Pondering
So I picked up a new follower on Tumblr today. That always kinda makes my day. Seems they were conversing with another Tumblr peep, who I know fairly well, and somehow conversation turned to me. Weird.
I ponder how that works exactly:
“Well, I know this really strange guy…..”
“I know someone who understands life….”
“I know someone who doesn’t judge much….”
“There is this nut job that I can’t figure out…..”
“There is this guy who’s gonna burn in hell, but he thinks he is going to heaven….”
“I once knew this guy who opened his house up to teens….”
“There is this guy who doesn’t have a life that used to help at the theater shop…”
“I know this big guy who delusionally thinks he is gonna do an IronMan one day, I bet you a box of donuts that he has a heart attack first.”
Thousands of different ways that I could end up in a conversation.
See, normally I know full well why people are talking about me…because I stepped on someone’s toes. Possibly at work, probably at church. I simply assume that most of the time that people talk about me it’s because I have mindlessly pissed them off. Perhaps once in a while someone talks about me in a good way?
I don’t post here much, but once or twice a day I stop by, see what has been posted or re-blogged, say a few prayers for each of the people in my dash, then go about my business. I don’t ‘like’ everything, and I don’t re-blog much, but know that I am out there…pulling for you and wishing you each the very best each day.
I need to post more blogs on this site. When I first got a Tumblr I was intentional about posting G and PG things that would help the world understand what makes me tick (my FaceBook is PG-13, and I let my Twitter see the rated R side of me).
For one reason or another (including an early encounter with a Tumblr spam bot) this space hasn’t really given you a solid look into what makes me tick.
This blue house is the Lutheran Campus Ministry house on the edge of MSUM. I am on the board of directors for it. Many years ago I was all about serving on boards and trying to get onto the executive committee and using my boards to get onto other, more important boards, to try to make myself important. Well, to make myself feel important anyhow.
It didn’t work.
I got on lots of boards, and on almost each board I made it to the executive committee. But, there was always one more step. Always one more board that I wanted to be on. One more leap until I would be happy with the amount of power and control that I had.
It simply didn’t work.
Then, somewhere about 2002 I stopped all of that. I stopped doing what I called “social self promotion”. I decided to simply have fun and be present and follow my dreams.
Over the years I would bump into a fellow named Randy Skow-Anderson. He is a Lutheran pastor and is the preacher\director for the Moorhead Lutheran Campus Ministry house. Typically at church events. Often at the Synod Assembly (a blog for another day). We always seemed to get along well. One of those fellows that I enjoy being around, and often wish I spent more time with, but never got around do spending more time with.
Then, one day, while attending an FM Pride interfaith worship service, we sat next to each other and he asked me to be on the board of directors for his project. Knowing that my quick answers are often the wrong answers, I asked to meet up with him later in the week to discus the possibilities. We agreeded that since LCM hosts a (FREE!) lunch on Tuesdays and Wednesdays that would be a good time to get togather.
I showed up the following Wednesday. Randy Skow-Anderson was in the kitchen cooking for like 20 college students who floated in and out of the space. Our ‘conversation’ about be being on his board was less of a conversation and more of this disjointed question and answer session which was continuously interrupted by this series of co-eds who were meandering into the kitchen for food and with questions of their own. In each and every interaction he prioritized the need of the students over our conversation. I was hooked.
Not only was this ‘preacher’ cooking for young adults, he was paying attention to them. He was making sure that they knew that he knew they are alive and that they matter and that they would be missed if they didn’t show up.
I have worked along side a lot of preachers in my life. Probably more than a normal person (news flash: I don’t consider myself ‘normal’). I am used to preachers of color having a clue. And, I am used to first call lady preachers having a clue. But, I am not accustomed to meeting middle-aged, middle-class, white preachers who are into anything other than money and prestige and golf. This guy is cut of different fabric.
So, I am on the board of directors for his project. In the end it wasn’t anything that we talked about or the answer to any one question. It was that when I walked into his space he didn’t put on a pot of coffee for me and ignore his students. Quite to the opposite. He was cooking for his students. He was serving those in need. Both those in need of a free meal, but more so, he was serving a group of people who simply need a moment of eye contact and a few kind words to remind them that they matter more than anything else at that moment in time.
P.S.: If you are reading this, and you live in my town, and you are approximately college aged, I hope you find this house. I don’t care if you are Lutheran or Catholic or a free thinker or agnostic or what ever you are or think you are or don’t know what you are. They offer a free, as in FREE, lunch every Tuesday and Wednesday when MSUM is in session. Heck, he doesn’t even care if you go to MSUM or Concordia or PSEO or what ever. They simply offer a FREE lunch with no pressure or commitment or strings attached. Simply a free lunch and a preacher who is willing to feed anyone on the journey and simply won’t judge.
4/28/12
packing…
If I ever start a church: we won’t have any brick or buildings. No nursery, no Sunday School classes. We shall help people move. That’s it, little more.
Big men can help move boxes.
People with ninja mechanical skills can take apart beds and washing machines.
Old women can make sandwiches.
Young ladies can babysit for the movers and the lifting crew.
Old men can fix nail holes.
We shall be a community of people who help people move.
Our reading shall be excerpts from Matthew 25.
Our sermon shall be: “When I needed to move, you provided me with labor”.
We shall all say “Amen” and then we shall help someone move.
Some people move with great excitement and anticipation.
Some people move with grief and sadness.
I have helped a preacher move into a new house.
I have helped a preacher move on to a new calling.
I have helped college kids move into their dorms.
I have helped a woman moving away from the man who took pictures of her daughter.
I have helped a man move so his new wife can be near her parents.
I have helped a man who lost his job move his new wife away from her parents.
I have helped a family move the estate of a deceased person out of the house.
I have helped move a church.
I am a big guy and I have helped a lot of people move for a lot of reasons. In nearly each case there were unpleasant emotions in play. In nearly every case there were far too few workers for the task at hand. In nearly every case the emotional lifting was more effort than the physical lifting.
Starting this day I shall begin to collect the phone numbers and contact information of people I help move. And, for each future move that I help with I shall contact them to see if they are interested in lending a hand. No pressure. No expectations. Simply the offer to join a community of people who share the labor of helping a fellow traveler with an unpleasant task.
50 things list
Some years ago I was going through a rough spot. I don’t know if I officially qualified as depressed, but certainly I would have scored pretty high on the test, and I had been in that kind of mind space for quite some time.
I was saved by the “50 things I want to do” list. It’s a Bucket List of sorts, though this was long before the movie came out. Someone challenged me to make a list of 50 dreams, goals, aspirations, things I wanted to do.
That’s a daunting task. We all have the easy ones at the tip of our tongues: get a better job, learn to play piano, ride a hot air balloon. Your top 3 will certainly be different than my top 3, and your 50 will certainly be different than my 50. 50 is a big number, and it took me weeks to build my list.
The idea here is that if we all just eat and breath and walk around we all get depressed. Go figure, what kind of life is that? Really, doing the exact same thing today that we did yesterday and knowing that tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that will all be exactly the same as yesterday. Yup, that will leave a person depressed.
But, we can change the game. We can begin to change the things we spend our time on. We can begin to follow our dreams. (Yea, try telling that to a depressed person.)
So, I sat down and started in on my list. I kept it handy and when ideas popped it my head I wrote them down, even the one about learning to play the harmonica. If I was at a concert, I had my list. If I was waiting for a train, I had my list. Eventually, and it took several weeks, I had my list of 50 things that I wanted to do.
The idea here is that once we have our list we can begin working towards reaching those goals. One might take money that we don’t have, but we can work on something else. One might take a college degree that we don’t have, but we can work on something else. At any given time we can work on any of several of the things on the list.
BUT, something unexpected happened! As I worked on my list I noticed that I was becoming less depressed. It isn’t reaching my goals that knocked me back on track, it was “hope”. My list gave me hope. I started to see that any number of futures were different than the rut that I was stuck in, and all of them seemed better than wallowing in the mud I found myself in.
If you pick up this challenge, and build your own list it is YOUR list. Some things will be very private and very personal. Keep it that way. But, if you find a few things that you wouldn’t mind sharing, feel free to post them in this space.
Good luck.
*Note: From time to time I am accused of anonymously posting things at people via social media. And from time to time the person is right. Know as I write this post, I am being followed by 6 people on Tumblr. I have 3 of you in mind by name for this project, so the odds are 50/50 that I am asking you to make your list. =)
Pondering
Pondering the gravity of the information that teens share with me. It may be stuff they tell me verbally. It may be stuff they put on Twitter, knowing full well that we follow each other there. It may be stuff they put on Tumbler, again knowing that I am in a very small group of people who will see it.
They let me see some real shit. Stuff that I am at a loss for how to respond to. Stuff that is painful. Stuff that is deep. Stuff that is real.
I am not a psychiatrist, nor a counselor, nor a therapist, nor even a youth worker. I am a computer geek, a Network Specialist for a large corporation. I have a Bachelor of Science degree in the field of Computer Information Systems.
On the other hand, they know that I have been around the block. I know there are two sides to every story. I know that we all live behind a series of masks and we each choose who we let in to see behind each mask. I know that everyone has their own truth, and often each player in a story will have their own truth.
Perhaps they just know that I don’t judge. Perhaps they just know that I won’t wig out. Perhaps they understand that I have a closet full of t-shirts that say “been there, done that” from the bumps and bruises of life.
I ponder how I should respond.
I ponder if I should respond.
I ponder what I need to keep to myself and what I should mention to people like the youth director or the school counselor.
I ponder if there is anything I can do to help.
Perhaps simply reading it is enough?
Perhaps simply walking along side of them on the journey is enough?
Perhaps that is all that I can really do anyhow.
Wondering
I can see my posts…and I can see my dash…but from time to time I wonder what pops up on your dash.
Is it legit to copy and paste from my blog site to Tumblr?
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2011
Love
Love
I love chocolate ice cream.
I love you.
I love my wife.
I love my children.
God is love.
Love one another.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
To Write Love On Her Arms.
Make love.
There is only one other word in the English language with more connotations, but that is a blog for another day. Love has so many facets it’s like the surfaces of the diamond on a ladies’ engagement ring, each facet is its own plane, each adjoining the next facet by the thinnest of lines. Some facets are adjoining to each other and others are on the opposite side of a stone. Yet, no facet can be removed; they are each integral to the whole.
Love as in God is Love. I get that God is love. I probably didn’t get that until a few years ago. Now certainly God might also be some old white dude with a white kid that died on the cross for you and me.God might be the Judeo-Christian interpretation of what God is. But, at it’s core, below all of the opinions on what scripture says: God is love, the rest is just details.
Love of a son. I love my children. 95% of parentals secretly say that they love one child more than the rest. I do truly love my children equally, I don’t even like one more than the other. They are each awesome and they each teach me a lot about being a decent person.Somewhere there might be a father that is more proud of his children than I am of mine, but I haven’t met him yet.
Love of a wife. (I have no reference on how to love a husband; you’ll have to make up your own.) In India marriages are arranged. In America everyone gets to try to pick their own spouse, and many people pick several times. One of my key indicators of the mental health of an adult is the number of times they have been married: once, ok. Twice, time to be looking in the mirror. Three, you need to be spending more time in the counselors office and less time in the bar. Four, I’ll make idle chit-chat with you if no one else is handy, but please don’t expect me to invest in a relationship with you. Five, don’t bother even saying “Hello”.
But, the thing with those arranged marriages: they work. Meet a couple who has been married for 50 years and they will be happily married. It doesn’t seem to matter how you pick your spouse, assuming that they are not abusive to your and\or your children it seems that simply by sticking it out through all of the fights that somehow love grows in that space (Side bar: if your spouse is abusive to you or the kids – get out. Now!)
I am convinced that which young people think is love is little more than a Darwinian attraction to the person who can best help them procreate and carry on the genetic lines. Simple biology. Survival of the fittest. Meet someone, they look like decent breeding stock, fall in love, make babies. Darwin is satisfied, the blood line propagates.But, then about 7 years later things fall apart. One or the other throws in the towel, calls the divorce attorney, and it’s splitsville.Now, don’t get me wrong, if abuse of anyone is in the picture than that is the only reasonable choice. But, if the mate is simply not in love any more, it might be worth sticking around for a few years.Remember even the arranged marriages in India end up with happy endings. But, it takes like 50 years to get there. News flash: it takes about 50 years here too.
Ok, those are the big ones, and there is probably nothing just too shocking in what you have read so far. Now comes the whammy: I love hundreds of people. Many dozens anyhow. And, given the relatively small percentage of the 7 billion people on this planet who read my blog, the odds are really good that if you have read this far that I love you. Yes, I said that, and I mean that. I love you.
Here is the deal, here is how I define love: Would I probably cry at this person’s funeral. If I would cry at your funeral then I love you. If I wouldn’t cry then I don’t love you. Take a look at the next person you see and think “If I heard that this person died, would I cry at their funeral?” Then do that to the next person you see, and the next, and the next.
I have a son that dates girls. A lot. I suspect that he loves them. I suspect that they love him. But, that is that Darwinian kind of love, not that old couple in the front pew at church kind of love. But, at a different level, at the level of “would I cry at this person’s funeral?” I love those girls. Same thing happens for many of my children’s friends. Guys and gals both and equally. Look at the people who walk through my front door, knowing that at the very least some peanut butter and jelly is available to them. Do you think there is one of them that I wouldn’t cry for at their funeral? Not a one.
To the guys and gals that wander into my world: Know that I love you and I wish the best for you in this world.
To the gals who have wandered into my world as a result of dating my son: Know that I love you as a decent father should love his daughter and if any guy ever treats you with less respect than you need to drop him like a rock and find a guy who treats you like a princess.
With this long diatribe on love I still feel like I am just scratching the surface. What of that first girlfriend that I innocently kissed once. What of the college friend that I kissed but she didn’t think of me that way. What of that co-worker who knows things about me that even my wife doesn’t know. What of that preacher who I reveal my most confidential thoughts to. What of the co-ed who I worked alongside of two years ago for just one week, but to this day makes it known that she prays for me. What of the guy at work who takes the time to be my mentor. What of the church youth director who has seen me at my best and at my worst. What of the old preacher who invites me into his man cave to watch football, knowing that I don’t follow the game. What of those 3 key adults that helped me grow into a decent human being yet I haven’t seen since 1986.
I recently came across a phrase that I use when dealing with people: Love them all and let God sort them out.
Now, as far as loving chocolate ice cream: As I write this TJ is at the store buying groceries. And, if she really loves me she will pick some up. But, if not, I shall stick with her for life anyhow.
For about 10 years I have been a certified “First Responder”. That’s about as much medical training as someone like a rural fireman might have. Not as much as an EMT or paramedic, but considerably more than your typical first aid \ CPR course.
I like being a medic. I like to help people. I like being front and center to the action. I like rushing into situations what cause many people to rush away from. Mostly, I think it’s cool.
Ok, that makes me a nerd. But, it’s a nerd that helps people when they don’t have anyone else to help them kind of nerd, and I am good with that.
Today the nurse at work said she had a present for me. It is a medic bag exactly like the one in the picture. It’s my very own medic bag and I love it.
Over the years I have worked on:
- a woman who has passed out at church.
- any number of relatively minor scrapes and bumps and bruises.
- a two year old who spilled hot coffee on her face.
- a woman who took a baseball to the side of the head.
- a guy who torn a mongo huge patch of skin off of his hand.
- a guy with 3 amputated fingers.
- a head-on car crash on the interstate.
- a guy whose body temperature was 108F.
- a guy who had a seizure.
- a woman who had a seizure caused by a brain tumor.
- a diabetic with a blood sugar in the low 30’s.
- any number of teens with aches and pains along way from home.
- a kid who sliced open her foot on stage.
- a girl who passed out in the dressing room.
- a guy who cracked up his head attempting a stage dive.
- a guy who thought he was having a heart attack.
That’s just the ones that come to mind this evening….there is probably an equal number that I am not remembering.
I love being a medic. It has become part of me. It is part of who I am. It’s in my blood.
My family has been going through a rough patch, with a relative recently being diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. That diagnosis hangs over our family like a black cloud of sorts.
Tonight at church a friend got the call that her mom has been diagnosed with stage 4 stomach cancer. It’s just been a long, dark, day.
I logged into Tumbler and found this pretty picture. I have no clue who made it or when or what they were thinking about or where they are in the journey today.
But, this picture is the brightest thing to happen in my day.
(via arcanethought)
The map.
Take a moment to study the map. If you are from here, you will notice that we are in a red zone. If you aren’t from here, take a look at that red zone at the top center of the map. I live there.
One of my dreams is to be on a DMAT (Disaster Medical Assistance Team). Unfortunately, I am not yet qualified to do that. One day, but not yet. DMATs are mobile hospitals that fly into disaster zones to help out. My ticket onto this kind of a team will be from a computer \ communications skills angle.
One of my stepping stones is to get on an IMAT (Incident Management Assistance Team). IMATs are a group of qualified people who can help coordinate the response to a disaster.
Last week I landed a volunteer position as the Communications Unit Leader for the Eastern ND IMAT. This is a level III IMAT. Which means it responds to local disasters, and occasionally might help out in adjacent areas. So from time to time, on 2 hours notice, I will be heading into disaster zones to try to help with computer \ communication issues.
I hope to see some excitement.
I hope to be able to help.
I hope to be able to sharpen my communications skills.
I need communication skills, they need a person who can program radios and coordinate radio frequencies. I am using them, they are using me, together we are using each other, and we are both happy with that arrangement.
Oh, by the way, that map doesn’t have a key. It’s a 40 year data plot, by county, of presidential disaster declarations. Counties in white have had 0 presidential disasters in the last 40 years. Yellow has 1-5, orange means 6-10. The red counties have had more than 10 disasters in the last 40 years.
Looks like I found a good place to practice my skills. =)
Swim - Bike - Run
One of my dreams is to do a triathlon. Not to win one, just to do one. That is an insanely huge dream, especially given my age and general physical condition. But, what the heck, why not try.
Swimming comes easy for me. When I was a kid I swam all of the time. Over the last year or two I have gotten to the point that I can swim 1.2 miles in the pool. That’s half of the swim distance of an IronMan triathlon.
Biking isn’t too bad. I used to bike all over the place. I have been working my bicycle distances upwards at the Y over the winter, and yesterday was my first day biking in the wild for a couple of years. By the way: biking in the wild is way harder than biking in the gym.
Running. Running is the funny part. In young adulthood I was a FAST sprinter. I wasn’t in any official races, but I could run down anyone that I need to catch and I could run any from anyone trying to chase me. Then, for 20 years, I didn’t run at all. In December I made up my mind to start running. It started out as running just a quarter of a way around the track at the Y, walking for 3/4 lap, over and over and over. Then it progressed to running a half lap, walking for a full lap, over and over and over. I am up to just about 2 miles now. That first 1/4 lap seems like a distant memory. The distance of a marathon seems like a distant dream. I guess in between those distances there isn’t much more than sweat and grit.
As of today, I can do about 7% of an IronMan. There are plenty of local amateur triathlon events in the region. Most seem to be in the range of 11% of a full course. I don’t know if I will be ready (physically, emotionally, financially) to do an event this year, but quite probably I will join one or two next year.
I have 3 goals with this:
A) Enter an event. Not caring if I finish it or not. Just getting up the courage to enter the event is a sign that I can overcome the emotional hurdles that are in my way.
B) Complete an event. Who knows, this might happen for my first entry, or it may take a few. But, sooner or later, if I stick with, I am certain to cross the finish line, even if I am dead last it will be a victory.
C) Hit the 50% mark for a man my age. I see no point in trying to compete to be the winner of the race. All of the races we face in life are personal fights. I don’t need to be the best, or the fastest, or the ‘est’ of anything. If I can hit the middle of the pack then that is just fine.
Sooner or later you might ask yourself: Why would an overweight middle aged man take on the challenge of an IronMan? The answer is simple: I wasn’t in good enough shape to follow my DMAT dream. Now I will be.
(Source: metalpressions)
