Car Alarms

HONK!  HONK!  HONK!

"What's that noise, Daddy?"  my daughter Rose asked.  "That's a car alarm, sweetheart.  Somebody's set it off by accident."  It's 9am and we're sitting at the breakfast table playing her new favorite card game: War.

HONK!  HONK!  HONK!

I'm reminded why we don't have a car alarm - I hate them.  For as long as I can remember I've detested unnecessary, repetitive noises.   Vibrating change in the ashtray, dripping faucets, barking dogs and especially car alarms.

HONK!  HONK!

"That's loud. " Rose says.  I give her a smile.  "Well, maybe one of our neighbors is testing it to see if we can hear it all the way in here." 

HONK!

Alright already!  Someone get that thing turned off!  I crane my neck to look out into the yard.  A thin layer of ice and snow left by last night's brief return of winter covers the grass.  In the driveway my unhonking car is also covered with ice, but the sun is out and everything is already starting to melt quickly.  I'm thankful for the sun this morning.

HONK!

"It's your turn, Daddy."  Rose says gently.  Apparently I've allowed the noise to distract me from what's really important.  I need to stop obsessing about the car alarm and focus my attention on the game.  I push the noise out of my mind.

I turn my next card over.  It's a seven of clubs.  "We both have sevens!  War!"  Rose exclaims.  We both count out three cards and lay them face down.  "This next card is it," I say.  "Whoever has the higher card  keeps all of them.  Ready?"  Both of us lay our cards down.

HONK!  HONK!  HONK!

"That's it!  I'm finding out who this idiot is!" I say not exactly under my breath.  I slam my cards down on the table and go for the front door.  "You're not allowed to say that word, Daddy."  I barely even hear Rose's rebuke as I open the door and stand on the front porch.  "Which of my dumb neighbors is it this time?"  I'm literally fuming.

HONK!  HONK! 

"Who is it?"  I look frantically up and down the driveways.

HONK!  HONK! 

"C'mon!!"  I yell to my empty yard.

HONK!  HONK!

My eyes are suddenly drawn to the corner of my house, and I see the downspout has broken away from the gutter and is hanging in midair.  Water is gushing out of the spoutless gutter.

What the . . . ?

All the melting ice and snow from my roof is running down the side of my house and into my basement!

HONK!  HONK!

Several thought's blast through my brain simultaneously as I sprint for the garage to get my ladder:

How on earth did that break?
How long has the water been running like that?
Is my basement going to be flooded?
I don't need this right now!
This is just great.

HONK!  HONK!

I open the garage door and wrestle my aluminum ladder from the wall.  I've got to get that downspout reconnected right away or I'll have some serious problems in my basement.

HONK!  HONK!

As I'm running down the driveway with my ladder something quietly occurs to me:

"If that car alarm hadn't been going off this morning, I probably wouldn't have stepped outside and noticed the broken downspout."

HONK!  HONK!

"That water could've gushed for a couple hours before I noticed it was broken.  (I mean really, who does a daily check to see that their downspouts are connected and working properly?)"

HONK!  HONK!

"God must have set that car alarm off so I'd go outside and see the broken downspout!"

HONK!  HON . . . .

The car alarm stopped at the exact moment the last thought entered my mind.

Hmmmmm.

 I guess I don't really mind car alarms after all.

Starting Over Again

My children love to stand over the furnace register on cold, winter mornings.  They crawl out of bed and head immediately to the inviting warmth of the side room register.  Often they wrap blankets around their necks and the forced air inflates the blankets into large cones.  The register always brightens their mood, brings them comfort, and puts a smile on their face.

This morning my 3-yr.-old daughter, Rose, woke up in a bright and lovely mood.   As I sat at the table reading, she came in and gave me one of her million dollar smiles.  After talking for a few moments about last night's dreams she went to sit on the couch with her 5-yr.-old brother Nathanael, who was reading a book.  I had no clue of the disaster that was about to suddenly strike our household.  Within seconds Rose was hyperventilating with dramatic tears.  She claimed that Nathanael had scratched her foot and wouldn't leave her alone (not unusual).  Nothing I did or said improved the situation, and she remained adamantly inconsolable (also not unusual).

Several minutes later I called the kids in for breakfast.  Rose sat on the couch and refused to come in and eat.  I looked at her and said, "Sweetheart.  Please come sit down with your brother and sister for breakfast."  "But my foot hurts!  Nathan scratched me!" she insisted.

I knew arguing with her when she was upset like this was fruitless.  So I suggested something I knew would make her feel better.  "Why don't you go stand on the register.  It's on right now."

"No!!!  I don't want to!"  She wailed.

"Are you sure?" I asked.  "If you stand on the register, I think it will make you feel better.  You'll see things a little differently if you do."

"No!!!  It's not even working!" she cried.

I glanced over toward the register.   The fronds of our spider plant above the register blew back and forth, clearly indicating the furnace had kicked on.  In the background I could hear the soft hum of the air blowing through the ducts.

"Rose, this will help you feel better," I said.  "Lift your arms."  I gently picked her and set her down on the register.  "No!  It's not working!  It's not working!" she yelled as the air from the register blew her hair up over her ears.  She was so angry at her brother that she refused to be comforted by the warmth of the furnace.  At that moment it didn't even exist.  Tears streamed down her face and spittle hung from the corner of her mouth. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

After several seconds I said, "Okay.  Why don't we start over.  Do you think we could do that?"  Rose hesitated a moment and after a bit more encouraging headed back upstairs to her room. Sometimes when a day begins like this one did, the kids go back to bed and we start the day all over again.  Five minutes later I walked upstairs and went into her room.  "Good morning sweetheart!  Did you sleep okay?  How about some breakfast?"  The tears and the anger disappeared, and Rose soon sat at the table to eat her Honeycomb.  The sad, grumpy little Rose disappeared as well and a new Rose took her place.

Thank God we can start over.

More later. . .

The Basketball Strangler: The Aftermath

(Before reading this entry, you should probably read my post from 11/07/09 for context.  The Basketball Strangler: Part One)

In the summertime I work at a Christian retreat center as the director of music and worship.  The conference grounds are located on the beautiful shores of Lake Michigan.  Each week of the summer season features a different bible teacher, and families from all over the country go there to spend their vacation.  It's truly a wonderful place to work and to visit.

During our first summer working there, one of our featured speakers was a pastor of a prominent megachurch located near Chicago.  He was a gifted and passionate communicator and his love for God and for the Scriptures was infectious.  My parents were visiting at the time and my mom, who is sometimes difficult to impress, liked him very much.  His first message was on Sunday morning and he shared a bit of his story with us.

He'd grown up in northeast Ohio and was a basketball player in high school.  He went on to play in college at Bowling Green, where he met his current wife.  The inspiring part of his story was how his life had been radically changed after he became a follower of Jesus at age 27.  He eventually left the corporate world to pursue Christian pastoral work.  I grew up in Northeast Ohio myself, so I approached him after the service to talk about our common roots.  This is how our conversation went as best as I can remember it:

"Thank you for your message," I said.

"You're welcome.  Thanks for your music," he replied.

"So you grew up in Northeast Ohio.  I did too.  Are you a Tribe fan?"  I asked.

"Absolutely.  They're playing great ball right now.  It's hard because everyone at my church asks me why I'm not a Cubs fan.  I always say, 'Same difference!' "

"So what town in northeast Ohio did you grow up in?" I asked.

"Kirtland."

Suddenly the hair stood up on the back of my neck.  Something began to not-so-gently gnaw at my brain as I talked to him.  "And you played basketball right?  What year did you graduate from high school?" I asked.

"1982,"  he said.

I was suddenly queasy, sort of like when you see a picture of an old girlfriend.  "My older brother graduated in 1982, and he also played basketball," I said.

"Oh yeah?  What high school did he go to?"

"Cardinal.  Cardinal Huskies." I said.

A moment passed as he looked at me.  A confused expression came across his face as he desperately searched his brain trying to put the pieces together of what I was already beginning to realize.  I just waited.

"What high school did you say your brother went to again?" he asked.

"You're that guy!  You're him!"  I exclaimed.

His eyes grew huge as it all clicked and he realized what I was talking about.  He threw up his hands.  "I didn't do anything!" he said adamantly.  "For years everyone has blamed me for what happened, but I didn't do anything!"

"Whatever!  I was there that night!"  I said.  "It's one of my most vivid memories!  I can't believe it.  After all these years to actually meet you in person.  My dad is gonna crap.  My family has talked about that night often."

We both started laughing because of the absurdity of it all.  He laughed even harder when I told him that my parents were visiting that week.  I brought my dad over to talk to Ron and they had a great time reliving that night.  My mom, on the other hand, was not at all amused by the improbable revelation.  Once she found out who this guy was, her anger from that night at the basketball game resurfaced.  After the service we all went to the Sweet Shop and had ice cream together.  Everyone had a great time laughing and getting to know each other.  Everyone except my mom, who spent the entire time giving Ron her evil eye.

The situation was aggravated the next morning when Ron shared his side of the story with the 250 or so people gathered for the morning service.  According to him, he never intentionally kicked Cardinal's player.  His recollection is that after he was shoved to the floor, he inadvertently stepped on Robert's balls as he tried to stand up.  He freely admits that he was an arrogant and cocky player, but that he never viciously kicked him.  He said that he doesn't have much recollection of what happened during the melee after he got tackled.  That's probably because his forehead was bashed into the hardwood floor.

This really pissed my mom off because she felt like he was using the situation to elevate himself, and she questioned his contrite humility about the whole thing.  She may very well be right in thinking that.  To further complicate events, Ron said he had actual video evidence to corroborate his version of what happened.  I was honestly skeptical of this until several months later I received an email from Ron containing a link to a youtube video of the game.  Ron had a VHS copy of the game film from that night, and a friend of his converted the video and posted it on youtube.  I must say that watching it the first time gave me chills because I can actually see myself, my brother and my parents in the video.  Talk about deja vu.  It's quite compelling. 

Before I share the link to the video, I want to say something about this whole situation.  Before I became a follower of Jesus I was a real bastard.  In the years before my conversion I alienated a lot of people because of my bad choices and selfish lifestyle.  I've grown accustomed to people from my past refusing to believe that I've changed and that I'm any different from the person they remember.  I think it's part of the consequences we pay for living a life rejecting Jesus.  But I am an adamant believer that ANYONE can have a changed life because NO ONE is beyond the reach of the grace of God.  I also believe that we can rehearse and replay old events so often that we block out the feasibility that someone who's hurt us in the past could possibly be different.  I probably won't run into Ron Z***** again, but seeing his changed life now reminds me of how much grace there is in a relationship with Christ.  It shows me how much good God has in store for me if I can only trust Him.

It's unfortunate (or perhaps providential) that the video doesn't show the exact moment of the alleged kick in the balls.  The camera followed the action of the play, and the incident happens just out of the camera's view.  The players on both teams and the referees all had their backs to Ron and Robert.  The only people who could've clearly witnessed the incident are the Cardinal fans in the bleachers.  From the tape you see a man immediately stand up and yell at Z***** while he's pointing to Robert's genitals.  And within seconds the fit hits the shan.  (Read Part One of Basketball Strangler).

If I had to draw a conclusion, I would say that Ron Z***** did give him a shot in the crotch.  Maybe Ron got what he deserved (and maybe Robert did too).  Who knows?  But it sure is fun to talk about. 

Watch the video and you make the call.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t76OrX2aJHY 

More later . . .

The Basketball Strangler: Part One

"You're that guy!  You're him!"  I exclaimed to the man.

The man's eyes grew huge as he realized what I was talking about.  "I didn't do anything!" he said adamantly.  "For years everyone has blamed me for what happened, but I didn't do anything!"  And he claimed to have evidence to prove it.  I couldn't believe it.

25 years earlier . . .

I was eight years old in 1982.  I was sitting with my parents in the visitor's bleachers at Kirtland High School gymnasium watching our Cardinal Huskies do battle with a far superior Kirtland squad.  My older brother was playing on the team and we weren't expected to even compete.

The Kirtland Hornets had a gym that felt like a penitentiary: drab, dark and crawling with convicts.  Their star player was a senior named Ron Z*****, and he could shoot the lights out.  He was a trash-talking, arrogant player and had the skills to back it up.  He was also known around the league for playing dirty.

It was just before the half when Ron Z***** broke open and launched a moon shot right in front of where I was sitting.  When he came down he was boxed out by Robert Soltis, one of Cardinal's defenders.  They both fell down out of bounds and hit the first row of bleachers.  Things happened quickly after that:

Everyone's attention followed the ball across the court, so Ron took the opportunity to give a hard kick to Robert's testicles.  The visitor's bleachers erupted with angry boos and shouts, because we all had seen Ron's attack on Robert's balls.  We also watched as Robert slowly rocked back on forth, trying to slake the overwhelming pain in his gut by cradling his junk in his hands.  Then Z***** stood up, turned his back to us and walked away.  It was right then that everything began to move in slow motion.

From behind me a small man began descending the bleachers two at a time.  He slid quickly past my dad, jumped to the floor and started running toward Ron Z*****.  Instantly my dad popped out of his seat to try and stop him, but was too late to prevent what happened next.  As Ron slowly walked away from where Robert lay groaning on the hardwood, the crazed fan tackled him violently from behind, driving his head into the court floor.  The court filled instantly with punching, kicking, and screaming players and fans.  Everyone was fighting in one big, angry mass.  It was a melee.

I have several intense, vivid memories from that night.  The first is my mother's screams.  Once my dad jumped out of his seat, my mother grabbed my arm and held me down, screaming at the top of her lungs.  Another is seeing my angry brother in a wrestling match with another Kirtland player.  Another is my dad kneeling down trying to help Robert, who just lay on the floor holding himself.  And then there was the announcer's panicked voice over the PA, making a futile attempt to take control of the mob.

After several minutes the coaches and on duty police officers were finally able to get things under control.  They were eventually able to finish the game, and Cardinal suffered another defeat, made worse by the sight of one of our fans being arrested for assaulting a minor.  The crazed fan was the dad of one of our players and at the time was a member of the school board.  He got cuffed and stuffed.

Over the years the events of that night were retold dozens of times and quickly became part of our family's oral history.  And of course Ron Z***** became increasingly more evil with each telling until he'd almost become the devil himself.  At least, that's the caricature my family had created of him.  Little did I know that the story wasn't finished being written.

More later . . .

I'm Beginning to Understand Blogs

This morning I had an epiphany while enjoying my morning coffee: I'm beginning to understand some of the numerous reasons why people blog. An acquaintance of mine says cynically, "People blog because they want attention and validation. . . duh." Perhaps. Blogging as a medium has rapidly grown in popularity and significance in the last several years. Writers and journalists who once dismissed blogs as illegitimate, now regularly contribute their own words to the blogosphere. As printed media continues it's decline, the significance of blogs and web-based media increases. As of 2007, there were over 112 million blogs (wikipedia.com). Who knows how many there will be in ten years.

My aforementioned acquaintance is correct when she asserts that for some, blogging is an act of self-importance seeking public validation . . . duh. Some people use blogs and tweets to negotiate trade negotiations (see OchoCinco) or to make knee-jerk apologies for their ridiculous antics (see Kanye West). Sports writers blog away during high profile games or the professional draft. There are food blogs, music blogs, church blogs, book blogs, surfing blogs, parenting blogs, car blogs, blogs about blogging, blogs, blogs, blogs, blogs. The sheer volume of blogs in the blogosphere illustrates an interesting variable in this conversation. With so many blogs being written, it is quickly apparent that we as humans have something to say. It's part of who we are anthropologically to express ourselves. God created us to create. So it makes sense so many people are saying so many things.

The vast number of blogs is also evidence of another variable in this discussion. There are simply too many words out there. Marilyn McEntire wrote in the September 2009 issue of Christianity Today about the careful use of language, ("Letting Words Do Their Work" http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2009/september/32.55.html). She discussed the innate power of words and how powerful language has lost much of its purchase in our culture because of overuse and misuse (lack of precision). If you appreciate language and the careful use of words, you will highly appreciate this article.

George Will recently compared President Obama to "audible wallpaper". He said, "Our President has become the nation's elevator music, always out and about, heard but not really listened to". He was talking about the President's recent stumping for support of his health care plan. This demonstrates an important point about communication: The more people one leads, the more important and weighty their words become. A wise leader uses fewer words less often. Does the same principle ring true with our own words (or our own blogs)?

I now have about 15 entries in my blog that I started over 18 months ago. Let me succinctly say (too late), as I look back I see that my blog entries have taken me a fair amount of time to think through and write. I've also noticed that my "urge to blog" is not consistent or predictable. It's been six months since my last entry. I currently have a few things I want to write about (mostly for my own reflection and process). When those are finished who knows when the urge will come again.

The crux of the epiphany is this: For me and some others, blogging helps to intelligently process through things that are rattling around in my mind and crashing through my life. I have two people currently following my blog. Who cares?! But I somehow feel like I've taken positive steps to meditate and process some of my current circumstances. I'd like the words I choose to mean something and have weight. God created me to create creatively.

Does anything I just wrote make any sense? Probably not.

Why does the phone always ring when you're on the can?

I don't know.

More Later . . .