Crank it Up

Most of you know I play music with a band for my church. I love doing it, it's amazing. Our former drummer for that band (they were called to another church in their community) and I began talking a few months back about getting together and playing some. He plays some in his new church, so we were talking of a little side project mostly because we really enjoyed playing together. We both have really talented players and singers in our bands at church, and considered doing something like a jam night, which may still happen, but eventually we decided to have just a "stripped down" rock and roll band. Two electric guitars, bass, and drums. Really simple, and maybe a little harder than church, well, harder at least for his church, Rivendell lets us freakin rock! What a fellowship! (spoken like Yakov Smirvov) So yesterday he calls me and says something to the effect of lets get together and play this week, and, hey, why not see if we can play for the youth at my church? I say sure, and this afternoon, he calls and says "we're on!". So tonight we scrambled up and practiced a bit for our "big show" : )

Here's the thing. Good rock music was just meant to be played loud. Now, Rivendell lets us crank it up, within context , especially in comparison to the levels that are common in most churches, but even that is short of concert-like volume. We practiced and will play at that volume tomorrow, and man, it was just amazing. There's a certain energy that comes when you can really crank it up, and I just can't wait to play.

I feel so blessed to get to enjoy music the way I do. Thanks in large part to Steve and Kyle and the folks at Rivendell I have been freed to love playing in ways I felt restrained just a few years back. And I love the different contexts I get to play in. At our gathering, I so enjoy listening to Cathy and Daniel use their gifts to lead alongside of me, and I love when Laura is with us and plays one of her beautiful original songs. It's the coming together of different styles and backgrounds and we make some great music. I also like our little four piece that's playing tomorrow night. We all share a very similar music background and have the same preferences for style. It's a very pure electric brand of rock.

Tonight as we practiced was just another reminder of even though I've had some tough disappointments career wise the last few months, God is so very gracious to me to allow me to do something I love. I remember sitting at the "Coldplay" concert back in February and just first of all being so completely blown away by them as a band, but just thinking how great it is to play music with a group of people you enjoy being with. I love you all, my bandmates, of both bands, and I hope it is as enjoyable for you as it is for me. I love you, my Heavenly Father, and I am so grateful to you for allowing me to offer up my meager musical offerings for Your glory.

Bittersweet Symphony

Ah, the big one year blowout birthday week (yeah, pretty much lasted a week) has concluded. He's now got more sh..oops, that was last post, stuff than any one year old should have. "So, how is your house decorated?" "Oh, we just love the new line from fischer price, and we have accessorized so nicely with baby einstein and the fabulous thomas the tank engine stuff. Yes, that's a new scent called 'poopouri', isn't it fresh?"

I lamented a couple of posts ago how quickly this has gone by. I've realized that parenting is alot like other parts of living in a fallen world, the sweeping movements of a bittersweet symphony. You love every moment they do something new, discover something, stand up, walk three steps, say "mama" or "dada" or "bye bye", but then you realize that every advance takes them closer to the time you have to let them go. It's like the gun went off at the starting line of the parenting journey, and you thought you were walking along, sleepless, then suddenly the "track" turned into a wild slide down the side of a mountain that keeps getting faster and you can't stop it. Ugh. But, there are the moments. The smiles, the deep laughter that only a child can have, the way he looks at you with the "that's my daddy" twinkle in his eye. I love this. It's just that its, well, a little bittersweet. Then I also consider my relationship with my parents now. They haven't really lost me. In fact, they are among my very best friends. It seems there are moments to enjoy and love and live in at every part of the parenting journey. Hmm, that was the sound of a deep breath, the sigh that only hope can bring.

Cover your ears

I got this forwarded on to me. For those who don't know me well, I can only tell you that my faith doesn't take offense at cuss words, and this freakin' killed me. For those who take offense, please feel free to not read, I'll post something of more, uh, substance, maybe even tonight. For those of you ruined like me, read on and enjoy.

THE MOST FUNCTIONAL ENGLISH WORD

Well, it's shit ... that's right, shit!
Shit may just be the most functional word in the English language.
Consider:
You can get shit-faced, Be shit-out-of-luck, Or have shit for brains.

With a little effort, you can get your shit together, find a place for your shit, or be asked to shit or get off the pot.

You can smoke shit, buy shit, sell shit, lose shit, find shit, forget shit,
and tell others to eat shit.

Some people know their shit, while others can't tell the difference
between shit and shineola.

There are lucky shits, dumb shits, and crazy shits. There is bull shit, horse shit, and chicken shit.

You can throw shit, sling shit, catch shit, shoot the shit, or duck when the shit hits the fan.

You can give a shit or serve shit on a shingle.

You can find yourself in deep shit or be happier than a pig in shit.

Some days are colder than shit, some days are hotter than shit,
and some days are just plain shitty.

Some music sounds like shit, things can look like shit, and there are times when you feel like shit.
You can have too much shit, not enough shit, the right shit, the wrong shit or a lot of weird shit.

You can carry shit, have a mountain of shit, or find yourself up shit creek without a paddle.

Sometimes everything you touch turns to shit and other times you fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like a rose.

When you stop to consider all the facts, it's the basic building block of the English language.

And remember, once you know your shit, you don't need to know anything else!!

You could pass this along, if you give a shit; or not do so if you don't give a shit!

Well, Shit, it's time for me to go. Just wanted you to know that I do give a shit and hope you had a nice day, without a bunch of shit. But, if you happened to catch a load of shit from some shit-head..... ...... Well, Shit Happens!!!

Oh how the year went by...

June 15th will mark one year since my wife went in for her weekly appointment (we were due July 11th) at about 1:00 pm and I carried my son to the nursery at about 5:45 pm. In between that time there was the "I think he's breached, you need to go over to the hospital" by her obgyn's midwife to the formal ultrasound to the wild run to the hospital from work by me (I was working for a lawn and landscape co. and I smelled like it) to the nurses "theres not enough fluid to turn him your gonna have your baby, today, in an hour" (yeah, an hour) to the emergency C section. Just your ordinary, normal day. Little warrior came home on Fathers Day, and much to everyone's surprise, visited ours and now his fellowship that night. This past year we have understood love in ways we never thought possible. There's a way you feel about your child that only a parent understands, it's impossible to explain. I don't say that to make those without kids feel left out or anything like that, it's just that I didn't get it until he was here, and during the pregnancy we had others try to explain the intensity of that love, but they always said something like "I can't explain it, you'll understand when he's here".

This past year we went to a pediatric heart specialist expecting him to tell us that the heart murmur is fairly common and he would live a normal life instead he said "this is how the heart works..." Numbness, fear, anger. "We need to do angioplasty to open up his pulmonary valve..." Panic, fear, shock. "Here's what you need to hear, we can fix this, he will live a normal life". Glimmer of hope, depression setting in. One week later he was hooked up to a million monitors in the neo natal emergency room, and then we did something I'll never forget in all my life. We carried him down to where they would be doing the procedure...and we handed him to the nurse, and she walked off with him. SHE WALKED OFF WITH HIM. The swinging doors closed behind her. Time was frozen. About two hours later, the doctor poked his head in the waiting room, but he was not in the hall alone, there, still stoned from anasthesia, was my wide eyed, large pupiled warrior. My eyes are teary even now as I type this remembering that moment. We respond to things different now. He's trying to walk, and he, being his fathers son, doesn't just fall down, he wrecks. Smacked his head on the tile a couple of days back, earned his first black knot. I hated it, hated that he hurt, but when you've pondered losing him, it's just not the same. Sometimes when he wakes up yelling at night, I feel like something beat me excessively, like being hungover without the party. Even in those moments which at times can be very frustrating when he won't let you put him back down, we still like being there to hold him, to hear him pierce my eardrums. I'd take that piercing cry with him over a silent night without him everytime, anytime.

Now one year later, he's changed a lot. Looks more like his mom than he did when he was born (very fortunate indeed). We've changed alot too. It's all good. His name is gealic. Caedmon Teague. Caedmon means warrior. Teague means poet. Warrior poet. He had to live up to his first name in ways we never imagined when the it was given to him. His mother is ready for the sensitive poet to show itself, and it does when pretty girls are around. He loves pretty women. First class flirt. Gets it from his mom. (The flirt part, not the love of pretty women part). Ok, just kidding. I love the aggressive warrior in him, the complete lack of fear. This is so early in our journey of parenting, and there is much laughter, tears, timeout, spanking, wrestling, etc., ahead. I hope it doesn't go as fast as this past year. He'll be graduating high school tomorrow if it does. I'm certain those of you with older ones will tell me in the comments that it goes at least that fast. Well don't. I don't want to hear it. Okay, fine, but say it gently.

Birthday Party Directions

For my fellowship who will attend my son's birthday, here are the directions.

Take the Broken Arrow Expressway, also known as HWY 51 EAST to the Lynn Lane Exit. Exit here and turn left, or North. Go to 51st street, and turn West, or left. Across from the schools is the Trinity Creek addition (we have family who live in here). Take the second available entrance, which 165th East Avenue. The road has several curves and you will come to a circle intersection. The Clubhouse and the pool are directly in front of you, come on in.

Hope to see you there.

Tombstones in Arkansas

Early in our marriage my wife's father was diagnosed with cancer. He was given 6 months to live. He lived six months, then left this world for the next. I' m thankful for the short time I was around him, and sad at how much fun it would have been for him to know our son. He was buried at my mother-in-law's family cemetary in the "mountains" outside of Clarksville, Arkansas. I have to put mountains in parenthesis because I've been to the Rockies in Colorado, and I can assure you these are tiny foothills in comparison. We make an annual trek to the cemetary around the first of June to lay fresh flowers on his grave as well as on my wife's grandpa and grandma's grave. Although there is a certain somberness about being there, the trip is always a very enjoyable time. This year as we wandered about the cemetary and looked at the tombstones, which, oddly enough, is part of the "tradition", there were a few that made me pause and think.

At the front part of the cemetary were multiple tombstones where the dates of birth and death ranged from 3 days to two months. Children. I felt a pain for those parents I never knew that I've never felt in my previous visits. When my little warrior woke up from his nap, I hugged him a little tighter, kissed him a few extra times, and just felt grateful. He had slept a grand total of just over five hours the night before, exhausting his mother and I, but I realized if he only gave me 2 minutes of sleep a night I'm blessed to have him.

The second tombstone was the one with my brother in laws name and birthdate on it. No date of death because he's still freakin' alive! And wandering around the cemetary with the rest of us, while his tombstone, all nice and pretty, is standing over there! I consider myself at peace with my mortality, but, dude, I've got no desire to see a tombstone with my name printed on it and a beautiful epitaph written. What if that's not such a bad thing, though? Maybe that kind of reminder would keep us from pursuing the trivial things we value so much, or at least put them in their proper place. Maybe if I was reminded of the eventual destination of this body I wouldn't be so concerned about what other people think of me and more concerned about doing what is right by my God and by those I love. Maybe the fact that this body won't last forever would help me not be so concerned about what tastes good and more concerned about how my eating habits will have a tombstone completely filled out long before I want it to.

The last two tombstones that impacted me were those belonging to a father and a son. Both lived decent lives at least in terms of length, over 80 years. Their wife/mother was buried between them, she lived a decently long life to, nearly made it to 100. Then I read something that seized my imagination. The father's said "Corporal" of the "Kentucky Infantry" Division 14 I believe. The son's said "Cavalry, Kentucky 8th Division". They fought together in the Civil War. I was able to put myself in both of their positions, as a father and as a son. The sense of pride, a bond of closeness already existing as father and son, now taken to a deeper and more complex level by the horrible realities of war. And the emotions they must have experienced! The father leading his infantry out first to establish the line. Did he often look back over his shoulder or out of the corner of his eye and see his son sitting on his horse with the Cavalry, and wonder if that was his last living look? What of the son watching dad disappear into the clouds of cannon smoke and into the screaming wounded and dieing soldiers on the field, barking orders as a corporal. Wondering if his compass, his coach, his friend, his mentor was walking away for the last time. How many passionate prayers were whispered on each others behalf? Then the line established, the rhythm of loading and firing the weapons are interrupted by the bugle sounding the charge, and the pounding hooves of horses as the cavalry mounts a charge. The father overwhelmed with contradictory feelings of pride and despondency, eyes shining with love and tears, as his son rides into danger. Responsibility and duty keeping him from doing what every father feels, placing himself as a human shield between his son and anything that would cause him pain. Finally, in either victory or defeat, the withdrawal from the field of battle begins. A father straining to see if he recognizes the empty horses that are led back. A sons eyes pacing up and down the weary soldiers as they march, looking for that familiar gait that belongs to his father. Duty fulfilled, all thoughts are on each other. Then, finally, eyes meet as the son slides off his horse and stands face to face with his father, relief, pride, a handshake that turns into a tight hug, then the retelling of the day. This scenario, countless times in countless battles. I stood there and heard the gunfire, smelt the smoke, listened to the screams. My heart pounded as I watched my dad walk off into mortal danger, and I felt angry and panicked as I watched my son ride past me maybe never to return. I loved them both more than ever, my father and my son.

So, what'd I do this weekend? Oh, not much, just a short visit to a cemetary.