Part Two, Kindness Crash-Course

Admit it. When I said last time that I'd be back in a couple of days to end the cliffhanger, you expected something more like a couple of weeks or months. I'll own it - go ahead and admit it.

So I had mentioned that I had two blogworthy adventure-experiences this past weekend. The second happened on our way back to Bryan from Houston. We'd made the first leg of the trip through Houston and were close to turning off 290 when Ewan made it clear he'd like a break from his carseat. So we stopped here (caution: the website contains background music). Frazier's was a nice place - lots of neat fountains, concrete, and such. After about 30 minutes, we decided it was time to get on the road if we were going to make it back to church in time (hint: a quick scroll down the page to see how long this post is ought to clue you in on whether or not we made it back in time... but hey, read it all - it's good stuff!).

We loaded up in the car, and were just about to pull out of the parking lot when I noticed a car with a flat right front tire, that had two ladies in the front seat. Thinking they were about to drive away not knowing they had a flat, I went up to point this out to them. Upon speaking with them, I realized a few things:

1) They were, in fact, aware of the tire, and had been since about noon. (The time now was about 3:05 p.m.)

2) There was actually a third person in the car, a little lady about 3 months old.

3) These poor ladies were in some deep doodoo.

There were the grandmother, the mom, and the baby. (I actually mistook the grandmother for the baby's mom - she couldn't have been older than her early forties - let's hope she took it as a compliment.) They had been calling all the tire places in Hempstead and having no luck finding a place open. The G-ma had called her sister, who lives in Round Rock, to come and help, but the sister was stuck in traffic in an accident in Elgin at the time I arrived on the scene (we later found out she had also gotten lost - which only makes sense... remember what kind of story I said this was?). So they were effectively stuck unless they could make it to Brenham, where the Wal-mart was still open and had a tire shop, unlike its counterpart in Hempstead.

But wait, there was another store in Hempstead, and the G-ma got on the phone and managed to speak to a person after having connected to the fax line all afternoon, and that person said that yes, they were open! If only we could get to the tire shop, they could get the tire and have the guys there put on the new one. If only. As it were, the ladies were without a lug wrench. At this point, my task seemed simple: find a lug wrench, put the spare tire on, and send the ladies on their way to the tire shop to get the new tire. Okay - first, find a lug wrench.

They didn't have one. Hm. Let me check my trunk. Oops, let me unpack it first. Nope, we don't have one either. Hm. Oh, maybe that guy - he's just sitting in his SUV watching his dogs and browsing his smartphone. Oh, you'd have to unpack your trunk? Never mind, wouldn't want to trouble you. What's that? Yes, I suppose I'm dog-friendly - I can watch them while you check for your lug wrench. Ah, you found one? Okay, I'll be right back - let me see if it works. (Time passes.) Nope, it didn't work. Thanks for trying, though. Oh, maybe those guys - they are leaving, but maybe since they're college guys they'll have a sense of service or adventure or something. Ah, so you are about to head out? But you wouldn't mind checking anyway? That'd be great. Oh, so you've now decided for the heading out. Okay. Thanks for the "good luck anyway", I'm sure that will come in handy at some point in the next couple of hours. Oh, maybe this Indian couple, they're just pulling up. (Awkward space where it's obvious I'm waiting for them to get out of their car so I can hit them up for something.) Sorry to bother you, but is there any chance you have a lug wrench? You'll check? Great, thanks! Aww, you don't have one? Well, thanks for looking. Well, hm. I could try the store owner. (I try the store owner. He left it in his trailer at home.) Hm.

Okay, new plan. If we can clear enough space in my car to take the G-ma up to the tire shop, we can ask them to borrow their lug wrench, go back to Frazier's, change the tire out for the spare, and drive back to the tire shop to put the tire on and return the lug wrench. So we make our way for the tire shop. Our conversation on the way:

G-ma: Thank you so much for helping. Do you know how many people we've talked to today who haven't done anything to help?

Me: No problem, glad I can help. (Then silence - I assumed this last one was a rhetorical question.)

G-ma: You're the 21st person.

Me: 21 people?

G-ma: That's right, and it's been really difficult with the baby - we're trying to keep her from getting too hot in that car.

Me: Yeah, and it's hot inside Frazier's (they only had A/C in the bathrooms). What's the baby's name?

G-ma: Serenity.

Me: That's a beautiful name.

G-ma: Thank you.

Me: So I don't know exactly where I'm driving - you said to go 290 towards Houston? I think I should take this first exit here.

After a couple more lucky turns on my part, we spotted the tire shop. I get out of the car, walk up to the door, and it doesn't budge. I check the sign in the window: OPEN, COME IN. I try the door again, and it continues not to budge. I walk around to the garage side. The gate is closed. As G-ma and I are starting to feel this sinking feeling in the pit of our stomachs, a truck pulls up with a guy making signs to us that they are closed. He gets out of the car and confirms this. G-ma, as you might imagine, is not going to concede so easily. Without flipping her lid, she begins passionately explaining how the arc of her day has led her to this particular point in time, shortly after the point in time when she had called and they had said, "yes, we're open", and why at this particular point in time it was rather critical for her, her daughter, and her 3-month old granddaughter that they get the tire they need now, and not in a couple of days (if you'll remember last weekend, Monday was Labor Day - can you imagine how many places in Hempstead are likely to open on Labor Day? Neither can I.). To his credit, the guy agrees to take a look at the tire.

If you're hoping that this is the turning point in the story for the fortunes of the three ladies, I won't lead you on. They didn't have a tire, used or new, that would fit their car. Despite G-ma's attempt over the next 5 minutes to clarify this truth into some kind of communication gap, it remained a truth and not a misunderstanding. Hm.

We made our way back to Frazier's, though after making absolutely certain that all the tire shops on the main drag were also closed. By this time it was about 4:45. Having run out of options in Hempstead, and since her sister still wasn't close to arriving, I had to decide whether I would be able to continue helping by driving her to Brenham to pick up a tire at the Wal-mart there (which was probably going to be another hour round-trip), or if Kathryn and baby were going to be too worn out and sweaty and needing to get home before they reached their limit.

Unfortunately for the ladies, once I got back and talked to Kathryn, we decided we couldn't push Ewan past the couple of hours we'd already done. He'd gone for way too long without a nap, and the only place we could effectively make that happen for him would be at home. Upon talking with the ladies, I asked if there was some place in town I could take them where they could be in the cool air and not stuck in a car that wasn't cool enough. They said the Wal-mart would actually be a good place, since they were running out of diapers. We had a bunch of diapers with us that were the next size up from what they used, but I handed a few over just in case.

So I drove the ladies in town and dropped them off at the Wal-mart. They were grateful for the help we were able to give, but we were still sad that after all that, leaving them at Wal-mart was the best we could do.

If you think that's rough, I haven't even mentioned what Kathryn experienced during all that time. For a couple of hours, she'd been sitting on a bench outside of the store, with a baby in her arms, and next to a pile of some of our luggage (which we'd removed from the car to make room to transport the ladies-in-distress). Wanna take a wild guess how many people spoke to her and asked her if she was okay? For several of them, this involved walking by her twice - on their way in and out of the store. It included a couple with crosses hung around their necks, large enough for Kathryn to spot while they were still in the parking lot - they managed to look away at the last second and pass right by Kathryn. At least the woman from the Indian couple smiled at Kathryn as she went by.

That's right, in two hours, noone checked to make sure Kathryn and Ewan were okay. Maybe she didn't look distressed enough, I don't know. But I can't imagine the 2 women with the baby didn't at least look distressed enough for 20 people to do more than offer their sympathy.

It still amazes and troubles me. Let's hope they eventually got the help they needed.

A crash course (or two) in kindness

Adventures often seem to happen when you least expect them. Maybe that's part of what makes adventures what they are - but I don't think I've always known that about them. I would have probably thought adventures were 'started out on' or 'begun' in some intentional kind of way. Not mine. They tend to have humble beginnings in a subtle "oh, crap" moment, then gain a bit of momentum into the realization that "this is more of a mess than I first realized", moving right into the 'heat of battle' where there's no time for realizations, before finding some kind of resolution and a feeling somewhere between "that was awesome!" and "I had hoped never to have to learn that, but oh well".

As it were, I found myself on two such adventures just this past weekend. And both situations, it turns out, became studies in kindness: humanity at its best, and humanity preoccupied.

Our first adventure began Friday night, upon arriving in Houston at my sister's house for my mom's nth birthday party, to be held the following night (the party was to be Oscar Night themed, and Kathryn had gone to great lengths to make a Hollywood star for my mom): that was when we realized we'd left the star at home. We made an email to our friends and posted on Facebook, hoping there was a slight chance someone would be coming from Bryan to Houston Saturday - no luck.

We discussed our options. Although the four hours it would take to go back home and get it weren't feasible, we definitely both thought about it. There was the possibility of just making a new one, but we had a lot of preparations to make for the party that night. I thought, I'll try a last ditch effort and post on myBCS to see if we can connect with someone that way. So I did, but by this time, it's Saturday morning.

Fast-forward two hours - I've had two calls from people reading my post online, who are coming to Houston. The first one was coming with her family to the Houston Children's Museum, near downtown - which wasn't super close to Pasadena, but was certainly doable. This thing was going to turn out okay! The lady who called could drop by our house, and our housemate Sarah could put it out on the porch, then they'd pick it up, make their way to Houston, and finally I would meet them at the museum.

And that's what happened! People who we'd never met before made space in their busy schedule to help out someone in need. Think about your family dynamic when you are packing for a trip, or getting ready to head out the door. For most of us, it's probably not the time to think about what else we can fit in, unless it's our own stuff, and it's critical stuff that has to happen before leaving town for a few days (pick up prescriptions, take out the trash, etc.). But someone else's stuff? Bravo to our neighbor who was sensitive enough to life's unpredictability that she was ready and able to help a person in need. There's a term for that - it's called spiritual discipline. That, and it's also called kindness.

I wish I could say our other story painted as bright a picture of humanity at its best, looking out for the needs of others. In one sense it does, but it's at the same time more saddening. Don't get me wrong, it's a good story, but it's got its sad moments.

I'll try to get on here and tell it in the next couple of days. For now, I bid you good night. May you be blessed to give and receive kindness.

The View from Six and a Half Weeks

I've been leaving it up to this lovely lady to be the prolific blogger of the family for the past couple of months, but I think I'd be remiss to go much longer before sharing the inside scoop on some of what's been going on in my brain as we've begun experiencing the joy of parenthood for the first time.

I'll start shortly after where I left off last time. I'll start with...

Labor

It's actually a good place to start, because I don't think Kathryn mentioned much about it in her blog. Can't say I blame her, it was hard. Correction - labor was crazy. We did the Bradley method and took the class, so we were prepared, but we sure weren't ready, if there's a makeable distinction there. I think God's set birth up so that you're never quite ready - he's wrapped up the risks and wonders so tightly in there that new parents can't help but have an experience that will forever be deeply imprinted on their brains and hearts.

To spare you too much unpleasant detail, I'll just give you a representative sampling of some of what was going through my head throughout it all, in some semblance of chronological order:

-"I sure hope she lets me sleep a little longer, I've sure got a massive headache."

-"She says this is it, and she's in way more pain than Saturday... hmm, this is probably it."

-"I hate running around the house so much in the 2 minute window we have between the end of one contraction and the start of another, but I've got to get all this stuff ready."

-"All she wants me to do is rub this one spot on her back. What about this part of her back, doesn't it... okay, okay, I'm rubbing that spot!"

-"The timing's there, the intensity's there - let's get to the hospital."

-"You want me to park the car now?"

-"So is this our nurse? Couldn't we find one a little friendlier?"

-"6 cm - that's it?"

-time passes

-"6 cm still? Okay doc, if you have to break the water artificially to help us, I suppose that's what should happen."

-"Should Kathryn really be running around the room right now? Maybe this is transition."

-"Wow, her back has been hurting non-stop. This is a mess."

-"I'm sure glad my headache is gone, otherwise I'd be a mess."

-"Okay, good - 9 cm. After how hard that last hour's been, I don't think she could take much more of this."

-"Wow, she wants to push. Is this happening already?"

-"Damn it, nurse, stop playing with your scanner gun and check her again!"

-"Yes, she wants to be checked, just like I told you three times already."

-"It's pushing time!"

-"Still pushing!"

-"Lots of pushing..."

-"Poor Kathryn, she's working so hard and baby's still not that close."

-"We can see a little of the head!"

-"Hmm, we've been seeing that much of his head for a while now."

-"Good grief, this is so much blood. How did none of those horrible videos show this much blood?"

-"Doc's cutting her. This sucks. But I guess it's that or something much worse."

-"You can do it Kathryn, you're so close!"

-"Oh my gosh, there he is!"

-"Sorry, let me try cutting that cord again, it's so rubbery!"

-"Wow, Ewan calmed down just from my voice!"

-"Ah, finally Kathryn gets to hold him. Too bad she can only see a little out of one eye."

The first night

It was wonderful holding Ewan the first day. At the end of it, after a good bit of passing him around to all the grandparents, uncles and aunts of various generations, Kathryn and I were afforded time alone in the recovery room, just us and our baby. Having gotten a caffeine boost late in the afternoon, I was able to hold him while Kathryn caught some well-earned shuteye. Joseph wept. I just sat there and basked in the feeling that the Lord was just washing away old dust and dirt and making a new start. Not just was Ewan experiencing new life, I was a full recipient of it, too. And it was one of those rare moments in life where my feeling of it initiated my knowing of it. Usually I let my brain or my body take the lead, but this time it was my heart. So I cried. It was wonderful.

Who's afraid of a little poop?

Everywhere?

Not I, at least, not any longer. Despite the very large number of our friends with young children, and our regular rotation through the church nursery, I had managed to remain a novice at diapering. I wouldn't claim the title of expert just yet, but I've got the hang of it for sure now. And I have most certainly been initiated into the ranks of those who can say, with absolute candor: who's afraid of a little poop? Or: oh that? just a little poop, no big deal - it'll wash out. At times I'm even a little excited about poop, but just at the times when poop means Ewan's tummy is no longer hurting him.

Kathryn loves her Ewan

This might be one of the greatest joys of new parenthood, seeing my wife fall in love with our baby. It's both surprising and not at all surprising at the same time to me. I had every confidence in her that she'd be a wonderful mommy, but I really had no idea what she would look like in that role. She consistently remarks about how cute he is, and the sincerity of her affection isn't mitigated by her fatigue or headaches. She's head over heels, and what can I say? She's got great taste in babies.

It's gradual

Seeing as my last blog post was about anticipating how much life would change and how far upside-down my world would flip, what strikes me more about this period in my life is less how different it feels than how gradual monumental change can be. Sure, some monumental change can happen overnight, but surprisingly, having a baby doesn't feel that way to me. We've been eased into it to a large degree. It's when I start thinking about what having my own son will ultimately mean that I get overwhelmed at the thought of all that has to happen and how unready I am for all of it. But he can't read yet - so I don't have to worry about schooling. He can't run yet, so I don't have to worry about sporting. He hasn't even really realized he has arms yet - so we've got time. I'm sure some personalities are such that some people would use this time to figure all that stuff out, but for now, it just seems right to take one thing at a time and make the most of this sweet time in Ewan's life.

Even the disciples who swiftly and suddenly left their day-jobs and everything else that was their security at the time still had to follow Jesus the same way anyone else would - by putting one foot in front of the other. Not to put the how of following him on some kind of pedestal above the why or the who, but sometimes it's God's grace to provide me the realization that all that's going to be required of me isn't necessarily required of me all at once. And not that I'm holding anything back from him about how I might follow him in raising my son, but he'll provide it when I need it.

More to come

I'll try not to be such a stranger, interwebs and loyal reader(s). Since this is by no means a near-complete representation of even the highlights of being a daddy so far, I'll leave it to another time to give you more of the "inside poop", as one book we've received lately refers to it. As I sign off, I'll leave you with a fatherly blessing, which you can interpret into your life as you can reasonably metaphorically justify:

May all your diapers be snug, and may all your pacifiers be clean.

The big push before the big push

I've noticed over the past eight months or so the way that expecting a baby can reorder life. I'd noticed it in other people before myself. In some men, though I wouldn't have called them irresponsible before, there's a marked difference in the seriousness with which they begin to approach life, and they really turn into good husbands and dads. As far as I can tell, at least - but it's hard to chock it all up to appearances when their kids are turning out so well, and I see firsthand (even if only once in a while) how they interact with their wives and kids. (In case you're the type of reader who likes to reread sentences in your head and make things sound weird, I should clarify that last sentence by saying that I don't personally know any polygamists.)

I've even thought some about my dad lately, and the good examples he sets. He would always drive the older (at times junkier) car and let mom drive the better or newer one. He would go out of his way to set up activities where he could spend quality time with me - including such things as building uneven bars for me in the backyard when I was in gymnastics, or pouring a concrete slab in the backyard and putting up a basketball goal when I was in basketball, or coaching my YMCA soccer team, though I'm pretty sure he'd never played soccer before, and I can only speculate as to whether he'd ever even seen a match prior to hanging the whistle around his neck. Probably, but who knows? He's also always gone to great lengths to engage me spiritually, and teach me the importance of knowing the Lord and making that central to everything that I do.

Is Kathryn's and my first child having the same impact on me? It's hard to tell - change for me usually tends to happen so gradually as to be difficult to notice on my own (maybe others can see it more clearly). All I know is that there hasn't been an abundance of time lately to sort all these things out. I would have strongly preferred to have all the major work on the house done months ago and spent most of 2010 reading and thinking deeply about the upcoming change to our family. As it stands now, cosmic diaphragms are starting to get sore for all the laughter at my naiveté for thinking that, amid all the things that we decided we needed to get done in the last several months, somehow we could have completed them in a more timely fashion than all the other do-it-ourselves endeavors.

Does God laugh at us the same way we laugh at children? Since I'm pretty much always laughing at them, I think I'm a more likely candidate than some to be a source of heavenly amusement.

I think this will be the perspective to help me be a good sport about achieving the following in the next few weeks:

-Planting six raised garden beds

-Installing window blinds throughout the house

-Finishing baseboards and trim

-Organizing a very unorganized house

-Finishing dining room table and chairs

-Having gutters installed (thankfully not something I'm doing myself)

-Refinancing the house

-Doing taxes

-Setting up a baby room

I'm sure there's plenty I'm leaving out, but that hits most of the big stuff. It's funny to think that a little baby could inspire such a frenzy of activity, that we begin to suddenly realign our whole lives in anticipation of something we know is coming, but isn't fully here yet in the sense that we know it will be soon enough. Yes, it's pretty obvious I'm going somewhere with this, which is here. Pretty amazing the way God has knit together all the kinds of new life he brings. It comes subtly, but surely (though, ask my wife, and she would say there's nothing especially subtle about the active little boy in her belly); hidden for now, but with signs, and the anticipation of a glorious breaking-in to the world. This is comforting for those of us who find difficulty living in the reality of a kingdom that we can't see by looking at life as it's packaged and sold by an eager world. Despite appearances to the contrary, I can say this with confidence, and in more ways than one:

He's coming. And I'll be ready.

Close Call on Crappy Coffee

A little over a week ago I nearly sold myself out for recognition and compensation. These guys were doing a jingle contest and I attempted to enter, only to be denied at the last minute by the contest website (yes, I waited until the last minute to try and submit my entry, but it was a very busy weekend).

That "SERIOUSLY?!" moment was quite a long time in the making. At first, I was hoping to do the contest with this guy, until we found out he makes too much of his money as a professional musician. Oh, well. Then I thought this guy would be fun to put a jingle together with, but it turned out to be not a good time for him. Oh, well. But all was not yet lost - we have no shortage of musical talent among our comrades, so I gave this guy a call, and he returned an enthused, "let's do it!" Only, schedules didn't jive, I think some illnesses got in the way (oh, well), and long story short, it's February 27th and I've got less than 48 hours to put my song and video together.

So I decide to go solo (well, sort of - I know I can talk my lovely wife into putting something amazing together for the video in a very short amount of time, and she certainly did, as you'll soon see). Oh, and this is the weekend that we're working on the house, have both sets of family in, have our first baby shower, and meet and chat with our future housemate for the first time - but no big deal, we'll squeeze in cutting a music video, somehow.

The deadline is 11:00 PM (midnight Eastern Standard Time), February 28th. Wouldn't you know, we get to about 9:00 PM and I'm still finalizing the song, no video shot yet. We get to about 10:00 and we're just getting the camera rolling. 10:30, Kathryn's editing the video on our low-end laptop (PSA: don't edit video on low-end laptops). 10:48, the video file is exporting. 10:53, I'm furiously typing on the first of three screens on the contest website, hoping to get my personal info and the video submitted in the next 7 minutes. 10:56, the website malfunctions and won't take me to the screen to upload my video.

This is a true story.

10:59 - 11:01ish, Kathryn pulls up the correct screen on the other computer, I throw the video on our jump drive like a mad man, rush to the other room, and get it uploading.

Shortly after that, we get a failure message from the website - they obviously shut it off at 11:00.

No problem, I'll just email the company, explain the issue their website caused, and hope that someone will have the consideration to let me send in my video still, somehow. Two days later I receive a CYA response, with the applicable portion of the contest rules copied and pasted into the email. I was actually impressed how many scenarios they'd thought of beforehand, that they did have actual control over, for which they found a way to excuse themselves of any liability or responsibility.

Oh, well. I suppose the bright side has two parts to it:

1) I don't have to endorse coffee I would never drink, and

2) I have a fun song and video to share with you today*!

*Video does not constitute an actual endorsement for any products it may seem to be actually endorsing. JoeZone and its affiliates are in no way responsible for any dissatisfaction, bad tastes in mouths, vomiting, regrets, wasting of a few dollars or more, or yuckiness of any sort that are in any way connected to you seeing the preceding video and finding yourself unable to control the urge to go out and purchase the coffee advertised in the video.

Hospitals and horse races

Nearly a week ago today, I almost lost my Dad. He frantically woke my mother up just after midnight Monday morning, barely able to breathe, much less get out the words for Mom to take him to the hospital.

6 days later, he's still in ICU, but has finally recovered to the point that they no longer keep him sedated (he threw a couple of nurses out the window for all the poking and prodding, I think), and they're steadily weaning him off the ventilator, which he was totally dependent on for breathing just days ago.

Our God is powerful and loving, and he has heard our cries.

Dad has self-published a couple of books now, and is working on a third. His published stuff has been about spirituality, and the third book he's working on is about the glory of God. He's been approaching the book from the perspective that he has a lot to learn before he feels like he can complete it and do it justice.

On a related note, one that my Dad will undoubtedly be thrilled that I've shared, I may have seen Dad truly weep for the first time in my life (and consequently the second, third, and so on). Some people would have probably kept better track of such a thing - all I can say is I don't remember any particularly weepy emotional outbursts (or even out-trickles) from my Dad. He said this, just after Kathryn and I (and baby) walked into the hospital ICU room Friday, and just before the waterworks began, "You are a beautiful sight. I forgot you were coming. You three are a beautiful sight." As you might suspect, Kathryn was also crying within seconds. While I only got misty, don't worry about me - if you're around me enough, you'll know that I cry fairly often during worship and Toy Story movies. I think, in addition to the humbling circumstances of being in the hospital (and ICU on top of that), the overwhelming display of love of so many family and friends really touched him. (We really packed out that room and the waiting room all week.) Dad, I think you've learned something about the glory of God. I think we all have.

We've also enjoyed some of your unfiltered, slightly drug-induced moments. I'll leave you all for now with something my Dad doesn't remember saying to my Aunt Lorna (his sister).

"I'm challenging you to a horse race. You and me. I bet you five dollars I can win."

We love you Dad. We trust the Lord for your recovery and restoration. And we all look forward to seeing you on that horse.

Tales of Two Victories

Howdy y'all! Glad you could make it back after over a month of shirking on my part. You might read the title and assume more of a continuity between the ensuing tales than actually exists. Really they're only connected in that they're both part of my life, and both tell-worthy. Oh, and I'd better go ahead and throw this up there:

WARNING: Graphic images of man-over-nature conquest. Not for viewing during meals. Strong caution to anyone with a soft spot for annoying flying pests.

I haven't said anything on here about our trip to Tennessee in early November. It was great. We stayed with these people, this guy and his wife, and this guy. Other than a night in Chattanooga, TN, we spent the rest of the nine-day trip with these good friends. So good to see them all.

It was while we were with the Cavins in Murfreesboro (yes, that word has too many r's) that I decided to venture out for a game of disc golf. Though it was a difficult course, I was enjoying myself until about hole 13. First, I threw a disc into some bushes. Not a game-wrecker in and of itself, mind you. So I go to retrieve it.

New paragraph for dramatic emphasis. While bending down and pushing a side a branch, something flies into my ear. Yes, you read that correctly, a bug assaulted my ear. So I did the logical thing and began to freak out. I cussed the bug. Didn't help. Hopped around while bug-cussing. Nothin'. Pulled on my ear and ear lobe, attempting to widen the hole so bugzilla could make its exit. (Verbal abuse strategy still being executed at this point.) Nada. I figure maybe I can dig the sucker out with my pinkie finger. Nope. And now my ear is hurting a little bit from jamming my finger in. Not to mention burning from my own creative brand of tongue-assault.

I should also point out that there is a periodic throbbing from the beast flapping some kind of wings. Magnified, of course, by the proximity to my eardrum. Kind of like when you stick earphones in and don't realize all your volume controls are maxed out. But way more maddening because THERE'S A FRICKIN' BUG IN YOUR EAR.

Now, by this point I've started to make some observations and hasty doomsday conclusions. One, my disc golf game is pretty much over, because my ear is starting to hurt, and for all I know, I've busted my ear drum by digging around in there. Second, if I have in fact busted my eardrum, I might have to go to a hospital and the rest of the vacation is ruined. If it's not perfectly obvious to you already, I was ill-equipped to handle a bug in the ear.

I make for the car. Hopping, fuming, and pulling my ear all the way in hopes of evicting my unwelcome tenant and salvaging my game. I don't think too many people witnessed the spectacle. I race for the Cavins' house. By this point I'm unsure whether the intermittent throbbing is a result of the bug refusing to give in to death by earwax or the whooshing of wind past my busted eardrum.

I finally arrive at Casa Cavin. I burst inside and, upon seeing Kathryn, tell her gravely that I need her help. She comes into the bathroom and I bring her up to speed on the situation at hand.

"There's a bug in my ear. Either it's still alive, or I busted my eardrum and now it's throbbing from the wind."

"How would you have busted your eardrum? Did you jam something down in there?"

"I stuck my finger in to try and get the bug out."

"You wouldn't be able to reach your eardrum with your finger."

"Oh. Okay, good."

"Plus, your ear would be killing you."

"Okay, it doesn't hurt that bad. So it must still be alive in there."

At this point, we formulate a plan. From high school biology, I remember that bugs can be killed with rubbing alcohol. From high school lifeguarding, I remember that the stuff you use for swimmer's ear is basically just rubbing alcohol. So the first step is to drown the perp with alcohol. I lean over, pour some in, and there's a moment of extra-intense throbbing. Finally, it stops, and I know that whatever is in there is dead.

Jenny has an idea of how to get the thing out. Kathryn has already looked in my ear and can't see a thing. So we use a sucker bulb (the kind used to clean boogers out of babies' noses) to squirt, no, violently flood my ear with water. Kathryn did it once and it didn't work. I'm like, "okay, let's try it again, but you don't have to do it so hard this time." Jenny's all, "actually, sorry, it does need to be that hard." Take two. The water rushes painfully in. Bingo! It worked. Kathryn can see something big in my ear, so she grabs a Q-Tip and fishes it out. Guess what was in my ear. You ready for this?

A fly. A very large housefly. Or bushfly, perhaps? We've surmised that it was likely mutated and bred for being huge and nasty and evil. Wanna see it? Lucky for you, I've got before and after pictures!

Before (this is once the fly is first out of my ear):

After (once the fly got all that was coming to it):

So yes, justice was done. And I'm posting this on the interwebs as a warning and example to any and all (bugs, mainly) who think it might somehow be a good idea to get into my ear and buzz around and not leave in a timely fashion. Beware!

Now, on to another victory - baby! Kathryn and I are very excited that this coming Thursday we'll find out if we have a bell-pepper sized boy or girl! This is probably the biggest milestone yet of the pregnancy, though of course the pregnancy itself is a huge milestone given that for the 11 months prior to getting pregnant, we weren't able to get pregnant. God's been so good.

Something about knowing whether we'll have a boy or a girl makes this thing so much more real. Not that it hasn't seemed real yet. When your wife only ever wants to sleep, eat (only of necessity, though) and puke, it's pretty hard to ignore the reality that there's a baby in there. But soon we'll actually know something about our baby. Something more than he or she has a head and arms and legs and a beating heart, which are all amazing in their own right. It seems like the real beginning of discovering who this wonderful little person will be, and who the Lord will be making him or her. (It will also be the beginning of not having to constantly type "him or her" or "he/she" or "Floriberto/Floriberta".)

I wonder what else you will be, little one. A jock? An artist? A nerd? (Well, we kind of already know that one.) A comedian? (Again, no one is questioning this one.)

Will you be shy? Outgoing? Subtle? Pull-no-punches? Inquisitive? Fearless? Boundlessly energetic? Boundary-pushing? Bold?

I know you will be loved. Indeed, you already are. I know you will be brought up to be on constant lookout for the Lord, finding him in both unlikely and time-tested places. I know we will teach you to present those discoveries to the world so people can taste the goodness the Lord has baked deep into creation. I know you'll be someone who cares deeply about people, and constantly learns to better put their needs ahead of your own. I know you'll be a joy to know and see.

I'm excited about the surprises you'll bring us. About the ways you'll teach us to love and trust and not be so jaded about life.

I can't wait to hold you and kiss your little head. People will probably think I'm running for office.

I'm sure that moment will come soon enough! In the meantime, Mommy and Daddy have lots to do to get ready! This includes making sure your room has a floor. Aren't we the best?

Okay, readers, I'm talking to you again. Thanks for stopping by! I'll try not to make it forever between posts, but we all know how that can be. Until next time, remember what we've learned today:

-The only good bug is a mutilated bug, and

-Coming soon, Boy or Girl Peebles! We'll let you know!

Icees and Marriage

After nearly 8 years of marriage, Kathryn and I are still learning new things about each other. Couples with more years under their belts have said the same thing. They've said, "After nearly 8 years of marriage, Kathryn and Joe are still learning new things about each other." See? It's what everyone is saying these days.

The occasion for today's revelation was a romantic luncheon at Gattitown. We got our hopes up when the Icee machine didn't have an "Out of Order" sign like it did last week (yes, we're star customers at G-Town these days - for some reason, Kathryn feels less preggie-sick when she's eaten pizza), but upon closer inspection, the mix wasn't ready yet. Drat! Foiled again!

So we set to eating lunch. At one point, I go for a drink refill and notice that the Icee machines are ready to go. Sweet! I get one small cup of cherry Icee for me, one of Coke Icee for Kathryn, since those are, of course, what both of us most like. I set them down on the table in their respective places and go back to get napkins. I come back and Kathryn is laughing, saying "Are you joking? You're not going to drink all that cherry." I said, "Why not? I like cherry."

(I'm starting a new paragraph because this is the part where the story really takes off.) She says, "How in the world do you like cherry? Everytime we get Icees from Sam's, you always insist that we get Coke."

"Of course," says I, "because you like Coke more than cherry." "Nay," replies the wife, "I like cherry better than Coke." "Really?" "Really." "Hm."

Says Kathryn, "So you really don't like Coke better?" "No," quoth yours truly, "I prefer cherry." "Hm."

Anyways, I could go on and describe the part of the conversation where we candidly worked out our feelings on Blue Raspberry, but that's either another blog post in itself or not worth going into.

Wow. Who'd a thunk it? Nearly 8 years of marriage and we'd been doing this crazy little Icee dance, neither of us getting what we truly wanted, both of us trying to sacrifice a little to try and please the other person. To think that all this time, we could have both been savoring more of that frozen cherry goodness, instead of settling for less. Boggles the mind. Whether or not the lesson in all of this is, as the psycho-babblers love to put it, "COMMUNICATION!", I've certainly learned something about my wife, and I'll take it on serendipity.

Needless to say, this one has almost certainly already gone down in Wikipedia as the Great Peebles Icee Surprise of 2009, and will be told and embellished for generations to come.

COWPIE #5! Book hook

Howdy folks! Welcome to another quality installation of the COWPIE phenomenon! menon. mahna. Anyhooz, you remember the drill. Read this entry, and the one over here, and post a comment to vote for your favorite! Or post an entry in a comment to join in the fun! Voting closes Sunday night (otherwise this would go on forever - gotta count all these manually, you know).

Here's the prompt for this go-round:
Write the first few sentences (120 words or less) of a book. Could be any type of book. Most gripping entry wins.

So that's what I did. Microsoft Word will back me up: I've got 120 words - precisely - of the most hand-wringing, seat-edge-inhabiting, mind-gripping prose this side of the Brazos. Ready to blow your Chacos off. But prepare yourself: it's going to be a veritable roller-coaster of emotion. No sooner will you have devoured 120 juicy, delicious, well-seasoned, not-too-overdone, with a hint of cumin, savory words, than you will suddenly and inescapably be overcome with disappointment that what comes next will, in fact, never come next. It will literally be said, for years to come, "that's all he wrote."

But cheer up. In the meantime, you've got a COWPIE to devour! Enjoy every last fresh, steaming word. Without further a-doo...

(Actually, go ahead and take a minute to let that last string of jokes wear off before moving on. Okay, ready? You sure? Proceed.)

Chapter 1

11:55. It’s nearly time, Maurice. Oh well. Nothing more you can do now. Even if there were still time for agonizing, that wouldn’t make them understand. Friends. Bah. Each and every one of them false. Each and every one of them, regrettably, about to lose everything.

11:57. Fools. You warned them, Maurice. Weird science, they said. Fuzzy math. Bad religion. Petty politics. They wouldn’t listen to reason or pleading.

11:58. You can do this. You must do this – it’s the only way.

11:59. Was that a slight breeze outside? Is it possible? Down here? Can’t be –
but that means –

12:00. Time.

Maurice unzipped and stepped outside his tent. Taking one last look around, he ran like he’d never run before.

One man's trash...

(from the draft pile...)

I recently sold this beauty to an older couple from Hearne:

Somehow, even though my life isn't ultimately defined materially, it still seems that the cars I drive have a kind of influence on the way I perceive my identity. Or at least, the way I perceive the way I'm perceived.

Take the Escort, for example. In a kind of "Blessed are the poor" meets "I'm so awesome because my experiences of early-life-stage middle-class poverty-approximation totally outdo yours" way (you know, the conversations where people try to one-up each other on what their parents made them drive as starter cars, and the like), I'd really grown into an appreciation of the kinds of reactions I would get as I started up that car close to a group of friends, and puttered away, carried along by an engine that was tens of thousands of miles past due for a tune-up. (Seriously, this was the car that could always be heard coming from at least a couple of blocks away, with its mighty 1.8 liter V4.) As an added bonus, I would make sure they got a good view of the back bumper as I drove off - or at least, the half of it that still remained. (Sorry, no pic here - the one above was my "best foot forward" teaser for the Craigslist posting.)

But it was as much fun to drive as it was for others to experience me driving. Consider all the "personality" that the new owners had to find compatible with theirs in order to want to make it their own:

-Windows didn't roll down. (This is because, after a while, the kind that you crank yourself start wearing down on the inside, and once it starts taking a strong man to roll and unroll them, the parts just aren't made for that kind of brute strength.)

-A/C didn't work on the top setting. (And the second highest-setting certainly wasn't cutting it in Texas summer heat.)

-Engine idled rough. More precisely, it shudder-heaved. (Best to slip it into neutral at stop signs and stop lights.)

-Transmission fluid and oil leaked. (No biggie - just add a little more every other day.)

-Visors weren't really movable anymore. (Sunglasses a must.)

The poor dear had begun to show her age, too. Peeling paint, rusting metal. A handful of dents and dings (other than the bumper, all of these were inherited from the previous owner, a.k.a. "Sistah".) But, having been built Ford tough, this was hardly cause to raise an eyebrow.

Ah, the memories. It wasn't my first car, or even my second, but it certainly was one of the most memorable. And who can put a price tag on such experiences? Actually, in this case, that would be about $450. So we'll hope for the best, but if it goes kaput, then at least the old couple aren't out too much money. May it treat its new owners well and not become rural yard art.

So, goodbye, my weird friend. It's been interesting. I say that because it sounds better than frustrating. But now I've got stories to tell, and that's something that money truly can't buy.

A true American hero

Along with my church, I just saw my friend Bill off at the airport, on his way to Iraq.  He's one of the bravest men I know.  And I don't just say that because he's off with the Air Force to serve in a war-torn country suffering a grueling war, but I also say it because I've witnessed in him one of the greatest transformations I've seen the Lord do in a person.  I'm not exaggerating.

I'll let him tell his own story.  I'm just here to say that the man I met a couple of years ago is night and day different than the friend I know today, the one who lights up the sky with some amazing fireworks displays, who nearly puts me to shame by his eagerness to jump off of 50-foot cliffs, who has shown a deep spirit of generosity to those who are truckless.

It's not easy to live life boldly and fully when so much of your life has been lived in a way that's anything but.  (This part is as much autobiographical as it is anything else.)  In my mind, courage to change the 'quality' of your life in this way is the kind that's most admirable.  More impressive even than the kind that leads you to answer the call into harm's way, though that kind is impressive, too.

Bill, yesterday I encouraged you to be safe.  Today I retract that comment.  Instead, I encourage you to continue to live as you've been living: boldy, fully and courageously.  (Notice that I didn't add recklessly, in honor of the spirit of those encouraging you to be safe.)  I'm proud to be your friend, and trust you'll keep to what the Lord has begun and is doing in you.  And I trust him to keep you until you're back with us, at which point, just in case someone hasn't already verbalized it, we'll all be expecting the kind of fire in the sky that we've been sorely missing for a year.  And I'll bring the beer.

Recent highs and lows of life (rescued from the draft pile...)

(QUICK EDITOR'S NOTE: I INTENDED TO PUBLISH THIS POST WEEKS AGO, ACTUALLY JUST A DAY SHY OF A FORTNIGHT SHY OF A MONTH AGO, TO BE KIND OF EXACT. THAT'S BECAUSE THERE ARE PICTURES I WAS HOPING TO INCLUDE, BUT WHICH I HAVE NO WAY OF GETTING OFF OF MY PHONE. SO MAYBE LATER I'LL FIND A WAY TO GET THE PICTURES ON HERE. OKAY, I'LL STOP CAPS-SHOUTING AT YOU NOW SO YOU CAN READ THE POST...)

Pre(r)amble
Well, it occurs to me that there are basically two ways to start any blog post, assuming that you're me (other than with the word "Well," which is always a good choice). It's either going to be, "Life has been crazy lately," or "Life has been boring lately" - and everyone knows, of course, that there never is an in-between option. So, without further mucking about in hyperspace...

Life has been crazy lately. I'd like to share with you, in somewhat random order, some snippets from recent Joe-history. When they finally make a movie of my life, this will be the part where you think you can get up and go get a refill on your popcorn without missing too much. But then when you get back and whisper to your movie neighbor, "What did I miss?", there's no possible way they could catch you up to speed without missing something themselves. So you'll just have to read on for now.

160/50
On a recent camping trip I took with some guys (including him and him and another, non-blogging guy) to Inks Lake State Park, we explored a swimming location called Devil's Waterhole. I think I know why it was so named. Like a casino, the place draws you in and gives you that kind of reckless confidence that nudges you towards making internal statements like, "I bet I could do more. Why the hell not?" (Such things are quite likely to be said at locations named for the devil.) Only, here it wasn't about spending money you don't have (or soon won't), but about jumping off of cliffs and rocks and risking the physical health that you soon may not have. It was awesome. In retrospect, of course.

The first challenge was about a 20-foot cliff. I don't know if you have much of a sense of distance when you hear numbers like that, but 20 feet is a long way up. Consider that, in the normal course of your life, you are not often likely to jump off of walls that are taller than your own height, or even perhaps twice that. Well, this was in the neighborhood of three Yao Ming's high. The worst part about it all was how slippery the rocks were climbing up to this height. My non-blogging friend who went has been to other places in Austin for cliff jumping that he says are much safer, and where the bottom is deeper closer to the cliffs. Here you had to be sure to jump out far enough, or else you're hitting part of the rock formation closer to the cliff. Anyways, the place is fairly crowded, and kids probably less than a quarter of my age are jumping off this thing like there is a bed of puffy marshmallows below, so I couldn't make too much of an ordeal out of my first jump. So I jumped. A little while later I did it again, if for no other reason than I found myself trying to talk me out of jumping again. At times like this I just have to "man up" and silence my inner chicken.

Okay, now for the numbers. As you'll notice in the picture (that is, if I can ever get it transferred from my phone - anyone want to loan me a laptop bluetooth adapter?), one rock is significantly higher than the cliff I first jumped from. We estimated this at about 50 feet. Ay ay ay. (sp?) Two of the guys on the trip decided they were going to jump the tall rock, since we'd seen some other people doing it and not dying or exploding or anything. So they go up and jump. Great. Here comes the inner chicken again, clucking something about how I'd already proved enough manhood for one day. Stupid chicken. Yes, eventually I make my way over the rock. I start climbing. Right before I get to the top, there it is - BAM! That's the sound of my pulse kicking into high gear. I stop to check it. It's at about 160 beats/minute. FYI, btw - I rarely get up this high when I'm jogging. I step up to the top of the rock. Did the wind just pick up? I swear it did. I look down at my legs. They're shaking uncontrollably. I realize that the longer I wait, the harder it's going to be to jump, and also the higher the possibility that I will lose my balance and blaze a new trail down towards the water. So I jumped. About a week or two later, I hit the water. As I come up, I punch both arms into the air for the whole "did that guy just win a teenage karate tournament?" effect. And then I swim gurgling and sputtering to a place where I can sit down and bask.

Joe, the (sheet)Rocker
I've also been working with a very different kind of rock at our new house. Sheet rock. I'd make some kind of official pronouncement that now I am officially handy, but in the current place we live, I've also fixed a leaky washer drain, so this is simply a status that I am renewing, not recently acquiring. Honestly, there's really not a lot to say about this, other than that I really don't enjoy screwing it in. Or cutting it. Or hanging it. Or squatting to get the really low-to-the-floor screws. I think that about covers it.

I think it's an ungrounded myth that guys like power tools. I would offer that, more accurately, guys like power in whatever form they can find it. Kind of like women with chocolate. But power tools are really just a way to do more damage, faster. Noisier. And I'm not just talking about the swearing that follows the router's excursion away from the straight line. Neither am I excluding it.

No use crying over spilled coffee; no use throwing a trash can over it, either
While I'm on the topic of angst, it would be interesting to note that recently, on a frustrating morning of dealing with a handful of housing "decisions" (in quotes because they're really little stinkbombs disguised as situations that people have to deal with), I thought I'd pick up some Chick-Fil-A breakfast on my way home to pick something up before heading to the office. I arrived at home after smelling dark coffee and various forms of heated lipids wafting through the car's recirculating system, ready to chow down. As I'm adding the finishing touches to my coffee and preparing to replace the lid, one of my fingers (investigation still pending) knocks over the cup. Spilling every ounce of the coffee. Onto the table, chair, and floor. Did I mention that this morning had already been frustrating? Swearing ensued. (Some of you may be of the opinion that such action is of minimal benefit to anyone. I would disagree. In my opinion, this blog would be much less interesting if the story continued with, "and I thought to myself calmly and rationally, Self, you know, this really isn't such a bad situation at all - take inventory of how blessed you are and you'll see that this is no big deal.") I think I strung some words together that made very little sense being together, semantically speaking. I went and got a towel to mop up the mess, placing it on the floor. Feeling as though the situation was reaching a resolution too quickly, I promptly picked up our kitchen trash can and sighted in the perfect spot on the wall where I should heave it. "Yes, that's just the spot. Too far left and this might not work at all." Thankfully, at this point my hippocampus stepped in and told my amygdala that it would handle things from here.

The moral of the story? Sometimes being calm and rational will save you from having to clean up extra mess. But not being so makes for good story.

Ten things I hate about summer
1. THE HEAT.
I have an uncle who moved his family to Washington state several years ago (maybe some time while I was in college). What I heard was the reasoning at the time was perhaps he did it to help his allergies. I can't say that I don't find that kind of thing extremely appealing. I don't know whether he really moved for that reason (in a recent-esque conversation with a cousin of mine, I asked about why he had moved, and I received a rather dramatic response about how they just wanted to get away from family), but finding a climate more conducive to not sweating and sneezing sounds really good to me (I realize that there would likely be tradeoffs, but who doesn't want to live in a place where there's a drive-thru coffee shop every few hundred feet?).
2. THE ROACHES.
Seeing as the Brazos Valley only recently seems to be getting some rain after more or less months of little to no rain, perhaps only recently have the roaches been driven out of hiding on a larger scale. Bad grief, they've been crazy at our new house. I had actually forgotten how big they could get (our current property owner does a decent job of keeping the pest service coming, it seems). Silly me. Oh, and did you know that at that size, they make noise on hardwood floors and concrete (in the garage)? Sooooo creepy. Give me a 50-foot cliff I can 'man up' on (over an army of roaches) any day. But hey - roaches - don't take me for soft. Those of you I haven't already decimated, your time is coming. And you'd better beg for the spray if I have a broom within reach.
3. SWEATING.
Really, this one is pretty much a corollary of no. 1. But I didn't think it should go without mention. I'm pretty sure that, whatever my particular mix of Scottish and English and Polish (and someone told me there may be some Cherokee in there somewhere, I think), it wasn't intended for a climate like Texas. I'd go into details as to why I make this claim, but I am at least aware of this much, that certain things do not make for good blog storying.
4. THE WAY THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED THINGS MAKE IT DIFFICULT TO KEEP ACCURATE COUNTS OF THINGS, AND THINK CLEARLY IN GENERAL.
So I don't have ten things, but I do have a theory about summer. (Also winter.) Fall and Spring are my favorite times of year, being the seasons that the weather in Texas is most bearable and allows for that feeling that things are either cooling off or thawing out. It's those in-between times when the long hauls of sweating and shivering begin to fade from memory as they are eclipsed by times of refreshing, when you can walk outside and for a short time, breathe cool air and enjoy that kind of feeling that you want to make last as long as you can. I think of Fall and Spring more of transition periods. Obviously, Summer and Winter transition as well, but they feel less so since they lie in between the pendulum swings. Every second gets counted when pressure is applied. But who stares at their watch in those moments when you can simply be at ease? I think it's those moments that are like little peeks at the Kingdom. Brief glimpses of something that may not last very long now, but one day we won't have to settle for inevitable disappointment. One day, disappointment will be absolutely evitable. Come, Lord Jesus.

Reunions galore
Actually, this post is incredibly long already! I can tell by the fact that my own attention span is being stretched into some kind of funky yoga position. So this is a little taste of what I'll hopefully be posting soon. Tune in next time to hear a little about Kathryn's family reunion and my own 10-year high school reunion, both of which happened in the span of two weekends. There'll be laughs, wittiness, tangents, and of course, me taking every possible opportunity to magnify any of the stories which highlight my manliness. I can't wait, and neither can you! Blog atcha soon!

Little Dribbler, National Champion

I just witnessed my cousinito (little cousin - she'd be my cousin-niece if we had a word for it in English) become a National Champion in Little Dribblers, at a basketball court in Franklin, Texas. National Champion. Has quite a ring to it, right? Imagine how a 10-year-old girl feels having that title to throw behind her name now. Imagine roll call: "BONNIE FIELDS." "National Champion HERE!"

Actually, two things about that. First, the actual title of the Little Dribblers tournament was the "Continental National Tournament." Just enjoy that one for a minute. (In doing a little research on the website for the event, apparently the "Continental" version of the tournament is for those communities, holding Little Dribblers charters, under a population of 2,500. The biggest version, the "National" - as in the "National National Tournament", I'm assuming? - has a population limit of 35,000. So this is small-town stuff, pretty much. Or, as you'll see next...) The other thing is that all the places involved in the Continental National Tournament are from Texas. (All over, though - one team came all the way from Farwell, which is an hour and a half north-west of Lubbock, right near the New Mexico border; they lost the championship game. Ouch. That's a really, REALLY long bus ride back.) I have two potential explanations for this. One is that Little Dribblers happens in more states than just Texas, and each one has its version of the "National" tournament. The more fun explanation for me (which, unfortunately, I just found out to be false because I read this - but humor me anyways) is that, in the deep reaches of small-town Texas, there is still a strong sentiment that Texas should be, as it once was, its own country. Thus, any competition comprised entirely of teams from Texas, is a "national" competition. Heck, even despite the Little Dribblers history page, there may be a fair few who would fire off a shotgun into the air in affirmation of such a sentiment. God Bless Texas.

Hey now, I really don't want my having a little fun with this to detract from my cousinito's accomplishment. Seriously - who would have ever thought that elementary-age girls' basketball could be so enthralling and nerve-wracking? I'll tell you what. I'm hoarse, and a little bit worn out emotionally.

I went to two games today. They'd already won several games this week, but lost one yesterday, in a double-elimination tournament. So the first game today could have been their last. It was a nail-biter, with the Lady Devils (my cousinito's team) staying ahead by about 2-4 points most of the game - not a comfortable lead to those in the stands by any means, especially when the star player from the opposing team - who's a pretty darn good shooter - runs the ball down the court and makes the same play EVERY TIME, keeping the pressure on. That's one thing about basketball with kids this age, especially girls (no offense, but hear me out): they haven't really learned to think for themselves yet (probably true across sexes), which is not helped by the fact that their reaction time is so slow (probably less true across sexes) that if the ball is loose and heading for the sideline, you can put money on it being a turnover. Or worse yet, all the passes that were totally catchable or retrieve-able that ended up flying out of bounds.

I'm sure I'd be more disappointed with such minor blunders if they'd lost. But hey - SCOREBOARD!

After that, I went home, because I wasn't quite sure whether I'd make it back for the evening game. Wow - that was almost a really dumb decision, potentially not going back. But I thought about it, and I don't get to see this part of my family all that often, and especially for something so big, so... national to a little girl, it would be really cool to support her in it. So I went back for the Championship game.

This time we were in the Big Gym (Franklin High School's best, with elevated bleachers on both sides, so this time we could actually shout at the other team's fan-base, rather than just juxta them). Gosh, I was so nervous. Remember that one loss I'd mentioned? This was that team. Oh, and after the first game today, here's what the coach said to the girls, "Okay, tonight we're going to play Buffalo. Remember that those girls were passing well and making shots and pretty much doing everything flawlessly out there on the floor. I'd like for us to be doing the same." (Gee, coach, I don't know whether to be more disturbed at our prospects tonight, or the way you're drooling over their athleticism.) I may have had a super-fan exterior on. But inside, I had all the confidence - in this team of little girls - of, well, a little girl.

Things quickly did a massive 180. After the first quarter, the Lady Devils were on top 10-2. For those of you not acquainted with young girls' basketball, eight points has the potential of taking five to ten minutes of game time to be scored. By both teams together. Which is an eternity in basketball-reckoning. At the half, with continued Lady Devil domination, an eleven-point lead. And huge heads all around on our side of the court. Not a whole lot changed during the third quarter, I think, though the Lady Devils' offense started to slow down. Fourth quarter.

Fourth quarter. Something changed. Namely, the position of my stomach, which was now somewhere in the general vicinity of my ankles. Something else changed: the no full-court press rule. That's a handy little rule I'd never heard of before (must be particular to younger-age game-play) - for the first three quarters, no one is allowed to defend the back court. Doing so will actually earn you a technical foul. (Honestly, there were other odd rules that made the game a little annoying to watch, because not only were the referees a little whistle-happy, they were frequently calling these penalties which were quite foreign to me. If I'd had more of a voice by this point, I think I'd have been yelling more protest.) What does all that mean? Suddenly, the Lady Devils were being afflicted in the back court, and they were not handling it well - at all. Actually, the other team went on something like an 8-0 run, with the Lady Devils failing to even make it past half-court ONCE. It was infuriating. Not to mention that since Buffalo was so close to Franklin, they had a huge cheering section, and so once their girls got some momentum back, the cheers coming from across the court were quite imposing. Also, and I won't go into this because I'll just end up getting worked up, the Lady Devils' coach would not have his girls maintain any pressure in the back court. So the fourth quarter, for the most part, felt like a Lady Bison shooting rampage.

And then the Devils broke through to the other side. Hallelujah. Somebody made a shot. Thank you, Lord. (My cousinito told me later that at some point, while she was on the court, she was praying. ;) Maybe it was at this point?) But the Bisons answered. And oh, crap - they pulled ahead. At this point I sat down and looked dejected. The Devils had blown a 12-point lead in a matter of minutes (the quarters are only 6 minutes, anyways). Time was ticking off the clock. In about the last minute of game play, players on both sides were shooting free throws. Somewhere in all of that, someone tied the game up. This lasted until the end of regulation time. So now there was overtime! Can you imagine the tension in the room? If you've never witnessed elementary girls' basketball, you probably can't imagine it. But you could cut it with a knife. Not that they'd probably appreciate you carrying one into a tournament like this, though.

2 minutes on the clock. Tip-off. Lady Bisons get the ball - shot's no good. Lady Devils' turn. Nothing. This pattern repeats itself for what seems like a hundred years. Finally, fortune strikes. A Bison fouled a Devil! Two shots at the line! I mutter inaudibly, "You really need to make both of these." She makes one. Better than nothing, as you can probably already guess. Oh, and at this point there are 9 seconds left on the clock. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Just enough time for one of those agonizing last plays where the other team rushes down the court, barely manages to get an open shot, throws up a wild prayer, and sinks it, along with all of our dignity. But then a miracle happened. Bisons inbound the ball. A Devil contests the Bison-recipient of the ball. The clock ticks. They scramble for the ball, both unfoulingly (a miracle in itself). The clock keeps ticking. Now they're both on the floor trying to get the ball. The clock stops ticking. Hey! The clock stopped ticking. And no whistles have been blown! And now everyone on our side of the court is cheering, and all the Lady Devils have these uber-surprised looks on their faces and are also yelling and cheering. They won the Continental National Championship! (Yes, Queen actually does come on over the loudspeaker at this point. These Little Dribblers really know how to create a moment!)

Somewhere in the next few minutes of elation, both teams line up to be announced and receive their honors and trophies. This is the part where my heart broke. Looking over at the Lady Bisons, several of the little girls were sobbing and wiping their eyes. Mine started to leak, too. (They are even now. Wow, I can't even imagine how much of a pushover I'm going to be if Kathryn and I ever have any girls.) Okay, I'm about to offend some people now, and I'm not going to apologize for it, either. While I don't really have a problem with girls playing sports, I'm just going to go ahead and question whether they're really designed for sports. Now, I definitely recognize there are females who are great athletes, and even for those who aren't, I don't have any problem seeing value in their athletic pursuits. But here's the thing: those didn't look like emotionally healing tears as much as they did emotionally damaging tears. And what effect does it have on girls to have coaches yelling at them so harshly when they forget which play is being run? I wonder whether something is being lost in developing the tough skin to cope with all the pain of the gym floor, or field, or court - something beautiful. (Granted, we have some friends with a very young son who, when playing soccer, cries whether he messes up a kick or scores a goal - so it's tricky to make hard, fast rules - but I still wonder.)

Anyways, back to story. Lady Bisons have all been called. Now Lady Devils are lined up to go pick up their trophies (they were so excited, twice the whole line starts for the middle of the floor before their names are called). I cheer most loudly when Bonnie is called up. They stand in the middle of the court, raising trophies high, with parents behind and around me in near-hysteria. What a great moment.

Later Bonnie was telling me she thought the trophies were supposed to be about "this tall" (she reaches her hand about a foot above her head). We go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate, and Chelsea (my same-ish-age cousin, Bonnie's mom) answers the loads of voicemail she got and spreads the news of the victorious Lady Devils, radiating with pride, as was Bruce, her husband/Bonnie's dad. Ah, what a night.

Here's to you, Bonnie. Congratulations. Enjoy your victory, little miss National Champion.

Mountain man and aspiring artist? (part 1)

New Blog!
Dear adoring fans and breaders-Like-You,
Welcome to my new blog! Not only had JoeZone not been updated in a while, but it had also begun to seem to me like clothes that just don't fit anymore once you've lost some weight. (Or even, perhaps, those clothes were starting to wear through around the armpits because of you wearing them all the time on account of how awesome you thought they were during that time, but then fashions start to change and you realize it's probably time to toss the old Hypercolor tee.) It's not a perfect analogy because I think there was some good stuff on there (in terms of the subtext and substance; of course, the writing was excellent, or so I've heard. Or maybe that was one of those inner-cranial conversations? I don't remember now.), but that's not to say there wasn't a measure more of the self-absorbed spirit, which I feel I'm starting to shed, than I'm agreeable to perpetuate. Along with that came my tendency towards self-disparaging remarks, which I'd like to mighty-morph into a healthy self-respect (which I'm learning doesn't have to be self-worship - any other recovering pop-psychology-skeptics out there?). Anyways, what better place to work all of this out than on the 'net? It's like blogs are to normal face-to-face social interaction what draining the beef-grease before adding the Hamburger Helper is to a meal. Ideally. Or else it's like a teenage slumber party in which one of the kids has access to Mom and Dad's car key and its automobile (accompanied by an opportune lack of parental oversight), where stupidity has a chance to percolate before bubbling out into the most unfortunate places. So in one such fashion or the other will I work out this personal transformation. Either way. But also neither, too - because it's probably better to work out life's big questions in community as opposed to all by oneself. So whatever.

The particular stories which occasion this post (as well as the next - I'll be splitting them up seeing as I already seem to be digressing more than progressing) are quite appropriate and timely for the contemporaneous life-shifting and blog-hopping. One is a tale of adventure, the kind that every man should have regularly so that the world, with its institutions and fixations on safety and risk-management and comfort, doesn't tame him - especially if he finds himself at a desk or computer each day (not necessarily a bad thing, but it's just not in our nature to sit still! Look at little boys, and remember they are the way they are because God made them that way. There's a lot less fallen-ness in youthful energy and vitality than is easy to believe, in my opinion.); the other is a tale of vocational discovery (what is it that God, throughout the course of my life, in all of my doings and pursuings and learnings and strugglings, is preparing me for? It's the "big question", and it's so much more than merely paid employment, though neither is that excluded). Both stories are ones I believe may ultimately prove to have been critical to my journey of self-and-other-within-Kingdom discovery. Or else they'll suffice as acceptable blog-fodder. Either way. But hopefully more the former. So whatever.

Potential milestone #1: The call of the wild (don't let it go to voicemail)
From Nine March to Eleven March Two-Thousand Aught Eight In the Year of Our Lord Anno Domini, did myself and my portly pack ascend the mount beyond the River Paluxy upon the Park of the Valley of the Thunder-Lizard, and there we did make camp and exercise much manliness through the lugging of said pack, the subsequent scaling of lofty cliffs, the drowsy braving of thunderstorms, the marking of trees and ensuing domination of nature, and the continual sweating-through of apparel. Yea, most assuredly, did no pleasant odor go unconquered.

Ironically, I was expecting that backpacking would allow me to get away for a few days of relative relaxation and peaceful reflection. No sooner did monkeys fly out of my butt than I said to myself, "Spike, that was pretty danged naive." One-man backpacking is a heckuva lot of work, especially when you get onto the wrong trail an hour before dark, and by the providence of God stumble onto a different campsite with just enough time to set up a tent before dark and the onslaught of a Texas thunderstorm, only to wake up the next morning with a wet tent and sleeping bag, and still somehow think how much you'd like to continue on to that campsite which the park ranger said was his favorite (which happens also to be the one furthest out), if for no other reason than to prove how much of a man you are. And since such was utterly and undeniably proved, it was therefore a heckuva lot of work. But an awesome experience.

Oh, and it gets lonely and scary in the wild of those state parks where there may not be any major roads or facilities for literally thousands of feet, and where, at night, you can almost feel the hot, putrid breath of the wild raccoons and white-tailed deer on the thin tent-nylon, cold and dewy from the rain of the forty-degree, onslaught-uous Texas thunderstorm. And me without my hatchet! Thus the marking of trees. Not to mention the mini-concert of songs that any person or thing within probably a couple-mile radius heard that night as I belted out my defense against the enveloping darkness. The score: Darkness and Beasts-of-the-Wild, zero; Joe, eight-hundred and ninety-three. Million.

So, all things considered, and all hatchets and packs back in their respective places of storage, do I think I got out of the whole experience what I thought I was signing up for? Probably not. Did I get more, and in different ways than I expected? Probably so, and most definitely yes! And so, to this day, some people who backpack in DVSP say that, on cold, thunderous nights, they can still hear a young man singing:

Then sings my soul,
My Savior, God, to Thee,
Back up offa me, raccoons,
How great Thou art!

Or something like that.

Tune in next time for...
Potential milestone #2: The-artist-soon-to-be-known-as-Joe-Peebles?