carbonated joy

We each wear many hats every day.
Some are thrust on our heads by others. Some hats we choose to wear.
There are real life sorting hats that we let define our days. They tell us where we belong. They tell us who we are.
And we listen.
We all wear different hats every day.

We wear the ugly stocking hat of shame. It is a filthy hat that drops thoughts of unworthiness like dandruff on our soul. It tells that we will never be anything more than our past failures.

We loudly wear the big shiny hat of arrogance and pride, we accessorize it with feathers and beads. Then we boast about how big and shiny and feathery it is.

Or, we put on the big sloppy hat of insecurity. It slips right over ears And whispers that we will never be enough. We don’t have what it takes. We are too ugly or too stupid.

We look in the mirror and adjust the scratchy red beret of performance. This hat whispers in a phony French accent that we must perform to be loved. Acceptance is based on accomplishment.

We sport the sweat stained baseball cap of selfishness. But, we strike out when we think our life is all about us.

We pull down the ill fitting cap of comparison. We can’t help but look at the beautiful, skinny, rich hats that other people wear. It makes our greasy trucker hat look like road kill.

Some folks put on religion like a hard hat. Rules and a sense of rightness make their brain impenetrable to the opinions and feelings of others.

Very often we clothe our brain with all the wrong things.

We listen to the sorting hat.
It tells us where we belong.
But, it lies.
And sadly, we make agreements with the lies.

It’s time to put on some different headgear.
It’s time to put on truth like a top hat.
The truth brings freedom.
You are liberated when you believe the truth about who you are, who you aren’t, and the truth about whose you are.
You are loved by a ridiculous, relentless love.
You are valuable and significant simply because of that great love.
You were chosen and crafted to be the one and only, completely original YOU!
You are no worse or better than anybody else on this planet…just different.
The One who loves you, chose you, and crafted you longs for you to know the truth.
You belong in his family.
Try that on for size.
Get rid of the wrong lids!
Put on the top hat of truth.

Once…

When Darkness fell across the land,

And the midnight hour was close at hand…

We would gather around a big bowl of microwave popcorn and bask in the hazy glow of a black and white TV. We only got three network stations, a PBS channel, and an occasional UHF station, but inevitably this time of year, one of those was showing a monster movie!
Sometimes it was a late night show that served as a celebration of campy cinema. In Tulsa, it was The Uncanny Film Festival and Camp Meeting with Dr. Mazeppa Pompazoidi (who was actually Gailard Sartain in a pointy wizard’s cap). These shows showcased low budget scary movies that had been made 30 years earlier. The makeup was mostly mediocre, the special effects were pretty lame, but the story drew us in. Once upon a time monsters were fun. These were movie monsters that scared you in ways that made you feel alive more than anxious.

We met some amazing monsters…
Dracula, He was immaculately dressed and he had an interesting speech impediment. He was my favorite.
Frankenstein’s monster and his lovely bride, a match made in a laboratory taught us about unrequited love.
The Wolf man, my brother’s favorite, he is a tragic figure desperately in need of a full body waxing.
The Creature from the Black Lagoon was a fish stick with an attitude.
The Invisible Man was the result of a science experiment gone horribly wrong.

These were decent, hard working monsters. There were no creepy clowns or possessed dolls. Nobody wore hockey masks or razor clawed gloves. Dracula never had to start a chainsaw. The Bride of Frankenstein never crawled out of a TV.

Our monsters were familiar and recognizable by their fangs, out of control body hair, or the bolts in their necks. It’s easier to deal with your monsters when you see them coming.

Our monsters knew their place, and it wasn’t a summer camp!! It was usually an insane Doctor’s laboratory or a faraway land like Transylvania. As long as the monsters stayed in the swamp, they couldn’t touch us.

Instead of serial killers, our childhood monsters were cereal characters. Count Chocula and Franken Berry were delicious. It’s easier to deal with your monsters when you eat them for breakfast.

Sometimes there was a pathos to our monsters. They seemed to be victims themselves. They were misunderstood. They weren’t psychopaths, they were just people thrust onto the wrong path.

Honestly…
I really do miss fright delivered in black and white.

So now, I occasionally grab a big bowl of microwave popcorn and I bask in the glow of 354 channels and I search for Bela Lugosi.
He is nowhere to be found.

When I think about our modern movie monsters, I want my mummy.

It’s highly likely that from a very early age you have been taught that life is best lived in camouflage.
It has nothing to do with fun and functional redneck fashion.
It’s has everything to do with blending into your surroundings. It has everything to do with disguising yourself to get acceptance.
We are cultivated to be camo.
Blend in.
Don’t stand out!
Talk less, smile more. Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.
Be camouflage.
We live in a cockeyed camo culture where the ultimate goal is just fitting-in.
You learn pretty quick…
Get in line.
Don’t be different.
Don’t ask questions.
Conform.
Don’t cause a scene.
So we spend our lives hiding our true colors with hues of mediocrity and uniformity. We cover our authentic selves with the subtle shades of settling.
But, Wait a minute! That’s simply not you!!
You are far too interesting to be invisible.
You were positively, absolutely, unequivocally not born to be camo!
In fact…
You were born to be tie dye!
Counter culture in the most breathtaking ways.
A myriad of colors on display.
Life isn’t designed to hide or fade your colors.
You weren’t designed to fade out or blend in.
The beauty of tie dye is that the colors are released through twisting and crumpling and folding.
It creates something that can’t be duplicated.
Life can twist you.
Don’t let that cause you to go camo.
Don’t disguise the design!
When life twists you, let it bring out bright, colorful, one of a kind beauty.
Live tie dyed!!

Once upon a time I was almost an NBA cheerleader…
Seriously!
A few years ago, when we lived in Dallas, I almost became an NBA dancer…oh, it’s true!
I was a HUGE Mavericks fan, and I saw in the newspaper that the Mavs were having tryouts for Maniaacs.
The Mavs Maniaacs are a hip hop dance troupe of beefy, uninhibited men.
They were the original NBA big man dance team.
They dance at halftime and during breaks.
The tryouts were being held at a local dance studio. There were about 100 big, sweaty, over enthusiastic dancing men. It was a sight to behold and a fragrance to be smelled. The judges were Mavs dancers and local dignitaries. I was dressed for battle: a bright orange Mavericks shirt, blue basketball shorts and Chuck Taylor all stars.
I’m a condensed beefy boy, I was at least a foot shorter that the other dudes. In fact, I Heard one of the judges say “look, is that mini-me?”
This didn’t discourage me.
This was my shot, I was gonna take it.
I knew in my heart that this was my only chance to ever be in the NBA.
They divided us into groups.
They taught us a choreographed combo that we did as a group and then we got to freestyle some serious dancing.
They would eliminate several people after each round. You would wait for your number to be called (or not) and you would proceed (or not).
Again and again I danced my guts out and made it through.
This was my shot, I was gonna take it.
We ended up doing the routine about 8 times. I hadn’t danced like this since…never.
My muscles were rebelling against me.
I’m allergic to choreography.
I’m not coordinated enough to keep up, but I can creatively shake my booty.
This was my chance…my ONLY chance to be a part of an NBA team.
Sometimes life gives you a free throw and you got to take a shot.
Whether you make it or not, you take pride in the fact that you tried.
I made it to the final ten!!! Then they told us that they were looking for five dancers.
One more round…
Ignore the pain…
Take your shot.
During the last round , one of the judges shouted words that I thought I would never hear: “Okay, we want to see some flesh…if you want to be a Maniaac, we need to see your stomach!”
This caused most of the guys next to me to start ripping off their damp shirts and flinging them around slinging warm sweat everywhere. I learned the true meaning of GUTS and glory.
Some things should never be seen…
Some things can never be unseen.
I. Just. Could. Not.
As much as I wanted to be a Maniaac, I wanted to hold onto some shred of dignity.
I couldn’t bring myself to unfurl my man boobs.
I didn’t make the top five.
I was ALMOST an NBA dancer.
I left with my dignity, a really sore back and a great story.
I had stepped out and lived a great story.
Life is about stepping out even when you don’t make the cut.
It’s taking risks, it’s overcoming the paralyzing fear of public opinion.

What if success were all about risking instead of reaping.
What if we realized that it’s better to be an “almost was” than a “never tried”.
What if success were found in the act of stepping out.

Sometimes you got to do something unexpected…unlikely…unbelievable.
We should live in constant pursuit of a better story.
Sometimes life gives you a free throw and you have to take a shot.
Sometimes it goes in the basket…nothing but air.
Sometimes it bounces off the backboard.
Sometimes you don’t even get close.
The point is that you took a shot…you played…you tried…you danced.
You got off your butt, you took a risk, you overcame fear.
And you gained something more valuable than any trophy…
A life lived in pursuit of a better story.
Step up…
Take a shot…
But please, for the love of God, leave your shirt on.

The little cowboy had examined his path and decided to go down a different trail, even though at barely 7 years old, his previous path wasn’t exactly littered with tumbleweed and bad decisions.
But he had decided to follow Jesus.
He wanted everyone to know that he was a part of God’s posse. So he went public and took the next step, he decided to get dunked.
If memory serves, it was a Sunday night service in a Baptist Church in Owasso, Oklahoma.
The little cowboy was proudly wearing a t-shirt, cut off Blue Jean shorts and red and black cowboy boots.
Like any good little cowpoke, he refused to take his boots off.
After he got baptized he dried his moppy head with an old towel, and then he stepped out of the baptism waiting room that was right behind the church platform. He stepped into the main sanctuary where the pastor was trying to proceed with a serious, stuffy evening service. But, suddenly, across the room, over the sound of the sermon you heard…
SQUISH, SQUISH, SLUMP, SQUISH.
It was the beautiful sound of soaking wet cowboy boots walking on freshly vacuumed church carpet.
Some of the church folks were indignant, some couldn’t help but giggle.
I think it made God laugh loud.
That was the FIRST time that I was ever baptized.
Over the years, I went down some wrong trails. Every time that I came to my senses and got back on the path, I felt compelled to wash the trail dust off with a fresh dunking. It wasn’t always necessary, but it didn’t hurt anything.
My first baptism was also the first time that my Dad had been to church in a while and he stuck around. He even taught Royal Ambassadors (which was a baptist version of the Boy Scouts). He left the same church a few years later when, on another Sunday evening, they kicked my Mom out…seriously! (One of the deacons did tell Dad that he could still come and bring us boys. Dad told him where he could stick his church). Religious people can be pretty mean sometimes. Maybe they need to get dunked again, held under a little longer.
But, It turns out that baptism isn’t about who you are riding WITH, it’s about who you are riding FOR.
This little cowboy got dunked over 4 decades ago.
I haven’t regretted the decision to follow Jesus or the decision to let others know about it.
At times, it has required true grit.
I can’t live unforgiven.
I’ve disappointed others and I’ve been disappointed.
I’ve encountered the good, the bad, and the ugly…desperados, dandies, lone rangers, and true heroes.
But, I’ve been delivered and dunked and so, everyday, I strap on my boots (I try not to get them wet), and I chose to ride a blazing saddle all the way to Heaven’s gate.
Giddy Up!

I remember when I was a kid, playing in the front yard of my Grandma’s house, when suddenly I would hear a sweet familiar sound…
tink dink ta dink da dinkity dink…
it…was…THE ICE CREAM TRUCK!!!!
My heart skipped a beat, I made sure I had a dollar and THEN I ran…
I ran as fast as my unnaturally short legs could run.
I ran like an over caffeinated squirrel.
I chased after the truck because I was consumed by a sweet affection.
I had to catch that truck!
I desperately wanted a Fred Flintstone orange push-up, or a rocket pop, or a drumstick…such unparalleled deliciousness!!
I still start to twitch and want to frantically take off when I hear the familiar noise…
tink dink ta dink da dinkity dink…

Let me suggest a completely ridiculous idea…
To God YOU are the ICE CREAM TRUCK!!!!

It’s simple, He is crazy about you, He loves you in a most unconditional, nonsensical manner. He chases you like an overexcited seven year chases after a ice cream truck.
Does that seem a little sacrilegious to you? Does the thought give you a bit of a brain freeze?
God is consumed by a sweet affection.
We get a sweet, triple scooped picture of this concept in three different ridiculous stories that Jesus told in the Bible.
In Luke chapter 15, he talks about a shepherd that has a hundred sheep and loses one…
…tink dink ta dink…
And a woman who has ten coins and loses one…
…da dinkity…
And a father who has two sons and loses one.
…dink.
They all run towards what they lost.
Their love compels them to chase.
All three of the heroes in the stories, the Shepherd, the Woman, and the Father, represent the God who runs in pursuit of the object of His affection.
And guess what, here is where it gets personal…
All three lost items, the directionally challenged lamb, the misplaced coin, and the wayward son, all represent us.
We are the pursued ones.
We are the objects of a sweet affection.
We are the ice cream truck.
tink dink ta dink da dinkity dink…
Psalm 23:6 puts it like this: “Your beauty and love chase after me every day of my life. I’m back home in the house of God for the rest of my life.”
The Creator chases you simply because He loves you and He wants you to be a part of His family.
How do you respond when you are chased by sovereign sweetness?
Let Him catch you!!
Get found!!
Maybe you are in a sour place right now, realize that you are the object of a sweet sovereign affection.
You are the ice cream truck.

I’m not gonna lie…
It’s been a painful summer.
My arms have hurt real bad.
They have stung and tingled and ached.
It’s been kind of like getting a tattoo nonstop for 4 months straight without any cool new ink to show for it.
At times it has felt like an angry professional wrestler was standing on my arms.
I was concerned.
I’ve tried to get answers .
I wanted to think it might be an old football injury. But that’s unlikely since I didn’t play football, I DID fall out of my recliner once while watching a game.
I talked to friends, I checked out webMD.
I took aspirin and bubble baths (yeah! I said it, I’m a man who loves a good bubble bath!)
I went to a really cool chiropractor who used some blades that looked like samurai ginseng knives to knead my muscles. He used a power tool that looked like a sander to polish my unchiseled girth. After 3 visits my back and neck felt AWESOME, but sadly my arms still hurt real bad.
So, we took X-rays.
The X-ray confirmed that I AM a short man, this was news that I had been waiting on for years.
They also confirmed that something sketchy was happening with my neck.
A really good friend, Donna, recommended an amazing nerve specialist.
I went to talk to the very nice specialist and we talked about neurology and discs and things I had always taken for granted.
I went in for a MRI.
It was in a tractor trailer in a hospital parking lot. I was led into a well lit room. I laid down and the technician strapped my head down. I suddenly felt like a science experiment. I was moved headfirst into a tight magnetic tube. The MRI was kind of like spending 20 minutes in a really loud soda can.
Then I got to take some nerve tests. My wife went back with me for this, because, frankly, she makes me brave. During that party the good Doctor poked some needles into my arms and shocked me with something that looked like a fun sized tazer. (I wanted to shout “Don’t take me bro!”) I remember my arm twitching like a drunken hand puppet.
So after the tests and about 2 weeks, I was given the results. I have Arthritis in my neck which has caused narrowing of the spine. I have no nerve or spine damage.
But, I do have Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (which sounds like the title of a cool SCI FI movie, but. It’s is NOT). Evidently THAT has been the source of my pain all along. I get to wear some arm splints that make me feel like a stormtrooper…I like that.
So the inevitable painful prognosis is…
I am getting old.
It happens to all of us, unless it doesn’t and that’s a much sadder prognosis.
Getting old(er) is NOT for sissies!!
And an additional painful kick to the arm, the medical bills are now rolling in! They are like unwanted love letters from our healthcare system. I have an unbelievably high deductible so we get to pay for all the fun. There are many things I would rather spend money on, like grouting.
It would be easy to get grumpy.
But, that has never really been my style.
Besides, along with the pain has come a little wisdom, that is what is supposed to happen as you get old.
Here’s what I’ve learned…
Gratitude is a great pain reliever.
My arms hurt, BUT…
I have so much to be grateful for!
Family, friends, a good dog, tacos.
When I focus on those things, the good and right outweighs the pain.
Gratitude is a pain reliever.
It’s been a painful summer, but it’s also been the most wonderful summer ever. I’ve gotten to play with my sweet little granddaughter.
I hold her in my sore arms and my heart fills with thankfulness and everything is better.
I want to live a life marked by gratitude, not pain.