grand Canyon. It’s a nice rock. It’s a jagged chunk of brown, red, and white sandstone a little bigger than my fist. I would have taken a bigger piece if I could have fit it in my backpack. I would have taken the entire thing if no one was looking. Seriously, it’d make a great backyard.

But that’s not possible, and not just because it’s really big, but because it’s a National Park guarded by people in green uniforms that love it more than me, so much so that they will protect it so others can love it too.

No one really owns the Grand Canyon. It belongs to no one, but everyone at the same time. It wasn’t meant to be owned. It was created to be shared. I can’t have it.

Canyons can’t be moved, sunsets are moments that cannot be caught…they come ago without my permission, and flowers die when I pick them.

They are bigger than me. The Grand Canyon is much too large for my shelf or my backyard. Others need to see what I would hide for myself. Canyons, sunsets, and flowers have something to teach us about God and ourselves. They have a beauty to share with us. I can’t keep them. To do so would be to deny others this.

The very thing that keeps me alive—air—is shared and not owned. I can try to keep it, to hold it in, but I would die. Oxygen is to be breathed in, and out, not held or trapped. The truth about air, is true about those given it.

I have begun to realize that people are more like canyons, sunsets, and flowers than they are cars, houses, or cloths.

People are shared with me, they are not objects to be owned.

Being in a relationship is more like hiking a trail than it is taking up residence. And people are not decorations, but views to be taken in. They are a part of God’s creation not my wardrobe.

It’s not really about me choosing them either. Some are like cornfields, rain clouds, and shruberries. All beautiful in their own light, important, and deserving of my time and love, even if they aren’t picked out, don’t fit me well, or feel like family.

Not too long ago I came across the most beautiful flower I’d ever seen... But she was not mine to own...to pick, to put in vase, and place on a shelf...for she would have died there. Her beauty and light were too big for me, too important. The world needs this flower.

This past weekend I was reunited with some friends…the “for life” kind. A few are in Michigan now, some still in Ohio, some in Indiana, a couple in North Carolina, and one in Utah. I wish we could all be neighbors again. I wish I could have them here in Texas. But the truth is, I can’t. I don’t own them. I don’t decide where they are to be placed. For them to be anywhere but there (where He puts them) would be for them like dying. They are too big me, too important. They must share their beauty and love with others…those who do not know it yet. I can’t stop that because that’s what it’s all about.

The strange thing is; the things that I own do not last. Like cars, cloths, and guitars (sorry to get away from my original illustration but I don't have a house) . Eternal things can only be shared. And the more I realize this, the more life is sweet.

I never knew what I had, until I realized it wasn’t mine.

Along this journey of life there have been some amazing views and some most beautiful flowers. “And every time I’m place within a perfect row…people come and go” (Stephen Delopoulos). And at times I have fought this, longing to stay, to stay forever. And at times I’ve wanted to take beauty with me to keep my soul lit. But a Voice keeps calling me forward and a Wisdom keeps telling me that others need to see and hear these things too. To share them is far better than to keep them. It makes me feel like I’m a part of something big…something bigger than myself.

The Cake Wasn't Bad

Just got back from home…ur, Ohio that is (not sure where “home” is right now), and started my new job at UPS. As the packages come out of the truck onto a conveyer belt I scan them and slap on stickers. It’s kinda like those arcade shooting games, except I have unlimited quarters.

My trip began Thursday night and ended Monday evening. I put almost 3,000 miles on my truck. That’s about fifty hours in my little S10. That’s a lot of driving. That’s a lot of time to think…so I apologize if I go a little crazy in the next few days on my blog.

The trip was quick and I saw a lot of friends and family in short period of time…but every conversation was full of life.

Jared and Becky’s wedding was not like any other I’ve been a part of. It seemed…strange to say, but…holy. I was taken a back not simply by the bride’s beauty, by the groom’s reaction, or by the songs, but by the Holy Spirit as the story of Adam and Eve was read, as the parents prayed together, as the vows were exchanged, and Dr. Smith’s homily was given. It felt more like a sacrament, “a means of grace”, than a simple traditional ceremony.

There was another “strange” element to the wedding. On a day that was supposed to be all about them, the bride and groom went out of their way for their guests. Little details…like the not so typical wedding slide show/video played during the picture time so there was not waiting on the wedding party. Like the little books with pictures and stories about each person in wedding, so everyone could get to know them…which was later given to the groomsmen, bridesmaids, and ushers. Like the “head table”, just big enough for Jared and Becky…allowing those in the wedding party to be seated with their family or friends. Like how each quest was greeted by the newly weds. And the list could go on. I felt not like an observer, or a witness, but like a participant. And I had this odd feeling that my feet were being washed. I think for the first time I felt like the disciples did when Jesus took his water basin and towel and knelt before them. A pleasant disturbance…the feeling that what is happening, shouldn’t, and usually doesn’t, but at the same time, seems like a better way.

I felt like Jared and Becky washed my feet on their wedding day.

I was humbled. And in reflection have this thought: Does God bring two people to become one so that each one has his and her “needs met” (as I hear all the time) or does He create two people that are designed to be as one person, together greater than they are apart (like two lights that glow brighter together), for the work of making His Kingdom a reality here on earth.

Not two pieces of a puzzle connecting simply for the sake of the pieces themselves, but two pieces joined together for the sake of the picture…God’s plan for all of creation.

It’s not about an exchanging of loves, but a sharing of Love…a love that that is far greater than two people and what they can or can’t do for each other. Marriage, and the “bedroom”, is about more than the celebration of each other and private intimacy. Matrimony is about holy inspiration and a unity that perpetuates action. Like a sacrament, a means of grace...that when experienced brings two as one closer to the Creator in a union that involves them in not just their own love story but in His love story…joining them not only in the pursuit of each other but in His pursuit of all people.

So in a sense Jared and Becky’s day was not just their own, but His, and ours. A day in which the Church was strengthened and the potential for God’s love to be made Know in the world was increased.

Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Jared Bell. You are a powerful example of God’s true design for marriage…and my feet feel clean. Oh yah, the cake wasn’t bad either.

"Ya'll Ain't From Around Here, Are Ya?"

It doesn't rain much in West Texas so when it does water just sits everywhere. The city officials here don't believe in sewers and water doesn't absorb well into clay and rock. So it doesn't take much to flood the corner of Erkskin and Franford just down the road from my house. Just an inch or two of rain or about block of sprinkler systems is enough. Everytime the "public pool" is open I am tempted to give it the gas as I take the corner in my little S10. And everytime I am tempted I usually give in...although I've learned to roll up my window. Its the same thrill I used to get when I'd stomp in a mud puddle while walking next to my mom or sister...except the people sitting at the corner in thier cars are strangers and they don't punch me or ground me, although I've gotten a few honks. I love it when they have to use their windshield wipers.

I think people here are afraid of rain. They all sit around the weather channel and don't leave their houses. They are too used to the sun. So we got a lot of questions from the nieghbors the other night when we laid sod in my unlce's backyard during a rain shower ("Ya'lll ain't from around here, are ya?"). You get used to rain in Ohio and once in awhile out here you miss it. So we took advantage of it, planted some grass, and made mud angels (brought back memories of "Indiana surfing" [riding a piece of wood in the mud] after the H20 Hodson water fight last August...). We added to our reputation as the "crazy folks from Ohio" when we hosed off in the driveway and when I stripped down to my boxers and ran in the house.

Its been awhile since my last blog so here's a little update: Still out here in Lubbock, "held captive by the big blue sky above" (as Shawn Mullins says...speaking of sky, did anyone catch the meteor showers the other night? they were amazing out here. i laid on my back on top of a van out in the middle of nowhere...it was a show). Still working at the Furniture Connection (peed my pants the other day while on the job...well kinda, actually my belt just got in the way. kinda like putting your hand in front of a hose, [I'm fighting back the urge to write "a really big hose in my case" but kids. old people, or Baptists might be reading this so I won't]...everything gets wet. So I did a little clean up, bent over the sink and laughed my head off, waited till there where no customers, snuck out the back to my truck, and drove home to change) and just started UPS. I'm interviewing at First United Methodist Church in Canyon, Texas for a worship leader position...beautiful people with an understanding of community and a philosophy of ministry focused on relationships. I think I change my mind about the future every few days or so. Couple weeks ago I was sure I wanted to pursue an education degree. Today...seminary sounds good and I just saw a Texas Tech adverstisement at Mountain Hideaway (a store where I go to dream about hiking) for "majoring in nature" a new natural history and humanities degree they are offering combining the natural sciences, the arts, and philosophy. Some indecisive person like me came up with that. So we'll see what happens. Right now I'm just learning to be content, seeking grace to love the people around me, and looking for some new friends (my little cousins just went back to school).

I've been reading a lot of Brian McLaren's stuff lately (hope to blog on some of his ideas soon) and still have In Between Dreams (Jack Johnson) in my CD player. In two days I'm headed for Joliet, Ill. for Jared and Becky's "allstar" wedding. There's gonna be a ton of IWU folks there. I can't wait. I don't think I'll be able to sleep the night before (actually I won't...I'll be driving all night). After the party I'm going to Ohio for a day to see my parents, then back to West Texas ,where the cotten will be blooming soon. I've heard it looks like fields of snow.

Tim, Phil, and Matt's Grand Adventure

I laid upside down in the back seat with my head on the front seat arm rest between Tim and Phil staring up at the stars through the sunroof of our rent-a-car Hyundai (A nice ride by the way, equipped with heater seats…more for entertainment than comfort). It was one of those moments that cameras cannot capture and words cannot describe. You can take a picture of friends, but not friendship. You can write about stars, but adjectives fall short of wonder.

I had a lot of these moments this past week.

Tim, Phil and I took a trip to the Grand Canyon and Zion National Park. We pulled into the park about 2AM, drove past the signs that say “Do not camp or sleep in cars”, found a parking spot facing the yet to be seen canyon, and closed our eyes.

Morning came quickly. Tim wasted no time violating every “leave no trace” rule. But we let that slide…he doesn’t have a colon.

Then the view of the canyon. One of those moments.

All together we hiked up and down 11,106 feet in elevation across a distance of 22.5 on an average of 3-4 hours of sleep (depending on which part of the car you got that night) in 2.5 days (The rest of the time was spent on the road making videos of kids on bikes and bananas flying out the windows to the tune of Shawn Mullins). I learned to respect the canyons. They’re just postcards until you hike them.

The North Kiabab trail (“pronounced” K-eye-beeb; aka Corncob) taught me this lesson. We trekked halfway to the bottom of the Canyon on this path till we got to the roaring springs and then went back up. Maybe the most physically challenging thing I’ve done. The 3,000+ feet down we joked about asses (you can ride donkey’s a third of the way down). The 3,000+ feet back up we dragged ours. On the way down we stopped to take pictures and laugh. On the way up we stopped to take naps and cry. I’d do it again any day.

After Cape Royal and Uncle Jim’s trail we headed north a couple hours to Zion National Park in Utah where we met up with Ranger Neff and her brother and sister-in-law (refreshing people). It was good to see Juli again. It was good to see her with red rocks in the background. She belongs in Georgia O’Keefe painting.

That night the four of us climbed Angel’s Landing. There are parts of this trail that are only a couple feet wide with anchored chain on a rock face to the right and a 1200 ft drop to your left. No wonder the sign said it was hazardous to hike in darkness. I wondered as I climbed, “If I could see this drop-off would I still be climbing this rock.” Then I wonder if there was a spiritual insight in that thought.

It was one of the scariest and fulfilling things I have ever done. Sometimes I wonder if fear is actually a blessing and not a curse and danger an invitation not a warning. Fear teaches us what we love by showing us what we are afraid of loosing. Danger urges us to risk what we love in order to keep it. They both cause us to trust and grow. And they both make for some great stories and memories.

Atop Angels landing we watched the stars (“some of the best on earth”), attempted to take some group pictures, and called JMak (our old boss) who was not surprisingly up doing homework. I miss that dude.

We trekked back down and shut our eyes for what felt like a few minutes in our four-wheeled sleeping bag. That morning we hiked a hidden canyon and napped on the lodge lawn until Juli got off work. Gelato, laundry, the Virgin River, Daddy Ray’s, picture, goodbye, The Colorado River, Mt. Humphries, Outback, I40, Nitequal, Ben Folds, nap, fried chicken, goodbye, work. It went too fast.

Thanks Phil, Tim, and Juli for the pictures and stories, and for the moments too big for 4x6 glossing paper and too articulate for times new roman black ink. I missed all of you more than I thought.

A Poll: Birdie on Hole 4

This morning I tossed the “b”...I was approaching the basket on Hole 4. A par 3. My initial drive was sweet. Walking toward my disc for my second shot, I guessed I was about twenty feet or so from a birdie.

I’m not very good at judging distances.

“Birdie” was a lot bit closer than twenty feet.

It was the biggest pigeon I had ever seen. A fat grey hawk of a pigeon. A Texas sized pigeon! I wasn’t sure if the initial swoop at my noggin was deliberate so the first feeling was excitement. It was thrilling a blast of air over my head.

Ok I lied, my first feeling was, “Holy Caca!” But excitement was second.

Fear third.

Terror forth.

Then excitement again. For a second I had a thought…“Maybe some dude with a video camera has caught my disaster out of the corner of his eye while taping his daughter feeding the ducks by the pond and is getting the whole thing filmed and will send it in to be the winner of the When Animals Attack or American’s Funniest Videos television show and then split the big money with me.”

Back to terror. Turns out the first swoop was intended. So was the second. By now I had my frisbee. A little self-defense. I ducked, holding one arm over my head, waving my disc in the air with the other.

I wonder if birds laugh.

I began to run away from the hole. But not fast enough. Freak pigeon took another dive at me. That’s three. Again I threatened it with my long distance driver and turned toward my vehicle. I sprinted like a bat out of…like Batman out of the Bat Cave.

I stood there stunned staring back at psycho bird soaring over the air space of McKenzie Park’s disc gold hole number four. Watching it glory in its victory.

Suddenly I had a flashback to my shanked approach on hole 1. I missed the basket completely sending my disc spiraling into a pole that happened to be a perch for some lazy bird. I remember thinking, “I bet that bird just crapped itself” and laughed to myself.

Hmm. I think I have a motive.

Was that the bird that attacked me? Was my misfortune a product of revenge? It could have been. Or was that overweight turtledove just a mom or dad guarding its nest of babies?

What do you think? Leave a comment and vote. Pissed-off pigeon payback or parent pigeon protection?

One Ounce Action Beats a Ton of Words

I saw him there on the side of the road with his turquose dufflebag thrown over his right sholder, left hand held high in the air, thumb out. At seventyfive miles an hour I did not have much time to make a decision. My mind began a debate with itself.

“He probably smells.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“He may have a knife, a gun, or deadly right jab.”
“Maybe he just needs a ride.”
“But what if he steals my truck.”
“What if he really needs my truck more than I do.”
“What if…”
“Maybe he’s Jesus.”

I needed time to think this over, to hold a pray meeting, to get a air freshner and selfdefence classes. So I stopped at the next gas station and “dropped the kids off at the pool.” A good place to process. After much deliberation, I stepped through the door with verdict in mind. I got back in my truck and determined that if he was still there I would pick him up.

But I had my pocketknife ready just in case.

Turns out it was a good fight. And I still have one functioning arm (which makes typing this blog interesting). He got one shot off (my left arm) before I put a blade in his splean and kicked him out the door with my right flipflop (I’d like to thank Old Navy). Just kidding. The only battle that went on was in my head. Tom didn’t try to kill me. He was (is) just trying to make it from Dallas to California to see his Aunty who is sick. He told her, “I don’t got any money, but I’ll be there in a couple weeks.”

I wonder how long it took Tom to make that decision. Did he calculate the risk (he could get run over, hungry, or sunburned) or write down pros and cons (saftey or Aunty)? If he did it didn’t take long and he didn’t need to “sleep on it”. He walked all night after the phone call with his Aunty. Tom was so tired that when he got in my truck he mumbled a few words I couldn’t understand and fell asleep for four hours. That’s determination. That’s faith backed with works. That’s love. That’s what I want.

How long will I let “It’s not safe” keep from loving people? How long will I have conversations with myself? How long will I be like a wave in the sea blown and tossed back and forth by the wind?

That’s it. I’m not going to do this anymore! No more hesitations. No more second guessing. No more loving comfort more than my nieghbor. I’m gonna pick up the Holy Spirit’s phone call on the first ring. I’m gonna to be singleminded. I’m gonna ask for opportunities to love people and when they come, no matter the cost or danger, I’m going to take them with courage.

Maybe.

Two Thumbs up for Texas

An update from Lubbock, "The Giant Side of Texas": I've been spending a lot of time with the fam here. I live with my grandma (wearing the trucker hat). She makes the best fried chicken this side of Texas. I work at the Furniture Connection, a family owned Sauder outlet, for my uncle and aunt, Rich and Nancy. I do assemblies and a little retail. I make sales with ease because of my charming midwest accent (actually they point and stare when I say "you guys" instead "ya'll" and "I'm going to" instead "I'm fixin' to"). My aunt Sherie works at the store too. She laughs at customers alot. My unlce Marty and I enjoy making grandma nervous. During some almost golfball size hail we ran outside with baseball gloves on our heads to cover his van with a blanket. Hurts like paintballs. I make a weekly habit of tossing the "B" (disc golf) with my cousins Paul and Jacob. Not sure what to say about my cousins Lidnsey and Natalie. Uhh...they just got sun burned real bad the other day...and they're pretty cool. My great uncle Peanut and great aunt Fronsie got us on a Texas Hold 'em kick. Now we have weekly poker night.

I still haven't called Dr. Cherry about finishing up that worship practicum...I guess I'm trying to earn that "F". I hope to do some subsitute teaching here in Lubbock this fall to see if I really want to get an education degree.

I saw Bobby Night's house the other day. It's big, real big. (While writing the blog I entertained the idea of ommiting this last comment, because really, who cares?! But then I thought of the greatest Hoosier fan in the world, my former roomate, Patrick Cooper. He would care. So Coop, for the slight chance that you may reading this, I did see Bob's mansion. Go Indiana.)

I've been going to church at Live Oak, a Willow Creek plant. Just started playing guitar there. Not sure if its my place. I'm still haunted by that DeNeff sermon when he said, "You will find your place when your greatest joy meets the greatest need." Joy...check. Need...not sure.

I get to see my Dad this week in Dallas. Texas Motor Speedway. May the force be with Sam Hornish Jr.

Tim Founds, Phil Stuller, and I are going to the Grand Canyon in couple weeks. Phil is going to make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (That's a joke for "Team Cankles", those who went to Sri Lanka...Keep praying!)

You can see for miles here. A beach of red dirt and a sea of blue sky. Watching the storms roll in like a giant wave strikes enough fear and wonder in my heart to trust the God who moves them. I do miss the trees though, but I'd trade them all for West Texas sunset. And the nights. I never knew there were this many stars, and I've only seen the moon so bright one other night...I'm seeing another side of God here, a beautiful, not necessarily better, but excitingly differant view of Him.

Miss and love all of you. Rebel against your own indifference...Beck

The Wisdom is in the Trees not the Glass Windows

I dropped some cardboard off at the “Sold Waste Management Facility” the other day. I think that is what the conservative republican West Texan’s here in Bush country call recycling centers so they can convince themselves that they are not really recycling, just “managing solid waste” so they aren’t accused of hugging trees or confused with being environmentalist war hating democrats like Kerry and those Dixie Chicks they kicked out of their state. But that is just my theory. Anyway, there at the “recycling center in disguise”, I met a man named Cliff, who worked there. He wasn’t good at talking, but he said a lot of interesting things. His real name is Clifford, but his friends call him Cliff. He told me I could call him Tom. That’s his middle name. He said it’s easier to remember than Cliff because all I’ll have to do is remember my favorite drink the “Tom Collins”. I’ve never had whisky or gin or whatever is in the “Tom Collins” cocktail, but I remembered Cliff and Tom because that was quite the introduction. I won’t forget his office either. Looked like a storage shed without a door. In the process of giving me directions to another recycling center closer to my house, he took me inside to show me around his place. “Lookit here,” he said, drawing my attention to the news program he had on. “I fixed that television someone threw away. And watch this,” he turned on a fan, “Works like brand new. And this here’s my new fridge I pulled out of the junk pile…” With joy he proceeded to show me functioning appliance after appliance that someone had thrown away as junk.

I’ve thought about Cliff’s trash treasure for a couple weeks now, and I just finally finished reading Ron Cider’s book, Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger (I think he made it really long on purpose so the Truth inside would be harder to forget). Before Paul and Amanda Stonehouse, SEEDS, and Townhouse 602, recycling meant nothing more to me than the memory of how the couple bucks I got back for aluminum made up for the few minutes my Dad made me smash cans on Saturday mornings when I was kid. I know now that it is about more than pocket change and even political parties. There are deeper issues—the sins of materialism and consumerism. Materialism hates God’s people. Consumerism hates God’s creation. I hope to write more on materialism in a couple days, but here I want to talk about the trash heaps we are producing.

Its about 100 pounds a week added to the landfills for every American family. Imagine the devastating effect on our environment that will create for future generations if we continue this pattern. Where will all that trash go? Many Christians would say, “I don’t know and I don’t care. I’ve got more eternal things to think about.”

But I think we should know and we should care, because it has a lot to do with eternity.

God reveals his greatness through His creation. Have we deemphasized the power of nature in the salvation process as the Church? I think so. And I would suggest that recycling is a powerful means of evangelism. Stewardship of our planet gives the opportunity for people to know the Creator. Yes I know that we are saved in community, that people are more important than trees, and that God will someday destroy this earth. But God put us in a garden for a reason. He gave us the Rockies, the Atlantic, and Big Dipper for a reason. He was trying to say something about Himself. What else could describe the extent of God’s love than the immeasurable distant to the heavens, and His faithfulness than the vast skies. Without the mountains to what could we compare His righteousness? Besides the ocean depths, what could capture His justice (See Psalm 36)?
Sure, if there was no beauty left on earth, we would still have His Word and we would still have His presence when we gather. But would we still know His greatness? Would we forget how big He was? What would our view of God be like if we could no longer gaze up at the stars at night because a thick layer of smog was blocking our view. Or if we could no longer see a sunset, because a new landfill was placed in our back yard? Or if we could no longer walk with Him in the woods because there no longer are any forests?

“The wisdom is in trees not the glass windows” (Jack Johnson).

So recycle your cans, ride your bike, simplify, plant a tree, vote environmentally conscience, next time you go to park bring a garbage bag, and quit buying soon to be obsolete crap you don’t really need that will soon end up in the dumpster. Take a hike, visit a National Park (like the Grand Canyon with a couple guys named Tim and Phil), dance under the stars, smotch your lady during a sunset, climb a mountain, or watch storm. And when you tell that awesome God or yours that you can’t get used to Him, remember that it is Him, the Creator, who made you, loves you, and wants to have a relationship with you.

For more ideas read Rich Christians in Age of Hunger or visit www.sierraclub.com. Be creative and befriend your neighborhood recycling center worker.

Thanks Wal-Mart

I pulled up to the state line with "Beautiful Day" blaring on my CD player. And it was. After a trip to IWU, Tucky, and 20 hours on the rode, I finally made it. Texas. On the way I pushed Cooper's dead car a quarter of mile down a highway to a church parking lot, visited Payton's seven bedroom house and mowed a couple of his eight acres, prayed over his little country church, saw Indiana's first capital and its local drug store (Butt Drug), had a burger and half at Cooper's house, fed the rest to his dog Taz, got lost in downtown St. Louis at 2AM trying to take a picture of the arch, slept two hours in a Walmart parking lot, called my mom every couple hours to tell I was still alive, passed a cowboy cop driving a dodge van filled with handcuffed scowndrals, took my picture in front of the Texas state line, saw the largest cross in the western hemisphere (even Jesus is bigger in Texas), and smelled a 72 ounce steak in Amarillo (it's free if you can eat it).