“What was that?” Jess asked, oh, around 3am. “Was it the wind?” The wind had plagued Jess’s mind ever since earlier that morning when she read in the news that”violent winds” were on their way. ”Violent winds…oh no…” I’d responded, feigning fear.

“You heard it, too?” I shot back, still in a partial coma. Before Jess confirmed it, I half-thought I had dreamed the thud against our house. To best describe it, it sounded like the UPS man had hurled a package against our front door.

So, I got out of bed to better analyze the situation. The pine trees in the backyard were going nuts. In the midst of the angriest wind I’d ever known, the treetops acted as though, at any minute, they could snap off and blow to China. Was the three little pigs wolf outside? I wondered if any shingles were left on my roof. 

In front, banging furiously at our front door step, a strip of siding hung by a string from the exterior of our house, as if a mighty gorilla had been working at it all night. Somehow, it held on all through the night, a miracle in itself. 

Not about to tackle a home repair project at three in the morning, I went back to bed feeling uneasy, listening to the wind slap against our bedroom window, feeling like one of the disciples stuck in the middle of the stormy Sea of Galilee, while Jesus snoozed away somewhere below deck. Wake up, Jesus, before our house blows away! 

The next morning I groggily drug myself out of bed to go fetch our trashcan that had blown into the street. I was just happy it was still in the vicinity. The wind had died down just a tad, but it still blew mean and with a Siberian sharpness. I moved to the side of the house, stepping over the articles of my neighbor’s trash now in my lawn (hey, I didn’t know they brushed with Colgate!), where I gathered a particulary large cardboard box I knew to be missing from the trashcan.

I went back inside thankful that I had made it through the wind storm of January ’08. I had learned a hard lesson, indeed: violent winds ain’t no joke.   

Categories: Nature
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Saturday evening, Jess accidentally knocked herself out on the pills her doctor had prescribed for some back pain she’d been having. That sneaky blinding pink “MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS” label on the pill bottle, slipped right past our noses (when’d that get there?) and without warning, Jess soon nodded off into a deep sleep that’d make Rip Van Winkle jealous. Our conversation leading up to the intoxicated moment went something like this: “You want to play a game?” “Sure…zzz…”

 If you don’t count the tv remote, it was good that Jess had refrained from operating heavy machinery. However, she did drive home on the stuff, and I half-wanted to check her car for dings, animal fur, or perhaps, an embedded lawn ornament.

Abandoned and left with nothing to do, I went right to work at mindlessly zoning out on random fixtures in the living room. When that grew tiring, I thought it might be good to check Jess’ pulse and wait for clear signs of breathing, just to be safe. I did the same with our dog, Phoebe, who lay beside her as though she, too, had gotten into Jess’ pills. The silent, sad walls of the house began to get to me, however, and though Jess and Pheobe snoozed away within arm’s length, they seemed a million miles away. Part of me couldn’t help but feel a little insulted that no one invited me to the 24 hour sleep-a-thon.

After an instance of self-pity, I adjusted to the realization that I should be happy because the night was mine to do whatever I pleased - as long as I did it very quietly, so not to wake the house. But the quiet was too much. For a split moment, I flashbacked to high school library. My chest tightened. I sensed that all too familiar pinned up adolescent rambunctousness. The urge to suddenly bust out laughing and wing paper wads at someone swept over me. Then the fear - I felt eyes on me. Mrs. Matthews was here, I knew it. Any second, she’d emerge from her hiding place, out of the deep dark shadows of the book shelves, and kick me out for another two weeks for being “too loud.”

At the risk of going completely insane with high school flashbacks and the maddening silence, I flipped on the tv. Jess was out for the night, anyway, no matter what ruckus I caused. Instinctively, I landed on the History Channel, which, to my delight, happened to be showing MonsterQuest, a documentary featuring daring scientists and cameramen tracking the jungles of developing countries, hot on the trail of the most notorious mythical creatures, such as the Lochness Monster, Big Foot, and Danny Devito. This noble expedition is done, of course, in the name of Science and, the less advertised, to get to the bottom of what the heck’s in the water that’s making the locals crazy.

But, if you ask me, I don’t think the locals are crazy at all. In fact, they are quite brilliant. What’s better to boost the economy of a poverty-stricken country than the monster tour biz? There’s always a market – man’s innate curiosity – and there’s practically no overhead, just a map and a perhaps a monkey in a mask.

And that may be precisely what we had on our hands here. This particular episode starred ”the real hobbit”, named after the loveable, tiny furry-footed creatures in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings novel triology. In short, the real hobbit is described as an orange-haired, three-to-four foot tall monkey-like creature with a human face (perhaps Gilbert Gottfried’s) whose favorite hide out is the thick jungles of Sumatra, Indonesia. According to eyewitnesses, it has the exact dimensions of the native orangutan – but that’s not what it is! Okay?!

Sometimes, I guess, this baby Chewbaca comes out and says hi to the villagers in his own special monkey-man sort of way by grabbing at roots and bolting up the overgrown side of the nearest dormant volcano when spotted. He’s not particularly violent or cheerful. In fact, the locals call him Orang Pendak, which means “we don’t know what he is or where he came from, but he’s very dull and could certainly use a shave.”

Before the expedition began, the scientists hired the local monster tourguide who had a booth set up right next to the “COCONUT DRINKS FOR 3 BANANAS OR TWO CHICKENS” stand guy. (By the looks of the place, I guessed barter system.) He didn’t speak a lick of English, but in his perfectly urban American translated voice, he went into wild detail about his confrontation with the real hobbit. Upon seeing him, the tourguide froze, he recalled. The real hobbit, probably startled by the monster tourguide bursting in on him in his jungle bathroom, did the only thing a real hobbit knows how: he grabbed at roots and made for the dead volcano.      

To my knowledge, no one’s actually ever held a conversation with the real hobbit. But the general consensus is that he is very intelligent. This was largely confirmed by the way the camera now and then panned in on the treetops, implying that the real hobbit could be cleverly hiding up there, watching (and eating popcorn) as his own search party stumbled through the jungle below calling out his name as if for a lost dog.

Turned out, after a half hour or so of watching these guys tromp around, stopping occasionally to comment on caches of animal dung, I realized the real hobbit was about as exciting as a hermit in need of a haircut. The Orang Pendak was rather a bore. I mean, he could have at least earned the reputation of raiding the village and terrorizing some chickens, or something. But he wouldn’t even give us this.  

To be honest, I didn’t stick around for the second half of MonsterQuest to find out if the scientists ever found him. Chances are they didn’t. Otherwise we’d have heard about it in the news by now, probably on E!, posing as Michael Jackson’s newest pet, or something. But if the scientists ever decide to go after it again, and they need something to slow the little guy down to make him an easier catch, I know where they can find some stuff that beats any tranquilizer out there on the market today.

“Right, Jess?”

“Zzz…” 

Categories: Mystery, Nature, Television, Travel
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God takes on a different light when your head’s buried inside the toilet.

The stomach flu of the century struck my system sometime after lunch on Friday. At first it disguised itself as nothing more than perhaps an office thermostat malfunction (stuck at around 100 degrees) and a small upset stomach. 

“Are you hot?” I’d ask my co-workers.

“Yeah, it’s a little warm,” one would say, nonchalantly, tugging at the front of his shirt just to humor me.

A little warm? You mean it doesn’t feel to you like someone is holding a lit match to your neck? – I didn’t say this, but this is how it felt to me. 

Four hours later, I might as well have swallowed dynamite. I rocked back and forth on all fours moaning with cold sweats, cheek-to-cheek with the toilet seat, which I wished I’d cleaned last week like I was supposed to. My skull throbbed and somehow my senses mysteriously heightened to superhero proportions. All light, even invisible light, tore at my retinas. Even the gentlest brush against the skin felt like a million paper cuts. Everything hurt and smelled bad. Everything threw my stomach into a mess of pain. Crouched in the fetal position like a sick and useless Peter Parker, I tuned my newly acquired supersonic hearing to the conversation of the bugs outside: “Bzzz…bzzz…it’s cold out here.” “Yeah…bzzz…look a light!”  

I was convinced the end was near. And I welcomed it.

It’s interesting to note the quick progression of theology that drifts through the mind of someone who, believing God is good, thinks he’s dying. At first, attempting to gain a proper prospective regarding this violent illness, I accurately nailed down the right source for the hostile feelings I was having toward involuntary retching. No, man, you got it all wrong. It is not vomiting that you hate. No, no, it is the thing that makes you vomit that you hate. (A good part of the disillusionment of the sickness played out with me talking to myself.)

This new line of thinking helped set me straight. I held my head up with the cold, hard porcelain of the toilet seat and  marveled at another one of God’s little miracles, so often overlooked. NEW APPRECIATED FACT: God, in all His infinite wisdom, installed in the human genetic make-up a remarkable mechanism that tells the body when to expel bad Chinese food or any other poison from the body.

I considered this miracle for an extra minute before I thanked God in my own special way by cranking my mouth open wider than I had ever dreamed (or hoped). I watched firsthand as God’s perfect plan unfolded into action. The first round of flu escaped my body in a warm wondrous rush that sent my spine crashing to my sternum. Then again. Five more times for good measure. My heart miraculously did not explode. Praise, God…Bleh…

“Joe…do you need anything?” asked a meek voice. The words drifted in like a weird dream. To my half-coherent skull, it sounded distant and small, like how a speaking mouse might sound. Married a little less than two years, Jess had never seen this ugly side of me before. She didn’t quite know what to do with me. And neither did I.

Instead of answering the mouse voice, I did a sort of backwards half sumersault - a skill involving nothing more than letting go of the toilet - into the bedroom closet (which connects to the bathroom), where I lay in an icy sweat, mumbling the jabber of the seriously sick.

On my back, in the closet, among the nauseous light that burned like the Saharan sun, and the tossing shadows, I resumed my theological studies. During a brief session in between stomach cramps, I moved past considering God’s creations, namely the gag reflex, and on to the mysteries of pointless suffering.

Does this terrible pain inside my stomach count as pointless suffering? And, why would a good God allow it? After who knows how long, the answers to these questions failed to materialize. This of course was of no surprise, given the fact that brilliant philosophers and theologians have been wrestling with these very questions for centuries with no definite conclusions. Chances were, a man, lying in his closet, half mad with the flu was an unlikely candidate for stumbling upon any keys to discovery.

It didn’t matter anymore anyway, because the second wave of flu came on strong and mean. The pain buried itself deep inside my gut and the world spun around like the Gravitron at the Ohio State fair. No more questions, no more thoughts. Everything seemed to boil away. Suddenly, Reality became quite simple; there was me, the pain and God. 

In some circles, my prayer that night doubtfully qualifies as a prayer at all. But it counted to me, because I really, really meant it, and I really, really meant it to be heard: “God, help me!”   

When the sickness finally lifted, it goes without saying that I had not exactly joined the ranks of, say, St Augustine, Calvin or Kierkegaard. However, I was able to establish three certainties: (1) God knows how to win my full and undivided attention; (2) God is good, for He created Gatorade for such occasions; and (3) If it is possible, I always, always prefer less excruciating pain in my interactions with God – please?!

Categories: Christianity, Life
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Jess and I ate very little before heading to Friday night volleyball at the church. As a result, an hour on the court burned up all my energy, turned me into a mindless zombie behind the net. Jess felt it, too, except whereas mine targeted mainly my central nervous system, her condition hit a little lower, rounding out into monster hunger pains.

With one more game left to be played, Jess and I couldn’t do it. Somehow it seemed an impossible task. So we decided to ditch out a little early, dragging our pathetic selves to the car. Instead of driving directly to urgent care, we stopped at the nearest restaurant.

“Panera closes at nine,” informed the man in the parking lot, who seemed to have materialized out of the thin air. A Panera employee? He lugged an invisible colored garbage bag stuffed with a variety of Panera bread, like he’d just looted the place and was now making his get away. Ruled by our stomachs, we didn’t make much of it and took the man’s word for it. So we turned around and ran through our other options.

We ended up at Max and Erma’s across the way because it was close and they have the best Mexican chicken tortilla soup. Or so we thought.

That night, the service was painfully slow. Our waitress was overwhelmed and apologized  a lot to her tables. (In her defense, I’d say she’d been triple sat – you servers can relate.) An adjacent couple in a booth received their Diet Pepsis but not until after they’d finished their meal. The couple was not happy. Earlier, the woman had ordered the Mexican chicken tortilla soup and promptly sent it back. This should have been our first sign that the chefs in back were having an equally hard time as our server. On its late return, the soup still apparently was short on chicken. Giving up, she managed to digest it as it was.

 Finally, just as we started to get frightened that we’d never see the food we ordered, a never-seen-before server came flying around the corner with our soup and half turkey sandwich. The sandwich looked shirveled and bite-sized. The bottom was soggy and the lettuce purple and wilted. But…it tasted good. The soup, not so much. It had roughly the same color I’d expect pepper spray to have if it came in liquid form – mustard yellow. The tiny bail of tortilla stips on top was just a dot in the middle of the Olympic-size bowl of soup. 

I took a bite. Its temperature was lukewarm, but the spice invaded my throat like I’d just devoured a fistful of nettles. It tasted like…like…formaldehyde, maybe? My throat instantly raw and my insides burning like an active volcano, I grabbed my glass of water and sucked on the straw like there was no tomorrow. Then, I took a frantic mental inventory of our neighboring table’s waters as well as all other potential water sources - the tap at the bar, the Max & Erma’s toliet (the tank water, not the bowl, of course – gosh), the tears streaming down my face – in case our server failed to return in time and I was about to human combust. Thankfully she arrived with a pitcher of water. “Yes, please.”    

“O man!” Jess exclaimed, misty eyed, “this is a spicy batch!”

Suddenly it became clear to us that it wasn’t that the chicken had been left out of the soup, as the woman who’d choked it down before us had suspected, rather it had simply melted to oblivion before it hit the table.

Sweating, Jess managed through more of her soup. When she came back up, her lips were swollen and chapped, like she’d just eaten a very messy tube of red lipstick. My lips and tongue stung dearly, worse than if I’d kissed a colony of red ants. We traded sounds of agony until finally our soups were gone. Oh man did that hurt.

Afterward, my stomach was very upset at me. Once home, I had half a mind to swallow a tray of ice cubes, just for any kind of relief. My tongue and lips stung right up until it was time for bed. And as I lay down to sleep, I wondered, face burning, if all this could have been avoided if only we’d played that last game of volleyball.

Categories: Food, Sports
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“I’m buying new jeans!” I announced to Jess one morning after realizing I full-blown dreaded “Jeans Day” at work. It was a startling realization, indeed, but admitting there’s a problem is the first step to recovery. 

Jean’s Day came every Friday and served as the employees’ lone reward for making it through the work week. It allowed us little people to break free the protocol fetters of corporate dress, ditch the Khakis and throw on a nice, comfortable pair of denim. It was the unspoken substitute for a raise, and yet, I found myself staring at my closet, yearning to slide on a pair of dress pants instead. What was the matter with me?

After dismissing the Freudian blaim-the-parents theory, I made a loose review of my jean situation. There, I discovered the source of these ailing emotions. Basically, I had three pair left to my name – my Abercrombie’s, my Gap’s and my Plato’s Closet Abercrombie Super Flairs, cut an inch too short. Now, three’s not a bad number, but, the problem was, they were all on their last leg – no pun intended.

I ran all three in an even rotation, washing only when necessary. My Abercrombie jeans, however, developed a hole in the knee which grew bigger by the day and I was down to two I could wear confidently in public. 

To be fair to the reader, it must be mentioned here that I do own a fourth pair of Abercrombie jeans. These have seen Clinton’s presidency. Three months ago, without warning, all the denim blew out in them, thankfully leaving intact the zipper and seat for me to work with. It was as if all the thread went on strike at once. When I wear them, a distance observer may question if I’m even wearing pants, for a fair amount of skin shows. It’s not unusual for a pocket of car keys to swing out the fashionable hole in the thigh, banging in perfect measure on the outside of my pants as I walk. Now, the ragged bottoms are buried in my dresser drawer, sprung free only for roofing projects.    

My two remaining jeans neither feel nor look cool. My “Super Flairs”, well, let’s be honest, are just a dumb pair of jeans. They’re stupidly cut and their bell bottoms could devour the thickest of walking casts. It also has the annoying habit of exposing the entire length of the white of my sock as well as revealing a pale sliver of leg whenever I sit.

My Gap jeans are equally annoying in that the leg cuffs have somehow disintegrated, leaving holes big enough to loop the heels of my shoes. An overly bouncy step is greeted with a tug in back.

Anway, I hadn’t bought new jeans in over five years. Strangely, it made me nervous. I wasn’t exactly up-to-date on the jean fashion, and it pained me to waste a $100 on a pair. I’d given up on buying second hand clothing, which were always an odd fit anway, broken and stretched as they were by the bulges and curves of the original wearer. 

So, in an effort to avoid the mistake of buying jeans I’d later become embarrassed about wearing, I conducted a secret (and somewhat disturbing) market research analysis. I spent much time in crowds eye-balling the backs of men – never in a weird way, mind you, but strictly for the gathering of data.

In church, my most effective studies took place during the meet-and-greet, when people stood up. I’d shake their hands – “good morning” – then once they turned I’d go right to work absorbing their backsides, taking extensive mental notes. Although, it likely made everyone involved quite uncomfortable (this couldn’t be helped), it was necessary to discover the brand of jeans guys my age were wearing these days. 

After weeks of reading the butts of men, the belt soon became my greatest enemy. It hid the brand names, making the process most tedious and bothersome. It took several extra glances and a problem-solving mind to piece together the information that was only half-showing that I so desperately needed.   

But finally, after weeks of living like this, I concluded my research and felt happy with the results. I headed over to Macy’s to find some Levi’s. When I first got there, Jess spotted a table of some with cool washes and cuts. Having done my research, I knew the style now leaned toward a tighter, straighter leg look. I excitedly grabbed a pair of what was called the ”skinny” fit in my size and made a beeline for the dressing rooms. Jess thought I needed the boot fit. To this, I insisted that she get with the times.

The legs of these pants tappered so hard that I could barely get them on over my socks. After a good five minute struggle, I finally got them zipped and buttoned. I faced the dressing room mirror, and staring back at me was a sight so ridiculous that it had to be illegal. I busted out laughing. It was nothing short of denim spandex. Jess hurried in to see and buckled in laughter. I didn’t know I had a gut… 

“You really need the boot fit,” she said. This time I agreed.    

Miraculously I peeled the things off. In the end, the boot fit was what worked. They fit perfectly, and jeans never felt so good. Jess gave the thumbs up and we both drove home with smiles on our faces.

Now I need to find some shorts for summer that fit. Just do yourself and me a favor, will ya? Email me the brand and style of shorts you wear and we’ll just call it the day.   

Categories: Fashion
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Today is the start of my vacation!  And since today’s schedule holds no particular shape or form, I decided it only necessary that my writing should follow suit. I just want to free write, and maybe in the end something I wrote will maybe make sense to someone somewhere. That’s the cool thing about writing, so much of it is subjective. So take from it what you will.

Yes, that’s right, no work for me today. But poor Jess had to still go in. Something about a potluck, a secret angel (same thing as a secret santa, I guess) gift for a co-worker, and one last Christmas shin-dig for her preschool class before handing the rowdy buggers over to their parents till next year, all wound up on sugar overdoses and ideas of presents.

This morning I slept in just a bit. Instead of my usual 5:45am early rise, I allowed myself an extra hour or so to make it a solid eight hour night. Jess, running late, barked instructions from the shower how to make the fruit smoothies. This, I knew, was serious business. In the past few months, She had grown highly disciplined in the art of morning smoothies. Being my first attempt at it, I could tell in her voice that she didn’t trust me all the way. Neither one of us did.

“One kiwi, one banana, one canned fruit, one cup of yogurt, six frozen strawberries, six ice cubes, and then press ‘mix’. Run it until the noise stops,” she said. “And make sure the lid is on tight or it will blow all over the place.”

I entertained the image of the purple smoothie dripping from the counter tops.

“Six ice cubes?” I asked

“Six ice cubes.”

In the kitchen I gathered all the necessary ingredients, as directed, and tossed them in one by one into the blender. One banana – check – that was easy. Six ice cubes and six frozen strawberries – check – easy. But when it came time to add the kiwi, unfamilar with the fuzzy walnut looking thing (are there kiwi trees?), I was forced to go back for further instruction.

“Do I just throw the kiwi in with its skin?” I asked.

“No, peel it first.”

My confidence shaky, I approached it as I would an orange: gouged out the navel, then tore at the opening in hopes the skin would detach as one easy sheet. But the kiwi’s skin is thin and frail and pulled off only in tiny bits and pieces. Five minutes later, I found myself still picking at the stupid thing, the same method I’d probably employ for plucking a very small chicken. Kiwi stuck under my fingernails and my hands were sticky and useless. But finally, after extreme persistance, the green, fleshy fruit stared back at me, naked and defeated. This was one fruit I’d be happy to blend. Later, I’d learn that a knife works better to slice the skin off, a little insider information sure to cut the terrible task down to thirty seconds.

The canned pineapples were last to go, but not without a fight. Is the fruit in rebellion? The tab broke off when I tried to open it, and Jess, with towel on head and rolled eyes, shoved the unruly can in the electric can opener, which I still can’t get to work.

“Haven’t you ever opened canned fruit before?” she asked.

“Yeah. Twenty years ago,” was my only line of defense.

Freed from their imprisonment, I dumped the pineapples into the blender and hit “mix”. Jess disappeared down the hall to what sounded like rocks in a garbage disposal.

In the end, it all turned out. And, I don’t mean to brag, but let’s just say I make a pretty darn good smoothie. Jess soon relieved me of my work and poured a glass for her and one for me, then outfitted both with straws. We prayed first, still unsure if smoothies count as food to be blessed. After two slurps, Jess shot up with her cup, indicating it was time to go.    

I waved good-bye as Jess smiled brightly back. Jess’s smile and her car shrunk into the gray distance. With her gone, all that was left to watch was the quiet sky, thick and lonely, like a colorless smoothie. Then, studying the rich purple contents of my glass, I realized Jess was my bright-colored smoothie in an otherwise gray morning. I took another sip from my straw. It tasted great. And the kiwi was definitely worth all the effort.                

Categories: Food, Life, Marriage
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Warning: I Am Legend, starring Will Smith, is not for the faint hearted. Just whatever you do, stay away from the dark. I’m not kidding.

During one particular stressful movie scene, I contemplated calling 9-1-1. The diagnosis is still out, but I’m ninty-nine percent sure I suffered a mild heart attack and a slipped disc from jumping in my seat. At any rate, the claw marks in my arm rest will forever be a monument to the terror I felt as a hyperventilating Will Smith whispering for his lost dog so as not to be heard, searched the screaming, dark corners of the darkest places with the tiniest flash light. Somewhere along the way, a camera man had to have gotten bitten while filming. And that reminds me, I still need to schedule a dental appointment for these molars I grinded to the nubs. 

But, by the grace of God, my wife and I held on till the movie’s end and discovered the Jesus story in the most unlikely of places. In case you wondered what this film is about - based on the previews, which are blatantly mute on its subject matter - it can be summed up in one Bible verse: “The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. (John 1:5)”  

Going in, I half expected the basic jist to be nothing more than a last man on earth sort of flick, where humanity had once again been eliminated by a virus, a bomb or an ill-received climate change. I expected Will Smith roaming a vacant city, desperately seeking at least one other human to talk to. And it was…at first.

The first half hour, the plot felt nice and comfortable. A false relaxation seeped into our unsuspecting bones as strains of Bob Marley plucked lightly in the background like a breezy Jamaican sunset. We were suggested to not worry – “about a thing.” Like gullable little children, we happily accepted the reggae king’s advice. We were fools.

Not to give away too much but, just when I thought it safe to breathe, the plot’s predictability ran out and the movie transformed into what I first considered a demonic roller coaster. Lots of things jumped out from lots of places. And to intensify the effect, at one point during the movie a man in a long coat found it necessary to dash past our seats, nearly causing me to drop my popcorn, if I had some. The long-coated man probably just wanted out of there. Heck, we all wanted out of there. The movie theater was an insane ball of fright, with Will Smith as our half-crazy leader (he argues with mannequins, for crying out loud). 

Everytime I checked on Jess, her hands covered her face and she whimpered to leave. 

“But we got to know how it ends,” I’d say, in a false comforting tone.

Only toward the end did we discover to our delight, despite all the raw soberness of the scenes we’d just lived through (the experience itself probably knocked a few years off my life), that the movie illuminated obvious Christian undertones. There was a definite message and purpose here, something other than just scaring us to our knees.   

Turned out, it told the story of God and the sickness of sin in humanity; how humans are diseased-ridden mutations of what we originally were meant to be before Adam and Eve ate the fruit. How destructive, selfish, hate-filled and violent sin has made us. And still, though humanity has rejected God, spit in His face, even killed God, God, in all His infinite generosity and mercy, still continues to offer the only cure – Jesus - to us for as long as we live.     

Leaving the theater, I felt an undefined sense of myself. As I went along, I realized I felt distraught. But it was no longer because of the film’s content. I had seen myself on that screen. I had seen myself as I once was from the perspective of a Holy, Loving God – my Best Friend who reached out to me, loved me anyway despite my attacks against Him, saying, “I can heal you if you just stop and listen. If you just trust me, I can make you better. I know it does not make sense now, but it will once you see.” And it took way too long, but I finally accepted His advice. Now, when God sees me, He sees His Son. 

Overwhelmed by God’s love for me, an empty sorrowfulness passed through me for all the years I didn’t love Him. Yes – I am thankful to know God now, but it dawned on me more real than before that God experiences serious heart ache to save each and every one of us. He places Himself in our abusive paths for a chance that we might know Him. And those who reject God all the way to the grave, well, I imagine God is forever sick over it.      

Categories: Christianity, Movies
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Wednesday morning, the world, usually pitch black at 6am, possesed a curious phosphoresence. Overnight, the first snow of the season had transformed the typical early morning colors into what seemed like the stage of the Nutcracker. The world felt fresher, the oxygen breathed more richly. Consumed by this magic, my mind reverted back to my childhood. I felt that old familiar pang of excitement over a possible school cancellation.

This school boy abandon quickly fled once I noticed my driveway buried in two feet of snow. That meant work for me. The winter version of the Biblical flood had hit Columbus, and unfortunately, someone needed to shovel. If only I had a snow shovel…

Unfortunately, I didn’t own one. If I remembered right, this was the same problem I had last winter. One measly blizzard last March, and the snow shovel shortage of the century suddenly swept the state. Lowe’s, Home Depot, Walmart – none had them in stock. I never checked, but I bet they were going on Ebay for roughly the same price as Ohio State/Michigan tickets. Store clerks laughed in my face when I asked them to direct me to the snow shovel department.

“Will any of your other locations have ‘em?” I’d ask.

“You can try,” they answered, with a tsk-tsk-tsk-like air.

I swore this would never happen to me again. Next time I’d be first in line. I’d buy mine in June. But summer came and the heat of the days made any thoughts of snow vanish. By the time fall rolled around, I’d stroll carelessly by rows of shovels at Lowe’s. There are so many; they won’t run out. Plus it’s not near snowy or wintry enough to buy one now. Maybe next week. There’s time - duped by the universal lie. To make a long story short, I never bought one.

Well, now I was paying for it. After slipping back and forth to work in my tiny Ford front-wheel drive, and after taking a series of spills in the work parking lot, straining a groin muscle, I decided to use my lunch break to finally go buy a snow shovel.

I went to Lowe’s. I Tracked through the dirty parking lot slush and slidding doors with damp pant bottoms. Wasting no time, I made a beeline for the nearest red-vested Lowe’s employee. In an aisle of snow blowers, she worked hard punching buttons on a hand-held electronic device. It resembled a chintzy, Dr. Who laser gun.

“Excuse me,” I asked, using my sorry-to-trouble-you voice. “But do you know where I can find the snow shovels?”

“All we have is in front where you walk in,” she said, still operating the Dr. Who gun. It made a beep.

Unable to remember, I probably uttered a weak joke to cover the embarrassement of having just walked right by them on my way in. I thanked her for her detailed directions and made my way over to the limbo part of the store located between the outdoor and indoor entrances. Inside, every step tripped one or both of the automatic sliding doors. I searched the area for shovels while the doors slid frantically on their rails. Open, close; open, close.  

Finally, a cardboard box of plastic handles near the indoor entrance attracted my attention. ”Snow Shovels – $20″ was scrawled in permanent market on a sign. I held my breath and gained a better look at what appeared to be sand shovels.       

Surely this isn’t all they have, I thought. The Dr. Who woman made a mistake. These aren’t even two feet long, and would easily snap under the pressure of a full load of snow. What’s the point.

As if trapped in a horror movie, I took flight for the nearest Lowe’s employee. Barely able to restrain from snatching two fists full of his red vest and demanding to know if the sand shovels were their idea of some sick joke, I calmed down just enough to ask him if that’s all they had.

“Yup,” he said, with his quality customer service mock sympathy. “We ran out earlier today.”

“Will you be getting more in?” I asked.

“I hope so,” was the only help he offered.

I tromped back to my car through the slushy parking lot, defeated, angry that I lived in a world where kiddie sand shovels could be sold for snow shovels – for $20. Later that day I found out that the weekend was suppossed to bring warm weather. This brought some relief. I would only be the neighborhood slob for a day or two, until the snow melted. And as the work day ended and I headed back home on the cleared roads, I thoroughly convinced myself that I will never let this happen to me again.        

Categories: Life, Nature, Shopping
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I’d managed to dodge all the 4:30 a.m. invitations run in the newspapers and commercials by the various local stores, promising me either a free or heavily discounted something or other, if only I show up, wallet in hand, before everything in the store runs out. Still shaking off a Tryptophan hang over, I was in no mood to toy with ”Black Friday” – the hallowed shopping day after Thanksgiving. Instead, I sent my wife out into the swarm of bargain shoppers and loaded parking lots by herself. Her little sister did go with her, though, which made up for the bad feelings I had had for staying home.

Out the door, her only instructions to me were this: I needed to be showered and fed by the time she returned at 2p.m., and, oh yeah, don’t forget the batch of clothes that need to be folded in the dryer. On this note, I nodded, yes, yes, absolutely, yes. I had my whole day planned out in my mind, which included mainly doing whatever I pleased with the utmost productivity. I gave her a quick peck on the lips and before her car even left the driveway, I had a jumbo sized pot of coffee going. It was a boiling cauldron of energy – Starbucks Latin American Super Blend, equivalent to a mule kick to the chops. I gladly wake up with it every morning. And the rumors kicking around about it having been known to kill moderate-sized animals is exactly that – just rumors. The main thing is that the rich coffee blend boosts my productivity at least 110%, and I had a ton of unimportant things to tend to.

But something in this batch was lacking - no – draining. It made my brain heavy and my thoughts groggy. Briefly, I questioned Hugo Chavez’s hand in all of this. After launching out a few badly composed emails, trying to make sense of a book I’m reading, and thinking hard about raking the leaves still covering our yard, it was almost noon and I had nothing to show for it. My pajamas pants were still on and practically becoming a second skin, and the effects of not showering began taking its toll.

But first, I needed to take care of my stomach. I found a can of condensed bean and bacon soup hidden in the shadowy back of the kitchen cupboard. I  hoped this might snap me out of the never ending brain-fog. I pealed back the lid, turned the can over and emptied the skin-colored contents into the pot on the stove.  Except it wasn’t that easy. The soup stayed put, clinging to the tin can walls with all its stubborn might. After a series of unsuccessful shakes and taps, I got a spoon to help speed things along. I stabbed the heaving mass to loosen it up, and eventually it worked, but not without first unleashing the kind of grotesque slurping sounds only a soft, fat, furless, pink, thirsty animal could emit.

When the clumps of bacon/beans finally dropped into the pot, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t hungry. But, so much work went into it. As stated in the directions, a soup can of water followed and was stirred in with the same poor spoon I’d used earlier. After all the hard work, an overflowing bowl of it joined me at the table.  Upon closer inspection of the thick, misty soup, it made me think that this looks identical to how my brain has felt all day. 

By the time Jess got home, I was spent – showered, fed and the clothes were folded, but spent. I’d somehow managed to complete my assigned jobs fifteen minutes before Jess came through the door (which, now that I’m thinking about it, makes me wonder if I ever used soap in the shower). She lined up her shopping bags of good buys along the living room wall and asked, “What have you been doing all day?”

I kind of smiled, slightly embarrassed. I couldn’t think of one thing I did. I sort of wanted to have my day back to do all over again. But if forced to list at least one accomplishment to show for the day, I’d go with I learned some lessons about myself. One, being grossly unproductive can be quite tiring. And, two, with Twighlight Zone strangeness, I get more things done with less time to do them in than if I have all the time in the world.      

Categories: Food, Life, Shopping
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It was a gray, chilly Saturday afternoon, with temperatures in the low to mid 40′s – a perfect day for the 2007 Turkey Bowl. This two year-long standing tradition between the Yosts (the defending champs) and Riddells, prompts its share of smack talk during the off-season and the days leading up to the big event.  Most of these are good-humored pot-shots sneaked in through email to make the workday a little more interesting.

But when the time comes to throw down, a marked seriousness falls over the faces of the citizens of Westerville. Both families temporarily cast aside their typical ”blood runs thicker than water” attitudes. Instead, it’s a regular Hatfields vs. McCoys brawl, where the two prominent blood-lines, Yost and Riddell, suit up (some garbed in flashier attire than others) and battle it out on Thanksgiving Day (or, as was the case this year, the Saturday after Thanksgiving).

This, of course, is done over the pigskin and accurately determines who will own the title ”survivor of the fittest” for a year.  The family who loses can do nothing but let the defeat and the disquieting dissatisfaction of 2nd place stew with a long, torturous burn until next year’s Turkey Bowl.

The Turkey Bowl is played on an unmarked football field in a Westerville Park. It consists of a picnic table on the far side that you have to watch out for when “going long”, and an empty water bottle or wadded up sweatshirt, or whatever’s handy and doesn’t look like a leaf, for marking the endzones.

Although it is doubtful that it will affect Ohio State’s ranking, this year’s 2007 Turkey Bowl had the unexpected outcome of a tie. Both families went home winners. This was only made possible by a miraculous hail mary pass from Uncle Pete (aka. Uncle Flutie) to Andrew Riddell on the last play of the game to tie the score. “I slipped,” declared the cleat-less Tony Frabott.

Other highlights of the game include player Jessica Hodson who, when assigned the position of blitzing the quarterback, announced to the coach, “I don’t want to play that part”; and Cameron, the smallest but equally dangerous component of Team Riddell, sprawling face down on the field between plays, lost in deep thought over the custom-sized, red recliner awaiting him back at the house, where he’d later settle down for a two hour, post-game nap.

Afterward, the two families resumed their friendly relations and took family pictures beside the field. Then they had a nice Thanksgiving dinner together, dreaming of next year’s game.  

Categories: Sports
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