Agnate Manifest

I'm still seeking inspiration for my blog. Maybe it's time to talk about what's happening in the family life. Or not. Hmm.

What does it mean for a father when his eleven year old son states, "Your authority is getting in the way of the things I want to do."? Apparently there is either a lack of understanding or a poor example. It's difficult to cry "Rebellion" when the citizens have been left to care for themselves too long without a magistrate.

I think I'm spending too much time at work.

Selah.

For the record, this is NOT a patriarchal arrangement.

As long as we are considering it, what is the role of the Holy Spirit in the life of the Reformed/Covenantal believer? What do cessationists REALLY believe about the gifts of the Holy Spirit? What about the fruits of the Holy Spirit? If the gifts are gone, can the fruits still be applicable? Isn't that spiritual selective amnesia?

I'm working my way through Gary North's "Unholy Spirits", written in the mid-80s. A little more than I was expecting in terms of narrative. He spends a LOT of time expounding on all the spooky stuff, bordering (IMHO) on more than necessary. Apparently he wrote it in part as evidence to those who are skeptic concerning the existence of The Dark Side. Appears I'm going to have to dig through all the ancillaries (spontaneous human combustion, UFOs, psychic surgery, pyramids sharpening razor blades, etc.) to get to the doctrinal statements. It's very thick book ... in a lot of ways. Seems a guy who cites Ockham's Razor would be willing to weild it on his own manuscript, no?

My ISP deleted all my web site files after an accounting error (that was my mistake). So this is a test of the FTP feature to see if we're back online.

I'm reading a summary biography on John Calvin. I find it interesting that he studied Law before he wrote his defense of Grace. Talk about things that make you say, "Hmmm ...".

I'm listening to talk radio on the way to work. Nothing of any great import, really. Then a commercial break. The usual furniture sales, car sales, dental services, etc., right? Nope. Try a full 60 second advert for Viagra. "Restore intimacy in your marriage! Feel like a man again! Live life to the fullest! Be happy! Ask your doctor about Viagra!" Chah. Hokay.

As if that were not enough, what is next on the commercialism wagon? A public service announcement for the "Just Say No to Drugs" campaign! That's good there, Mr. Ad Executive! Make sure that Mom and Dad keep their kids off drugs, but tell them that a little blue pill can revolutionize their life.

Now I'm wondering how many hundreds of thousands of people in Houston the irony was lost on.

So I'm out in front of my house, sweeping the driveway and psyching myself up to clean out the garage. The power was out up and down the street, so my attempts to install the commenting system were kaput. As a pre-cleaning measure (to show I meant business), I pulled the sailboats out of the garage and parked the trailer off to the side.

The neighbor kid (about 7 years old) comes out and starts riding his Razor scooter around the cul-de-sac. He sees me sweeping and drives up. We have a short chat about how the electricity is out, and maybe somebody knocked down an power line, or the power plant was having problems. In the classic twenty-first century etiquette, he's looking everywhere but at my face during our conversation. His eyes light on the boats, and he gets this really violated look on his face.

Him: "Aw, man. That's not fair."

Me: "What's not fair?"

Him: "You have those boats."

Me: "What's not fair about that?"

Him: "I don't have any boats. I just have a car. I should have boats, too."

The little guy jumped on his scooter and kicked off across the street in a huff. He was really upset about the inequity of the situation, and it was obvious he couldn't do a thing about it. I found myself emotionally torn between chasing him down; either to lecture him on the fact that life isn't ever going to be fair, or to promise him that I will take him on a sailboat ride very, very soon. Instead, I watched him skate away with a cocktail of sorrow and gratitude churning in my gut.

We have certain standards in our family that separate us (in some very simple ways) from the rest of society. My girls don't wear shorts in public. We don't have a television. We homeschool. My children call me, "Sir", and my wife, "Ma'am." In many ways, they could look at the lives of our neighbors and say, "Aw, man. That's not fair." But they don't. At least I've never heard them express dissatisfaction in those terms.

My little neighbor boy is a single child in a single-parent family. He most likely has cable TV, an X-Box or a PlayStation, videos and DVDs coming out his ears, and every action figure ever offered on the market. And yet, he feels slighted because he doesn't have two beat up, 20-year old hunks of fiberglass.

Resolved: to be grateful. To not covet. To relish the present and not regret the past so much that I wind up missing something special. To keep my perspective untainted by greed. To leave well enough alone the ancillary accoutrements of life and enjoy what I have. And, if providence will permit, to clean out the garage.

The men of my church were recently discussing quite effectively the subject of cessationism. I've been extremely encouraged in this discussion, because it is apparent that the usual "is to - is not" sandlot arguments are being shunned for true exegesis and sincere desire to get to the bottom of the issue (if there is one). I must admit I have had more questions on this topic than I have answers, and at times I've not been able to follow the conversation as closely as I'd like. For the last year or so, however, this debate has echoed in my mind and heart as a classic half-full versus half-empty argument. In blatant avoidance of the current debate, I ask a tangential and yet practical question: what is in the glass?

I'm working on a commenting system that is compatible with BLOGGER. It is a CGI based system that appears fairly simple to install. The only problem I'm having is that I think my ISP is the one who has control over the cgi-bin directory my web site is hosted on. And their tech support line doesn't open until 10 AM on Saturdays. That's what I get for using dial-up and trying to protect my family from obscene material. C'est la vie.

Comments are working. Anyone taking advantage of this feature must promise to use them for good and not for evil.

I don't listen regularly to mainstream music radio. Much of the time, I consume talk radio or Eighties Oldies during my ten-minute commute to work. I'm am hideously reactionary in my auditory diet. I love the familiar and the predictable.

Periodically, however, in a fit of artistic boredom, I will "surf" the airwaves - setting my radio in "scan" mode and stopping whenever I hear something interesting. This is how I've discovered such delightful little tunes as "Beer for My Horses" and "The Ketchup Song", not to mention entire programs like "Thistle and Shamrock" and "Car Talk". (For anyone who wonders, I've known about A Prairie Home Companion for decades.) Something (a lyric, a guitar riff, a rythym, etc.) catches my ear and I listen.

This morning I left the driveway in a state of nostalgic angst - remembering the good times and in a funk because they seem so drastically far gone. (Am I going through a mid-life slump, or is there more to this than I can see?) My question/prayer was: what the heck is going on here? Where is my joy?

More out of habit than interest, I flipped on the radio and punched around on the presets without finding anything really gratifying. In the subsequent "scan", I found this gem:

I am a one way motorway
I'm the one that drives away
then follows you back home
I am a street light shining
I'm a wild light blinding bright
burning off alone

it's times like these you learn to live again
it's times like these you give and give again
it's times like these you learn to love again
it's times like these time and time again

I am a new day rising
I'm a brand new sky
to hang the stars upon tonight
I am a little divided
do I stay or run away
and leave it all behind?

it's times like these you learn to live again
it's times like these you give and give again
it's times like these you learn to love again
it's times like these time and time again

Foo Fighters
One By One

I'm not really sure of the Foo Fighters' theology, but it is apparent that they understand the concept of sacrificial love. And perseverance. Enduring to the end. Not being ashamed. In amongst all the poetry lies four simple lines that shook me out of my morning fog.

Maybe this is lost on everybody but me, but it's worth remembering. If we die, we have to learn to live again. If our love is taken advantage of, we are compelled to find a way to apply it in its purity and grace to others without expectation. Our storehouse may be empty, but there is always something you can find to give away. This is the Christian life in all its elementary glory. This is message of the Cross to those who are perishing, and the glory of the Cross for those who believe.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for your gracious creation of the simple intellect of Messrs. Grohl, Mendel, Hawkins & Shiflett. I may still be tired, but I'm wide awake.

Whether we want to admit it or not, we are all selling something. Every day of our lives, we are trying to convince somebody somewhere that what we have to offer is the best thing going. Our ideas. Our family life. Our hobbies. Our theology. Nobody wants to be left behind, rejected or turned down. We live our lives with an undercurrent of insecurity about something, and spend a significant amount of time and energy making sure we are acceptable to the rest of the world.

As far as I can see, there is no intrinsic evil in this, outside of the fact that we are self-centered and egotistical, which makes for bad relationships (but great passion for the product). This is a part of our fallen race, and we should kick against the goads for sure. But beyond the ongoing transformation of the human psyche from selfish to selfless, the fact is inescapable.

The interesting thing is to compare each individual's "marketing strategy". Some are image-conscious, and make sure the package is picture perfect and the branding is flawless. Others believe that those who want the goods will come and get them, and those who don't will move along down the road. Still others spend a lot of time in market analysis, finding out the needs of their "customers" and making sure they fit the profile. At the bottom of the heap are the used car salesmen: the scammers and the B.S. artists - those who are selling something they don't really have only to get what they want.

The analogies are endless. But suffice it to say that the people who are genuinely concerned about customer service are the people everyone wants to be around. They are the buyers. They are willing to put their product aside long enough to examine and appreciate what someone else is offering. Come to think of it, the true "service-oriented" people are brokers - they know how to hook people up with each other so that all the parties get their needs met.

The "servant leadership" concept only works if you really take on the attitude of a servant. If you try to lead people by serving them, then you are really just using service as a tool of manipulation. If you are really serving them, then you're getting their goals, dreams and ambitions accomplished using all your resources without concern for your own benefit. You are either the waiter or the diner, the shoe shine boy or the executive.

I find it much easier to write about the trivia of life than I do the serious stuff. Am I more of a secular person than I think? Maybe this is the struggle between the old and the new man - the consuming of the lusts vs. the purposeful mortifying of the flesh - at work in my self-expression.

Knowing that people are reading this makes feeds my ego. I want to be contraversial. Witty. Undeniably original and iconoclastic. Entertaining. And most of all: accepted. The fact that there truly is nothing new under the sun is a disappointment, but it keeps me focused on my chief end.

I'm reading "The Island of Doctor Moreau" by H.G. Wells, for the first time. Now I know where the phrase, "The House of Pain" originated. It all makes sense: sports and vivisection. How quaint. It's also eerie how the subservient nature of the creatures on the island counterpoints that of Smeagol in The Lord of the Rings.

Thank God that even though we are all beast/man or Gollum/Smeagol, we have Someone who truly loves us and faithfully extends grace to us. He only requires worship that comes from a sincere heart of worship rather than a flattering, fawning obesiance or a stringent adherence to the legal code.

"We loves the Master. The Master is good."
"This is the law!"
"For by grace are ye saved ... not of yourselves ... it is the gift of God."

Ah, so much relevance in the air this morning.

When does "pressing on" turn into being "weary in well-doing"? When does working long hours away from your family to eak out a living make sense? Why not live in a van down by the river and eat grubs and homeschool the "natural" way? I'm not in need of sympathy, really. I am in need of rest.

There are nights when I have dreams of exercising the depths of my depravity and awake awash with the horror of it. There are days when I can't shake the bitter feeling of being victimized by people who said they loved me and manipulated me for their own pleasure. There are moments when I entertain ideas and ambitions that make me shiver at my selfishness and pride. There are times when "falling away" seems much easier and more attractive than "pressing on".

I'm experiencing writer's block in my articulation of this thought. Suffice it to say that I am weary. I am tired. I am doubtful. I am a man of unclean lips. The sweat of my brow isn't yielding enough bread, and I'm beginning to second guess my position in the kingdom.

So why do I not turn away? What is it that keeps motivating me to claw my way to the cross? What is it that calls me heavenward? While the Westminster Confession of Faith attempts to explain it, this truly remains a mystery to me.

And the mystery compounds itself when I find myself exhausted at trying to do the right thing.

I spent last night talking to an old and dear friend with whom I share many convictions and passions. He posed the following question:

Will people think I'm crazy if I buy a 38 foot sailboat? Am I insane to do something like that if I can genuinely afford the payments?

My response was, "What is it that you are already doing to make people think you aren't crazy?"

There is very little that is ordinary about this man. This man owns and operates a family business. He has seven kids. He and his wife homeschool all of them. His children are taught to obey the first time an instruction is given. They actually DO obey the first time an instruction is given (most of the time). He doesn't put his kids in Sunday School. They all sit with him and his wife in the worship service. Quietly. Orderly. Joyfully.

His boys race small sailboats as a part of their "physical education". He races small sailboats in his spare time. His wife loves to sail (and is proficient at it). His fourteen year old son makes very convincing knight's armor (including helmets, shields, scabbards, etc) out of duct tape and cardboard - something my twelve-year-old son is mad for at this stage in his lfe.

Our conversation got me thinking: am I doing anything that makes people think I'm crazy? What distinguishes me from the madding crowd? Where is the joyful insanity that comes from pursuing your passions regardless of what people think?

My friend is a man's man. He is also a boy's father. And a wife's husband. He incites me to excellence. He encourages me by his presence to be more than I am. He is a commoner who is uncommon in every aspect of his life.

Buy the sailboat, my friend. Buy it because you will use it. Because your family will remember the myriad of joys and adversities they faced while cementing the family identity. Buy the boat because your six boys need to know how to lead. How to captain. How to make decisions that involve the lives of others. They also need to know what it's like to stand in the bow pulpit with the waves crashing over them, howling at the top of their lungs because the exhileration and the fear will testify to them that they are alive in God's creation.

And if you have space on that boat for another lunatic, call me. Please. I want to go crazy with you.

Why to married men take out the trash? Vacuum? Do laundry? Dishes? Is it because they are mysteriously drawn to these tasks by some great fascination with housework? Are they enamored with the ideas of vanquishing house dust and bringing order from the chaos of four, five, seven or ten children? Are they intrigued by the mystique of power tools of a different ilk: things that don't produce messes (sawdust, oil, grease, paint, etc.), but rather cause them to disappear? Not according to some.

The answer (according to some) is points. Points is what you accumulate for doing things you feel you shouldn't be obligated to do. Apparently your wife notices this, and, depending on the significance of the task, or the extent of the sacrifice, you are awarded a certain number of points. You never know how many, but you certainly know when they are awarded, and you REALLY know if they've been taken away.

If you do enough "good stuff", then supposedly you can cash in these points for certain activities. Nights out wisexth the boys. An extra sex-pack of beer. A Cansexadian hunting trip. A sexy new fishing boat. A 2,000 horsesexpower table saw/router combisexnation with matching drillsexpress and lathe. Occasionally, from what I understand, there are opportunities to leverage points for physical affection, too.

On the flip side, there seems to be a liability to this system as well. Actively projecting enough "bad stuff" can result in some less ideal activities: Slnosexeeping on the couch. Long monosexments of silence. Coldno sexmeals. Lack of intimacy in a myriad of ways. At least that's how some people say it goes.

From what I've heard, there is very little reciprocity. The wife is not expected to earn points. The man is NOT supposed to award points. In fact such activity falls into the "bad stuff" category if he is caught keeping score.

Here's a novel idea, people. How's about if the man loves his wife the way Christ loved the Church, and gave Himself up for her? What if he were to look not only on his own interests, but also on the interests of others. What if he didn't think equality with God something to be grasped and took on the form of a servant?

A man who is married is providentially blessed simply in the fact that God saw fit to put an overwhelmingly complex and beautiful creature in his life. If he is concerning himself solely with the task of "getting lucky" in the midst of this lifelong covenant, he is sorely missing the point (pun expressly intended). By the world's standards, if God has joined him with a woman of even the remotest inkling of noble character, he is already lucky.

Women look at the outward appearance. God looks on the heart. A man who enters marriage with a lecherous intent and does so under the auspices of Christianity is doomed, because God will inevitably show his heart to his wife. And that, Mr. Spiffy, is the unsexiest thing there is on the earth. The heart of a man.

I've been married thirteen years. I have four children. As a husband, I've been a worm and less than a man in many respects. But this much I've learned, ladies and germs: there is no point system that is a reliable and suitable substitute for sacrifice. And if you can die with consistency and complete abandonment, you will find a playing field where there is no scoreboard, the game is more fun, and the boundary lines are drawn in pleasant places.

This is a permalink test for Theognome. It appears to be working.

There are those who blog for others, and those who blog for themselves. I blog for myself with the uneasy awareness that others are watching, and the hopeful insecurity that they will like what they read and come back for more. Couple this with the fact that I have very little time on my hands to blog, and there emerges the age old irony of true insecurity: I want you to like me, but I don't have time to explain why you should. Selah.

I've decided that attending "The Gospel of John" would be a violation of the Second Commandment. I was persuaded of this fact by John Calvin's commentary on the subject. This is probably going to get some odd looks from Christians I know, but I am firmly persuaded that I would rather know Christ and the power of His resurrection than go and watch a movie about it, no matter how "word for word" it is.

We are too easily swayed by visual images to think that we can watch such a film unscathed. Our bias towards a certain represenation of Christ (that is inaccurate at best) can only influence us in the wrong direction.

I'm developing a rather long explanation of this that I will post here later.

I've said it once, and I will say it again: there are people who work so hard at not being an inconvenience that they are annoying.

Last night we went over to a dear friend's house for an evening of Reformation-era food, a play, some fun games and a lot of really good conversation. And wine. Some really, really good wine. Probably the most enjoyable aspect of the night was sitting around the coffee table for a number of hours talking about the Body of Christ, the state of the Church, and many other things mixed with the bouquet of Cabernet Sauvignon. Nobody got drunk, but everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. I can't help but think there was a holy and sweet aroma lingering in Heaven's Throne Room from the whole evening.

On another note: as we were singing A Mighty Fortress Is Our God", I noticed that Martin Luther mentioned "the Spirit and the gifts" being ours. I'm curious as to what he thought about the gifts of the Spirit. Must do some research on that one now.

Ahh, Reformation. How I love ya, how I love ya!

I'm thinking of changing the title of this blog to "A Saturday Morning Agnate". Seems like the only time I have to sit down and meditate on things is during this particular window. By the time I'm out of bed, cursorily showered and at the computer, it is usually 10:00 or later. Then I must pay the bills, check the email, and read the blogs of others. In the current analysis, I'm thinking I should save the last bit for a reward to myself after producing something cogent.

I really love to write. There is something joyful about sitting at the keyboard and pounding out something that is at least comprehensible, and at its best, moving to those who read it. A part of me sometimes wants to lock myself in a room with a laptop, turn off the phone, and hammer away for days. I am acutely aware, however, that I am a married man with four kids and a bathtub full of responsibilities. Therefore, I find myself doing what I don't want to do, because it is important.

In the halls of history, one can find numerous artists and authors who produced massive amounts of stuff. The truly memorable ones produced an inordinate amount of good stuff.

I like G.K. Chesterton for this reason. He really didn't write so much for a market. He wrote because he knew how to write, and because he had something to say. If you read him for very long, you will come to the conclusion that he was not writing for "his audience". He was a man standing on an orange crate in the town square, speaking frankly and passionately to anyone who would listen about things that he determined were important. Not having read his fiction yet, I would assume that he took the same approach: telling stories because they were "tellable", not because he had a following who he felt obligated to entertain.

Blogging gives one that freedom, but the amount of meditation and preparation that goes into a blog is less structured and/or productive, because the writer is writing extemporaneously, shooting from the hip or moving in a stream of consciousness that makes a point (or several points) but doesn't necessarily lead anyone to a final conclusion.

I'm sure there are literary blogs, and educational blogs, etc. It would be nice to find someone who is using the blog format for something a tad more productive than creating an online diary for others to read.

From my "Murphy's Law" desk calendar:

Dykstra's Law: Everybody is somebody else's weirdo.

Talk about self-realization.

I've noticed a pattern in my life that I can't deny. There is a law at work in my members, and it's not necessarily a bad one. It follows the same vein as Paul's conundrum (i.e., "that which I don't want to do I do, etc.), though it is actually an antithesis to his problem: I end up doing those things for which I have a passion or to which I am called, no matter how far away from those things I find myself in any given situation.

Case in point: about this time last year I left a consulting job at an IT professional services company to take a job with a mortgage broker who needed help managing their loan processing group. I made the move because I saw clear potential both in the professional and financial aspects of what the mortgage company had to offer. There were no hard feelings or animus towards the consulting company. I saw an opportunity to make an exponential move, and so I took it. Strictly a business decision.

In the following months, I found myself making good money, but terribly unhappy in my work. My lack of knowledge about the mortgage industry proved to be an overwhelming liability, and after about six months the owners of the company decided to move me to something that I knew more about: customer service. I ended up being the "manager" in the operative phrase, "your company stinks! Let me talk to a manager!" Now I know why they pay people to jump out of airplanes to fight forest fires.

As the company evolved, I worked to contribute my skillset wherever possible. I used my knowledge of desktop publishing to produce some brochures and flyers. I used my process knowledge to make recommendations and suggestions about improvements. But I wasn't really being paid to do any of this. I was being paid to fight fires and handle the carp (sinc) that kept the owners of the company from focusing on growing the business. A noble task, but one I wasn't too keen on in the first place.

Last Friday, I get called into a meeting with the owners. They start asking me questions like, "Do you know how to work Microsoft Access? Can you do a cost analysis on telemarketing? How many reports can we get out of a database that tracks our lead management?" And so on. It was like they had suddenly pulled my resume' out of the drawer and realized, "This guy has more business experience than we remembered."

So now I'm back to doing what I was doing before I made the move. It is essentially the thing I've ended up doing for every company I've worked for, regardless of the original purpose for which they've hired me: I'm documenting business processes and working on improving productivity within an organization. I'm contributing to the growth and effectiveness of a company at the middle to upper management level. I'm no longer the guardian of the gate. I'm oiling the gate so it opens and closes faster and more efficiently. This is the task for which I was born. At least that's my perception.

It is times like this when there is no doubt in my mind that God knows the desires of my heart and is willing to facilitate their manifestation, despite my past expressions of discontent, rebellion and waning faithfulness to the people He's given me as an employer.

There is a similar vein of beneficent providence in the area of ministry. In every church I've been in, there's been a consistent message from those in authority: you should be in ministry/leadership. It's like I have a sign on my forehead. I'm not sure the contents of the sign, but whatever it contains compells men to pick me out of a crowd and delegate me for Christian service.

There was a time when this was flattering, and ego-feeding. I loved to be called. I enjoyed being chosen. I was ecstatic about being moved to the head of the class, so to speak. I leapt at every opportunity, especially when it was afforded me by influential men. I reliished it, and answered each delegation and/or promotion with exuberance. In addition, I found a great degree of satisfaction in "doing the work of the ministry." I led Sunday School, foreign mission trips, and mid-week home groups in a pastoral capacity, and witnessed the transforming power of the Holy Spirit in the lives of many people.

My error was twofold: first of all, I put my trust in the wisdom of fallible men, to the point where I found myself blinded to the truth of their fallibility. This put me in the nasty position of defending and protecting a man who needed to be held accountable for his actions. Secondly, I did not examine myself or the circumstances of my life (family, work, etc.) to determine the feasibility of my service. Both of these things caused a number of serious problems in relationships.

So now I'm in a new church. I'm studying doctrine. I'm fellowshipping with people who share my convictions and lifestyle. And, once again, I'm being approached with the statement: you should be in leadership. You should be preparing for ministry. You are called.

The difference this time is in the context of these statements. The people saying them expect me to examine myself. They require more in terms of preparation. They are aware of the gravity of their position, and their responsibility to the universal Church. They are not being flattering. They are being exacting in their expression of what they believe to be the Truth. Ergo, they are being honest and faithful to what God is showing them.

Now I find myself in a state of exuberant reluctance. Exuberant because once again I'm being asked to do what I love: to inspire and encourage people to love God and enjoy Him forever. Reluctanct because I am now aware of the awesome responsibility of such a calling and my insufficiency to fulfill it. There is an insecurity that says, "You are going to screw this up, again." and a confidence that says, "You know this is what you are supposed to be doing." I think I understand why John Knox was found hiding on the day of his ordination. He was responding to the law of gravity. I don't know if I can be any less cowardly against the sovereignty of God, but I'm going to try.

I wonder if there have been any studies on the performance of the brain in cold weather? When I left the house today, it was about 60-something degrees, and the sun was shining brightly. I'd had a restful night, but I was feeling more alert than I've felt in a long time. Apparently this "weather cocktail" is having some positive effect.

If you are sitting in a sushi bar listening to Nora Jones, how does the hypostatic union apply to you? I gave the explanation a shot.

I have a casual black pullover that is comfortable and looks really good on me. It especially looks good when worn with a pair of olive green khaki pants. I feel confident when I wear it, because I feel hip, handsome and trendy. I also have beard dandruff. Do the math.

Saturday was an abnormally relaxing day. Isaiah turned ten, and had a couple of his friends over for the party. We did the normal balloons, streamers, and so on. Not anything big in the way of production.

In terms of gifts, however, we went to the hilt. It was my intention this year to give my boys gifts that represent manhood, responsibility, and the fact that I see them growing in both. Joshua (who turned twelve) received a wristwatch and a razor sharp Gerber pocketknife. He was successfully overwhelmed.

Isaiah is a tad harder to overwhelm. He is sneaky, and therefore understands sneakiness. He has a clairvoyant quality to him (i.e., he knows people), and that makes him hard to suprise. It's like he sees it coming.

So this year we bought him a pocket watch, a suction cup crossbow, and a Soft-Air pistol. The latter being my gift to him personally. The idea being that he would demonstrate how responsible he can be with a handgun that actually shoots things, and we would discuss his acquisition of a Ruger 10/22 at length based on his performance.

Before he opened his presents, I gave a little speech to him in front of the family and his friends about how proud I was of him. I explained the areas where I saw him maturing, and explained to him the level of responsibility I felt I could trust him with based on this maturity. I challenged him to continue to work towards manhood, and encouraged him to honor God in everything he did.

The gifts all had the expected effect, and he was giddy over the gun especially. He immediately took it outside and began firing at cans, trees, and everything imaginable that wasn't breathing and moving. He was very generous in sharing with his guests and his siblings. He said "Thank you" to me about ten times in two hours. It was clear he was having a happy birthday.

But the thing that made an impression on me occurred near the end of the day. We were lounging around the living room, with a fire going in the fireplace. He and his brother were having a suction cup dart crossbow accuracy contest - shooting darts at the front door. He came over to me, excited because he'd beaten his brother in a game of marksmanship. He went through his blow by blow description, I congratulated him on his victory and his sportsmanship, and he leaned on the couch near me, like he wasn't quite ready to jump back in to the frivolity.

"You know, Dad," he said in a serious and contemplative tone, "ever since you gave me that gun, I've been feeling ... well ... more responsible. Like you really trust me." Sometimes teachable moments have a way of sneaking up on you. They also have a way of making your eyes water and a golf ball-size lump rise up in your craw, making it difficult to communicate. All I could manage in that moment was a, "That's great, son." I suppose that's all he needed, because he immediately grinned his big, "This is an awesome day." grin and ran off to shoot darts with his brother again.

So now I'm the proud father of a boy who really gets it: I love him and trust him and fully expect him to act with maturity while he is still a boy. He ten years old and ten feet tall, and someday he really will be ready to take on the world.

"More PT, sir, more PT! We like it! We love it! We need more of it!"

Some years ago, I heard this chant from a group of military guys in some documentary on boot camp, the Seals, or OCS or something. It's been rolling over and over in my head for the past two days.

The holidays are reeking havoc on my physique. This time last year, I was working out two times a day, rigorously following the Body for Life manner of eating, and really enjoying being thin, buff and not back looking for a corn fed son of a pig farmer from Indiana. In about 5 months, I lost 30 pounds of ugly fat.

Well, it seems I've found the ugly fat under a rock somewhere, and it unexplainably re-attached itself to the host. I have rich foods, fine wines, a wife who is a heckuva cook and imported brew to thank. Coupled with my passion for all good things in moderate excess, I'm looking more and more like the pre-Subway Jared, and I don't like it.

On Tuesday, our company will receive a visit from a representative of 24 Hour Fitness. Seems the owners of the company purchased a platinum membership thingy for the company, and we can enroll without paying the usual setup fees. A nominal month to month payment - pay as you go - and we have access to all the sweat-inducing, muscle-cramping, no-pain-no-gain plethora of torture machines we can stand. Not to mention the spin classes (which is apparently a new term for riding a stationary bike) and aerobics we can stomach.

I am so there. It will good to be thin again.

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the loins of Rum and Monkey.

You are Ludwig II, the Swan King of Bavaria!

Born with the name of Otto, you became Ludwig at the request of your grandfather, King Ludwig I, because you were born on his birthday. You became Crown Prince at the tender age of 3, and soon after stole a purse from a shop on the basis that everything in Bavaria belonged to you. Tragedy struck when your pet tortoise was taken away; relatives thought the six-year-old prince was too attached to it. Your childhood was lonely and formal. Once, you were prevented from beheading your younger brother by the timeous arrival of a court official. From the age of 14 you suffered from hallucinations.

Despite striking an imposing figure with your great height and good looks, your speeches were pompous to the point of incomprehensibility. You became even more of a recluse, often spending hours reading poetry in a seashell-shaped boat in your electrically-illuminated underground grotto.

You are most famous for building three fairytale castles - Linderhof, Neuschwanstein and Herrenchiemsee - at tremendous public expense. Declared insane and confined to your bedroom by concerned (and embarrassed) subjects, you escaped on 13 June 1886, but were later found drowned with your physician in Lake Stamberg in mysterious circumstances.

I'm a father. I'm a husband. I have a gym membership. I have a job. I have another job. I'm researching and writing a six week class on the inward and outward working of the Holy Spirit. It's Christmas, and I have my hands full. I can't wait for next week. I'm on vacation. From one of my jobs.

Here are a number of useless holiday-related Shockwave/Flash web sites I've collected.

Make a Snowflake
Snowcraft
Snow Globe

These are time drains extraordinaire. You've been warned.

My vacation was too short and far too busy. Not that I'm really complaining. We started last weekend off with the classic company Christmas party on Friday night. There was a very good Motown band that performed instrumental jazz during dinner, then entertained us with some a capella and full band numbers: everything from "Mustang Sally" to "Grapevine" to "The Tracks of My Tears". Everyone seemed to have a good time, even during the dinner roll food fight and the various impromptu Nerf gun assassinations.

Saturday we put up the tree, spending far too much time wondering what colors we should use for our theme this year. In years past we've settled for a "childproof" tree - cloth ornaments, paper snowflakes, and not much of a unifying element. This year we finally went classy with the gold and white ribbons, and wine colored glass balls. The kiddie stuff was banished to the archives in the interest of a more "grown-up" theme. The children bought the concept, and loved it.

Saturday evening was a wonderful time of carolling at Jonathan and Racheal's house. We went through their neighborhood, stopping at houses and singing. Very few people were in the spirit of the season, so we mostly stood in the street and sang at their houses with little to no reaction. The evening ended with the die-hards (of whom I am one) standing in the middle of an intersection and singing "The Day is Past and Gone" in four part harmony and with great gusto. Unforgettable moment, for what reason I can't really say. The song is hardly a Christmas tune, but it seemed so very right to be standing under the stars with fellow Christians (reformed, post-millenialists, no less), proclaiming to this very humbug neighborhood our commitment to King Jesus.

The day is past and gone
The ev'ning shades appear;
O may we all remember well
The night of death draws near.

We lay our garments by,
And on our beds we rest;
So death will soon disrobe us all
Of what we here possess.

Lord, keep up safe this night,
Secure from all our fears;
May angels guard us while we sleep,
Till morning light appears.

And when we early rise,
And view th' unwearied sun,
May we press on to reach the prize,
And after glory run.

And when our days are past,
And we from time remove,
O may we in thy bosom rest,
The bosom of thy love.

- John Leland, 1792

Sunday was a relatively normal Lord's Day, with rest as the goal reasonably accomplished.

Monday and Tuesday were the classic "last minute" shopping days. Seems one of these years our family will actually buy present for one another a week or more before The Big Day. We are classic procrastinators, and I fear my intentions of teaching the children what the season is all about should include a few lessons on time management to avoid the crush of commercialism. There is nothing more unpleasant than being at Barnes and Noble on Christmas Eve Eve, even with the Starbuck's aroma wafting through the place.

Christmas Day morning was a classic family event, with the kids waking us at 8:00 AM sharp and clamoring for us to get our sleepy selves out of bed. We followed family tradition, where each person gave their gifts out to the other family members one at a time, then we randomly opened gifts from out of town family.

The gifts I received (and chortled with glee upon receipt of):

• A very pretty knife from the progeny.
  
• An English Standard Version Bible from my wife
  
• A compilation CD from a very wonderful Celtic worship band from my wife
  
• A classy burgundy dress shirt and a funky geometric tie to match (thanks Dad and Mom)
  
• Another classy/funky tie and a book on nanotechnology from my father-in-law
  
• Italian chocolates purchased in Italy from my mother-in-law
  
• The boxed paperback set of "The Chronicles of Narnia" from our good friends in San Antonio

The gifts I gave with equal glee:

• Old Country Roses tea cups, saucers and plates for my wife
  
• A Soft Air Smith and Wesson replica to Number One Son
  
• The classic board game Stratego to Number Two Son
  
• A calligraphy set to Number One Daughter
  
• The Candyland board game to Number Two Daughter

We spent Christmas afternoon and evening at our pastor's house, where they did an excellent rendition of an English Christmas. Roast beef, roast duck, cranberry sauce, turnips, peas, puff pastries, figgy pudding, truffles, mince pies and the like were all on the menu. I ate entirely too much for my own good, and probably drank too much as well (though once again none of us were near being hammered). I brought a bottle of Dow's Ruby Red port as a gift, and Gene was a gracious host and opened it much to our glee and enjoyment. The conversation and the fellowship was fantastic.

Somewhere along the way, I caught something and I've spent the rest of my vacation trying to shake what feels like the Texas Creeping Crud. This nefarious disease usually starts in your head (which it's been there for a day now) and then creeps into your chest (where it is now moving). The only thing you can do is fight it with sleep, lots of liquids and the standard regimen of flu remedies. A heck of a way to end a vacation.

A number of the family are not feeling well today, so we probably will miss church. A shame after all the fun we've had. Nevertheless, it's been a Christmas of joy and peace for the most part.

God Bless us, every one.

In my blog travels, I've run across a number of individuals from the Vine & Branches Christian Community. The love they have for one another has reduced me to tears on more than one occasion. More candor. More genuine care in the midst of life's challenges. More untidy living. Yo tambien, por favor.

There are a few people from my past who I have located on the Internet, and periodically do a Google search for them to keep up with their lives. Most of these people are individuals who I had friendships with, or who made an impression on me, either in my past or with their life choices after we parted company. Of all those people, this guy wins the prize for Most Outrageous Yet Strangely Predictable Career Choice. Another unique fellow is this guy, who gets the We Knew It Was True But We Had No Idea How Deep It Went award.

Keep in mind that these two fellows were people I respected for their "independence" and "artistic expression". They were the counterpoint to my normalcy. They were the people that taught me to think, to accept, and to remember that there is always another side to the story, and even if you don't believe that side, it's worth listening to. I really had little to nothing in common with them back then. I have less than that in common with them now. But I remember the good times, and thank God that somehow He allowed me to eat with the freaks, the homosexuals and the New Age channelers.

It's times like these when I miss the raw, untidy life I used to live, where people with tattoos, oddly cut goatees, and alternative lifestyles were fascinating and captivating. Not because of their rebellion against God, but for their willingness to scrape off their hypocrisy and live the way they wanted to. The purity of that action, and the lack of any need to explain themselves, always intrigued me and galled me with an envy I cannot explain.

How much energy do I spend making sure my life is tidy? What is wasted in the worry of how I will be perceived, who will care and what the result will be on my social standing? What have I missed because I could not let go of the desire to fit in?

In a way, I'm jealous. In another way, I'm inspired. Let me be the freak. The family-centric worship, Reformed Covenantal freak who loves the liturgy with a charismatic zeal. The post-millenialist. The paedo-baptist/communist guy. The homeschool dad who doesn't own a television. The guy at work who doesn't swear and lives to serve. The husband who refuses to denigrate his wife in public or in private.

Strangers in a strange land. Aliens. Ambassadors. Culturally they stick out like a sore thumb. They don't fit in. They are inept and misunderstood by their hosts. Yet they are who they are, and there is no need to apologize.

Let the freak show begin.