Loud Loft

What me worry, round three

(NOTE: All of my "notes" on Facebook orginate on my blog www.loudloft.blogs.com and automatically cross post to FB from there. If the formatting looks weird or the pictures don't come across, go to the website and give it a look)

It’s been a long time since I’ve visited the topic of my journey with depression. Maybe it’s because it’s been a very tumultuous time. Maybe because it’s always a bit difficult to be as open as I want to be about this very personal topic. Maybe it’s because things have improved and I’m not in as bad a shape as I once was.

Actually, it’s all three.

Wellbutrin good. Lexapro bad. That’s the extent of my knowledge about these two common anti-depressants. Of course, my assessment applies ONLY to me. There are folks for whom Lexapro was a Godsend. For me, not so much. Irritable and impotent don’t look good on me. Hell, they don’t look good on anybody but that was the result anytime Lexapro was introduced into the mix.

Eventually, on the advice of a good friend who is also my boss I saw a Psychologist that he highly recommended. The difference between a Psychologist and Psychiatrist is that the Psychologist can prescribe medicine and the Psychiatrist can’t. Well that and a whole $$%&@ of money - and mine’s not covered in my medical plan so I get to experience the joy of directly paying for my health care with my own dollars.

My first visit was for almost an hour and cost as much as, well, it just cost a lot. However, he gave me some very good advice, was incredibly encouraging that we could get a handle on this and began jacking around with my medications. Joyfully, the Lexapro was the first to go.

I have been back to see our Counselor once since then and that too has been helpful.

Yeah, there are crackpot counselors and therapists out there that do far more harm than good but I’ve been blessed by this one many times over.

I’ve made progress at work during this time as well. One aspect of the depression that really hit me hard was my memory. More specifically, the lack of memory. There have been times were at the end of a meeting I can no more remember what was said or decided than I could fly.

I bought one of those moleskin notebooks that all the cool, creative kids use and began taking notes every time I spoke with someone. It’s helped a great deal - I have to keep at it and not get lazy though or I suffer horribly  from CRS (can’t remember S@%&)

Still, I’m making progress. Many days it’s two steps forward and one step back. Some days it’s three steps forward and one step back. Every now and then it’s one step forward and one step back. Very rarely it’s just one step back . . . and that’s a good thing. What’s weird is that I can’t think of a single day when it’s been just one step forward. I guess that means I’ve still got a ways to go on this journey.

I actually experieced a “one step back day” today. I was planning an overnight trip to a friends’ lake house. I try to give Lisa a “Bill Free day” on regular intervals and she was overdue for at least one 24 hour period of peace and quiet.

The father of the Senior Pastor at my church passed away this week and a bunch of us drove to Shreveport for the funeral. It was a very sweet and touching service that was totally focused on his family and we all felt that it was a privelege to be present.

I hadn’t considered what the impact of attending the funeral of a good friends father might have on me. One of the things that triggered the deepest part of my depression was a dream that I had about my father, who passed away almost nine years ago. While I was moved during the service, it wasn’t till several hours later after we had all eaten lunch when a friend asked me how I had handled the funeral. I realized that it had affected me more than I had acknowledged. Lisa noticed it when I got home and I really began to feel the effects this morning.

Every thing was hard. Everything was discouraging. Everything was irritating. Especially the gathering up of things to take on a brief overnight trip. I’ve been here at the lake house for about four hours know and the sun is going down. The crickets are chirping, the cicadas are droning and I can hear two couples down the lake talking on their porch.

Here’s what it looks like right now - yes that is the moon in the upper right corner of the picture.

 
The water is as smooth as glass and the sun is reflecting off the yellow wood framed house in the distance. I can hear an owl warbling out it’s “whoo’s” and there is a dog way off in the distance barking. Occasionally the surface of the water is broken as a fish strikes at a bug and the quick splash is followed by the ripples circling out from the spot where the insect became the fish’s dinner.

There is something to be said for the quiet (as much as it can be) of the country. Actually, I think we crave the sounds. We are creatures of community and closeness and these sounds, be they the drone of the evening insects or the hustle and bustle of the city remind us that we are designed for relationship.

For me, it’s the change of venue that helps emphasize that vital element of community and relationship that is woven into our soul.

I’m better now. Not for just today but better in the bigger picture. In a way I’m glad that depression came to me. I can relate to those who experience it in a way that I simply could not before. I certainly don’t wish it on anyone and I’m delighted that where I am in my journey now is better than it once was.

I don’t know if this will be something I deal with for the rest of my life or if it’s just a season. I know I’m not alone . . . and that makes all the difference.

Fridge door art . . .

Okay, here's the deal. As most of you dear readers know, Lisa and I don't have kids. It never came up so we never went that route. It's never really been a big deal to either one of us . . . so there.

Still, I have recently faced the reality that being a Father or Grandfather is a door that has essentially closed and facts are facts. I will never experience the joys of being a parent (or the not so joyfull  . . . ummmm,  non-joys of being a parent). So I had to face that emotion, experience that emotion and ether kick that emotion's ass or get mine kicked. Actually, it was touch and go on who's ass was getting kicked for awhile there - but I eventually prevailed.

But (and there's always a big but isn't there), Lisa and I sponsor a child, Angillo Joseph. I first met Angillo in June of 2006 in Yei Sudan at the Harvester's Orphanage. I didn't pick him so much as he picked me. He was only a couple of years old at the time (if that) and he came up to me, reached out his little arms, wrapped them around my leg and marked me with his little snotty nose. Touching, yes? I wrote about it HERE

When I got back to Texas, Lisa and I talked about "sponsoring" him and decided that somehow we would be able to make do with $1 a day less so that we could send $30 a month to the orphanage to help provide for Angillo and the others. A real a big sacrifice on our part, right?

Over the next few years we would get a little card from Harvesters updating us about Angillo. There was always something specific about his attitude and what kind of little boy he was becoming. A year later I was back in the neighborhood one day (?) and was able to drop by for about ten minutes to see him as I was on my way to the airstrip to fly back to Nairobi. He was taking a nap but Mama Lilly woke him up and she took a picture of me and him. Of course, he had no idea who I was other than a strange white man holding him on his lap  . . . and he's was still not quite awake. Here's that picture.

So a few weeks ago a large envelope arrives from Harvesters. I figure it's either a promotional flyer or some other sort of informational material.

When I opened it up there was a blue colored sheet of construction paper covered in crayon scribblings. It was from Angillo . . .

Here's a picture of it hanging on our fridge door.

I had put to rest the idea of not having a child and not being a father. That was a very selfish act on my part. Making a difference in a child's life isn't limited to being linked by biology or sometimes even by proximity. I may never see Angillo. If civil war returns to Sudan, as many think it will in the next few years, pretty much all bets are off. If not, Yei Sudan is still a long way from Texas.

But, I've been there twice. I have friends who would put me up for a couple of nights and I have a reason to care about what happens in Yei, Sudan beyond the abstract. There's a little boy sleeping in a dorm, eating in a kitchen, going to school and playing with his friends. I know his name. It's Angillo and he's put his mark on me . . .

What, me worry? update.

So, it’s been a couple of weeks since I last posted about my new journey into the world of anti-depressant medications. Well, it sucks and it’s the best thing ever.

Those contradictory statements are explained below.

The first medication that was given to me by my Doctor was Lexapro. This medicine works great for a vast segment of the population. This medicine sucks for me. If you go to any of the various sites that have information about Lexapro and read the side effects . . .  I rang the bell for all of them.  Sadly, I also received none of the benefits. The details of the side effects are a bit too personal and gross even for me (shocking news I’m sure) but if you venture out and find that list you will know what I mean.

So, I call the Doctor and give her the bad news that I’m experiencing all the negative side effects and none of the benefits and after a lengthy discussion of all the options we settle on Wellbutrin as my next drug of choice.

It’s worth pointing out that I’m not bummed that I have to take this medication but it’s also a bummer (and a bit of a blow to the old ego) that I can’t just beat this situation on my own. That’s just my pride talking along with an inherent stereotype that is a disturbing side effect of the remnants of our “Marlboro Man” culture.

I started on a low dose for a week and then moveed up up to a full dose. Holy $#&%, this stuff is all that and a bag of chips!!!. Not only are the crappy side effects from the Lexapro gone but I actually seem able to function better (Lisa confirms the functioning better part so it’s not just self induced hysteria . . . though there’s nothing wrong with that).

I can actually feel something now. When I was describing the side effects to my Doctor, she said that most folks would rather feel sad than feel nothing at all and she’s totally and completely right. On Lexapro I couldn’t feel anything. It was even more difficult to engage with my surroundings. I had trouble making decisions. My memory was horrible. My libido had left the building and those are just the least troubling side effects. Lisa described me as reminding her of Ozzy Osbourne without the mumbling . . .

Now I can actually engage with life around me. I tend to be a bit dark in my humor but I am also quite optimistic about life in general and those traits have returned. My libido has returned (pray for Lisa, I’m being a bit of a pest, I fear) and I actually found myself laughing out loud. It helps that the ABC show Wipeout has returned for the summer. I’ve actually fallen out of a chair laughing at the wonderful folks who submit themselves to the task of navigating these obstacle courses. I grew up watching the Three Stooges and The Road Runner and this show is simply those precepts in the real world.

Lisa and I have taken some time off and it’s been a great time to rest and relax. We’ve stayed in a nice place in different surroundings. Had some great meals and generally just enjoyed each other’s company. It’s been wonderfully and very timely for me. I’ve read a half dozen books recently. I’ve caught up on dozens of bloggers that I follow and also spent time just vegging out.

I don’t really know how long I will continue on the Wellbutrin. The initial thought by my counselor was to give it a whirl for six to nine months and then wean myself off so we will see how that goes. Right now, I’m a big fan of it’s effects and how it’s enabled me to rise from the mire and reengage with my surroundings. I owe that to Lisa, to my friends, to my family and to my job.

More to come . . .

FOOTNOTE: There is a popular quote attributed to Benjamin Franklin “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy”.

Sadly, there is no evidence that Ben was a big fan of beer. However, Ben was a big fan of wine and in a 1779 letter to Andre Morellet, a French economist he did say, “Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards; there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine; a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy”.

You really do need to read the entire letter so click HERE if you want to go and check it out for yourself.

Still, given Ben’s good sense and appreciation for the basic and fundamental issues of life I feel justified in abridging his quote and modifying it so.

“Beer (and Wellbutrin) is proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy”

What, Me Worry?

For a specific segment of the population that short phrase speaks volumes. For the rest of you, click HERE to find the source.

This phrase has, for most of my life been a motto that I take seriously (pun intended). There are so many things that we have no control over in our lives that it just seemed prudent to accept that it would be better to determine what I should spend my time worrying about and let the rest fall to their own place.

Generally speaking, up until a few months ago, this philosophy worked quite well. Sure, there were times when I worried about certain things and there were times where I felt the cold clamp of depression  . . . but I always worked my way out of those times in a generally acceptable manner.

Life has it’s ebbs and flows, it’s peaks and valleys and what I’ve experienced is well within any normal standards of what your average guy deals with. In fact, I’ve probably had a lot less to worry about than most folks. I’ve been incredibly blessed with good health, a job, friends, family, a roof over my head, food on the table a wife who loves me for who I am . . . seriously folks, when it comes to anguish and whatnot, I lead a “What, Me Worry?” life.

But then . .  .

On April 1st 2009, things came to a crescendo. That it happened on April Fool’s day is just a cruel trick of timing. That morning, I woke up with the very ordinary feeling that my Dad was in the present. What’s not so ordinary is that my Dad died on February 22nd, 2000 . . .

This wasn’t one of those situations where you have a dream that your loved one is alive because even with a dream you understand that it was a dream. This was a scenario that transcended awareness of a dream in which you know something is not right. It was crushing when I finally began the process of realizing that something which I knew to be certain (that my Dad was in the present with me) was not so.

In essence, my Dad died all over again . . . and I began to grieve all over again.

On April 6th I was in a meeting. It was a Monday morning and one of my co-workers was telling a story about some situation that had upset him and how his small daughter came over to him and gently patted his cheek and said “It will be ok Daddy”.

Lisa and I don’t have children and we’ve never had regrets for not making the leap into parenthood. In some cases, I think we would have been great parents, but generally speaking it’s not something we ever had our heart’s desire set upon and we are both comfortable with that choice. We’ve talked about it at length at different points in our marriage (both of them) and we harbor no ill will towards the other for our choices. In fact, we both feel the same way about our decision.

But  . . .  as I listened to my friend describe the tenderness of his daughter towards him I realized that I had to fully reconcile that I would never experience such a relationship with a child, or a grandchild. It was something that I had to fully “put to bed”. I’m not sad about the choice I’ve made or even have second thoughts but I’ve never had to close the door on being a Father or Grandfather . . . . and I began to grieve over that closure.

During all this time, my Mom (who will be 87 this October) was getting more and more frail and less able to care for herself. I have two wonderful siblings who have opened up their homes and share the responsibility for providing a home to her. My mom splits her time with my sister in North Richland Hills and my brother in Denison. Their homes are both one level which makes it possible for my Mom to stay with them . . . our house is two levels and all the bedrooms are on the second level with stairs that make it very difficult for Mom to stay with us for any length of time. In fact, these days, if my Mom is at my Sister’s and they need to be out of town for the weekend, instead of Mom staying with us I go over to my sisters and spend the time there.

But a couple of weeks ago she fell at my sisters. She’s fallen before and has the bruises and scars to prove it. She is (by her own description) a tough old bird. She survived colon cancer over 42 years ago (resulting in colostomy), multiple heart bypass surgery 32 years ago and a fall that broke both of her elbows (they had to replace one entire elbow and half of the other) about 10 years ago. In addition, all three of her children had polio in the late 40’s (my oldest sister died, my other sister was disabled in her right arm and my brother had only minor issues) and of course my dad died of congestive heart failure a little over nine years ago.

The week after she fell at my sisters, she was at my brothers. I had the strangest impulse to call her on a Monday morning and my sister in law answered her cell phone in a bit of panic. Mom had fallen again in the bathroom and she had just got her back to bed. I spoke with Mom on the phone and she didn’t sound good.

I drove to Denison and spent part of the day with Mom. We think she may have taken an extra nighttime sleep aid and was just really groggy when she got up in the morning . . . that’s what we hope anyway. Still, watching your mom laying in bed struggling to make a coherent sentence is sobering. She’s been ok since then but she’s ready to go and be with Dad. I know the grieving for that time will come and I grieve a bit now for her loss of mobility and self. She’s still a “tough old bird”  . . . for now.

Did I mention that my wife’s brother was recently divorced after 30 years of marriage? All the turmoil has been tough on him and almost as tough on Lisa. She and her brother (I’m very close to him and we go back even from before I met Lisa) are as close as two peas in a pod. The pain he has felt has taken a toll on Lisa. I’ve struggled with how to be a good partner, husband and friend to her as she deals with her own feelings about all this.

And then about a year and a half ago I changed careers - drastically. I left a VP of Operations position with a company that I had been with for eighteen years to go to work for my church. It’s a great job and one that I’ve been preparing for all of my life and I wouldn’t trade it for anything . . . but #$%^&! it’s a lot different than what I’d grown accustomed to for the last thirty years.

So, between grieving all over again for my dad, grieving for the first time over parenting choices, my Mom’s declining health issues, my wife’s struggle with her brother’s divorce and my job change . . . I began a spiral that I could not correct.

One of the amazing things about my new job is that I work with people who care enough about me to call me out when they see a change. My boss (who is also a good friend) took me aside one day and bluntly asked “what’s the matter?”. He had noticed, other co-workers had noticed and they loved me enough to not sweep it under the rug and carry on as if nothing was the matter.

Another amazing thing about this job is that my employer provides counseling to staff free of charge. You might think that would be a matter of course for a church but this counseling is done by a third party, off site and is anonymous. The counselor notifies one person her at the church of how many visits were made by staff in any one month and then he’s reimbursed accordingly.

So, I had a visit with the Doctor and after  going into much more detail than I’ve shared here, he concluded that there had been a “perfect storm” of issues and that I was experiencing moderate depression. He offered to continue the meetings and also offered the option of a prescription for an anti-depressant if I was open to the suggestion.

Have you ever seen the iPhone commercials where the narrator describes a certain situation and then declares “there’s an app for that”. That’s pretty much how my generation grew up with drugs. If there was a problem then “there’s a drug for that”. Some folks have issues with that and would rather explore any option possible before they run down the path to prescription drugs. I, however, see things a bit differently.

Last year about this time I had surgery on my right hand. Several months later I was having a terrible time with my right elbow. It seems that I had developed tennis elbow as a result of  favoring my hand and arm as the scar healed. I had multiple physical therapy sessions on my right arm and elbow but what finally did the trick was a steroid shot right into my elbow. All the manipulation in the world wouldn’t solve the problem. It took a little bit of medicine directly into the elbow to jump start the healing process. It worked quite nicely.

So, today I visited my family doctor, reviewed the situation with her and walked out  with a month’s worth of samples of something that is supposed to jack with my serotonin levels. I should see some improvement within a week or less and I will update my doctor when I go back in four weeks for my annual physical. The thinking now is that I will be on the anti-depressants for six to nine months till I work my way back to square one.

I’m wrestling a little bit with sharing all this personal information online in a public forum . . . but what the &%$#. If I’m ever going to err on one side or the other, I’m going to choose transparency, authenticity and “real” over the other choices. I don’t fault others for not making that choice. I mean, seriously that’s why it’s called “choice”.

I will post more as the weeks go by. It actually helps me to tell this story. It’s one way that I process the intangible and abstract and give it form and space. At some point I can go back to my motto, “What, Me Worry?”

More to come . . .

Well duh . . .

So Lisa and I were right all along . . . I'm just saying (like I've been saying since the earth began to cool, if parents want to know about how their kids are doing ask someone who's not their parent. Better yet, ask someone who doesn't have kids.

On second thought, don't ask someone who doesn't have kids because that would mean you would be asking Lisa or I and we are far too sensitive, caring and gracious to give you the honest answer that you really deserve. Well, that and if we did, we would have NO friends what so ever - come to think of it we really don't have that many close friends and the ones we do,  never talk about their kids except in the most superficial way - well at least until the kids are grown and the parents have finally begun to shed some of the scales from their eyes and actually begin to see their own children the way every one else see's them.

Of course none of this applies to any of my friends, co-workers, Lisa's friends, co-workers, clients or anyone who we've ever met in the last 30+ years. If you think it does apply to you I can assure you that you are horribly mistaken and in fact you are one of the very few exceptionally awesome parents that Lisa and I have ever met and are so in tune with your children that it's kind of spooky. You should get an award actually.

To be honest I was just talking to Lisa the other day about who I should send the nomination for Parents of The Year Award to. So you should read the article below and sit back and thank your precious Lord for blessing you with above average parenting skills and such gifted children :)

************************
From the January 23rd 2009 New York Times.

How Well Do You Know Your Children?

By Lisa Belkin

Do you know your children? Really know them?

Research out this month hints that you don’t.

A study released in the Journal of Nutrition and Behavior Education looks at parents’ perceptions of their children’s eating and exercise habits – perceptions that turn out to be wrong much of the time. These researchers were looking specifically at nutrition, the I think the broader point applies to the whole of parenting – that there is often a mismatch between what we see when we look at our children, and what is really there.

Researchers at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville and at Brown University surveyed 172 parents about the exercise and nutrition habits of their children. Those with preschoolers reported that their children ate healthy food and exercised regularly, and those with middle schoolers reported that theirs did not. But when examined more closely, there was very little difference in eating and exercise between the two age groups.

Wrote Hollie A. Raynor, a University of Tennessee nutritionist and an author of the report: “Although preschool-aged children engaged in more healthful behaviors according to parent recall, the preschool-aged children only met 2 dietary recommendations, fruit and low-fat dairy intake. All other parent-reported eating and leisure-time activity patterns did not meet current recommendations.”

In other words, we think we are doing well by them, we want to do well by them, but we are blinded by the emotional connection that makes us want so much in the first place. We, who know our children best, are sometimes too close for a focussed view. Even while we think we are paying meticulous attention (and heaven knows, we have all seen parents who are smothering with their attention) we still miss what is right in front of us.

Within my own circle of family and friends, and in emails lately from readers, I hear story after story: parents who didn’t notice a six year old’s pattern of sloppiness and frustration until a first grade teacher suggested occupational therapy; parents who didn’t hear their seven year old’s lisp until the child himself pointed it out and asked for help; a family who hadn’t a hint that their middle daughter was throwing up after every meal until the plumber explained that’s why the pipes had corroded; an ADHD diagnosis after years of parents telling their child she could do better if she’d just put her mind to it.

In part, perhaps, all this is because we really don’t know what we are doing. We are parents, not doctors or therapists (though one of the above tales happened to a doctor and another to a therapist…) A study out of the University of Rochester last year screened the parents of more than 10,000 9-month-old babies, asking such questions as “Should a 1-year-old child be able to tell right from wrong?” and “Should a 1-year-old child be ready to begin toilet-training?” A third of parents got fewer than five of the 11 questions correct, meaning they had what researchers labeled a “low level knowledge of typical infant development.” (The answer to both those questions is no, by the way.)

Another reason we don’t see what is in front of us, I think, is that we don’t want it to be true. (Which is one reason why doctors and therapists are not supposed to treat their own children.) We’re in denial, pure and simple. And a more complicated corollary to that is “it can’t be true, because if it were, as his parent, I would know.”

One of my most haunting memories is of back when my older son was seven and he hurt his leg on the playground. It wasn’t swollen or discolored. I full out accused him of milking a minor hurt. I even insisted that he walk on it. When I took him for x-rays 24 hours later, the films showed a god-awful fracture. Looking at them I was flattened by one thought: If he was in that much pain, how come I didn’t feel it?

The Bill & Lisa Story parts 1, 2 and 3

Here's the three videos that were played at the beginning of the messages at Irving Bible Church.

Part one played on July 6th
Part two on July 13th 
Part three on July 20th

You can also go to www.irvingbible.org and click on the little "headphone" icon in the bottom right hand corner of the screen and listen to the entire messages. Or you can click HERE too and start with the message from July 6th.

Part One - Bill's story

Part Two - Lisa's story

Part Three - The Reunion story

A Baptist, a Presbyterian and a [fill in the blank] go into a bar . . .

So, I'm visiting my mother-in-law with my wife. She's turning 80 years old this week (my mother-in-law, not my wife) and all four of her children have come to town the weekend before the big event to celebrate the 80th anniversary of her arrival to this world.

It's a good time with lots of food, cake and whatnot.

Our flight back to Dallas doesn't leave till Sunday afternoon and it's customary when visiting my mother-in-law to go to church on Sunday morning. Now, the church she goes to is the same Southern Baptist church that we attended when Lisa and I still lived in Chattanooga. It's a big one with huge columns out front and a grand steeple with a carillon that rings on the hour. It's a beautiful church with a wonderful congregation and lots of very devoted followers of Christ . . . but it's not really our cup of tea. There's absolutely nothing wrong with it all - it's just a matter of style really.

The church that Craig, (my brother-in-law and Lisa's brother) attends is a Presbyterian church that is equally not our cup of tea stylistically - but, since we've never visited with him, Lisa and I decide that this will be the time. The sanctuary is new but it's classic in style. The layout is the traditional cathedral style in the form of a cross . . . with very high ceilings and wooden beams replacing the ancient stone flying buttress supporting the roof from the inside.

The ministers wear robes and the service is quite formal in nature - even more so than the traditional Southern Baptist at the other place and both are way different on so many levels than the place we worship, Irving Bible Church.

Never the less, we dress up a bit (for IBC - it would be very dressed up) and head over to the Presbyterian Church. We find Craig and take our place in the pew. Let me be very clear, I do not attend Church to be entertained. I do not attend Church to make me feel better about my life. I do not attend Church because I think that God will not love me (or love me less) if I don't.

I attend Church to worship the risen Savior (in as many ways as possible), honor God, be challenged and to learn something I didn't know before.

When I find myself in a church that isn't my cup of tea because of the format, the songs, the setting or the style, I always consider how God sees that church. How does He hear their voice? How does He see their worship?

When the congregation at this Presbyterian Church responds in unison to a preprinted prayer that is read from the handout - what He hears is not a dry, by the numbers utterance of a dead congregation, He hears 500 voices in unison offering praise and worship. To Him it probably looks like a tiny flash of light amongst the millions points of light under His dominion.

I have this vision of God hearing each congregation, each voice amongst the cacophony of voices. As the sunrise moves around the world each Sunday He hears the wave of voices rolling across the face of the earth as believers gather to sing praises and worship.

How arrogant to think less of a group of believers because they sing different, have a different order of worship or have a different format than I? How disrespectful of God's creativity to think that "my" way is best? How narrow minded to dismiss a body of believers who have gathered to honor God with their time, their resources and their talent?

Dear reader - if you do attend a church regularly, do yourself a favor. Find a church that you would probably never give a thought to . . . and give it a whirl - especially if it's a denomination different than they one you are currently attending.

Go and listen to what's said. Go and listen to what is sung. Go and listen to how praise is offered. Try and listen as you would imagine God listening. Set aside what you've become accustomed too. There is a vast world out their beyond the walls and hedges you've built around your little enclave.

God is the author of diversity and creativity - don't deny yourself the joy of experiencing all of His creation. If it was good enough for Him to create it - it's good enough for you to embrace it.

All right! Two fell!

There’s a Gary Larson cartoon that Lisa and I often quote.It’s a single panel cartoon of two snakes standing in front of a vending machine. The snakes are “standing” in the sense that they are raised up the way you see cobra’s just before they strike. The vending machine is one  of those with a glass front showing all the candy bars and chips in little cubicles arranged on shelves

After you drop your money in the slot and enter the “address” of the specific treat that you want (something like E3 for instance) - I spiral coil turns one revolution and the item falls to the bottom. You then reach thru a little panel and get your candy bar.

It’s an efficient way to sell candy bars and whatnot . . . and provide a little floor show as you watch the coil spin, the item slips forward and then drops into the tray at the bottom. Not only is the snack satisfying -  the whole process is entertaining with a touch of trepidation in that you hope that your chosen snack will not get hung up on the edge of the shelf and your sugar jones will go unrequited . . . or best case the machine screws up and you get a double drop of your chosen snack

So the snakes are standing in front of a vending machine that dispenses dead rats and they are looking at each other with glee in the eyes and the caption is . . .

“All right! Two fell!”

Lisa and I have been using that phrase for years whenever we get a double blessing or an unexpected blessing.

Starting today, January first of 2008, I now have two jobs. One is my old job redefined. I’ve worked at TWL for a little over eighteen years in various roles and my title now is VP of Operations. It’s a very good job with a great boss and some wonderful people working for me - and some wonderful peers that I work with too.

The other job is my new one at IBC (Irving Bible Church). The official title is Communications Director (or maybe Director of Communications - I don’t really know) but the real title is Storyteller . . .

Ever since I was in High School I’ve wanted to tell stories. I started out telling stories with photographs. When I got to college I added sound and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since. I’ve always enjoyed writing and when I discovered blogs I’ve used it to continue the process. When folks ask why I got into this business I tell them that "I wanted to tell stories with pictures and sound." Maybe it's not the most eloquent way to say it - but it's accurate and concise - and I'm not always know for being concise :)

For the last three or four years I’ve been working with IBC to help tell their story and it seems that it’s now become a full time job. I will still continue with TWL but with a few changes. In a lot of ways it’s just a flip flop of time spent. Instead of the major consumer of my time being TWL and the minor consumer being IBC - those roles are reversed now.

There’s been a bit of skepticism of how this will work out. I’ve reorganized the groups that report to me at TWL and reassigned a couple of groups to other folks. I’ve also taken a substantial pay cut at TWL to reflect the fact that I will spend far less time in the office. I’ve been very clear at every step along the way with IBC that I plan on continuing a work relationship (with less obligation and fewer commitments) with TWL . . . if they would have me.

In this age of instant communication via smart-phones, text messaging, call forwarding and whatnot - I’m not real concerned about loosing touch with either group.

I’m also not real clear on this concept of a 40 hour work week. It’s my upbringing I suppose. My Dad worked in the pipeline construction business his entire adult life and 80+ hour work weeks were the norm until the job was done.

I see Lisa, a small business owner, working before she goes in, after she comes home and on the weekends. The “allure” of having your own business fades quickly when you realize that you “are” the business and it will not get done unless you do it - or ask your loving, patient spouse to do it :)

We do have our R&R and without it . . . well, it’s not a pretty sight. There is a balance to our work lives, emotional lives and spiritual lives. It’s not the most common way of balancing those three but we actually do a pretty decent job. Not having kids (or grandkids) comes into play too. I hear they really take up a lot of your time :)

So I get to continue my work at TWL as it moves forward into it’s new year AND explore what my new job holds for me at IBC. It will be a challenge to make it all work out but I’m confident it will. There’s lots of unkowns . . . but when isn’t there? I do know that God will be with me however it goes and I’m looking forward to this next chapter in my life.

BTW, the “short” job description of what I will be doing at IBC goes something like this. "I don’t have to change the world - just tell the story of those who are."

The caption on the carton says it best about how I feel  . . .“All right! Two fell!”

Do the math

Lisa and I will be celebrating the sixth anniversary of our second wedding ceremony next month on December 29th. I always get a kick out of introducing Lisa as my first wife, my ex-wife and my second wife

I was just thinking of numbers and decided to jot them down.

We’ve known each other since either August 12th or 19th of 1974. We started dating on December 15th of 1975 and we married four years later on December 15th of 1979.

We separated in February of 1997 and we were divorced on April 15th of 1998.

So that comes to about one year and four months of just being friends, four years of dating, seventeen years of marriage, one year and two months of separation, three years, eight months and fourteen days of divorce . . . and coming up on six years of marriage the second time around in just a little over a month

Add all that up and it makes thirty three years and four months that we’ve known each other.

She still amazes me with her beauty, her charm and her laugh. Each day she becomes even more precious to me. I’m constantly learning new things about this woman that I’ve known for over thirty three years.

Mostly that’s because she’s allowing God to change her life every day.

I’m a very lucky man . . .

Was “Teenage Wasteland” . . . Now “Vast Adult Wasteland”

So I was at this odd little conference called “Return of the Tentmaker” a while ago. As part of the first speakers presentation we were asked to create a document that represented the significant events of our life . . . up to that point.

It could be a list of things, a narrative . . . or even an actual map. I came up with something that was a cross between a map from The Lord of The Rings and one of those Family Circus comics in which little Billy goes from point A to point B but takes the most circuitous route possible.

There was the adolescent era, the college age, the work and marriage period, the dark times of separation and divorce and the blessed period of reconciliation and various other spots on the map represented by mountains, valleys, rivers and whatnot.

In the middle, occupying the majority of the page was an area called “Vast Adult Wasteland”. This, of course, is a play on two phrases. The first is “Teenage Wasteland”, a line from The Who song “Baba O’Riley” and the second, “Vast Wasteland” is from a speech given to the National Association of Broadcasters in 1961 by Newton Minnow, the then Chairman of the FCC.

The former references waste in general (not necessarily getting “wasted” per se) and the later refers to what one would observe if they were to sit in front of their TV all day with their eyes glued to the screen.

I’ve seen The Who three or four times now and they play the song at every concert. The crowd always drowns out the line “Don’t cry, don’t raise your eye, it’s only teenage wasteland” (sung by Pete Townsend). It’s a seminal moment in classic rock & roll musicology - an admission that things may pretty much suck but somehow, against all odds, and without looking back - life is about moving forward.

As for the wasteland that Mr Minnow refers to (the boat in Gilligan’s Island was named in his honor - you must remember, this speech was given in 1961 - a very long time before the glut of channels with a constant stream of programming around the clock and he actually refers to TV stations actually signing off the air at the end of their broadcast day . . . how quaint) he recognizes the potential lost, the resources squandered, the opportunity missed when “crap is king” (another line from another song about TV) becomes the mantra for our life.

I spent a bit too much time in this Vast Adult Wasteland. I set aside potential, I spent resources unwisely and I watched opportunity leave the station . . .

I’ve decided no more. I’ve decided that my potential is precious, my resources not my own to toss down a rat hole and that opportunity not taken is horribly irresponsible.

I’m not entirely sure how this turns out - but I don’t think it’s too terribly important that I know in advance. I’m pretty sure Sally didn’t know either as she took his hand . . .