Posts Tagged ‘life’

road rave!

Posted: February 24, 2015 in brain belches
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instead of road rage, I often get road rave.

Yup, I drive and dance.

I crank up the music and start moving every available body part.

It’s not necessarily pretty.

There’s a lot of head bobbing and fist pumping.

It’s really more of a spastic jerking than actual rhythmic movement.

I hoist my chunky little girth around my front seat.

It’s pretty fun.

And that is what it is all about…fun…joy.

Honestly, I don’t really enjoy driving. I’m not super good at it either.

It is boring.

So to entertain myself, I really don’t care what anybody else thinks.

I create a dashboard disco.

I sing at the top of my lungs and still manage to use my turn signals.

I get interesting reactions from other drivers.

Some point and laugh.

Some look pretty concerned.

Some look a little disgusted.

Some judge. One lady once held up a sign that just said “4”.

Some join in and start dancing too.

It’s always easier to judge than join.

But, those that do join in realize that the dance makes the drive much more fun!

Life can get ordinary.

We take the same route every day.

We need to find a way to turn the mundane into magic.

Drive and dance!

It’s all about the road rave.

It’s a lot less stressful than road rage.

Crank it up.

SNOW DAY!!

Posted: February 17, 2015 in brain belches
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SNOW DAY…those are two very polarizing words! ( get it…polar?!).

You probably either love or hate snow days.
It’s either magical or messy, usually depending on your age.
For a kid there are few things greater than a snow day.
We would get up early, just to see if we could sleep in late.
Was school closed?
You impatiently watched the names scroll across the bottom of the TV screen.
THEN…FINALLY…THERE IT WAS!!
Your reprieve from the classroom.
WOOOO HOOOO!!!
It was time to play!!!
You would get bundled up…
It was a strenuous process.
Long johns…two pairs of pants…t shirt…sweat shirt…old coat…stocking hat…gloves…boots.
Then you would stumble, barely able to move your arms, into the frozen tundra of your front yard.
Where, you would suddenly realize that you REALLY need to pee.
OH MAN!
Finally, You would play for hours until you couldn’t feel your cheeks.
then you went inside and get some tomato soup.
You could feel the healing power of the soup as it slowly made your insides warm again.
There is something undeniably special about a snow day.
Snow days have a way of freezing moments in time.
They have a way of making memories that warm your soul.
As I write this on a snow day, one other snow day in particular stands out.
It was a bitterly cold Oklahoma day.
We were hanging out at our Grandma’s house with a slew of cold, bored cousins.
My Uncle Lee had a jeep.
Guys with jeeps love snow days.
Growing up, My Uncle Lee was the single coolest human being I knew.
He was my hero.
He had long hair. He seldom wore shoes (even on snow days).
He lived wild and free.
He was a peacemaker.
He was kind to little kids and animals.
It seemed like He always had had time for us…sometimes adults didn’t.
It’s amazing how the simple act of finding time for kids can make you a rock star in their eyes.
Uncle Lee had a great snow day idea.
He got a chain and a huge piece of black rubber.
Do you see where this is going?
Where normal men see a worthless scrap of tire rubber…
Super cool Uncles see sleds!
He attached the “sled” to the jeep with the rusty chain.
We found a huge, reasonably hazard free field.
Uncle Lee did donuts and we hung on,for dear life, to the homemade sled.
Cousins were flying everywhere as he would take corners.
We laughed hard and tried to hang on.
It seemed like a great idea…
getting dragged behind a jeep and flung into rocks and trees.
Until, our pants filled up with snow.
We were frozen to the bone…so cold!
Even the chilliest memories can warm your heart.
I will never forget that snow day.
Snow days have a way of freezing moments in time.
I will never forget that moment.

My Uncle Lee left this world way too early.

He was only 41, he was building his dream house.
In a freak accident he fell backwards and hit his head.
I didn’t understand why that happened…I still don’t.
He was a great man, the epitome of gentle strength.
He was a great husband, father and brother.
He was a really cool uncle.
Cool Uncles make great Grandpas, he never got the chance.
Sometimes real life is bitterly cold.
We are left chilled to the bone.

But because, Snow days have a way of freezing moments in time.
I remember a forever young, cool Uncle and a jeep.
I remember the wild and free moments.
I remember the grown up who took the time to play.
I remember.

Memories can be like tomato soup, they warm your insides.

labels…

Posted: February 10, 2015 in fizzy faith
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I’ve been called a lot of things, but here is what I’ve come to realize…

Labels have to be believed to be seen.

People can call you anything and they will!

It’s like they put nasty little post it notes on your heart.

You don’t have to let it stick.

Their labels don’t have to become your limitations.

Labels have to be believed to be seen.

If you refuse to believe it, the labels don’t stick to your soul.

I refuse to believe the limiting labels.

Here are the labels that I choose to believe…

“The one who formed you says do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1

So people can call me what they want, I don’t have to listen.

I know the truth about me.

the truth is that I’m…

Spirit formed…

Ransomed…

Called by NAME…

I AM HIS.

THESE are the labels that I choose to let stick to my soul.

Labels have to be believed to be seen.

labels can limit, they can also liberate.

freedom begins when I believe the truth.

the truth about who HE is…the truth about who I am.

I choose to believe what the ONE who formed me says.

 

poetry SLAMMED.

Posted: February 10, 2015 in brain belches
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I hate beige!

It’s the color of cubicles designed to confine.

It’s conformity, giving up, and standing in line.

 Man, I hate beige!

It’s the color of the flavorless horde

Who live their lives perpetually bored.

 Boy, do I hate beige!

It’s the color of Monday, sad songs, and tasteless food.

Also the shade of blah, apathy, and a foul mood.

 I really, really hate beige.

It’s bland, inoffensive, and politically correct.

It’s the pale hue of mediocrity, I suspect.

 I hate beige!

BEHOLD the BEARD!

Posted: January 26, 2015 in brain belches
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Growing up I had many interchangeable dreams that came and went.

One dream came and stayed.
It was a simple dream.
I wanted a beard.
As a kid, I would literally sit around and visualize myself with a big nasty beard.
See the beard…be the beard.
I drew pictures of what I thought the bearded me would look like. It was a little creepy.
I wanted a beard.
To me, the beard was the epitome of free spirited manliness.
It was an exclamation point for your face!
My Uncle Bill, who was one of my heroes, had a beard.
Barry Gibb, Gandalf, Mr. T and Grizzly Adams…ALL had beards.
I was a late bloomer, I was almost 20 before I sprouted facial fuzz.
I tried everything to set off the stubble. I shaved my naked cheeks twice a day ( somebody told me that would work). I rubbed miracle-gro on my face. I prayed. I watched Chuck Norris movies.
FINALLY, my wildest, wooliest dreams came true.
In the last 30 years, I’ve only been without facial hair once for one misguided week in the late eighties.
I realized that my beard is the only thing that keeps me from looking like a chubby 9 year old boy. Many people have skittishly asked me, “is your Wife okay with you having that thing?” The answer is yes. For starters, she doesn’t want people to think she is married to a chubby 9 year old. She also recognizes that I’m a man who makes manly decisions about my manly face. Before you grow stubble, you probably ought to grow a spine. There are a lot of beard bashers who can’t wait to tell you what they think about your face. Chalk it up to beard envy. Haters gonna hate, don’t shave it off.
I think we are living during a magical time for beards.
It is a big hairy renaissance.
there have been epic beards in the past. Abraham Lincoln, I’m looking at you.
But I truly believe, with all my face, that we are living in the golden age of facial hair.
I’ve experimented with every possible expression of whisker. I’ve had a full beard, a goatee, a mustache, even the modified Australian Fu-Manchu.
I finally decided to just let it grow wild and define itself. It has, I believe by divine design, evolved into a “Chullet”. It is a “chin mullet”. The message is clear: It’s a party for my face.
It is a “yeard” (a beard that has grown for more than a year).
It’s a very handy thing, to be able to grow your own scarf or to go container.
How could it be a negative thing to get occasionally mistaken for Santa Claus?
A beard turns an ordinary face into art. In life, beauty is brought forth in the strangest ways. Look out for it.
A beard should be grown all year, manliness is not seasonal.
Sometimes the greatest things in life just grow on you. You do need to groom the growth to get the maximum awesomeness. That’s true with beards, it’s also true with relationships.
Sometimes your beard gets itchy. This is when many well intentioned guys give up. Don’t do it, be a man! don’t surrender the stubble. Work through the itch. It won’t last forever. Real life is the same way. life is itchy. Work through the itch. It will be worth it.
Just because something is untamed, doesn’t mean that it’s not clean. That’s true of beards, it’s also true of people. Don’t judge people.
Remember, with great beard comes great responsibility.
Unfurl your fuzz.
Celebrate your chin fruit.
BEARD up!
Let little bits of awesome escape out of your face.
VIVA LA BEARD!

when scars become stories.

Posted: January 21, 2015 in brain belches
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I have a dent on my forehead. A nasty little scar. It’s a forever testament to the fact that I’m easily distracted. When I was a little kid I was hanging out on a playground on a summer day, I was pushing someone in a swing. They were laughing I was laughing. But then…suddenly something caught my attention…SQUIRREL!!! I stopped and turned to look at it. The problem is that the swing didn’t stop. That is until it was stopped by my forehead! So I have a swing set shaped dent in my head. It hurt at first but I got stitches and treated it the way It needed to treated and it eventually healed. But, It left a mark. In time the scar became a story. It’s a part of me. A part of me that’s not pretty but it is real. Life is hard, hurt happens but healing can happen too. life can leave a dent, don’t let your dents become ruts. Don’t let scars become shackles. Let your Scars become stories, testaments to survival. Stories of hope and healing. What is your scar story?

Man Club.

Posted: January 17, 2015 in brain belches
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I was introduced early to the man club through my dad & his circle of hunting buddies.

They would stand around in a smoky garage, swap stories with Merle Haggard and George Jones playing in the background on the AM radio.
I still remember the smell of the garage, it was a combination of sweet feed, motor oil, cigarettes and hard work.
These were Men who only called each other by last names ( I didn’t know that one of my dad’s friends even had a first name until his funeral).

These were good men who loved their country and their families ( sometimes it was easier for them to communicate their love for their country than their family), in fact these men mostly communicated in the manly language of insult, they mercilessly put-down each other, because, after all, that’s what men do…right?

They referred to their wives as the “ball and chain” and “the old lady”.
They worked on old trucks, butchered rabbits and deer,
They spit, cursed, laughed, Talked about politics, football and muzzle loaders.

Innuendo flew around that garage like stained confetti. Women were objects of desire rather than dignity.

They were men…good men.

They had the best intentions.

They had good hearts.

They were fiercely loyal to each other.

My brother and I would stand in the corner, out of the way, soaking it all in.
I left that garage with the fragrance of pall-malls on my clothing and hair.

I left with the fragrance of misguided manhood on my soul.

Every boy wants to be a part of the man club.
We imitate…we take notes…we learn the rules.
It’s natural, sons were made to learn from fathers.
We were made to mimic…to imitate.
But, Maturity is learning to imitate heart instead of habit.
We can learn great things from the hearts of those who have gone before us.
But, We don’t have to repeat the habits.

From time to time, I see men my age stuck in the old familiar groove. They are masters in the linguistic art of insult, they live out of a place of insecurity. They compare and ruthlessly claw to get to the top of the heap.
It is easier to insult than invent.
There is a better way…

A new way to be man.

A way that knows and accepts yourself and refuses to play the game.
A way that elevates compassion over comparison as a man gauge.
A way that creates a safe place for everyone you love.
We need men who live for something bigger than themselves.

We need men who throw away the outdated ruler of manhood.

We need men who are passionate about their passions.
We need men whose words COVER instead of CUT…words that BUILD instead of BREAK.
We need a new man club.

what i learned from front yard football…

Posted: January 7, 2015 in brain belches
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I am an American kid.

I was raised on fried food and football.

I have a lot of really sweet memories that smell like football.

I remember a bitter cold winter night, my Dad, brother and me, huddled in a pick up truck, listening to the last few minutes of the Super Bowl on an AM radio.

I remember sitting on metal bleachers eating steaming Frito-chili pie (I know, it’s an Oklahoma thing!) at home football games.

I remember falling in love with America’s team. When I was in 3rd grade, I decided the Dallas Cowboys were my team too. They have been ever since. I stuck with them through the good years and the bad years. You learn that haters are gonna hate, but you got to stick with your team. That’s what you do.

My personal dreams of football glory were lived out in our front yard. Growing up, We had a huge front yard that was an almost perfect football field. On most fall Saturdays we would gather…a rag tag collection of neighborhood NFL wannabes, We would choose teams and draw elaborate plays in the dirt.

We were completely serious about our fun! It wasn’t pretty, we fumbled and stumbled. It wasn’t about perfection, It was all about play.

We didn’t have nice uniforms or pads. We played in t-shirts, jeans and Chuck Taylors. We got dirty.

Sometimes kids got mad, hopefully it wasn’t the kid who owned the ball.

We learned that it was more about heart than ability, my brother was the youngest player but also the scrappiest.

We learned how to (and how not to) play through pain. I remember the same kid got hurt every game and went home crying. We adjusted and kept playing. It was a rough game.

Sometimes the game hurts, you learn to get up and carry on. Most hurts were solved with a little break and a Dixie cup full of warm tropical punch Kool-Aid.

On that note, we had a bird house on a very tall metal pole right in the center of our front yard. Inevitably someone would run into the birdhouse. They knew it was there, my Dad didn’t move it. It was a big, unyielding, permanent fixture in our football field. Most of the time it wasn’t a problem, but if you forgot it was there, and hit it at the right angle, it would jack you up! You gotta watch out for the bird houses in life. We all have bird houses in our lives, things that could jack us up. The lesson is simple…know that they are there and avoid them.

But, I think the single biggest thing I learned in the front yard was where I fit.

I couldn’t catch or throw, I wasn’t fast…

but I DO have a very low center of gravity.

Because of that I could stay on my feet when people were trying to tackle me.

Our quarterback, usually my friend Jimmy, would hand me the ball and shout “RUN!” And I would.

I was more grunt than graceful.

the truth was you couldn’t really call what I was doing running…

I was really just moving in the right direction…that was enough…life is more about just moving in the right direction than speed.

I realized I could run…okay…move in the right direction with 3 or 4 guys hanging on my neck. They would desperately try to bring me down but they couldn’t!

It was awesome!

My team mates celebrated my innate ability to stand up.

There are a few benefits to being the same height and width.

I can’t fully explain the feelings of achievement and belonging that I felt when my team celebrated me finding my place.

It was soul Gatorade.

It was life.

AHHHH!!! the sweetness of finding your sweet spot.

Know your role and play it.

Don’t compare yourselves to others.

Don’t keep track of how many times other people get the ball.

There is only one quarterback on the field…but he’s not on the field by himself!

Find your sweet spot.

Now, several decades later, I, like most chubby, middle age guys, live out my football dreams second hand. I put on a jersey and I talk about “OUR” team going all the way…this could be “OUR” year!

But, I remember the lessons that I learned. I play, I watch out for bird houses and most important, I know who I am.

I know what I can do and what I can’t.

I also know there is nothing better on a cold day than a steaming styrofoam cup of frito-chili pie!

Go Cowboys!

Snipe hunt

Posted: January 3, 2015 in brain belches
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There is a time honored rite of passage called the Snipe hunt. When I was about 12 years old, I got welcomed into the club.

I was on a camp out with the youth group from St. Henry’s Catholic Church. (I think St. Henry is the patron saint of men who smoke pipes.) we had backpacked, ate a large amount of canned beanie weenies and sat around campfires, farting and giggling. It was a memorable trip into the deep woods of north east Oklahoma. I don’t mind saying, We survived some pretty harsh conditions, we hiked for minutes, our tents flooded one night and we ran out of Vienna sausages. Then late one night, we were told by the older dudes that the conditions were perfect for a snipe hunt. Evidently, The perfect conditions were a moonless night and a bunch of gullible 7th grade boys. We were instructed that we were going to catch (and probably kill and possibly eat) the exclusive wild snipe. We were ready! We were MEN and we were ready for the hunt. Snipes were described to us as cross between a wild mongoose, a Pygmy goat & an electric eel. Needless to say we were horrified but we were men so we hunt…right?
We were given a musty burlap bag and 2 sticks and carefully worded instructions: The older guys would take us into the snipe hunting grounds and help us find the perfect spot. We were to stand there,expectantly, with our bag ready to snag a snipe. We also were told to bang the sticks together and make the snipe mating call, which sounded like this: “kissy kissy woooo!” The snipes would then run into our burlap bags. It sounded pretty easy…a little scary, but simple…right? So we did it. the older guys separated us and took us out and left us alone in the dark with a burlap bag making kissy noises. We waited and waited and waited. It was dark and scary. It’s really not fair, being 12 years old is already a really hard and confusing time. It’s even harder when you get left in the dark. There were weird completely unfamiliar outdoor noises. Then, when you were really creeped out and about to lose your mind the older jerks…I mean guys would sneak up on you and scare the crap right out of you. It was all a lot of fun…if you were an older guy. I was crouched in the dark with my burlap bag making kissy noises. I wasn’t a big fan of the dark at home, but in the woods I was consumed with wide eyed, crazy fear. Right about then, my friend, Arthur’s brother, Phil, snuck up and grabbed my leg. My finely tuned survival skills kicked in and I did what came primal. I had two sticks so I used them. I started beating the crud out of Phil with my sticks. He was yelling “LUKE…LUKE…IT’s ME!!!” I shouted back: “I KNOW!!” I still feel kinda bad about that, Phil was a really good guy.
Looking back there was something real cool about that night. It was scary and earthy and dark and mysterious. But waking up the next day we were different. We were in on the joke. We were part of the club. We packed up camp and hiked back to the station wagons waiting to take us home. We were older and wiser and manlier.
Now, Pass the beanie weenies.

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