carbonated joy

This week, I was in a car wreck.
It was scary. My beloved Scion Xb (basically, a toaster on wheels) got crunched by a Dodge Ram (basically a Dodge that rams).
Well, it looks like my little clown car might be a goner. We found out that it has been assigned to the Total loss department. That’s seems pretty final.
It turns out that it is too old and beat up.
The practical thing is to write it off.
So somebody who doesn’t know my car has decided that it is a total loss.
They are doing their job.
They don’t really care about my car.
They don’t know the Scion stories.
They don’t realize the road trips and ride alongs.
They don’t realize the times that I would crank the music up and sing along at the top of my lungs.
They don’t realize the cool and sketchy places that Diana and me went in that odd shaped vehicle. YES, she was driving when we were together, because my driving makes her physically ill. It’s true.
Our daughter,Delanie, was 11 when we got the Scion. MANY chicken McNuggets were consumed.
Del learned to drive in the Scion.
We’ve had a lot of significant AND silly conversations in that clown car.
I’ve had 3 different beagles who have been my furry little copilots over the years.
A lot of friends have ridden in it.
A lot of life and laughter has happened driving down back roads, side streets and highways.
A lot of stories have happened, but story is almost never reflected in appearance.
I know that the fine people in the total loss department are just doing their job. They are more about statistics than stories, I get that.
But, It made me think…

How many times do we assign ourselves, or other people to our personal total loss department?

How many times do we feel like that is our job?

We make it personal…
We wrestle with guilt or fear, we think we have gone too far and somehow, outran grace.
We think we blew our chance.
We are too old and beat up.
We write ourselves off.

Or, we look at other people and, without hearing their story, we judge and assign them to our total loss department.
We compare, condescend and criticize. We write off others who look or think or dress or believe differently than us.
Anybody who is too old and beat up gets sent to the scrap pile.
I’ve been on both sides of the self-appointed, self-righteous vigilantes. I’m sorry, but I’ve acted like an overzealous bouncer trying to decide who gets in the door. I’ve accosted others with my expectations and “standards” in the name of God. I’ve assigned them to my total loss department. I’ve lived by the letter of the law and ignored the spirit behind it. We have some how managed to make the story of God all about US. We turn it into a rule book or dress code. We turn it into a guide to the appropriate, and we happily enforce the rules. When actually the Bible was meant to be all about God. It is the story of his unrelenting pursuit of His people. It is mysterious and wild and untamed. It sometimes creates more questions than answers. Love is like that.
It is more story than statistic.
When, it comes to the total loss department, I’ve also been the one who is thrown on the scrap pile, because I’m weird. I’ve failed to meet the expectations of others. I’m loud, I’m awkward. I’ve screwed up, I’m not afraid to fail or look a little foolish, it’s the total loss department for me.

The practical thing to do is write off the weird, the wrecked and the washouts, right?
But, here’s the deal…
God is completely unpractical.
He doesn’t make sense and He doesn’t care about practicalities.
He cares about people…ALL people.
He never gives up, it doesn’t matter what you’ve crashed into.
His love can buff you out.
If you are reading this, He will never assign you to the total loss department.
He is the Father on the front porch, waiting expectantly on tippy toes for his kids to come home.
You aren’t too old, beat up or used.
God is a dumpster diver, He digs deep and searches for the throwaways, the outcasts, the screw ups.
There are no lost causes, there is not a scrap pile.
Every life is singularly significant.
That would be good to remember in seasons like this when hostility and hate gets hurled around way too much.

What if we were to act like we work in the total life department?
What if we told stories of hope and lived out crazy dreams?
What if we spent our time helping others live a total life that is full, festive, faithful and free?
I think it’s time to get our motors running.

Early this morning I was on my way to a meeting,
I stopped at QuikTrip to get a large coffee to kickstart my brain. It seemed like every other unnaturally early morning. I got my caffeine and went on my way, headed to the office.
BUT, EVERYTHING WAS ABOUT TO CHANGE!!
(How’s that for a super dramatic teaser?)
I was pulling out of the intersection to get onto the highway, I had the green light, I was going, but I heard somebody honking. I looked up, It was an ambulance, no lights, no siren, but, the driver was just frantically honking to clear the intersection. So, I came to a quick stop to let the ambulance through…
The guy behind me did not.
He looked over to see who was honking, then he looked around to discover that…
I…
Had…
Stopped.
CRUUNNCCHHH!!! THUDCH!!! SCREECH!!!! CRRRAAASSSHHH!!! (These are the actual sound effects that I heard! I recorded them in my brain, I will probably never forget them)
The suddenly obvious problem was that he was much larger than me.
He was driving a Dodge Ram Pickup.
I was scooting along in my Scion Xb.
It was NOT a fair fight.
It turns out that “Dodge Ram” is a verb AND a noun.
My QT coffee flew all over. There was glass and CDs flying through the air. It was surreal and all too real!
My beloved Scion Xb was jacked up, his truck got…one…little…scratch.
My Scion…
I love that little strange car!!
I REALLY love that car!
We bought it in Texas in 2006. I saw it at the state fair and I fell in love with it.
It looks like a clown car.
It looks (and smells) like me, it’s short and squatty. It smells of beard oil and tacos.
It is like an optical illusion, it looks small but it is unbelievably roomy inside.
Some people are repulsed by my car, no seriously, they tell me so!!
They think it is odd looking. (Once again, it looks like me…umm, thanks!)
I don’t care what people think.
It ISN’T pretty, but it IS paid for!!
I seriously love that car, it’s my favorite car ever (AND I once owned a Camaro!!)
As of right now, I wait to hear the fate of my Scion, but it doesn’t look good.

The dude who was driving the ginormous pickup was a real cool guy. It’s a weird way to make friends, but, you can get to know some one well if you wait in the dark for the highway patrol for over a hour. Sometimes, the people who hit you aren’t your enemies. They just don’t see you there.

It was the battle of the vehicles, a classic David and Goliath story. But, this time David got his butt kicked (and crunched in!)

I called Diana and she came and helped navigate through the early morning nastiness. She spent a lot of time on the phone with insurance. My wife is awesome.

We dropped the car off at the body shop. The shop owner looked at the car and just shook his head. They told me to remove anything valuable or important. That’s probably not a good thing.

Here are my takeaways (or driveaways):

I AM alive!! That’s good! Stuff is replaceable, even stuff you love. Souls aren’t replaceable. I’m still kicking and ready to tell stories, unleash joy, make art, and meet my first grandkid next Spring.

I think this is solid proof that early morning meetings are evil and are responsible for the destruction of innocent property.

Sometimes you collide with strangers, figuratively and literally. When that happens, don’t be a jerk.

In a battle between a large truck and a small clown car, bet on the truck.

And, now I’m looking for a new form of transportation…maybe a skateboard or a scooter or a Shetland pony.
Giddy Up!

(An almost epic rock ballad about preteen zombie vampires from outer space.)

Cruising downtown on our skate boards,
Traveling together in big noisy hordes.
We were running through the night,
Just looking for some necks to bite.

We are the preteen zombie vampires from outer space.
We have stale angst in our heart, fresh acne on our face.
Singing “oh, oh, eww” all night long.

We emerge from a thick, soupy Axe body spray haze,
With eyes that have an otherworldly hypnotic glaze,
The most painfully awkward undead aliens you’ve ever seen.
We are really just more misunderstood, than actually mean.

Motoring, what’s your price for flight
When you see this prepubescent fright,
I hope I’m gonna be alright tonight.

I don’t get the change coming over me,
First I’m a vampire, and now puberty?

We are the preteen zombie vampires from outer space.
We have stale angst in our heart, fresh acne on our face.
Singing “oh, oh, eww” all night long.

Once upon a time, I wanted to fall in love,
now, I’m only falling apart, THAT’S what zombies do.
My voice is changing, when push comes to shove,
It starts to crack every time I try to shout BOO!

If you’ve got love in your sights,
Watch out love bites.
If none of this makes any sense,
Try to take a bite out of adolescence.

We are the preteen zombie vampires from outer space.
We have stale angst in our heart, fresh acne on our face.
Singing “oh, oh, eww” all night long.

Shot through the heart, and I’m to blame,
I give preteens a bad name.

Every rose has its thorn,
Just like every night has its dawn.
I wake up, sit up and let out a muffled scream.
Then, I realize that it was all a pizza fueled dream.

Yesterday, for a moment, I was scared for my life!
I wasn’t being held at gun point or even chased by a pack of wild poodles.
I tried to sit in a hammock.
It was TERRIFYING!!
Several things combined to make this situation perilous, the delicate nature of the hammock, my complete lack of coordination, and my…umm…unique body shape.
I tried to carefully maneuver my chunky little body into the hammock. How hard could it be? But, gravity was my enemy. I floundered around, flustered, frantically spinning and swaying. I finally ended up wrapped up in raw hammock. I looked like an overstuffed hairy tamale.
The worst thing was that I wasn’t alone…so along with fear, I felt embarrassment and shame.
My super compassionate wife and daughter were in the back yard with me. BUT, as I wrestled with the hammock, they were laughing too hard to help…thanks.
As I lay there, I did have one helper. My daughter’s 90 pound Great Pyrenees, Sampson, walked over and put a soggy rawhide on my face. That was comforting.
Not to be over dramatic, but my life hung in the balance, just literally centimeters off the ground.
It almost felt like I was in a weird cocoon, waiting to emerge a beautiful butterfly. Instead, I fumbled and stumbled out of the hateful hammock with an incredible lack of grace or motor skills.
I survived, I have the grass stains to prove it!!
I stared death in its evil woven fabric face and I lived to swing again.
AND, I WILL face my challenge again! Because, I am a man, DARN IT!
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, BUT, sometime in the next two weeks, when no one is watching, I will face the hammock again!
Pray for me.

I find myself…
At the end of myself.
Lying facedown down in the mud with a big fistful of nothing.
I thought I knew it all.
I thought happiness was my hometown in the rear view mirror.
I thought I was a pretty big deal.
I told my old man that he was dead to me, I took His money and ran to the land of big, shiny dreams.
I wanted to party. I wanted to live. I made new friends and had some wild new experiences.
The music was loud, the lights were bright, the dance floor was crowded.
It’s amazing how fast you can blow through your inheritance.
The music faded, the lights went dim, the party was over.
The so called friends took off, in search of the next sucker.
I suddenly didn’t feel like dancing, I guess guilty feet have got no rhythm.
I find myself…
At the end of myself.
I find myself…
In a prison of my own making.
I’ve done things…
Things so unspeakable
Things so unfixable.
I have screwed up.
I have gone too far.
But…
I find myself…
Still here…
and with the sinking realization that I can’t survive by myself.
In the midst of the hellish stench of self, I catch a scent of my homeland.
Maybe, my father will look past me and hire me. Maybe, I could be a servant, since I don’t deserve to be a son?
I rehearse my apologies. I nervously begin the journey back.
Where will I find myself?
Will I receive the rejection that I deserve?
Will I be condemned or criticized?
I find myself…
In the arms of love himself.
My father ran to meet me, I’ve never seen him run before. he swept me off my feet.
My excuses go unspoken.
Pure grace is spoken here.
I receive no lectures, just love,
Love so undignified,
Love so undeserved.
A father that loved me to death…and back.
A father who shows me how to really throw a party.
There is good food, loud music and unbridled dancing. There is a piñata and party hats.
There is joy, there is grace.
But…
I find myself…
The object of resentment.
I find a brother that is more interested in being right than real. He misses the party. That is sad. Some people who have never left home have never found home.
But, me…
I find myself…
Home.