carbonated joy

As a kid, summer was a humid, magical, wonderful time.
School was out and the real learning had begun.
It was the time that our imaginations were in full bloom.
A small patch of trees could become a jungle.
A few rocks became a vast desert wilderness.
I remember the colors, smells and sounds that made up my summer…
I remember…
Staying outside ALL day long. We didn’t have video games or cable TV, so all the adventure to be found was outside.
We threw on our jean cutoffs. They weren’t called jorts back then. We weren’t that cool, they were just old pants that mom had unevenly cut off somewhere near the knee. As the summer wore on they would become mostly denim fringe.
We spent the summer barefooted, except for Sunday, then we begrudging put on our Chuck Taylor’s.
We rode bikes down red dirt roads looking for adventure. My bike had banana seats and Curley Q handlebars…sweetest ride EVER!
We built bike ramps in an endless quest to break our teeth out. I managed to get through childhood only breaking 2.
We ran through sprinklers with wild abandon. This was even more fun AFTER the lawn was just mowed, cause you got covered in wet clumpy grass clippings. Instant swamp thing!
We lived on Pop Ice freeze pops, they were the best!! Especially the orange and grape ones!! You could get a box of 400 for about 3 bucks, so they were the refreshing snack of choice in the Lang house.
No juice boxes for us, we drank our water straight out of the garden hose!
We picked homegrown tomatoes right off the vine and ate them like apples.
We once went to a backwoods cockfight, there was a rusty trash can on which the word “LOSERS” was sloppily painted.
We ran through muddy creeks and looked for crawdads.
We baled hay in cool of the night. My muscles never hurt so much and my sinuses exploded, but I was working alongside my dad so complaining wasn’t an option.
We caught lightning bugs (natures little glow sticks) and put them in a jar. Sometimes in our crueler moments, we tore off the little lightning bug butts and stuck them to our faces.
We ate tons….literally tons of watermelon. The juice would run down your face. And then you spit the seeds at each other.
We would work odd jobs and cash in pop bottles just to save up our money to buy fireworks (black cats, bottle rockets and smoke bombs). We would blow up our entire summer savings in about 7 minutes.
And then the lazy days would catch up with you.
Summer always seemed like a song that ended too soon.

I remember the hues of summer. The hazy shades that have colored my life.

We have this natural tendency to lump generations together.
We draw lines.
We classify.
See if this sounds familiar…
Millennials all wear skinny jeans and they hang out in coffee shops, they are all lazy, right? They feel entitled and they all have iPhones. They don’t settle for busy work, they want their work to matter.
Gen X are a cynical bunch, they are risk takers who like wearing flannel, they don’t like rules. They want their MTV. They are materialistic., right?
Baby boomers are all super patriotic, optimistic and ambitious. They are workaholics who made America great. They aren’t tech savvy, right?

They all look alike, think alike, act alike…right?

We live and die by demographics.
We paint with bold, broad strokes.
But, when we do that, we get it wrong.
We slap a label on a whole generation or group, Forgetting that the whole is made up of unique individuals.
They are people, not members of a clone army.

We are pretty sure we know what to expect from every generation.
But the problem is that there are exceptions to every expectation.
Actually that’s not a problem, we should all be exceptions.
We should defy definition.
Not all millennials are selfish, not all baby boomers aren’t.
We are ALL beautiful hybrids.
We have to get rid of the cookie cutters.
We do people a huge disservice when we stereotype.
It’s a crime against humanity to generalize a generation.
It’s second guessing the creator.
When we lump, we limit.
It cripples potential.
It creates a lid.

Everyone on this planet, regardless of when they were born, is uniquely equipped to do something that’s never EVER been done.
It’s based on who you are.
You are wired to be and see different from anyone else.
You don’t have to be defined by your birthday.
Be defined by the reason you were born.
Be defined by all the amazing ordinary extraordinary days that fill your days.

We are ALL the same in the fact that we are ALL different.
That’s not generational, it’s human.
Rather than classify, we need to celebrate the things the make us ALL different AND the things that make us the same.
Moments should define a generation, stories of individuals who stood up or stood out.

I close with these lines from a classic Gen X movie:
“You see us as you want to see us – in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…
…and an athlete…
…and a basket case…
…a princess…
…and a criminal…”

So no matter, how old you are or what your story is, take a minute and throw your fist in the air and shout “Don’t you forget about me!”

I took beginners swim lessons four years in a row.
Seriously.
I’m not proud of that.
I was an aquatic underachiever.
I would show up, learn a few strokes and proceed to flail around the pool.
I’m ridiculously unathletic.
My uncoordination would get the best of me.
I would usually lose heart and quit after the first four days, then I would come back the next year and try it again.
It was a vicious chlorine scented circle.

I had a promising beginning.
My first year, Rick Dossett was my swim teacher.
I was five years old.

Mr. Dossett had grown up with my Dad in a scrappy little Tulsa neighborhood called Mingo.
I can’t remember not knowing him.
Not only was he my swimming instructor, but, later he was my high school principal.

He’s a pretty incredible man who spoke into my life for a lot of years. I can honestly say I never left an interaction with Mr. Dossett feeling like I didn’t matter.
I can’t say that about many adults I knew.
I trusted him.

It all goes back to that day at the Collinsville Oklahoma city pool.

The first day, we lined up, we were a motley crew of wanna be swimmers, slathered in sun tan lotion and equipped with cheap nose plugs.
Mr. Dossett began the first lesson by asking if anyone wanted to jump off the high dive!
I forgot, for a moment, that I couldn’t actually swim and I went for it. (It’s amazing what you can do when you forget what you can’t do.)
I raised my hand and foolishly volunteered.
My mom nervously protested (because she had NOT forgotten that I couldn’t actually swim).
Mr. Dossett reassured her that he would not actually let me drown.
I hiked up my swim trunks to an uncomfortable and unsightly height.
I climbed the metal ladder that hurt my bare feet.
I looked over the edge and thought THIS is my moment.
I had never been that high before, it was liberating.
I was so high up that the people below looked like…well…slightly smaller people.

And then I did it…
I jumped off the high dive into the deep end! WITHOUT floaties I might add!
AND I sunk like a chunky little rock.
When I bobbed back up to the surface, Mr. Dossett calmly grabbed me with a long aluminum hook and fished me out like a wheezing trout.
And THAT was the highlight of my aquatic career!
As a swimmer, I peaked at the age of five.

I’ve never advanced past beginners status.
I’m still not a great swimmer.
I have sausage link arms and legs like a corgi.
I have limited motor skills.
Luckily, I’m naturally buoyant.

I wasn’t old enough to be afraid.
It seems like some fears grow on you.
Maybe, if you refuse to grow up, some fear can never get a grip on you.
Just a thought.

When it comes to life, I have found that
I don’t possess the skills I need to survive on my own.
Frankly, I don’t think I ever will.
I need help.
I still have much to learn.
But, that shouldn’t EVER keep me from diving in.
I have learned to trust and believe that, when I dive, there’s always going to be a hook to bring me back in.

Life is better when you dive in.
You just gotta trust the One holding the hook.
You walk to the edge and…
Then…you…
JUMP…might as well, JUMP!

Otis Porkmeyer was the man
who couldn’t laugh or smile.
Grumpiness and despair
were Porkmeyer’s daily style.

Everybody wondered why.
Did he swallow something sour?
Were his boxers way too tight?
Or he never took a shower?

Did he really dislike fun?
What a party pooper!
What on earth could it be
that put Otis in this stupor?

Somewhere, somehow it must just be
imagination died.
He had forgotten how to dream.
He’d become all dignified.

He once would giggle; he loved to wiggle.
He’d shout and run and play.
But then they said to hush, sit still.
“Don’t do that. You must stay!”

They told him one too many times
that he was good for nothing.
He never knew or realized
we’re custom-made for something!

They told him he should be concerned
with just reality.
Be practical, conform, and then
avoid unconventionality.

Otis listened to those voices.
He let them all affect his choices.
He believed what the masses said,
and gradually his dreams were dead.

So now he lives with zero hope,
and only leaves his room for soap.
He’s learned a life without a dream
is like brussels sprout ice cream.

So, my friend, don’t be a Porkmeyer.
Hang with people who encourage and inspire!
Avoid dream killers and hope stealers,
the negative, and sorrow dealers.

Don’t use words like wouldn’t, couldn’t,
never, cannot, will not, shouldn’t.
Find the ones who spread the good.
Use such words as would, could, should!

Remember always to dream and hope
and take much time to play.
Be sure to laugh and wiggle and giggle
a little bit each day!

(Excerpt From: Lang, Luke. “I AM Standing Up.” Zondervan. iBooks.)

I think I have a favorite new word…hongi.

(ˈhäNGē)

Here’s what the lovely Wikipedia people say about hongi: “A hongi is a traditional Māori greeting in New Zealand. It is done by pressing one’s nose and forehead to another person’s nose and forehead.

It is used at traditional meetings among Māori people and on major ceremonies and serves a similar purpose to a formal handshake in modern western culture, and indeed a hongi is often used in conjunction with one.

In the hongi, the ha (or breath of life), is exchanged and intermingled. The breath of life can also be interpreted as the sharing of both party’s souls.

Through the exchange of this physical greeting, one is no longer considered manuhiri (visitor) but rather tangata whenua, one of the people of the land. For the remainder of one’s stay one is obliged to share in all the duties and responsibilities of the home people.”

Pretty cool, huh?

Hongi literally means “to share breath”.

There’s nothing to hide when you hongi. You are seriously invading personal space. You can see every blemish and smell what your hongi partner had for lunch.

You literally rub off on each other…you share sweat and face grease. It’s messy.

I actually think hongi is a very cool, deeply significant greeting.

It’s like a super intimate high five, a facial fist bump.

I want to be a practitioner of the hongi.

But, it gets complicated because I’m 5 feet tall.

I would need to carry a footstool everywhere or things could get horribly awkward.

Also, I live in America where we aggressively guard our personal space. If you try to hongi people you might get arrested and you probably won’t get invited to many parties.

But here’s what I’m thinking.

I want to hongi heaven.

I want to live locked into a holy hongi.

I want to press my face into the face of God and share breath.

I want to constantly invade His space and invite Him to invade mine.

I don’t want to be a visitor

I want to be a person of His land.

I want to get in God’s face and stay there.

I find myself when I look into His eyes.

I desperately need to lean in and not back up,

I need heaven to rub off on me, I want God grease all over my life.

I need a holy hongi.

Nobody is ever JUST a taco.

I LOVE tacos!

They are one of my absolute favorite things!
They are the spicy taste of pure awesomeness.
Tacos are crunchy magic.
But when I go to my favorite Mexican restaurant,
I never get JUST a taco.
I get a combo number 9.
It’s a Taco AND a burrito AND a cheese enchilada, all on a piping hot plate.
If I’m feeling real saucy, I get beans too.

I love tacos.
BUT, as truly awesome as they are, EVEN Tacos by themselves would eventually get…well…boring.
That might sound like food blasphemy, but lunch should be more than ONE thing.
Even if that ONE thing is awesome!!

You need a combination platter.
You ARE a combination platter.

Life is like a Mexican buffet.
Nobody is ever just one thing.
We are combination platters.
Nobody is ever just a taco.
We are designed to bring our own unique flavors…
Sweet…
Spicy…
Saucy…
Salty…
YOU are a combo platter of unique traits and abilities…
Fun and thoughtful…
Analytical and compassionate…
Creative and accepting…
Encouraging and intelligent…
Generous and friendly.
YOU are never just ONE thing.

Part of growing up is learning to accept and celebrate our combo and the combos of the people around us.
We need to realize that we are more than we thought we were.
You have more to offer/know/dream/enjoy/BE than you ever dreamed of!
What AMAZING flavors do you bring to the table?
You aren’t just ONE thing!!
You bring a combo of good things to a hungry world.

Maybe you put all your cheese into ONE taco.
You had ONE dream.
It was a good dream, it was full of flavor and potential.
It was tasty and beneficial to all mankind.
You were sure that it was the ONE thing that you were born to do.
But, sometimes life breaks your taco.
And, your hopes and dreams scatter like shredded lettuce.
When it didn’t work out you thought that was it, you were out of salsa.

But, here’s the thing, you aren’t just ONE thing!!
If the taco breaks, reach for the burrito.
You are more than the taco.
You are a beautifully complicated, artfully crafted combination platter.
There are flavors yet to be discovered.
Don’t sell yourself short.
And don’t forget the beans.

River of Dreams.
(With humble apologies to the great Billy Joel)

In the middle of the night, I go sailing in my sleep.
My sweet lady and I get onboard our pirate ship and catch the trade winds down the river of dreams.

The water is beautiful.
It is at least fourteen shades of bedazzled blue.
There are friendly dolphins swimming alongside the boat.
For some unbeknownst, yet really cool reason, they are wearing little cowboy hats.

We watch frisky unicorns run freely on the riverbank, only in my dream, the unicorns are more like Shetland ponies.
I’ve always had a soft spot for Shetland ponies.
The uniponies romp through Twizzler trees in the middle of funnel cake fields that are surrounded by root beer waterfalls.

We sit in cushy deck chairs and feast on an unlimited supply of tacos and bacon.

I straighten my pirate hat and take a deep breath. The air smells like the sea, fresh cut grass and maple syrup.
I can’t help but notice that it never rains, but it always feels fresh like it just rained.

We drink frothy frozen fruity drinks (with colorful paper umbrellas), my lady and I.

We are joined by our beagle, who in my wildest dreams wears a neon orange tutu and speaks with a slight British accent.

In the early evening, we have a dance party with assorted Star Wars characters.
By the way, Yoda is a much better dancer than you would think, the little green dude has some moves!

Oh the magic of the river of dreams.
There is a undeniable sense of eclectic in the air, it’s unexplainable, uncontainable fun.

There are colors and flavors that haven’t even been invented yet.

There is 80’s Rock magically playing all the way down the river. We find ourselves bopping our heads and singing along.
Dream music is so much sweeter when you know all the lyrics.

There is boisterous laughter everywhere.
It is raw and rowdy.
But, it’s the kind of loud laughter that draws people in, rather than forcing them out.
The kind of pure humor that pulls instead of points.

It is a beautiful collision of happy dreams.
The river runs wild through the nation of Imagine.

There is only joy and hope and wonder.
Sadness and murky waters have been left behind.

But then…
I wake up…
AND it’s Tuesday.
ARGGHHH!! I really don’t like Tuesdays.

But then…
I realize, the message is clear.
Dreams can carry you through the Tuesdays.
So I carry the dreams close to my heart and within view of my one good eye, so that I can look at them often.

But then…
I realize, that’s not all.
Dreams aren’t meant to only be saved, they are meant to be shared.
I’m meant to be a river guide.
I’m designed to help others set sail on the river of dreams.
It’s a big, wide open river.
There’s room for everyone and you can jump in anytime.

In the middle of the day, I’m wide awake and I’m still sailing down the river of dreams.

And God stood at the door of my heart and knocked.
And I thought “OH GREAT, what have I done NOW?!”
I expected a spanking, a well deserved rebuke for my latest screw up.
I reluctantly opened the door to find Jesus standing there with a mischievous grin.
He looked into my tired eyes and said “can you come out and play?”

“This world is a broken place of shadows.
There is darkness, there is pain.
But, I AM WITH YOU.
So, there is joy.
There is fun to be had.

I’ve given you laughter and music.
I’ve made things wild and wonderful.
I created color and flavor.
Let’s play.

I turn your scrap into story.
I turn your shame into song.
Let’s play.”

People say “justify your existence, work, count, compare, shine.”

Jesus giggles and says “You exist to love, to know me, to be free. You have nothing to prove, it’s time to play.”

Man shouts “PERFORM…BE MORE!!”
Jesus whispers “play…be mine.”

Like a sweaty child dropping off their dirty socks so that they can dive into a ball pit and get lost in the sea of multicolored plastic balls.
I drop my sin, shame, insecurities and fear.

I step…actually it’s more of a uncoordinated jump…out of the performance pit.
I’m diving in.

I chase after the Lord of laughter into the playground.

And life is never the same.

Twenty five years ago today i started dancing with a beautiful blonde headed girl in a humid river town.
There were family and friends there.
There was food and drink.
And, there was music…sweet music.
She placed her pretty hand in mine and we began to dance.
I looked into her blue eyes and I found my love song.
I declared my desire to dance with her forever.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
I had never danced before.
I awkwardly moved one foot, then the other.
I pulled her in closer and we danced.
I haven’t let go.

Some view marriage as a ball and chain,
That was never the plan, in fact marriage is meant to be the opposite of a ball and chain.
It was designed to be a dance.
A movement where you finally LOSE the chains and FIND yourself in the arms of your forever dance partner.
Twenty five years ago today, I did that!!
And we dance.

Sometimes the dance has been easy, it has come naturally.
But, sometimes the dance has required effort.
There is a rhythm to be discovered in relationship.
It requires timing and communication and sometimes I have forgotten the steps.
Sometimes I have awkwardly shuffled around.
We have learned that laughter is an essential dance move.
And we dance.

We have danced some happy dances.
We have danced during times of deep sorrow.
We have refused to be pushed off the dance floor.
The dance is always about moving in unison and learning to trust your partner.
And we dance.

It’s not a perfect dance.
Perfect is so boring.
I’ve stepped on Diana’s toes.
Sometimes, I get a little carried away and do an overexcited punk disco thing.
I’m thankful for the patience of my partner.
It’s not a perfectly executed number.
But, it’s our dance.
The dance should always be grace fueled even when it’s not graceful.
And we dance.

We have danced salsas of celebration.
Seasons of syncopated joy.
A beautiful boogie.
We have experienced moments that have brought us close like a colorful tango.
Together we raised an amazing daughter, we did our best to teach her a few dance steps.
We have so many wonderful friends who have been a part of our dance.
They come and go, they add to the music of our life.
And we dance.

There are always going to be dance critics.
People who don’t approve of your moves.
They stand on the sidelines and roll their eyes.
They judge and try to choreograph.
They try to stop the music and stifle the steps.
But, we have learned to dance like nobody else is at the party.
And we dance.

After all these years, I’m still learning the steps.
I’m hopelessly freestyle.
Nobody has the dance figured out right away.
The dance is meant to be discovered a little at a time. It’s meant to be take a lifetime.
Our dance is like no other dance.
Dance is art, not science.
Both partners have times when they lift and lead the other. It’s a dance, not a dictatorship.
We are still learning and leaning.
And we dance.

We’ve learned that you have to listen to the right music, the wrong music can easily get stuck in your brain and it can keep you from dancing.
We have found our jam.
And we dance.

Sometimes life choreographs your steps.
The music can get harsh.
Sometimes life throws sad songs at you.
Sometimes things spin out of control, the dance floor heats up and you find yourself dancing like a frantic chicken on a hot plate at the state fair.
You desperately try to catch your breath.
All you can do is pray that you found the right dance partner.
I did.
And we dance.

Twenty five years ago today i started dancing with a beautiful blonde headed girl in a humid river town.
It has been a sweet, sweet samba.
But, it’s just begun.
This is a forever foxtrot.

Diana, happy anniversary my love!
Thank you for sharing my dance floor.
I love you.
Let’s trip the light fantastic and dance into the hope of all our tomorrows.

We repent.
We remember.
We choose.

We repent of our sin and our selfishness.
We remember that you, Jesus, are the only medicine for our broken lives, broken hearts and broken world.
We choose to lay our failures and fears at the foot of the cross.

We repent for creating a culture of stubborn self-reliance and calling it good.
We remember that we desperately need you.
We choose to lean into you.

We repent for the times that we have listened to the wrong voices.
We remember that Jesus is the Good Shepherd who calls His sheep by name.
We choose to listen to His voice.

We repent for the times that we have shown contempt instead of compassion.
We remember that we are the hands of Christ to a hurting, hungry world.
We choose to be salt and light.

We repent for the times we have misrepresented you.
We remember that you are a God of mercy and justice.
We choose to love the way that you have loved us.

We repent for refusing to believe big and trust you.
We remember that you are unlimited. NOTHING is impossible and impossible is NOTHING for You.
We choose to expect the miraculous.

We repent for choosing comfort over calling.
We remember to serve you Jesus with abandon.
We choose to take up our cross and follow you into the wide open unknown places.

We repent of forgetting the things that matter.
We remember who and whose we are.
We choose you.

We repent.
We remember.
We choose.