NO WIRE HANGERS EVER!

It's taken me almost thirty years to realize that I don't think like most people do. That's not a bad thing, but sometimes I'll try to explain a concept that makes perfect sense in my mind that apparently makes no sense in the real world. For instance, a few months ago I tried to relate the concept of wanting to be in "God's flow" to desiring to jump into a storm drain after a huge rain. "Haven't you ever wanted to do that?" I asked the class. Blank stares. It didn't register. But I felt a sense of vindication when we were in Israel and Kelly and I saw a fast moving stream and she said my concept of "God's flow" finally made sense to her. That's why I married her; she gets me. And when she doesn't, she lets me know it. That way I only look like a partial lunatic.

OK, so what was the point of that last paragraph? I needed to admit my personal weirdness so that you understand that I have random thoughts in my head. I sometimes ask questions that no one really cares about. The rest of this post is the result of one of those random questions, so bear with me.

At our house we hang all of our clothes to dry indoors because the fascist neighborhood association won't allow us to have a clothes line. This means we have hangers out the wazoo. Most of them are plastic, but the wire ones a perfect for hanging pants if you use a couple of clothes pins [Kelly taught me the trick when we were first married]. If you're ever over, you're bound to step on one because they're everywhere. So last night as I maneuvered through a mine field of hangers, I thought to myself "I wonder who invented the hanger." It's a genius invention, really. Very practical and it wouldn't have taken a huge budget to mass produce them. I'm sure someone made a killing on it. This morning when I came in I Googled "Who invented the hanger" and I found this website.

Apparently this guy named Albert Parkhouse was angry one winter when he came back to lunch and there were no more coat hooks left; he didn't want to have to lay his nice jacket lying on the floor. He worked in a business where people created inventions out of wire so he grabbed himself some and fashioned himself a hanger for his coat. A couple of months later, the company he worked for applied for a patent on the hanger and Albert, the guy who actually invented it, was never given credit. But when you walk into your closet today, I urge you to give a little shout-out to Big Al, who insured that slobs everywhere have no excuses for throwing their clothes on the floor.

Hang 'em high, my friends.

***By the way, if you've never seen the movie Mommie Dearest, you might not have understood the title of this posting. When we were at Spring Break in Panama City, Florida, a bunch of us college guys watched the movie. Yeah, there wasn't much on TV. But there's a certain scene in it that's just epic, and it has to do with wire hangers. If you know what I'm talking about [and even if you don't], then you must click on this link to this website. I was sadistically laughing to myself for minutes while letting it play. Could be the best website ever.

Habemus Pom-Poms

Here's my pope thought of the day, but I want you to think about something first.

Gerald Ford is the only person to be President of the United States without having been elected. True, there are a few Vice-Presidents who became Commander-in-Chief after the death of the previous President, but all those Vice Presidents but Ford were at least elected to be Vice next in line. Ford was appointed Vice President when Spiro Agnew resigned and then became President when Richard Nixon resigned. So the public never really chose Ford; he sorta slipped in there. Now I ask you: would you still want the job knowing that no one really wanted you there? I guess you would; you'd still get to ride around in limos and helicopters, and bands play intro music whenever you enter a room. And I hear the living arrangements are pretty sweet. All in all, I can see why you wouldn't mind. I just think it would be like the kid picked last for kickball getting to pitch and bat top of the line-up- a total sham.

In my opinion, this is what it's like with new Pope Benedict XVI. At the age of seventy-eight, he's the oldest elected pope since the 1700's. The word out on the street is that the cardinals knew anyone who would have to fill the shoes of John Paul II would have his work cut out for him, so they deliberately picked an older guy to be a "filler pope" for a few years; he'll be able to distance the next pope from JP2's popularity. Of course, this isn't how the Vatican is spinning things, but read between the lines. This is really what's going on. And it's a smart idea. I wouldn't be surprised to see Benedict pick some younger cardinal [in Catholic church years: a guy in his fifties] to be his right hand man to groom him to be next pontiff. It's all part of a plan. I'm sure of it.

But how do you feel if you're Benedict?* You're now in one of the most powerful positions in the world and the reason behind it is, "we picked you because you'll die soon." I don't know if I'd want that job under those conditions. But once again, I guess the perks outweigh the lame-duck status. Think about it: nice robes, lots of things to bless, Pope-mobile.

And he still gets to wear those hats.

*I do find it weird that for the past few weeks we've been calling this guy Ratzinger and now we're supposed to call him Benedict and everyone's going along with it. It took Prince years to get people to address him as that symbol and he finally gave up and went back to his old name. Anyway, I actually like Ratzinger better. He already has a logo! He could have a vicious rat put on all his robes. It would rock. What kind of logo can you make for Benedict?

Cradle to Grave

I don't know if there's a point to this, but I had a strange day.

This morning I conducted the funeral of my friend Sydney's father. This was the first funeral where I did everything- from conducting the message, all the way to the grave side. His name was Murray. It was tough because I only met Murray one time. It was a year ago while he was in a nursing home, just a shadow of his former vigorous self. I think I did as well as I possibly could.

Not to get too morbid here, but have you thought much about your funeral? What music you want included or what Scriptures you want read? Twist your mind around this thought: maybe the people who will be most important to you at the time of your death are strangers to you today [maybe they're not even born yet]. And how weird is it that someone that you don't even know could end up doing your funeral? I had nothing to go on in preparation; just a few stories from family members. Sydney's dad was actually born Jewish, so he might have always thought that a rabbi would've conducted the ceremony. Yet there I was, a Gentile, reflecting on the life of a person that I didn't even know.

There are many benefits to being in the ministry. You get to see people through the most important events of their lives. Sometimes you know them, sometimes you don't. But you're there.

Holy Smoke!

Part of my morning wake-up routine is to catch the first fifteen minutes of Good Morning America. Today they ran a short piece on how the conclave in the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican will insure that they can produce the black and white smoke needed to announce that there's a new pope. As many of you probably know, after each vote by the cardinals, the ballots are burned in a special oven with black smoke meaning no decision and white smoke signifying "we have a pope." They used to burn wet straw to make the smoke black, but the color it produced was sometimes confusing. So they said they're taking steps to get the color just right.

So apparently GMA figured out that the sure fire way [pardon the pun] to get black smoke is to burn styrofoam with the fire. Brilliant. Last time I checked, burning styrofoam produced toxins in the air and, within a confined area [like . . . oh, I don't know, a chapel?], could very easily cause death. With the possibility that they could burn up to four groups of ballots a day for multiple days, we could have a room of dead red birds on our hands. Thanks Good Morning America and ABC News for launching an all out attack on Roman Catholicism. I'm not quite sure this is what they mean in journalism class by media impartiality. Killing of the remaining leadership of a world religion might appear to show bias. I think they just want Peter Jennings to become pope in order to boost their ratings.

I'm sure Dan Rather never would have done this.

I isn't as smart as I think I were

I don't know about you, but I always wanted to be smart. Not that I had to be the smartest, but I don't want smarter people to have to talk slow so I can understand what they're saying. I rescheduled my day off last week so I could attend a thing called the Stone-Campbell Conference at my alma mater. The conference is for academics within the Restoration Movement Churches [the churches like CCM in which I minister and where I grew up in] to discuss deep theological papers about a variety of different topics. I knew going into it that it would be a little over my head because I'm just a hack theologian/Bible scholar but hey, I've read a few books. I thought I'd be able to hang. But apparently I overestimated my ability.

They're were only about seventy of us dorks . . . er, I mean intellectuals, at the conference. I went to about six different sessions on Friday. Now this is how these sessions would work: You'd find out what the person did their paper on, go to their seminar, listen to them read it for about half an hour and then ask questions afterward. To give you an idea, here were some of the titles of these papers:

-asymmetrical Continuity of Love and Law Between the Old and New Testaments
-Discovering a Christology from Praxis
-Narrative Theology and the Eclipse of the New Testament Kerygma

Yeah, how 'bout dem apples? I did understand a few things that were said and found out some fascinating Biblical tidbits, but mostly I had not idea what the crap they were saying. For instance, I had to ask someone what an "aphorism" is [by the way it's "a concise statement of a principle"] because this dude used the word thirty times in his speech and I had no freakin' idea what it meant. Here's one of the phrases from these papers: "According to the 'prophecy historicized theory of Crossan, the generative force for the Christological convictions of the text- such as the innocent sufferer interpretation of Mark- is the 'Sitz im Leben' of the early church." Yeah. That's just one sentence. It led me to spontaneously shout out "BOO-YAH SUCKAS! STEP BACK!!!"

There was one session that, even forty-eight hours later, I still have absolutely no idea what was said. All I know is at the end of the seminar, during the Q&A time, people kept saying "great paper" like you'd tell someone "good game" after a sporting event. So as I left the room I told the guy who delivered the paper, "good game, G-dawg," spit my sunflower seeds on the floor and wacked him on the butt. Oh he knew what I meant. I think I heard him utter as I left the room " . . . it feels good to be a gangsta".

OK so I was out of my league, but that's OK. It's not so much that you understand what's going on, but that you're able to fake people into thinking that you understand what's going on. I accomplished this through active listening skills- then people have no idea you're clueless. Here are some practical things you can do just in case you're ever in a situation like I was in:

1) Maintain good eye contact with the speaker
2) About every three minutes, nod your head in agreement
3) About every minute after the head nod, jot down a few notes on a sheet of paper.
4) Pretend you're entering valuable info on your PDA [while you're actually playing Solitare]
5) If possible ask a question about what the internet has to do with the speech [that's a shout out to my buddy Adam Tornberg who used this method successfully when we were in college].
6) Always say "Good job with that" to the presenter when you leave the room.

The good news is, you can't tell how smart someone is just by looking at them, so there's always room to fake it. To make myself feel a little better I'm off to play Bible trivia with the 1st grade Sunday School class this morning. At least I can smoke them.

" . . . it feels good to be a gangsta."

Why must you taunt me goose? 

Poor Little Critter

I used to think Canadian geese were majestic creatures. Then I moved to Mason. I've never seen a bird that struts around like it's better than you. For the past two days this goose has been perched at the top of our driveway overhang in the front of the church. And then about every half-hour he calls out. I would so like shoot at the sucker. I don't necessarily want to kill him, but I swear he's mocking me. He's looking at me right now. Shut-up goose!

Last night Kelly told me about this website they showed on NBC Nightly News earlier this week. Apparently this college kid [who's wisely keeping his identity a secret] found a rabbit underneath his front porch that was injured and he nursed it back to health. While he likes the little bunny, he claims that unless he receives $50,000 by June 30th, he's going to eat the rabbit, whom he's named Toby. It's all on this website: Save Toby. Included are pictures of little Toby, rabbit recipes and some of the hate-mail he's received from PETA members [what's interesting is they're trying to take care of it through legal circles, but there's nothing they can do. It's not illegal to eat a bunny]. Beware if you check out the hate-mail because the language is pretty hardcore.

I know it sounds cruel but it's a brilliant. You know the guy's not going to actually kill the bunny, so why not use the animal to make a little cash. I mean, what else can you do with a bunny rabbit? It looks like he ripped off the idea from a European website. And it's working. Through sales of t-shirts, mugs, and straight-up donations, he's raised almost $25,000. I'm just jealous I didn't think of it first.

Maybe a can develop a "Save The Stupid Goose From Steve Shooting It" website. But who would want to save a Canadian goose anyway? I hate you goose.

Seriously, I'm telling the truth . . . honestly

One of the deficiencies always brought up about the Carr family is that we have a tendency to stretch the truth a tad. Some would call it lying. We would refer to it as Westside storytelling. Either way, I'm always having to watch myself because it's fun to embellish stories a little to make them more interesting. So if you ever think you need to call me out if a story seems too outlandish, I give you full permission. This is why:

Mitch Albom, a columnist for the Detroit Free Press and the author of books Tuesdays With Morrie and The Five People You Meet In Heaven, is under fire because of an article he wrote during Final Four weekend. He talked to former Michigan State basketball stars Mateen Cleaves and Jason Richardson about their plans to attend the Michigan State/North Carolina Final Four game. He interviewed the two on Thursday and Friday before the Saturday game, while the article was due out that Sunday. Both Cleaves and Richardson said that they would be attending the game and Albom, facing a Friday night deadline for the Sunday printing, wrote about them going to the game in the past tense [as if it had already happened, because by Sunday the game would have already been played]. Things went bad for Albom when the two decided not to go to the game and the article came out saying that they had. While he wrote an apology, citing how awkward it would have been to write things like "they're planning on going to the game that already happened," Albom is getting condemned by journalists throughout the country for this fabrication.

But before you start to feel too bad for Mitch, here's where it gets really fun: two years ago Albom wrote an article criticizing New York Times reporter Jayson Blair for plagiarism. "Criticizing" might be too kind of a word. Perhaps "flambé" would work better here. He ripped open a can and went double-barreled on Blair. It wasn't pretty. Journalists have a short fuse when it comes to journalism ethics, and Albom proved it. And now, just two years later, Albom is pleading for people to ignore his mistake.

I find it fascinating that, in our age of slipping morals, journalistic integrity is still valued as a priceless American ideal. I know many of you would think this whole issue to be stupid. From a worldly perspective, Albom didn't do anything that bad; he didn't smoke, drink, kick or kill anything. He just typed a few words- and they weren't even hateful words. But there is an incredibly high standard held by journalists. You can be biased, but you'd better be factual. Dan Rather's storied career is permanently blemished because of the false documents he claimed were true on 60 Minutes. It just shows you how seriously media people take this stuff. If you're really interested, you should do a Google search to see what other reporters are saying about this. Here's one from Mitch's hometown.

If this happened to any other reporter, they'd be fired by now. Albom should be thankful he spent all those Tuesdays with that old guy or he'd be out on the street. Maybe this whole thing will lighten Mitch's mean streak up a bit. *Sidenote here: I've never really liked newspaper columnists or talk show hosts- people who get paid to harshly criticize other people. It's not that impressive to make a living by ripping other people down.

To me, this whole incident is a good lesson to be careful how intensely I criticize other people's flaws. At some point, it all comes back around. You know, when you point at others you have three fingers pointing right back at you . . . unless you were in a chainsaw accident where you lost some fingers.

I had one last story I wanted to share about this, but it never really happened. So I'll just keep it to myself.

“You’re Good Enough, You’re Smart Enough . . . ”

Listening to sports talk radio is one of my favorite driving activities. This morning on 1360AM they were talking about the recent trend of not keeping score during children’s sporting events. We had an Upward Basketball League at our church this past spring where they don’t keep score for games unless you’re in 4th or 5th graders. “We don’t need to be putting that kind of pressure on the kids” is the common defense of this “Everybody Wins” approach to youth sports. I guess this trend of not keeping-score has been born out of the influence of child psychologists who want to strengthen the self-esteem of children. This is the opposite of when I grew up and we kept score as early as the t-ball years. I always knew when we won and when we lost. And I’ve dealt with it well over the years. It’s not like we were abused by the coaches when we lost; either way we still got orange slices and Cokes. Rock on.

As I wrote in a posting a few days ago, I didn’t discover athletic coordination until my college years [my constantly bringing this up makes me wonder if I’m obsessed with overcoming my unathletic past]. Because I had no skilz [word] I was always last in the batting order and sat the bench until we were up five runs going into the last inning. I pretty much knew by the time I hit junior high that God hadn’t blessed me with the athletic abilities to be a superstar. Yet if I had grown up under the current regime of positive encouragement sports, it would’ve been completely different. I probably would have batted in a spot in the line-up that I was not worthy of. Even while striking out and dropping fly balls, I would have heard encouragement “unlucky bounce there, Steve,” or “Good effort! You try so hard!” Strengthened by this false hope, I might have insisted on pursuing my dream of becoming a professional baseball player. Now at some point, someone would have to be honest with me and say, “Steve, you suck.” Then, one of two things would’ve happened: 1) I would walk away dejected, crushed that I never knew how bad I really was or 2) I would wade into denial and proclaim that those stupid coaches have no idea what they’re talking about.

All of this brings me, oddly enough, to American Idol. You wonder why this show is so popular despite having the tendency of being rather cheesy. Perhaps American Idol is so alluring because it’s returning realism to our society. I usually enjoy watching the show at the very beginning of the season when they do the auditions. Like most of you, I don’t give a rip about the good singers, but tune in to see the horrible ones. These people strut into their audition divaishly [new word I created meaning “diva-like”] proclaiming that God gave them the voice of an angel; when they’re finished, you’ve concluded that there are definitely voices in their head, but not from God. It never fails that someone says to Simon Cowell, “Well, people have been telling me for years how awesome my voice is, so you’ve got to be wrong you . . . [insert appropriate curse word here].” Although he comes off as cruel, many of us resonate with the sentiment expressed by Simon because at least he’s truthful. And maybe there’s the problem with American society today: there are too many Paula Abduls in the world today [if my teenage-self ever knew that my adult-self would write such a blasphemous statement about Paula Abdul, there would be a fight].

It’s not brutal to tell an older child that they’re not quite as good as they think they are; in fact, it can be downright helpful. Otherwise, when they hit the real world and an over-inflated self-esteem rules their consciousness, how will they be able to handle rejection? Can you imagine when these kids, who’ve been told for years that they’re the best thing since sliced bread, hit their twenties and can’t get a job? Rejection is difficult enough to handle when you already know you’re not good enough. Listen, I really love kids and you want to see them succeed. But setting them up for future disappointments by “blowing smoke” is hurting them more than helping them. We should still encourage them, hug them, and tell them that they’re loved, but keep the praise realistic. And by the way, from a minister’s standpoint, the gospel has nothing to do with self-esteem. If you really examine Scripture, you’ll read nothing about us needing to develop our self-esteems; you’ll actually discover the opposite- that we should consider ourselves less than we actually are as we follow Jesus. So if you’ve adopted a “health and wealth-based Christianity” [see Joel Olsteen and many other Pentecostal leaders] you might be missing the point a little bit. Losing is a part of life.

And start keeping score again. We need to teach kids how to lose. If you can’t learn how to lose by playing sports, then where else do you learn it? To this day you see grown men playing sports who don’t know how to lose. They throw temper-tantrums [and objects] when the game doesn’t turn out their way. How sad is that? At this rate, when all these kids who’ve been reared on this no-score nonsense finally grow up, church softball leagues will become killing fields. Our society will crumble to pieces! Not one of us will survive! “Rivers and seas boiling! The dead rising from the grave! Human sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together . . . mass hysteria!”

OK, maybe that’s a tad overdramatic, but at least I got to throw in my favorite Ghostbusters quote to end this post.

TIGER SHOT!

For most of you, watching golf on television ranks somewhere between voluntary dental surgery and removing thirty-year old wallpaper: just not worth the time. I, however, absolutely love it. I'll admit that it can get boring at times; some of my best Sunday afternoon naps have happened while the TV was tuned into golf, but it can also be extremely riveting. If you were watching yesterday afternoon you know exactly what I'm talking about.

The Masters Tournament, held every year in Augusta, Georgia, is the most beautiful venue in all of golf. It's absolutely gorgeous in April and since it's the only one of golf's four major tournaments that takes place on the same course every year you can memorize the layouts to the holes. So many great golf moments have happened there that every hole owns some sort of history.

Making it even more interesting was that Tiger Woods was in the lead going into the last round. Hard core golf fans dislike Tiger as much as redneck NASCAR fans hate Jeff Gordon, but he's my guy. Tiger and I were born on the exact same date: December 30, 1975. So whenever they talk about him breaking some new record at such and such an age, I know exactly how old he is. I've been charting his professional life against mine and I feel pretty sorry for him; I guess he'll never be able to live up to all I've accomplished. At least he has his money to console him.

On the sixteenth hole par 3, up only one stroke to Chris DiMarco [who had just hit a beautiful shot just ten feet from the pin], Tiger hits a horrible shot off the back of the green that lands on the edge of the second cut. Hitting a ball lying there, lying right on the edge of where the grass gets longer, is difficult for anyone. But to be clinging to a slim lead with just two holes to play in the biggest golf tournament of the year, the stress level doesn't get much higher. All the television commentators were spelling out gloom and doom for Tiger. They said he'd be lucky to get it even close. Tiger proceeds to hit the ball away from the hole and allow it to roll down the green ala something you'd do at a putt-putt course. HE SANK THE SHOT MAKING BIRDIE! If you watched any sports news in the past twenty-four hours, you were sure to see it. The coolest thing was it just hung on the lip of the cup for a second, teasing you on whether or not it would fall [giving The Nike Corporation some great advertisement when they zoomed in on the swoosh logo on the ball], and it just dropped in. Tiger proceeded to lose two strokes on the last two holes but came back to win in a playoff.

The drama was amazing. I think it just goes to show us that you don't need something incredibly fast-paced to make it dramatic. In our world of ever increasing technology and speed, we think it takes more and more to get people's attention. We keep calling for louder and larger, more bang for our buck, and go big or go home. I was enthralled yesterday by grown men walking around a park hitting a little white ball with sticks. Maybe it doesn't take as much as we think it does.

Or maybe I'm just a loser who loves watching golf.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

When I lead worship for our Saturday night Focus service here at church, I use in-ear monitors [Thanks Jeff Lyon for the hook-up]. In-ear monitors are those headphone-type things you see a lot of famous musicians use. No, I'm not trying to be a rock and roll stud for Jesus. It's all rather practical. For those of you unfamiliar with how it all works, let me explain.

You need monitors to hear what your band is playing. Monitors are those speakers that you see facing the band on the stage. From those speakers, the sound techs give you a mix of all the instruments and vocals so everyone can hear each other and stay together. The problem we've been having with our Focus service is that having five or six monitors on the stage makes it extremely loud up there. In order to tone this down a bit, I've gone to using these in ear monitors, which take the place of one of these speakers, mixing the sound into those headphones. Our drummer Brian Coates [yeah, I gave you a shout-out] uses them as well. It's still loud on stage, but there are two less monitors up there blaring out music, so we're making inroads.

I've been struggling here and there as I've been getting used to using the in-ear monitors. Included in the mix, with all the vocals, drums, bass and electric guitars, is the sound of a click track that Brian uses to help stay on rhythm; it sounds a little like the ticking clock sound from the TV show "24." So with all that happening in your ears, you have to really concentrate in order to keep in sync [Bye, Bye, Bye]. For instance, during the past two weeks I've been in the middle of a song and couldn't hear the sound of the drums. This tends to freak me out because if you lose the drums, you can get way off and look and sound ridiculous. I know, I always look ridiculous, but that's another posting.

So last night, as we were practicing, I lost the drums again. I wanted to make sure we nailed so I immediately stopped the band and half-yelled to Jeff and John Handel, who were mixing the sound at the soundboard, "OK, guys. There it happened again! I CANNOT HEAR THE DRUMS PLAYING!" I turned around and looked at Brian who calmly said, "I wasn't playing. That's the part where the drummer doesn't play." Jeff and John back at the soundboard took it all in stride. They just smiled and laughed. They understand that I tend to yell like an idiot when things freak me out. And they still like me.

So thanks Jeff and John for putting up with me when you're mixing the sound. You take a lot of crap and do some incredible work. I'll try to keep my diva attitude at home on Saturday nights.

My Aunt Barbara

Dear Barbara,

Since you passed away Sunday night, it’s been difficult dealing with all these emotions that we have within us. I think the best way to do so is to talk about you. There are too many stories about you to tell. I’ve been receiving calls and emails all week from people who knew you who had no idea that I was your nephew; each person seems to have their own story about you. I’m sure during the months and years to come, we’ll remember even more. I really need to tell a few of them right now. I apologize if I mess up parts of these stories; you know how we Carr’s are prone to bouts of exaggeration.

The other day Uncle Roger told me a story about you from your childhood days. Hanging out at the Dempsey Pool in Price Hill, an older girl came up and bullied him around. He went and told you about it and you, despite being much shorter this girl [I don’t think you were ever five feet tall, were you?], beat the girl up. Then you warned all the other kids that if anyone else messed with her brother that they would have to answer to you. And Roger said that after that, no one dared touch him. I can’t believe you were such a punk! You were so cool. And so Westside.

You always wanted everyone to feel special. On my brother Chris’s birthday you threw him a party and invited our cousins. I guess this wasn’t grand enough for you, so you invited a bunch of kids from your church and your neighborhood to come too [I guess it didn’t matter that Chris didn’t know half the kids at his own party!]. You decided to take everyone to the park in your van. On arriving you realized someone was missing. It was me. Aunt Barbara, you had remembered all those kids and drove off without me, leaving me at your house! I was four-years old at the time, left Home Alone. They later made a movie about it. It starred Macaulay Culkin. I never saw a dime of that money. I’ve told that story a lot though, so thanks.

When our parents left town for a weekend getaway and needed someone to watch us, we always asked for you. You’d take us to Supreme Nut and Candy on Glenway Avenue and give us a dollar to spend. Speaking of a dollar, you could stretch one like Silly Putty. You knew how to get the most fun at the lowest possible price. We always had the best times when you were took care of us.

I always saw you at the North American Christian Convention because of Uncle Gary’s job. When we were playing Bible Bowl, you always offered your hotel room as a place to hang out [did you have to wear those old pajamas though?]. At the convention, I usually participated in the preaching competition. You’d show up and listen attentively and tell me what a wonderful job I did. I did so bad sometimes that I was sure you were lying. But I know you were sincere. You were just proud of your nephew.

Every once in awhile you’d give us a kiss on the cheek while wearing the brightest red lipstick ever invented. That lipstick was impossible to get off. I have to admit that it was icky. But for some strange reason, we didn’t seem to mind as much because it was from you.

Just recently you stopped by my brother and sister-in-laws house. My nephew Samuel loves pickles and you made sure to give him one. Who stops by someone’s house to give a kid a pickle? Only you.

Thanksgiving will never be the same without you. One Thanksgiving years ago my brother Tim was showing off the new stereo he had in his room in the basement. It quickly turned into a dance party when you got involved, dragging the rest of the family in there. Only you could have had Grandma dancing around on a waterbed while Billy Ray Cyrus sang, “Don’t Tell My Heart, My Achy, Breaky, Heart . . .” Somewhere there’s a video tape of this. It would be priceless to watch. Thanks for proving that we Carr’s have rhythm.

Another Thanksgiving, just a few years ago, my sister Becky was complaining of some pains. Now Becky, even to her own admission, can be a tad dramatic at times. It soon escalated to the point that she was writhing on the kitchen floor in pain. Dad, in tune with how Becky was, told her to stop playing around. But you went over, holding on to Becky, saying that they needed to rush her to the emergency room. Apparently she was passing some kidney stones. I guess you were right. Even if Becky wasn’t sick, you still would’ve reacted the same way.

While there are tons of other stories out there, this is the one I will cherish forever. Growing up I was a huge Pete Rose fan, but since the Reds traded him to the Philadelphia Phillies in the late seventies, I had never seen him play in person. I guess you knew how much I liked him because when I was seven years old you, Uncle Gary, Grandma and me went to Riverfront Stadium to see him play when the Phillies were in town. I remember it was a school night and it was probably the latest I had ever been allowed to stay up. Afterward we went to the Frisch’s on Central Parkway. All of this so I could see Pete play ball. I’ll never forget that night as long as I live.

If I could pick one object to describe you and what you meant to the our family, it would be Elmer’s glue. Over the past twenty-five years our family has been through a lot. Through thick and thin, you were the constant, trying to keep everyone together. That was so selfless of you. You always cared about other people. You were such an includer, not wanting anyone to feel left out. No matter how bad things were, it was impossible not to smile when you were around.

Your personality was magnetic. Your laugh was intoxicating. Your smile was illuminating. There will never be another Barbara. Our lives have been truly blessed to have had you in it. I’m sorry I never told you this while you were with us. But I know you know how I felt. I’ll miss you more than you could ever have imagined. I’ll do my best to keep the stories alive so that other people can see how truly amazing you were. I love you.

See you soon,
steve


*** If anyone reading this has a good Barbara story, feel free to add it by clicking on the Comments button below.

For The Love Of The Game

We weren’t much of a sports family growing up. I was the only person in the house really interested in sports at all. This meant I watched a lot of Ohio State football on a black and white TV in the basement. When my grandparents, who liked baseball, moved in with us I would watch Reds games with them. And when it came to actually playing sports, it was even worse. No one ever really taught me the fundamentals of sports, so I would do my best to pick up what I could. My dad did buy my one of those baseball practicing things that wrapped around a pole so when you’d hit the ball it would come back to you. But our basement really never had the height where I could swing a bat without hitting the heating duct, so I was afraid to use it. I’m not whining here. I had a great childhood that I wouldn’t trade for anything. It’s just that I was never very good at sports until near the end of my college days. You know how there’s that point in a child’s life where they finally get their coordination? Yeah, I got mine at age 19. Fortunately now, none of these people I play sports with know how truly horrendous I was while growing up.

Um . . . except for basketball.

This morning I woke up before dawn and headed down to CCU to play basketball with some guys there [I’d much rather save the half hour drive and play in our gym here at church, but there are never enough guys to get games going]. If you’ve ever seen me on the court you can testify to this: I can’t play basketball. I to this day have never learned how to shoot- I use a two-handed jump shot. I shoot more like a girl than Kelly does. People who don’t know me stare at me when I shoot and then ask if I’m serious. I swear, I’ve tried to learn the “proper form” but it’s pointless. I’m too far gone to try to fix it now.

Regardless of my dumb-looking shot, I still love to play and refuse to let it keep me down. The one redemptive thing is that basketball allows you to make up for it through hustle and defense; even at 29, I can outrun some of these college guys with my speed. But it’s still demoralizing to shoot as poorly as I do. Reflecting on my performance this morning, I’ve decided to share my shooting line from this morning with you so you can get an idea of what I’m talking about. We played 3 games to ten points a game, counting field goals as one point and 3-pointers as two.

4 for 11 shooting, 0 of 2 from behind the three point line. Two turnovers.

Yeah, pretty bad, especially considering that 3 of those misses were lay-ups. I did cause six turnovers and I made about six rebounds. But of course, this is pick-up basketball, so I guess I’m a loser for even telling you. But no matter how bad I suck, I’m gonna keep going out there, fearlessly embarrassing myself. Because I’ve got spirit. Yes I do. I’ve got spirit. How ‘bout you?

I'm a pastor

I’m in my seventh year of full-time professional ministry. I first realized that I wanted to become a minister after my sophomore year in high school. I didn’t get struck by a lightning bolt from God or hear his voice audibly calling me. I just liked the idea of getting paid to speak. Being from a small church, I was able to preach my first sermon at the age of ten which allowed me ample opportunity to develop my public speaking tools. That’s why I wanted to go into the ministry: I wanted to preach.

So I graduated Bible College and was unable to find a preaching job. Well actually, that’s not entirely true. I could’ve taken a preaching gig if I wanted to relocate to an area of the country where the banjo is the instrument of choice and lard is the fifth food group. I chose, however, to stay in the city and do youth ministry. After that, I went back to work at the Bible College [or the Christian University, if you prefer] and finally ended up here at Mason. Seven years after graduating school with a preaching degree, I am still not preaching. Good work, Steve.

That used to bother me, but now I could care less. God’s been working on me, redefining what I saw as ministry. I thought anything other than preaching wasn’t doing real ministry. But during the past few years God has taught me the value of being a pastor. The terms might sound the same: minister and pastor. But pastoring people is altogether different than just being a minister. It’s all about investing in people’s lives; seeing them through the highest highs and lowest lows; sharing in their laughter but joining them in tears- urging them to draw them closer to God. It’s a lot of low-profile, never-ending work that’s exhausting: weddings and hospitals, births and deaths, one after the other. I’ll admit, that if you went back in time, to the end of my sophomore year in high school and tried to sell me this job, I don’t think I would have signed on. But during these past few years God has shown me how rewarding it can truly be. I’m grateful I’ve been able to do what I’ve done.

My aunt took her own life Sunday night. She was the most amazing Christian lady you’d ever care to meet [I’m going to post something about her during the next few days]; it was so unexpected. Yesterday I was with my uncle early in the morning, praying with him in this horrendous time. Then I had to break the news to my grandmother that her daughter had died. It was one of the darkest days in my life but, please don’t take this wrong, it wasn’t too bad. God has been preparing me to pastor, and it sorta flowed out naturally yesterday. It’s been a hellish time for our family, and I know it’s just beginning, but I’m extremely thankful that God has prepared me for this. I guess He’s known all this time what He’s been doing in my life.

There’s no other job I’d rather do.

John Paul II

It's difficult for a Protestant to offer reflections on the passing of a pope, but being from the westside of Cincinnati I'm probably as qualified as many Catholics are. Despite the fact that I've lived "under the reign" of three popes, the only one I remember at all is John Paul II. It's been said that he was the most widely traveled pope in the history of the office [which spans almost 2,000 years] and that he has blessed more people during his papacy than the combined total of popes for the last 200 years. And with the advent of cable/satellite television and the internet, this was the most visible pope ever. Unfortunately, this left John Paul's declining health fully exposed for the whole world to see, but he managed to handle it with unparalleled composure. There's already a rumor that he died while staring out at the throngs of visitors in St Peter's Square, offering a blessing to them all and concluding his life by uttering the word "Amen." Sounds a little contrived, but with this guy, I actually believe it.

You have to respect the way that he stood for his church's convictions in the midst of a changing world. There were plenty of opportunities for him to be the pope that destroyed long established Catholic church teachings concerning celibacy or birth control or even homosexuality for that matter. Doing so would have made him immensely popular worldwide, but it would have damaged the reputation of the papacy.* He had a keen understanding of the world and how to get what he wanted. Just look at what he was able to do in his homeland. Many historians say that he was the catalyst of the Solidarity movement in Poland, crediting him for driving out communism there.

As much hatred there is out there for the Catholic Church, no one was able to launch a successful attack against this pope. Sinead O'Conner tried to and it killed her singing career [or was it her music that did that?]. John Paul did his best to stay above reproach and it looks like he was successful.

This next few weeks are going to be fascinating as the Roman Catholic church attempts to find someone else to step in and fill his shoes. I predict that it will be impossible. There will most likely be no other pope is influential and popular as John Paul II in my lifetime.

* I know it might seem humorous to discuss damaging "the reputation of the papacy" when there are plenty of occurrences of misdeeds performed by popes over the past two-thousand years. There were teenage popes and even those that fathered children. Yet this part of the past is either widely ignored or unknown by Catholics, so one would have to say that in 2005 the papacy has a good reputation. Perhaps this is another affirmation of the influence of John Paul II and of the power that he wielded while in office. It looks like he was even able to reform history.

Regergitating the past

I almost threw up last night. Just thought you needed to know. I tell you because it's somewhat significant: I only puke about once a decade.

Last time: 1995. I was in college. It was a Wednesday night. Went bowling at Western Bowl and decided to get a couple orders of Nachos. I had an indoor soccer game, then afterward stopped off at Frisch's for a hot fudge cake. About 1:30 in the morning I was worshipping the porcelain gods at a toilet in the dorm.

Time before that: 1981. I was in the first grade. It was a weeknight. Ironically, my teacher that year was Mrs Barth [I couldn't make stuff like that up]. I don't think I had even had the chicken pox yet. I was lying on our living room couch, not feeling too well because I was running a fever. I hadn't eaten anything but soup, so there wasn't too much damage done. The good news was that hurling was an automatic no school for the next day. I'm sure I upchucked a lot more before 1981, but since then it's only been those two times.

That's why I seriously thought Friday night was it. But my lack of vomiting experience might have hurt me in the long run. At what should've been the moment of truth, I came up zeroes. I camped out by the toilet for half an hour and then fell back asleep in the hallway.

Anyway, I'm on a once a decade schedule here. So far I'm halfway through this one and I have yet to produce. I'd start a betting pool if I were you; I have this strange feeling about October 2007.

Wonder how I'd do on Fear Factor?

Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Select, Start

Perhaps the perfect follow up to my What the Bleep? post would have to be this true story [if this really is reality, mind you] coming out of Shanghai about video gaming. Apparently, one man stabbed another man to death because he stole his cyber sword. Um, by "cyber sword" I mean an imaginary sword that only exists in a video game. Here's the lowdown:

"Qiu Chengwei, 41, stabbed competitor Zhu Caoyuan repeatedly in the chest after he was told Zhu had sold his 'dragon saber,' used in the popular online game, 'Legend of Mir 3.'" I guess Qiu lent the video game weapon to Zhu who then sold it to someone else. Qiu went to the police to report the crime, who I guess told him to go get a life because they couldn't arrest a guy for selling an imaginary sword. This lack of justice incited Qiu to violence.

OK, if the story ends here, that's plenty enough to make me shake my head in disbelief, but it's not over yet. Perhaps what is even more ridiculous is how much cash old Zhu ended up getting for this cyber sword: almost $900. NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS! FOR A VIDEO GAME SWORD! THAT YOU WOULD NEVER BE ABLE TO HOLD IN YOUR HANDS! THAT TOM CRUISE WOULD HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO WIELD IN THE LAST SAMURAI!

I deliberately stay away from video games and this is exactly why. Well, not that I'm afraid of getting killed for pawning off someone's cyber sword, but for losing touch with reality. The video game industry, which used to direct their marketing efforts towards parents to buy games for their kids, are now marketing adult games to adults. We Generation X'ers never grew up. Hooray for us. Now I'm not going to play holier than thou here: I was pretty skilled at removing the spinal column of that Hollywood dude with sunglasses in Mortal Combat when I was in college [Sub-zero was da bomb]. But when I was a senior in college I finally gave my Sega Genesis away to an 11 year-old. True, giving away a violence filled game like that to a child probably wasn't the wisest decision, but the kid turned out OK, and I haven't owned a video game system since.

This story of Qiu and Zhu proves that you can get so involved in a game that you lose the ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Video games are like any other addictive vice: moderation is the key. Not to offend my gaming friends, but "check yo'self before you wreck yo'self" because you might just be an addict. Step away from the controller every once in awhile and get some sun. Use sunscreen. Leave your cyber sword at home where it belongs.

If Roald Dahl were writing his Willie Wonka books today, I'm positive the Oompa Loompas would sing a song about Play Station.

***Note: The title of this posting is the code you used to have to enter in at the beginning of the Nintendo game Contra to get unlimited lives. How sad is it that I can remember that but nothing that I learned in high school math?

What the Bleep?

Just to let you know, they had some problems with Blogger yesterday so I was unable to post. Maybe someday I'll stop being cheap and bust out from under the Blogger umbrella. But it serves me well enough for now.

Tuesdays are my day off, which is also the day they release new movies to DVD. So it's sorta become a ritual for me to head on down to Hollywood Video and pick up some flicks that I can hold on to until Sunday. It was slim pickins aesthete[Can you say Fat Albert?], so I picked up some movies that have been out a few weeks that we missed while we were out of the country.

I finally rented the movie What the Bleep Do We Know? I had heard some buzz about it. It didn't do too well in the theaters, but it has been developing underground cult status since its recent release to DVD. I found the format of the movie to be somewhat riveting as it cuts in and out between the storyline, testimonials from experts and rather interesting CGI graphics. What The Bleep attempts to answer question, "What is the meaning of life?" beginning the dialogue with quantum physics and ending in some sort of new age/scientific mumbo-jumbo.

The film begins with basic quantum physics and questioning what reality really is. It then leads into a discussion concerning the power of our minds to affect what we think reality is. Finally, we are told that it is we who play the role of God in this world- that there is no good or evil; it's up to us to determine right and wrong [by the way, I think it was CS Lewis who wrote that everyone's a relativist until you touch what's theirs]. Yeah, pretty interesting stuff. The movie falls short of what it claims to accomplish, answering no questions, while offering pie-in-the-sky theories and additional deep questions.

I do, however, think this is a movie that Christians need to see. I can see lost people flocking to this film to help them figure their lives out. This movie is a perfect hybrid of modern science and postmodern philosophy, giving it a broad base of appeal. The storyline will most likely resonate among those seeking ways to fulfill the spiritual longing in their lives.

After watching the film yesterday afternoon, I had Kelly watch it with me last night. Chances are, I'll try to watch it one more time before I return it to make sure I'm getting the jist of what they're trying to say. And apparently there's bonus material on the flip side of the DVD that I haven't gotten to yet.

I'd be interested to hear what those who have seen the movie think about it. More can be found at the movie's website: www.whatthebleep.com

From Seinfield to Easter Egg Hunts

I've gotta go around the block for this one, but feel free to come along for the ride.

There's a great Seinfeld where Kramer likes to spend so much time in the shower he decides to install a garbage disposal so he can prepare food there. It's the same episode where Elaine's co-worker is a germophobe and her boyfriend is a recovering germophobe. After eating food prepared in Kramer's showers, her boyfriend Puddy exclaims, "GERMS! GERMS!"

That's what I've felt like the past few months. I was obsessed with not catching anything before our trip so I took all the necessary precautions. I was popping vitamins like they were going out of style. I kept my eye out for people who seemed to be sick and avoided them at all cost. I even used that hand sanitizer usually reserved for the ultra-germophobe. Fortunately, I made it through the whole trip without so much as a sniffle. In fact, I haven't been sick this entire winter. Then we get back to the States and everybody has this cold/flu thing, which I still wanted absolutely nothing to do with. So I attempted to maintain my ways of quarantine. Yesterday during our Easter services, where I shook a hundred hands and repeatedly emptied garbage cans, I must have washed my hands 15 times. I did everything I could do.

I now have a terrible cough that I can't get rid of.

So last night I ask Kelly if we have any NyQuil tablets [you know- the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, take me and you won't wake up till Labor Day medicine]. She said she thought we did, but I checked out the medicine cabinet and didn't see any. I decided I'd take DayQuil tablets instead. DayQuil is supposed to do the same thing as NyQuil except it won't knock you out. It did stop me from coughing . . . . at 3:00 this morning. I got about three hours of uncontinuous sleep last night as I constantly woke up coughing. By the way, I saw on the news this morning that this is Sleep awareness Week. I am well aware that I didn't get any sleep last night.

This morning, as Kelly was leaving for work, I heard her say "STEVE!" Not the normal sweet "Steve" as in "Steve, you're the prettiest man alive." No, this was more like the, "Steve, would it kill you to put your cereal bowl in the dishwasher?" kind of "Steve. " She flung an entire box of NyQuil at me and said, "Do you think you got what you deserved for not looking hard enough for this last night?" To my credit, it was generic NyQuil [something called "WalQuil"], and it came in a purple box whereas I believe the official NyQuil tablets are in a green box. So maybe it wasn't all my fault.

Then again, I've always been a horrible looker. Growing up, I was always asking my mom if we had a certain kind of food in the fridge, her saying we did, me saying I didn't see, her asking if I really looked for it, me answering that I did, her pulling it out of the fridge, and me blaming the milk for obstructing my view. I'm pretty sure there are four people I knew from the days of my youth who are still missing due to my inability to finish games of Hide-And-Go-Seek. And you know those 3-D pictures that came out in the 90's that you were supposed to stare at and an image would appear? I never, ever saw the stupid thing; to this day I'm not sure if that whole picture thing was part of an elaborate hoax to fool people like me.

Maybe that's why I truly despise Easter Egg hunts. I always used to blame the pagan origins of the exercise as the reason I hate them. But maybe that's just a huge smoke screen to mask the inferiority complex I have because I'm a bad looker. But honestly, is there no better way to remember the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ than to search far and wide for hard-boiled chicken embryos? At least we can Biblically prove that we have to give Christmas gifts to each other because the three wisemen [there had to be three, right?] gave gifts to the Christ child.

And maybe all these ramblings here are a mere reflection of the lack of sleep I had last night.

I've coughed 27 times since beginning this posting.

"GERMS! GERMS!"

The Goodest Friday.

Today is Good Friday. This is the day we remember a Friday two-thousand years ago when Jesus was crucified. For the first times in a few years, I get the day off work. We slept in this morning and will head down to Lexington to see the in-laws.

There's a Cincinnati tradition called "praying the steps" outside the Holy Cross-Immaculata Church on Good Friday. For those unfamiliar with the topography and geography, the "Church of the Steps" is located just outside of downtown Cincy on the top of Mount Adams. There's a stairway of a couple hundred steps at the bottom the hill that lead up to the church. Every year for almost 150 years, Catholics have shown up to the church on Good Friday to say a prayer on every step until they reach the top.

Now many of us Protestant-type folk hear stuff like this and want to make fun of them. "It makes no difference where we pray," we scoff. "Why go out in the freezing rain for that?" And there's the ever popular, "Jesus died to free hollow traditions, not so that we could become slaves to more traditions," I know these statements well because I made them for years. There's something about NOT growing up Catholic in Cincinnati that tends to make you bitter and biting towards Catholics. I think I'll write more about that topic in a later posting, because many of you know what I'm talking about.

But here's the truth: I now find myself kinda jealous. How cool is it to have a spiritual legacy, like praying the steps, that runs deep? There are people who have been doing this thing fifty years. I even know a couple of people from my church who decided that they were going to pray the steps this year- yes, well educated Protestant, evangelical Christians. I don't know, but maybe the Catholics are getting this one better than we. Criticize all you want, but what are you doing this year to remember that Jesus died for you? What are our churches doing to remember the day? Chances are we'll zip through the day and not give it a second thought, treating it like President's Day or Labor Day. It's so like me to attempt to surgically remove dust from other's eyes while somewhat distracted by a Lowe's 2x4 in my own eye.

Why is this Friday good? Because for Jesus it was so bad. I'm gonna do my best to remember why I'm off work today.

*An article about this tradition was in yesterday's Enquirer: http://news.enquirer.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050324/LIFE/503240317/-1/BACK