Did He Fire Six Shots or Only Five?

I've done dumber things but, fortunately, no one was around to see this one.

I shaved my head yesterday. The only way I could get it any shorter would be to take a Bic razor to the top of my head and go Mr Clean. I was a little scared at first, not knowing how aesthetically pleasing my skull would be to look at, but it's not too bad. There was this guy I went to college with who shaved his head and the back of his head looked like a package of hot dogs. Mine's not the bad. But I did notice that it makes your face more noticeable; i.e. if you have any blemishes, they seem to show up more.

Which brings me to the dumb thing I did.

So I get into the church this morning before anyone else [Kelly is down in Lexington, so there's really nothing else to do]. I go throughout the building unlocking doors, turning on lights and picking up any pieces of trash in order to make the place look better. Walking up the stairwell by our offices, I notice that there's a cockroach on the wall. And it isn't any run-of-the mill cockroach; this one has been 'roiding up. I think about ignoring him [notice how I automatically applied the masculine pronoun to this cockroach. Does that make me sexist?], but I just can't do it. He's positioned at the very top of the wall, over the landing, which puts him at 15 to 20 feet above the ground. The last thing I want on a Sunday morning is for people to have to look at a big old bug on the wall, so I decide that he must die.

I begin thinking of ways to get the cockroach down, and then it occurs to me: I could shoot him down with my Air Soft gun. For those of you who don't know, Air Soft guns shoot these plastic BB type projectiles that hurt very much when you're struck by them- not as bad as a pellet gun or a fifty-caliber bullet, but more than a love tap. Much could be said about our church's obsession with Air Soft, but I'll write about that some other time.

So since I'm the only person in the building, and I figure no one will know, I go to my office, load my gun and proceed back to the stairwell. The sights on these guns are never totally accurate, so I have to aim off a bit, but making sure to avoid the sprinkler head nearby. My first shot misses him by an inch, but he doesn't budge. My second shot was even closer, and still the insect doesn't move. But it's this shot that alerts me to the fact that shooting at a brick wall would cause the pellets to come back at me, and the pellet nicks my ear. Unfazed, I take another shot, way off the mark, that ricochets right back at my striking me in the forehead. "Suck!" I exclaim, reengaging the task with even more passion. It take 10 shots, and I finally nail him.

As I walk away victoriously, I begin to rub my head, which is throbbing. I go to the bathroom and, sure enough, I have a huge welt in the middle of my forehead. It looks just like a huge zit. Combined with my shaved head, it looks even more ridiculous. Oh, and I'm leading worship this morning. Brilliant Steve, brilliant.

Next time I'll let the church people hurl when they see a huge cockroach staring at them on a Sunday morning.

This Home Is Not A House

The definition of the American dream has fluctuated some over the past fifty or so years. The ideal of "a car in every driveway" has been supplanted by multiple cars [gas-guzzlers at that] with On-Star, GPS, and pimped out tv monitors in your dashboard and trunk. And among some people, the wish for "a chicken in every pot" has moved on to "smoking pot," but that's a completely different post. But I'm finding the ultimate aspect of the American dream, home ownership, to be more of a nightmare.

As you know by now, we're getting ready to sell our house so we can move to the area where we're going to start the church. This means that we now have to fix up the things that we were apathetic about when the house was our alone. We've been painting, trashing, cleaning, and trimming all around our dwelling to make it look nice. I've been pretty motivated to get this stuff done, because I want to get the most out of our investment. But there are those times when I'm tempted to go Backdraft on the place and collect the insurance [see my post from two days ago for a better understanding]. Last night was one of those times.

Since I've been doing a lot of work on the outside of the house, I thought I'd spend last night inside getting a couple of tasks knocked out. When we moved in the exhaust fan in our master bathroom was broken and I swore I'd fix it. About six months ago I even bought a fan to replace it. Last night I opened up the hole leading to our attic and climbed up. I knew I should've started this task back in the days when it was 65 degrees because it was sweltering up there. Just being up there two minutes smothers you with sweat. And I never plan my jobs out well so, when I get up there, I've always forgotten something. So after five round trips up and down the ladder, I came to the conclusion that the cheap fan I bought wouldn't work without me running more wire to it- which I have no desire to do. Fortunately, this morning, I finally made use of my greatest asset: a family of electricians. I called my brother and asked him what to do and he told me how to finagle the fan so I can get it working.

I'll try to finish the job this weekend, but I'm paying the price for not knowing exactly what I needed to do. The insulation in our attic is loose, not that nice Owens Corning Pink Panther stuff. I got that stuff everywhere. I'm itching all over the place today and my contacts are all wacked out because I played around with that crap last night. But I was able to replace one of our faucets [though I did have to make a special trip to Lowe's], so the night wasn't a total loss.

I'm pretty sure that in the past two-and-a-half year of owning this house, I've lost my temper more than I have in any other two-and-a-half year period of my life. It's been a fun place to be, but as things have just arbitrarily broken here and there, I've lost it. I know things aren't supposed to run perfectly forever and maybe God is teaching me some big lesson about my own mortality or something like that, but this sucks. It's a time consuming relationship- between you and the house- that never seems to be finished. Why bother putting that kind of love and time into an inanimate object when people relationships take a similar commitment? Or maybe I'm just lazy.

That's why Kelly and I may get into a condo next. I think I'd rather pay the extra money and subtract some of the hassle than loose ten years off my life when my anger problem causes me to blow a heart valve. Don't get me wrong, it's been a great place to live and I do love the house, but the tiny shards of insulation prodding me this morning are a subtle reminder that an HOA fee might not be as bad as I once thought.

I'll keep on dreaming.

You Could Be My Wingman Anytime

And now for something completely different . . .

Not that I get in to celebrity gossip that much [not counting my subscriptions to People, Star, and the National Enquirer] but what about this whole Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes thing? I just saw Katie on Good Morning America and just listening to her talk about Tom Cruise weirded me out. I think Tom's 41 and Katie's 26- a fifteen year difference. Now I personally know some married people with that age difference and it's not that bad. What makes me go, "ewww" is thinking of how old Katie was while Tom Cruise was making some of his movies.

So according to my research, if Katie was born in 1979, here's where she was when his movies came out:

Taps- 2 years old
Risky Business- 4 years old
Top Gun and The Color of Money- 7 years old
Cock Tail and Rain Man- 9 years old
A Few Good Men- 13 years old

And now you see what I mean. Just think of some of those roles he played and enter Katie Holmes into the movie. For instance, you had Lieutenant Pete Mitchell, Maverick if you prefer, at flight school training with his buddy Goose. He wanders into a target-rich environment with the pre-ER Anthony Edwards, placing a bet to see if he can get himself a woman. Sure he had the opportunity to win over Kelly McGillis with his lady-magnet skills, but he could've skipped the over-the-hill blonde for an opportunity to woo a first-grader. Is it just me, or would the pitiful rendition of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" come across a little icky with Katie sitting on a bar stool in pony-tails and a Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox? He could've switched songs, and beat Pulp Fiction to the punch, by going with, "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon."

But moving full circle here, note the Few Good Men connection. One of Tom's co-stars, Demi Moore has been playing Mrs Robinson [rest in peace Anne Bancroft (who, by the way, was in that movie with Dustin Hoffman who was in Rainman with Tom Cruise)]* with Ashton Kutcher Ironically, these two have the exact same age difference that Tom and Katie. But that one doesn't weird me out as much. I don't know why. Ashton and Demi have been playing it low key whole Tom is jumping on couches on Leno. Is this a mid-life crisis?

Or does Tom just feel the need . . . the need for speed?

* I know what I did up there with the brackets and parenthesis wasn't grammatically correct. But it was necessary for me to accomplish what I wanted. I've never actually done that before, but it felt pretty good. I might try it again sometime.

It Only Takes A Spark

We're in the process of fixing up our house so we can put it on the market. It's funny that, the more stuff we're getting accomplished, the longer the to-do list gets. Last Saturday morning I trimmed some of the tree limbs that were overhanging the house. Tree trimming is a maddening task because it's rewarding to actually cut the branches and see the difference it makes, but you then have to clean up the mess you made which isn't fulfilling and rather time consuming. You have to drag limbs away, break them down into smaller pieces and dispose of them properly. But ah, the disposing- now there's a treat. In my world there's only one proper way to dispose of the branches: burn them.

"Hello, my name is Steve and I'm a pyromaniac." [insert united support group response: "We love you, Steve." here]. I'm sure I'm not the only one, because most red-blooded American males have a certain fascination with burning things. Perhaps it's the pure power of the flame that makes it so attractive. Wielding a power capable of annihilating wood, plastics, and children's toys is rather seductive. I was able to cultivate my skills during my years as a Boy Scout. I bet if I took one of those career placement tests, the kind that tells you what job you'd be best suited for, mine would be an arsonist. You'd think I'd grow out of it by now, but I never have. I resonate with a quote from the early nineties philosopher Beavis who proclaimed, "Fire! Fire! Fire!"

Last summer I bought a burn barrel to use in the backyard. Growing up in rural/suburban area, we could just burn stuff out in the open and not worry about anyone saying anything. In my area of well-manicured lawns and Home Owners Associations, however, I'm not even sure if burning my branches in the burn barrel is legal. Fortunately, I have cool neighbors who aren't rats so I haven't been visited by the police lately. We'll see how long that lasts.

So Sunday and Monday evenings I burned some of the branches I cut down. Not a lot, mind you, but enough to get my clothes smelling like camping. It was wonderful. Yesterday as I was working in the backyard, the wonderful smell still permeated the air, a reminder of the previous nights work. I went over to the barrel only to discover there was still heat emanating from it; the fire was still going. I guess I should've found it alarming that I left the fire burning in my backyard overnight [and through the early afternoon]. But I was sort of proud of my little fire. It had the guts to keep going throughout the night and produce heat on a ninety degree day.

I took a moment, then I got back to work.

I've got lots of stuff left to burn, so I'll be back soon to my fire barrel. Until then, I'll be hearing these lyrics in my head:

"Close your eyes, give me your hand, do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand?
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming?
Or is this burning an eternal flame?"

"Tell Me, Can You Feel It . . . "

I think it's summer. I'm not sure what the signs of the change in season are for you, but two of mine were reached for me yesterday: 1) We left the windows open last night because it was so warm and 2) I turned on the air conditioning in my car yesterday. I'd like to focus on that second one because this is a little early for me to hit the AC in the Explorer. I usually can last until the end of June or early July. But I do declare that yesterday[this statement is for my Hispanic readers out there] I was en fuego.

Yesterday was our church picnic. I'm still at the point where I bore easily at those type of events. I spent a almost an hour talking to people, but then I need something to do [maybe I do suffer from Adult Attention deficit Disorder]. So I got some middle schoolers and high schoolers together and we played some ultimate frisbee.

While you're reviewing the list of things I'm horrible at, add frisbee throwing to it. I suck at it. Interesting enough, my frisbee throws resemble the golf balls I hit- everything hooks to the left. Every once in a while I can get a good throw in there, but I have to look like a dork to accomplish it. I perform this hop-skip type maneuver, in order to get my body square and my hips to turn properly, so I can get the disc to go straight. I know it's difficult to visualize what I just described, so just picture me hurdling over a huge pile of cow dung, attempting to land with clean Nikes. I don't know if that does it for you, but that's how I see it my head. Regardless, I still suck at throwing a frisbee.

So getting back to the story, I went out there and owned those kids. True, it might be pathetic to talk about being superior to a bunch of fifteen year-olds, but I showed them who was the man. It's difficult for me to refrain from being competitive; even at a church picnic pick-up ultimate frisbee game, I give it 110%. True, I probably shouldn't have talked about that one kids mother and her penchant for pastries after he dropped the frisbee and kicking that little girl in the shin was maybe a tad out of line, but I had to establish supremacy. Now when they see me walking the halls of the church, they'll pay homage. They'll know the young adults minister is a bad mothah.

So about the heat: after forty-five minutes of playing I was sucking wind. This camp, where the picnic was held, is situated in a valley surrounded by trees and the combination of the heat and humidity was stifling. And I still had a softball game to get to after the picnic. So upon leaving the camp, I turned on the air conditioning in my car. I had to cool down to play the game. So the AC was flowing, and summer is here.

I really don't think there was a point to this post, but it's supposed to hit the upper 80's throughout the week, so drink plenty of liquids if you're out and about. And, as my wife constantly reminds me, wear sun screen. And go start a pick-up basketball game with some eight year olds to help your self esteem. It always works for me.

Galatians 6:11

My mother-in-law gave me a poster a few years ago from a print shop in Lexington, Kentucky. I never got it framed, but it's one of my favorites and I'll most definitely get it encased one of these days. It's the entire King James Bible printed on a poster. You can't tell that there are even letters on it with your naked eye [or, I guess since the poster was made in Kentucky, I should write it as it would be pronounced there: "neck-kid"]. All you can see are these tiny lines. The print shop was trying to show the powerful detail their new printer could inscribe. With a good magnify glass, you can actually read the thing- if you squint.

I'm thinking of shrinking my blog font. I know this might not seem like a big deal to many of you, but for some of my "older readers" this could be of supreme importance, so you might make your voice known on this issue.

Last night I was l looking back on some old stuff I've blogged about and, in my old blog format, I used a smaller font. Since I made the change over to this new blog look, I've used a "normal size" font. Looking at some old postings, I have to admit that I sorta like the smaller looking font. I've always had a thing for small print. Growing up, I would lay on the carpet directly in front of the television so I could distinguish the small print describing what month the specified APR rate expired on an '85 Yugo. Small fonts look really cool. I like 'em. Of course, maybe that's because I'm not far-sighted yet.

On my last visit to the optometrist [or is it an optician? I'm not quite sure], he told me that I have another ten years or so until I'll need reading glasses. So I'm thinking since it's inevitable, I might as well live it up and enjoy the decade- you know, reading contracts at car dealerships and stuff like that. I mock you, bifocals. It's not my time yet. So leave me alone.

So let me know if reading this is too uncomfortable [I mean the print, not the writing] and I'll make the appropriate change. Oh, and if you can't distinguish this, you're a huge loser. No you're not really. I was just kidding. But you might want to consider using a microscope with your computer.

(I) Mock Turtle (And Wish He Were In A) Soup

I used to like turtles. Now I think I hate them. All of them.

As the weather gets better, Kelly and I like to go for walks after work. We live right by Landen Lake [something we'll miss when we move and become city folk], so it's a beautiful two and a half mile walk around the water to relieve the day's stressful moments. When we got home Monday we changed, put on our walking shoes and went for a stroll around the lake. Early on in the walk, on part of the trail along Simpson Trace, Kelly spied a turtle in the middle of the road. We looked behind us and a jeep was heading straight toward him. Kelly averted her eyes, but the creature somehow survived. Feeling compassion for the poor, defenseless turtle in the middle of the road, I crossed the street to grab him. He had a decent sized shell, about eight inches long, so it was tough for me to grab him in one hand [I could never palm a basketball either]. I was able to get a hold of him, but he didn't act like a normal box turtle and hide in his shell. No, this turtle popped his head out, hissed at me and took a swipe at my hand with his beak or whatever you call that hook-like mouth. Yep, it was a snapping turtle.

I grew up in a farm-like, suburban area where we were in constant contact with wild animals, but I don't think I've seen a snapping turtle in twenty years. Our dog once found this snapping turtle that was huge; his shell was about a foot and a half long. Somewhere we have a Polaroid of my father holding this massive snapping turtle by the leg. I remember that, at the age of ten, I found a turtle of that sheer magnitude frightening enough that I didn't take notice of his constant snapping. But now that I think about, that turtle took a bite out of our dog's nose. If, when Kelly pointed out the turtle in the road, I had remembered the attributes of that turtle so long ago, I most likely would've left him in the street to suffer death by Lexus.

So when the turtle took a swipe at my hand, I went into my form of survival mode and flung him into the grassy median in the middle of the road. At this point I was ticked off at the critter, but still worried about his well being so I continued the rescue mission. I grabbed him again by the shell and he repeated his gesture of self defense, trying to take off one of my fingers [later I was tempted to offer him one of my digits free of charge]. This time I dropped him on the asphalt; he landed like a hubcap, briefly swiveling from side-to-side. I decided to end the escapade by then kicking said turtle across the road into the grass. As we walked away, the turtle was still hissing at me, totally unaware that I had probably saved his Shredder-hatin' shell from extinction.

Now I could end this story with some allegory about how my saving the turtle and him being unaware that I was helping and not hurting is just like blah, blah, blah [insert spiritual lesson here]. But I don't give a rip. That turtle sucked. I want to go back a kick it again. My lesson is always let the animal in the middle of the road die. If the good Lord didn't want them to get hit by automobiles, He wouldn't have invented paved roads.

And I might never wear a turtleneck again.

God is definitely good

Some days you sit down to blog and there's nothing; you're just rummaging through the garbage for something to get by on. Then there are days when there's so much to talk about that you haven't got the time to write it all. This is one of those days. So I'm not sure whether or not I should us it all up today or spread it out over a few days. I'll just get to it and see where I end up.
Yesterday was an incredible experience as I met with the pastors of the Disciples of Christ church we're looking at renting for our new church. It's cool to look at things that have happened and see God's fingerprints all over it. Let me give you some background.

A few weeks ago, Aaron and I started to look for a place where our church could meet. We discovered that urban Cincinnati doesn't provide many options when it comes to affordable meeting space. That's one of the reasons our church is going to meet during the evenings on Sundays: a lot of church buildings sit unused on Sunday nights and some of these churches wouldn't mind letting someone else use it and make a few rental bucks in the process. So we scanned the neighborhoods for churches and weren't finding what we were looking for.

A wrong turn actually led us to the building we found. It was an one-hundred year old church building located in a great location. Despite this, I wasn't too sure about stopping in, but Aaron insisted that we should go inside and check it out. We parked the car and knocked on the door and no one was there. Just as we were getting ready to leave, a gentleman pulled into the parking lot. His name was Michael and he was the co-chairman of their church board. We told him who we were and what we were planning on doing and he was really receptive on our plans. He showed us the sanctuary and it was perfect. It seats about three hundred people, so there's plenty of space to grow. The sanctuary is lined with oak pews and is decorated with beautiful stained glass all along the walls. Isn't funny how, for years, churches didn't want to be associated with buildings that looked like this [old and tradition] and now people like me get excited about them?

Well, we switched information and got in contact with the co-pastors of the church, whom I met with yesterday. These ladies, Carol and Cheryl, were absolutely wonderful and before I really told them what we wanted to do, they were acting like we were already approved. They showed me around the building and it's perfect for what we need- plenty of space for child care, additional meeting space and even a baptistery. It's like God just plopped this thing in our laps to use. And when we talked about rental fee, they stated that they weren't interested in making a ton of money but were more concerned about reaching the neighborhood. I left the building grinning ear-to-ear, knowing that we were being taken care of. It was awesome.

It's not 100% sure yet. There's still a board meeting in June to talk about, where we would get final approval. But it looks like it'll happen. I'm thrilled to be a part of this ride that God is going to take us on during the next few years. With days like yesterday, I'm ready to charge the gates of hell with a Super-Soaker. Just thought I'd share.

OK, I'm done for now. I'll get to those other stories later. So at least there's something left for me to write about.

Now Is The Time

Well it's official: we're starting a church.

I'm sorry if some of you haven't been informed yet, but Kelly and I will be leaving Christ's Church at Mason this fall and teaming you with our friends Aaron and Dorota Burgess to start a new church near downtown Cincinnati. It's been funny to have this decision hanging over my head for the past few months and not be able to write about it here. This will be one of the most monumental events in my life and I've been longing for the opportunity to reflect about it. So let me fill you in on some of the details that have brought us to this decision.

Ever since college, I knew I wanted to start a new church. I thought it would be exciting to guide a new community into the future, with no history or dogmas to hold us back. I was just never quite sure when or where it would all work out. My ministries took me and Kelly all over the Greater Cincinnati area where we had the opportunity to learn and grow, but my passion for starting a new church waned. Just a couple of years ago, I thought I decided never to plant* a church because of my rebellious attitude. It's sometimes difficult for me to be submissive and I thought that me starting a new church would give in to my James Dean-ish problem with authority. But during the past few years I discovered that I [usually] am respectful of other's authority; it's not like me to do things just to tick people off. So I really had no excuse not to plant a church. I was just being a wussy.

I didn't want to leave behind what we have here. It's not that ministers rake in cash, but there is some security in working in an established church. If you work hard and care about the people you minister to, you can make a nice existence for yourself. You know that you'll get a consistent paycheck [that won't bounce] and if you scrimp and save, you can really enjoy life. Kelly and I have loved life while at CCM and feel rather comfortable here. We have a wonderful house in a great neighborhood, and we're surrounded by many friends we've made here. But since the beginning of the year we've been praying for God to do something in our lives. We were using our trip to Israel as an opportunity to let God speak to us. And He did.

During the trip Kelly and I talked about church, life and the future. We talked about the talents and abilities we could use in a church that we weren't using right now. But I think one of the biggest things to influence us was being in a culture where there were so many people didn't know Jesus and our hearts going out for them. It all culminated the Friday night after we got back from Israel, while sitting in an O'Charley's restaurant, with Kelly and I staring at each other. We weren't very talkative, somewhat exhausted from our travels. Kelly got a bit misty eyed and said, "We have to leave." She wasn't talking about the restaurant- she meant Mason. This is somewhat important to note, because in our relationship, I'm always the one who wants to blaze through decisions and move swiftly. But I know God is behind it if Kelly is there 100%. It's held true every time we've made a decision like this, and this was no different.

So that was March and here we are at the beginning of June. In between you've missed more prayer and meetings and discussions that are getting this thing rolling. We're not going the tradition church planting route by any means here. Actually, I guess you could say we're following the Field of Dreams "If you build it they will come" church planting philosophy. There's a lot to get done, from getting people and money and plans together. We're planning on beginning Sunday evening October 16th [most church plants begin their planning more than a year in advance, so you could say we're behind the eight ball here]. But we're not worried. If this is what God wants, it'll work. And if not, you'll still be able to see me at McDonalds. Just don't yell at me if I forget to give you the Egg McMuffin you ordered.

This morning at 11:00 we'll be taking an important early step in getting things going. I'm meeting with a church near downtown about renting their building on Sunday nights where we can have our gatherings. So if you could drop a prayer about that, I'd appreciate it. I'll keep you posted on how things go.

So now is the time. Can't wait to see what happens.

*"Planting a church" is the widely accepted evangelical terminology for starting a new church. I'm not much of a horticulturist [I kill just about every green thing I touch], so I'm not to big on the phrase "church planting." I guess I'm a tad fearful of thinking that if I effect this new church the way I do greenery, then we're screwed. If you have any ideas of what else to call it, be sure to let me know. I've got nothing.

I'm poor?

Warning: Guilt trip ahead

I've hear many a college student lament, "I'm poor." I've never liked hearing people say that phrase. When I was growing up I had some friends who always dropped "we're poor" about their family and it drove me crazy. They lived in a house in the suburbs, their parents had two vehicles and they never starved a day in their lives. Well for all of you who have used this phrase, it's time you put it to the test. Click on this website called Global Rich List, enter how much money you make a year and it'll tell you where you rank in the world's earnings. For example, just by my own salary, there are 5.8 billion people in the world poorer than me. If I add together mine and Kelly's salary, it says we're in the top 1% of the richest people in the world.

I don't know how accurate their formula is, but we do live in the most affluent nation in the world. So stop your whining and appreciate all God has given you.

About Living

There's this little boy who attended our church with his family that developed cancer about six years ago. Benjamin's family doesn't come to Christ's Church anymore but his grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins do, so we still have some connections to him. A few weeks ago, he was put back in the hospital again. So last Friday, the day of the week I do hospital calls, I went Childrens Hospital to see him and he was in horrible shape. He was in a forced coma because he was working against the breathing machine they had him hooked up to. The poor little thing looked horrible. It didn't strike me until I was in his room that I remembered the last time I was in that wing of the hospital.

When Kelly and I were just married, there was a little girl from her home church in Lexington that was fighting leukemia. They brought her up here to Childrens and, because they really didn't know anyone in the city, we decided to check in with her once a week. Krystal Lafoon was eight years old and as precocious as they come. She had this rich southern accent and the accompanying Dixie attitude. We would play games with her. Kelly would help her color or do crafts. I'd tell her jokes and she'd give me a sarcastic glare that said, "You're not as funny as you think you are." It was a great way for us to start the first months of marriage and full-time ministry. Krystal was good for us. Fortunately she got well enough that they sent her home, but it wasn't more than a few months later that she was right back up here at Childrens. I remember when I went to see her that last time. Kel was at work and I went by myself. Krystal looked horrible. There were more tubes sticking out of her than I've ever seen; she was exhausted. I tried making her laugh again but she didn't even have the strength to glare at me. I knew it wouldn't last much longer. Krystal died within a couple of weeks.

It was so tough to deal with God during that time. In seminary, I had been taught all the "Bible answers" and the appropriate things to say and feel in situations like that. I was told not to be angry with God because it wasn't His fault, but the real culprit was sin. God made the world perfect, but when man sinned it brought death into the world. The rest of us, throughout the history of the world, have had to deal with the problem ever since. It might have been theologically correct, but it all seemed like crap. Where is God when little children who've never harmed a soul are forced to suffer such pain? Why isn't He protecting the innocent? In the past eight or so years of being in the ministry, it hasn't gotten easier. But I've taken a healthier approach of how to deal with God during times like these.

I get angry at Him.

Sounds a bit blasphemous, doesn't it? But I promise it isn't. Anger isn't necessarily sin. It can turn into sin, but it doesn't have to. Psalm 4:4 says, "In your anger, do not sin." When someone offends me, even if their offense wasn't a sin, I get angry. In instances like a child dying, I can feel offended by God and angry but not be sinful.

And you can be angry with God and not be in danger of being snuffed out. Life's not fair. He knows that. We all don't get the opportunity to live the happy, perfectly fulfilled lives that we long for ourselves and our loved ones. We need to feel the freedom to wrestle with God about the way He works and moves in the world. If He angers you, let Him know. Fearlessly. He created the world, so He has pretty broad shoulders. God can handle all our questions and frustrations.

But while you're experimenting in this new found freedom, don't go off the deep end. There are too many times that we don't acknowledge God for the many blessings he sends our way. Life itself is a wonderful gift and, despite all the junk we have to put up with, is probably a lot better than we realize. Go watch Hotel Rwanda and then complain about how horrible your life is. So anger is just one emotion that we should emit before the Lord. You have a whole palate of emotions with which to present to God.

A couple I went to college with lost a child in pregnancy last year. In a blog entry reflecting on the experience, he recited the following song lyrics, which resonated with me as well:

"You give and take away.
You give and take away.
My heart will choose to say,
'Lord, blessed be your name.'"

There's the point. God is still in control and has a purpose in all He is doing. We need to return to Him, after times of anger and frustration, and acknowledge Him as the giver of life. No one's saying it's easy, but we have to trust the God knows what He's doing.

Let me wrap all this us with Benjamin and Krystal.

When we came to CCM we got to know Mark Mueller, one of our church's elders. He's the patient/family liaison down at the cancer/leukemia ward at Childrens Hospital. Through conversations about his job, we found out that he actually worked with Krystal and her family. It was wonderful to tell our stories of her and have someone else remember what a special little girl she was. Even though it was a short lived life, filled with pain and struggle, she was always happy. She was indeed a special little girl, and everyone who knew her could testify to it.

During this latest struggle with his disease, Benjamin's mother was pregnant. His mom gave birth to a little girl on Tuesday afternoon. Afterward they told Benjamin's mom that her son had taken a turn for the worst. They had to ambulance her over to Childrens, and she got to see Benjamin one last time. He passed away four hours after his mother had given birth- yes, he died the same day his little sister was born.

And they named her, "Faith."

Who's Your Daddy, Luke?

I never realized how much Star Wars was a part of my life until I bought the DVDs of the first trilogy. After watching those movies my mind was flooded with thoughts of my childhood and how much I loved Star Wars. I guess I'll have a connection with those three movies until I die.

That being said, I thought I would feel a sense of completion as Kelly and I finally saw Revenge of the Sith on Monday. It just didn't happen. I absolutely disliked the first two episodes, but was encouraged at all the positive comments coming out about this movie. I left wondering what movie those people had watched. And I think I'm not the only one experiencing this frustration. Here are my thoughts after watching Episode 3:

At least now I know. After waiting almost ten years, from the announcement of George Lucas' plan to make the movies until now, we finally know what the first three installments were supposed to look like. That doesn't mean it was worth it. In retrospect, I wish Lucas had never made the movies. All I really wanted to know could've been summed up in the last hour of the third movie. Maybe I'm being a little hard on him. It's not like the Wachowski brothers did anything with the sequels of their smash The Matrix. But after what Peter Jackson did with The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, and with a lot less CGI effects, Lucas should be embarrassed. Yet despite that . . .

It was visually stunning. It's amazing what they can do with computers now. Just watch the character of Yoda who went from hand puppet to fully fledged action hero. But the next generation of movie makers are going to have to struggle with how many computer generated effects to use. It might become fashionable to do high impact, action movies with little to no CGI.

There was no suspense in the story line at all. Obviously, we know how it was going to turn out: Vader, Luke, Leia, Obi Wan, Empire verses Rebels, yada, yada, yada. But this movie had no suspense like the first trilogy. Lucas has stated that he would encourage future generations to view the movies one through six, instead of how they came out but that would kill some of the best parts: a little green critter is the great Jedi master or Vader is Luke's father. I believe Lucas still could have kept some things mysterious, but he didn't give a rip.

It was the worst dialogue ever. Seriously, I just saw a middle school play that had better dialogue than this movie had. Why, why George didn't you get someone else to script this out for you? You might think this is nit-picky, but poor dialogue creates a definite cheese factor that these three movies have been fighting.

Still unanswered questions. How do the rebel forces get organized? What is Leia actually princess of? Why don't we see Boba Fett growing up? What happens to Jar Jar after the funeral?
It just seems that these movies weren't planned out well. And we get what we get.

So everyone says this one was better than the first two episodes. So what? Those movies were horrible. I'm just really disappointed. I guess I would still suggest Star Wars fans go and see Sith, but go with low expectations. Personally, I'm going to forget these past three movies were ever created.

I Am Softball Guy

Softball guy is the guy who has little left in life but this game. Now just because a guy loves to play softball and plays a lot, doesn't necessarily make him softball guy. Softball guy knows his batting average. Softball guy has softball specific warm-up equipment. Softball guy is able to recall different games situations in total clarity months after the fact. Friends, I'm afraid I'm this close to becoming softball guy.

Yesterday was our first co-ed softball game of the year. Yes, talking about your softball performance is one of the most pathetic things in the world and is the road that leads to softball guy, but I've still gotta break it down.

I went 2 for 3 in the game, which wouldn't be too bad, except for that one out, I struck out swinging. Yes, I struck out in softball. No one strikes out in softball. Interestingly enough, I usually strike out about twice a year, but never this early in the season. I've lamented before that I don't have the best athletic ability and sometimes I try too hard to make things happen. We were down by 12 runs and I wanted to crush one. Yet the only thing I demolished was my pride.

All things considered, I had a decent game, but I tend to dwell on the negative. I have a hard time letting go. I'll probably have to go hit the batting cages this week just so I can recover mentally. But then again, if I hit the batting cages, that means I'm taking the sport too seriously again and I'm embracing softball guy status. Oh the dilemma. What to do?

But so what if I become softball guy? I just love playing ball. Putting your glove on, running out on the grass, legging a single into a double . . . it's a great game. I suppose the older I get, the less pride I'll have to have about it, so I'm just preparing myself for the inevitable. I am softball guy in the works, so be prepared. Maybe, then, it's ironic that my current batting average is 666.

*By the way, I'd be doing her an injustice if I didn't bring up the fact that my wife took a softball to the forehead yesterday. Our shortstop has a canon for an arm and the balls he throws have some incredible movement on them. So while Kelly received the throw at first base, the ball had serious action and deflected off her glove, through her cranium. She was a trooper and wanted to finish the game, but we were down huge by that point and it wouldn't have made a difference so she sat it out. Her forehead has a nice knot on it that, fortunately, her bangs cover up. So here's to my little unicorn for being tough as iron. That's just another thing I love about her.

It's easy like . . .

Sunday morning. Or shall I call it "game day."

It's one of the strangest times of my week, so I thought I'd let you in on how it works for me. As a minister, I'm usually up early on Sundays to get to the church and prepare for what lies ahead. Late Saturday night, using between the commercials of Saturday Night Live, I get all my clothes and toiletries [yeah, I used that word] ready in our other bathroom so Kelly can sleep in. After showering and doing my make-up, I'm out of the house in about twenty minutes.

Sunday mornings is the only day of the week I take the long commute: down Montgomery to Fields Ertle to Mason Montgomery. If I were to do that trek on a weekend, it would take me twenty minutes to get to church. But I love it on Sunday because no one's there; it a ghost town. I make my obligatory stop at UDF for a Diet Coke and then park my Explorer on the street next to the church. Then comes the walk.

It's about an 150 yard walk from where I park my car to the door. Honestly, it's become one of my favorite times of my week. It's not so fun in the winter, but in the spring, summer and fall it's wonderful. The sun peeks over Western Row golf course and I get a few moments of reflection and prayer by which to clear my mind. Just me, some Canadian geese, and God as I start my day.

The church is already unlocked because Tom is the there way before anyone else., but I'm usually the second person there. Whenever he's traveling, I walk around the building and unlock doors and turn on lights. It's a big stinkin' church, so whenever I unlock, it take awhile. Then I hit my office and do a little work. Since I've been blogging, I devote some of this time to write a little. I look over my lessons for the mornings and then talk to people as they come in.

But what's fun is I usually spend the first hour of my day in silence. Not really talking to anyone, just listening- to the world, to nature, well . . . to God really. Loving the opportunity to worship Him. And I get paid for this. Life isn't too shabby at all.

Tana's Swan Song

Just so I can claim to be somewhat consistent, in guitar related news, I sold one of my guitars yesterday on Ebay. I bought this one about five years ago. It's a cutaway acoustic/electric with a really beautiful black and gray body. I really love the way it looks, but rarely play it anymore so it made no sense to let it sit around unused. So now I'm back to two guitars and two cases [I haven't head enough cases for all my guitars since I was in college], so life is good.

I really want to talk about the Apprentice finale last night. We've seen every "last episode" of the show's three seasons and they've all been pretty bad. Mark Burnett, the creator of Survivor, is the producer of The Apprentice, and he usually does some great finales with them, so I'm disappointed at how bad The Apprentice's last episodes turn out. It could be Donald Trump's fault because he gets more face time in the finale than in any other show of the season. He's not as smooth as he thinks he is. But last night was horrible.

Everyone knew going into the show last night that Kendra was going to win. Even though she can come off as annoying, she did everything she needed to do to win the competition. She was the most qualified female yet in the show's history. Even though she cried tears of happiness before The Don, she was the stellar candidate.

There there's Tana. She did just about everything she needed to not win. She was horrible in her final task but kept trying to spin it as if it went perfectly. The Mary Kay salesman from Iowa thinks she could sell popsicles to Eskimos in Alaska. Yet she was totally oblivious [just recall the episode when she claimed to be a MILF- don't ask]. Tana reminded me of a hopped-up kindergarten teacher who talks to you like you're an idiot. There was no way she was winning.

So all that being said, there was no suspense in the episode. Kendra was going to be the clear-cut winner, but they tried to make us think it was up-for-grabs. And they only had an hour to get it all done. Usually the final is 2 hours long, but they shortened it so the could get an ER in at 10:00. So instead of naming the winner quickly and talking to all the other contestants to see how crazy they really are, they drug out the announcement for the entire hour [and even had the audacity to use the first fifteen minutes of the as a season recap]. Boo, I say. Boo indeed.

Best part of the show: they announce the high level jobs in the Trump organization from which Tana or Kendra will choose. First year's winner Bill got a skyscraper in Chicago. Last year's winner Kelly got a highrise in Florida. What do the ladies get offered? The Miss Universe pageant. Brilliant. I haven't searched the web this morning, but I'm sure no one in the media will see the sexism in offering the two women a chance to run a beauty pageant.

This was by far the weakest Apprentice field ever. You gotta be kidding me that, out of a million applicants, these were the best of the best. Memo to Trump and Burnett: do better next time or I'm switching to CSI.

Back to Guitar Week

I took my off day yesterday and didn't have the will to post, but I did think about this topic:

My Favorite Guitar String

There are six strings on a standard guitar: low E, A, D, G, B, and high E. It probably seems like a weird discussion, talking about my favorite string. And no, this isn't an excuse to drop: my favorite is the G-string [although ironically, this is always the string I bust when playing]. I was just thinking yesterday that without the high-E string on the guitar, I probably don't like playing as much. This isn't just nonsense- I have my reasons.

1) It's easily accessible. The main reason that most guitar players don't get past playing chords is that they're too many strings to hit. Take the six strings on the guitar, and pick a riff where you have to vacillate [big word] between the two, and it gets rather tricky. It can be difficult to play the correct string without staring at it. But if you play a riff where everything is on the E-string and you don't have to worry about other strings getting in the way; it's right there on the bottom. Plus, in fingering the note on the fingerboard, you're unobstructed by the other strings in hitting the proper fret. Any riffs I've ever played while leading worship have been on the E-string.

2) It sounds good. It might not be manly to enjoy the higher sounds on the guitar, but I do. In a band setting, you usually have a bass player, so it's not as important for people to hear your lowering string. The beauty of the instrument is found in the E-string, presenting a harp-like sound. Nice.

3) It's in the key of E. Yeah, that sounds obvious, but it's perfect. I think the key of E is the best sounding key you can play in with a guitar. When not played, it resonates well, and when you need to play it while in E, there are tons of variations you can do with it.

So if you play, let me know what your favorite string is. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only E-fan around.

Until later, take it E-Z. Get it? I slay me.

Guitar Week Over?

This is my problem in life: I'm a starter and not a finisher. I'm awesome at getting things going, but I bore easily, get distracted and leave things dangling. As committed as I was to Guitar Week, I've already found something else I wanted to talk about. So maybe I'll get back to the guitars tomorrow, but now some Bob Huggins talk.

I don't want to talk about the whole UC Basketball thing here, because most people who know me know that I'm a big Huggins guy. But yesterday I read an article by a columnist in the Cincinnati Enquirer about Huggins leaving UC. Paul Daugherty was making a point that if Huggins is fired, it's not the end of the world. Here's what he wrote:

"There was no confusion in Clifton in 1989, when UC hired Huggins. There is now. Meanwhile, what is everyone so afraid of? Chicken Little UC supporters would have you believe if Huggins leaves, the Bearcats will start scheduling home-and-home with Cincinnati Bible. Huggins is the only line of defense between UC basketball and Wednesday morning at the YMCA."

Um, yes, that was a bash on my alma mater. By the way Paul, it is no longer Cincinnati Bible, but Cincinnati Christian University. I was down at the school for a fund raising breakfast this morning and found out the David Faust, President of CCU, wrote a response to Daugherty about his comments. All I can say if, "ouch."

But I found it interesting because in that article my two worlds collided. Even though I'm a huge UC fan, I never attended class there. I still own no CCU apparel, while a Bearcat logo graces my office wall. Maybe, just maybe, one day my alma mater will be able to make Daugherty eat his words.

Or maybe I'll keep pretending I graduated from UC.

Guitar Week

So apparently no one really cared to submit a theme of the week. You know what? That's fine with me. I can run this ship all by myself. I've been doing it for months already, so don't worry about me. You'll just keep on getting what I give ya.

I've deemed this guitar week. This month marks the 12th year that I've been playing the guitar, so I thought I'd pay homage to the anniversary by talking about my guitar experience. Today I'll fill you in on how I got started playing.

I played the violin, thanks to Oak Hills music program, for ten years [from third grade till I graduated high school]. I was pretty good at it for not having taken private lessons, but I knew I didn't want to play it forever. You can't really sing along with the violin, plus it was never the kind of instrument that got you chicks. Since I was used to playing a stringed instrument, jumping to the guitar was pretty natural.

When I was seventeen, I borrowed a guitar from a friend along with a chart of chords and kept teaching myself stuff. It was definitely a slow process at first, and a painful experience for my family who had to listen to me learn; you really learn how much people love you when you're learning to play the guitar. That Christmas I received my very first guitar- a cheap Yamaha beginners model. It wasn't anything special but it had a darker finish that gave it a unique look. A year later I knew 7 chords and was still learning how to strum.

Then I started college, where a few people in the dorms who played taught me a few more tricks. I got a lot better during my freshman year, but sorta rested on my laurels and stopped learning. I began to lead a little worship here and there, but still wasn't very good. After graduating I began a youth ministry and it became imperative that I start playing more in order to lead worship. It was then that my playing took off. The calluses on my fingertips became permanent, I taught myself to finger pick [even though I still only use three fingers to do so] and learned a little bit about music theory. In the past seven years my playing has accelerated to the point that I lead worship on a consist basis for our Focus service. I'll be the first to admit they I'm not really that good, but I know enough now to fake it.

I can't believe I've been playing this long. I'm so glad I taught myself to play. It's therapeutic, when you're having a bad day, to pick up the guitar, strum hard, and musically beat the crap out of it. If you've ever had the desire, I'd encourage you to get a an old guitar, surf the web for a chord fingering chart and have a go at it. I swear, it's not that complicated. And if you give it a few years, you can be better than you think.

Vote For Beit Carr Theme Of The Week

"Bloggin' ain't easy"

It's true. Everyday you have to come up with something new to talk about. And when people expect humor and insight, the demand can become overwhelming. So I need a vacation. But I'm not gonna use it to stop bloggin'. Instead I want a break from having to come up with topics. So I'm instituting the first ever contest to choose the . . .

BEIT CARR

THEME OF THE WEEK

At the end of this post, you comment on what you want me to talk about next week and I pick the best response to be the theme for all the postings for next week's blog. So you have all weekend to give me your idea. Then see if you're topic is chosen as the . . .

BEIT CARR

THEME OF THE WEEK

My, Grandma, what a big font you have.

"You will eat a dog and not even know it"

I never really liked Chinese food until after I finished college. In my first ministry, when it came to lunch time, there was a certain office lunch schedule,where once ever couple of weeks we did Chinese. It did disturb me a bit that the place we ordered food from was right next door to a pet store, but I developed an appreciation for the food anyway.

One of my favorite parts of the meal is the fortune cookie. But unlike most people, I don't give a rip about the fortune; I just like the odd taste of that cookie. I know there aren't that many of us out there who love eating those cookies, but stop hiding your heads in shame. It's a glorious delicacy and we should fearlessly admit how we love them so. Just typing this I'm thinking of the stale, wonderful morsel capable of slicing open my gums with one mis-chew.

My ears perked, then, this morning as I heard the news report of the fortune cookie that won the lottery. There was a Powerball drawing back on March 30th produced 110 winners. Statistically, this seemed too many, so lottery officials did some investigation and discovered that almost all the winners picked their numbers according to their fortune found in a cookie. From the news report on Yahoo:

"The fortune cookie featured six lucky numbers. The first five were good enough for six-figure prizes, The sixth figure, needed for the jackpot of $25.5 million, was listed as 40, when the winning number was 42. A Tennessee man who shunned fortune cookie luck landed the biggest prize."

Interesting. Just a few thoughts about the great cookie caper. . .

1) I never thought anybody was dumb enough to actually bet the lottery on numbers from their fortune cookie. On the news this morning, when they reported from the cookie factory that produced the numbers, that the numbers are selected at random from a big fish bowl and put on the paper. So those numbers were selected at random- twice.

2) I wonder what it's like to work at a fortune cookie factory. None of the workers bet on the numbers, but then again, they see thousands of combinations of numbers every week. But what would it be like to work there? Say you go to the bathroom and a co-worker mutters, "You will go number 2 and there will be no toilet paper." Do you believe them?

3) I guess the point of this whole story is fortune cookies aren't just good to eat, but capable of making you money. Maybe this is the way God has been wanting to speak to me and I've instead chosen to gorge myself on the sweetened vessel. There's a deep, spiritual lesson somewhere here. I'll let you know if I find it.