A Wake-up Call

Staring through the dark, the motivation to move seemed overwhelming. The slightest move or shift might procure for me several hours of sleeplessness before sunrise. As consciousness grew, so did the realization that I might need a pit stop before finishing my journey. But, depending on the time, perhaps I could wait until morning. With these concessions, I finally made the effort to reach across to the cell phone lying on the end table. 3:45am.

Wait? What time is it? I opened my eyes to darkness wondering what time it really was. Grogginess consumed my mind, but the throb of a full bladder grew as I awoke more fully. But could I make it? What time is it? With these concessions, I finally made the effort to reach across to the cell phone lying on the end table. 1:30am.

But, no that can't be. Breathing deeply, I allowed my eyes to open and begin to adjust to the deep dark surrounding me. Is this real? I reached to my cell phone. 5:45am. And I waited. Could I still be dreaming? As my body acclimated to the waking world, I continued to ponder which reality was right. Perhaps I will wake one more time.

Infinite and finite. Fantasy and reality. Two parallel lines can go on for eternity without touching, yet be separated by a hair's width. While the two pieces of any paradox can seem infinitely separate, there is often an intrinsic connection which prevents each from being the true antithesis of the other. For instance the dream world and the real world seem to be mutually exclusive in their sensations and the laws that govern them. Yet, a line of connection, however thin it may be, runs through the two and intertwines them as a stitch on a quilt. The subconscious, dwelling in the infinite realm of fantasy, works together with the conscious, which dwells in the finite world of reality, to influence the whole self. These two influences profoundly affect one another both in the dreaming world and in the waking world.

As a high school football player, two weeks of football camp was exhausting. It was exhausting not only in reality, but my dream world also suffered under the extreme stress. My reality was three 2 1/2 hour practices every day in 100-degree heat. My subconscious endured a similar fate as I tossed and turned each night. Sweep left: pull, block the outside linebacker to the sideline or log up and block the inside linebacker to the post. Dive right: block the defensive back inside or, secondary objective, block the defensive back straight ahead. Waggle left: cup block to defend the quarterback. All night, every night. Hit after hit after hit. The sun beating down, sticky, wet pads rubbing against my skin, and tired, achy legs.

Recently, I had one of those experiences that left the lines blurred. A dream, but not. Fantasy became reality, or something close to it. The rules were suspended as the dream world so closely resembled the real world. Reality seemed to invade my subconscious. Each sensation, the gentle breeze rustling through my hair, warmth from the sun resting on my skin, and her touch, these seemed no substitute for the waking world. Not so much did these resemble, but seemed to take on reality. The one giveaway was she had no name, but she was there, she was close. She was more sure than anything. We walked together, laughing and talking about all the important and trivial things in the world. And as her hand reached for mine, I fell asleep, back into the waking world.

Am I still sleeping? Will I soon wake up to the normal 9-5 at the office? A wife? Kids? After all, dreams are more often than not of the fantastic sort. And the world in which I presently reside seems far more fantastic than the dream world I remember. As I sit waking, or dreaming, wherever I may be, I am a 20-something-year-old bachelor living in Africa spending most of my days speaking Arabic. I spend each week preparing to begin exploration of large sections of mountainous terrain to the south. Can this world be any more fantastic?

Kierkegaard suggests that the most important thing in life is to know oneself and to want to be oneself. In his book, The Sickness Unto Death, he writes that not knowing oneself is despair and the beginning of realizing one is in despair is to begin to know oneself. Unfortunately, most of us don't know that we are in despair, yet this itself is a form of despair.

"Such things cause little stir in the world; for in the world a self is what one least asks after... The biggest danger, that of losing oneself, can pass off in the world as quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc, is bound to be noticed."

So what does it mean to know oneself, to not live in despair?

"This then is the formula which describes the state of the self when despair is completely eradicated: in relating to oneself and in wanting to be itself, the self is grounded transparently in the power that established it."

Discovering one's true identity and joyfully taking hold of that identity is preceded by returning to proper relationship with the Creator. Consequently, with the acquisition and acceptance of this knowledge comes the joy to pursue one's identity to its fullness, and one has all eternity for this endeavor. Everything else in life must be balanced in relation to that relationship.

Furthermore, this "revelation" and "fulfillment" comes in light of a balance of various paradoxical concepts. Kierkegaard writes that man is a synthesis of the finite and the infinite, though most men do not acknowledge and live in regard to both of these. To dwell in one without the other is the essential definition of this despair that every man endures until he is awoken from "spiritlessness" by the Holy Spirit of the Creator.

The despair of the finite is to lack infinity, to "dare not to believe in himself, find being himself too risky, find it much easier and safer to be like the others, to become a copy, a number, along with the crowd." This is to lack possibility and hope, to live wholly in the material world. On the other hand, the despair of the infinite is to lack the finite, to be carried away "into the infinite in such a way that it only leads him away from himself and thus prevents him from coming back to himself." This is to live boundlessly in the fantastic, forgetting, or "losing", oneself.

So then, are those things of my subconscious dream world bad? Seminary. Marriage. Family. Of course not, but it isn't reality for me. It may be possibility. It may be my desire for the future. But to live in the fantastic at the cost of reality, to allow the infinite to run unconstrained by the finite, this only leads to despair. To "live life abundantly" will be to truly take hold of both necessity and possibility, finite and infinite, reality and hope.

According to the Westminster Shorter Catechism, "Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." This is only done when one is founded on the Creator, first and foremost. In Matthew 6:33, Jesus says, "But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you." This is the challenge of every man.

So what are the options? The life of despair. This results when one knows not himself (ignorance or not) nor his Creator. Despair in this life continues increasingly and unbearably throughout eternity. Or, the abundant life. To know oneself in light of the great and glorious Creator. Knowing Him leads to truly knowing oneself.

So you have to ask the question: "Who am I?" Do you know? Let's face it, we deceive ourselves all the time. This week, I was exposed. Indicted by the pure honesty of the subconscious, the imbalanced reality I had been living in was called to the carpet. Fantasy, future, and hope without limit, without constraint and grounding in the present circumstances and their Creator, leads only to despair. It's time to recenter, and that means going back to the Word of God.

I guess I can consider this a wake-up call.

The Scenic Route

In college the late Dr. Jerry Fawell stressed to me the importance of getting married. Well I didn't and was disappointed. When I graduated and my friends began to marry, I thought maybe I was doing it wrong. I was given the same message in a different way upon my arrival to seminary. For the first time, I was the minority. A single 22-year-old guy in a sea of married, established seminary students. The pressure seemed somewhat overwhelming. Now the message was not just get married, but get married so you can do ministry.

Despite this pressure to find that one special someone who possessed the key to the rest of my life, I decided to leave. Maybe I was running. Maybe not. But I began the process of going to Africa. And along the way I disobediently thought that maybe my obedience would provoke God to change His mind about my singleness. As this process progressed, I became entrenched in my decision to go live in Africa. And find her there.

Three months ago I sat on a beach in Spain and gazed at the moonlight shimmering across rolling waves. On a clear, calm night the tranquil ebb and flow of seawater lulled me into peacefulness. I enjoyed nature's beauty until one single thought ruined it all. Would I always have to enjoy these moments alone? I feared I might.

As I have waited for the last month and a half, my life has changed. Adventures have marked my path with even more promised. Twice the Lord seemed to speak to me. The first time He spoke, my course was reset for Mexico. The second time He spoke was just for me.

But as I think about living in Mexico, I start to wonder why I must return to seminary. At least, why right away for the Spring 2o12 semester? There is so much the world has to offer someone like me. I still want to live in California, Washington, or Florida. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail, even if it is by myself. I want to meet people from other cultures. I want to learn their language, their culture, and their dreams. No, before I return home to North Carolina, I have every intention of finally exploiting my singleness. Exploit it and enjoy it for as long as I can. But above all else, I am going to exploit it to the glory of my Savior. I have worked hard in my hermeneutics to overlook this, but I think Paul once said something similar.

Bedtime Stories

Barbie returns the stare as my gaze rests upon the dollhouse in the corner of the room. The whole family can be found relaxing on pink furniture inside the pink house with a pink convertible parked in the backyard. Child-sized clothes are scattered along the wall from the corner to the dresser by the door. Toys line the top of the dresser, some I have never seen, but can only assume find their origin in Portugal, the family's last home. In front of the dresser sits an intricately-woven basket overstuffed with children's stories. This basket and the one across the room, next to the bed where I sit, appear to have come from the same weaver.

"I found it!" comes the cry from inside the basket next to me. From this basket, boasting a much smaller stash of children's books, climbs Megan with her prize. She hops onto the bed and curls up next to me. As we lean against the headrest together, her head buried in my shoulder, my 4-year-old friend looks like a little princess. The flowing mosquito net that encloses the bed only adds to the effect.

As she opens the book, I catch the disney logo on the front. Maybe we'll read about the adventures of Timon and Pumba tonight! Or perhaps, we'll follow Baloo deep into the jungle with Mogly. Or maybe we'll read about my favorite character, Winnie the Pooh. Megan finds her favorite story, a prinecess story! A fitting story! Why shouldn't an aspiring princess read about a real (as far as she knows) princess?

The story has no title, just the small picture of a princess on the cover page. As I take in the title page and our main character, I realize that I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Megan isn't always sweet, but tonight she is. I suppose my kids will be the same; some days good, some days not so good. By God's grace I will be a dad much like hers. Caring. Compassionate. Slow to anger. Yet willing to discipline because he loves her so much. Much like my own heavenly Father.

Yes, one day I will be a dad too...

I turn to the first page and begin to read. My efforts are quickly halted, "Megan, I can't read this."
"Why not?"
"It's written in Portuguese!"
Nonchalantly, she replies, "Just read it in English like daddy does."

Yes, one day I will be a dad too...

I am NOT a Poet, But...

I am the servant running to Elisha,
"Alas my master! What shall we do?"
Fear invades when I have forgotten
that there is nothing under the sun new.

From Aram come legions of troops
poised to take my life and liberty,
"O Lord," prays the master, Elisha,
"open his eyes that he may see."

Chariots of fire arrest my gaze
consuming the mountainside,
A great and glorious army
ready to uphold the will of Adonai.

The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.

"The Lord loves justice and
forsakes not His godly ones."
Each day they are stolen away,
husbands from wives, fathers from sons.

A battle against flesh and blood
we do not fight,
but whispers of the enemy
that deceive in the night

On the battlefield in Eden,
his first victory won,
but for the prize of the upward goal
we continually press on

The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.

Anger rises at the thought
of good men waiting in jail,
fear at others deported
from which there is no bail.

Intimidation, the beast that
prevents our friends from gathering,
The neck of Christianity
the authorities seek to wring.

Even now it is for Jesus,
to be like him I yet fight,
to have compassion, grace, love
and to eternally shine my light,

The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.

How to Start a Fire (No, This Is Not a Post About the Band Further Seems Forever)

Living in Africa can sometimes be compared to living in the stone age... or, at least, pre-industrialized America. In our kitchen, there is a flash-boil water heater. Said water heater is fueled by the gas tank that connects under the sink. We call this tank a "Budagas". For those of you who desire to join me in my stone-ageism, below are instructions for installing your very own gas tank for cooking and water heating!

Step One:
Inconveniently run out of the house without wallet. Halfway to the local market, realize it's at home. Though with said realization comes the thought that maybe he can put it on your tab.

Step Two:
With much struggle, more frustration, and slight delight, carry on a 20 minute conversation, in Arabic, with the shop owner.

Step Three:
Deflect all attempts of the shopkeeper to convert you to Islam. This is fairly important.

Step Four:
Carry the heavy tank, via left shoulder (switching to the right shoulder when necessary and back again if the walk is long enough) back to the house for set-up. Be careful to not drop the tank as it is most likely flammable.

Step Five:
Search the kitchen for a wrench. Unscrew regulator and hose. Forget that the tank had not yet been shut off. As a result of your blunder, open window and leave room for approximately 15 minutes.

Step Six:
Upon return, hook up new tank with wrench. Turn on gas tank and test for leakage.

Test #1: Apply soapy sponge to tank nozzle, regulator, and tube. If bubbles result, gas is leaking and said piece needs replaced before use. In this case, turn off gas tank and replace. If no bubbles, move on to test #2.

Test #2: The final test to ensure a working budagas, simply follow three easy steps:

Step One:
Flip a coin to see who gets to perform test #2. The winner of the coin toss will perform the test. The loser of the coin toss will leave the room for a safe place.

Step Two:
Pray.

Step Three:
Light a match. Apply flame to gas tank at connection point, regulator and hose. If the tank catches on fire, shoots flames, or explodes, this is a sure sign that the tank is defective. Replace, if physically capable, defective part. If nothing happens, the budagas is ready to go.

Step Seven:
Resume shower as the budagas most certainly went out following the application of shampoo to hair. Also, rinse shampoo out of eyes.

West Coast Sights and Sounds: Week 5

Backstreet’s Back
Walking through the city the other day I almost felt like I was back in America. I found this pimped out black car waiting at a stoplight. This dude had rims, tinted windows, and blue neon lights illuminating the street below him. The goofy haircut he sported easily gave away his age to the late adolescence years. This generation, like any other, often chooses the fashion trends that most easily attract the attention of those they consider elders. With the streetlights shining down and the sun long gone, he gripped the wheel with one hand and closely watched the stoplight through his black sunglasses. The roar of his engine was what first drew my gaze. What turned my gaze to a stare was what I heard after the engine relaxed to a low growl. His blaring music completed this particular experience and complemented the whole of my new life in Africa.

“Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a heartache
Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a mistake
Tell me why
I never wanna hear you say
I want it that way”

Rollerblades and Sunsets
Luke and I have made some very good friends amongst foreigners here in the city. Two of our new friends are single guys named Jeremy and Nick. After living here for a number of years, these guys have become very good at Arabic and have now begun to share their experiences and knowledge. We even had the opportunity to live with them for about 10 days between apartments.

One day Nick took Luke and I out of the city via taxi. From the cafe at the top of the mountain we gained a whole new perspective on our home. As the sun set over the water, we were blessed to carry on a spiritual conversation with our waiter, Achmed. Nick was always very intentional to come when Achmed was working. The two had built a special bond founded on their personal relationships with Christ. As Achmed shared his story, we were drawn into a new friendship that will build over the next years.

At the end of the night, we caught a new taxi back to the city. As the taxi turned into the medina, I began to hear laughing from behind. As the taxi climbed the long, steep hill I turned in my seat to see not one, but two small children holding tight to the back bumper. As I watched, a third child jumped onto the back of the train to climb the hill. With this third child I could now see that they were wearing rollerblades. In the moment of this realization the third dropped out of sight as the first two yelled back jeering at his fall. The taxi leveled off and the children began their descent down the hill speeding past us. What a great adventure to be a child in North Africa!

Business or Pleasure?

As the final beams of light passed from the sun over the Atlantic Ocean, I sat in a harness soaking up the view from 60 feet in the air. Behind me towered the rock face and below waited a forest of fresh adventure. Here, everything bears a resemblance for me, but the differences cause this life to be but a shadow of what I have known until now. These tall, green vegetations that fill the forest are easily recognizable to me as trees, but every one is tainted with a sense of the exotic. These plentiful green sprouts that expand out from the brown arms I know as leaves, but they feel different, smell different, and look slightly different.

Rappelling from the top of the mountain, I could trail the coastline south for miles. Arranged in many small clusters that appealed to my worldview as towns, small homes hugged the sea as far as I could see. These simple, one level homes boasted bright orange-brown roofs descending at 45 degree angles over white cement walls. These houses, I have found, are designed to remain cool during the hot spring, summer, and fall months, but, consequently, provide little comfort in the midst of a very cold, but short, winter.

Luke and I had come to this mountain with Daniel to learn the basics of rock climbing. The first of many weekly sessions, today we were to learn the basics of knot-tying, natural anchors, and rappelling. Living on the west coast, our country boasts three mountain ranges providing ample opportunity to lead our clientele on rock climbing expeditions. By March, Luke and I are expected to be able to aid Daniel, our professional instructor, and at some point, after a few years, we may potential become instructors as well. Not only are we learning rock climbing technique from Daniel, we are learning leadership and cultivating a Biblical view of such.

As we work with businesses, churches, vacationers, and others, the draw for the adventuresome is rock climbing while the professional needs are met with leadership training. This week's homework: learn the figure 8 knot perfectly and memorize Ephesians 6:10-18.

This is the first of many updates. Unfortunately it has been difficult to really put the time into much writing this last month (Friday makes one month we've been here). I have four posts ready to go, so they should be up within the next week. Please pray that Luke and I would manage our time well and give the Lord our firstfruits!

Winter Begets Spring

Winter seems a harsh beast, untameable. Forcibly succeeding autumn in the deep night, winter invades, covering the land with darkness. In one fell swoop she swallows up the sun with all its vitality. The howl of winter is heard for months echoing from the highest peak to the lowest valley. Her breath, a biting chill dispelling all signs of life. Woodland creatures flee to their burrows, but cannot evade the reach of her icy grip. Trees, once fruitful, are laid bare, asleep beneath sepulchres of weighty mounds of snow. Nothing escapes.


Snow covered the landscape, continuing to fall without end. I stared through the window at a bleak wall composed of millions of individual snowflakes. Sheets of pure white snow obstructed the world around me. This was just the beginning of another long, cold winter. But my winter had begun long ago. In recent months winter had looked as though spring would soon breach the horizon. But just as my Punxsutawney friend from long ago had oft aided the winter with a few last gasps, so my winter had yet delayed the coming spring.

My journey to the peak of winter had been arduous. The process continually uncertain. The trials, in their present state, seemingly unbearable. Too long had I traversed winter's dark shadow. As I walked the same trails and traveled the all too familiar valleys the shadows deepened. The mountain tops seemed higher, every day farther from my reach. For months, I yearned for the sun to shine again. Frozen in an endless winter, I searched the tundra for the meaning of my life. I have longed for the virtue described by Aristotle; virtue to discover and serve the purpose for which I had been created.

Perhaps, winter may not be so decadent as my surroundings suggest. Perhaps, the perceived deadness is, in reality, expectant life dwelling in dormant mystery. Perhaps, comparable to a season of life, winter appears cruel and destructive, but, rather, is pregnant vitality ready to emerge. Just maybe winter is not an agent of misery, but an agent of change. The difficult, painful change that brings forth new life from the womb. Perhaps, winter is a time of reflection and renewal in preparation for a fresh, colorful spring.

The white wall still fell outside my window. Not a bleak, perilous wall. But the last garrisons to fall before the rebuilding of a more glorious city. The walls fell faster. Gravity pulled me deeper into the seat. My body soon lifted as the speeding walls coalesced to appear a white fog. The mechanical drone of the landing gear now ceased. As the plane emerged from the clouds I knew that spring had returned to my life. The sun shone brightly, a banner overlooking the clear blue sky. Light poured into the cabin. Virtue awaited.

Gospel for India, Mexican Kisses, and Belgian Waffles

What could possibly add more value to 30 hours of traveling, a 12 hour layover, and near exhaustion trying to get home to Africa? Belgian waffles and a kiss from a cute Mexican girl.

It was not long into the voyage that Luke and I made our first mistake. We had set a plan and were to meet at Meredith's gate in the International Terminal at Dulles Airport. With all three planes coming in at the same time, converging on the one location, conceivably, would be simple. I certainly was not thinking that after waiting at the Frankfurt connection for a half hour. Around 4:30, Luke came waltzing by. We waited together another 20 minutes before finding that her flight had been delayed until 5:01.

With our stomachs leading the way, we found a subway with prime position to eat while watching for Meredith. When she had still not passed by 5:20 we became more curious. Back at the empty terminal for Meredith's connection, we asked the man if she had made the flight. His response? She had sprinted through a minute before we had arrived; we just missed her. That was sad, but not enough to ruin out trip. We will see her in Madrid during our March visa run.

Soon enough we were on our plane to go across the pond. Luke and I were originally separated by 30 rows, but after four or five switches we sat together in the middle of the plane next to an Indian graduate student attending Penn State. Rohan and I quickly found that we had much in common. The conversation had not gathered much steam before the Holy Spirit prompted me to share my testimony. Amazingly, my new friend was very open to the truth as revealed by my personal experience. We had a very enjoyable discussion concerning truth and our personal beliefs. I had a number of opportunities to share truth which spurred questions for him. Before he left to sit a few rows away where his long legs could stretch out, we exchanged emails with the intention of connecting again later.

The sleepless seven hour flight provided the platform by which Luke and I could reconnect after our two week hiatus from fellowship. We talked, read, and tried to sleep. Arriving in Brussels, Belgium with eyes heavy we began to plan out our adventure. We quickly worked through the logistics to store our extra carry-on luggage and find the bus into Brussels (Or, Luxembourg as some call it). Unfortunately, our valiant adventure into the unknown city of Brussels quickly proved anticlimactic. The European quarter where our bus line ended was quaint and devoid of interesting shops or restaurants. We found that the best use of our Euros to get there was to sit on the bus and nap for the next hour and a half before picking up our luggage and heading to the gate that we found would not open for another four hours. We were stuck outside the airport with nowhere to go.

The train had been recommended to us, but it was more expensive and we had already paid for the bus tickets. With both of us lackadaisical and indecisive, a reinstatement of executive decision was the necessary catalyst to set us off on our next adventure. Basically, we ended up just telling each other to suck it up and go. A few obstacles now stood between us and a second chance at Belgian waffles. The first of which required Luke to sweet talk the middle-aged Belgian woman whom we had just 15 minutes ago paid for storing our extra luggage. He was impeccable, it was the performance of his Belgian career. The next obstacle was solving the puzzle of the train situation, in the language Nederlands. I quickly made friends with Robin, the English-speaking ticket guy at the train station. Not only did he save us a few Euros on our tickets, he pointed us in the right direction to get on our train.

Waiting for the train, I met a Belgian-, French-, and Spanish-speaking Italian girl. I quickly struck up conversation as she was more than willing to help me find my way to the correct train and on to find my Belgian waffles. While I talked to her, Luke was making headway in conversation with an older Mexican couple from Guadalajara. As the train was boarded we both lost contact with our respective friends and found ourselves sitting alone, half-asleep, staring blankly out the window of the train.

"Hola, como estas?" Back in reality, two Mexican girls, in their early twenties, stood before us staring at Luke, mostly. Luke, like a champ, carried a pretty impressive Spanish conversation with the two girls who were obviously enamored with his boyish charm and man-of-mystery air. As he wrote down his email address, almost as an afterthought, they asked for mine as well. The next barrier they broke with me first before moving on to my studly partner. As they left, the first, then the second, hugged me and followed with a kiss on the cheek. When they left, my head swelled slightly before Luke explained that this was the custom for saying goodbye in Guadalajara. In the end, there is no sharp disagreement amongst our partnership. I am certain of their obvious inclination to Luke, while he is fairly certain of their unending love for me. The truth we may never know.

As the train pulled into Central Station we quickly rescinded our comments concerning how quaint and uneventful Brussels seemed. We had entered a whole new Brussels full of people, restaurants, shops, and Christmas lights. It was not long before we found the ideal location to satiate our Belgian waffle appetite. Seated on the crowded second floor of a local restaurant we enjoyed our Belgian waffles that boasted little more than a name, but they hit the spot. The hot chocolate syrup that had covered our waffles proved to give enough of a sugar rush to conclude our stay in Brussels with the subsequent crash negating all memory of a three hour plane ride to Africa.

Our Belgian adventure had come to an end. An adventure it was, but tiny in scale to that which it precluded...

On a Less Serious Note: Defense

I love baseball. I love giving 110% and I love seeing other people give 110%. In fact, I'm the guy who plays second base in one of the city's summer leagues that just can't seem to leave a game without bleeding from somewhere. If the ball is remotely close, I'm diving for it. Sometimes my efforts pay off, sometimes not.

A few weeks ago we were in a close game with a rival team. In the top of the third inning they came up to bat. With two men on and one out, the batter hit a line drive that looked as if it would go perfectly through the infield. Playing second base at the time, I saw the ball come off the bat and immediately took a large step out of my ready stance. I planted my left foot and fully extended my body towards left field. At the peak of my extension, I felt the pull of my glove towards center field as I crashed to the dirt. From the ground, I flipped the ball up to the shortstop standing at second base just a second too late for the double play as the runner had been alert and not advanced more than a few steps. As I got up, I brushed the dirt off the front of my shirt and wiped away some blood from my knee. With one out left, there was more defense to be had.

I love baseball and if I'm relegated to playing slow pitch softball or even cricket until I'm an old man, then so be it. But I love the game. And I love great defense. So here are the best defensive plays in the major leagues for the month of July. Thanks to ESPN, here's the video.

A Shallow Post For AnneMarie... *wink*

I'm not hyper-spiritual. I'm not overly pious. And, I'm definitely not the holier-than-thou type. The truth is, I'm a normal guy. At least, according to some definitions of normal. But the point is this: I'm a mess, the chief of sinners. I'm just your typical guy with one very distinct difference: I love Jesus.

I'm a normal guy. And, I'm a pastor. I don't have a church yet, but I'm a pastor. Have you ever put your pastor on a pedestal and just brushed him aside as the "spiritual" guy? Have you ever thought that your pastor was definitely NOT normal? Well, that's not me. I sometimes wonder if I'm too goofy and quirky for a church to throw into their pulpit every Sunday. But the truth of the matter is that Christians are in the world to love the world. I'm a stranger in this world, but that can't keep me from relating to the world. Let me share a piece of my normal, down-to-earth life with you.

So I work third shift. I'm basically a glorified janitor driving around all night with a street sweeper cleaning shopping centers. On one particular December night, the weather was unseasonably warm, warm enough for me to not be alone. It had been nearly a month since we had last met, but they were back. I couldn't believe my very eyes; they had returned. It was 2 a.m. and my arch-nemeses stood, or waddled, before me. I had thought this pack of geese had moved south with the cold, but yet here they were staring me down.

The leader of the pack gave me "the look." You know exactly what look I'm talking about. He stared me straight in the eyes from across the parking lot with that come-and-try-to-get-a-piece-of-this-so-I-can-rough-up-your-feathers look. He meant business, but I was ready for him. I revved up my engine and shot off across the asphalt with one thing in mind: survival of the fittest.

I went straight into the middle of them with geese scattering everywhere in a cloud of feathers, ruffled feathers that is. That's right, they were defeated, but I had to crush their spirits. As the geese lifted off they formed a giant V, fleeing towards safety and the night stars. I slammed the breaks, jumping out of the truck with a "YEEHAW!" that would have woken the dead. You know, it didn't, of course, because the dead are already awake at 2 a.m. I mean, everybody knows that. I took off running after the V, "That's right!!! That's right!!! Fly away, fly away, and don't y'all come back ya hear!!!"

That kinda gives me away, I suppose. I am a country boy. That may disqualify me from being normal, but I will still insist that I'm just a typical guy, though a little goofy. I have a good feeling that its the same for your pastor. He's probably just a typical country bumpkin who loves Jesus. So next Sunday, when you're sitting in church, just think of geese, country boys, and big street sweepers, and for heaven's sake, listen to the sermon!

Fine print: No undead (zombies, vampires, werewolves, etc) were harmed in the making of this blog, except the one but he will remain nameless due to legalities and the impending lawsuit. Also, this blog is dolphin safe...