This is something that he hardly EVER does.  Not sure if this is because he isn’t sold on the fact that he was wrong or actually did something wrong, or if he just doesn’t like to admit what he already knows.  My guess is that usually it is that he doesn’t like to admit it.  So, I think I can count on one hand how many times he has apologized to me without being forced to do so.

Last night was a forced apology.  They’re not my favorite, but I’ll take them.  His heart is never in it, but he’s got to learn what it feels like and get used to it (if he ever gets married he’s going to need that discipline).  His mother went to visit him in his room/cell and gave him the bad news that part of his punishment was to apologize to those he wronged…namely dad.

He didn’t come down, didn’t come down, didn’t come down.  Finally, just before I had to leave for the evening to a meeting he came around the corner and passed me a paper.  Now I’m used to this kind of strategy – write a note of apology.  Everyone wins: you get your apology and he doesn’t have to actually “say” he was wrong (I picture the Fonz doing this kind of thing as a kid).

This note was different.  It was written in hieroglyphics.  A page full of pictures: birds, hands, cups, snakes, squared spirals.  It took some considerable time and energy to do so.  I was impressed.  Next around the corner came another sheet that was a key to understand the glyphs.  This kid is working REALLY hard not to say he is sorry.

God, who have you given us to raise? 

I took his apology and gave him a hug.  Then out the door with my apology in one hand and the key in the other.  I sat in my meeting and painstakingly replied to his heartfelt apology by writing my response of forgiveness in hieroglyphs.  It’s the least I can do, and I’m hoping I’m speaking his language.

Last night we enjoyed dinner at the home some new friends.  She relayed a story about growing up in a very conservative church.  When her boyfriend gave her a nice ankle bracelet a lady at church made this comment, “Ankle bracelets are for whores!”  The lady we were visiting for dinner was the furthest thing from a whore, and I’m sure was nowhere near reaching the level of “whore” when she was young and attending a conservative church on a regular basis.  But the word “whore” stuck in her mind and it took a long time to get it out of her mind…still hasn’t apparently – since she relayed the story to me last night.

I give my daughter a bye for not knowing Steven Tyler is a dude.  But this lady in a church should know better than to judge a person by an ankle bracelet.  And I suppose it is best not to judge people at all unless it is by the actions they make. 

One of the great philosophers of our age, Forrest Gump, gave us a great axiom to live by: Stupid is as stupid does.  Isn’t it possible that the safest person to be around in a dark alley is the tattooed teddy bear of a Harley rider?  Isn’t it possible that Steven Tyler can move someone by his performance despite his hair and flashy attire?  Isn’t it possible that a young girl wearing a simple ankle bracelet from her innocent boyfriend can grow to be a shining role model for young women?  I suppose it’s even possible that God could find God’s way into and work God’s way through the buttoned up manner of the judging church lady.

“Get that thing set up, it’ll make everything a lot easier.”  Now, getting a guitar – or any stringed instrument for that matter – set up is not something just any beginner can do.  I am just any beginner, so I took it to my local luthier (fancy name for someone who knows approximately 4 million times more than I do about the instrument).  A day later I got a call saying that my guitar was “set-up.”

“Set-Up” is what you call it when you get your instrument ready to play.  The main thing they do is address the “action” which is the distance between the strings and the frets.  If you have a great distance between strings and frets it becomes difficult to play – you have to press your fingers a lot harder and it’s frustrating for the beginner.  If you have too short a distance between strings and frets you can easily get a buzz when you play – frustrating for any player.

When I went to pick up my guitar (don’t have a good name for it by the way…I’ll accept ideas for a name) I couldn’t see a difference.  The guy behind the counter said that when I got it home and played it I would be able to tell the difference.  He said this with one of those knowing smiles – the kind a grandpa gives you that comes from years of experience.

Yup, sure enough!  When I got home and pulled it out of the case I found the chords I knew a TON easier to play and it was more fun with less pain on the digits.  A good set-up makes a world of difference.

Here’s the preachy part: I find that if I intentionally get my heartstrings closer to God’s frets everything gets easier.  I resonate and vibrate with much more ease and that annoying buzz becomes less and less a problem.

Small, uncoordinated hands help set the course for my vocational ministry.  But…I love music.  Like to sing with others, like leading worship, like it when I see my kids beginning to develop their own gifts in that area.  And recently decided I wasn’t going to fight my small hands anymore, but embrace them.  Last summer I bought a mandolin (small everything about the mando).

I knew my bride was grimacing inside because I have a knack for starting a hobby and then not following through.  I know this about myself, too.  So, I bought the bottom of the line “A” style mandolin: $90.  Quickly realized I wanted to pursue it further and traded it in for a bottom of the line “A” style mando with a pickup (so I could play it through the sound system at church).  The bottom of the line mando sounded like crud, so I traded it in and added an undisclosed amount to it to get a pretty nice one.  My wife was sweating, I could tell.

With the purchase I decided to up the ante by purchasing lessons from a fella named Lance.  I became good enough to play along in church and pick out some fun songs at home.  I then purchased an “F” style mandolin from an estate sale.  Sold the more expensive of the two and now I am taking on a guitar.  Holy moly.

Two things made me make the jump from one mandolin to a mandolin and a guitar: 1. On Christmas morning we had zero musicians in church.  We sang Christmas songs a cappella, which was nice, but I realized I would like to be able to fill in that spot in a pinch.  The mandolin, as pretty as it sounds, is not a lead-the-congregation-in-singing instrument.  It’s not the cake, it’s the icing.  So, a guitar made sense.

The other thing that helped me make the jump was my bride – who didn’t balk at the idea and gave me the “OK”.  Thanks, babe.

S0, I bought an Epiphone PR5E which is just a little smaller than the ordinary “dreadnaught” body style of a guitar.  My fingers are starting to stretch a little, and after 24 hours of owning it I have three chords and am starting to learn a little fingerpicking.

Next Christmas, if we find ourselves in a pinch, I want to be able to fill in and fill out the sound.

Music lessons has been added to the classes they don’t give you in seminary that should be compulsory – especially if you ever want to plant a church.  The other class on that list: church budgets/economics.

So, here’s to little fingers making big moves!  If you have your excuse why you haven’t done that one thing that you always wanted to do, take some advice from my freshly minting calluses and go for it.  Today’s your day!

Someone cut their own hair (not an adult)

Someone pooped on the floor (not a human)

Someone readied the guest room for her father to visit

Someone made their first trip to the chiropractor

Someone slept four nights in a row in a bed that was not their own

Someone fought with a sibling

Someone didn’t even talk to a sibling

Someone peed in a closet (not a canine)

Someone cried

Everyone laughed

Someone started learning about scooping snow

Someone else made it acceptable after the fact

Someone returned a gift

Someone loved the sweater they got from an in-law

The strong found themselves weak

The weak recovered

Someone finally discovered Mumford & Sons (awesome!)

And now, tomorrow - Christmas ends and we start Epiphany: we focus on revealing Christ to the whole world!

Then, in the middle of the night her little voice would cut through the night.  She couldn’t move and needed help.  We didn’t sleep well on the 24th, 25th, 26th.  And in the middle of the night on what would technically would be the 27th I decided a trip to the doctor was in order…we needed to get this knot out…and…I knew what I would preach on for New Years Day.  God spoke to me.

This little girl slept between mom and dad, knotted up neck that kept her from being herself – kept her from exerting all her energies, all her power, all her joy, all of what makes her our Bis.  And in the glow of my alarm clock God made it clear that I am the same way.  I have a knot that has been keeping me from everything that God has made me to be, and it was time to get the knot out.

So I’m writing this on Wednesday afternoon after having written two letters addressed to different parts of the United States.  As I wrote them I found that my knot began to smooth out.  I released over 1,000 days of anger and resentment and rage and hurt that I’ve been harboring against a couple of people.  They will be surprised to receive a letter apologizing for sending three years of evil thoughts in their direction, I’m sure, but I felt I needed to say I was sorry.  No blame.  None of the words I dreamed up for them over the years – just one paragraph letting them know that I am now moving toward wishing them well.

Bis has been to the doctor a couple of times.  She’s turning her head both ways and starting to jump around the house and jump on the couch when she thinks I’m not looking.  She’s coming back.  I can already feel the same is true of me.

I’m hoping for some good sleep tonight.

Boiled down story: The church building is the hand-off point for custody exchange.  And mom has another family member do the handing off.  Things get heated, and the church parking lot is almost…almost a boxing ring.  I say almost because cooler heads prevailed.

I remember this story.  Same one I lived as a kid.  We had a surrogate to hand off my younger brother to his dad for visitation.  A big guy surrogate.  The biggest guy we knew – not intimidating to those who know him, of course, but formidable to behold.  It was complicated.

Did you know that “incarnation” comes from the Latin that means meat?  So we picked the guy with the most “incarnation” we could find to be present for the hand-off.

Incarnation.  Fleshed out.  Jesus.  God made flesh.  Bursting forth in the normal, fleshy way in a meatmarket of a stable.  Standing in a parking lot in the messiest of our moments.

I remember my first swear.  I remember what it was.  I remember where I was when I said it, and I remember what happened to me.  I also remember not having a clue what it meant.  I think I remember it because of the quick and drastic response that came to me from my mother (thanks to my sister’s quick tattling.)  I was so confused why I would be punished for something I didn’t understand.

There was some 5 year old understanding of justice that still holds true and, thankfully, came through in my response to Bis and her sweet pronunciation of the dreaded “F” word.  I don’t think I helped her understand anything.  She wanted to know why she couldn’t say it.  She wanted to know what it meant.  She wanted answers, and I’m not about to give them to her.

I wonder if Adam was just as confused about the fruit on the tree in the middle of the garden.  I wonder if he asked his Daddy, “But why?” or “I’m not getting this…what will it do?”  He was so innocent and couldn’t fathom its consequence or its meaning.

Now, in thinking about it, I am curious as to whether or not my mom had it right: drastic, soapy response to a first infraction.  Sounds a bit like what God has done.  I’m going with a gentle first chance and an understanding of ignorance.  Hope I haven’t blown it.

The Onomatopoeia

By Eric Johnson, 1997

Onomatopoeia has a rhythm you can feel

the onomato’s on ya’ while the peoia’s at your heels

Onomatopoeia kinda’ makes ya’ wanna’ be a

instrument of sound

like the bass drum belchin’ pow

or the jazz trumpet goin’ zip-dooty-bop-zow

while the scatter’s voice is screamin’

An onomatopoeia exalts you past your fears

like Robin battlin’ at Batman’s back

pow!wow!zip!zap!whack!

Onomatopoeia

in a way it kinda’ frees ya’

makes your loopiness just seem-a

like the way it’s supposed to be-a

‘til inhibitions disappear

and your stodgy side says, See ya’

 Seasonal Depression

This stole is heavy, invisible

I bear your burden

I cannot hang it on the rack

As I step across my threshold

I remember you

And sigh between conversations

That have nothing to do with you

Your story draws at me

And I don’t remember you every moment

But your burden hangs about my shoulders

And the color of the season is always purple

I always seem to be waiting for you

To give me a lift – not forthcoming

To show some sign of strength

To change the color

From purple to white

How long, O Lord?

Surely your reign extends

Into this shadow

Where your child sits

A purple cell waiting

For the other colors

Green filtered through red

Into the white