Signs in the Sky

New Blog Location!

2011-10-18T15:05:00.000-07:00

Greetings all you cool cats!

I just wanted to send a quick message to let you know that I have moved my blog to Wordpress. If you have deeply seated disagreements with this, I hope you can one day forgive me.

If you're interested in keeping up with my writings, the new address is:

http://isimkins.wordpress.com

Thanks so much, all!

Osama

2011-05-01T21:12:00.000-07:00

Sunday, May 1st - President Obama announces to the world that Osama bin Laden is dead. The following is a fascinating snapshot my Facebook newsfeed during the time of this announcement. I very much welcome your thoughts and comments.

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So death is supposed to be sad, not this one! Bin Laden, we got you!

Osama is dead, wonder what will happen next?

America, F*** YEAH! FREEDOM IS THE ONLY WAY YEAH!

R.I.P... NOT! About time... :)

this night is killing me. why, why, why, why are we celebrating a system that is built on killing and destroying and lying and hurting?

may1st is now a holiday- osama bin ladens death.

now who will deliver presents on christmas eve?

Team America!

This is exactly why our militay was put into action 10 years ago....without the war on terror this would never have been a possibility...just wanted to reiterate the thanks to our MILITARY!!!!

Great day in American history!

saddens me to read about all of this violent chaos happening globally :( sigh...

The fact that some people don't care that Osama Bin Laden is dead disgusts me. It's not about the war or stopping it...its about the fact that he killed so many and this is justice. People honestly disgust me.

has to think of a new nickname... Osama Jim Laden is out.

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwhat now Osama?

The US has Osama's body, I hear we are gonna draw and quarter and send it to the four corners of our empire!

My Facebook feed consists of Osama Bin Laden and one person mowing their lawn at 10pm.

I'm glad Osama got what was coming to him, but I'm just curious to see what kind of retaliation the radicals are going to perform.

HOPEFULLY THE GAS WILL GO DOWN IN PRICE NOW! LOL BIN LADEN IS DEAD.

cool now we can get better healthcare more jobs and flying cars right?....Right?

Totally have chills right now:) so proud of those serving our country:)

Wait, you mean we didn't get Osama during Operation Iraqi Freedom? It only took us a decade to get the f***er.

lol facebook status up 1000% in patriotism in the past 10 minutes... Osama Bin Killed ;)

Well Bin Laden, I'll see you in hell

Never been so happy to hear someone was killed!

Bin Laden's death won't change a damn thing. Sorry.

Hell yes!!! Bin Laden is finally where he belongs!!!

Would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when the President received that phone call.

its been 10 minutes n there r still less posts on bin ladens death than when michael jackson died or the rev.

What a nice touch to my lazy Sunday

Wow I thought the blackhawks made Facebook blow up....

justice is best served cold. hell yeah.

‎10 years ago my dad woke me up and told me to come watch the t.v., I just called him in Iraq to turn on is. what an iconic day this is... in the midst of the celebration of Bin Laden's death... be sure to pray for those who are still in Iraq, like my dad, and for the U.S. in general... there will be retaliation.

Its been real, bin laden.

Got that son of a bitch!!!

OSAMA BIN LADEN IS DEAD! THANK GOD!

Our great American military has pursued and killed Osama Bin Laden! Thank you for your service to our country, US Troops! Your sacrifice is appreciated!

Congratulations to the U.S.A. Military and the crew that dropped the bomb that FINALLY killed Bin Laden!! You have all sacrificed so much and I am proud of each and everyone of you!! And proud to be an American!!

Long live AMERICA!!!

ok bin ladens dead kool now put back on my show

Where were you when you heard Bin Laden was no longer a threat?

Apparently I was on Facebook...

Ok, he's dead... PUT BACK Celebrity Apprentice!!!!!!!

‎...my dad texts me saying he thinks Obama is making an announcement that Osama Bin Laden is dead. Two minutes later, Fox News confirms he's dead. My dad: "I hope they're not quoting me. I could get in so much trouble for this."

Osama bin laden is dead...thanks George W. Bush for doing your job, and thank Barack Obama for announcing it.

It's a little disheartening that the banner of our country will be flown higher than the banner of Christ today...

Too bad this probably won't stop al queda.... Still pray for the safety of our soldiers and for safety here on the home front...

Why does wgn have a "sexy" bin laden pic?

So what, Bin Laddens dead... His 15 minutes of fame was up back in 2000.!

Wow. Surprised at the relief I feel at the news of Osama's likely death...

wants to know who is this Osama Bin Laden everyone is speaking of?!

Nine years, seven months, two weeks, and six days after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, Osama bin Laden has been killed by the US military. I couldn't be more proud of those who serve in our military and who have lost their lives over the past ten years.

Osama bin laden that bastard is dead hell yeah!!

Bin Laden=Dead AMERICA!!!

now if only waldo was this easy to find

THEY GOT BIN LADIN! Ding dog bin ladins dead! :)

bring the troops home! thank you to all the heroes who fought for this day. USA ! USA! USA!

This is a goodnight! Tomorrow the whole world will be a better place. I know Chuck Norris played big role in taking down Bin Laden!

I think Bin Laden just overloaded Facebook, His ultimate terrorist plot!

Gadhafi's son and some grandchildren killed yesterday. Bin Laden killed today. Didn't your parents teach you not to put your address and important personal info all over your Facebook profiles?

Bin Laden bin owned

Yeah! Bin Laden goes down! Sup now Al Qaeda!

supposedly they bombed bin laden in his mansion of course america the last place ull ever expect to find him- his house. i hope this isnt truth cuz we're gonna look rly stupid

Team America, FOR THE WIN. And some of you call me a non-patriot... HA!

If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? I'm sorry but I am sadden by murder in all forms.

Is it bad if when my grandmother told me theres a press conference about Osama Bin Laden being dead and I said "meh" and switched to Bones? I figured he die sooner or later. -_-

BIN LADEN IS DEAD! That makes me so happy and so scared at the same time...

well i guess i will do it too..... OSAMA BIN LADEN IS DEAD!!!!!!!!! bitch u ran for 10 years but UR DEAD!!!!! hahaha!!

Today is one of America's proudest moments. Regardless of your views and opinions, today is a day we should celebrate and listen to our commander in chief speak on the historic moment.

Not sure if it is a proud moment or a showing moment but a "USA" chant is going in the stands in Philly as the news spreads about Osama's death.

Great Osama is dead...Now where the fuck am I suppose to get my exploding teddy bears.

Hey Fox Live, who's Usama Bin Laden? Epic. Spelling. Fail.

With Osama Bin Laden dead, I think it is safe to say we can re-write Dante Alighieri's "The Inferno" and replace Cassius and Brutus in Satan's mouth with Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein.

justice served......ten years late

Obama-rama!

Does anyone else find it suspicious that just in time for Obama's time for re-election they trot out the news saying that Osama is dead? If he was killed in a missile strike there's no way his body could have been identified. I think he has been dead longer than just a week.

“Man cannot live without love. He remains a being that is incomprehensible for himself, his life is senseless, if love is not revealed to him, if he does not encounter love, if he does not experience love and make it his own, if he does not participate intimately in it.”

-Blessed John Paul II (From the encyclical Redemptor Hominis)

Dear Osama Bin Laden, .. I WIN! Sincerely, Waldo

It's good to know chuck Norris was in Pakistan.

Yes I'm happy that there was some justice tonight but I struggle to believe that it is reason to forget, or even stop talking, about the problems we still have in our own country. Where is our governments priorities? Obama got his self proclaimed #1 target so now what does he have planned?

Ps. Everyone praising America for Osama Bin Laden's reported death: I think it is kind of weird/morbid to speak so jubilantly about it. I understand where it comes from, but I don't particularly like it.

Holy cow. Still trying to process the news of Bin Laden's death.

Obama killed Osama when no one else could, lets all vote to re-elect him!

i hope the man who shot osama bin ladin gets a congretional medal of honor and osama's head to put on the mantle piece of his fireplace

Thank you to the men and women that made today possible! Praying for the families that lost a loved one on 9-11. This will be a whole bag of mixed feelings!

Now that's my president! Today like everyday I'm proud to be an American! Thank you US military special forces for getting the job done!

We're sounding pretty ignorant right now, America. Maybe dial it back juuuuust a tad?

And this is why I love my major, criminal effing justice!

In the words of the illustrious Uncle Rico... "Right on... Right on."

High Fives to the troops.

Rejoicing death is a little too much for me. I'll be celebrating love tonight.

If anything i hope that this means i can now start bringing my shampoo and hairspray with me when i travel

Thankful that our country has remained safe since 9/11. Some may call bin laden's death "karma".

I call it the result of God's faithfulness and the sacrifice of the men and women of the US military.

‎"America can do anything it sets it's mind to" - Obama. AKA 'Mericuh can do what it wants haha

lost 4 friends due to osama statuses....someone mad?

MSNBC mentioned a flash mob in NYC singing "We are the Champions". Yikes.

The death toll of the September 11th attacks far outnumbered those of Pearl Harbor. Bin Laden is dead, what a day of victory!!!

so on google the google pic on te homepage is some city and you can search 4 osama lmao iswear on my life im not joking

End of a dark era :)

The war is not over. The final war against evil will not be over until the Lord parts the skys and comes to take us home. But until then, thank you, thank you, thank you to those of you who have served and are serving to protect my freedom!

In the words of the illustrious Uncle Rico... "Right on... Right on."

High Fives to the troops.

Holy cow....this news is long overdue, may we never forget the lives lost over the years because of this man, and may we realize that the war on terrorism still continues, and our troops are still fighting, God Bless them and their families.

I don't entirely understand the current reaction most seem to be having over Bin Laden's death. People confuse me.

Everyone keeps saying the wicked witch is dead in their statuses, but I don't get it...the Red Wings still need to lose 2 more games before we can trumpet that this is truly "a great day for the world"

A HUGE THANK YOU to our military, who have sacrificed, died, suffered, and worked hard, to fight people like Osama Bin Laden. YOU are the ones we thank. YOU are the ones who deserve ALL CREDIT. Thank a soldier for bringing due justice for those lost on 9/11 and all the victims around the world who suffered from his commands. Feel free to copy and paste if you agree.

Osama Bin Laden is dead, now if they could just get the dudes responsible for knocking down the towers!!

Haaha people are saying that we should get 50% off clothes on the Pacsun fanpage since Osama is dead. wow lol

Bin Laden is dead! USA finally did something good!

I'm so happy no Americans were killed when getting him. Hell yea.

everyone will forget about this this week cuz lady gagas new video will premiere

What will become of the Bluth company?

I got my riot pants on.

about time obama did some thing at least some what right.

The most upsetting thing for about this news...is that we've been playing the celebrity name game wrong for all these years!! It's Usama, not Osama :-/

‎"The destruction of the wicked is joy." - Proverbs 11:10. It's biblical eat it!!

‎Damn, I was really hoping to get Osama's thoughts on Kate's dress...

God bless Americia! America, PRAISE and SEEK God!

But I tell you who hear me: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you Luke. 6:27-28

Thank you so much to all the men and women who have served and are serving our country through the armed services

OSAMA BIN LADIN IS DEAD!!!!! PRAISE THE LORD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

God bless our troops for serving our country and making the world a better place through their courage. You made us proud!!

Aaand commence the arguments over Obama. Jeeze guys, bin Laden is dead, and the president -has- to take responsibility for it. He's the face of our country. Everyone in the planning should be equally credited and will be.

In all seriousness, thank God. Today is historic.

Osama bin laden. Hide and seek champion.2001-2011.

"Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles, lest the Lord see it and be displeased, and turn away his anger from him. Fret not yourself because of evildoers, and be not envious of the wicked, for the evil man has no future; the lamp of the wicked will be put out." --Proverbs 24:17-18

When it comes to big arm chairs, I have a deep-seated fear.

2011-03-17T19:54:00.000-07:00

Peladophobia: fear of baldness and bald people.

Aerophobia: fear of drafts.

Porphyrophobia: fear of the color purple.

Chaetophobia: fear of hairy people.

Levophobia: fear of objects on the left side of the body.

Dextrophobia: fear of objects on the right side of the body.

Auroraphobia: fear of the northern lights.

Calyprophobia: fear of obscure meanings.

Thalassophobia: fear of being seated.

Stabisbasiphobia: fear of standing and walking.

Odontophobia: fear of teeth.

Graphophobia: fear of writing in public.

Phobophobia: fear of being afraid

Two little kids were in a hospital laying next to each other. The first kid leaned over and asked, "What are you in for?" The second kid said, "I'm in to get my tonsils out and I'm a little nervous."

The first kid said, "You got nothing to worry about, I had that done to me once. They put you to sleep and when you wake up they give you lots of Jell-O and ice cream. It's a piece of cake!"

The second kid then asked, "What are you in here for?" The first kid said, "Well, I'm here for a circumcision."

The second kid said, "Oooh, that's not good. I had that done when I was born, and I couldn't walk for a year!"

Fear has a strange way of crippling us. It grips us, often at the most illogical times, and doesn't let go. It's curious how repeatedly we sometimes allow the same fear to grip us time after time, even after "conquering" it for what we hoped would be the last time. I heard Michael J. Fox put it well today:

"There is failure, but none of those holes are vacuums".

A couple of years ago my brothers and I decided it would be a good idea to take my dad skydiving for his birthday. Then we climbed up a few rungs on the "Good Idea Ladder" and decided that this kind of gift was best given as a surprise.

So after an hour and a half of driving without giving him any indication of where we were going, we pulled up to a hanger with a sign on the side that read: "Wild Wind Skydiving".

All my dad could do in that moment was to utter the word "No" over and over again. We of course giggled like school girls, slapped him on the back, and got out of the car.

We approached the particular hanger that we would be flying out of, and the first thing I saw was a wooden artist's figurine laying on top of our "Wild Wind" instruction manual. This particular figurine had a heavily taped right arm, and was missing his left leg entirely. Not the most comforting of images to be greeted with before jumping out of a plane, to say the least.

Fear: Conceived

We then met Milovan; a massive, intentionally bald, militant-looking Serbian man who stood towing over us as he smiled and shook our infant hands. "Welcome" he said in a deep, booming accent."Are you ready for a good time?"

Now, to me, "Are you ready for a good time?"sounded more like something I would find carved on the inside of a bathroom stall at some remote gas station during a road trip across the midwest, but I let it slide.

After we shakingly signed our pile of release forms, it was time for our instruction. Milovan stood inside a crude wooden frame that I assume was meant to simulate the inside of an airplane. "You get inside, thrust forward and then we go. Sound good?" he said blithely.

So to reiterate, the extent of our tutelage was to "Get inside, thrust forward, and go".

Fear: First trimester

As we are deciding who among us will be the first brave soul to go up in this small plane and jump, I asked Milovan if I could wear the Superman costume that I had brought with me over my dive suit. He laughed and said "You can just wear it AS you suit, friend!" Again, not being a connoisseur of air travel or sky-diving, I assumed those suits actually served some sort of significant purpose, but Milovan assured me that they did not.

So I put on my costume, and walked to the plane only to find Milovan sitting inside with a big grin on his face and a banana in his hand. He then chuckled to himself and slapped his lap, indicating it as my seat for our ascension to the clouds. Not quite the scene I was anticipating.

I climbed in, strapped in, and we began our ascent. With us was the owner of "Wild Wind" and a young lad who was going to experience his first free-fall unattached to an instructor.

The ride up was terrifying. Because it was such a small plane, it bobbed up and down almost constantly, causing one to experience the full range of terror before the dive. What's more is that it seemed as though the owner had an abnormally potent case of gas.

Fear: Second trimester

When it came time for the rookie to exit the plane, he opened the small door to put his feet on the ledge before falling backwards. His feet slipped however, and he hung by his hands, with a look of utter panic, and shook his head violently to indicate that he no longer wanted to jump. The owner however, simply nodded a creepy and assuring"yes" and pushed this poor fellow out of the plane. He then jumped right after him and I watched as they both quickly turned to dots, and then disappeared all together.

Fear: Third Trimester

Now when the two of them had jumped, the plane bounced up and down like a tugboat in a squall. Everything in me tensed up, and I'm sure I started breathing as if I was in labor. Milovan's maternal instinct must have kicked in at this point because he then put his mouth right next to my ear and whispered tenderly "Just relax". Super.

We then scooted to the small opening in this jalopy of an airplane, and just as our wise instructor taught us, I thrusted and then I went. Here is the image of that very moment.

Fear: Water break

The free fall was unlike anything I had every experienced. Every second of this event was surreal in the best sense of the word. I was both afraid, and yet somehow completely enthralled. It felt as though every sense was running on all cylinders, and I loved every minute of it.

Milovan then opens the chute and we begin to glide. What he didn't tell me was that there is a small adjustment phase in the harness when the parachute is opened, and the passenger drops down about four inches in the harness.

Fear: Birthed

Yelling with all the energy I could muster, I began grasping like a mad man to grab hold of anything I could to keep from falling to the earth to my impending doom. Milovan simply bellowed a deep and hearty laugh at my frightened response. He actually continued laughing for quite some time after that, as if he was watching a mouse trying to knock over a whale.

We landed, and despite my previously unheroic response, I was a ball of exhilaration. I think the first thing I said to my family was "Let's do that again."

It's strange how at one moment we can be absolutely terrified of a situation, a circumstance, a decision, or even a person, and in the next we can be chuckling that we ever allowed that situation to scare us so much in the first place. I love what the Psalmist says:

When you lie down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet. Have no fear of sudden disaster or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked, for the LORD will be your confidence and will keep your foot from being snared. –Proverbs 3:24

In the Old Testament, sleep was a sign of blessing. When the disciples are caught in that raging storm, Jesus was sleeping. Their fear apparently wasn't his.

There is a fascinating animal indigenous to Africa called the impala. This remarkable animal can jump up to 10 feet in the air, and over 30 feet out. But if you've ever seen an impala in a zoo, you'll notice that the wall they are using to keep that impala in place is likely to be no more than 3 feet tall. The reason for this is simple -the impala with never jump to a place if it cannot see the ground it will land on.

Aren't we like that at times? We talk about wanting to take risks, to love without abandon, but more often than not we require assurance that it's going to turn out the way we want it to before we'll ever take any action.

How often do we allow the fears in our lives dictate the decisions we make? How often do our past experiences, logical analysis, or our doubt play a bigger factor in how we respond, than the truth we've been given time and time again?

There are two quotes that I think examine this idea well.

The feeling of being hurried is not usually the result of living a full life and having no time. It is, on the contrary, born of a vague fear that we are wasting our life. When we do not do the one thing we ought to do, we have no time for anything else, we are the busiest people in the world. -Eric Hoffer

I am inwardly fashioned for faith, not for fear. Fear is not my native land; faith is. I am so made that worry and anxiety are sand in the machinery of life; faith is the oil. I live better by faith and confidence than by fear, doubt and anxiety. In anxiety and worry, my being is gasping for breath, these are not my native air. But in faith and confidence, I breathe freely, these are my native air.-- Dr. E. Stanley Jones

I don't think our goal is to reject the notion that life is ever scary. That's not reality. Life is absolutely terrifying at times. What I think should become our task, is to eagerly and often tell the stories of the incredible free fall, the stories of overcoming, and of restoration. If we can begin to realize the importance of the victories in our own lives, I have a feeling those instances will have the capacity to inspire and encourage others as well.

And it is scary, but it is so worth the ride.

Don't worry if your favorite dinner becomes unfashionable - at least you'd have one square meal.

2011-03-16T18:43:00.000-07:00

A young boy was driving a hay-rack down the road when the wagon fell over in front of a farmer’s house. The farmer came out, saw the young boy crying and said, "Son, don’t worry about this, we can fix it. Right now dinner’s ready. Why don’t you come in and eat with us and then I’ll help you put the hay back on the rack." The boy said, "No, I can’t. My father is going to be very angry with me." The farmer said, "Now don’t worry, just come in and have some lunch and you’ll feel better." The boy said, "I’m just afraid my father is going to be very angry with me." The farmer and the young boy went inside and had dinner. Afterward, as they walked outside to the hay-rack, the farmer said, "Now, son, don’t you feel better after that great meal?" The boy said, "Yes but I just know that my father will be very angry with me." The farmer said, "Nonsense. Where is your father anyway?" The boy said, "He’s under that wagon."

Everyone worries. Sometimes for logical reasons, sometimes for illogical reasons. Regardless of who we are or what we've been through, worry has been a part of our life in some way.

I was surprised to find out that over 25 million Americans have high blood pressure due to stress and anxiety. 8 million have stomach ulcers every week, and a total of 112 million Americans take medication for stress related symptoms, surpassing even depression as the most common mental illness in the continental United States. According to "The Economic Burden of Anxiety Disorders," a study commissioned by the ADAA and based on data gathered by the association and published in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, anxiety disorders cost the U.S. more than $42 billion a year, almost one third of the $148 billion total mental health bill for the U.S. Make no mistake about it; we are a worried people.

When I was in India, there was a lot that I was worried about. I basically lived as a nomad for almost two months when my internship fell through and was literally placed on train after train, asked to go to these seemingly random locations all over Northern India to preach, teach guitar and soccer, work in orphanages, and minister to families. It was both enthralling, and absolutely terrifying at the same time.

One thing that I wasn't prepared for was the incredible number of bulls that roamed the streets freely every day. They are sacred and not to be killed, so they would casually saunter through the bazaar like a stray cat; a stray cat the size of an SUV. I remember on multiple occasions going for a nightly stroll through whatever town I was staying in that week, rounding a corner, and coming almost face to face with a massive meandering bull. In these instances I would do what any bold, courageous young man would do. I froze. I would stand there, firmly plastered against the nearest wall, and try not to make a noise until the bull strolled past me. Every day I would see scenes like this one, and completely freeze.

After a few weeks I made the astonishing realization that these bulls didn't care about me at all. They weren't bothered by my presence in the slightest, nor did they really even notice me most of the time. I remember observing small children, no older than five or six, swatting bulls away with sticks and yelling at them to leave their stand alone. I remember thinking "If that bull ever figures out how truly gargantuan it is, they are all going to be in trouble." But as my summer continued, the bulls never really asserted their power (kind of like a certain Chicago team we know, eh?), and they never snapped and trampled me or anyone else. I spent so much of my time stressing over a fear that was not a reality in the slightest.

Another serious contributor to my worry tank while in India was the transportation. Every day, whether I was in a rickshaw, a tonga, or a vehicle, I would look in front of me and see scenes like this:

Indians take great joy in their transit insanity - swerving in and out of literally any space they can find. It is a fascinating and terrifying dance that each and every person on the road is a part of. Buses pass each other at 60mph with only inches between them. Families will load up five people on a single scooter and buzz through the crowds. Men ride bikes with propane tanks hanging over their wheels and stacked on their rack as they speedily navigate through the masses. The name of this particular market pictures above loosely translates in English "Confused Confusion", which gives you an idea of the aberration that is Indian passage.

Even while living in the mountains, I remember riding on the back of a motorcycle climbing up the side of a cliff, and as we attempted to pass a jeep our bike skidded out from under us on the gravel and fell on top of us just in front of the jeep, allowing just enough time for driver of the to slam on his brakes and stop before hitting us. Now keep in mind that to our right is a 9,000 foot drop, and to our left is the towering and rigid wall of the mountain. Again, I would find myself in what I found to be a reasonable state of anxiety, but my driver would simply laugh, pick up his bike, and we were on our merry way.

I realized that often so much of what I considered to be rational worry is not anywhere close to the stance of those I am with. Our perspectives differed greatly, and I slowly but surely began to come to terms with those differences, and trust them. Worry is, at the very least, subjective, and what was causing me great fear wasn't even showing up on the radar of those who were not alarmed by the same things I was.

Worry is actually derived from an Anglo-Saxon word meaning "to strangle or choke", which I find fascinating. How many of us can relate to that imagery intimately -the idea of feeling completely suffocated under the weight of our crippling anxiety, often times for no reason at all? I think Vance Havner put it well when he said:

“Worry, like a rocking chair, will give you something to do, but it won’t get you anywhere"

I think a lot of us buy into the notion that worry will somehow improve our situation, or at the very least, communicate to those around us that we really are compassionate-hence our worry. We seem to confuse concern with worry, and have a strange tendency to praise the one that worries the most, because that means he/she is truly the most invested. After time it becomes a part of our normal, daily routine.

The great comedian Carl Hurley tells the story about trying to throw a trash can away. He said it’s the one thing you can’t get the garbage man to pick up. He said, I set an old rusty garbage can out at the street one morning thinking the garbage man would understand that it needed to be thrown away. He said, when I came back that afternoon the can was stacked up with the rest of my empty trash cans.

Well the next week I put it out again and this time I turned it upside down so they could see that the bottom had several holes in it and it needed thrown away. When I cam home it was stacked up next to the empty cans again.

The next week I took a sledgehammer and I beat the can in pretty good and I left it out front and when I came home not only was it stacked up next to the other empty trash cans but the garbage man had actually tried to beat it back into shape.

And so he said finally I did the only thing I could do. I went to the hardware store and bought a heavy duty chain and a padlock and I chained the old can to a large tree in my front yard. And sure enough, that night somebody stole it.

I think worry is a lot like that trashcan. We know we need to get rid of it, but we're not even sure how to . I think the issue isn't necessarily that worry is present, but how we respond to it. When we worry about the latest setback, or a friend getting sick, or fiances getting tight, our response in worry is often to blame others or God.

There are so many powerful verses on this topic, but my favorite comes from Luke 12:

22Then Jesus said to his disciples: "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. 23Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. 24Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! 25Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? 26Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?27"Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 28If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith! 29And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. 30For the pagan world runs after all such things, and your Father knows that you need them. 31But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.32"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. 33Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. 34For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Luke 12:22-34)

I think the thesis of this small section is not to convince us of the health benefits of not worrying, or to provide twelve easy steps to living a worry free life. Luke seems much more concerned with getting us to understand how truly precious we are to God. It's as if he realizes that if we can catch the powerful significance of that reality, then the rest tends to start to fall in place. That when we can buy into the truth of God's goodness, His provision, and His relentless love for us, things like outfits and menus don't seem quite as daunting.

The Greek word translated here as "do not worry" literally means "to be drawn in different directions." Worry pulls us apart. We are pulled apart because often what we do is so out of harmony, so out of tune with what God intends for humanity, for His children. We try to live our lives in our own private kingdoms, with safeguards and storehouses we've established and for built for ourselves in the name of logic and reason, but forget the God that cares for the lilies and the sparrow. The God that sleeps in a boat during a raging storm as His closest friends panic.

I think that there is a strong correlation to worry, and the pace of our lives. Most of us live at a pace that is so unsustainable, that it seems we can do nothing but worry.

I read the story several years ago about a city that was having problems with their busses. Busses were driving right past passengers at the bus stops. It caused quite a stir in the newspapers. The Transit Authorities decided to answer the questions by putting out a press release in order to explain the situation. That press release has become infamous in public relations classes. Because what the transit authority press release said was this: “It is impossible for us to maintain our schedules if we are always having to stop and pick up passengers.”

When we’re in a hurry we sometimes miss the main things.

John Ortberg pinpoints this in his article, Taking Care of Busyness. He says, "For most of us, the great danger is not that we will renounce our faith. It is that we will become so distracted and rushed and preoccupied that we will settle for a mediocre version of it. We will just skim our lives instead of actually living them."

I think we would do well to slow down, to live a day at a time, and to keep a long term perspective. If I knew my house was going to burn down tomorrow, how much time would I spend worrying about how to decorate it today? Jesus challenges us to fix our eyes on him first and foremost.

And ultimately we need to remind each other of God's faithfulness. That is the powerful narrative of our lives. I remember a former pastor and dear friend back home had a sign on his office door that read "Worry is another form of atheism." I used to be so irritated with that sign until it finally clicked for me. That worry is not simply some ailment that each of us struggle to overcome, but a greater story that we each tell -of God's faithfulness and power, that inspires and reminds us of the greatness of the one we serve. Our stories bind us together in struggle and in victory, in the the sweet melody of our bloodline.

I pray that I will be able to slow down long enough to enjoy the silence, to rest in His stillness, and to experience more fully His mystery. May we live fully in every moment we're given, remembering the great slavery each of us have been freed from, and shout these truths from the rooftops of our existence. May proclamations fill the ears of a deaf world and sooth even the most bitter of hearts. May our lives be an example of a God that provides.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. (Phil 4:6)

It's a fact, taller people sleep longer in bed.

2011-03-15T10:55:00.000-07:00

I am tired. I'm not going to lie. I wouldn't do that to you. Just outright exhausted. Pooped. Spent. Cansado. Yтомленн. Müde. 疲れた.

But I am going to do my best to power through with my attempt, and hopefully something cohesive will emerge. Then again, what really is the feasible likelihood of that anyway? Good question, Ian.

Like many of you, when I get tired I tend to get a bit loopy. I've made some dangerous decisions while tired, said my fare share of nonsense (to the point where one friend even made a t-shirt commemorating my prattle), and certainly been a part of some buffoonery that I likely wouldn't otherwise have engaged in.

To be honest, I also wrote some of my most poignant and intriguing philosophy papers on next to no sleep.

My last semester of college I had stretched myself so thin that in a matter of sixteen weeks I had pulled over thirty all-nighters. Because I was the Student Body President that year (which is a library of stories in it's own right), I had an office on the first floor of my dorm building that I practically lived in, and in turn, slept in. Keep in mind that this office was a legitimate closet at one point, so the body to space ratio was fantastic

I also was a sucker for any chance I could get to spend with dear friends, so at almost any request to go get a burrito, play with the furniture at Meijer, or just head to Dunkin Donuts and talk, I was eager to oblige -sometimes returning hours later to my dungeon of academia with hopes of productivity.

We had a widely ridiculed and chastised Public Safety officer who would often come to my office. He would simply share his struggles and dreams, his highs and lows, and his thoughts on a variety of random topics. It was always so interesting to me how the night seemed to bring out a different side in people. We developed a really remarkable sense of mutuality and understanding with one another. We were certainly odd friends.

Me - Rambunctious student, often pulling random pranks around campus, getting caught for many of them.

Him - The over-zealous Public Safety officer with a killer mustache who probably took his job a bit too seriously.

We were the friends who could never be. Even though we still were. Kind of.

It was random relationships and endeavors like this that led to my continual state of self-inflicted fatigue. I remember scampering into my room and pleading my request to whatever roommate was present as I headed for the bedroom. "Wake me up in seven minutes, okay? I desperately need to be up on exactly seven minutes. Can you do that for me? Please say you can. I love you." I would then wake up an hour later in a panic, run out of the room and ask my roommates what happened. "You sat right up and told us that you took care of it and that you didn't have to wake up anymore" they would say.

"We just believed you."

So apparently my body was in such a state of exhaustion that it had to make up clever lies to tell my roommates while I slept just so it would rest a little more. Sneaky little body... That couldn't have been a good sign.

One week was particularly rough, and I ended up pulling two all-nighters; back to back. Let me fist stop here and say that I would not necessarily recommend this method of existence unless you are prepared to lose some friends or wreak some serious havoc. The glowing effect that comes as a result was fairly interesting, though. But not a fair trade off by any means.

On the third day of my sleepless rampage, because I was the Student Body President, I was to speak at our annual "Founder's Day Chapel". Keep in mind that this particular chapel is twice as long, so it's worth twice the chapel credit. A good start already.

I showed up to chapel with throngs of other staff and faculty in my brown suit, trying desperately to stay alert. I quickly realized that every other person there was dressed in black, with the exception of possibly a pin or pair of earrings. Fantastic.

They then arrange us according to how we will enter during the processional, and where we will sit. I of course, will be in the very first row on the stage, facing a chapel full of my peers.

As students begin to fill the space, the organ begins to play and this cavalcade of 99% black suits and 1% brown suits begins to march down the center isle to the stage. We reach our position in front of our chairs, the Dean of Chapel on my right -the Dean of Student on my left, but cannot sit until the organ piece is finished. I remember looking back and forth at these two men, probably with a childish look of anticipation as if one of them was going to tell a joke. My eyes were big, and my mouth was likely open as I credulously glanced back and forth at these two men, waiting for the music to finally stop. I remember finally fixing my gaze on the Dean of Chapel to my left for a moment, and then, over the sound of the music, blurting out "You're tall!" at a considerable volume.

He looked at me, stunned and possibly embarrassed at such an odd statement and responded "Um, yes. Yes I am. Be quiet.", and then continued to look forward.

I don't remember too much else about that chapel. I remember I tried to make some joke about Bette Midler before reading the passage in Proverbs I was supposed to read. I remember the President's disapproving look after I made said joke. I remember getting emotional by the end of the passage, but having no idea as to why. I remember wanting to retreat back to my bed so badly, and simply sleeping until the weekend.

I heard an interesting story on the radio today about a man who was a bathroom attendant for swanky clubs in New York. One particular club he talked about was a place called "Floats".

He described Floats as a classy, high-profile dance club in the trendy neighborhood of Manhattan. He explained the long lines of eager individuals that was always present. He outlined the space as a massive multi-level room with incredible lights and sound, always packed with people -600 or more every night.

The only bathroom in the place, the bathroom where he worked, was unisex. A small,three stall space with two sinks, tucked away in the basement that every man and woman there had to share. It was here, tucked between the two sinks, that he set up his small stand and cash bucket. He would sell anything from gum, lotion, condoms, perfume, and cologne.

He recalled numerous instances where things got out of hand in this small chamber. One instance in particular was when a man came marching in, yelling and screaming, and locked himself in one of the stalls. Moments later, to other men came storming in, and asked the attendant if he saw their friend. He assumed it was the other surly gentlemen, and directed them to his stall. They proceeded to dump their drinks over the stall no him, and then the madness began. They broke the door open, and started punching each other will all the grace and poise of a dunk club-goer. Mace was eventually pulled out, and the entire bathroom became filled with the burn, making it difficult to breathe. Eventually the first man opened his jacket to reveal a police badge and a gun, and the other two men were arrested -for what, we don't know.

In this interview, the host asked the attendant why he thought people always seem to come to the bathroom in situations like this, and I found his response interesting. He said "Everyone needs a place to get away, a sanctuary, and in a place like this sometimes the bathroom is the best you got."

In my weariness today and this week, I couldn't help but connect with that a little. Sometimes we find ourselves in the ear-numbing confluence of a noisy and crowded nightclub and are desperately seeking refuge, sanctuary. Often times, we don't have the luxury of retreating to the woods, or checking in to a weekend-monastery visit, and yet we know we desperately need a haven. Just like the club experience, sometimes we choose to be there, sometimes we are dragged there against our will, but the reality is that we cannot hear, we cannot see, and in that environment it is incredibly difficult to make wise decisions.

It's over-quoted, I know, but I simply love the sense of harborage I get when I read this:

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. (Isaiah 40:29-31)

I find it so interesting that Isaiah doesn't mention a particular place when describing this processes of rejuvenation. Obviously both Big "C" Church and little "c" church are both absolutely integral parts of God ushering in His kingdom on humanity, that community and corporate worship and edification is irreplaceable. But the crux, the thesis of this small section seems to imply that our strength, our refuge needs to come from Him first. That all of the self-help programs, healthy friendships, accountability partners, and touching sermons come second to the strength and rest that is found in God Himself. He will accept no parody, and neither should we.

We should be so incredibly encouraged by that! We need not scramble to the three stall bathroom of refuge that everyone else is rushing for, we do not require stained glass or powerful sound systems. The God of grace and peace, of safety and refuge, of restoration and inspiration chooses to live among and IN us. He is not a God who stands by the sidelines. The curtain has been torn, friends. May we rest in His provisions, and walk with endurance and in the company of our Creator.

When we are tired, he gives us rest. When we feel crazy, He is our sanity. He holds, protects, nourishes, and focus us -then unleashes us on the world once more.

He installs ignitions in cars. He's a real self starter.

2011-03-13T14:12:00.000-07:00

There is no feeling quite as fulfilling as the moment you stand in front of where your car was once parked, and the realization of your unfortunate automotive fate washes over you like a displaced muddy puddle spewed onto an unassuming pedestrian by a large, daunting semi- truck.

Even though I knew my car had been towed, for some reason I still insisted on searching the entire parking lot to make sure that some mischievous citizen hadn't moved it on me as some sort of whimsical prank. After a thorough scan of the lot, I began to feverishly search in trees, in sewers, under park benches, and a variety of other dubious locations; in order to be completely scrupulous of course.

So after driving to the sovereignty of orphaned vehicles, waking the ominous "Keeper of the Cars", and paying the ludicrous $170 fee, I made my way back home.

Today, in mutiny against the absurd towing situation still lingering in my head, I decided to try and ride my bike $170 worth. I wasn't quite sure how much riding would equal such an amount, but I was determined to give it a shot.

I began down the same route that I took for my commute to work on Tuesday, but today with the intention of exploration. It is absolutely remarkable how many things one can miss when traveling solely for purposes of a destination. On numerous occasions during this trip of revolt, I veered from the beaten path to investigate what hid behind the tree line. I found myself laying in the grass, watching the light bounce off the water, and listening earnestly for any audible signs of civilization, only to be met with the sweet silence of the wind.

As a laid there, soaking in the sacred stillness around me, I couldn't help but think of the pace of life I normally maintain and how out of rhythm it feels to live as such. Are we truly meant to function with a stride of constant calendar reminders, programmatic obligations, and schedule adherence? Is it possible that we have functioned at far too fast a momentum, with far too much allegiance to that structure, for far too long? Under such a system, we seem to be left with no option but to crave, even covet convenience and accessibility with the highest of exertion, for this becomes our only reprieve. We cannot afford to explore the scenery that hides to the left and to the right of our daily paths, because that would disrupt the balance of what we've created.

I read an article about the growing issue of methadrone (not to be confused with methadone) addiction among young people in Britain. This drug, once used to help wean individuals off of their heroine addiction, was now becoming a very serious problem among this nation's youth. "It's really quite easy to get a hold of this drug" said one local teenager. "There are a multitude of 1-800 numbers that you can call, and within twenty-minutes, it'll be delivered right to your door".

Our issue may not be the mail-order purchase of legal drugs over the phone, but it may be the utter obsession with having what we want, when we want it. It may be our unwillingness to slow down long enough to see what is really going on beneath the surface. It may be a crippling sense of entitlement that carries a grudge towards a tow-truck driver that was simply doing his job.

I for one deeply want to remember that silence is not stillness, that attendance is not submission, that charity is not mercy, and that affection is not love. Lord, teach me to veer now and again, remind me that convenience is not lord, and evoke in me a passion for your Kingdom that is not circumstantial. May we breathe in the truth of His never-ending redemptive mercy today.

"The destiny and the journey go hand in hand" -Tim Chaddick

I wanted to be a clarinettist but I couldn't reed music.

2011-03-13T14:09:00.001-07:00

In my music theory class this morning, we were discussing harmonic and melodic scales as they related to specific church modes and so on. Our professor explained with great detail and passion not only the mechanics of how to write and play such scales, but the importance of truly understanding precisely why they work the way they do.

"Precision is critical" he explained. "Close doesn't count, except with hand grenades".

As we listened to Shastakovich's "Symphony No. 5 in D minor", a beautiful fate symphony from 1937, I couldn't help but think of the extraordinary precision of each musician as they played. The fourth movement (Allegro non troppo) is particularly captivating as the piece moves, almost militiristically, from D minor to D major, earning it the aforementioned "fate symphony" title. As the timpani pounds away relentlessly on those powerful tonic and dominant notes of D major, you can feel the sun burst through the clouds of a previously dismal arrangement. You can almost hear the strings cry and the brass bellow "Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?" (1 Cor 15:55).

This resplendent shift from gloom to victory did not happen by accident. It was intentional, calculated, and deliberate. It was precise.

I often live my life with the hopes of personal conquest, while still carrying with me the copious knapsack of irresolute. This makes me ponder popular words of Hebrews 12:

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." (Heb 12:1-2)

In the original Greek of this passage, the main clause "let us run," is qualified by three dependent clauses introduced by "having," "throwing off," and "looking off." Interpreting the last two clauses with "let us" is acceptable, but communicates that they carry the same weight as the main clause, which they do not. In other words, even though we are certainly called to throw off everything that hinders and look to Christ, the main command of this particular passage is to "keep on running."

So essentially, we can be encouraged to know we will finish because of the many who have finished before us, but we cannot be expected to win the race without a deep revulsion of sin and intentional fixation on Christ as the source, focus, and goal of this race, as He alone is the composer and perfecter of our faith.

My baggage is frustrating, yes, but the task first and foremost is to keep running with precision towards the one who set us free. To run, even when we feel crippled, or ill-prepared. To run because He's given us life. It's like one friend hesitatingly said today "It's like the scene in Forrest Gump when he runs, even with his leg braces still on, and as he does, they begin to fall off". God is not done with us yet.

It's funny to me how often precision shows up in a negative context. We can be so precise with our sarcasm, with getting even, with complaining, with gossiping, with belittling, and with criticism. How differently would our world, or even just our lives look if we were as focused about being precise in our praise, encouragement, affection, comfort, and admonition?

I heard a news segment today about author James Kennedy and his new fairy-tale childrens novel entitled "The Order of the Odd Fish". The book itself is certainly fascinating enough for you to check out on your own, but what interested me the most was the "Dome of Doom"; an art party, battle-dance, costume soiree James is organizing to celebrate the release of his book. Leading up to this event he encouraged fans to create and submit art inspired by characters and themes from his book to be shown at this marvelously bizarre assemblage. One particular piece that was submitted was an "Apology Gun" from Sir Festus' collection of ludicrous weaponry, and that got me thinking.

What if we could "shoot" apologies (or compliments, encouragements, or praise for that matter) with the same precision and intent that we would normally fire their counterparts with. What if we were as serious about extolling and inspiring others, as well as admitting when we are truly wrong, as we would be if we needed to defend ourselves with a firearm in battle? Imagine what that kind of intentionality could look like!

May we live in that victory; in the knowledge that love has and always will overcome. May we not take, but make the opportunities in our lives to reassure and refresh those we come in contact with every day. May we live in the beautiful precision of grace in a world of ambiguous clutter.

A little boy was so full of energy that even when he read a book it was a hyper text.

2011-01-06T21:11:00.000-08:00

Tonight I had the pleasure of joining a fantastic family from our congregation for dinner.

During the delicious dinner (before the unbelievable dessert), we all started sharing stories from our past. The father told a great story about cooking for his wife while they were still dating, and trying to impress her by how many peppers he put in the sauce. It turned out that he underestimated the potency of fresh peppers as opposed to canned ones, causing profuse sweating. I laughed a lot.

He told another story about a classmate of his in grade school who was always whining and complaining about one thing or another. Neither of them were apparently very tall at this point in their life, but the teacher always called the obnoxious student "Little Mark". One day during class, good 'ol LM was grumbling about something and the teacher said "Little Mark, stop your fussing", to which he responded with an inquiry. He asked "Why do you always call me Little Mark, and not him?" pointing to the man who was now telling me this story.

"Because he doesn't act little", the teacher responded.

Did you hear about the new bamboo trees at the zoo? It was pandamonium out there!

2011-01-05T20:58:00.000-08:00

(Continued)

After our experience with "worship writing" had passed, I prepared our congregation for a responsive reading that we would participate in together. The reading was the familiar passage where the author repeats over and over "His love endures forever" - Psalm 136. A beautiful piece of poetry the Jews called "The Great Hallel". It reads:

1 Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good.
His love endures forever.
2 Give thanks to the God of gods.
His love endures forever.
3 Give thanks to the Lord of lords:
His love endures forever.

4 to him who alone does great wonders,
His love endures forever.
5 who by his understanding made the heavens,
His love endures forever.
6 who spread out the earth upon the waters,
His love endures forever.
7 who made the great lights—
His love endures forever.
8 the sun to govern the day,
His love endures forever.
9 the moon and stars to govern the night;
His love endures forever.

10 to him who struck down the firstborn of Egypt
His love endures forever.
11 and brought Israel out from among them
His love endures forever.
12 with a mighty hand and outstretched arm;
His love endures forever.

13 to him who divided the Red Sea[a] asunder
His love endures forever.
14 and brought Israel through the midst of it,
His love endures forever.
15 but swept Pharaoh and his army into the Red Sea;
His love endures forever.

16 to him who led his people through the wilderness;
His love endures forever.

17 to him who struck down great kings,
His love endures forever.
18 and killed mighty kings—
His love endures forever.
19 Sihon king of the Amorites
His love endures forever.
20 and Og king of Bashan—
His love endures forever.
21 and gave their land as an inheritance,
His love endures forever.
22 an inheritance to his servant Israel.
His love endures forever.

23 He remembered us in our low estate
His love endures forever.
24 and freed us from our enemies.
His love endures forever.
25 He gives food to every creature.
His love endures forever.

26 Give thanks to the God of heaven.
His love endures forever.
-Psalm 136 (NIV)

I told the congregation that I was aware of the many aversions to responsive readings. For a lot of us, the responsive readings are typically read with about the same vigor and passion as a small town diner waitress on her third straight shift asking if you'd like biscuits or toast. But my challenge for all of us was to think intently about each sentence, each massive statement that is written before their response, and to read that response with the intensity that such a statement demands.

"His love endures forever"

Longer than we can even understand. Completely outside the realm and scope of our apprehension. His love is greater, wider, and deeper than our lexicon could ever describe. And it endures forever.

As we went through each dynamic verse together, I could hear some voices taking their time with each word, allowing each syllable to ring true in their hearts. I heard some shout while others could barely whisper the words. What a beautiful response to such an incomprehensible truth. The variety of God's creation, replying from the wonderful uniqueness of their heart. It was such a powerful display.

Once we finished the reading, I moved into the main text for the morning, the very next psalm - Psalm 137. It reads:

1 By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept
when we remembered Zion.
2 There on the poplars
we hung our harps,
3 for there our captors asked us for songs,
our tormentors demanded songs of joy;
they said, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”

4 How can we sing the songs of the LORD
while in a foreign land?
5 If I forget you, Jerusalem,
may my right hand forget its skill.
6 May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth
if I do not remember you,
if I do not consider Jerusalem
my highest joy.

7 Remember, LORD, what the Edomites did
on the day Jerusalem fell.
“Tear it down,” they cried,
“tear it down to its foundations!”
8 Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,
happy is the one who repays you
according to what you have done to us.
9 Happy is the one who seizes your infants
and dashes them against the rocks.
-Psalm 137

Now, Psalm 137 is the only psalm that is historically precise as to when and why it was written. It was written roughly 587 BCE regarding the Israelites exile to Babylon. Jerusalem had been burned to the ground, even the glorious temple of Solomon and the Judean elite (the smartest and strongest) were brought into captivity. All of the business leaders, teachers, artists, and landowners were exiled, while the peasants were left behind to amalgamate until they eventually became the Samaritans we know of in the New Testament.

The "rivers of Babylon" mentioned in verse one would most likely be the irrigation canals that channeled water from the Tigris to the Euphrates rivers - rivers of substantial size. So, imagine these Israelites, likely frightened and rather despondent, forced to the river's bank, and mockingly being told to sing songs of their homeland. To bring forth the melody of their forefathers, and their God, who did not save them from captivity. What a terrifying scene that must have been for them.

In fact, the same thing was done to the Jews during World War 2 at some of the concentration camps. Jewish prisoners were forced to sing and dance songs of their heritage as one final way to strip them of whatever dignity they had left before being executed. These guards were trying to turn God into a parody - but these detainees refused.

And that is where these Israelites find themselves. In a strange and foreign land, being brutally ridiculed and scorned, commanded to make a joke of their God. But they refuse as well. They hang their harps in fact. And for our congregation here at Poplar Creek, it was particularly powerful because the trees they hung their instruments on - were poplars.

Isn't that where many of us find ourselves? Wondering how to sing God's melody in a world of cacophony, struggling to find or follow the tune amidst the discord? As we sit beside our culture's streams of influence in the office and at the mall, in front of the TV and at the beach, how do we maintain a voice and a song that will sound remarkably different, and even inspiring, in the ears of the world?

We know from scripture that this is the case for every follower of the rabbi named Jesus. We are not residents here. This is not our home, we are only temporary visitors - but a breath in the greater scope of the narrative of God's redemption.

Early in 1 Peter, we're reminded that our residency is truly not here on Earth at all.

Since you call on a Father who judges each person’s work impartially, live out your time as foreigners here in reverent fear. 18 For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your ancestors, 19 but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.
- 1 Peter 1:17 (NIV)

Dear friends, I urge you, as foreigners and exiles, to abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul.
- 1 Peter 2:11 (NIV)

These truths have monumental consequences for how we live our lives, for how we worship, serve, and love. We are not citizens. In fact, we are squatters at best. Our task is to live as those whose perspective in set on home, in all that we do. Paul says it so poignantly in Philippians:

14 Do everything without grumbling or arguing, 15 so that you may become blameless and pure, “children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation.” Then you will shine among them like stars in the sky
-Philippians 2:14-15

Picture it for a second. Dozens, if not hundreds, of these Levite harps hanging in the branches of nearby trees, the rushing of the powerful Babylonian river behind you, and the jeering of your captors before you. Can you sense it virtually welling up inside of you? I can almost hear myself say with uncharacteristic courage "My God will not be mocked".

But we mustn't forget the song of our forefathers, of our Redeemer. One author intuitively writes:

Each of us has his or her own "Babylon" where we live as God's holy temple and so where we need to find ways to carve out a distinctly Christian way to be a lawyer or a homemaker, a teacher or a doctor, a mechanic or a real estate agent. Each of us has his or her own breakroom or lunch room or cafeteria or family room where we need to discern the distinctive sounds of the Lord's song in a cacophonous world of competing melodies, not a few of which seek to drown out the Lord's gospel song in favor of the tunes of Babylon.

The pathos among the people in this psalm is caught in the words "How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?". We don't belong here in Babylon. This language is not our language. This food is not our diet. The stories told to our children are not our stories. These values are not are values. And most importantly, these gods are not our God. We are refugees here. Wanderers, faced with the daunting task of swimming upstream, to sing songs of our ancestry. We must write down, collect, and preserve that which describes what it means to be a child of the Living God , as one author writes. Or this foreign culture with these unbelieving ways will swallow us up, and we will lose our identity as God's chosen people.

In verses 5 and 6, the Psalmist writes that he'd rather have a lame hand and a mouth that doesn't work than to forget the God of life. It is likely that this author was a songwriter and a musicians, so to lose these two skills would be truly detrimental to his livelihood and well-being. How many of us truly have such fervent faith? Would we dare say we'd rather lose our jobs and become utterly mute than betray Jesus with the patterns and words that hinder the ushering of His Kingdom to a hurting world?

Spiritual amnesia is something that none of us are invulnerable to.

And on Sunday, we remembered. We didn't throw away our harps, we merely hung them up because we knew that God is directing and redirecting our hearts. We will not sing merely for entertainment, the likes of which Babylon cries out for in our hearts and lives every day. His melody is not for jest, He will not be abated or abridged. He is the Lord.

So how do we do this? How do we sing the Lord's song in such a strange land? Provers 2 says:

Train up a child in the way he should go, Even when he is old he will not depart from it. -Proverbs 22:6 (NASB)

The English rendering of the word "train" inaccurately conveys a sense rewarding good behavior and punishing bad behavior the way one would train a pet, but that is not truly what this word means. The root of this word actually describes the practice of the mother of a newborn when she takes mortar and pestle and grinds fruit into a fine powder that is then put on her finger to teach the baby how to suckle.

As strange as it seems, the "mother's milk" of life is to be found in the stories of scripture that tell what it means to be a child of God in foreign territory. The stories of Abraham and Issac, of Sara and Deborah, of Moses and David, of Paul, and of Jesus - people who undertake to be relentlessly faithful in this world while they await the next.

That is precisely why there is an unquenchable restlessness in all of us. It's an innate tugging that remind us of our brevity.

As someone very close to my heart recently quoted - Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee
-St Augustine

If you are a follower of this homeless teacher named Jesus, your home is not in Babylon. You are not fully at home here, you weren't created to be. Your citizenship is heaven - a kingdom that awaits us. While we are here, it is the role of the Christian community of faith to nurture one another for the journey, to hum the tune of our ancestry in the ears of those around us, to help us each sing the song of beautiful restoration, of immeasurable redemption, and unending grace.

As we celebrated Communion together, I stepped off the stage and we sang, voices only, the great hymn Amazing Grace. Holding that small plastic cup, remembering again how truly undeserving we are to ever to commune to even associate through worship with the God of the universe, and His unceasing pursuit to draw us to Himself.

And we celebrate together, with the song of our Creator. May we shine as vessels of grace and truth in a world longing for the reality of redemption.

Stumbling, flawed, broken, and off-key, we sing.

Some people still think that writing long stories is a novel idea.

2011-01-04T15:50:00.000-08:00

(Continued)

After the many prayers and pleas had been spoken over the congregation in humble praise, and over the now evident sniffles of those present, I asked everyone to open their eyes.

"Are we worshiping yet?" I asked.

The loud yet inaudible response I received was breathtaking. I could see it in their eyes. I could sense it in their demeanor. The Holy Spirit was at work in this place. And that was exactly the point.

The brilliant A.W. Tozer writes:

The stark, tragic fact is that the efforts of many people to worship are unacceptable to God. Without an infusion of the Holy Spirit there can be no true worship. This is serious. It is hard for me to rest peacefully at night knowing that millions of cultured, religious people are merely carrying on church traditions and religious customs and they are not actually reaching God at all.

He continues...

I can offer no worship wholly pleasing to God if I know that I am harboring elements in my life that are displeasing to Him. I cannot truly and joyfully worship God on Sunday and not worship Him on Monday. I cannot worship God with a glad song on Sunday and then knowingly displease Him in my business dealings on Monday and Tuesday.

Steven Baxter writes in ALIVE Magazine -

“Given the way we do church today it’s not surprising that many see worship and singing as synonymous. Neither is it surprising to note that the ‘praise and worship industry’, is big business. Sometimes you get the impression that worship is primarily for us — to meet our needs, and that it’s about feeling good with yourself, God and the world. However worship, like a multifaceted diamond, is much more than that… For Christians praise of God is natural, however it is simply not all there is to worship.”

And the part that rocks me to my core -

“Worship is not a part of life, it is life"

Perhaps this is what Paul was getting at when he said -

So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.
- 1 Corinthians 10:31 (NIV)

Worship cannot be reduced to a few songs, a Scripture reading, a sermon, and a closing prayer. It is a whole life of submission to the call of God that comes to us in the proclamation of good news. The early Christians never seem to use the phrase "going to church" or "planning a worship service". It appears to me that, for them, these were not only inseparable concepts, but inseparable commands - to live fully and completely devoted to the call of Christ, in all things. Everywhere. At all times.

And it struck me. So many people attend church services every weekend who are absolutely terrified to sing, and yet endure twenty-minutes of participatory music every week. For many, their voice is their greatest insecurity, and I can only imagine how many feel inclined to lip-sync during each service to avoid appearing withdrawn.

Now I know that there is certainly merit for stretching ourselves and being places in situations outside of our sphere of comfort, and I for one even enjoy being silent during many of these times and simply listening to the voices of my brothers and sisters wash over me. But is is possible that our perspective, and as a result, our execution is fragmented when we fail to examine and explore worship experiences independent from music? As a musicians myself, this is a painful but necessary endeavor.

So I then asked our congregation to grab their bulletins and turn to the blank page I put in there. I asked them to take the following two minutes and simply practice the discipline of "worship writing." I told them that it could be a letter of thanks to God for His many provisions, it would be a cry for help amidst a painful situation, or even just an honest confession of the burdens that needed to be surrendered wholly to Him. Whatever it was they chose, I challenged them to be as honest and transparent with themselves and with God as they could manage.

"We're not going to collect these and post them on the wall so everyone can see your shortcomings", I assured them. "Let your written words be an expression of your honest worship".

Once the allotted two minutes had passed, I began to transition into the next element of our service. But to my surprise, people continued to write. And write. And write. I was certain that what I was saying wasn't nearly captivating enough to demand such fervent note-taking, and paused for just a moment to enjoy the opportunity to watch so many "quiet souls" eagerly offer their written praise.

And I smiled, as I saw the God of the massive, loud, and dramatic, move so intimately among us in the still, small, and quiet. That with simple ink and paper, we communed with the Sovereign One.

(Conclusion tomorrow)

Those who play musical instruments for radio or TV have to stay tuned.

2011-01-02T21:03:00.000-08:00

Did you know that the term "A Cappella" literally means "In the manner of the church"?

As we stumble erroneously toward the cross in an effort to understand more deeply the mystery of our God, we asked the question this morning:

Can you worship without music?

In a culture, both sacred and secular, we are increasingly obsessed with the notion of entertainment, and we needn't look any further than many of our sacramental gatherings to be sure of this fact. Our instinctual applause following a "feature song" is indicative of this confusion. The words "worship" and "music" are heedlessly communicated as synonyms, creating for many of us, an insoluble tension. But when was the last time you heard a congregation erupt in wild applause following the reading of Scripture?

One author writes:

Again, the issues are complex. Music that is offered as a genuine act of worship may be heard as entertainment; and music that is performed with no holy motive can elicit a powerful devotional response. This is a paradox with which the church will have to live while trying, through education and spiritual formation, to employ music in ways that enhance rather than impede the flow of worship to its Source and fulfillment.

In a work entirely devoted to the question of a cappella music in worship, Everette Ferguson writes:

The whole self (including the emotions) is involved in Christian worship, but the mind (reason) is to be in control. Instrumental music can express feelings and emotions. Vocal music can express the will and intellect. The latter is better suited for the communion of spirit with Spirit. In vocal music there is an immediate contact. In instrumental music there is an intermediary. The voice is much more a matter of one’s self than any other gift of praise can be. Vocal music thus best corresponds to the nature of man’s relationship to God

To be sure, singing only to stir up emotions is idolatry, plain and simple. By the same token, to listen to preaching merely to be cognitively stimulated is also idolatry. We do so, because we are ordered by an unquenchable grace, and if we did not sing, "the very rocks would cry out".

But to even understand the gravity of a "gift" offered to God would mean a serious re-examination of the "vending machine" mentality we often approach our gatherings with.

How often have you yourself on Sunday said "I really enjoyed worship today", or "That song really spoke to me", or "Do you think the pastor has been drinking"? Or perhaps more commonly "I really hope she doesn't lead again anytime soon" or, "I wonder if that drummer has ear damage".

We approach the celestial vending machine, gaze longingly through the glass to the goodies found within, pop in our change and wait (often impatiently) for the object of our desire to fall into the pick-up slot.

It is entitlement at its most raw, and none of us is immune.

In Nehemiah chapter 8, the Book of the Law is read over the people from morning to midday for eight days straight, and in verse twelve we read that "And all the people went their way to eat, and to drink, and to send portions, and to make great mirth, because they had understood the words that were declared unto them". Later in verse seventeen it says that there was "very great gladness" in light of the truth being articulated to them.

How many of us would or do respond to the Word with such revelry? How many of us would simply be bored after day two? How many of us wouldn't even make it that long?

Pastor Mike Pilavachi had this to say regarding their congregation's perspective on the worship gatherings they were participating in:

In our hearts, we were giving the worship team grades on a scale from one to ten: 'Not that song again,' 'I can't hear the bass,' 'I like the way she sings better.' We had made the band the performers of worship and ourselves the audience.
We had forgotten that we are ALL the performers of worship and that God is the audience. We had forgotten that sacrifice is central to biblical worship. We are called to offer our bodies as living sacrifices - this is OUR spiritual act of worship (Romans 12:1). We are called to offer our sacrifice of praise (Heb. 13:15).

Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship -Romans 12:1

Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise—the fruit of lips that openly profess his name. 16 And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased. -Heb 13:15-16

I find it interesting that the early Church of Jerusalem was born into a world of music, rich with the sounds of cymbals, harps, lyres, and so on ( Chronicles 25:6-7) and yet, even in light of consistent usage of instruments in the Old Testament, they chose to use none of them - for nearly 1,000 years!

Speaking to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit. Sing and make music from your heart to the Lord -Ephesians 5:19

Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. -Colossians 3:16

At this point in the service, I prepared our congregational for what I was certain would be an uncomfortable exercise. I challenged them to lift their voices in honest and unfiltered praise to God. To speak words over their brothers and sisters gathered next to them, to allow the sheer weight of their own words echo in their ears and hearts, as voices filled the room. I assured them that I was as stubborn as I appeared, and would happily sit in total silence for as long as it took.

But to my surprise, almost instantly our humble space was filled with the cries of an impassioned people, desperately longing for their Creator. One by one, I asked them to finish the following sentences:

God, you are...
God, thank you for...
God, please...

As humble appeals and exuberant exclamations filled the room, I honestly didn't know what to do with myself. With eyes closed, we lifted our voices as one body, to our Lover and Savior. Over the quiet murmurs, an older gentlemen in the very back of our auditorium shouted a quivering plea "God, please save me from my sins!", I could no longer fight back the tears. At one point, I had no choice but to climb off my stool and kneel on the stage in overwhelmed reverence. Over the increasing sniffles of an overcome congregation, the prayers went on. And on. And on.

Recognizing many of the voices, and knowing well the myriad of stories behind the cry only further brought me to a state of indescribable awe. One mother who has been facing serious financial difficulty for quite some time quietly proclaims "God, you are my provider". A young man who has recently found himself emotionally crippled by a venomous relationship proclaims boldly "God, you are my restorer!".

Somehow, void of any audible melody, our souls sang a song - His song. And the anthem is far from over.

(To be continued)

New years resolution for the bankrupt gardener was to forget the past and rely on the fuchsia.

2011-01-01T20:09:00.001-08:00

So this is the New Year

I am overwhelmed. And perhaps not by the things that some may think I should be. As am I surrounded by a sea of well wishes and unlikely resolutions - of crippling fear and spiritual ferment, there is a reality that I simply cannot shake.

Grace.

I realize the possibility that we may be inoculated to this well quoted verse, but its deep and staggering truth whispers tirelessly in my soul:

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
- 2 Corinthians 9-10 (NIV)

Do you know how many gallons of water there are in the ocean? The closest I am able to enumerate is 3.612 x 10²º gallons. There is roughly seven quintillion five hundred quadrillion (7,500,000,000,000,000,000) grains of sand on Earth. A team of researchers at Australian National University estimated that there 70 sextillion stars in the known universe.

And yet, God's grace is larger, more unfathomable than all of this.

Think about that for a second. You could empty every ocean, gather every beach, and snatch every star from the sky and still only begin to scratch the surface of God's ceaseless grace. Confronted by such verity, I find myself at an absolute loss.

I am feeble, debilitated, and flimsy - and yet He permits my ears to hear the songs of His blessed melody.

The New Year is upon us, and although I am often filled with uncertainty, I cling to the promise that His mercies are new every morning. May we live in the daring, reckless, and audacious Spirit of the One who makes us whole.

"You cannot discover new oceans unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore."-Author Unknown

SN10 -Day 9

2010-10-13T07:27:00.001-07:00

I eventually awoke my band of slumbersome nomads there in our airport chalet at 3:30am to make our way through security before the rush of other travelers clogged the halls with their over-sized accouterments and screaming children. After smoothly making our way through the metal detectors and x-ray machines, we realized that our gate had not yet been posted for our flight. So we set up camp once more, this time in the middle of the large center room by which all gates were attached. We took shifts staring at the screens above, waiting patiently for them to grace us with the wonderful knowledge of our plane's location, only to be let down with ever groggy attempt. Finally, fifteen minutes before we were to begin boarding, our location was listed - on the other side of the airport of course.

So we made our way to the Easy Jet terminal where we experienced the most peculiar method of checking in thus far. A strange series of lines, seating, and over-all presentation assured as that this was going to be a strange flight. As it turned out, we were carrying three more bags than what would be allowed on this flight, but we snuck them in anyways.

When we arrived in Munich (AKA Munchen), we found ourselves an exorbitantly priced bus that took us from the airport to the center station for the thrifty price of 10 Euros a piece. When we arrived at the bus station, we decided ti was a good time for Trav to try his hand at speaking German with some of the locals to help us find our hostel. He spotted a kind looking woman, and began to dialogue (quite impressively) with her. As he was doing so, the woman's adorable young daughter began playing pee-ka-boo with the rest of us. Within a matter of two minutes, Zach, Sam, and I were running all over this station, popping out from behind pillars, and getting chased by this charming little child. He laughed about that for the rest of the day.

We maneuvered up and down the streets of Munich for a while, stopping to ask a group of senior citizens for additional directional aid, until we finally arrived at the lovely "Easy Palace Hotel." When we entered however, it was quite obvious that we had done so through the back door, and were now standing confusedly in the kitchen of our new temporary home. We startled one of the staff members who was present, who then irritatingly showed us where we needed to be. This was a great start to our time in Germany.

After a much needed nap, we made our way to the acclaimed Hofbräuhaus to catch some live traditional Bavarian music, clothing, food, and beer. As we entered the massive brewery, we heard the infectious tunes of the ompah band playing over the scores of men, women, and children talking and laughing on the large wooden benches and tables that took up the majority of the space here. This was quite the place to be.

Once we had finished our massive 1 liter Dubnkel and bratwurst, we decided to do a little bit of exploring in this enormous structure. As we wandered throughout the halls and staircases of this once royal establishment, we found another massive banquet hall, complete with chandeliers and a stage where traditional Bavarian dancing and singing was taking place. As we later found out, this stage was in fact the very stage that Adolf Hitler proclaimed the twenty-five theses of the National Socialism program on February 24th, 1920, which reconstituted the German Workers' Party as the National Socialist German Workers' Party, known as the Nazi Party.

While we sat and watched the incredible presentations, we met a group of travelers from Savanna, South Carolina. It was a group of college guys who were spending a few weeks in Europe, along with one of the student's mother named Kacki. We later found out that her presumed claim to fame was that she had in fact, slept with Mick Jagger some years ago. For some reason, none of us doubted her honesty.

After thirty minutes or so of strangely entertaining conversation, this group of new friends invited us to join them for a small gathering that was taking place a little bit outside of the city. Somehow they "knew someone, who knew someone", and we of course had difficulty passing up the opportunity for an adventure.

So we followed our new league of friends to the center station where we boarded what we thought to be a free train. We rode the line for forty-five minutes as stoic and alarming guards marched up and now the aisle, once stopping at our seats to tell us to put our feet down. I almost wet my pants right then and there. During our travel, we began asking questions about how exactly we were going to get to this destination, and we received a dodgy answer about meeting someone they had met once the night before at the train station, and walking the rest of the way. I get the sense that most other people in our situation would likely turn and run from such shady answers, but this only seemed to intrigue us more. They continued to assure us that they had cleared our coming with the owners of the apartment, and that they were excited to meet us.

When we got to our station, we exited the train, and sure enough there was someone there to meet us. We then walked for another thirty minutes through different neighborhoods of this strange city, zigging and zagging like a confused alligator down different streets on our way to this alleged destination. At this point, we decided that ti would at least be prudent of us to write down the names of the street we were turning down as a record in case any of this didn't go according to plans.

After a few more zigs and zags, we eventually made it to our destination - a dark apartment in the middle of nowhere. We made our way up three flights of stairs, and finally to the door where this elusive gathering was taking place. When the owner of the Scooby-Doo apartment answered the door, he took one quick look at the Simkins quartet, and immediately told us that there wasn't enough room for the likes of us. Expecting our SC friends who had been assuring for an hour and a half that everything had been cleared, we then looked to them for some help in the matter. But before we knew it, they were already inside the apartment, offering nothing more than a simple "Sorry bros" on their way in.

They did however make the mistake of leaving their shoes on the landing outside of the door to this apartment, so we decided to relocate them to the parking lot. Certainly not my proudest moment, but possibly one of the funniest.

With the help of our scribbled notes and our cunning sense of direction, we made it back to the train station where we did our best to avoid the screaming match that was going on between two very angry locals. We boarded our train, got yelled at for our feet again, and made our way back to our hostel once more. When we arrived at our hostel, we realized that there was an absurd looking dance club right across the way from our front door, so naturally we made our way over. Because we probably looked like lost puppies, a group of ladies came over to us in traditional Bavarian garb, explaining that anyone who donned the conventional clothing got in for half price. Since we weren't really in the mood to track down some lederhosen at this hour of the night, we decided that we weren't going to end this night with dancing of any sort. As we attempted to converse with our rather drunk "friends", the doorman repeatedly shooshed those conversing outside because "he didn't want to disturb the nearby neighbors." I found this both humorous and ironic given the fact that they had been blasting 120dB from their fine establishment since 7pm, and yet felt inclined to quiet the giggles outside.

After it was determined that the Kelly Garret of this inebriated Charlie's Angels trio was interested in more than just conversation with our dear brother Zach, we decided that it was time for us to call it a night. So we made our way back to our hostel room, did our best not to wake up the one another gentleman in the room, and were sleeping like babies in no time.

SN10 -Day 8

2010-09-16T21:39:00.001-07:00

We woke up around 8am and began to clean/pack up for our last day of adventures in London. We pieced together that the random table in the middle of our hostel room was the "free for all" table, so we snagged some new pants, a random book, and some sort of hat. I think. We rounded up all of our rank clothing and did a massive load of laundry while we cleaned. It was a long time coming. We were certainly cutting it close at this point in the trip.

After we stored our stuff in the communal baggage room, we made our way to Buckingham Palace. We had some difficulty getting there because it was some sort of bank holiday, but thankfully us Simkins' are known for our resourcefulness. We live for the challenge.

As we walked through the beautiful park surrounding the beautiful palace, we say teams of families also enjoying the holiday with an ice cream cone or family picnic near the palace. It was quite a lovely scene to watch.

Once we were done gazing at the enormous palace, we made our way down the long and majestic entrance, only to find that we had been at the mouth at that very entrance the day before and didn't know it. Everything in London is so very connected, and yet elegantly separated. It's an enthralling layout of a city.

We then made our way once again to the National Gallery were we finally were able to enter. Unfortunately photography was strictly prohibited, but simply being able to spend some time looking at an incredible collection of art was fantastic. Artists from every era, from all around the world hung on the regal walls of this fine building, as tourist and residents alike stood close and far, hoping to glean some new wisdom or insight from these magnificent works of art. I enjoyed watching the people almost as much as I did the painting they were gazing upon.

Our next stop was the strikingly enormous Westminster Abbey. Through some research we were able to find out that the weekly evensong service was open to the public and decided to participate. As we walked through the dark corridors into the overwhelming stunning center room, I couldn't help but stare at the beauty around me like a kid in a candy shop. The incredible architecture and beautiful stained glass made this room both daunting and serene all at once. We were walked to our seats which happened to be in the very front row next to the altar, in full view of the rest of the participants. I suppose that meant that we best be on our good behavior...

I can honestly say that this experience was among my very favorites from this entire trip. The moment the 18 person choir open their mouths, I was immediately filled with a sense of bone-chilling awe that I haven't been able to forget since. A wave of emotions washed over me with a shaking sense of total reverence, and I almost didn't know what to do with myself. As the deep and harmonious voices filled every chamber of this ancient building, I couldn't help but think of the days before Power Point, electric drums, sign-in sheets, and trendy curriculum. Simply the voices of those dear saints, gathering in communal humility, to worship God and edify one another. Nothing more. How I long to catch a glimpse of the beautiful simplicity.

As some people left halfway, I couldn't help but wonder why. Why would anyone ever want to cut short their experience of deeply historic and wonderfully liturgical worship in such a magnificent space like the Westminster Abbey? And it dawned it me. The space, the amenities, the luxuries, and equipment really don't carry that much importance. Without a deeply profound interaction with the Creator of the universe, our pragmatic arrangements and concise musicianship really is for nil. Without a heart postured in humble surrender, washed in grace, challenged in victory, even our most fervent (or costly) attempts will in deed, fall short. What a simple reminder.

After we left Westminster, we decided it was high time we encounter some authentic English tea. We found a delightful pub a couple miles away, and sat ourselves at the only remaining table. As it turns out, there was a reason this particular table was open as we quickly realized it was placed right next to the building's bathrooms. We took strength from Destiny's Child and survived. Once we finished our tea, we created our trademark "SN10" on the tables with the flowers provided, and were on our way.

I had suspected earlier in the trip that we may be able to use our "Underground" cards to ride on one of the transit boats and so we decided to give that a try. As ti turns out, there was a bit of an extra charge, but it was minimal, so we decided to scrounge together all the coins we had left, and begin our aquatic adventure. The boat took us right under the gorgeous London Tower Bridge where we snapped dozens of photos like the unashamed tourists we were. Unsure of the actual route this fine ferry went, we decided to stay on for a bit to see where it would take us. This turned out not to be the wisest choice we had ever made, once we realized that we were going to be dropped off in a neighborhood far outside of where we had been staying and/or were familiar with. But then again, we are suckers for a challenge.

We decided to make "Fish and Chips" our final obstacle to conquer, and began our search in the newly discovered neighborhood we had been dropped off in. When we finally found a place, we realized that we did not have the funds to pay for it. After a number of attempts to find the elusive ATM that everyone had been directing us to, we at last discovered our esoteric friend.

After our delicious meal, we made the long journey back to our beloved hostel, said goodbye to our dear friend "Saucy Aussie", and called a cab.

When we called to arrange for our ride however, they must have interpreted the word "cab" as "rotting corpse testing lab." We all agreed that this cab was arguably the worst smelling vehicle we had ever set foot in, and knowing the vehicles we have each been in over the years, that's quite an accomplishment. Trying to choke back the tears and impending vomit, we quickly realized that this sly cabby was taking all sorts of unnecessary turns and detours in order to ramp up our price. The driver end up ripping us off by at least 20 Euros, but by the time we reached the airport at 2:30am, we were just too tired to fight with the guy.

When we arrived at the ghost town of an airport, we made our way to the food court on the second floor and found some comfy chairs that we could rest in. Apparently a dozen other people had the same idea, and soon we looked like a traveling band of homeless carnies. Some sprawled all across the small carpeted area, others cuddled closely in their sleeping bags on carefully arranged ottomans. One ambitious gentlemen had even taken his socks of, got up every 3 minutes or so to try and rearrange the pieces of furniture he was sleeping" on. It was both sad, and kind of hilarious.

I let the rest of the group sleep while I quietly worked on writing down the notes from our day's adventures...

SN10- Day 7

2010-09-06T17:52:00.001-07:00

Today began like any other day, except for the fact that we all woke up considerably later than we had planned on due to our massive navigational blunder the night before. We were reminded of our shame the instant we realized how late we had actually slept in.

We made our way up to the mess hall area and grabbed something little to snack on before getting ready to head to the Rugby game that we had bought tickets for back in the states as an added little bonus for Zach. As we ate, we began working on what we had called our "timeline" -simply recording down highlights from each day in a small netbook so that we'd have some sort of skeleton to work with when the time came to write all of this out fully. We were already a few days behind at this point, so we were deep in contemplation, trying desperately to recall the events from the previous days. Trav however, has the memory of a steel trap and was recalling such subtle details and nuances, it was incredible.

After about a half-hour of this, Sam walks in from being in the computer area and informs us that the stadium where our game was scheduled to start in about thirty minutes was at least ninety minutes away by public transit. We of course respond as the civil, level-headed young men we are, and begin running around like madmen. We figured that a rugby game in at Twickenham Stadium may not be the best place for four chaps in suits, so, for this day only, we decided to forgo the uniform ensemble and don some more regular looking threads. Trav of course had to borrow some, because we quite literally didn't have any other clothes whatsoever. Not even normal walking shoes of any kind. He's that hardcore.

So in a wave of frenzy, we ran out the door and towards our beloved Jubilee line. When we arrived, however, we were informed that it was some sort of bank holiday of sorts, and that many of the transit lines weren't going to be running at all that day, making the directions that we had acquired relatively useless. We boarded anyway and took the line as far as we could until we had to exit, and then the fun really began. More or less we whimpered like lost puppies in the hopes that someone with any sort of navigational ability would come to our aid and help us get to where we needed to go. Eventually that person emerged, and we were so thankful for his help. Our route was going to take more time than we had hoped for, but we didn't have much of an option at this point.

After a series of rail switches and creative maneuvering, we finally made it to the bus stop where we would catch a ride that would, at last, plop us right in front of the stadium. The problem was that no buses were running that route. We asked a number of would-be drivers sitting in there buses if they had any information that would help us out, but were snuffed each time. We sent scouts out to different street corners to see if, by some stroke of luck, a bus was heading in the direction that we needed to go. After fifteen minutes of this, it was clear that our transportational rabbit's foot was not working as well as we had hoped.

We grumbled a bit, paced back and forth a little, and then I finally suggested that we sprint it out. The others brothers were in agreement, and thus began our lively dash. Trav however, was not equipped with shoes, but eagerly and willingly took off his sandals, and kept pace with us all as he ran barefoot. What a trooper.

Another fifteen minutes had passed as we ran, and we were starting to wonder if we were even heading in the right direction, when all of a sudden we rounded a turn, and there lay ahead of us, the sumptuous Twickenham Stadium. The fourth largest stadium in all of Europe, the Towering Twickers boasts a seating capacity of 82,000 -the largest rugby union stadium in all of the UK. I think I caught Zach drooling, crying, or both at this point.

We ran like schoolboys towards a great Frasier Fir on Christmas morn only to find that we could not find out section. Guards and workers offered completely contradictory information and direction, and we frantically ran circles around this massive stade until we stumbled upon the ever elusive section thirty-four. You would think that the saga would end there, but when we finally reached our seats, we found that a group of gentlemen were occupying our seats, assuming that we weren't going to make it to the game at all. So after some awkward explaining and standing around while our friends calculated the incredibly difficult math, we were finally in our seats.

Unfortunately there wasn't all that much left to the game, but what we did see, was incredible. Such a blast to see that kind of caliber rugby being played live.

And the song that was played at the end was absolutely epic. In this video, you'll also get a glance of what we all deemed to be the hottest gentleman we met in London. Plus, he has Australian!

After the game, we made our way back to the city center to see some of the sites before the sun went down. We saw a number of beautiful buildings before we finally made it to Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress, more commonly known as the Tower of London. Founded in 1066 as a part of the Norman Conquest, this massive structure stands majestically on the north bank of the River Thames. It has been used as a prison, armory, treasury, menagerie, home of the Royal Mint, public records office, and has even housed the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom. An impressive arrangement, to say the least.

We then walked to the stunning Tower Bridge, which doubles both as a suspension bridge, and bascule. As the sun began to set, the powerful ground level lights lit up this beautiful bridge along the river. Opened in 1894, this gorgeous structure was built due to the increased commercial development in east London when the need for new river crossing capabilities arose. Requiring 11,000 tons of steel and 70,000 tons of concrete, this bridge is quite a sight to see in person.

We then headed again to Parliament Square to find a number of activists camping on the grounds in protest of the British military involvement in Afghanistan. Led by anarchist professor Chris Knight, these zealots had been camping out since May 1st, setting up a sprawl of tents they called "Democracy Village" and displaying signs communicating their own ideals, some of which had nothing to do with the war at all, like the one below.

We then walked to a center court area where I attempted to get some long exposure night motion shots of a unique flat waterfall in the center of this spot, but a gentleman came out and yelled at me to leave. I did get one shot of this cool little area before being forced to leave. If only I had been in my suit...

At this point it had gotten quite cold, and poor Sammy had wrapped himself in the scarves that we each had purchased at the rugby game because all he had to keep him warm was the t-shirt he wore at the beginning of the day. With each arm and leg wrapped separately with the colorful scarf, he was an adorable sight to see, but cold nonetheless. So we, with some level of confidence and accuracy, made our way to the the appropriate bus, and made our way back to our beloved Hillspring Lodge for the night.

SN10- Day 6

2010-09-06T17:51:00.000-07:00

After the exciting display of disgruntled potential-patron tomfoolery from the night before, I was eager to get our day off on the right foot.

I awoke with the intent of firing up my little thrift store treasure - an ambrosial miniature travel iron from the 1970's - to treat my brothers to a crisply ironed shirt to wear for the day's adventures that lay ahead of us. At this point, we were all still trying to navigate our way around the international power adapter situation. Some hostels had outlets with entirely different prong specifications than others, even within the same general area of the same country. Luckily each of us was home-schooled at some point and had developed remarkably keen problem solving skills throughout the years. If only our social skills had developed with the same level of success...

So I pulled out my little travel iron, or Foxy Ferrum as I liked to call him, figured out the correct arrangement of power converters, plugged this shiny beast in, and began the ever important crisping process. A few short minutes of ironing in this dimly lit hostel room proved to be an unwise decision on my part, however, for I had melted through the fabric quite thoroughly and created a large brown burn stain at the bottom of my otherwise unadulterated white button up shirt. I assumed that I had used the wrong power connection, switched the adapters out, and started once more to iron an alternate shirt that Trav said I could borrow. Not but 60 seconds into this effort did I melt holes right through this shirt as well.

Feeling a bit like a destroyer of all things classy, we decided to let little FF take a breather, calm down, and maybe his temperature would be more conducive for our needs in a few minutes. But the third shirt we decided to experiment with started to brown almost instantly, and it was at this point that we decided to come to terms with donning slightly wrinkled thrift store suits for the remainder of our trip. Sure we were heartbroken, but we pressed on, ever united and determined to embrace all of the absurdities that surely awaited us. We are, after all, of Simkins and Cousino decent.

So we, in full Barney Stinson fashion, suited up and made out way to center city.

The majority of this day is probably best told through photographs, although even those don't truly do justice to the incredible beauty we were able to encounter. Even the best equipment with the most proficiently skilled artists couldn't fully capture the essence, palpitation, and atmosphere of the city and all that happened within it. London is a truly enchanting city.

After passing countless stunning churches, we made our way to Big Ben and the majestic House of Parliament. Built in the early 1000's, this massive and profoundly beautiful palace was an incredible sight to see in person.

From there, we rather heedlessly crossed the busy road and made our way to the mesmerizing Westminster Abbey, again passing a number of beautiful churches and other buildings along the way. Seeing all of these churches made me feel a lot better about wearing such a "holey" shirt on this particular day.

After we were able to pull ourselves away from taking far more pictures than we ever could use, we made our way to the British Museum.

This incredible museum was founded as a "universal museum" in the mid 1700's by the physician Sir Hans Sloane who had apparently accumulated quite a collection of artifacts throughout the course of his life and, not wanting to see his collection broken up after his death, he bequeathed all of his items to King George II for £20,000. Not a bad deal, if you ask me.

I won't bore you all with the minute details of every article, artifact, relic, depiction, sculpture, and painting that we saw here, but I will say that I have never before been such a big fan of the idea of admission free museums and galleries prior to this experience. From classic painting from some of history's greatest artists, to the preserved bones od ancient civilizations, the British Museum boasts an unbelievably impressive collection.

Once we were able to get the collection of young Asian girls to stop following (as they had been for almost thirty minutes at this point), we decided to leave to see what else London had to offer.

We left the building and came upon what I can only assume is one of the busiest street signs I have ever seen. I cannot imagine trying to safely read this clutter of words from the driver's seat of a vehicle as I whipped past.

As we stopped to take a picture of this comedic display, a group of ladies dressed as pseudo-nuns approached us and asked if they could take a picture with us in our suits. Of course, we were happy to oblige. It's not every day that a punk-rawk sister request to have their photo taken with you, so when they do, you take them up on that offer. Mamma didn't raise no fool.

We gave our new friends parting hugs, and made our way towards Trafalgar Square, where the illustrious National Gallery was. This square was truly beautiful, teeming with people, and far larger than any image can depict.

Unfortunately the National Gallery was closed by the time we got there, so we all agreed to come by again during operating hours.

We spent the rest of the "daylight" that we had left doing what we do best -wandering. We meandered here and there, meeting people, telling jokes, talking with the Queen's Life Guard, and simply taking pictures of the enchanting artistry around us.

When it started to get dark, we decided to pick up some Newcastles and head under the bridge as the sun slowly disappeared. Zach's Newcastle however, had been dropped and/or shaken quite a bit by the time we made it to our homely bench under the bridge, because the upon opening he was met with a sizable beer-plosion all over his classy blue suit. He was a sad panda bear.

After we cleaned Zach up, snapped a picture of a nearby couple making out, and finished our beverages, we made our way once again, to catch a glimpse of London at night. The storefronts in London alone are rich with creativity

After we had walked and gazed for quite some time, we found a little hole in the wall burger place before heading back home. There's nothing really notable about this particular experience per se, but I do remember that it was delicious.

On our late bus ride back, we accidentally jumped off of our bus at the wrong stop, and ended up walking somewhere in the ballpark of four miles to get back to our hostel. This was made doubly exciting since it was after three in the morning at this point.

Climbing into a lumpy hostel bed never felt so good.

SN10 -Day 5

2010-09-05T10:58:00.001-07:00

After a deep, long, and chiropractically gainful two-hour sleep on our flight, we arrived safely in London. Functioning as cognitive infants and looking perhaps like we came from zombie-prom, we were especially thankful for the help of a very accommodating front desk attendant upon arrival. England was already fairing quite well in our book. Even with the strikes against them brought on by the "Harry Potter Enterprise". So, at the kind advice of our friendly airport staff, we purchased our Travel Card day passes, and were on our way to our new and exciting hostel experience.

We took the Jubilee line towards the city, and exited at the Willesden Green stop to try and locate our lodging. Of course we got ourselves a bit lost in our wandering and curiosity, but eventually fell upon (almost literally) the resplendent Hillspring Lodge. This establishment was heads and shoulders above any other hostel I had ever stayed at. I honestly couldn’t believe that we were getting bunks for as cheaply as we were here. There was a beautiful lobby, big, beautiful windows everywhere - drawing attention to the delightful greenery surrounding this little inn, and the nicest staff anyone could ever ask for. As we exhaustingly shuffled our way to the front desk, the lovely receptionist gave us the "new camper" schpeal, but really all we could think about was finding some sort of surface to collapse on as soon as possible. An entire night filled with flights, transfers, customs, and security checks had left our brains just a couple of notches above Waffle House grits, and we were ready for some circadian rhythm.

Unfortunately we weren’t allowed to check into our room for another two hours, so we had to try and come up with something to occupy ourselves in the meantime, without passing out in some public location.

Because this hostel had a great little kitchen for it’s residents to use, we decided to venture out to our local grocery store to pick up some supplies in an effort to save some money on food during our stay in London. See how responsible we can be? I know you’re proud of us already.

We made it to the grocery store and began to saunter through the isles, trying desperately to not only stay awake, but to make some semi-intelligent purchases in the process. We debated over price and substance, over taste and usefulness, and eventually settled on a good collection of items. It had been almost two hours by the time we returned, but we decided that we better power-through and eat something at this now, because the tiny kitchen was likely to be busy by the time we woke up if we were to indulge in a nap at this point. Look at us –two wise decisions in only one afternoon.

And so we cooked and feasted on whole grain pasta, grilled chicken, mixed veggies, garlic herb tomato sauce, and wheat bread. So very tasty. You would be proud, Ma. As soon as we were done, we cleaned our dishes, and headed straight to our room for a quick nap before heading out on the great town of London.

After a few hours of the first truly horizontal sleep we had seen in quite some time, we each awoke, a little unsure of where we even were. We eventually got our bearings, suited up, and began making our way to The Big Smoke –the great city of London.

We took the tube toward the city center, and exiting at an area that we thought would be interesting. We meandered up and down the city blocks taking in all of the sites, sounds, smells, and of course, brilliant accents. We walked past the Sherlock Holmes Hotel, and Zach took a picture for Anne. We admired the brilliant architecture, and the eclectic storefront displays. Our first impression of the people was that they weren’t nearly as sociable or welcoming as those from Ireland, but appeared to be friendly nonetheless. We eventually stumbled upon an adorable little pizza place that also happened to be playing live jazz as well. Both the pizza and music was fantastic. I kicked myself for not speaking up while the singer quizzed the audience on some Duke Wellington trivia, and missed out on a free CD, but I was sure to tell them how much I enjoyed their set before we left. After giving it some thought since then, I've come to the conclusion that I think I’d like to have soulful live jazz playing every time I eat pizza from here on out. It was truly a winning combo.

We made it back to our lodge safely and decided to hop on the computers in the lobby to construct some sort of plan for the next day. About twenty-minutes in however, we were treated to some delightfully disgruntled theater for a segment I’d like to call “Hostile Hostel”.

The story is actually much funnier when told in person, but the long and short of it is that a petulant would-be patron of this fine hostelry was quite upset with the arrangements of his stay, and a comically pugnacious encounter ensued. When he first walked in, we saw that he too was in a suit and thought that we were kindred spirits, but it become clear rather quickly that such was not the case.

He began ranting and raving (loudly, and with great fervor, mind you) about the type of room he had demanded, postulating justice, or at the very least, his money back. The attendant was calm and collected, but the habitué was growing more and more vocal with every passing moment. The man eventually ended up calling the police, claiming that the employee stood towards him with the intent to push him, and that he was physically frightened and worried for his safety. This went back and forth for about thirty minutes, and I was happy to have the butter popcorn handy for this entertaining display.

Eventually the angry man left, but with the wonderful power of surveillance, we were able to watch him pace back and forth in front of the hostel awaiting the arrival of the police (who never came to avenge this great injustice. After sitting on the curb for a bit, he finally decided to leave and try to find another local hostel that would take him in at two in the morning.

We, of course, joked about it in the lobby for a while with our new friends who had also observed this absurd display, and then eventually were off to bed to prepare for day six.

SN10 -Day 4

2010-08-02T10:50:00.000-07:00

We awoke early the next morning to find that the girl sleeping in the bunk next to us had woken Zach up twice during the night –once to tell him that Trav was snoring, once to tell him that he himself was snoring. We’re still not exactly sure what she expected him to do about the situation, but we had a good early morning laugh about it as the three of us heard the story told in the way only Zach can tell it. He really has a gift.

While we went to go grab a quick bite of breakfast in the kitchen area, Trav ran to the bus station to get tickets for our day’s adventures. After Trav enthusiastically corralled the less ebullient of the brothers to the bus stop, we quickly realized that the actual departing time of this vessel was different then what our tickets indicated. Thanks to Trav’s persistent prodding however, we made our bus by the skin of our teeth, and were succesfully aboard this two-tiered beauty. After a sleepy and grey 90-minute bus ride, we made it to the dock point where we would board another 30-minute ferry that would eventually take us to the beautiful Aran Islands of Ireland.

During our bus and ferry ride, a number of people inquired about our suits – more people than usual it seemed. We thought it would be fun to begin asking others what they thought they were all about before answering them. Their responses were quite entertaining. Some thought we were a boy band, others thought we were strippers. Some were even sure that we were a professional hurling team. I guess we have the hair for it. When we finally told them that this was a bachelor party and that we were all brothers, most people responded “You mean, like fraternity brothers?” or “So like, from the ‘hood’ kind of brothers?” For some reason we don’t have nearly the family resemblance in Europe that we do in the states.

Once we docked the stunningly beautiful main island, we made our way to a bicycle rental station, gave them €10 for each silver stallion and were on our merry, boy-band way. As we rode around this incredible atoll, I knew immediately that the rumors of how gorgeous Ireland was were all true. Even in the rain, the deep greens and blues made this landscape truly unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was exactly how I had pictured it, and yet still somehow a thousand times better. Like finally being back to a place you’d been homesick for your whole life but never actually been.

As we pedaled past small farmhouses and crumbling stonewalls, I sensed a deep familial history that ran deep through these villages. I felt the weight of years of religious, political, and economic tension and struggle, and yet the even stronger emerging family and community victor. There was a light rain, which was exactly how I hoped to experience this small island. To have it be completely clear seemed to be, for me, out of character for this place, and I wanted the real deal. The island as it was.

After some friendly dialogue with our fellow riders and a few attempts at exploration, we stopped to leave our beloved “SN’10” trademark once more. We found a field with enough clearing for our little project, and began moving the scattered stones into place. After about twenty minutes or so, we realized that this project was going to take us far longer than we had originally anticipated, but we were too deep into it (and stubborn) to give up. So we persisted.

Moving rocks much heavier than they appeared and laying them into strategic locations on the ground to for our emblematic brilliance. It wasn’t until after we were all done that we realized we may have put the letters too close to the nearby wall for us to take a decent picture of it. We tried to snap a shot from all sorts of angles until I decided that I was going to climb this shaky wall and get a picture from up there. Trav of course had to awkwardly, and tenderly hold my legs to keep me from slipping on the crumbling wall below me. Some passerbyers enjoyed that display, I think. Some even asked if we were shooting some sort of cologne ad, to which we, of course, responded “yes”.

We mounted our trusty steeds once more and made our way to the “Seven Churches” graveyard where we feasted on our previously prepared gourmet peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. In hindsight, I realize that this was a little morbid to plan for a meal in a graveyard, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone at the time. I suppose that's not a reasonable gauge for determining appropriate interaction though, either. When we were done with our refection, we sassed some cows, climbed some walls, made friends with a kitty, and were on our way once again.

Next, we journeyed to “Dun Aonghasa”- a spectacular circular Celtic stone fort built in 2000 B.C. by Celtic tribesman. At this point it was clear enough that we could even see Mt. Brandon in Kerry. It was truly breathtaking.

After taking a cheesy and relatively pointless picture with a miniature house that has no significance whatsoever, we reached the top of this incredible peak overlooking the stunning Irish Sea. Of course, each of us had to rush right to the edge, taunting the rocks and waves that lay 350 feet below us –each of us, except for Zach that is. Zach did not want to get any closer than a solid 10 feet from this cliff’s edge, and was getting increasingly solicitous with every one of our ridiculous cliff side antics. We eventually convinced him to work his way the edge for the sake of a photo op, but once those images were captured, it was back to the safety of distance. I can’t say that I blame him, actually. It was pretty terrifying. It’s just always entertaining for me to see our strong, rugby playing brother get uneasy and frightened about something that doesn’t even really show up on our radars, even though it probably should have. Then again, he was the first to be asked for his autograph in this country, so who’s the real winner here?

On our way back down from this incredible spot (and in an effort to throw the old Asian woman who had been following us off our scent), we climbed over a small wall to an area that Sam and Trav had discovered in their time here the previous year. I found it funny that a shaky, two-foot wall was all that really kept us from wandering into territory that we weren’t supposed to be wandering into, but we took that as an open invitation and were happy to oblige. As we walked through the mysterious placed rock patters that were so meticulously aligned with one another in the fields we crossed, we come upon a paralyzing cliff over-hang, standing far out above the water below.

After barely managing to inch ourselves to the edge of this thin cliff –probably only three or four feet wide-, I came up with the brilliant idea to take some “jump shots” from this spot ala Mary Tyler Moore. Even Zach managed to crawl out to this most intimidating of spots to grace us all with an angry tiger growl and a sexy dance. To top off the experience, Sam discovered our newly found, unnamed plastic superheroe companion on our way back - a comrade who would remain with us for the duration of this vagrancy, and beyond. We were all quite satisfied with the deviation.

We then quickened our pace (much in the style of the “scamper on there lads” that Trav and I had received from a butcher earlier in our trip), grabbed our trusty silver steeds, and began hastily making our way to the site of “Dun Duchachair” (The Black Fort) before our ferry departed. Unfortunately the chain on Zach’s bike kept falling off, and we were unable to make it in time. The good news is that my ride, the ever elusive “Wackly Wobbler”, amidst its wackiness, rode strong the entire day. I was so proud of my old boy.

We returned our bikes and began walking toward where our ferry was when we noticed that the sailboat that had been beached in the morning when we departed, was now fully afloat four hours later. Amazingly, the water had risen more than thirty feet from the time that we were first there, and we found that to be absolutely amazing. I’m sure it was obvious to all within earshot that we were not, in fact, "beach babies" by any means.

The ferry brought us back to our bus stop where we again boarded our double-decker tour ride, and struck up conversation with our other fellow travelers once more. We had a lovely conversation with a group of girls (the leader of which we affectionately named “Scowly Girl” because of her seemingly relentless aversion to ever showing positive emotions whatsoever) and exchange stories of our adventures thus far. It was a convention I was rather enjoying –hearing of the exciting and exhilarating things that people from all over the world did to feel inspired. It was quite fascinating to simply sit back and observe, really.

After some debate as to where exactly we should exit to disembark on our next saga, we finally found a reasonable spot and decided to walk along the river to try and locate a church that Trav and Sam had unsuccessfully tried to visit the last time they were here. We walked through small neighborhoods, past some interesting architecture and graffiti, and even spotted the same moped at the bottom of the river the two brothers had seen on their previous visit. But by the time we reached the beautiful church that we had been searching for, the doors were no longer open. We hugged each other for an hour or so, drying our tears in the shoulders of our warm embrace, and then decided it was time to hunt down some food. Well, purchase food at least.

Oh, and we also made some new friends during our ambling -both bronze and otherwise.

We eventually were drawn in, as most men would be, by the shimmering wonderment of the man-worn triangle advertisement sign in the town "square", and simply couldn’t ignore its sweet calling. It read “Boogala Burger This Way” and upon reading these words, we knew we were in for a treat. Chang beer, naan bread, guacamole lamb burgers –this was Irish cuisine at its finest. It actually was incredibly tasty, and we all were glad to be dry, immobile, and eating real food for the first time this day. It’s strange how much a good burger can lift your spirits.

After our delicious meal at a shared table with an unsuspecting couple, we went back to the hostel to snag some flight info, got Zach to a call-center to call his beloved Anne, grabbed some Powers, and were back on the town. We began making our way to “Roisin Dubh”, the bar recommended to me by my flight companion Serena Flemming on the airplane ride to Dublin, but on our way, Scowly Girl and her posse actually spotted us walking. “What are the odds?” we thought, so we stopped and chatted with them for a bit. SG made some sarcastic comments and of course, we returned in kind, and were on our way once again. As we walked, numerous clubs, bars, and pubs stopped us along the way to offer us deals, stickers, stamps, wristbands, and all sorts of other sparkly incentives to visit their establishment. We felt a little bit like celebrities and simply ignored the fact that every other person was receiving the same treatment.

A few minutes later, a second group of friends from the day’s adventures called out to us as we walked by, so we stopped to catch up with them as well. We than gathered a few more stamps and stickers as we walked until finally, the third group of friends from Canada and Chicago that we had met during our cycling stopped us and we began exchanging the ridiculous stories of our lives we all loved to share with total strangers in circumstances like these.

After an hour or so of wonderful discursive outside this unknown bar, the group invited us to join them inside. Fairly certain that we wouldn’t make it to Rosin Dubh before it closed, we decided to take them up on their offer. I mean, heck, we were in suits. Might as well make good use of them, eh? No sense wandering in the dark with our thrift store beauties (and Trav’s actual tailored ensemble) when there are well lit areas available for them to shine.

As we walked through the crowded halfway, Zach and I walked past a group of older ladies that we had met earlier that day, and got our pictures with them. We got a sense pretty quickly that the men they were with were not fond of our jubilant presence, so we kept our wagon trail moving right along so as to not stir up a tussle. We certainly weren’t dressed for any fisticuffs. We made our way to the center of this fine rathskeller to partake in a pint of Guinness as generously provided for by the ever-magnanimous Samuel R. Simkins, which was then followed by dance moves the likes of which Americans have never seen before. A drunk gentleman barely able to stand, gave a display on the old dance floor that even MJ would be proud of. Mesmerizing. We were asked to sing a tune or two as well, and we were again, happy to oblige.

At about 1am we decided it was high time to venture out and make good on all of the VIP stamps, stickers, slap bracelets, and hair ties that we had received earlier in the day. So our new friends and dance companions joined us as we aimlessly jaunted towards the thumping bass beat that annoyed us the least. We ended up at a cheeky looking club called “Cuba”, but as we approached the entrance, the bouncer tried to charge us €5 each just to get in. When the doorman at “903” (the club literally next door) saw this, he waved us over and said that we were all welcome at his place free of charge. So we proverbially shook the dust of our sandals at Cuba, and swaggered on over to 903 to get our lame excuse for dancing on.

After twenty minutes or so of utter-domination under the flashing lights, Zach noticed that the suit jackets and bags that we had stacked up against a nearby pillar were now missing. As hard as it was, we all stopped dancing and began frantically searching the club for our belongings until we found them stashed in a corner on the opposite side of the club in a pile with someone else’s possessions. I won’t get into the details of the ordeal here, but it involved security guards, a couple hammered and slurring ladies, a handful of overly aggressive Irish chaps, purse searching, a missing flask, and Zach threatening to rip off some guy’s arm and beat him with it. All in all, it was what most of us Simkins types would classify as perfect fodder for an outstanding story.

But did we let this attempt at petty theft get us down? Don’t be foolish. We stayed and danced all the heartier, not because we wanted to, but because Ireland needed us to. And I say this, not as a joke by any means, but numerous people actually approached me throughout the evening and complimented me on my dance moves. As honestly as sun rises and sets each day, it happened. I’m assuming that none of them actually saw me lose three buttons off of my suit in the process when they made those statements, however. But I was happy to take the encouragement either way.

After we had successfully and with great fervor made sure that club 903’s rug was, in fact, tore up, we decided to venture across the street for some grub and "Street Hokey Pokey". Of course at this point, all of the exciting nightlife was out in full colors, yelling absurdities and dancing with plastic bags on their heads. It was the most I had felt at home thus far. One kind and drunken gentleman even invited us to the incredibly exclusive party that was being held at the prestigious location of his basement. Having to fight our urges to be thrown headfirst once more into what was sure to be a smashing story in the future, we declined and walked the ladies to their hostel.

After we bid them all adieu, we tottered majestically to our own hostel, stumbling with pure exhaustion to the reception desk at about 3am. Now it’s important to note here that because our flight the next day was at 6am, we decided it would be economical of us resourceful chaps to not pay for another night at the hostel, and simply catch a ride to the airport and sleep in the airport lobby before our flight. So we gathered our things from the incredibly nice gentleman receptionist who had allowed us to stuff our luggage behind the kitchen counter, fell down the stairs, and hailed a cab.

This driver wasn’t nearly as enthralling as our previous driver had been, but he was certainly pleasant nonetheless. We arrived at the airport at 4am, longing for the sweet cushiony goodness of airport seating, only to find that the teeny weeny Galway airport didn’t even open until 5:30am. Luckily a few of us had managed to survive in the Boy Scouts of America for a few weeks long enough to learn some resourcefulness and had taken the small fleece blankets from a previous flight. So we all huddle together, in our suits, under the small bus station in front of the airport, clenching our small navy blue blanket as tightly as we could, and tried to sleep. Thankfully the night guard saw this paltry scene and about thirty minutes later he took pity on us poor saps, opened up the doors, and allowed us to pass out in their fine lobby.

An hour later we awoke to the sounds of sweet Irish announcements over the loudspeakers, gathered our things, and we were on our way to London.

SN10 -Day 3 (continued)

2010-08-01T20:30:00.001-07:00

As we made our way back to the Dublin Castle for a tour, we again found ourselves distracted by the numerous beautiful churches around us. We stopped by the stunning St. Catherine’s Roman Catholic Church to admire the architecture and breathtaking interior.

As we observed the inside of this astonishing building, I noticed a small altar with votive candles on it. As I got closer, I realized that this altar was actually a coin operated votive candle machine, where one would insert the appropriate amount of coins, and then a “prayer candle” would then be lit for a period of time depending on the amount of coinage inserted. Now, perhaps this is common practice, and a way to cut down on the purchase of real candles and such, but I found it rather odd. It wasn’t the exchange of money that I found peculiar - religious establishments of all sorts have each developed their own manner of collection over the years, and I at least understand the concept, even if I don’t necessarily agree with the methodology or use of said funds. What seemed strange was this tangible, mechanical depiction of prayer for one another.

It’s most certainly possible that I read far too much in to this, but to see a small chantry of prayer set up like up a video game just left me feeling unsettled. And there are certainly many aspects of liturgy that still elude me, and I have no problem admitting that outright. All I really can say with any amount of confidence is that I hope in my life, my prayer and petitions to God aren’t reduced to the exchange of currency in a well-decorated machine. I hope they are forged amidst the messiness of community, in the blood of turmoil, and in the praise of the One who set me free. And perhaps one can do this by way of inserting a coin, in which case I praise God for our incredibly diversities here on earth.

We left St Catherine’s and made our way back to Dublin Castle but, of no surprise to anyone, we missed our tour. So we decided to snag some lunch across the street and wait for the next tour to start. I snagged myself some cannelloni and bruschetta, which may seem like a strange purchase while in Dublin, but I assure you that it was mind-meltingly tasty. I almost asked the waiter if they were hiring –it was that good.

So we finally got the tour we had been waiting for. Just us, and three other pleasantly touristic new friends. We learned about the courtyard and the significance of this castle throughout history. They took us to a small chapel that apparently has been used in numerous TV shows and movies in years past. Our guide said that it was likely due to the incredible woodwork and stonework and massive pipe organ that was still in functioning condition today. We also learned that the stonework wasn’t nearly as old as it appeared though. Apparently there was a method of mixing plaster with beer in order to give it a much older, more aged appearance. This method of mixing plaster with beer is evidently where we derive our phrase “getting plastered.”

We learned more about the wonderful architecture, the stained glass, and the Lord of that time who put his image above that of Christ’s in the arrangement. Apparently that wasn’t a particularly popular move in that day, but historians believe that it was because he was drunk with the obsession of being remembered once he was gone, so this was his attempt at longevity.

After we left the chapel we were brought to a fascinating subterranean river under the one remaining tower. The other towers were no longer with us because they were blown up 200 years prior in an effort to stop a raging fire from destroying the rest of the castle. Their plan didn’t work nearly as well as they had hoped. Aren’t we sometimes the explosion that does far more damage than the “catastrophe” we face ever could do? It’s interesting to note that the black river (named for the black plague) still leaked through the walls of this cavernous space.

When the tour was over, we began walking to our next destination and an American and Aussie that we had met during the tour came along for the wandering adventure as well. We discussed politics, sports, economics, and a whole host of other pleasantries until we came upon a high-end liquor shop where the Aussie bought Zach a cigar in honor of his upcoming wedding. Zach however, it strongly opposed to smoking of any kind, but it was a very nice gesture nonetheless.

We then walked to Trinity College and caught a little bit of a cricket game. In the middle of the match, Trav yelled “French!” for no good reason, and we all had a good laugh about it. We walked the wrong direction for awhile until we again found our center point – the lovely river – and began our walk home. Amidst our walking we saw many interesting storefronts, including this deeply poetic portrayal of a rat holding a woman. Truly a deep metaphor for life in all its complexities, no?

Arriving back at our hostel, we picked up our luggage that the clerk kindly allowed us to keep behind his desk for the day while we wandered around the city. We said our goodbyes, and boarded a bus toward the airport. While at a red light on the top level of our bus to the Dublin airport, some ladies in the apartment next to us began making lewd gestures to us as we sat, patiently waiting for the green light. It was a strange and slightly alarming display, but we laughed about it anyways. The Irish are so hospitable.

As we stumbled to the terminal, eager to board our flight to Galway and exhausted from the day’s adventures, the fine folks in security informed us that our good friend Strawberry Jelly wasn't going to be able to accompany us on our journey. This distressed us a great deal because we fully intended on introducing SJ to Off-Brand Peanut Butter and Budget-Buy Wheat Bread the next day, right before we consumed them for energy amidst our day's travels. We asked them if Sir Jelly could join us if in fact he was in sandwich form before boarding, and assuming that we were joking, they told us that would be acceptable.

So we did what any thrifty, money-conscious, suit wearing world travelers would do in this situation- we grabbed our things walked backwards through security, pulled out our supplies, and made all of our sandwiches right there in the lobby, with the use of a couple plastic forks we had snagged earlier in the trip. Here's our proof:

Despite the disgusted and jovial expressions of the other eager travelers who walked past us, we effectively made eight sandwiches ,stuffed them back into the bag that the bread originally came in, wiped the crumbs off of the baggage carousel top that we used as our kitchen, and walked right on back through security. The guards found the entire ordeal entertainnig enough and didn't razz us too badly about our "unique tactics".

When we finally made it to our terminal, the flight attendant informed us that he had to move us from row 8 to row 7, and that he was very sorry for the inconvenience. What was humorous when we boarded the plane was that no one else was seated in row 8 of this flight –or rows 9, 10, 11, 6, or 5 for that matter. Cute little plane. I’m sure they were simply trying to impress us.

By the time we landed in Galway, the entire airport was already shutting down. I’m not eve sure we had an actual human pilot, because there wasn’t a single person around. A couple of us went to the bathroom, and by the time we exited their tidy liquitorium, the lights were already being turned off. As we made our exit, we saw one homely gentlemen whom we assumed was a part of the cleaning “crew” and jokingly asked him if we could go home with him. He of course, didn’t catch the sarcasm in our tone, stared intently at us and said “No you may not”. We laughed it off, and made our way to where we prayed a taxicab might be.

As it turns out, not only was there a cabby there to give us a ride, but it happened to be what I’m certain to be the most intelligent, humorous and kind cabby on the face of the planet. During our hour-long trip, there wasn’t a single thing this man didn’t know, and know well. Every topic we offered he answered with the utmost poise and authority. It was unreal.

As we got closer to the city center, we realized that Trav didn’t know the name, phone number, address, or even street name of the hostel we were staying at that night. Our driver suggested one place, but Trav said that wasn’t it. We pulled up to another hostel, but that wasn’t it either. “Where to?” the cabby inquired. “Uh, forward!” responded Travis. So we drove a couple streets further until Trav shouted that he found it. With some creative maneuvering, we were now in front of our hostel (the name of which none of us know to this day), paid our new friend and thanked him for the conversation, and grabbed our luggage –all while in our suits still, of course.

We made our way upstairs to the front desk, met the nicest receptionist we had encountered thus far, and by 1:30am we had made it to room #7 and immediately crashed.

SN10 -Day 3

2010-07-30T21:12:00.001-07:00

Day three of this adventure began with us waking up a number of hours earlier than my body was expecting or hoped for. I think I’m going to have to get used to this routine of sleep depravity.

We made our way to the “kitchen” area of The Bunkhouse and partook in the wonderful plethora of breakfast goodness that awaited us – toast and jelly. Oh Dublin, you spoil us. After breakfast we suited up again, then snagged some directions for the Guinness Factory, and were on our way.

On our way to the factory however, we got rather distracted (to no one’s surprise) by the incredible collection of beautiful cathedrals along the way. Four Simkins men walking the streets of a foreign country, you better believe it’s going to take us four times as long to get anywhere.

We stopped and admired the beautiful architecture of Christ Church Cathedral that was founded in 1038. We briefly snuck inside where there was a partition blocking off one of the private wings, with the words’ Foxy Friars” printed on the inside. We snickered like the children we are, took a picture, and were one the move once more.

Our next accidental stop was at the resplendent Dublin Castle, where apparently there was a private governmental conference taking place that we were not aware of. But approaching the desk with confidence and four suits, we actually were almost granted entrance to this privileged meeting. They caught on to our game, and told us that we were not allowed to enter, to which we graciously thanked them and left.

After stopping to observe a few other remarkable buildings, we finally arrived at the Guinness Storehouse safely. Naturally, the first thing we did was find the massive gate with the Guinness logo painted on it and did a dance to pay tribute. We’re confident the gate was thankful.

On our tour of this fascinated factory, we learned useless and pertinent things like the fact that Arthur Guinness took a 9,000-year lease on the property for the measly annual rent of £45. As we made our way through the seven-level museum/storehouse shaped like a Guinness pint glass, we learned about the unique brewing process and standards, about the inimitable history and economical outcomes of such a company, and observed old commercials and advertising posters with slogans like “Guinness is good for you”. One commercial even depicted a doctor talking about a patient who was stricken with anxiety, stating, “I prescribed him Guinness and his mood was improved, his spirit was lifted, and he became jovial, elated, and talkative.” Yes, these were actual advertisements. We each tell our stories our own way, eh?

After we passed through the Guinness tasting area where we all learned to properly “hear, smell, and drink” a Guinness, we found a long room for certain clips were being shown regarding the history of the company. As a looked at the furniture, with its odd camber and shape, I thought to myself “We could spell ‘SN10’ out of this here furniture!” And so we did. We waited until everyone had left the room, and began re-arranging all of the furniture to spell what would soon because our infamous trademark. With the task taking a bit longer than we anticipated, and the surprisingly patient crowd that was forming, we finally finished our masterpiece. This was the result:

We then made it up to the top and final level called the “Skybar” , which was a 310 degree panoramic room with an unbelievable view of the city – the very first skyscraper in Dublin. Upon entering this room, we were met by a team of “professional pourers” that, in exchange for out ticket stub, poured for us what they described as “the freshest Guinness you will ever taste”, merely ten days old. Now I’m no beer connoisseur, but I’m fairly certain that on that day, I experienced the best commercial brew I’ll ever have in my life.

We each got our beers and went to forage some chairs by the windows to take in some of the beautiful scenery around us on this clear Ireland day –one of the three clear days they get per year, apparently. We found some seats next an incredibly nice lady who was there with her daughter. We began chatting it up with them for a while, and as it turned out, the mother was a tax accountant for the mega-burrito chain “Chipotle” who was traveling no business, and decided to take her teenage daughter with her. As our conversation was wrapping up and we were preparing to head to our next Irish adventure, she handed each of us a free burrito voucher to use once we reached London for a free meal, as they had just opened their first store in the UK a couple months prior. Knowing full well that finances were going to be tight during this trip, we were absolutely elated at this surprising act of generosity and kindness. And for the possibility of a free burrito. Who doesn’t love burritos, especially when they’re free?

We thanked them all again, said our good-byes, gave a hearty salute to Arthur Guinness (after snagging one more taste from the sample room) and were off to see what else was in store for us in this great city of Dublin.

To be continued….

SN10 -Day 2 (continued)

2010-07-29T12:16:00.001-07:00

Feeling pretty ill at this point for some reason, I pull myself out of the chair I'm reading in and make my way to the terminal gate where Zach and Sam should be strolling through in twenty minutes or so; 1:55pm to be exact. I find a cozy, molded plastic seat, creepily set my fatigued gaze to the set of sliding glass doors before me, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. I sat there for over an hour and a half, hoping with great anticipation that the next people through those doors would be my brothers.

With no cell phones, or even an idea of what hostel we were staying at that night, it was relatively imperative at this point that I find my siblings. After thirty minutes of sitting in that luxury airport seating, any two guys that were under the age of 30 that walked through those doors seemed like they could possibly be my brothers at first glance. After an hour, anyone that slightly fit their body types would be enough to get my puppy-dog hopes up. After an hour and a half, basically any two males with bodies whatsoever were potentially my dear brothers.

By the time it had reached 3pm, I just assumed that something else had happened, and I began to slowly and sickly pack my stuff up, determined to try and find this elusive hostel that we're hypothetically staying at. Just as I reach for my backpack to get up and leave, I see someone walk through the gate that greatly resembles my brother Travis. Now Travis was coming in later that day sometime from China, but none of us knew exactly when (anyone surprised?). I decided to holler his name for kicks, but he didn't respond. So naturally, I yell it again, this time a bit louder. As he spins around quickly with a surprised and confused demeanor, he yells in response "Brother!” and lumbers toward me like a drunken jaguar. So we hug and giggle like school girls, and then make our way into downtown Dublin to try and track down this hostel of ours. I suppose we could've asked for directions or an address, but we decided that this method of the blind leading the blind would be a lot more fun.

To our surprise, we actually found our sneaky ‘lil hostel “The Bunkhouse” (after some senseless meandering, of course) and checked ourselves in. We carried our luggage to the third floor, and then I immediately collapsed like Tom Arnold’s career. Not but 10 minutes passes by however, that Zach and Sam come strolling in like they own the place. A little shocked that we had actually found each other, we all hugged and they told of the crazy terminal sprints and missed flights of their last 24 hours. We actually spent a good hour or so simply lounging on our hostel bunks, telling stories and catching up. But then it dawned on us that we were in Dublin, and we got our act together and got out of there. Well, technically we all started to fall asleep, but Trav rallied us out of our stupor and got us mobile. So we suited up, and were on our way.

Sidebar: For those of you who are not aware, part of the agreement for this trip was that each of us was to bring one suit (pants, shirt, vest, tie, jacket) to wear each day for the entirety of our two-week journey. More tales on that front in the entries to come.

When we left the hostel, there was an old man sitting near the front desk computer, cursing our suits, telling us how ridiculous we looked, and something about whiskey and potatoes. I don't remember exactly what he said but it was negative and degrading, but kind of funny. He really did not like the suits at all. We of course, found this to be a remarkably humorous way to start off our trip, and laughed about it numerous times throughout the trip.

After a quick stop at the ever-classy “Booze 2 Go” located next to our hostel, we made our way to an incredible local restaurant named “Quay’s”. We sat down, and I ordered some boxty cake, Guinness stew, and the first beer I'd had in 10 weeks. It was absolutely perfect in every way. It's possible that I may have even broke out into melodious song at one point, but no one is really sure. Good thing we were in suits.

After we left Quay’s, we wandered the city some more, made some random friends, and ended up at the famous “Temple Bar” to hear some live Irish music. This place was absolutely packed and it was only a Tuesday. I cannot imagine what it would be like on the weekend. It was truly everything we hoped for in a traditional Irish bar. The spirit of this bar was remarkable. The music, the dancing, and the singing made you feel as though you'd walked into the wedding reception of a dear friend and everyone was celebrating. The atmosphere is far unlike anything I've experienced in any American establishment of the same nature. There was a thick familial sense throughout the entire bar, and it was infectious.

After we left Temple, we made our way to a small music venue named “Mez” with a house band playing grunge and rock hits from the mid-90's, so of course we had no choice but to go in. As we walked through the space, the band broke into "Smells Like Teen Spirit", the very first song that I ever learned to play drums to. I teared up a bit, but thankfully it was dark and no one witnessed this embarrassing display. We made some more friends, explained the suits (as we had already become accustomed to doing) and then all yelled, along with the band at the top of our lungs the words to “Killing in the Name Of.” It was absurd, but quite entertaining, to say the least.

After we left Mez, we were stopped by a crowd of people waiting in line outside of "Kiss" – the dodgiest nightclub in Dublin. Again, everyone was curious about the suits and requested photos with us, so naturally we obliged. It was only our first night in Dublin, and already the twelve dollars that I had spent on my suit was paying off. Thank you, Village Thrift of Elgin, Illinois. Thank you for the magic you create.

We wandered some more (take note of the foreshadowing), walked through a hotel, sat in some silly looking chairs, climbed down some stairs to the river, and eventually ended up at the Irish fast-food Mecca known as “SuperMac.” Actually, the food was sub-par, but we met some more interesting locals, Zach warfed down some generic burger, and we made our way back to the hostel by 3am and promptly fell asleep post haste.

Not bad for a first day in Dublin. Grandma would be proud.

SN10 -Day 2

2010-07-28T11:59:00.001-07:00

After I boarded my plane to Dublin, I made a number of delightful new friends quite quickly (take that homeschooled status quo). We shared stories from our past and hopes for our future. We laughed about air travel and our families, and poked fun at current events in all their ridiculousness. We acted as if we were all old chums being reunited over a casual meal. One Ireland native made pub recommendations, one mother told proudly of her husband's military service, one teenage girl talked about how her sweatshirt smelled like her boyfriend. It was lovely.

The meal was comically bad, as it always is. The movie looked interesting, but the sound was fried, so all we were able to hear was and endless stream of static. I’m sure even static will one day be picked up and glamorized by the trendsetters of the music industry, but at this moment it was a nuisance. I dozed off and on, waking each time to glance out the window, eager to see where the sky had taken us.

When we finally began to make our descent, I was able to see the wonderful Ireland countryside for the first time. The vivid greens, the rolling hills -it all felt so new and exciting. Even as we exited, I could hear the enchanting Irish accent in the announcements made overhead, and it made me quite happy.

It's important to note again that I did not travel with Zach and Sam for this trip. They were to be arriving in Dublin twenty minutes before me, and were then going to meet me at my baggage claim carousel (even though none of us were checking any baggage). My plane landed an additional 15 minutes later than scheduled, however, causing me to question the intelligence of this “plan” of ours. After a surprisingly swift customs check, I made my way to the baggage claim (or "reclaim", as they call it) area, eager to see my brothers. But see them I did not. I wandered up and down the entire baggage claim area over and over again, but could not find them. I had no phone number to call, and didn’t even know the name of the hostel that we were staying at that night, so this situation held great potential to be sticky.

I began asking different desks if they were informed of the whereabouts of the plane my brothers were traveling on, and they all assured me that their plane had landed quite a bit ago, and that everyone was long gone. I began walking around the entire airport, hoping that by some random chance I would bump into them and all would be right again. I eventually found a Delta Airline booth, and asked them if they could tell me anything. The lady told me that they couldn't disclose any personal information, but after a long pause, she reluctantly asked "Okay, what are their names?" As it turns out, Zach and Sam had missed their connecting flight in Atlanta and were going to be another six hours behind me.

So I start doing what I've now become pretty skilled at -wandering. I got myself a little sandwich, waited an hour for a small little man to finally leave the only public outlet in the entire airport, and here I sit typing, thanks to the wonderful generosity of Mr. Matt Leonard for allowing me to borrow his netbook for the duration of this trip.

I’m realizing that it's so easy to despair when an outcome or situation does not reflect the position you had hoped for yourself it would be. Inconveniences both small and large often have the power to derail us in ways that I would suspect event frighten us at times. Our inability to see the mystery and adventure that lies beneath the surface of confusion is not something we seem to readily adopt or adequately educate. And for so many of us, that confusion, over time, can build into a large mountain of crippling despair, worry, and discouragement.

As I’m sitting here, I am also reading Wendell Berry's Life Is A Miracle, and I just read:

"To give up on life is to pass beyond the possibility of change or redemption."

Later he says:

"For quite a while it has been possible for a free and thoughtful person to see that to treat life as mechanical or predictable or understandable is to reduce it. Now, almost suddenly, it is becoming clear that to reduce life to the scope of our understanding (whatever 'model' we us) is inevitably to enslave it, make property of it, and put it up for sale."

I think Edgar says it beautifully to his despairing father in King Lear:

"Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again."

May we break past the mechanical predictability that we so often strive for, and see our lives, tears, confusion, and despair in all -as the miracle that it truly is.

SN10 -Day 1

2010-07-27T11:49:00.001-07:00

So since our break-neck trip through Europe (that we've affectionately entitled Storm Normandy), I've been on hiatus from this here blog. Until now, that is.

The next seventeen or so posts, I hope to somewhat tastefully recount the happenings of this great voyage of ours. You might not, but I do certainly hope that you enjoy.

Day 1

After a nearly sleepless night, I awoke to the incredible smell of eggs and bacon. And fire. As the smoke alarm went off violently I heard the flustering attempt to turn it off. After a moment or two of silence, it would sound its melodious alarm again, alerting the household of our impending doom. I stumbled sleepy-eyed from my room and saw JJ smilingly making breakfast for me and Sam in our rustic, retro kitchen. It was a most pleasant way to wake up indeed. I then ran out to take care of some last minute errands before our departure, only to find that Armageddon had struck nearly every single road in the greater Elgin area.

I quickly found that I couldn't turn down a single street without being redirected down five other streets. Literally. It was quite the event. I finally returned home, threw some things in a backpack, and we were off to the airport. Now it will be useful to note that Sam was meeting up with Zach who had flown in to Chicago from South Carolina just a couple hours earlier. I, however, was on a separate flight all together that left an hour later than theirs, from the same airport. So after we dropped Sam off at his terminal, JJ and I circled the airport a few times, and then I was dropped off as well. Upon entering the airport I realized that there was literally no one in line at the check-in, which of course led me to the suspicious belief that I had missed some enormously critical detail and was going to miss my flight, if I hadn't already. But the infamous Simkins luck was not at work here thankfully, and I simply had a remarkably hassle free check-in on this fine 89 degree Chicago day. I was quite early, but eager to enjoy some prime people watching.

Airports may be the very best place for the rapidly fading pastime of people watching. Individuals of every shape and color, in almost every state of human emotion, and from every corner of the earth can be found in this strange gathering place. When you’re by yourself you can observe so many surprisingly human interactions. The slick and smooth businessman who makes certain that you know he's a frequent flier by his brash attitude and cool indoor sunglasses, or the middle-aged man with the fanny pack and neck pillow that he wears all around the terminal, even into the bathroom. Or the mother who decided that it would be a fun and educational experience to fly with her thirty-seven children. I find them each so interesting.

I finally boarded the first flight to Philly where I would later catch my connecting flight to Dublin. Because I was attempting to function on only 3 hours of sleep however, I don't remember much of the flight at all. I do remember, during one of my brief waking moments, that the view of clouds outside my window. They looked like a sort fantasy world where the ground was made of whipped cream, and the sky was made of powdered sugar. It would only be a “fantasy” if you were not diabetic, I suppose. Apparently the heavens aren’t. But as the sun burst through the scattered powdered clouds above onto the sea of thick white swirls below me, I couldn't help but think of this as a different world all together. When we descended below the landscape of smooth and gossamer moisture though, it was obvious that it is certainly not always sunny in Philadelphia. The view from the ground was gray, grim, and dark. I saw a bright and shining sun in Philadelphia today, but most of its residents did not.

It's fascinating what just a few thousand feet can do to one's perspective.

Storm Normandy 2010

2010-05-24T09:51:00.000-07:00

I'll be in Europe with three of my dear brothers until June 9th. Upon my return, I will resume the Blog A Day Challenge with all of the fervor and gusto I can muster.

Please pray for our safety if you think of it.

Grace and peace, all!

-Ian

The inventor of chewing gum soon bubbled his money.

2010-05-21T11:19:00.001-07:00

I have been reminiscing lately, it seems.

This is an excerpt from an email I received a couple years ago from a woman in our congregation. It moved me so much when I first read it, and it moved me again tonight. I won't ever grow tired of witnessing the beauty of someone "getting it" for the first, or hundredth time. What a mysterious honor to be a part of that.

Your sermon moved me. That God is speaking to me -- HE wants to spend time with me (!!!!) and for me to spend time with Him. HE wants me to be still. HE wants me to listen. Slow down and listen.

Thanks for helping me hear Him.

In your sermon you asked "When was the last time you stared out the window for an hour?" That night, after the kids were in bed, I went out on my back porch listening to traffic, staring at moving lights, listening to the wind in the trees, some random animals of His kingdom, thought about your message, picked up a bottle labeled "Gazillion" next to me and blew bubbles.

It was beautiful. Hope you got a great image and thanks for helping me to remember that it isn't about all this hustle and bustle, it isn't all about doing what people think I should/not, it's so much bigger and often, to see the bigger picture, we need to step back and away...and blow bubbles.

Time is money. Overtime is more money.

2010-05-20T20:32:00.001-07:00

"Time is a conspiracy to keep everything from happening at once" -Michael J. Fox

If you break a string on your guitar, don't fret.

2010-05-19T23:04:00.001-07:00

I stumbled across an old email I sent to a friend a about a year after I returned from my time in India during the summer of 2006.

I was tempted to go through and edit it in an attempt to make it sound more clever, cohesive, or fluid -but I decided to keep it all in the original context and delivery.

I hope you enjoy it!

__________________________

So my initial contact and reason for going to India was to work with a man named Shavez in his church in Delhi for the summer in accordance with my degree program requirements. When I first got there however, I received an email from him explaining that he and his wife were going to be out of town for a few weeks and asked if I could push my trip back. Keep in mind that I'm already in India at this point.

That situation is what led me to be able to live and work at an orphan boys hostel home in the mountains for two weeks- an experience that ended up being arguably the most profound of ym entire trip.

Anyway, while in the mountains (in a city called Mussoorie) at the Firs Estate (which is the name of the orphanage) I met an Australian girl named Isobel who was volunteering in India for a few months as well, and happened to be working on the other side of this mountain top for a few weeks. She was working with a girl's home that was loosely connected with the boy's home, and so through that we became friends. I found out that just a few days before I was to head to Delhi to finally meet with Shavez, she too was going to Delhi to begin work at the ministry site that she was planning to stay at for the remaining duration of her time in India. We agreed that when we were both down there that we should catch up again.

On a separate occasion when I was going for a walk, I encountered a German man named Ray, who had been in Mussoorie preaching and working for over 30 years at this point. He invited me into his home and we had a delightful conversation that lasted for quite some time. While at his house, I briefly met a young man named Shyam, who was also heading into Delhi on the same day I was, but on a different bus line. He warned me of how much hotter it would be there and I thanked him for the tip.

Fast forward a few days: I finally left my boy's at Firs and arrive in Delhi by myself, attempting to communicate my way around town to make it to where Shavez's house was. He was supposed to pick me up, but bailed on that as well. Good start, eh?

When I made it to his apartment however, I was feeling quite ill, and continued to feel sick for a couple of days, resting as much as I could. During that time I observed a man who was both unreasonably disrespectful to his servant as well as his wife and kid, and I knew that things were going to be difficult.

When I finally was able to participate in the church that he pastors I realized that the "church of hundreds" that he had mentioned over email while I was in Elgin, was really more like a church of 25, with one or two junior highers in the midst. This was going to make it rather difficult to accommodate my youth ministry requirements at a church that didn't really have any youth, but I was still hopeful.

During the week however, Shavez kept me in his house, doing his dishes, washing his car, and babysitting his son while he and his wife went out. I asked him numerous times every day if there was anything with the church or the youth in the community that I could be doing, but he never would allow me the opportunity. I would often go on long walks around the city and play soccer with the kids in the community or buy snacks and draw pictures with the street kids as a result.

Eventually I moved into a hostel home in the city (since his apartment was 15 miles from the church or any real populous) and I began teaching some kids guitar, English, and soccer. Now of course I was paying to stay at this home, where the previous arrangement was to live with Shavez, but frankly I was thankful to be out of that house and the abuse that he imposed on both his family and me. Maybe one day I'll actually elaborate on that situation a little more. Only now, I was spending money that I didn't really have simply to live, and was becoming a little worried.

I then decided to call my friend Isobel and began volunteering with the ministry site that she was working with because, although I had gotten out of Shavez's house, he still refused to give me any actual work to do (which was a problem since I had required hours that I needed to complete in order for this internship to be academically valid). So every day I would wake up and take a rickshaw across town and work with the street kids of a different community, every day still asking Shavez if I could be helping in any way.

One day however, I was walking through this giant bazaar in Delhi called "Canaught Place" which is this massive, circular market with thousands of people from every walk of life running around buying all sorts of items. This was a wonderfully strange place to people watch and simply take in a totally different (and yet oddly similar) culture from what I was accustomed to. Amidst the hustle and bustle of thousands of people however, I bump into Shyam. That's right, the same Shyam that I met once hundreds of miles away for 45 seconds.

He walked up to me and said "I remember you! Do you need a place to stay by chance?"

I was a bit taken aback by the question, but then communicated to him all of the things that had transpired over the past few weeks. He then casually told me that I could stay at his apartment rent free for as long as I'd like, and that I'd just had to get my things together and we'd go from there.

Crazy.

So he tells me to meet him in this courtyard that is somewhat close to his house (there really aren't any addresses or street names in the neighborhoods around there, so he couldn't give me directions all the way to his place). The area was called "Saket" and had some little shops, restaurants, and a movie theater, oddly enough. He told me to meet him there at 7pm. So I get there at 7 and he calls me and tell me that he's going to be another hour and a half and that I should just go to the walk-up window at McDonalds and get something to eat.

I'm a little frustrated at this point, but I take my guitar and duffle bag and start walking to the Mickey D's. This goes against my better judgment, mind you. I do my best to not eat at corporate fast food restaurants while in other countries, but this was the only place that had a walk-up window that would accommodate me with my bag and guitar. Promise.

So as I'm walking towards the McDonalds one of the homeless boys walks up to me and asks for some money. I told him that I'd get him some food if he was hungry. He nodded excitedly. Then a kid runs to the other side of me and asks for some food too. I agree. Two kids turns to four kids, then eight kids and so on. So I get to the window and just order 30 sandwiches. The guy kind of gave me this weird look and said that it's going to take awhile to make that many, and instructs me to just sit outside the window and wait.

I put my bag down and turn around to see 25 little street kids sitting patiently in a semi-circle facing me, awaiting their feast. I sat down, a little surprised, trying to think of a way I could entertain them while they waited. I then realized that I had my guitar with me, and at this point, had learned a couple Hindi songs, so I started to play.

The kids starting singing joyfully with me and soon a bunch of them were singing and dancing and we were just having a great old time. By this point, a crowd of at least a hundred onlookers had gathered to watch this sort of bizarre scene unfold. Some would walk by and yell at me saying "Don't waste your time with that scum" or they would curse at the children in Hindi. We just ignored them and danced and played in the middle of this market. One of the security guards was actually hitting one of these kids, and with a peculiar sense of courage, I walked up to this man and explained that they were with me. It was oddly cinematic, and sounds pretty unbelievable even as I'm explaining it now…

We finally got our food and all sat and ate together until a woman approached me and introduced herself. "Why are you doing this?" she asked me. I simply responded that I believed God calls all of us to love everyone, even the poor homeless street kids, and I was merely trying to show them love as best I could. She asked if I would join her and her photographer for dinner and I agreed, as long as I could finish eating with the children first.

During that dinner we talked for over an hour about our different backgrounds and faiths, as they asked question after question regarding why I was in India in the first place, and what possessed me to do the things that I did. They asked questions regarding Christianity and about American faith in general, and I asked the same questions in return. She then explained that she wanted to do an article on me for the Delhi Times and asked if a photographer could meet me there in a couple of days for some shots. I was reluctant to do any sort of interview or photo shoot, but finally agreed.

We talked a bit more, I thanked them for their conversation and we went our separate ways, but I went back to that same market every day just to play with these incredible kids that everyone around them seemed to hate. They never once again asked me for money, but instead for piggy back rides and songs. As we sat there drawing pictures, they would feed me from the bag of chips that they were able to beg for a while earlier. I was so humbled to be fed by these kids who truly have next to nothing, but for some reason were compelled to share their feast with me. Doritos never tasted so good.

That really set the tone for me in a number of ways that summer. My initial reaction to Shyam being so careless and late was to be frustrated by my predicament of having to wait with nowhere to go, but clearly God had other things in mind. It's humbling to look in hindsight and to see how meticulously God had truly orchestrated that incredibly experience in my life, and a pointed reminder of how truly limited our perspective can be.

The two desk lamps were considered to be social-lights, because they kept going out at night together.

2010-05-18T23:10:00.001-07:00

This should tell us something. A few somethings, in fact.

Socialnomics.net - Social Media Revolution (Updated) from Social Mediums Group on Vimeo.

The jogger who overslept found himself running late

2010-05-17T18:48:00.001-07:00

I went for a run tonight.

That itself isn't strange, I try to run every day if I can. The fact that I ran at night, however, is a bit peculiar.

I haven't really run after sundown much at all since high school when I used to train with my dear friend Rich.

Rich came to our youth group years ago with a mutual friend of ours. He was an odd kid, but then again, I suppose we all were. It become known fairly quickly that Rich was an incredible runner. It was if God had built him to do just that. After only knowing Rich a few weeks, he made a strange proposition: "I'll train you to run if you teach me about Jesus" he said.

And thus began the season of "Rich and Ian's Late Night Runs".

We would often begin our excursions about midnight and just run for hours. We'd peek our head in the windows of closed storefronts and observe how creepy everything looked at night. We would run through neighborhoods and on main streets. We'd run through parks and simply continue on until we couldn't run anymore -usually much farther than I wanted to go or thought I could. All the while, Rich would ask any and every question he had about Christianity. It was a a remarkable honor and challenge to have to rethink through all the things that I had grown up believing my whole life, and learning to articulate them while huffing and puffing with exhaustion.

Rich ended up becoming one of my very best friends. When we would conjure up ridiculous and reckless ideas, we called each other first. Numerous times he would call me at three in the morning to tell me his mom was asking questions about his faith. We would sit and talk for hours about our struggles and victories; our moments of confusion and clarity. Years later, Rich's mom (who I have ben affectionately calling "Mom" for years now as well) accepted Christ as her savior, and I was one of the very first people she told.

Those evening runs are something I will always look back on with incredible fondness. They were ill-timed, imprudent, and probably even a littler dangerous. Because I was never a real runner, I never possessed the right apparel or equipment. Then, just like tonight, I would run in whatever I had which was usually dark blue pants and a black sweatshirt. Sometimes oncoming vehicles would see me, sometimes they wouldn't.

But there are times you need to simply make do with what you have. The temptation is often to blame our seemingly unfortunate circumstances on our lack, but our perspective is so very limited. It may seem foolish, and you may feel ill-prepared, but the outcome could be extraordinary. May we remember that reality in all that we do.

He installs ignitions in cars. He's a real self starter.

2010-05-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

My beloved Dodge Neon recently reached the 100,000 mile marker.

It's not that I haven't owned a vehicle with more than 100,000 miles before. In fact, I've purchased most of my vehicles at the 100,000+ marker. But I purchased this particular vehicle at 2,945 miles, and if you know anything at all about my history with vehicles, you would understand why this is cause for jubilant celebration. Maybe even streamers.

When I bought this car seven years ago at the age of twenty, it was (and still is) the seventh vehicle I had owned. At that point in my life, to say that my fortune with automobiles was less than ideal would be a like saying that the city of Detroit was just a bit behind on rent.

What's that? You'd like me to elaborate? I'd love to.

My third vehicle, after investing 2,500 teenage earned greenbacks into it, died within two months. I ended up having to sell it to a boorish man who owned a strip club who continuously harassed me for declining his offer to join him at his establishment throughout the purchase. I sold it to him for parts - $400.

When I was preparing to visit Judson University outside of Chicago for a college visit, I found myself, as I often did, without adequate transportation. I decided to purchased a 1981 Mercury Lynx from a friend to remedy this situation, but forty-two hours later and fifteen miles into my trip, the car exploded. Not like a cool cinematic tough-guy walkaway kind of explosion. More like an infant's indigestion, baby burp kind of explosion. None the less, my Lynx had met its end.

My dear and lovely Aunt Patti was kind enough (as she always is) to pick me up, let me sleep in her home, and lent me a mini-van to drive out to Chicago in for the weekend, while my car was towed to a parking lot behind my house. Upon returning from the trip, however, a band of anti- Lynx revolutionaries had smashed out all of my windows and torn out the back bench, throwing it through my rear windshield. It would appear that repair was not a likely part of this vehicle's future.

I had the brakes fail once in while driving my first car, resulting in a pretty nasty collision with a couple of other vehicles outside of our local grocery store. One of my cars didn't have any seats in the back, and a rotting floorboard under the front seats. One had garments that we shoved into the holes of its body. One had it's front grill kicked out by a complete stranger. I loved these vehicles, but for the most part they didn't seem to love me back all that much.

But my eulogized Neon, he has stood the test of time. Weathered the waves, endured hardships, and stayed faithful throughout it all.

As I watched the odometer digitally "roll over" to the visually pleasant "100,000", I just couldn't help but reminisce a bit about the journey my pal Ivan the Neon and I have taken over the years.

I remember being a tad restless the summer before I left for college. I would be leaving my home in Southeastern Michigan and moving to the Northwest Suburb of Chicago in the hopes of pursuing collegiate academia with all the tenacity I could summon. The problem was that I found myself, as I often did, without a vehicle. I could've certainly taken the train or the bus, but I knew I would need to quickly find employment upon arrival if I had any hopes of staying afloat financially with my many financial obligations, included what would become a hefty student loan.

For months I had been fervently scanning the "Auto Trader" magazines and searchin' on that thurr internet thang, with no luck. My chain of unfortunate automotive outcomes had left me with inadequate funds to purchase anything even remotely reliable. Then again, it didn't appear that I possessed the skills to be able to decipher what such a vehicle would look like anyway.

One day a man from our church named Dave called me up and asked "How much money do you have?" I thought that perhaps he was trying to rob me via telephone, so I just laughed and make some wise crack about the oddity of his question. But he persisted "How much money do you have in your bank account?" he asked again. "I'm not really sure, Dave. Why?" He went on to explain that he may have a car for me, and that I should come by the house sometime.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to be a part of a shady deal like this was shaping up to be, I did what any curious young man would do; I went to his house.

Now it's important to note that Dave owned a number of shops that specialized in custom moldings for major automotive companies and was also the manager of a Dodge racing team, so as a result he had some interesting connections unique to his position. He explained to me that Dodge had a fleet of thirty "relatively unmodified" Neons that they would redline on tracks for clientele and potential business patrons.

He explained to me that because of the racing suspension, role cage, fire extinguisher, racing seats, and dozens of decals, these cars could not be sold to the general public. But due to some previois legal agreement, Dodge was not allowed to sell these vehicles for more than $1,250 -regardless of who it was sold to.. So they approached Dave, told him that they had three of these unique Neons left, and asked if he was interested. He responded "I could give one to my daughter, use the other for parts, and there is the guy in our church who has had the worst luck with cars I've ever seen. Let me see if he's interested." Which is what brought me to his house that day.

So I ran home, added up how much money I had in my checking and savings accounts, and combined i have $1,275 - just enough to buy one of these cars and keep my accounts from closing. I called Dave the next day, and told him that I was in. He said that they wouldn't be delivered for a few more days, and that he'd let me know when they came in.

After a few days of dreaming what life would be like with a vehicle that started on demand and made it from A to B without requiring a serious detour into the freeway of my wallet, I got the call. Coach was putting me in the game.

I met Dave at one of his shops to decide which of the three cars I wanted. When he opened the large bay door, it honestly felt like that scene in Karate Kid where Mr. Miyagi brings Daniel outside to his lot of beautiful classic cars and simply says "choose". There before me, was three beautiful cars; two red and one black.

I must've looked like a giddy child running up to each vehicle, looking inside of every one of them as if there would be any variance in interior. I'm sure I expressed my gratitude with mature utterances like "Dude!", "No way!" and the like.

That week, Dave gave me free reign to work on my car to get it ready before taking it to school. Among other things, I needed to replace the seats, take out the roll cage, and remove the fire extinguisher. He also permitted me to take parts from the three wrecked Neons Dodge had given him as well. So I replaced brake lights, switched out tired, ran antennas, installed a radio, and even put on a dual exhaust that he had given me.

That week was bittersweet for me. I had some of my best friends in the world there with me at all hours, helping me get this car ready for the trip. But I also knew that in just a few short days, I would be leaving them all for quite some time. I remember feeling God saying very specifically "Okay, I've given you this car -it's your turn to use it to serve others."

We kept all of the ridiculous racing decals on because we all thought they were funny, but they ended up not being as humorous as we had hoped. At red lights I was constantly challenged by other vehicles that actually had the qualities of a car that could be raced. People would provokingly rev their engines at me until I would roll down my window and say, plainly "It's a Neon". Cops often pulled me over simply because it looked fast, and then once they were at my window, they'd want to talk shop, curious as to "what was under the hood." They were always so disappointed with the "2.0 litre, 16 valve, stock Neon engine" answer I would give them. I almsot felt bad, like I should do something outlandish just so they had some excitement.

I eventually ended up taking off all of the decals from my car. I said "Goodbye" to the Goodyear, and "Farewell" to the Firestone. But I decided to keep the big white Dodge logo on the hood. I knew it looked a tad ridiculous, and I didn't especially want to be tagged as "that guy" when driving around town, but the memories behind it were important to me. When I see that logo, I am reminded of the generosity of a man in our church who owed me nothing. I remember the love and sacrifice of friends and family who spent countless hours helping me get this car ready to take on the next leg of my journey. I remember my roots, my story.

I am the kind of person that needs those silly reminders. I have two bracelets on my wrist that remind me to pray for my sister and my mother. There is nothing special or flashy about these bracelets, nothing that even stands out as peculiar or even interesting. But I know that when I see them, I remember my committment and desire to always be praying for them. Even when life is hectic and overwhelming, even when "home" seems like a million miles away - I pray for them.

I know my tendency to forget even the most important things in life. "Out of sight, out of mind" is such a powerful reality sometimes. I wish that it wasn't so, but sometimes it just is.

And so I allow things like a decals, a bracelet, or a 100,000 mile mark to draw me back to Earth. It may sound cheesy, because it actually is. But I'm more than okay with that. I make a fool of myself for no reason at all often enough as it is, I have no issue with making a fool of myself for the cause of love and family.

My commitment is to better examine the internal, more closely ponder the historical, and more fully embrace the communal. Through it all, may our stories even more fully reflect that which God has drawn us out of, and is drawing us toward.

You can't trust a tiger. You never know when he might be lion

2010-05-15T21:47:00.000-07:00

Trust is an interesting thing.

I think each of us is taught how, when, and to what extent we should trust in remarkably unique ways during our lives. Every parent, sibling, friend, and relative brings a different perspective to this important topic. If, for instance, you have been hurt by a particular type of person or in a specific situation in the past, you will likely offer advice to those close to you based on those interactions and observations, often without even realizing it. Those encounters condition your response.

I remember being ten years old and going house to house with my 1983 Detroit Tigers fanny pack, collecting money from the recipients of my stellar paper delivery services. “Good afternoon. My name is Ian from the Dearborn Press & Guide” I would say timidly. “I am here to collect $2.75 for the month of January”. “Oh but I already paid you for January” they would often reply. They’d quickly scurry to their desk, digging through stacks of paper, and eagerly return with a receipt in hand as if they’d just stumbled upon the treasure of Monte Cristo.

“But ma’am, it’s 1993” I would say with every ounce of gumption I could muster. “That receipt is for January, 1990.” They would usually act surprised and slightly embarrassed at their “oversight”, apologize, and then write a check for $2.75 - maybe even $3.00 if the stars aligned just right. That shimmering fortune of twenty-five cents was often accompanied with a heartfelt “Go and buy your family some ice cream” followed by a wink that only those over seventy seem to know how to do.

Interactions like that always stunned me a bit. I can remember specifically thinking during these frigid treks through the neighborhood on my bright turquoise rollerblades “What adult finds it appropriate to try and scam a ten year-old kid out of $2.75? Who does that?” I couldn’t wrap my tiny pre-pubescent mind around it, and began to slowly distrust certain customers more and more. Some with good reason, but others simply because they reminded me of a previous customer that repeatedly tried to rip me off. History is a powerful thing to shake sometimes. I can recognize now that some of these interactions really affected how I viewed people during some of my formative years of development. I deeply wanted to trust everyone around me at all times, and yet part of my conscience was drawing me back and reminding me that people will lie to ten year olds with fanny packs to save three dollars.

Perhaps the reason they were trying to con me was because they saw my mom letting us drag (or “skitch”, as it was known) behind our beloved brown Club Wagon while delivering papers, and they passionately disagreed with our methods. Maybe it was because they saw that there was an army of us Simkins children in said van and they were part of a secret population control agency in Southeastern Michigan. Perchance it was simply my ridiculous haircut that had my part start just above my ear and then swooping over the other 95% of my enormous head. I will never know the true source of their contention.

We’ve all been there in one way or another. Everyone has had that one friend at some point in their lives. You know who I’m talking about. That one friend who always made up preposterous stories, usually in an effort to try and one-up the stories of everyone else in the group. You know what it’s like to have to internally question every utterance out of a person’s mouth to determine if it was real, fabricated, or somewhere comfortably in between. I suppose that’s maybe what being a judge is like. I don’t think I envy anyone with that job at all.

And it’s not that we haven’t all been “that friend” at some point in our lives. It’s like my dear grandmother always says “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” Exaggeration, avoidance, and embellishment is a natural human reaction.

I heard a segment on the radio a few weeks ago about a little five-year-old girl named Isobel. Isobel has a rare disease known as William’s Disease that affects the limbic-system portion of her brain that controls trust. Little Isobel would literally trust and rely on anyone and everyone at all times, even complete strangers in public places. She would give heartfelt hugs to everyone she met and tell them how deeply she loved them, regardless of who they were or how they looked.

Her parents were constantly faced with the unique task of having to teach their beautiful daughter how not to trust. Theywould literally run drills where a parent or relative would pretend to be a stranger in the mall, and she would have to memorize the appropriate ways to respond and interact with people she didn’t know. Although everything in her biologically want to hug and laugh with every person she met, she had to instructed to never follow those instincts, to follow the learned data rather than what she felt so deeply. Her mother said that “We literally had to teach her that the world is not worthy of trust.”

That sentence broke my heart when I heard it, because the world is worthy of trust. Sure, there are scams, ploys, and tricks at every turn, but there are also beautifully selfless, giving, genuine, and honest folk all around us, secretly loving people where they are and asking nothing in return. There are individuals who serve countless hours without requesting or even desiring recognition of any kind. If you look closely, you can see sacrificial love on every city block, in every community. You can observe the radical creativity of people dissatisfied with the notion of “he who dies with the most toys wins”, giving freely of who they are and what they have. If you quiet yourself long enough, you can hear the whisper of grace in your neighborhoods, and sense the calming breeze of restorative justice all around you. It is there if only we would open our eyes to it.

But the problem is that so many of us want to be scammed. Not that we actually enjoy being cheated or mistreated, but more so the attention that follows. We crave it. The ability to complain about a vehicle in disrepair when 85% of the planet isn’t wealthy enough to own one. To wage war on ourselves by dwelling on each and every obstacle and difficulty we face so that in our misery we can feel satisfied with our condition. As fallen and broken creatures, sometimes we downright crave the drama.

Now this is not to say that distortion, perversion, and swindling of all kinds does not take place. To believe that would be ignorance. I know numerous people who, even know, are facing some incredibly difficult circumstances, and I will do all that I can to enter in to that pain with them. I know that I cannot fix it, and perhaps they don’t even want me to. So I sit with them, laugh with them, cry with them, and let them punch me in the face to relieve the stress. I am honored to be that for those in my life, whether or I know them well or not. We mustn’t ignore the tragedies in our lives.

Trust will be broken in our lives. We will certainly experience the sting of betrayal, and the pain of rejection, but is this cause for us to surrender the fight of love? I would argue that perhaps even the opposite is true. That in the face and presence of dishonesty and parody, should we then not sing all the louder of the freedom found in forgiveness? Should not the melody of restoration be our daily practice, and the example of mercy our sacrament? Can we look into the eyes of the arrogant giant that opposes us and revisit the tune of victory our forefathers sang?

A quote I always held to when I was younger reads:

“Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; love should not be one of them”

As often as we tend to wade in the shallow pool of our annoyance, shouldn’t we be celebrating the sanctity of life and the glorious honor we have in being a part of that? Must we wait for a holiday to celebrate, or a birthday to handwrite a letter of our gratitude? There is so much wonder and illumination to fill our lungs with, I hope and pray we have the courage to breathe deeply. Let us live impossibly through the God of the possible.

This short interview with Isobel and her mother ends with an audio clip of Isobel eagerly greeting her mother as she walks into the doors. Little five year-old Isobel throws her arms around her dear mother and asks

“Will you dance with me, my sweetie?”

Will you?

If you want to revisit the past, make sure you get back in time.

2010-05-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

It's funny how something I wrote ten years ago could speak so intimately and directly to present- day me.

Funny in a good way, of course.

"A day drifts past, our souls untouched. Is it ever too much, will our cries be heard? I sit and wait on a quiet hill, calmly reaching for the warmth of grace. A broken dream, a mended heart. Live those sleepless nights. For there is a horizon yet unseen."

Give Peas A Chance (Part 2)

2010-05-13T23:53:00.001-07:00

Mothers: A tribute To Our Modern Day Super-Heroes

And the post continues!

5. The instruction of a Christian Mothers embodies the instruction God gives His children

This is one of my favorite quotes from this entire post:

“Mothers write on the hearts of their children what the rough hand of the world cannot erase.” -Unknown

I know a lot of mothers probably think that what they say has no impact on the lives of their children, but I can tell you that the older I get, the more acutely aware I am of all the things my parents have taught me throughout the years. Sometimes I'll even make a comment and someone will say "That's something your mom says" to which I reply "I don't think so. That's a completely original Ian-quote all the way". But they gently inform me that they've heard my mom saying that far before I was even born, so it's likely that she hold the rights to it. The things our mothers teach us stay with us far longer than we realize.

George Washington himself said:

“All I am I owe to my mother” -George Washington

Think about all of the incredibly valuable things that our mothers teach us as throughout our lives:

• Mothers teach us medicine: "If you don’t stop crossing your eyes, they’re going to freeze that way."

• Mothers teach us humor: "When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don’t come running to me."

• Mothers teach us about my roots: "Do you think you were born in a barn?"

• Mothers teach us about anticipation: "Just wait until your father gets home."

• Mothers teach us about maturity: "Eat your vegetables or you’ll never grow up."

• Mothers teach us about religion: "You better pray that comes out of the carpet."

• Mothers teach us about time travel: "If you don’t straighten up, I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week!"

• Mothers teach us about contradictions: "Shut your mouth and eat your dinner!"

• Mothers teach us about contortionism: "Will you look at the dirt on the back of your neck?"

• Mothers teach us about genetics: "You’re just like your father."

• Mothers teach us about the weather: "It looks like a tornado swept through your room."

• Mothers teach us about the circle of life: "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out."

• And the all time favorite thing mothers teach us, justice: "One day you will have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you.”

Again, this idea of teaching and instructing is not simply something a mother does because it's a good discipline, it's deeply rooted in scriptural mandate.

Train up a child in the way he should go, And when he is old he will not depart from it –Proverbs 22:6

The word "train" here literally means "to prepare for a contest", which I find interesting because anyone who has ever had kids knows how true a statement that is. Every child is constantly being pulled by friends, family, media, and literature to follow their creeds. A mother's responsibility isn't simply to provide her child with good morals, some words of wisdom, but to literally train him or her up to be able to fully engage in the world around them, and to do so with wisdom and maturity. What an incredible responsibility that is!

As the Mother is so is the daughter. -Ezekiel 16:44

I enjoy this short passage a lot, because for parents, your children have not only seen you at you best, but they've also seen you at your worst. I know for me, it was so powerful to realize that my parents aren't ineffable -they make mistakes, they get frustrated, they can be wrong and yet that doesn't change who they are in the eyes of God. They painted for me a picture of Christianity that isn't afraid of imperfections or shortcomings, and only furthered my fascination with elusive and mysterious qualities of grace and mercy. I have learned so much about authenticity from my parents, and I know that to model that for your children can be a terrifying but rewarding endeavor. Training is important, but the call to model and live the truth of your faith is even greater.

6. The persistence of a Christian Mother embodies the persistence of God toward His children

In Matthew 20, the mother of James and John makes a bold move in asking Jesus if her sons can sit at his right and left in heaven. Most of the time, Mrs. Zebedee here gets a bum wrap for her pretentiousness, but I think that maybe she can be commended for her boldness as well.

Think about it, this woman so deeply wants for her sons to be radical participants in the ushering of God's kingdom, that she approaches Jesus himself and make what we would classify as a pompous. And even though her request may ultimately be out of line, I think there is a character here to be admired as well.

How often in the church do we simply accept mediocrity because it is what's most readily accessible, socially appropriate, or easily attainable? This woman is visibly passionate for her boys, that they may be rooted and involved in the movement of the Christ. She is bold, courageous, and persistent.

But they're are probably a lot of mothers who are frankly tired of persisting. Tired of the struggle, the effort, and the exhaustion, and there is stunning passage in Isaiah that has always encouraged me:

He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. -Is 40:29-31

Our strength comes form Him first and foremost, before anything else. When your family drives you nuts, or you feel as if you efforts are in vain, remember the source of your strength.

Now, I know some of us may think this is all fine and dandy, but we need tangible ways to live out these truths in appreciation of our mothers. Have no fear! I've compiled a fairly cheesy, and remarkably un-trendy list of 7 ways you can love your moms and wives! Write them down, ignore them all together, I'm okay with any of it!

1. Love her verbally

Men are particularly bad at this. "I don't need to tell her, I SHOW her with my actions" is what I hear most often. Or "I've already told you I love you once, If I change my mind I'll let you know." That just oozes appreciation and affection, right? Take the time to love her verbally. No mother has ever had a son, daughter, husband, father, or relative say with sincerity "I love you" and thought to herself "You know, I could've done without that". It's so worth it. There's a "Dear Abby" letter that I found that I think is pretty interesting:

DEAR ABBY: I enlisted shortly after Pearl Harbor. Thirty-six days later, I was on my way to the Philippines. En route, the Philippines fell to the Japanese, and we were routed to Australia. Eleven days after we landed, I met the most beautiful girl in the world.

On our first date, I told her I was going to marry her. I did, 18 months later, while on a 10-day R-and-R leave from New Guinea.

After more than 57 years of marriage and two children, my beloved "Mary" died five days before Christmas. Although we agreed that our ashes were to be scattered over the mountains, I found I could not part with hers.

While Mary was alive, she would frequently say, "You don’t know how much I love you." I’d reply, "Likewise." I never said, "I love you." Now her ashes are on my dresser, where I tell her several times a day how much I love her, but it’s too late. Although I wrote poetry to her, I could not bring myself to say the three words I knew she wanted most to hear.

As my dearest was dying and we thought she was comatose, I told her, "There aren’t enough words to tell you how much I love you." A few hours later, she whispered, "Not enough words" and died.

The reason I’m writing is to urge men to express their feelings while their loved ones are alive. I don’t know why, but many men are reluctant to express the depth of their feelings. -- MISSING MARY IN COLORADO

Be intentional enough to make sure she hears it from you how much you love her You'll be glad you did.

2. Love her physically

Your mother was the first person to ever hold you. She cuddled you, gave you a finger to grasp, changed your dirty diapers, held tissue up to your nose while you blew gallons of snot into her hand. Give her a hug. A real hug. Make it a bear hug if you have to. She deserves at least that. Or a kiss on the cheek. Or a back rub.

Go ahead. Go do it now if you have to.

3. Love her patiently

As far as I know, mom do what they do for free. In most cases, I suppose. When she picks you up from school because you don't like taking the bus, please don't yell at her for being five minutes late. Don't freak out when your clothes are still dirty or the house isn't as clean as you'd like it to be. Love her patiently.

To All My Children,

I suppose my upcoming birthday started my thoughts along these lines...This is a good time to tell you that what I truly want are things I can never get enough of, yet they are free. I want the intangibles.

I would like for you to come and sit with me, and for you to be relaxed. We can talk, or we can be silent. I would just like for us to be together.

I need your patience when I don’t hear what you say the first time. I know how tiresome it is to always be repeating, but sometimes I must ask you to repeat. I need your patience when I think too much about the past, with my slowness and my set ways. I want you to be tolerant with what the years have done to me physically.

Please be understanding about my personal care habits. I spill things. I lose things. I get unduly excited when I try to figure out my bank statements. I can’t remember what time to take my medication, or if I took it already. I take too many naps. Sometimes sleep helps to pass the day.

Well, there you have it: Time, Patience, and Understanding. Those are priceless gifts that I want. Finally, in his letter, the Apostle Paul wrote, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” I know I can, too! It’s a wonderful feeling to know His eye is on the sparrow and I know He cares for me. I guess being old isn’t so bad after all!

Love,
Mom

4. Love her attentively

She always sees the best in you, sticks up for you, and goes to bat for you, even when you don't deserve it. Don't be heedless in your affection, love her attentively.

5. Love her gratefully

There was an elementary class that was doing a crossword puzzle together and they came across one that read "A six letter word that starts with "M" and picks up things". Well, the word of course was "magnet", but you can guess what over half of the classroom responded with.

A son was going through old wedding photos with his dad one day, pointed at one picture and asked "Is this the day Mommy came to work for us?"

There are few things more insulting than false gratitude or affection. Be sincerely grateful for not only all that your mother has done, but that she continues to do as well.

6. Love her generously

There is nothing too good for her. Be okay with going the extra mile or two. Splurge once in awhile. Think of all the times she helped buy you new clothes even though she hadn't bought new once in years, or how frequently she cleared her schedule to drive you around to the things that mattered most to you. Love her generously with your life and actions.

7. Love her honorably

Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD your God gives you. - Exodus 20:12

The word "honor" here means "to make heavy". So we're called not to simply obey or parents or abide by their rules, but to have the depth of our responsibility towards them weigh heavily on our hearts in how we live.

May we never forget that we're called to more than just adherence, but a heaviness for the things that weigh on God's heart, and may we see His grace and love in the lives of the mothers around us every day.

God, help us to never be too busy for mom. May we intentional live to honor her through our lives.

Give Peas A Chance (Part 1)

2010-05-13T01:06:00.001-07:00

Mother's: A Tribute To Our Modern Day Super-Heroes

Everyone who is reading this has had a mother. Your relationship with her may be great, dismal, or non-existent, but the reality is that, at the very least, without her you wouldn't be here. There's no way around that unless you are some sort of cyborg, in which case, I'd love to meet you.

I believe that far too often, even within church realms, women and mothers aren't given the recognition and dignity they deserve. On a global scaled, woman make up sixty percent of our world population, do over two-thirds of the worlds' work, yet only earn ten percent of the world's income and own one percent of the worlds' property.

It's clear to me that these incredible individuals deserve far more than simply one day a year to honor them. I think that at least every other day would be a step in the right direction. In America alone we will spend over $150 million on Mother's Day presents, much of which I can only speculate is purchased out of guilt or shame for how little we've shown them love and respect throughout the year.

The history behind Mother's Day is rather fascinating as well. There is some disagreement on specific dates and times, but one popular version is this. Anna Jarvis, at the funeral of her mother in 1908, passed out carnations to those present, and soon used these carnations to serve as a symbolic reminder of non-violence for mothers of children in the military. Jarvis campaigned for six years on the premise of prayer and peace between nations and eventually began lobbying state and federal legislators to develop a national day to honor mothers.

On May 9th, 1914, President Woodrow Wilson enacted the very first Mother's Day, stating that the day should be a “Public expression of our love and reverence for the mothers of our country". In 1923 however, Jarvis filed a lawsuit against a Mother's Day Festival for selling carnations to support military troops, and was eventually arrested for disturbing the peace. At the age of 84, just months before she died, Jarvis said that she regretting ever starting Mother's Day in the first place, that it had become a disgraceful display of heartless commercialism and not at all what she had hoped it would be.

So even the very beginnings of this holiday are filled with mixed and powerful emotions, often leading many people to miss the point entirely. Don't we have a habit of doing that sometimes? We carry out traditions and customs simply because we always have, or because the people on our right and left are doing it as well, and we miss the point entirely.

In American society specifically, female homemakers in particular seem to incur a lot of criticism and ridicule from the business world. I've talked with numerous mothers who have felt the discomfort of demeaning glances when they explain at a gathering that they are a stay at home mom, as if she has disgraced herself and the female gender by doing so. Teacher and author Tony Campolo tells a great story about his wife Peggy in how she deals with this uncomfortable situation. She too grew irritated with the common responses she received after explaining her choice to stay at home, so from now on when someone ask here "So what do you do?" she responds " I’m socializing two Homo-sapiens in Judeo-Christian values so they’ll appropriate the eschatological values of utopia. What do you do?"

But it shouldn't be that way. A woman should never have to feel belittled or demeaned for her choice to stay at home. Never. Think about it -woman play an incredibly essential role throughout scripture, but how rarely are these encounters even addressed. For starters, God chose to bring His son into the world through a woman. There was no one telling Him he had to do it that way, no protocol or policy. He chose it. Anna the prophetess was the first to proclaim the infant Jesus as the Messiah. Even while Jesus was hanging on the cross, bearing immeasurable physical and spiritual pain, he is caring for his mother, making sure that she is protected and cared for. Woman were the last at the cross, and the first at the tomb. Many are included in the gathering in Acts when the Holy Spirit fell on them. Woman are absolutely essentially in the telling of God's amazing narrative.

Even Paul, who is often tagged as a male chauvinist, uses the names of six women in his greeting to the Romans in chapter sixteen of his letter. In male-oriented first century Palestine that was unheard of, but what Paul is arguably saying here is that he literally cannot speak of the church without mentioning the woman that play an integral part in it.

I would argue, that even more so than playing key roles and being an essential part to a greater whole, mothers serve to allow us to understand the very character of God more clearly. They model attributes and characteristics that most men simply do not posses, and paint for us a larger and more complete picture of the complex nature of God's disposition.

1. The love of a Christian Mother embodies God’s love for His Children

Listen to the words of Isaiah 66, Luke 13, and Deuteronomy 32:

As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you; and you will be comforted over Jerusalem. –Isaiah 66:13

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing! –Luke 13:34

You deserted the Rock, who fathered you; you forgot the God who gave you birth. –Deut 32:18

This is some rather direct "mother language" used both in reference to both God and Jesus that I don't think can or should be ignored. I believe it is still absolutely right and appropriate to refer to God as "Father", but is it possible that we have missed massive pieces of His temperance by ignoring the motherly qualities He embodies as well?

If what these passages say is true, then when I mother cares and loves her children, she is doing far more than carrying out an imposed duty, she is enacting the very character of God. We are given a physical representation of a very elusive spiritual reality when we experience or observe the incredible love of a mother. In that moment, that is an act of worship.

James Keller said it well:

"Every mother has the breath-taking privilege of sharing with God in the creation of new life." –James Keller

Mothers, God has given this to you. It is far more than a mundane list of task and duties you fulfill. And motherhood is certainly not just an act of biology, either. I have been blessed with an absolutely incredible biological mother, and have also been molded, shaped, and influenced by a number of other woman in my life -my spiritual mothers. Please do not think that just because you do not have children that God has not equipped and called you to mother in powerful ways in your communities and families.

2. The concern of a Christian Mother embodies God’s concern for His children

The foolish son is the heaviness of his mother. -Proverbs 10:1

I have been that foolish son more times than I can count. I could write for hours on the stupid and reckless things I've done during the course of my life, but I won't. I can remember instances where, after getting injured as a result of some of these antics, my mother would respond with incredible compassion and concern. I remember on more than one occasion thinking "This woman loves me more than I can even understand love myself", and to this day I still believe that to be true.

Her concern for me wasn't because she would lose a dishwasher or lawn mower if I injured myself. It was because, deep within her, she not only saw a boy making dumb decisions, but a man she hoped would serve God with all his heart. She saw possibilities and potential beyond anything I could imagine, and fought fervently to help us understand this invaluable truth.

There is an old Jewish proverb that reads:

"God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers.” - Jewish proverb

I love that idea. God gave us mothers to carry out the caring, loving, and protecting nature of God to remind us of where we came from, and where He's called us to go.

One pastor wrote: "If you're feeling particularly frustrated and overwhelmed with your children, do what the aspirin bottle says:

'Take two and keep away from children'"

3. The sacrificial compassion of a Christian Mother embodies God’s sacrificial heart

For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that you through His poverty might become rich.-2 Corinthians 8:9

I don't think that I really need to convince anyone that mothers make incredible sacrifices every single day of their lives, often with little praise or recognition. There are three stories in scripture that I find particularly interesting to this point.

The first is a fairly common story of King Solomon's wisdom when two prostitutes have a dispute regarding who's baby is alive, and who's died during the night. The solution, he decides, is to cut the baby in half and allow each mother to have equal portion of the living infant, but the real mother cries out and asks that the other woman keep the baby instead of allowing it to be killed. This mother would rather have her infant child raised by a different mother than to see it harmed.

The second story is another common story about a woman named Jochebed, who was the mother of Moses. To avoid having her son slain, she takes great risk by placing him in a basket and sending him down the Nile in the hopes that he would be found.

The Talmud explains that Pharaoh originally decreed that the Jewish boys be cast into the river because his astrologers had predicted that water would be the catalyst for the "downfall" of the savior of the Jews. Based on this, the Midrash explains that Moses' mother -- who was aware of her son's special destiny -- hoped that as soon as Moses would be placed in the water, the astrologers would see that the savior of the Jews had already been "cast" into the water and the decree against the Jewish boys would be annulled, and she would be free to bring her son back home. This indeed is what happened but at that point it was too late; Pharaoh's daughter had already found Moses

The point is that this strong woman of faith, who had likely already endured countless hardships at this point in her life, shows great courage, valor, and sacrifice in an effort to save her son.

The third story is perhaps a little bit less well known, and comes from the twenty-first chapter of 2 Samuel where we read about a woman named Rizpah. She was a concubine of King Saul, and as such would have been no more than property in this day and age. Some commentators believe she would've served as a servant whose purposes were to fulfill obligations other than the dynastic duties for which most royal marriages were arranged -essentially an aristocratic sex slave.

Regardless of her specific position and responsibilities, it's likely that she would've only been fourteen or fifteen years old, a child by most current American social standards, with two sons.

When David became King, there was famine in the land for three years, and when he prayed to God concerning this tragedy, God told him that there was blood guilt because of the Gibeonites Saul had put to death. So David went to the Gibeonites to see what he could do to make amends for Saul's actions. They told David they weren't interested in money, but all they required was for him to hand over seven of Saul's descendants so they could "impale them before the Lord".

So the Gibeonites impale Rizpah's two sons -Amoni and Meribaal, along with five of Saul's grandsons on a mountain, and leave the bodies in the public square to display. Read Rizpah's response:

Rizpah daughter of Aiah took sackcloth and spread it out for herself on a rock. From the beginning of the harvest till the rain poured down from the heavens on the bodies, she did not let the birds of the air touch them by day or the wild animals by night. -2 Samuel 21:10

She puts on sackcloth, the attire of mourning, and protects the bodies of her beloved children. For six months she is in this square, this public gathering place, protecting the bodies of her children. In full view of residents, tourists, politicians, and leaders, this woman's undying love for her sons is blatantly visible to all. King David caught wind of of this vigil and was so moved that he gathered up their bones and gave them all a proper and honorable burial.

The beautiful sacrifices of a mother are subtle enough to go unnoticed by almost everyone, but can be powerful enough to move kings to tears. Their compassion and endurance hold the power to change lives.

Consider 2 Corinthians 8:

For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though He was rich, yet for your sakes He became poor, that you through His poverty might become rich. -2 Corinthians 8:9

4. The patience of a Christian Mother embodies God’s patience with His children

Good 'ol Oliver but it brilliantly:

"Youth fades; love droops, the leaves of friendship fall; A mother's secret hope outlives them all.” - Oliver Wendell Holmes

My mom is a living example of this truth. Even when I was sarcastic, said things I didn't really mean, complained endlessly about things that really didn't matter much in the long run, she loved me, prayed with me, and cared for me.

"The hand that rocks the cradle usually is attached to someone who isn’t getting enough sleep."- John Fiebig

Instead of scolding us, yelling at us, she patiently continues to rock the cradle, often at the sacrifice of her own well-being. I love these two verses-

The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance. -2 Peter 3:9

Now may the God of patience and comfort grant you to be like-minded toward one another, according to Christ Jesus. - Romans 15:5

Did you catch that? The "God of patience and comfort". Does that sound like anyone you know? With every act of persisting and enduring love, she is again embody some of the very characteristics of the God of the universe. Not because she has to, or because she's getting paid, but because of her deep love and affection for who we are, not what we can do.

* I will conclude this tribute to mother's in Part 2 tomorrow!

Show me a piano thrown into an army trench, and I'll show you A-flat major.

2010-05-11T23:58:00.001-07:00

This was simply too good not to post.

I hope to have a substantial post tomorrow!