Being Chuck

Someone asked me the other day why I think it’s fun to learn new things (perhaps because I say it is so very often). And for the first time in recent memory I didn’t have nor could I come up with an answer. (Which, for those of you that know me well enough, this is a problem…)

Why is it fun to learn new things?

I really do like to learn new things. My new job has been a lot of fun (most of the time) due almost solely to the fact that I keep learning new stuff. Whether I’m learning about Online Banking, IT, or just more about people and the way they interact, it’s fun.

But I have no idea why. Why do I enjoy learning?

My default answer has always been that I’m a little bit  [read: way more than most people probably realize, ask my wife...] nerdy, and that’s usually enough for most people. But for some reason it wasn’t enough for me this time. It wasn’t enough to make fun of myself and move on. I needed the real answer.

What is it that compells me to read stupid trivia crap or watch software tutorials on the internet? What drives me to try new things? What is it about that knowledge of one more thing that causes me to keep pushing?

Is it a genuine and pure thirst for knowledge motivated by a desire to help? Or is it a desire to be seen as knowledgeable?

Do I really enjoy knowing? Or is it simply that I enjoy other people knowing I know?

I’m not sure…

If you’ve read my blog before you have probably noticed that in my self-awareness I tend to assume the worst about my own motives.

I am a cynic (mostly about people). And I know me better than anyone else does. I hear my thoughts. I know my motives.

I’d like to believe that I enjoy learning because my motives are pure and I just have a thirst for knowledge and I take joy in helping people, and that’s it.

But I know better. I am a sinner (like everyone else), and I am selfish.

I do honestly enjoy learning things, and I do have a genuine thirst for knowledge. I really do like to help people and knowing more does facilitate that. But I also know that I enjoy the fact that people know I know.

The joy of being human and conflicted…

Seth Godin is one of the bloggers I read regularly. I subscribed to his blog, and every time he writes something new, it shows up in my inbox. I love it.

This was in my inbox a week or so ago and am just now responding to it. I’m kind of slow.

Read his words (and marvel), then read mine (and pretend to be impressed… maybe).

*******
Which comes first, the product or the marketing?

I don’t intend to keep posting this kind of stuff and not actually writing.

But when other people say it better…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JHS8adO3hM

Why can’t we all figure it out like the guy Penn’s talking about?

This guy is my hero/idol/new best friend… even though we’ve never met.

http://lordsofbacon.com/2008/11/bacon-fresh-easy-way.html

Let me begin by saying: I am not an Obama-hater.

However, I am not a big fan of Presidents in general, or the American government’s tendency to spend exorbitant amounts of money on things like inaugurations instead of helping people (current economy status aside).

I came across this article today… It’s from a British source. They don’t seem to have any partisan preference (although I obviously do). This first paragraph made me sick:

President Barack Obama’s inauguration next week is set to be the most expensive ever, predicted to reach over $150m (£102m). This dwarfs the $42.3m spent on George Bush’s inauguration in 2005 and the $33m spent on Bill Clinton’s in 1993.

Seriously?!?

What is wrong with us? Bill Clinton spent $33 million, George Bush spent $42 million… Obama is spending $150 million.

Could we not have found a better use for that money?

If you want to read the rest of the article here it is… But it might just depress you more.

Obama Inauguration

Surely you’ve heard/read about this by now, but if not, here it is.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what a hero looks like:

Capt. Chesley B. Sullenberger

We all think we’re good at a lot of different things.

I haven’t met too many people in life who honestly believe they aren’t a “good” driver. I’ve heard people say, “I’m a bad driver,” but none of them really mean it. We all think we’re good drivers. We can all justify speeding. And we can all justify cutting that other driver off when we need to (probably a result of the speeding).

And just like we all think we’re good drivers, I haven’t met too many people who don’t think they have a good handle on perspective (I’m definitely not immune here). Most people I know believe that they have a pretty good understanding of why people do what they do and act the way they act. And are willing to judge motives and behavior based on that fact.

And as I just said, I will be the first one to tell you, I think I have a more than satisfactory grasp on understanding people’s perspectives. [I don't, but I certainly think I do.]

And what’s really “funny” [not ha ha funny, but peculiar and perplexing funny] about all this is the selfishness with which I employ said ability or understanding.

Most of the time, my ability to bring and understand perspective works to “benefit” someone else. I am usually “helping” someone else see the error in their judgment of a particular person.

“You think she did that to be spiteful, but really if you look at it from her perspective, she was only …”

And this applies to all facets of life: road rage, drama at work or church, people’s kids, my family, your family, etc. I’m consistently more than willing to step in and offer a little “healthy” perspective to the person who feels justified in their judgment of the situation, thereby showing them how little understanding they really possess (and thus in some subconscious insecure way, boosting my own feelings about me and my “knowledge”).

But when it comes to me and my relationships, suddenly I no longer possess the uncanny ability to bring perspective. I am completely blinded by my selfishness (and perceived correctness) to the point where I am right and you are wrong. It’s still a matter of perspective, but my perspective just happens to be the right one (which obviously puts yours in the wrong).

I expect you to stand in my shoes, but I’m only going to pretend to stand in your shoes.

Or maybe I’ll stand in your shoes long enough to show you that I’m right.

It’s always quite impressive to me [not in a good way] when I am able to stand back long enough to actually notice the selfishness that really exists in my life. And I’m even more amazed at this point that I haven’t noticed until now.

Some of the displays of selfishness are so blatant and ridiculous that I can’t possibly fathom how I missed them. I suppose I just didn’t posses the perspective necessary.

I can justify my behavior, but I refuse to justify yours because you’re just being ridiculous. You’re not being reasonable.

So I suppose I need to apologize to all the people in my life (wife, kids, parents, brother, sisters, friends) who I have written off all at different times due to their “lack of perspective.” Forgive my arrogance and selfish justification of judgment.

But then again, if they possessed the proper perspective, they would understand that I was just…

This doesn’t happen very often, so all three of you reading should probably take notice.

I never seem to have problem letting anyone know how I feel about anything, but this time has been different. (This, of course, is the thing of which you should take notice.) It’s something I’ve avoided talking about at all costs.

But I was forced to admit it Saturday night.

Brian Truschinger and I were standing at Andrea Cox’s (now Danowit) wedding (sorry Aaron, no one really cares about the groom) discussing how much pie (Andrea had pie, not cake) I had already consumed, and was still planning on consuming, when he laughed and said, “I’m gonna miss you, man.”

Crap! [read with an exasperated sigh]

I was trying to not to think about this, let alone talk about it.

There are lots of people that I would consider friends. People from church, people from work, just people in my life… all kinds of people. But there are only two men I’ve let into the inner circle (sorry to all those who were holding their breath awaiting an invitation, but it’s not really that great of a place to be anyway).

J. E. and Brian Truschinger are my closest friends.

There are no men alive who have poured more into my life (outside my dad) than these two. I love them. We argue, we discuss, we laugh, and now apparently we will cry. (I will anyway, having kids has made me soft…)

I realize that as a “man” I’m not supposed to be aware of (let alone share) these types of feelings. Grr! I’m a man (I’m 40!) [Thank you again Mike Gundy for one of the more hilarious moments in college football in recent history.] And I realize that I’m not supposed to broadcast those feelings on the internet for you to read… but you’ll live.

Brian and Amanda (his wife) and their kids accepted a position at a church plant in Kirksville, MO. He is leaving at the onset of the new year.

J always has been (in some sense) and will continue to be a missionary (in the sense of the word that most people understand). He and Kelly (his wife) and their kids are headed to Istanbul, Turkey this summer.

This sucks… and I have avoided speaking seriously about the topic at every turn.

Most of my life I have avoided real friendships to save myself from this type of anguish. I let people get close, but not close enough to hurt when they (or I) leave. But when we moved down here, I knew it was to stay for a while. And when I met these two men, I knew we would be friends for some time.

But obviously “some time” wasn’t long enough as far as I’m concerned.

I guess I just never believed either of them would really go.

When Brian and Amanda tried to leave the first time, I told him he wasn’t really going anywhere. They prepared to go, and they even sold their house. But when push came to shove, my friend was back on staff before the summer was over.

When J and K told us they were thinking about Brazil, and then China (or maybe it was the other way around), I wasn’t really worried when it turned into Turkey.

But obviously what I thought was going to happen, what I wanted, isn’t the reality I’m faced with now. Now I’m faced with losing (not really losing, but losing nonetheless) my closest friends.

There’s not any anger there, nor is there any resentment.

I’m just sad.

And I feel terrible about it. I want to be happy for their new opportunities. I want to be the same guy I was a few months ago. I don’t want my wife to have to ask me what’s wrong anymore. (Not because she shouldn’t ask, but because I don’t want to feel or act in a way that causes her to notice a difference in my countenance.)

I want my friends to stay.

And while part of me is laughing at the childish, weeny way that statement feels when I say it out loud (or write it in a blog), the other part of me is too honest and too busy grieving to care.

I have no doubt that we will stay friends despite the distance, but I also have no doubt that it’s not going to be the same.

I will miss them.

I’ll miss the ridiculous lunches, and the times when we can’t stop laughing (like jumping down the stairs into a pile of couch cushions while we’re moving someone… that was last week by the way…). I’ll miss hanging out as families, and I’ll even miss the two of them sitting down with me as true friends and pointing me toward change that needs to occur in my life and walk with Christ.

I don’t really know how to wrap these thoughts up. I’m not sure what to say about two guys who have had such a profound impact on my life.

It almost sounds like I’m writing their eulogies. They’re not dead, but instead of lunch once a week or more, I’m going to have to settle for goofy emails and maybe even an awkward phone call every now and then (I hate the phone…).

How do I finish this? I think I’m rambling in the hopes that if I just keep typing we won’t actually reach the point of them leaving…

I don’t know what else to say, but I think this will do for now:

Thank you guys. I’ll miss you and I love you.

I have a slight [read: enormously annoying (at times) to those around me] tendency to be argumentative.

Not in an angry or malicious manner, mind you, just in a playful, inquisitive sort of way.

I truly enjoy the way people’s brains work.

How do we arrive at conclusions (erroneous or true)? What causes behavioral change (or lack thereof)? These questions have always intrigued me. Why do we act the way we do?

I suppose that some of the time arguing (or debating or discussing, depending on your perspective) is a way for me to pick a person’s brain… to understand, to get a different perspective.

Other times I’m genuinely trying to decide how I feel about something. I’ll argue with people whose opinions I respect to pick apart my own feelings and biases. It’s a method of processing my thoughts and understanding myself (or increasing self-awareness). Those people (J & Brian among others) know me and know why I do it, and they graciously oblige [read: play along].

Still other times (and these probably happen way too often) I argue for the sake of argument. It’s fun (for me, at least). I enjoy the banter. It’s challenging and stimulating.

And so (obviously) I spend a lot of time debating with people about things from the quality of talent on a football team or the tastiness of fast food to deep theological or ethical questions.

But there is one phrase (most often employed in justification of behavior) that practically (the use of the word practically here will make sense very shortly) compels me to argue. I have a very difficult time letting it slide (much to the annoyance of my lovely wife who has committed to put up with my ridiculousness without committing me).

And that phrase is (drum roll please):

“Have to…”

I have argued/held/debated for much of my life that there is no such thing. There is no “have to” in reality. There is always a choice available. There are always options, but we allow consequences to force our hand. But really the consequences don’t force anything. They’re just consequences. They’re simply results of the decisions we make. They have no power. They are not living breathing beings.

Examples:

“I had to do my homework…”

No you didn’t. You just didn’t prefer the consequence of not doing your homework.

“I had to swerve my car…”

No you didn’t. You just weren’t very keen on the idea of wrecking into that other car.

“I had to do what he said, he had a gun…”

No you didn’t. But you did prefer to stay living.

There is always a choice available. There is always an option.

Or so I thought…

But… (prepare for a shocker here)

I was wrong. (Not totally wrong, but wrong nonetheless.)

There is one instance in which “have to” applies.

You (I, we) have to die. (Hence the title of this post.) There is no choice involved here. We will all die. We cannot pick “not death…”

But don’t pat me on the back for my discovery. I had help. My father-in-law and I were riding in a truck with Dave Weinman after moving the heaviest table known to man (this actually occurred weeks ago, I’m just now writing about it, I’m kind of slow…), when we somehow struck up a conversation about kids (specifically those of the middle school, high school, and early college-age variety, or more simply: teenagers).

And having had the privilege to spend eleven years (paid & volunteer) of my life working with teens (or youth/students if you are so inclined), I discovered (discovered?… as if they were some rare tribe in a foreign land…) “have to” is a common phrase in their (teens) vernacular.

So naturally the conversation turned to the topic of choice and “have to,” and I spouted my well-rehearsed diatribe about the irrelevance of “have to,” and how it shouldn’t be used, and really doesn’t exist.

At which point I would usually be met with a long drawn out discussion about the nature of choice and consequences. Whereupon I would wax poetic about the reality of consequence preference (I’m making up terms here…) and how we always have an option, but most of us simply prefer to be a “victim.”

Victim: Allow me to elaborate here… We make choices that we justify with “have to” because it’s easier to be a victim of “have to” than it is to own up to the responsibility of making better choices. But I digress…

So the conversation progressed as normal, and as I reached the pinnacle, the height and crowning glory of my well-crafted, well-thought-out (or so I thought) argument, my father-in-law chimes in with the following:

“You have to die.”

…

Well, crap.

I generally think quickly on my feet [read: speak before I think], and I was scrambling to formulate a response. But every time I opened my mouth with a rebuttal, my brain would counter (which was essential to saving what little of my argument still stood). I had nothing left. (I lost?)

Bob [father-in-law's name] had totally destroyed my diatribe (not really, but he definitely knocked me down a few notches without intending to… at least I don’t think he intended to).

I do have to die. I don’t have another option.

So let me fix my argument. There’s always a choice in life. You can choose in any matter except whether or not you will die (physically).

But as I said above, I wasn’t totally wrong. (If you haven’t noticed, I really don’t like to be wrong. In fact, I will try to dance with words around wrong in such a way that I can still be right. It’s a man thing, and it’s a personality thing, and I’m not too bad at it, but it’s not good either.)

The more I thought about our exchange, what really became interesting to me is why I don’t have a choice there. Why can’t I choose “not death?”

God saw fit to grant me the freedom to choose in every aspect of life. I choose whether or not to help the bum who wants money from me. I choose how to answer my wife when she asks me to do something I don’t want to do. I choose how to answer coworkers who have questions I know I’ve answered 26 times or more. I choose how to respond when my kids act their age. I choose whether or not to show love to any number of people I come into contact with every day. I choose whether or not to glorify Him everyday, a hundred times or more. Why wouldn’t he allow us to choose this as well?

Why can’t I choose whether or not I “have to” die?

How dare He?

But the really intriguing part is this: He granted us that choice as well.

VICTORY! (almost…)

But I don’t get to choose whether or not I die. I can’t even pick when or how…

God put man in the garden. God gave man everything he could ever want and more (would you like choice with that?). Man chose independence.

Perhaps I myself was not the one who chose death. I wasn’t the one who picked the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good & Evil. Adam and Eve did that. So I can no longer choose not to die. But if they hadn’t, if Eve hadn’t listened to the serpent, if Adam hadn’t listened to Eve, how long would it have been before someone else chose death?

I can guarantee you that if it came down to me, I would probably blow it… sorry.

So after weeks of distress (at the partial loss of one of my favorite arguments) [please read that with the proper amount of sarcasm, not too much, but the proper amount], I am vindicated. Choice was available, and now we are living (or dying) with the consequences.

VICTORY!

Not really. I mean, I still feel vindicated… but I still have to die.

Stupid fruit.

My favorite part of church each and every Sunday is always the sermon. I know that I’m one of the few, but I really enjoy good speaking.  The sermon is probably not most people’s favorite part (in fact, I’m sure it wouldn’t even make most people’s top 5), but I truly enjoy it. And being at First Christian in Fort Myers, we have a myriad of talented speakers. Each of them is talented and interesting in a different way.

Gary is very conversational and easy to listen to. Pete is energetic, very logical, and straightforward. Tim (who preached this past Sunday, and has been for a while) is self-deprecating, and matter-of-fact. He makes things seem simple or boils them down to their essence.

So, as you can imagine, there aren’t many Sundays that I can recall in the past three and a half years that I haven’t enjoyed the sermon. (Don’t worry Tim, this past Sunday was not an exception to that rule.)

This past Sunday Tim was preaching on leadership, and he tied in part of the story of Jesus & the disciples in the garden of Gethsemane (when Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss).

One of the benefits of working in the capacity I do/did at FCC, is that I usually have the opportunity to hear the sermon (or at least part of it) twice. For some this would not be all that exciting, but like I said before, this is my favorite part.

So this Sunday, the second time I heard the sermon, I picked up on a detail in the story I hadn’t ever noticed before, and my brain kind of ran with it for a while.

Matthew 26:47-54

While he was still speaking, Judas, one of the Twelve, arrived. With him was a large crowd armed with swords and clubs, sent from the chief priests and the elders of the people. Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: “The one I kiss is the man; arrest him.” Going at once to Jesus, Judas said, “Greetings, Rabbi!” and kissed him.

Jesus replied, “Friend, do what you came for.”

Then the men stepped forward, seized Jesus and arrested him. With that, one of Jesus’ companions reached for his sword, drew it out and struck the servant of the high priest, cutting off his ear.

“Put your sword back in its place,” Jesus said to him, “for all who draw the sword will die by the sword. Do you think I cannot call on my Father, and he will at once put at my disposal more than twelve legions of angels? But how then would the Scriptures be fulfilled that say it must happen in this way?”

And this is what stuck out to me:

Peter (we read in John’s account that it was Peter) drew his sword and cut off that dude’s ear.

Jesus fixes it (as we read in Luke’s account), but Peter cut the guy’s ear off. He attacked him. And we always just write it off that Peter was defending Jesus, right? I mean, his friend, his teacher, his mentor was being arrested, and arrested unfairly at that. He was betrayed by one of the twelve, a close friend, and Peter was just doing what any hot-headed guy would, right? We see other accounts of Peter over-stepping his bounds, so we just chalk this one up with them.

But here’s what concerns me (and why I suddenly went on a tangent in my head):

Peter attacked an unarmed man.

Of all the men to attack (it said very clearly: a large crowd armed with swords and clubs), Peter chose the one that was unarmed. He attacked a guy named Malchus. ( I can just picture a little man with thick-rimmed glasses, his belt too high on his tunic and a quill-protector in his breast pocket.) Malchus was the servant of the high priest. He was probably the one going along to make sure everything was done as the high priest wanted, perhaps he was carrying the order. He was the “enforcer” without any real power.

I could be wrong about him being unarmed, but I haven’t found anything yet to contradict me.

And so there I am (back to me in church), sitting and listening to Tim tell the story of Peter chopping off Malchus’s ear, and Jesus fixing it, and all I can think about is what a cowardly thing that was to do, what a terrible person Peter was.

He struck one of the few unarmed men there. What a coward! And in conjunction with all the other “foot-in-mouth” type moments that the gospels enumerate (which by the way, I’m sure Peter was really happy his friends included all those), I just kept coming back to Jesus’s statement about Peter in Matthew 16:18…

And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it.

Really? Seriously? Peter was such a loser. He was a scoundrel. For that matter you can pick any character in the Bible. He/she was a loser. He/she was a scoundrel.

Adam, Eve, Noah, Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Miriam, Deborah, Aaron, Jacob, Gideon, Samson, David, Solomon, Jonah, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter, etc.

They’re all scoundrels. But we have taken these people and made them into heroes and saints. We recount their success stories time and time again as if they were mythological creatures.

[Please note the "toy box gang" reference... if you don't know, you can go to youtube and type in "toy box gang." If you still don't get it, never mind, at this point I've lost you...]

Catholics refer to Peter as the first Pope.

Saint Peter. Wow…

Why do we do that? These people were absolute scoundrels. Here’s what Merriam-Webster has to say about them:

Scoundrel: a disreputable person (disreputable? who uses that? apparently Merriam-Webster does.)

Disreputable: not reputable (seriously?!?)

Reputable: enjoying good repute (come on…), held in esteem (okay…)

These people (like you and me) were scoundrels. They were “not the kind of girl you take home to mom.” They screwed up on a regular basis. They were not really hero-type material. They had blemishes and scars and less than reputable histories.

So why do we make them out to be heroes? Why is it that I read their stories and sincerely hope to be like them?

Because they did incredible things.

But how?

Because they allowed God to change them. They allowed God to work in them and through them.

Scoundrel + God = Saint

It’s amazing what God can do with a loser, a scoundrel. And that’s what keeps me going. That’s why Peter is one of my heroes.

It had nothing to do with who Peter was, but it had everything to do with who he knew.

It had nothing to do with what Peter did, but it had everything to do with who did it through him.

Peter is one of my heroes for this reason: despite what he thought he knew or thought he could do, he stepped aside enough (not all the time) to let God do amazing things with his life. He was a hot-head, he spoke out of turn, he acted before he thought, and he always thought he had the answer. But he was able to get out of the way enough that God worked in him and through him to change the world.

Man, I hope I can get out of the way.

Let me begin this post by saying that someone who has always lived in Florida may not quite enjoy this post as much as someone who has never lived here or isn’t “from” here.

I love living in Florida. The weather is amazing (excluding those three unbearably hot & rainy summer months). It’s so great. I love driving my Jeep (which I am unfortunately selling if you know a buyer) across the bridges that span beautiful water on a 70 degree day. And obviously since the weather is usually warm it never really gets cold here. It might get down to 50 degrees in the middle of the night (maybe even 40′s… brrr! [read with sarcastic overtones, undertones, and every tone in between]), but not really cold.

cold = snot freezing on your face.

We don’t have that here.

For most people this is great, but there are times that I miss the cold, every now and again (briefly). It’s fun to see your breath and actually have to put on a jacket or sweatshirt. But we don’t always get everything we want.

So as a result of the general warmness, there are things that are normally associated with cooler temperatures that almost seem out of place.

“Christmas time” is one of those things.

People who know me know that I’m not a big fan of “Christmas time.”

I have no qualms with the actual holiday itself or even the season. My issue comes with the length of time that “Christmas time” envelopes. From the moment 11:59 PM strikes on Halloween night until sometime early in January, America celebrates Christmas. Walmart and other stores put away the Halloween costumes and immediately pull out Santa Claus.

I realize that there’s not a ton of Thanksgiving paraphernalia to be had, but does it really have to be shoved away in some corner to play second fiddle to the commercial giant that is “Christmas time?” Can’t we at least give it equal billing until Thanksgiving actually passes?

For some of you out there, this terrible injustice is a tremendous delight. (It’s probably only a terrible injustice in my head.) And if I’m being honest, I have only one real reason for my disdain of our ridiculously long period for celebrating “Christmas time.”

You are skipping my favorite holiday.

What other day of the year can I sit down and eat until I’m about to explode, then watch football and fall asleep, only to do it all again (multiple times), without anyone saying anything? That’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s Thanksgiving. Who could ask for a better holiday?

food + football = great holiday

“Christmas time” is too long. I shouldn’t hear Christmas songs on the radio (or from my colleagues computers) until December hits (or at least until after Thanksgiving), unless they’re rehearsing for a Christmas musical or something. But even then, it doesn’t have to be for everyone to hear.

Call me a Grinch if you want, but I feel pretty strongly [read: I really, really, overreact every year] about this.

But whether you revel in “Christmas time” or you share my righteous indignation (it’s only righteous according to me) against the perversion of Walmart and other conglomerates toward the rightful next holiday, I saw something today that just doesn’t seem to fit into my paradigm of what “Christmas time” means (aside from the aforementioned fact that Thanksgiving has yet to happen).

I was driving with the top down and no doors on the Jeep, and it was about 85 degrees outside.

I just keep gloating don’t I?

Right before the bridge (going into Fort Myers over the Caloosahatchee River) I looked over and saw one of the unmistakable Salvation Army bell-ringer-station-thingys. Big banner, kettle hanging from a tripod, bell… it’s all there. But when I looked at the woman ringing the bell I had to laugh.

There she stood in a Santa hat, ringing that bell, wearing…

Shorts and a red T-shirt.

Something about that doesn’t fit together with “Christmas time.” When I see the Salvation Army bell ringers I expect a heavy coat & gloves. Maybe even snow on the ground.

I know I live in Florida (and have for three and half years now, how have I missed this before?). And I know that a heavy coat and gloves are less likely to happen (except when the temperature drops to 50 and the snowbirds [read: old people who come down for the winter] are out walking with heavy coats and gloves because 50 degrees is so cold [sarcasm again, you'd think I'd get tired of it]), but I’m stuck. My idea of “Christmas time” includes cold weather, and I’m having a hard time altering the idea.

But there it is, two things that I just can’t seem to squish together in my head.

I laughed.

…

Well, maybe I didn’t laugh, but I definitely chuckled.

Either way, I don’t know that anyone else will find that as funny as I did…

“I want that.”

This a phrase I hear on a regular basis.

I have a three and a half (when do we stop using halves?) year old daughter whose descriptive power is sometimes lacking. She often employs the phrase, “I want that,” but it’s usually exceptionally unclear to what she is referring. The discourse commonly goes as follows:

Riley: I want that.

Me (or Tara): What, honey?

Riley: I want that.

Me: What’s “that?”

Riley: That. <pointing in the general vicinity of the object>

Me: This? <grabbing a random object she could possibly desire in the general vicinity of the point>

Riley: I want THAT. <slightly more exasperated at my inability to read her mind (this is a trait common among females of the human race)>

Me: What’s “that?”

Riley: I want that.

I could go on, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the point. (However, if you don’t, feel free to hang around us for a few minutes… I’m sure it will happen again soon.)

Riley’s use of “I want that” is quite common. In fact, it is so common, that the abundance of that phrase in our house (I can’t wait until Lincoln starts in on it) is comical, and it borders on insanity [read: my own personal insanity]. But Riley isn’t the most prolific source of “I want that.”

I am.

It may not be audible, it may not even be conscious, but it is me.

I am sad to admit that I am the most selfish person I know. (Some of you may be shocked to read that, but those of you who are part of “the inner circle” [read: responsibility, not privilege] know better. I use quotation marks around “inner circle” to denote sarcasm, but I digress.)

It’s amazing to me that the more I make an effort to be self-aware, the more I wish I didn’t know.

Lao Tse [read: really smart Chinese philosopher, one of the central figures of Taoism] said:

He who knows others is learned. He who knows himself is wise.

I wholeheartedly agree, but also would add the following:

He who knows others is learned. He who knows himself is wise and miserable.

There truly is bliss in ignorance. I amaze myself quite often, but not in a good way. It’s appalling how often I catch myself being ridiculously selfish.

Do I really want my kids to learn discipline to better their lives? Or is it just to simplify my own?

Am I practicing love toward this person or that person because it’s what I’m called to do? Or am I expecting something in return?

Don’t get me wrong. I do think that every now and again we [read: people or perhaps more specifically in this instance, I] can do something with almost pure motives. But I know myself well enough to know that that’s not very often. (If you would like to debate the “almost” here please take me up on it because most of the time I truly believe pure motives aren’t possible.)

I despise being human. I hate the fact that I am sinful and selfish. But I also revel in being made in the likeness of a God who loves me in spite of my choice to hurt Him (often).

Philippians 2.1-11 always makes me cringe (in disgust and sadness at my own pride).

If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death—
even death on a cross!
Therefore God exalted him to the highest place
and gave him the name that is above every name,
that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.

Up there, where Paul writes that Jesus didn’t consider equality with God something to be grasped, I think we misunderstand. Grasped here is less “reaching for and grabbing” and more “held on to.” Jesus had it already. He was God, and He let it go to come down here and take part in the mess we make of our lives. He had every right to stay where He was and find a simpler way to resolve the problem of sin, but he set that aside (His right) to provide a way for me to connect.

Which brings me to the following disappointing realization:

I totally suck.

Or perhaps, I totally suck on my own.

I can’t even put away my “right” to have a pleasant driving experience [read: no one does anything I don't like]. I can’t even put away my “right” to have my kids listen to my words and obey the first time every time. (Seriously, they’re 3 and a half [there's that half again] and one… how long is this going to take? [read with dripping sarcasm])

But this is where the “[He] became obedient to death—even death on a cross!” part comes in. Grace saves me. Jesus’s choice to step down into our mess saves me. But from what?

Now there’s a fun question. What does grace save me from?

I’ve heard people argue that we’re not saved from something, we’re saved to or for something else. But I’m going to have to respectfully disagree (at least in semantics). Saving is only necessary when someone or something is in trouble. (Except in baseball, but we won’t get into the ridiculousness of calling preserving lead a “save.”)

We must be saved from something. So what is it that I am saved or rescued from?

Most people would probably answer Hell or God’s wrath or Satan or sin or death. And while I believe those answers would be somewhat correct (if only in an indirect manner), I think the strongest answer is this:

Grace saves me from… [read with medieval-announcement-with-trumpets-type music] myself.

Grace doesn’t need to save me from Satan. He doesn’t have me. He might try to influence me (which I would argue is far less often than most people think, we give “The Devil” far too much credit). But he certainly doesn’t own me.

And I would argue that God’s wrath, Hell, sin, and death are all direct results (or consequences) of my own choice to disobey.

So, grace saves me from me.

I truly am my own worst enemy. But that’s why Philippians 2 exists. And Philippians 2 exists because Jesus did what He did. And Jesus did what He did because He created me in His likeness and He loves me. Grace.

You know, it’s funny. I usually begin a post with one thing in mind, one driving emotion, one “amazing” thought, but then I end in a much more refined place. (More refined perhaps than where I started, but still not truly refined by any stretch of the imagination.) Not altogether different, but definitely better.

I began with the frustration of my selfishness and my inability to overcome it on my own, and now am ending with grace. The realization that I don’t have to do it (and can’t) on my own

If you haven’t opened a children’s toy recently you may not have any idea what I’m talking about. But otherwise I hope you’ll join the army I’m forming to locate and destroy the toy factory at which Lucifer has taken up work.

Last night I was opening toys for Lincoln (from his birthday party) and became increasingly frustrated at the level of “tools” [read: teeth, scissors, screwdrivers (3), etc.] necessary to free the imprisoned toys from their “packages” [read: maximum security prisons].

I truly believe it would have been easier to legally adopt an elephant, while juggling fire.

First, you’ve got the outer box which leaves no option but tearing. It is so taped and puzzled together that teeth and scissors may be necessary, unless, that is, you posses Incredible Hulk-like strength.

Then, you have the inner box. This box is not nearly so tough, but it is secured to the toy by twist ties (which were engineered by NASA to never come apart) which are girded by plastic i-beams. And if that weren’t enough, the NASA twist ties are taped down with a clear-colored cousin of the strongest duct tape imaginable.

But if you can make it through that barrier (all while two children are clawing at the marvelous new toy) you’re still faced with the daunting task of putting batteries in it. So you have to unscrew six pieces, place the batteries in the proper (albeit unillustrated) position, and re-screw the pieces back on. Assuming you got the positioning correct, the toy is supposed to work…

Once this part of the 236-step process is completed you may now bring the toy to the exasperated, crying child(ren) you left on the floor to go find three different screwdrivers to put in said batteries.

But lo and behold, once you have located said child(ren) they would rather play with the torn box than the toy someone purchased for their glee. And when you take the torn box away, said child(ren) will cry again.

My advice: leave the toy in the box, get some ripped cardboard, and let said child(ren) play with that.

As for the new toy, re-gift it. Let some other poor sap reap the benefits of Satan’s Part-Time job.